#and I don't know if I will share it but at least I want to get it done

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 17

˗ˏˋ reconnecting ˎˊ˗

"Fridays are not always the best day of the week, you can vouch for this one at least. It's Emma's birthday party and you're not sure you two still vibe together or not after all this time. And coming home... you don't expect Jungkook to be awake, especially not with your cold war going on. But he is."

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⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 9,6k

content: begrudgingly gift-shopping, hidden treasures, old vs new friendships, reconnecting, pretty girls and the inability to discern whether it's flirting or polite talk, AM talks, actually listening (thank god, progress!), and vanilla kink striking again because jungkook in this fic has free will and i cannot control him

✧ author's note ✧

WASSSSSUPPPP my peoplessss!!

Okay so here’s Chapter 17—aka the chapter where all of you start collectively projecting your unresolved issues with your high school best friend, your fuckboy roommate, and your local pastel/goth lesbian duo. I say that with love.

Now LISTEN. I keep raising the bar for this story like but honestly?? That’s on YOU. You absolute feral gremlins with your “when’s the next update” comments like I’m a vending machine that dispenses emotional damage. (It’s fine. I thrive under fear and pressure. You’re welcome.)

About this chapter!! So my initial plan was for Nix to buy Jungkook an actual vinyl player… until I did the research and realized those bitches go for 150-300 bucks even secondhand. Be fr. They are NOT in a relationship. This man is her hot emotional disaster roommate who’s been beefing with her for three days and literally slammed a door at her. I would not spend a single euro on that man beyond what is legally required. Fifteen dollars for a John Mayer record? That’s the sweet spot. It says “I hate you but I know what music you like and I think about you when you’re not around and that makes me want to bite drywall.”

Also: if you know that Inside Wants Out is an early acoustic EP that’s kinda slept on but has a few gut-wrenching tracks about vulnerability and romantic ambivalence… well. Have fun.

Now shut up because I love writing female friendships and this chapter is my offering to the goddesses of sapphic chaos. Yeji and Irya being absolute queens??? We love. But also EMMA. Emma and that awkward tension of do we still fit? Did we ever really know each other or was it just proximity and hormones and being stuck in the same suburban hellscape? That shit is SO REAL. Reuniting with old friends is like a spiritual liminal space and I needed to capture that gnawing weirdness.

AND JIMIN. The eyeliner scene??? I almost CRIED writing it. I had to pause. That man is so soft it makes me want to shove him into a pillow fort and protect him from the world. He’s so good. He sees her, without wanting anything in return. You better analyze it or I’ll strangle every single one of you.

Now. Regarding the very tense bathroom cologne scene. I was actually going to drag the cold war out longer, truly. I had plans. But Jungkook opened his slutty little mouth and said, “No, actually, I’m feral and I’ve been suffering in silence and she smells like sex and nostalgia and I must act.” And what was I supposed to do? Argue? Please. I have 0 narrative agency here. That much is clear.

Also his birthday is coming. So like. I didn’t want to enter that subplot with them still fake-ignoring each other like divorced parents. You’re welcome.

ANYWAY. The next few chapters are slower paced but VERY important. It’s all those little moments where the characters start changing without realizing it. The kind of growth you only see in hindsight. The slow part of the slow burn. But I swear to god I’m obsessed with how it’s turning out and I just want to share it with you and roll around in the angst like a dog in grass.

Okay that’s all. I love you. Go scream in the comments or eat drywall. Or both! <3 Mwah.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Fridays aren't supposed to sneak up on you like a debt collector with something to prove.

Usually, you spend the whole week crawling toward Friday like it's an oasis in the desert of your existence. Monday is hell. Tuesday is hell's waiting room. Wednesday offers a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, the week won't actually kill you. Thursday is its own special brand of torture—so close to freedom you can taste it, but still trapped in the purgatory of obligation.

And then: Friday. 

Glorious, beautiful Friday.

Except this one. This one materialized out of nowhere, ambushing you with its presence and the sudden, horrifying realization that you have exactly zero hours to prepare for what's coming.

So here you are, somehow already standing in a flea market that smells like mothballs and questionable life choices, watching Yeji hold up a fishnet... something against her body while Irya coos over crystals that probably came from the dollar store.

"What do you think?" Yeji asks, draping the fishnet monstrosity over her shoulders. "Is it giving 'fashion-forward' or 'I found this in a dumpster'?"

"Definitely dumpster," you mutter, eyes scanning the crowded stalls without really seeing them. 

Because your mind? Your mind is elsewhere—specifically on the fact that you still need to find a birthday gift for your insufferable roommate.

Jungkook. 

Just thinking his name makes your jaw clench. 

It's been three days since your argument, and the apartment has been a cold war zone of pointed silences and aggressive door closing. 

He wants to be petty? Fine. You can be petty right back. Twice as petty, even. So you’re not talking to him either.

"Hello?” Yeji waves a hand in front of your face. "You've been staring at that old guy selling taxidermy squirrels for like, two minutes straight. Should I be concerned?"

You blink, refocusing. "What? No. I'm just... looking."

"For what exactly?" Irya appears at your side, a small purple crystal clutched in her palm. "You said you already got Emma's birthday present."

"Just browsing," you lie smoothly. "Flea markets are full of... treasures."

Yeji snorts. "Since when do you care about 'treasures'? Last time I dragged you to a vintage store, you said it smelled like 'dead people's closets.'"

“No I didn’t.”

"Right." Yeji doesn't look convinced, but she's already distracted by a display of chunky silver rings. "I'm gonna check these out. Meet you at the food trucks in twenty?"

You nod, grateful for the chance to browse alone. Not that you have any fucking clue what to get Jungkook. What do you buy for someone whose entire personality seems to be "brooding film student with inexplicably good taste in coffee"?

It is like an abandoned warehouse, this flea market—stalls crammed together in haphazard rows, hipsters and bargain hunters elbowing past each other, haggling over everything from antique doorknobs to hand-knitted beanies that look like they were made by someone's cat…

You wander aimlessly, passing stalls selling vintage cameras (too expensive), artisanal coffee beans (too obvious), and leather-bound journals (too pretentious, even for him). 

Nothing feels right. 

Not that it matters—it's just a stupid obligation gift. You shouldn't care this much.

But you do. And that's annoying as fuck.

Then, a rickety table stacked with milk crates catches your eye—or rather, the handwritten sign that reads "RECORDS $5-20" in faded Sharpie. 

The elderly man behind the table looks like he's been selling vinyl since before your parents were born, his weathered hands carefully flipping through a box as a customer asks about some obscure band.

You wait until they leave, then approach, trying to look like someone who actually knows something about records. The crates are dusty, disorganized, with no apparent system. Just hundreds of albums crammed together like sardines.

"Looking for anything specific?" the old man asks, voice gravelly from what you assume are decades of cigarettes.

"Just browsing," you say, already flipping through the nearest crate.

Most of the covers are faded, corners bent, some with water damage or mysterious stains you'd rather not identify. You recognize maybe one in ten artists—a lot of jazz, classic rock, some folk singers your dad probably listened to in college.

This is stupid. You don't know what you're looking for. Jungkook collects vinyl but doesn't even own a record player. What kind of pretentious bullshit is that? It's like buying books just to display them on a shelf without reading them.

You're about to give up when your fingers pause on a familiar name.

John Mayer.

The album cover is slightly worn at the edges, but otherwise in decent condition. 

"Inside Wants Out," it says in simple white letters against the picture of a dude (you guess it’s John) in the background. 

You don’t recognize it at all.

But Jungkook listens to him. His vynil collection is basically a shrine to him. 

So you ask "how much?", holding up the record.

The old man squints. "Fifteen."

Fifteen bucks. Okay, that’s... actually reasonable. Not so expensive that it seems like you care, but not so cheap that it looks like an afterthought. 

Just a casual, "hey, saw this and thought of your weird vinyl collection" kind of gift.

Perfect.

"I'll take it," you say, already digging in your bag for your wallet.

The man slides the record into a paper sleeve, takes your money, and hands you your change with a nod. 

Transaction complete. Gift acquired. Problem solved.

You tuck the record under your arm, feeling oddly satisfied despite yourself. It's just a record. Just a stupid birthday gift for your annoying roommate who thinks he knows everything about everyone, including your taste in men.

But as you weave through the crowd toward the food trucks, you can't help but wonder if he'll like it. If his face will do that thing—that brief, unguarded thing where his eyes light up before he remembers he's supposed to be all cool and detached.

Not that you care. You're just fulfilling a social obligation. That's all.

That's absolutely all.

"Did you actually buy something?" Yeji asks when you reach her, eyeing the record under your arm. "Since when are you into vinyl?"

"Just decoration. For the vinyl wall.”

Irya peers at it. "John Mayer? Isn't he like, your dad's music?"

"He's not that old," you find yourself saying, then immediately wonder why you're defending John fucking Mayer of all people. "And anyway, it was cheap."

"Whatever you say." Yeji shrugs, then holds up a small paper bag. "I got those earrings we saw last week. The ones that look like little daggers."

"Nice," you nod, grateful for the subject change. "I'm starving. Can we get food now?"

As you follow them toward the food trucks, you resist the urge to check the record again, to make sure it's not too scratched or damaged. It doesn't matter. It's just a record. Just a gift.

Just something to cross off your to-do list before Emma's birthday tonight and Jungkook's surprise dinner tomorrow.

Nearing the trucks, suddenly everything smells good. Too good. The kind of good that makes decision-making a fucking nightmare.

You slow your steps, scanning the options.

One truck’s got sizzling skewers of grilled meat, charred at the edges, dripping onto soft pita. Another is doing fresh arepas, the scent of melted cheese thick and indulgent in the air. A few feet away, some guy with tattooed knuckles and an unreasonably aggressive beanie is ladling out steaming bowls of Vietnamese pho.

And then there’s the birria taco stand—because of course there is—and the line is criminally long, people clutching Styrofoam trays of consommé like their lives depend on it.

Your stomach rumbles.

By the time you settle on something—one of those ridiculous but beautiful smash burgers, glossy brioche bun soaking up all that greasy, caramelized goodness—you barely get your wallet out before Yeji hip-checks you out of the way.

“I pay, I pay, I pay,” she announces, tapping her phone against the card reader with swift finality.

You blink. “Okay, what?”

Yeji grins, entirely too pleased with herself. “Well, I’m obviously paying for my beautiful girlfriend, and I kinda figured I’d put you in the package deal.”

You snort, giving her a shove. “Fine. But beers later on me.”

“Deal,” she says easily, tossing the receipt onto the counter like a Wall Street exec closing a million-dollar deal.

Irya latches onto your arm, steering you out of the way so Yeji can continue flirting with the guy behind the counter—some blue-haired, too-many-rings kind of guy who’s already leaning into it, smirking as Yeji compliments his “artistry” with the grill.

“She’s ridiculous,” you mutter.

Irya hums, but there’s amusement in her eyes as she grabs your food, balancing her own order on top of yours. “Just my type of ridiculous.”

You shake your head, leading the way toward a set of old picnic tables at the edge of the food truck lot. The wood is worn, graffiti-scratched and dented from years of use, but it’s clean enough. You drop into a seat, setting your tray down, and Irya follows, sliding in across from you.

She sets her elbow on the table, chin resting lightly in her palm, and smiles. A lock of blonde hair falls loose, catching the light, and she tucks it back behind her ear absently.

“So, Emma’s birthday tonight?”

You unwrap your burger, glancing up at her. “Yeah.”

She studies you for a second, eyes warm. “Excited?”

You hesitate. 

“Yeah,” you say again, but it comes out different this time. Not untrue, exactly, but not as sure as it should be.

Irya notices. Tilts her head slightly, patient, the corners of her mouth tugging into something knowing. 

“You don’t have to be.”

A breath of something close to laughter slips out of you.

 “I mean, I am excited,” you say, because you are. “It’s just—it’s been a while. We used to be really close in high school, but then, you know… life.”

Irya nods, thumb idly tracing the grain of the table. “She’s in Columbia, right?”

“Yeah. I stayed in-state for a bit before moving here. Different cities, different schools, different everything.” You shrug, picking at the edge of the wax paper lining your tray. “We tried to keep in touch, but it’s not the same when you’re not living through the same things anymore. And then you just… don’t talk as much. And then that becomes normal.”

“And now?”

“Now she’s in the city, and I guess we’re both trying to reconnect.”

“That’s good,” Irya says, and she means it. “It’s nice when people want to find their way back to each other.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, glancing down at your food, pushing a fry through the puddle of ketchup on your tray. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

Irya watches you, quiet for a second. Then—

“She’s inviting a lot of people, right?”

You nod, grateful for the slight shift in direction. “Yeah. Told me to bring people, too, so I figured you and Yeji. Maybe Jimin.”

“Jimin would love that.” Irya grins. “He’s been in study-group hell all week. He deserves some fun.”

“You think?” You manage to say whilst chewing on the potato. “I thought I wouldn’t be doing him any favors. Like, he’s the type of person to say yes just out of obligation. And I didn’t want to pressure him into anything.”

Irya makes a soft sound of amusement, propping her chin in her palm. “Nah. If Jimin really didn’t want to go, he’d find a way to say no without actually saying no.”

You pause mid-chew. “What does that mean?”

“It means he’d do that thing where he apologizes like, three different ways in the same sentence, but somehow, you still walk away not totally sure if he said yes or no.”

You snort, swallowing. “Okay, yeah. That sounds about right.”

Irya grins, poking at her fries. “And anyway, he actually likes going out. He just overthinks it first.”

“You say that like you’re sure.”

“I am sure,” she says breezily. “I have classes with him. I watch it happen in real time.”

“Real time?”

“Oh, yeah. Like, someone invites him somewhere, and you can see him start to spiral. Like, ‘Okay, but what if I go and I regret it? But what if I don’t go and I regret that instead? But what if I go, but it’s not fun? But what if I don’t go, and it was fun, and now I’m missing out?’” She mimics his voice, exaggerated and tragic, and you can’t help but laugh.

“Okay, but that is a valid crisis.”

“It is,” Irya agrees, laughing too. “But the point is, once he actually gets there, he has a good time.” She levels you with a look, half teasing, half expectant. “So invite him.”

You sigh, reaching for another fry. “Fine.”

And then—

“I got us free dumplings.”

Yeji appears out of nowhere, sliding into the seat next to Irya and dropping a white takeout box onto the table like she’s just secured a goddamn business deal.

You blink. “How?”

She shrugs, already reaching for a dumpling. “Wouldn’t take my money.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

Irya hums, all faux-innocent. “Didn’t happen to have anything to do with that very long, very intimate conversation you were having with the guy behind the counter, did it?”

Yeji smirks around a bite of dumpling. “I dunno. Did it?”

You snort, shaking your head. “Men and their non-existent gaydars.”

“Right? Kinda sucks when she grabs all their attention,” Irya smiles, reaching for a dumpling of her own.

“Not my fault he was easy to entertain,” Yeji says, looking entirely unbothered. “Anyway, eat. They’re fresh.”

You don’t argue. The dumplings are good—warm, crisp at the edges, the filling rich with just the right balance of spice.

Yeji watches you for a second, chewing thoughtfully. “So what were we talking about?”

“Jimin,” Irya supplies.

Yeji groans. “Ugh. Tragic little academic. Is he still alive?”

Irya nods, popping a dumpling into her mouth. “Barely. But we’re dragging him to Emma’s party tonight, so he might actually remember what fun feels like.”

Yeji quirks an eyebrow, chewing slowly. “Emma?” She flicks a glance at you. “Your other friend? Birthday girl?”

You take a sip of your drink. “Mmhm.”

Yeji hums, tapping her chopsticks against the takeout box. “Bestie competition, then.”

You nearly choke. “Oh my god.”

Irya grins, delighted. “It is kind of serious. High school bestie versus new college besties.”

Yeji tilts her head, considering. “I don’t know, man. Legacy friends have an unfair advantage. History. Nostalgia.”

“Yeah,” Irya sighs, fake mournful. “How can we ever compete with the memories?”

You level them both with a flat look. “You’ve known me for a month.”

Yeji leans back. “It’s been a whole month already? Woah.”

“We’re joking. I’m sure we’ll get along.” Irya adds.

You snort, shaking your head.

Yeji watches you for a second, still smirking, but then the expression shifts—just a little. 

“Are you excited?”

The question catches you off guard. Not because it’s unexpected, but because it’s… genuine.

You pause, setting down your cup. 

“Yeah,” you say, slower this time. “I mean, I haven’t seen her in a while, so it’ll be—nice. A little weird, maybe. But nice.”

Yeji nods. “You gonna introduce us?”

You blink. “Uh. Yeah?”

Irya arches her eyebrows. “Yeah?”

You groan. “Oh my god, what is that supposed to mean?”

Yeji shrugs, reaching for another dumpling. “I mean, if she’s bestie material, we gotta vet her.”

“Shouldn’t she be the one vetting you two? She’s known me since I had braces and a regrettable side bang phase. Feels like she’s got seniority here.”

Yeji gasps. “Wow. So you’re saying we have no authority in this situation?”

“We really don’t.” Irya muses, almost singsonging.

“I don’t know,” Yeji muses, tapping a finger against her chin. “I feel like we bring some very important qualifications to the table. For example, we met Y/N when she was already in her fully realized, evolved form. We didn’t just settle for her because we grew up in the same town.”

You roll your eyes. “Jesus.”

Yeji nods, completely serious. “Yeah, we got to make an informed choice. Handpicked, if you will.”

“Wow, lucky me.”

Irya grins. “So lucky.”

You shake your head, reaching for another fry. “Just… behave.”

“I always behave,” Yeji says, smirking. “You’re just afraid we’ll be better besties than Emma.”

You scoff. “That’s not even remotely the issue.”

“Then what is the issue?” Irya prompts, head tilting to the side.

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know, but because saying it out loud feels like giving it weight. Giving it power.

You exhale. “It’s just—there’s a difference between keeping in touch and actually knowing someone after years apart. And I guess I don’t know if we still… fit the way we used to.”

That quiets them for a beat.

Yeji tilts her head, watching you with something unreadable in her gaze. Irya rests her chin in her palm again, a small, knowing smile playing at her lips.

“That’s fair,” Irya says, voice softer this time. “It’s weird when people grow in different directions. Sometimes you come back together. Sometimes you don’t.”

You nod, not entirely trusting yourself to speak.

“But hey,” Yeji cuts in, voice as casual as ever, “if she sucks, at least you’ll have us.”

You huff a laugh. “So generous of you.”

She winks. “I know.”

And just like that, the weight on your chest feels a little lighter.

You stare at your reflection, one eye perfectly winged, the other a smudged disaster—like your life, really: half put together, half absolute chaos.

You lean closer to the mirror, squinting at your uneven eyeliner with the kind of intense focus that FBI agents would reserve for defusing bombs or something. You've been at this for twenty minutes now, and your right eye is starting to look like it's been drawn by a five-year-old with a crayon during an earthquake.

"Fuck," you mutter, reaching for a cotton swab. 

Third time's the charm, right? 

Or maybe fifth. 

You've lost count.

From the living room, Griffin's thunderous purr competes with Yeji's animated voice. She's been trying to convince Yoongi to produce some track for her for the past fifteen minutes, her persistence almost admirable if it weren't so clearly futile. Yoongi's monotone responses barely register over the distance, but you can picture his expression—bored, unbothered, probably wanting to kill himself before engaging.

"Orange cats are literally the basic bitches of the cat world," Yeji declares loudly enough for you to hear. "Black cats have personality. They have depth. They're mysterious."

"Tell that to Griffin," Irya responds, her voice warm and amused. "He seems pretty content being basic on your lap right now."

"That's cats for you," Yeji sighs dramatically. "The least person who wants them is the one who gets them."

You smile despite your eyeliner frustration. Because it’s ironic—Yeji, who swears black cats are superior, is now trapped under Griffin's substantial orange weight. 

That's karma, feline edition.

You’re wearing a dress to the gathering—the same one from that night in January. You've worn it exactly once since buying it, and now it's making its second appearance. 

It's not like you planned it this way. It just happened to be the perfect outfit for Emma's birthday dinner. 

(At least that's what you tell yourself as you deliberately avoid examining your motives too closely.)

Emma. Your high school friend. Your only real connection to your life before college. 

Before this apartment. 

Before Jungkook. 

You haven't seen her in months (since that night in January), and there's a strange anxiety bubbling in your stomach that has nothing to do with your makeup struggles. 

You did vibe back then. But… was it a ‘we vibe because we are going out’ situation; or was it because you two actually connected?

People change. You've changed. The question hanging in the air is whether you've changed in compatible ways.

At least you won't be alone tonight. Emma said you could bring friends, so naturally, you are bringing them along.

You dab at your eyeliner again, smudging it further. Great. Now you look like you've been punched. Or crying. Or both.

A soft knock on the door interrupts your silent self-criticism.

"Come in," you call, not bothering to hide your frustration. It's not like anyone in this apartment hasn't seen you in various states of disaster before.

The door creaks open, and Jimin's face appears in the gap, his expression shifting from curious to sympathetic as he takes in your makeup situation.

"Having trouble?" he asks, stepping into the small bathroom. 

The space immediately feels warmer with him in it. Jimin has that effect—like a human comfort blanket.

"What gave it away?" you deadpan, gesturing to your face. "The fact that I look like I let a toddler do my makeup, or the fact that I've been in here for half an hour?"

He laughs softly, the sound gentle and reassuring. "It's not that bad."

"Liar."

"Okay, it's a little uneven," he admits, moving closer to examine your handiwork. His eyes narrow slightly as he studies your face with unexpected intensity. "Let me."

Before you can respond, he's taking the eyeliner from your hand, his fingers brushing against yours in a brief moment of warmth.

"You know how to do this?" you ask, surprised.

"I have sisters," he says simply, which doesn't really answer your question, but you don't push it. "Close your eye," he instructs, his voice soft but confident.

You comply, feeling the gentle pressure of his hand steadying your face. His touch is light, precise—and you can’t help but feel this is some sort of significant moment. 

"Stay still," he murmurs, and you can sense the smile forming on his lips.

The eyeliner glides across your lid with surprising smoothness. One stroke, then another. No hesitation in his movement. You're impressed and a little confused by his skill, but mostly grateful.

"Where did you learn to—"

"Shh," he interrupts. "No talking or I'll mess up."

You fall silent, letting him work. There's something about Jimin that's always made you curious. He's like a book with half the pages glued together—what you can read is beautiful, but you sense there's more to the story.

"Done," he announces after a moment, stepping back to admire his work. "Take a look."

You turn to the mirror and blink in surprise. The wing is perfect—sharp enough to kill a man, as Yeji herself would say. It matches the other eye exactly, creating a symmetry you couldn't achieve on your own.

"Jimin, this is..." you trail off, turning to face him. "How are you so good at this?"

He shrugs, a small, almost shy grin playing at his lips. "I just have a steady hand, I guess."

There's more to it than that—you can tell by the way he avoids your eyes, the slight flush creeping up his neck. But something tells you not to press further. 

Everyone has their secrets.

Private pieces they're not ready to share. 

You, of all people, know that.

"Well, whatever the reason, thank you," you say sincerely. "You just saved me from looking like a hot mess at Emma's birthday."

"Happy to help," he replies, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "You look beautiful."

The compliment is simple, genuine, without the weight of expectation or desire that usually accompanies such words from men. 

It's refreshing. Because you feel like Jimin sees you—really sees you—without wanting anything in return.

"We should probably get going soon," he says, glancing at his watch. "Yeji's been threatening to leave without us for the past ten minutes."

"As if she would," you scoff, reaching for your lipstick. "She's too excited about meeting Emma and judging her worthiness."

Jimin laughs. "True. Though I think she's more excited about the free food."

"Priorities," you agree with a smile.

You apply your lipstick—a muted berry shade that complements your eyeshadow without being too dramatic. The final touch to your appearance. Not too casual, not too glamorous. Perfect for a birthday dinner.

You've always loved makeup, the ritual of it, the transformation. 

Not because you're trying to hide or become someone else, but because it's an extension of yourself—another form of expression. 

You're so tired of those cliché "not like other girls" characters in movies and books who supposedly wear nothing but mascara yet somehow have flawless skin and perfect brows. 

As if enjoying makeup somehow makes you shallow or less authentic.

The truth is, most girls you know love makeup to some degree. Some for the artistry, some for the confidence boost, some just because it's fun. And you're no different. 

That doesn't make you basic or vain—it makes you human. 

A human who happens to enjoy the satisfying swipe of a good lipstick.

"Ready?" Jimin asks, holding the door open for you.

You take one last look at your reflection. The girl staring back looks put together, confident. 

Whether she actually feels that way is another story entirely, but hey—fake it till you make it, right?

"Ready," you confirm.

You're halfway out the door when you pause. 

Something's missing. The final touch.

"Oh, wait. Cologne."

Jimin nods understandingly, already retreating toward the living room. "Don't take too long or Yeji might actually follow through on her threats this time."

You turn back to the bathroom counter, sliding open the narrow drawer where your collection lives. Four different bottles stare back at you, each with its own personality, its own statement. Your fingers hover over them, indecisive, until they land on one particular bottle.

Ember.

The golden liquid catches the bathroom light, glowing like trapped sunlight inside the crystal bottle. 

You haven't used it since... well, since that night in January. You've been saving it for special occasions, though what constitutes "special" has remained conveniently undefined.

You lift the bottle, turning it in your hand. You apply it to your wrists, your neck, your ears. And before you can overthink it, you bring it to your nose, inhaling lightly.

Memories unfurl instantly, blooming in your mind like clouds puffing up in a winter sky. They tumble through your consciousness, overwhelming and vivid, making it hard to breathe—though you're not entirely sure you want to.

His hands on your hips, fingers pressing into your skin with just enough pressure to leave phantom marks that lingered for days afterward. 

His slicked chin when he smiled up at you from between your thighs, all smug and proud for making you cum with his tongue. 

His infuriating, satisfied smirk that somehow annoyed you, but also turned you on.

Rosy cheeks and disheveled hair, soft eyes in the aftermath. 

You distinctly remember that was the first time you had thought Jungkook looked cute. Not just hot or sexy, but genuinely cute in a way that had caught you off guard.

And you didn't even know his name then.

The door swings open without warning.

You nearly drop the bottle, fumbling to catch it before it shatters against the tile floor. Your heart leaps into your throat as you look up, startled.

Jungkook peers inside, and you both freeze, staring at each other like you don’t know which one of you should stay and which one of you should leave. His eyes flick from your face to the bottle in your hand, recognition dawning in his expression.

A long pause.

Your eyes drift down his torso, inevitably.

He's wearing a black t-shirt that hugs his frame in all the right places, hair rumpled and messy. His rainy-like scent envelops the cramped space, mingling with the lingering notes of vanilla on your wrist like they’ve always belonged together. 

His eyes drift too. Drop lower, taking in the dress hugging your curves, fingers tightening on the doorframe, knuckles whitening with the pressure. 

You watch the subtle movement, the physical manifestation of restraint, and feel an answering tightness in your chest.

You haven't spoken since Tuesday. Since the fight about Jason. Since he suddenly starting talking about vibes like he’s the type of guy to trust his gut.

And maybe he is. 

And maybe you aren’t.

"Sorry," he says finally, breaking the silence. "Didn't know you were in here."

He avoids your gaze.

You don’t know if that makes you angry or anxious. It’s hard to determine what’s crippling your chest.

"It's fine. I was just leaving."

Neither of you moves.

His eyes drift to the cologne bottle again. Recognition, desire, frustration. 

Then, he masks it. 

But you caught it. 

He remembers the fragrance.

And how could he not? When he constantly praised it that night, how it rested on your skin, how good it made you smell, how fucking good you tasted.

"Going somewhere?" he asks then, interrupting your conflicting thoughts.

"Emma's birthday dinner," you reply, voice tight.

He nods slowly, gaze returning to the dress. The dress from that night. The dress he peeled off you with those same hands now gripping the doorframe like it's the only thing keeping him anchored.

You should move. You should cap the cologne, put it away, walk past him and join your friends who are waiting. You should maintain the cold war you've established since your fight.

Instead, you find yourself asking, "Did you need something?"

He purses his lips. "Just needed to pee.”

"Right," you say. "I'll get out of your way."

You cap the cologne, and you just know his eyes are tracking your every motion. Because that’s Jungkook for you—when he’s focused on something, it’s obvious.

You move toward the door—toward him—and it’s like suddenly, the small bathroom feels impossibly smaller. Like there’s not enough space for both of you and all the unspoken words crowding the air.

You'll have to squeeze past him. There's no way to avoid it.

His grip on the doorframe tightens further, as if he's holding himself back. From what, you're not entirely sure. Touching you? Yelling at you? Both seem equally possible.

"Excuse me," you murmur.

He steps back marginally, not enough to clear the path completely. 

Like he’s hesitating. 

Like he doesn’t know whether he wants to move for real, or stay rooted in place.

“Jungkook,” you say, and his name feels strange on your tongue after days of not speaking it. “Move.”

“You smell like that night,” he settles for staying instead of moving, voice dropping lower, annoyed. “You know that, right? You’re going to smell exactly like you did when I had you against that wall.”

Your breath catches. Heat blooms across your chest, up your neck.

“That’s not—” you start, but the lie dies on your lips. 

Because it is. Of course it is. You knew exactly what you were doing when you reached for that bottle.

You see his jaw work. His tongue peek against the inside of his cheek. His eyes lock into yours like he wants to say something else.

But he doesn’t. 

“Have fun at your dinner,” is all he comes up with, stepping aside. 

The movement feels like it costs him something.

You move past him. Take a deep breath, pushing thoughts of Jungkook aside. 

Tonight isn’t about him. It’s about Emma, about reconnecting with a part of your life that existed before this apartment, before him.

But as you step into the living room, you can still feel the weight of his gaze on your back, can still smell Ember on your skin, can still hear his voice in your ear.

You know that, right? You’re going to smell exactly like you did when I had you against that wall.

And the worst part is, you don’t know why or how—but maybe that’s exactly what you wanted.

The restaurant is too loud, too crowded, too New York—but Emma’s hug is warm, and that makes up for it.

“Finally.” She squeezes you tight, like she’s trying to merge your atoms together. “You took forever.”

Yeji, behind you, snorts. “Blame her eyeliner existential crisis.”

Emma pulls back, eyebrows raised. “Oh? We still doing that?”

“We are always doing that,” you deadpan.

She laughs—her laugh. It’s the same as it was in high school, loud and full, like she actually enjoys things instead of just tolerating them. That hasn’t changed. Neither has the way she looks at you, eyes scanning your face, taking you in like she’s checking if you’re still the same person too.

The answer? You don’t know.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you guys,” she says, looping an arm through yours.

You let yourself be pulled in—into the restaurant, into her world, into the crowd of fifteen fucking people all squeezed around a too-small table in the back corner. She moves through the chaos easily, hand on your wrist, steering you like she used to when you were seventeen and invincible.

“This is Yeji, Irya, and Jimin,” you say as you go, pointing them out like exhibits in a museum.

Emma grins at them, all effortless charm. “Your uni friends. I’ve heard so much.”

Jimin, ever polite, smiles back. “All good things, I hope.”

Emma does not confirm or deny, which says enough.

There’s a blur of names you won’t remember—Emma’s friends, classmates, people who probably have their lives together in a way you do not. Someone pulls her into another conversation, and you hover awkwardly at the edge of the group, watching her slip back into a world that isn’t yours.

It’s strange.

You used to know everything about her. Every inside joke, every dream, every late-night insecurity whispered over FaceTime. 

But now—now you’re an observer. 

A guest.

Still, when she sits, she grabs your wrist again and tugs you down next to her.

“So,” she starts, picking up her glass—red wine, something deep and rich. “Are you finally admitting that I was right, or are we still in the denial phase?”

You blink, thrown. “About what?”

She gives you a look. “Do I have to spell it out?”

Your stomach knots.

Jungkook. She means Jungkook.

You exhale through your nose, reaching for your water instead. “We are so not doing this here.”

Emma grins, but she lets it go—for now.

Instead, she leans back. “God, I forgot how exhausting socializing is. I swear, law school is turning me into one of those people who can only function in coffee shops and libraries.”

You snort. “You were already that person in high school.”

“True,” she concedes, tilting her glass toward you. “But now it’s worse. Now I actually enjoy tax law. Like, genuinely. It’s fascinating.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I refuse to believe that.”

“Swear on my life,” she says, amused. “You should see me in my internship. I get excited about deductions. I have a favorite tax loophole.”

“That’s disgusting.”

Emma just grins. “Give it time. One day, you’ll come to me, desperate for tax advice, and I’ll be your only hope. And I will lord it over you.”

“You wish.”

“Oh, I know.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the way your lips twitch. It’s easy, falling into conversation with Emma. Easier than you thought it would be, considering how much has changed since high school.

“So, what’s the plan then?” you ask, nudging your knee against hers under the table. “You still set on Seattle after graduation?”

Emma hesitates. Not in a bad way—more like she’s holding onto something, waiting for the right moment.

“Actually,” she says, twirling the stem of her glass between her fingers. “I’ve been thinking about Europe.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Europe?”

“Yeah.” She leans forward slightly, eyes lighting up. “I did a summer program there—France, Italy, Greece, Spain. It was insane. I loved it. I don’t know, I just—” She exhales, shaking her head like she can’t quite put it into words. “Seattle was always the safe plan, you know? The practical one. But now? I keep thinking about the Mediterranean coast. The markets, the people. It feels like people there work to live, not live to work like they do here in America.”

You watch her carefully. Emma has always been a planner, a strategist. She doesn’t make decisions lightly.

And yet—she looks alive talking about this.

“So, what?” you ask. “You’re gonna become a tax attorney in Greece? Help rich expats avoid paying their fair share?”

Emma snorts. “God, no. If I go, I’d probably work with international firms, corporate law, maybe even consulting. It’s different over there, you know? Taxes, policies, loopholes—everything shifts depending on the country, the treaties in place.”

“You realize you sound even worse now, right?”

“Shut up,” she laughs. “At least I’m passionate about something.”

You hum, thoughtful. “So, Europe.”

“Maybe,” she says. “Nothing’s set in stone yet.”

But you can tell, just from the way she says it, that it’s more than a maybe.

It’s funny. The last time you saw her, she was talking about Seattle like it was inevitable. Now she’s talking about the Mediterranean coast with the kind of quiet certainty that makes you think she’s already half there.

People change.

You’ve changed.

And yet, it feels like nothing between you two has changed at all. 

Emma eyes you for a long moment, then smirks. 

“Your turn.”

You blink. “What?”

“You’ve barely told me anything about your life,” she says. “How’s English? Still planning on breaking the hearts of young, impressionable students as a professor?”

“First of all, no. That is not the plan. And second—”

“You can’t tell me you don’t look the part,” she teases. “The eyeliner? The whole vibe? You’d have students falling in love with you instantly.”

“I hate you.”

She grins. “I missed you too.”

You feel it, then—the warmth of familiarity, of friendship. It settles in your chest, light and unburdened, and for the first time in a while, you think:

This is nice.

Even with the changes, even with the time apart, even with the half-truths lingering at the back of your throat—this is still Emma.

“Come on,” Emma nudges your arm, eyes gleaming. “Let me introduce you to my favorite tax nerds.”

You groan, but let her pull you toward the other end of the table. “If I die of boredom, I’m haunting you.”

“They’re fun,” she insists, dodging between chairs and half-full wine glasses. “For tax people, anyway.”

The group is mid-conversation when you arrive—something about offshore accounts, corporate loopholes, and why the ultra-wealthy pay less in taxes than you probably spend on coffee each year. (Fascinating.) Chris and Max, two guys who both look like they were born wearing pressed button-ups, are deep in debate, hands gesturing, voices overlapping.

But the girl sitting across from you—Nina—just listens, quiet, observant.

She clocks you the moment you sit down. And you clock her right back.

Dark brown skin, black curls tucked behind one ear, a delicate gold necklace resting just above the collar of an oversized sweater. The sleeves are pushed up to reveal slender wrists, and she has the kind of presence that doesn’t need to fill space to be felt. 

There’s something measured about her. Something thoughtful. Like she only speaks when there’s something worth saying.

She’s pretty.

Really pretty.

But it’s more than that. She’s composed in a way that makes you hyperaware of yourself—your posture, the way you’re holding your drink, the way she looks at you with a quiet, unreadable expression.

“Hi,” she says, voice smooth, accent lilting ever so slightly.

It’s just that—simple. Friendly. Maybe.

You clear your throat. “Hey.”

Emma gestures between you. “Nina, this is my friend from high school—the one I told you about?”

Nina hums like she remembers, tilting her head. “The one who thinks tax law is boring?”

You blink. “Emma told you that?”

“She warned me in advance,” Nina says, lips twitching. “Said you might try to stage an intervention.”

You shoot Emma a look, but she’s already sipping her wine, unbothered. 

“Well,” you say, turning back to Nina, “I was going to be polite about it, but now I feel like I have a responsibility.”

That gets a small smile out of her. Just a slight curve of the lips, like she’s amused but won’t give you the satisfaction of knowing just how much.

You don’t know why that makes you want to push, just a little.

“So,” you continue, tilting your head, “what is it, then? The thing about tax law that actually doesn’t put you to sleep?”

Nina considers this. Takes a slow sip of her drink. And when she speaks, it’s not rushed—it’s careful.

“It’s not about the numbers,” she says, setting her glass down. “Not really. It’s about human nature. About how people behave when they think no one is watching. Governments set up incentives, and people react accordingly. It’s a game of strategy. A reflection of what a society actually values, not just what it claims to.”

You weren’t expecting that answer.

Your fingers tighten slightly around your glass. “So, what—you think taxes are, like, a moral compass?”

Nina shrugs. “Not a moral compass. But they show you what people are willing to bend the rules for. What they think is worth cheating for. And that’s… interesting, I think.”

You watch her, trying to get a read on her. She’s got this almost effortless kind of intrigue—the kind of person who could make anything sound poetic if she wanted to.

Emma groans. “Oh god, don’t encourage her. She’ll start talking about capital gains tax next.”

Nina lifts a brow. “It’s actually fascinating, if you—”

“Absolutely not,” Emma interrupts. “Nope. I refuse.”

You smirk. “I don’t know, Em. I kind of want to hear her out.”

Emma glares at you. “Do not encourage the tax philosophy.”

But Nina is looking at you again. Not in a dramatic way. Not in a way that screams I’m interested. But in a way that’s… present. Attentive. Like she actually finds this conversation worth having.

And maybe that means nothing.

Or maybe it does.

You’re not sure.

Which—God, why is this always harder with girls?

With guys, it’s obvious. But with girls—well. You think she’s enjoying this. But is she just enjoying it, or is there something else there? Is this just conversation, or is it something that, in hindsight, will feel like a moment?

You have no fucking idea.

The conversation shifts after that—Emma talks about her summer in Europe, Chris and Max start debating New York’s best pizza, someone brings up an upcoming bar crawl.

And then, at some point, Nina glances at her phone before looking at you again.

“You mind if I get your number?” she asks.

Casual. Easy. Nothing in her tone suggests it’s anything more than that.

“Emma talks about you a lot,” she adds, mouth twitching slightly. “I feel like I should probably fact-check at least half of it.”

Emma swats at her, but you barely register it, already pulling your phone out.

You’re not reading into it. You’re not.

But also—

You kind of are.

Still, you hand your phone over, watch as Nina types in her number, then passes it back. Just a name in your contacts now. Simple. Unassuming.

You have no idea if you just made a new friend or if this is something else.

And honestly?

You kind of like not knowing.

“Well, well, well,” Yeji drawls, sliding into the conversation without invitation. “Are we allowed to sit, or is this a tax-exclusive gathering?”

You exhale. “Jesus, Yeji.”

“What? We were getting bored.” She drops into the seat beside you, tossing an arm over Irya’s chair. “Jimin’s been overanalyzing the condensation on his glass for the past fifteen minutes, and Irya’s just been smiling at people like a lost pageant contestant.”

“I was being friendly,” Irya corrects, unfazed.

“You were being too friendly.”

“Networking,” Irya insists, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I love people.”

“You do,” Emma says, delighted. “It’s terrifying.”

Irya beams, pleased. Yeji just sighs like she’s accepted her fate.

Nina watches all of this unfold with quiet amusement, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “You two are together?”

Yeji tilts her head. “That a problem?”

Nina meets her gaze evenly. “No. It’s nice.”

It’s a simple statement, but it rings genuine, like she’s not just saying it to be polite. Yeji studies her for a second longer before nodding, satisfied, and pulling Irya in to kiss her temple.

Emma turns to you, grinning. “Your friends are so much more fun than my law ones.”

You smirk. “That’s because they have souls.”

Chris, still lingering in the tax-law-heavy end of the table, lifts a hand in protest. “Hey.”

Yeji ignores him completely, waving to Nina instead. “So, you’re a tax philosopher?”

Nina looks faintly amused but nods. “That’s what they tell me.”

“Cool, cool,” Yeji muses, reaching for Irya’s wine and taking a sip before Irya can protest. “And do you also believe that money isn’t real?”

Nina tilts her head slightly, considering. “I think it’s real in the sense that it determines the way the world functions. But I also think it’s one of the biggest shared delusions humanity has ever committed to.”

Yeji brightens. “See? This is the tax conversation I want to be having.”

You roll your eyes, but Nina takes it in stride. She’s good at this, you notice—letting conversations unfold naturally, never forcing her presence but never fading into the background either.

Across from you, Jimin has settled into his usual quiet observation, sipping his drink slowly. He’s not uncomfortable, just taking it all in. He catches your eye at one point, a small look that says ‘you good?’

You nod, barely perceptible.

He doesn’t push. Just gives a small nod back and turns his attention back to the conversation. Just listening in.

Emma leans in slightly, nudging your arm. “I like them,” she murmurs.

You glance at her, raising a brow. “Yeah?”

She hums. “They make you lighter.”

It’s such an Emma thing to say—blunt in a way that doesn’t feel invasive, just observant. 

You don’t respond right away, but you don’t need to. 

She’s already grinning like she knows the answer.

The apartment is quiet when you finally get home, the only light coming from the TV screen where some game is paused. 

Jungkook is sprawled on the couch, controller resting loosely in his hands, looking like he's been there for hours. He glances up when the door closes behind you, expression neutral.

"It's late," he says, not quite a question.

You drop your keys in the bowl by the door. "Yeah."

"Had fun?" He unpauses the game, thumbs moving lazily over the controller buttons. His character on screen walks aimlessly into a wall.

"Yeah," you say, kicking off your heels with a sigh of relief. "Emma's friends are cool. We ended up at this bar in Brooklyn after dinner."

He makes a noncommittal sound, still not looking at you.

"Jason wasn't there, though, so don't worry," you add, unable to help yourself.

That gets his attention. His thumbs still, and he scoffs, a short, sharp sound in the quiet apartment. 

“You know I don't give a fuck about that guy, right?"

"Really?" You raise an eyebrow, heading to the kitchen for water. "Because you seemed to have very strong opinions about him on Tuesday."

The controller drops onto the couch as he turns to face you fully. 

“Look," he says, voice tight with frustration. "I don't give a fuck who you fuck or who you date. Seriously. Not my business."

"Yup. Three rules," you start, unscrewing the cap on your water bottle.

"One, no one knows," he recites, cutting you off.

"Two, if somebody asks, we're just roommates," you continue.

"And three," he interrupts again, more forcefully, "no feelings. I know the fucking rules, Phoenix. I helped make them."

You take a long drink of water, studying him over the bottle. His hair is messy in a stupid endearing way, and there are shadows under his eyes. 

"So what was Tuesday about, then?" you ask finally.

He exhales slowly, jaw working. "I told you. The guy gives me bad vibes."

"Bad vibes," you repeat flatly.

"Yeah. Bad fucking vibes." He rubs a hand over his face. "Look, I know how it sounded, okay? But it's not—" He stops, frustrated. "It's not about you. Or us. Or whatever the fuck we're doing."

You consider him for a moment, then set your water bottle down and cross to the couch, sitting on the opposite end. 

"Explain."

"What?"

"Explain these 'bad vibes.' Because from where I was sitting, it sounded irrational."

"It's not—" He stops again, shaking his head. "You know what? Forget it. Not my problem."

"Jungkook."

He looks at you, surprised by the use of his actual name.

"I'm trying to understand," you say, softer than you intended. "So explain it to me."

He studies you for a long moment, like he's trying to decide if you're serious. 

Finally, he sighs. "He's fake."

"Fake how?"

"The way he talks. The way he looks at you when you're not watching. The way he touched your arm in the car." His words come faster now. "The way he asked about your schedule, your classes. The way he positioned himself between us. It's all... calculated."

You frown. "That's a lot to read into a few interactions."

"I know what I saw," he insists. "Guys like that... they start small. Compliments. Attention. Making you feel special. Then it's suggestions about what you should wear. Who you should hang out with. What classes you should take."

His tone is raw, really raw, and you realize it’s the first time you’ve heard him talk like this. 

Like it’s personal.

“You're saying he's controlling."

"I'm saying he could be." He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up further. "Look, I've seen it before, okay? People who seem perfect on the surface but underneath they're just... manipulative. They make you think everything's your idea when really they're pulling all the strings."

You're quiet for a moment, processing. 

"This isn't just about Jason, is it?"

His eyes flick to yours, then away. 

"I told you. It's not about you or us."

"But it is about someone."

He doesn't answer, but his silence is confirmation enough.

"Mia?" you ask softly.

"I don't want to talk about her."

"Okay," you say, respecting the boundary even as curiosity burns through you. "But that's why you're worried about Jason? Because he reminds you of her?"

"Not of her specifically," he says after a pause. "Just... the type. The signs."

You pull your legs up onto the couch, turning to face him fully. "What signs?"

He looks at you for a long moment, like he's deciding how much to share. 

"The perfect act," he says finally. "The way everything seems rehearsed. The charm that never quite reaches their eyes." His voice drops lower. "The way they make you feel like you're the only person in the room, but it's not because they care about you. It's because they want something from you."

"And you think that's Jason?"

"I don't know," he admits. "Maybe I'm seeing things that aren't there. But my gut says something's off with him."

You consider this. "Your gut's been wrong before."

A bitter smile twists his lips. "Yeah. More than once."

Silence stretches between you, but it’s not the uncomfortable kind. It’s like you’re both still processing the words exchanged.

"I'm still going on the date," you say finally.

He nods, looking away. "I know."

"But I'll... keep what you said in mind. Watch for the signs."

He glances back at you, surprise flickering across his face. 

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You shrug, trying to keep it casual. "Contrary to what you might think, I don't actually enjoy being manipulated."

"Could've fooled me," he mutters, but there's no real heat behind it.

You kick his thigh lightly with your foot. "Asshole."

The corner of his mouth twitches upward. "Brat."

Silence again. His forearms are resting on his knees, hands crossed together as his gaze remains unfocused.

"So," he says eventually, "how was the birthday girl?"

You're surprised by the question, by his apparent interest in your life outside this apartment. 

"Good," you say. "Different, but good. She's in Economics. Has a serious boyfriend. Wears a lot of beige."

"Sounds thrilling."

You laugh despite yourself. "It was actually nice. Weird, but nice. Like visiting a place you used to live but don't anymore."

He nods, understanding in his eyes. "Did your new friends play nice with your old friend?"

"Yeji, Irya and Jimin?" You smile at the memory. "They were on their best behavior. Well, Yeji's version of best behavior, which means she only made three inappropriate jokes and only drank half the table's wine."

He snorts. "Sounds about right."

"Emma liked them, though. I think." You pause, considering. "It's strange, bringing different parts of your life together."

"I bet it is," he agrees quietly.

You look at him, really look at him, sitting there in the dim light of the TV. For once, there's no smirk on his face, no challenge in his eyes. Just Jungkook, tired and rumpled and unexpectedly honest.

"Why were you still up?" you ask suddenly.

The question catches him off guard. "What?"

"It's 3 AM. Why are you still awake?"

He shrugs, defensive again. "Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd play for a bit."

You glance at the TV screen where his character has been standing in the same spot for the past ten minutes. 

"Right."

"What?" he demands.

"Nothing," you say, but you can't help the small smile that forms. "Just... nothing."

He narrows his eyes at you, but doesn't press.

"I should get to bed," you say, standing up. "It's late."

He nods, picking up the controller again. "Yeah."

You're halfway to your room when his voice stops you.

"Phoenix?"

You turn back. "Yeah?"

He’s staring at you, but it’s not the usual smirk. No. 

His eyes flick downward. To the floor, like he’s seriously considering his next words—or rather, if he should vocalize them at all. 

But then he looks up at you again, seemingly decided.

"You..." he starts, licking his lips like he’s trying to pull himself together. But he’s failing. "You know you smell fucking delicious, right? Like, it’s so fucking unfair."

Your pulse stutters. "Excuse me?"

"The cologne," he says, standing up. "You’ve been driving me insane the whole night. The whole apartment smells like you.”

You blink at him, caught somewhere between disbelief and something hotter, heavier. "I didn’t wear it for you."

"No?” His lips twitch, almost a smile but not quite—like he knows exactly how full of shit you are. "The cologne from that night. The dress from that night. And I’m supposed to believe that’s just a coincidence?"

"It is," you snap back, defensive even as your pulse betrays you by speeding up.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head like he can’t believe what he’s hearing—or maybe just like he can’t believe you.

“Fuck, Phoenix," he mutters, voice dropping into something rougher, more dangerous. "Do you have any idea how good you smell? How much I’ve been thinking about getting my mouth on you again?"

Your breath catches somewhere in your throat—an audible hitch that makes his eyes darken further.

"We’re fighting," you remind him weakly.

"Are we?" He steps closer, until there’s barely a whisper of space between you. "Because right now all I can think about is how wet you were for me the first time I smelled that shit on your skin."

You retreat physically; even though mentally you’re honestly already naked for him.

"Four days," he muses, tone dripping with frustration, almost needy. "Four days of smelling your shampoo in the bathroom, that stupid body lotion, and now—now you pull this shit. That’s fucking cruel, Nix.”

"You could’ve apologized," you point out dryly.

"For what?" He scoffs like the idea itself is offensive. "For telling the truth? For saying Jason gives me bad vibes?"

"There it is again," you say, crossing your arms over your chest like it’ll protect you from whatever energy he’s radiating right now. 

It doesn’t.

He exhales softly, eyes flicking to your lips before moving back up. 

“I’m being for real, Phoenix. Your vanilla shit drives me nuts,” he confesses bluntly.

Then llicks his lips, considering what he’s about to say 

But says it anyways. 

“I jerked off after you left.”

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for air.

"Couldn’t help it," he continues. “The smell of your cologne... seeing you in that dress again... I couldn’t get the image out of my head."

"What image?"

"The first time," he says slowly, like he wants every word to sink into your skin and stay there forever. "In that room. The way you tasted... the sounds you made when I had my tongue inside you."

Your legs threaten mutiny.

"And now?" You force yourself to ask because silence feels dangerous—like it might give him permission to keep going without restraint.

"Now?" He repeats, almost hushed. "Now, I’m… really craving vanilla.”

You should walk away—should turn around and retreat into your room where things are safe and quiet and not vibrating with tension so thick it feels alive—but instead?

Instead, your feet betray you by staying planted firmly in place: "Eat some cookies.”

“I want to eat something else.”

“What if I don’t want you to?”

He purses his lips. Tongue drops to lick the lower one. Gaze flickers to your mouth again before they come back to your pupils.

“You don’t?”

And the way he exhales it, like the mere idea of you saying no pains him—it melts through you. 

Especially when his hand finally finds its way to your waist (warm and solid and grounding despite everything else about this moment feeling anything but grounded).

All thoughts of resistance evaporate faster than they came.

"I do," you hear yourself reply. 

And when his lips brush against the sensitive skin just below your jawline?

You realize two things simultaneously:

One: You were never going to walk away from this moment no matter how much logic tried to intervene earlier.

Two: Logic doesn’t stand a chance against lust when Jungkook looks at you like this.

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[acquelus-ussy]

Hear me out...

Yandere!husband × wife!reader

You already know he would do anything and everything for you. So when you woke up in the hospital bed, Yandere!husband was already crying.

Hold on who is he? You look around, confused, slowly sitting upright. Then you see a man crying near you. He must be a family member or something.

He looks at you, and the moment he feels that you don't recognize him, his heart drops.

"Honey? Are you okay? It's me, your husband."

Hold on husband??? Since when? Your head starts to hurt again, but before all that... You got into a car accident. You were driving back from the grocery store when a drunk driver hit you.

At least, that's what they told you. But heck, having amnesia hurts a lot.

Every day since you regained consciousness, your so-called "husband" brings you flowers and food, staying by your side until the day of your release.

"So, if you're my husband, where did we meet? How did our love story begin?"

"Of course I'll tell you anything you want to know, anything for you, honey."

He talks about your relationship while driving you home. Once you arrive, you see proof of your marriage blossoming in every corner of the house you supposedly share pictures of the two of you, from your engagement to your second anniversary. You can't believe it... You got married so young.

But don’t worry a silly thought in your head its a reminder that your husband loves you very much. He provides for you, and might I say, he pleasures you. In fact, he's so addicted to you.

While you and your "real" husband were driving home from the grocery store oh, silly! It's nothing he just crashed into you both. And well...

He's the one who drove the truck.

He disposed of your husband’s body, got rid of your friends, redecorated your house, and convinced the doctors and nurses that he was your husband. Don’t worry about anything. He has connections for everything and anything.

So don’t move an inch. Because he will provide.

He knew from the start you were his wife.

But don’t worry, baby.

You won’t remember a thing if I keep fucking you this good.

Heck, you can’t even remember your name when I make you orgasm.

---

I really love this trope so bad i need more people to write about this 😭😭😭

Again i hope you guys like this one heheuwhwuwheh

[astr-venus]

｡⁠☆Both Calloused Hands｡⁠.ﾟ⁠+⁠ 

☆Jason x reader

☆Cw: body image issues, sex mention, birth control mention, slight possessiveness

You have a handful of the skin of your stomach in your hand, your shirt rolled up to expose your body to the unforgiving visage in the full length mirror. Your frown is tense, a hard crease between your brows as you pinch and rub your skin between your fingers.

Jason is behind you, just barely in view from the side of the mirror. He's doing something on his phone, not paying attention to what you're doing. You're supposed to be getting dressed, but you're clearly sidetracked.

"I think I'm gaining weight." You sound just as uncomfortable as you look.

"So?"

"My pants don't fit the same way they did a couple months ago."

Jason raises an eyebrow, tearing his gaze from his phone to lock eyes with yours through the mirror.

"I can take you shopping tomorrow then."

"No, Jason I don't want you to buy me new pants."

New pants is giving up. It's defeat. It's acceptance of your new body, your new size.

"I think it's cuz of my new birth control."

"I'm still not seeing the problem. You look as good as you always do."

Your frown deepens. You've seen Jason practically worship the ground you work on. You've felt his calloused hands drag along your waist, his lips bite and suck exactly where your hands are placed upon yourself. You know he's attracted to you, but there's this weird separation in your head that just doesn't seem to leave you.

Because how good is good? And what does he mean as you always do? Have you always been this weight, always looked this way and you're just noticing now? The thought makes you a little sick.

"Look..." Jason slides behind you, wrapping his hands around yours. "If it makes you that unhappy then just get off it. I still think you're gorgeous, for what it's worth."

"If I get off the pill then no sex at least until marriage." You love Jason, but you're not gonna end up anyone's baby mama, daddy, or nothing.

"Okay, then let's get married."

"Jason, be serious."

"I am." He shrugs.

Your breath leaves you in a huff of air. You're left staring at him through the reflection, the weight of him behind your back feels too heavy, and unreal, at the same time.

"D-Don't fuck with me, Jason."

He tucks his face into the crook of your neck, breathing you in. "'M not."

"You mean it?"

"Yeah."

You look down to where your hands are interlocked over your stomach, and the back up to your face in the mirror. Heart fluttering excitement gets squashed by a sudden feeling of utter inadequacy. Not enough of what you should be, and too much of what you are.

It's like you're covered in it. This drudge of grotesqueness that no one around you seems to have. It's on the meat of your arms and the fat of your thighs, it pulls to create the lines on your face, and the stretch marks on your chest. You're drowning in the pieces of you that separate you from others. The ugly parts that you know other people have, but you can't seem to find when you look at them.

"We should stay in."

"What?" You choke out.

"We should stay in. I don't wanna share you right now."

"... Share?"

"No. Keep every part of you to myself. No one else should look at you, but me."

Jason's eyes are burning into your reflection. His gaze is heavy, possessive. You don't know how long he's been staring.

"We can reschedule for another time." He placates, running kisses down your shoulder. "Come lay with me."

Your throat feels thick with tears. They came out of nowhere, really.

"Y-Yeah, okay."

"Okay."

Neither of you move for a moment, stuck eye-fucking each other in the mirror. Jason with a heat that makes you want to shy away, yourself with a soft and hesitant reverence. You make quite the sight.

He breaks the tension with another kiss, this one placed on your jaw, and begins to lead you away from the mirror. When your head turns to catch one last appraisal of your body Jason places a hand on your cheek, guiding your eyes back towards himself.

"Eyes on me, pretty."

"Okay."

Reader, having a slight breakdown: I'm gross, worthless, nobody should love me ever.

Jason, completely oblivious: Jesus fucking Christ they're so hot be normal be normal be normal be normal be normal

Posting this but it's almost 2am and it's not proofread, if it's ass uhhhhh that's none of my business. I have longer fics not too far behind this one, trust and believe

｡⁠☆Requests Open

[kkusuka]

gaz is a pretty good guy, at least he likes to think so.

he does what he can to keep people safe, even at his own expense. he listens to orders and protects his brothers in arms. when he goes home, he helps around the house and cooks and cleans for his mom- he really is the perfect guy!

until it comes to you- the sweet little medic assigned to task force 141 after a particularly gruesome mission scared off their last one. just like the one before that, and like the two before him, but he'll be damned if they scare you away somehow.

and god you're just so sweet. you know exactly what's wrong just by looking at them, and you patch them up so so so good. and you look at kyle with such wide eyes and that precious smile that he just can't bring himself to return (too busy make sure you can't see the tent in his pants growing or hear the whistles of the rest of the task force).

and kyle still thinks he's a good guy- but good guys don't purposely get hurt so you have to spend more time with him after missions. and good guys don’t steal gloves to jerk off with later and imagine that it’s you. and good guys definitely don't tell their medic about hoe pent up they are and how they haven't been able to fuck a pretty bird in months and that's why he keeps messing up.

and good guys most definitely do not take their medics offer to fuck them to release that steam or take them right back to the barracks they share with their closest men. and good guys don't fuck the ever living daylight out of their bird and leave their legs useless.

but gaz can be a good guy for you later, right now he just needs to be between your thighs.

can you tell that i want to be the 141's pretty little medic yet?

[pandora-writes-one-piece]

The Meet-Cute - Kid's Story - 1

Source for pic

Imperfect 1

Word Count: 3591

Tags For The Whole Story: Fem!Reader; Angry!Kid; Hurt!Kid; Sexual Tension; Teasing; Flirting; Mature Audiences (I'll always tag the NSFW chapters); Modern Day AU; Heavy Angst With Happy Ending; Banter; Miscommunication; Dealing With Trauma; Living With Trauma; PTSD; Overprotective!Shanks; BestFriend!Killer; Feelings Realisation; Denial of Feelings; Uncorresponded Feelings; Survivor's Guilt; Self-Loathing; Mentions of Death; Alcohol Abuse; Hurt; Violence; Discovering of Emotional Vulnerability;

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Special Warning 2: I advise reading the introductory chapters first, as they give a sense of the story, introduce characters and locations and, this chapter starts off immediately after the Sanji chapter. Your first interaction with Kid is in those chapters! If you don't want to read the other characters, I recommend reading, at least, Kid's Chapter since it's the first interaction!

Summary: After moving away from the hustle and bustle of Grand Line City to help your father around the property following a horse-riding accident - and in the hopes of healing your broken heart after your asshole ex-fiancé cheated - you settle into the country calmness of the Calm Belt. Then there's Kid, the gruff, hot-headed mechanic, who gets under your skin in more ways than one. The chemistry between you is undeniable and you can't keep your hands to yourselves. Until he starts to push you away. Each time you think he's let you in, he just shoves you further, it's such a maddening, dizzying push and pull that you don't know how much more your heart can take before it crumbles.

Notes: Okay, ready for this crazy ride? I think this story will be the longest of the bunch, so far. But it's one I'm dying to share. As per usual, I hope to post one chapter per week (I'm sorry in advance if that goal isn't met). And, as per usual again, please enjoy the first angst-free chapters before the proverbial 💩 hits the fan!

Here's a Spotify Playlist I created for this story if you want to check it out!

Masterlist

You knew your car was unreliable, your dad told you so, and you had witnessed it firsthand, but damn it, why did the thing have to die on you when you were alone in the middle of nowhere? 

After lunch with the girls, you decided to drive your piece-of-crap car to the beach to unwind a little. Your conversation with Sanji had brought up memories of Ichiji, your ex-fiancé, that you had not wanted to revisit. The beach seemed like the perfect place to relax.

And it was. 

Until it was time for you to leave, when the stupid car suddenly sputtered, coughed, and began spewing fumes through the hood. 

“Stupid piece of shit,” you mutter under your breath while kicking the front tire. Opening the hood makes you grimace as you’re assaulted by smoke, which promptly spurs a coughing fit. With a heavy sigh and a slight sag of your shoulders, you resign yourself to your fate, leaning against the car and watching the sun dip lower on the horizon as you fish out your phone. 

There’s no use calling Shanks. Your dad said he and Beckman were watching the game, which means that both men are probably well into their beers, and you don’t want your dad to risk his life by driving the truck tipsy, so you do a quick internet search for a mechanic in town. 

There’s only one: ‘The Damned Punk Garage’

“What the hell…?” What kind of name for a mechanic’s shop is that? With an exasperated breath, you rely on the four-star rating and ignore the comments about the owner being a hothead, praying for someone reliable and not someone who’ll take advantage of you - this is a small town with practically zero crime rate, after all - and dial the number.

“‘Sup?” Really? The voice is rough and gruff on the other end, but somewhat familiar, though you can’t quite place it.

“Erm… hi? My car broke down near the beach, I’m stranded. Is there any way you can come and fix it, or tow it, or something?” You roll your eyes and smack your forehead. Why does it sound like you’re asking for a favour? You’re going to pay for the service, dumbass.

“Aye, send me yer location.” 

Wait… this accent is more than familiar.

“Kid?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Who’d ye expect?” he sighs on the other side of the line like he has something better to do, and you hear the clinking of tools over some loud rock music.

“I dunno! I’ve been away for years, smarty pants, how would I know that you own the only garage in town? I’m Shanks’ daughter.” You tell him your name with another exasperated roll of your eyes.

“Sparkles?” Suddenly, his voice sounds lighter, a hint of mischief in his tone, which pulls a light smirk from your lips as well. “I’ll be damned. Ye need me already? Missed me that much?” He chuckles, and so do you.

“Guess I do. Up to the task, big man? Or are you all talk and no action?”

He barks a laugh on the other end of the line, and you hear the roaring of an engine in the background. “I’m always up to the task, City Girl. But I’ll let ye find that out yerself.” He pulls away from the phone as his words sound further away. “Hey, Kill. Ready up the tow, we got a job to do.” 

Kill?

Then his voice sounds closer again. “Send me yer location, then, we’ll be right there to fix yer shitty car in time for supper.”

-*- 

It doesn’t take long before you hear the sound of a motorcycle approaching in the distance. You barely take notice because Kid talked about a tow truck, so it must be someone who came to the beach just in time to catch the sunset. 

But when the red-and-black Harley comes to a full stop next to you, you turn, brow raised. It is Kid. He drops the kickstand, steadying the bike as he dismounts in a move that’s way sexier than it should be, before removing his helmet, a huge grin already plastered on his lips. 

You can’t stop a smile from curving your lips at the sight of him. His cocky attitude rubbing off on you in all the right ways. 

“Ye did miss me.” Tilting his head to the side while running his fingers through his unkempt hair, he gives you a once-over, his brow raising in appreciation, and you bite your lower lip at the attention. “Lookin’ good there, Sparkles.”

You pull away from the car and cross your arms, fighting a shiver since the weather has turned nippy now that the sun has just set. “You’re quite conceited, aren’t you?”

Kid places his helmet on the handlebar of the bike and removes his leather jacket, not missing the way your eyes linger on his exposed biceps because he’s only wearing a greased-up grey tank top. You raise your brow as you notice that this time he has a metal prosthetic arm on - he didn’t have it when you met him at the farm. “Maybe. But yer still oglin’ me, so I think I have a right to be.” His grin deepens. 

You feel your cheeks burn as you clear your throat and look away, choosing to point at the car’s open hood instead. “Shitty car’s dead. Can you fix it or not?”

Kid stares at you with that impossibly cocky grin for a few more moments before reaching under his bike seat and grabbing a tool belt. 

“‘Course I can fix it, City Girl. It’s what I do.” Then he drapes his jacket over your shoulders, not even stopping to acknowledge the gesture. “Hold this, will ya?” he says nonchalantly, but you’re pretty sure he did it because he saw you shiver. 

After a few moments of fidgeting with the engine, curses spewing from his lips like a second language, he grunts. “Shit’s really dead. I need parts. Gonna take it to the shop and finish up there, okay?”

You tilt your head to the side, your arms hugging your body, though now that you’ve slipped on his jacket you feel warmer. In more ways than one, because it smells so much like him that you swear you’re becoming intoxicated.

“Weren’t you going to bring the tow?”

As if on cue, you hear a truck approach and stop next to you. A tall man with a blonde mane descends from the steps, the lower half of his face is hidden behind a skull-patterned black-and-white bandana, his eyes shadowed behind bangs. 

“Hey, Killer,” Kid says. “Meet Sparkles,” he adds while pointing at you with his thumb. “Sparkles, this is Killer, he works with me.”

You frown. “Nice to meet you, Killer. That’s not my name, though.” 

“Sorry, it’s City Girl,” Kid adds with a shit-eating grin before you can even say your name.

“It’s not!” You stamp your foot, much like an exasperated child, and Kid grins, rolling his wrench between two fingers while leaning against your car. Then you turn back to Killer and introduce yourself properly. 

“Nice to meet you too,” he answers. “I’m sorry if my friend has no manners, I don’t condone his behaviour at all.” Kid grumbles something at him, and Killer’s eyes wrinkle as he turns back to his friend, almost as if he’s grinning behind his mask. “I get what you meant the other day, man, I can see why you were so smitten.”

Your eyes widen as your mouth opens in shock. Kid leans away from the car, his hands balling into fists as he bares his teeth at Killer. “What the fuck, man?”

Killer raises his hands in mock defense, and his shoulders shake as if he’s containing a laugh. “Just stating facts, brother.”

Does this mean that Kid talked to him about you? You feel your cheeks flush with heat. You have to admit that there’s definitely an attraction between you two. Clearly, the banter and flirting come easily, the question is, is this a door you want to open? So soon after your breakup? Or is this exactly the time to open it and see what’s on the other side? Even if it’s just a fun ride?

“Shut up, asshole, and haul this piece of junk out of here. Needs new spark plugs, I’ll take care of it in the shop.” Kid’s still grumbling, his eyes not even meeting yours after the revelation, which clearly means that it’s true. 

Killer raises one of his brows, his head tilting like he’s suspicious. “Plugs? But we have–”

“In the shop, ‘k?” Kid nearly snarls, and Killer shuts up with a slight, barely audible chuckle. Then he starts to prepare the tow, readying the cable to latch it onto your car. 

You sigh, looking at your car, the banter and fun forgotten for a moment. “Well, crap.” You grab your phone, already thinking about calling Nami or Robin to come rescue you when Kid speaks. 

“Need a ride, Sparkles?” Your eyes leave your phone to look at your car, then at the tow, then back at Kid with a puzzled expression. Yes, maybe you can ride the tow truck back to the shop, it would certainly be closer to home. “Nuh-uh. There.” He uses two fingers to press against your cheek and move your head so you’re staring at his motorcycle, and your breath hitches. “Aye. That one.”

Biting your lower lip to try and suppress a grin, you nod softly. Riding on the back of a motorcycle with Kid? Hell yeah. Shit. Maybe you’ll be opening that door way sooner than you expected. “Sure.” You answer, not sure if you managed to hide your excitement, maybe not even caring if you didn’t. 

“Kill–”

“Yeah, yeah, meet you at the shop, got it.” You can almost perceive the amusement behind Killer’s words, even though you can’t see his lips to confirm if he’s smiling or not. 

You take your purse and keys from the car, handing the latter to Killer, and then approach the bike, looking at it both in awe and slight fear. Kid, never letting his smirk falter, grabs the helmet and hands it to you. “Ye can keep the jacket on, it gets cold.”

You nod and slip on the helmet. Your fingers search the underside for the straps, but as you struggle, Kid tuts and reaches, meaning to strap it on for you in a gesture that’s way more intimate than it should be. You look at him through the opening in the visor and his eyes dart to yours twice - as he fumbles with the strap - before he snaps it shut with a grunt. “Stop yer starin’.”

“I wasn’t!” You counter with a muffled voice.

“Ye were! Makin’ me fumble with this piece of shit while I– fuck. Got it!”

“Smooth, man,” Killer says as he passes both of you, moving to pull the car in with the winch.

“Shut the fuck up!” Kid grumbles and sits on the bike. “Come on, place yer foot on the peg and hop on.”

You do as he tells you, and once you're seated, you hesitate. Where should you put your hands? Around him? That's the obvious choice, but is it too intimate? 

Kid turns his face to look at you over his shoulder and reaches for your hands. “Grab on, I ain't gonna bite ye.” Though his cheeky grin tells you differently, and now you're glad the helmet is covering your flushing cheeks. He places your hands over his stomach and tells you to interlock your fingers and hold on tight. “Hang on, Sparkles, I drive fast.”

You barely have time to reply when he starts revving the engine. The powerful bike trembles and roars beneath you, and you instantly clench your thighs against Kid for support, holding your arms around him tighter. 

He barks a smug laugh, removes the kickstand, and starts to drive. The wind blows, rushing through you at an incredible speed, the bike roars and Kid drives it like he owns the road, like he has complete control of the machine beneath him and the winding asphalt beneath the wheels. 

It makes your breath hitch and your stomach tighten up. Astonishingly, not from the speed, but from the fact that this cockiness, this assuredness of his, is infuriating. 

And frankly, hot as hell. 

The road stretches ahead without any curves, and he tests both the bike and you by picking up speed. Gritting your teeth, you hug him tighter, feeling the heat radiate through his body - even though the wind is quite chilling. You swear you feel his shoulders shake with laughter.

As you reach town limits, he slows down, one hand loses its grip on the handlebar, and pats your thigh two times. “Ye alright, there, City Girl? Too much adrenaline for ye?”

You can’t see his face, but you know by his tone that he’s grinning. Smug asshole. “Fine!” You yell back, gritting your teeth again to ground yourself. By the time he pulls up at the farmhouse, you exhale a breath you didn’t even realise you were holding back. 

“Got ye home safe, Sparkles.” Kid grins, and you struggle to remove the helmet until he helps you. His fingers linger on your jaw for a fraction of a second longer than they should, and the skin he touches burns. 

“Geez, Kid. You drive like a freaking maniac.” You get off the bike on unsteady feet, and he chuckles as you have to use his arms for support. 

“Maniac? It’s called skill, sweetheart!” 

You scoff, fingers threading through your hair to fix it as a lazy grin curves your lips. “It’s called being reckless, that’s what it is.”

“Oi, yer home safe! Stop complainin’.” He gets into your space, leaning his head down to look right into your eyes, and damn it, his eyes are intense. “Ye liked it.”

The faintest of blushes spreads through your cheeks as you turn and walk one step back to regain some distance from him. “I won’t stroke your ego, it’s already large enough as it is.” Kid snorts, and you know he’s about to pull a dirty joke, so you remove his jacket from your shoulders and extend it to him. “Here. Thanks for letting me borrow it.”

Kid takes one look at the jacket, crosses his arms, and leans against the bike, tilting his head slightly. “Keep it. Looks good on ye.”

“It’s huge,” you say and immediately purse your lips.

“I know.” Kid grins, and you chuckle, curling your fingers around the fabric, you nudge it towards him.

“Take it, Kid, thank you.”

Kid sighs, extending his hand towards the jacket, but when he grabs the collar, he pulls, making you stumble and crash right into his solid chest. Instinctively, his other hand comes up to steady you, wrapped securely around your waist. “Tell ye what, Sparkles,” his hot breath fans your eyelids as you raise your head to meet his gaze, and his scent engulfs you - grease, gasoline, and metal. “Wear it a little longer, and when it smells like ye…” Kid lets out a low grunt, his eyes dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second. “Give it back.”

Shit.

Fuck.

This is dangerous territory right here. Since you’ve met Kid - cocky, smug, reckless, loud, infuriating - you’ve been walking on thin ice. Everything about him screams ‘bad decision,’ but he also feels right for what you need at the moment. Even when you thought that what you needed was peace and quiet - here comes the loudest man you’ve ever met to prove you wrong. 

Kid lets go of the jacket and removes his hand from your waist, almost as if he, too, is weighing the pros and cons of letting this attraction run its course. Because you can’t deny it: you’re attracted to Kid like a moth to a flame. And, from the looks of it, it’s reciprocated. 

Ignoring the cold feeling his lack of touch leaves in your body, you clear your throat and put the jacket back over your shoulders, trying to suppress a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold, from shaking you. 

“Okay. Thanks. Erm… my car?” Steering the conversation to safer topics seems like the most sensible thing to do. 

Kid clears his throat too, his flesh hand rubbing the back of his neck. “It’ll be fixed by tomorrow mornin’, swing by whenever.” You nod and turn again, your stomach churning at the thought of him leaving, and you sigh. “Might even give ya a discount, City Girl.”

You turn your head back, lips curving into an easy grin. “Yeah?”

“Nah. A man’s gotta take home the bacon.” You let out a chuckle as he gets back on his bike, revving the engine loud just to piss you off. “Don’t think too hard about me.” He winks, and you bite your lower lip, trying to suppress a grin. 

“Think about your cocky ass? In your dreams, Kid.”

Kid places the helmet on his head, hiding the cheeky grin before replying to you. “Sparkles, ye are the star of my dreams.” Then, he slams the visor down, gunning the engine of the bike as it roars to life. The front tire barely budges, but he turns the back of the bike in a sharp turn, letting it slide effortlessly against the gravel as he faces the road. 

Then he speeds off, leaving you staring at the dust he left behind with slightly parted lips. 

Bad decisions. Oh, for sure.

You enter the house, shaking your head, your body still hot from Kid’s touch, your head still light from infinite possibilities. But before you even hang your purse, Shanks appears, coming from the living room with a bit of a sway to his steps. 

“Hey, Bug!” he exclaims. “Was that a bike?” Your father points at the door.

You nod with another heavy sigh. “Stupid car broke down on me, had to call Kid to try and fix it. Killer took it to the garage, but it needs parts, so I’ll pick it up tomorrow.” Shanks seems to sober up quickly. His brow raises as if you haven’t answered his question, so you continue. “Kid brought me home on his bike, so yes, that was a bike.”

Shanks purses his lips, his gaze now lingering on the oversized jacket you’re wearing - a leather jacket that’s clearly not yours because Shanks doubts you have something with the logo of Kid’s garage slapped on the back.

But he doesn’t say anything. 

And neither do you.

-*-

Shanks is already sipping his coffee when you come down for breakfast, still yawning. You had some trouble falling asleep because sleep just wouldn’t come. Every time you closed your eyes, you got a whiff of his scent - that seemed to have clung to your very being - and your mind took you to places where you didn’t want it to.

Even though some of those fantasies were quite interesting.

“Morning, Dad,” you mutter as you fill up your own cup of coffee. “Want some eggs? Toast? Fruit?”

Your father raises his eyebrow at your dishevelled state but keeps his comments to himself. “Toast sounds good, Bug, thank you.”

You nod, yawn again, find two slices of bread for your father, a bagel for you, and stick them in the toaster. 

“Trouble sleeping?” Shanks takes butter and some jam from the fridge, placing them on the table alongside some strawberries and grapes. 

“Yeah, I guess. Something kept me up.” Not looking at your father is the right choice because you can already feel your cheeks heating up. Shanks hums, and you think that might be the end of it because he starts talking about the game and how his team ‘completely sucked’ and how he’s not sure why he’s still a fan.

It’s not until both your plates are cleaned that he finally says the words he has been mulling over. “See, honey, I feel like I need to say something.” He huffs in exasperation as he starts clearing the plates, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation. 

“Be careful dealing with Kid, okay?”

What?

“Dealing with Kid?”

“Yeah, I mean… You just met him, and he already gave you his jacket?” Shanks scratches the back of his head, avoiding eye contact. 

“Because it was cold.”

“Sure, but the bike ride–”

“I needed a ride, I knew you wouldn’t be in a fit state to drive, and before I bothered my friends, he volunteered. Dad, I don’t get where this is going.”

Shanks sighs and mutters something unintelligible under his breath. “Right, you’re right. It’s just, you don’t know him very well, and he’s… well, he’s a good man but… well… he’s dangerous.”

Raising a brow, you continue cleaning up the table, still deciding whether you should ask him to elaborate or just let it go. 

He elaborates. 

“He’s an angry man who deals with situations with his fists rather than his brain. I just want you safe, Bug.”

“Dad, as you said, I just met him. He’s fixing my car. That’s it.” But is it, though? “You don’t have to worry, okay? Thanks for the heads-up, though, now come on. Let's feed the animals before I go pick up my car.”

He nods and follows you outside, clearly not meaning to add anything else. But you can’t shake the feeling that his words were very ominous and that you should be careful around Kid. 

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[fuctacles]

<< sixteen | 😺 | eighteen >>

Wayne, while being the best uncle he's ever had, was also the worst. And not because he’s the only one Eddie knows; he'd beat any uncle Ben or Sam in a landslide. 

(Actually, if you do count Uncle Sam, Wayne might not be the worst.)

"She's a sad lady, isn't she?" he asks out of nowhere during their drive to the hospital. "Still here while everyone she knows move away."

Eddie frowns at the yellow light in front of him. 

"You're the one who told me to talk to her," he points out. He slows to a break at the intersection, the light now red, and turns towards his uncle. "Is this a ploy to keep me in Hawkins? You want me to marry and settle down?" He raises his eyebrows. As if the same fantasy didn't run through his mind at least once a day since meeting Steph. 

"Hell naw." Wayne grins at him. "I want you to live a life of your own. I know you hate this place." 

"It hated me first," Eddie reminds him.

"It's not for a wild thing like you," he agrees with a nod. "Hawkins is for old farts like me. The thing is—Green."

Eddie quickly shifts back into gear before the cars behind him start honking. 

"Stephanie seems to think she's an old fart too," Wayne finishes his thought. 

"Yeah, I've noticed," Eddie grumbles. "And what do you want me to do? Steal her away into the big city?" he jokes. 

Wayne's answering silence grows heavy in the van.

"She's a grown woman, I'm not going to uproot her life," Eddie argues a point his uncle didn't make. It's not that he doesn't want to, more like he doesn't think he has the power to do it. Besides, they just got off together once, it's way too early to make plans like that. He has been daydreaming about them, yes, but he's painfully aware of the difference between fantasy and reality. 

"You know, Jim got really into gardening recently," Wayne says apropos of nothing. 

"Okay, go on…" Eddie nods slowly, patiently.

"He told me some plants have to be uprooted to grow properly. You know, when the pot is too small? Because the roots grow too, and they need space."

The van has finally reached the hospital, so Eddie waits until they're parked to turn towards his uncle. 

"Did you just use a plant metaphor on me?" he asks, baffled. 

"I simply shared some gardening wisdom from a friend," Wayne shrugs.

"Which you just though of."

"You're the one who used the word 'uprooting'," he fires back. 

Eddie pulls the key out of the ignition with a tired sigh.

"You know, I kind of miss the fishing metaphors. They were less convincing." 

Wayne raises his eyebrows. 

"This is the rudest thing you've said to me since you told me the trout was disgusting."

"It's a terrible, stinky fish and you know it!" Eddie protests as they exit the van. 

"How is Wayne's leg?" Steph asks later that day.

"Surprisingly well. The doctor said it healed better than expected and he'll probably be cleared for work the next week."

"I'm guessing he's happy to hear that?"

"Oh, yeah," Eddie snorts. He angles his head so Steph's scratches get where he wants them. "He's been walking up the walls for the past few days, and he hated all the movies the employee at video rental recommended to him. If he doesn't go back to work soon, he'll make it everyone's problem."

Steph hums thoughtfully.

"I get it. Don't you feel restless, too? Here in Hawkins, I mean."

"Huh?" Eddie blinks his eyes open. He hasn't realized when he even closed them. "The opposite, actually. I don't have to rush anywhere, there are no midterms; I can kick back and relax, forget the responsibilities and just be Wayne's favorite nephew again." He smiles. "It's like I'm putting my life on pause for a few days. And it's kind of terrifying how easy it is."

Steph remains silent, so he takes a cautious glance towards her. She's not looking at him or the television; her eyes are distant, focused on her thoughts. 

"Everything is slow and old here, isn't it?" she muses.

"I swear to all that's unholy, if it's another opening to remind me how 'ancient' you are..."

Steph rolls her eyes and dips down to shut him up with a kiss. Unfortunately, it works perfectly in her favor. There's probably no argument against him that she couldn't win. All she has to do is press her hand against Eddie's chest, pinning him to the couch, and he can be easily persuaded into anything. 

He kisses and licks back, trying to keep up with her, but with the last remains of a logical thought, grasps at her hand to slow her down. They separate with a wet smack, but don't move more than an inch away.

"Do you want—?"

"I'm taking you—"

They both smile and shuffle away to properly look at each other. 

"Ladies first," Eddie gestures with a nod of his head. 

"Do you want to stay the night?" she blurts out quickly, with little hesitance. 

His jaw drops open and his heart stops in his chest. 

"Like... on the couch?" he asks to clarify. The other option to good to be true.

Steph rolls her eyes, and it should be embarrassing how much he likes when she does it, even at his own expense. 

"In my bed, idiot. Just to sleep, of course."

"Am I dreaming? I must be dreaming." He pinches his arm, and Steph does too, much harder. He yelps, making Arwen look at him with distaste. "Hey!"

"Do you want to?" she presses. 

"Of course I do!" he bristles. "With you, I'd take celibacy vows," he says reverently, grabbing her hand in his. 

She raises her eyebrows, and then pointedly looks him up and down.

"With you, I'd rather not."

Eddie grins despite his blush.

"What did you want to say?" she asks, pulling him back from his salacious thoughts. 

It takes him a second to reel his thoughts back on track.

"Oh. I'm taking you on a date tomorrow." He takes a glance at the clock above the TV. "Yeah, tomorrow." 

"You're taking me?" She raises an eyebrow. 

At that, Eddie quickly slides off the couch and onto his knees, her hand still clasped between his palms.

"Oh, pardon me, princess. Would you do me the honor of going out on a date with me tomorrow?" he asks, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles. 

Her eyes are wide and startled, and the first thing she can even manage out of her mouth is a laugh.

"You're such a dork," she murmurs. "Yeah, it's fine, I guess." She shrugs nonchalantly. 

"Fine?" Eddie bristles, frowning. "What do you mean, fine?"

"I mean yes, you can take me on a date," she says, straightening her back to give herself a more regal posture. "I'll allow it."

He grins, and proceeds to press kisses up the length of her arm, slowly crawling back up onto the couch. 

"Thank you for giving me this privilege, your majesty. A peasant like me, ha!" He throws his head back, briefly startling Steph into another laugh. "The town folk will not believe their eyes, a simple man like me, allowed by the side of a queen." Eddie presses a final kiss to her shoulder, and sits back. As Steph stares at him, he realizes his own outburst. 

"Too much?" he asks with a sheepish smile, fierce flush taking over his cheeks. 

"Just a little," Steph admits, pinching her fingers close together. Her face is tinted pink as well. "You know..." she trails off, falling against the back of the couch, their fingers still entwined. "I hated being called a king in high school, but... Queen sounds so much better." She lets her mouth curl into a small smile. 

 "Like something precious," Eddie catches on, leaning sideways so they can face each other. "Powerful yet feminine."

"Yeah." She nods absentmindedly. 

"How about princess?" he asks next. 

Guessing from how red Steph's face has gotten, she must have liked it. Eddie grins. 

"Well then, princess, I truly hope a humble bard like me can at least make you laugh. I may not know swordsmanship, but I know my way around a lute." He waggles his eyebrows. 

Steph pushes him away with a hand to his face and he falls backwards, cackling. 

"Didn't you say you were bisexual?" she asks, seemingly out of nowhere.

"Uh... Yeah?"

"So you should know both the lute and swordsmanship.... you know?" Steph extends both her index fingers and crosses them, miming a battle as if they were tiny swords. 

Eddie stares at her blankly. 

"Are those supposed to be penises?" he asks, flabbergasted. 

"Yes." She nods confidently, putting her hands back in her lap. 

"You're perfect, holy shit." Eddie scrambles to sit back up. "You compared dick to a sword and I'm supposed to not marry you?"

She scoffs. 

"Keep at it and you'll be sleeping on the couch." 

Eddie clutches at his chest.

"Already feeling like a married man. Be still, my heart!"

"Yep, it's couch for you." She stands up with finality. 

But when he holds her wrist, she goes back down easily, sinking into a kiss. Maybe the power to win arguments went both ways.

"Fine," she folds. "But we're sharing with Garfield."

"Well, where else would he sleep?"

ko-fi | Steddie masterpost

tags: @wheneverfeasible @steddieinthesun @hattsy-likes-pretty-stuff @bumblebeecuttlefishes @phantomcat94 @tartarusknight  @tinyplanet95 @steddiefication @estrellami-1 @disrespectedgoatman @madigoround @tartarusknight @blasvemous @cryptid-system @hiei-harringtonmunson @hellowhatthehellisgoingonhere @dreamercec @manliest-of-muppets @bookbinderbitch @marklee-blackmore  @icecat @rootbeerandmusic @mollymawkwrites @milojames16 @ellietheasexylibrarian @sadiea20

[queeryutb]

OH OKAY YOU DO WANNA HEAR FROM US COOL

so. ghasts as like, hot air balloons filled with water vapor. their thick skin is soft and squishy and filled with water. they retain neutral buoyancy by changing how much water is in their skin versus their air sack. this water also acts as backup "drinking" water, in case they need to go some time in a drier environment. their skin allows water in much easier that it allows them out. they also breathe through their air sacks, so they need a certain amount of air inside.

this also means the nether is actually rather humid in places - particularly around crimson and warped forests! the rest is very dry, though - especially the wastes.

the younglings are particularly vunerable to drying out, yes. ghasts absorb whatever water lingers in the air around them their whole lives and keep it inside with their thick skin. the babies haven't got their skin very thick yet, and are very small, so they can't keep large stores of excess water like adult ghasts can. the adults often have to share water with the babies, though i'm unsure how as of yet.

to make up for this, baby ghasts can go long periods without water in a sort of hibernation - every non-essential function, including conciousness, shuts down, and many of those that remain are greatly slowed. this lasts until they can absorb enough water to safely wake up and search for more.

ghasts drop "tears" as a way of letting out excess material they don't need or want in their body. they're a similar material to a clam's pearl, and they often fill a similar role. what a tear contains affects its usage in things like potions, as well as how it looks.

wild ghasts are hunted in the nether as a way of getting water. one (fully-grown) ghast can last a community months. their skin is eaten, rather than water being drank, so it doesn't evaporate or boil or just get unpleasently hot. it just tastes like water with a bit of a sourish tint, and has a texture comparable to a tougher, non-sticky marshmallow.

as pets, they're very high-matienence, but incredibly loving and loyal, similar to many working dog breeds. they were bred for transport of people and materials. i'd say in minecraft itself, non-happy ghasts are feral, but i can see any given story having them as wild, with happy ghasts as domesticated or tame.

they don't care much about petting either way - gentle strokes, that is. they don't like being scratched, it just irritates their skin. they much prefer hugs and you leaning up against them, mirroring how ghasts interact - they have their cries, and they push and brush against eachother, or even hold members of a pack partiallh in their arms. they have packs, by the way - they're very social creatures! though if not properly socialized, they become hostile to non-pack members like wild/feral ghasts.

much like cats, just existing near them without interacting is their way of hanging out! they're also very playful when not on-duty, and can get rather mischevious.

if you don't travel, you probably shouldn't own a ghast. they need LOTS of flying space and time. it can be between two primary locations, but they need to travel at least a couple miles; at least once a month, but it's preferable to be more often. smaller flights can supplement in-between monthly travels, but how well that works depends on the ghast.

ghasts do well with multiple owners, so if you can't take them out on flights, you do have options. two or three owners works best.

they're also very obedient while on-duty, if properly trained. if not, they can get rather chaotic and hard to handle. knowing wild/feral ghasts, i'm sure you can see why this is a problem. they don't often shoot fireballs unless provoked, though - that is purely an offensive move (including offence as defence).

OK but seriously ghasts are fucking wet!! What does this mean for minecraft?? Is it only dried up because it was a baby? Can adults withstand the heat but not babies? Were ghasts born in the overworld and brought over, or are mad ghasts just the babies who made it?

How much moisture is in the average nether ghast? The ghast tear may actually be water based, which means lore wise ghasts are the only source of water in the nether.

Its just a lot to think about, I don't have a theory or anything! I wanna hear any ideas you guys have

[heli-writes]

A dragon's heart, part 17.

Pairing: Barbarian!Bakugou Katsuki x female!reader

Summary: The dragonblood tribe is known for being cruel, barbarian warriors that slaughter, loot and rape all places they pass through. They are feared among the villagers and even bigger cities. Having lost most of their women to a plague, they're trying to ensure their tribe's survival by kidnapping women from other places. However, they're not the only monsters in human form out there. When y/n experiences this first hand, she has no choice but to ask for help from no other but the barbarian leader Katsuki Bakugou himself.

Disclaimer: explicit description of torture

[Please don't read if you are sensible to or triggered by the topics mentioned above.]

Note: Please applause our first translator entering the scene! Can you guess who it is? Spoiler: It's not our favourite broccoli!

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14, Part 15, Part 16, Part 17

Series Masterlist

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Alright, you boot-licking weak-ass excuse of a warrior, I ask you one more time: What orders were given to you by your king? Answer or your comrades will suffer even worse”

When the Todoroki soldier doesn't answer, Katsuki turns the knife that is already stuck in the man's leg. The man howls and fights against the restraints that bind him to the chair he's sitting on. When the pain ebbs away, the soldier spits blood at Katsuki's feet. He looks up at the chief with anger and determination behind his eyes.

“Fuck you. I not tell you everything. With honour, we die.”

Katsuki gives him a long, hard stare. Then a cruel smile spreads on his face. They've been torturing the Todoroki prisoners for a couple of hours now. They picked one by one, leaving the remaining stewing in fear for when they come for them. This one is the last one.

So far, they weren't very lucky. The four others that were brought in before this one didn't speak a word of Drakona and could only twitch in pain at the knives of their captors.

“Ah, so he can speak. Seems like it's your lucky day, bastard. Means that we two get to spend more time with each other.”, Katsuki grins at the man.

The man looks at him with exhausted eyes but the deep circles under his eyes don't hide the hatred in them.

“Do worst”, the man spits back and Katsuki only chuckles.

A good half hour later, Katsuki didn't get anything useful out of the man. Mainly because the man's hard to break. Most of the time he only spits out insults in very broken Drakona. Katsuki wonders if the information the man can give them will be of any worth considering how hard he is to understand.

Katsuki washes off the blood on his hands in front of his tent before entering his shared living space with y/n. There is no need for his mate to see that. The tent lies empty and silent upon his arrival. Katsuki frowns upon y/n's absence. He left her this morning munching on some bread before taking off to take care of the prisoners.

Did she run away again?, Katsuki ponders, I didn't give her any reason to be cross with me today, I think.

An unease settles over him, like always when y/n is up to something he doesn't know about. Of course, there is no harm in y/n wandering about the settlement and socializing with the other tribe members, but it's just... unexpected. Most of the other women don't, or at least only to a minimal degree. Furthermore, Katsuki's always on edge thinking that y/n might change her mind and take flight.

Katsuki turns on his heels and stomps through the village of tents with an air of authority. He doesn't want to ask any of his men if they've seen his mate. Probably, nobody would care but Katsuki thinks they might assume that he has no control over his own mate.

“Hey, Kats, where you off to?”, a voice calls out to him.

Katsuki was so deep in thought that he didn't notice that he was passing by Kirishima's tent. For a moment, he hesitates.

“Just lookin' for y/n.”, he tries to answer casually.

Kirishima laughs. “Always the attentive mate, eh?”, he teases and Katsuki feels the tips of his ear burning.

“I think I've seen her walking towards old woman Tomoko with a bunch of clothes. Maybe try your luck there.”, Kirishima tells him and Katsuki gives him a grateful nod.

Katsuki walks over to the old woman's tent and makes himself noticeable before walking in.

Y/n is standing in the middle of the room in one of her new dresses. Old woman Tomoko crouches next to her and cuts off the fabric at y/n's feet.

“Chief Bakugou.”, Tomoko greets her leader, “Have you come to check my progress with your mate's clothes?”

Katsuki does not know what she's talking about but doesn't want to look clueless in front of her, so he only agrees.

The woman stands up and holds up another dress. It is a thinner dress in a pink hue.

“We've already altered this one. Made is shorter and a bit firmer around the hips. Told her she might not want it firmer considering she might be with child when next summer comes, but she was very firm on this. Your mate certainly has her own head, don't you think?”, Tomoko chats away. Katsuki can only agree with her on that last part.

“Anyways, right now we're altering this one.”, Tomoko continues, “It's more suitable for the weather in the mountains, at least for her kind, I suppose. Although I've got to say I find all these dresses kind of ridiculous, don't you think? The fabric's so heavy, the skirt so long and even her arms aren't free. How can anybody move in clothes like these?”

Katsuki hums in agreement. “Don't know, but all the kingdom women wear clothes like this.”, he offers an explanation. Tomoko nods.

“Sure, sure, you're right. Then again, these women probably don't need to move much, don't they? The ones you brought at least don't seem to leave their tents very much.”, Tomoko points out.

“I guess so.”, Katsuki only answers. He doesn't feel like explaining to the old woman that that probably has different reasons.

“Well, I'm glad y/n's different. Poor thing doesn't understand a single word, but at least she's a bit more outgoing than the others, isn't she? Some may say she's a bit slow in the head, but I think she's a breath of fresh air around here.”, the old woman continues to chatter.

Katsuki's expression immediately darkens. “Who said that?”, he immediately wants to know. The old woman stops mid-movement sensing she probably shouldn't have mentioned that in front of the chief.

“Oh, you know, how people are...”, Tomoko tries to play it off, “It's just she's so slow at picking up our language so people assume she's not..., you know, so bright. But then again, it's hard to learn a language without a teacher and she's not a child anymore. Children are so much quicker at picking up these things. Anyhow, it's a pity I never learned the kingdom's language. You know, I had an aunt who was a half-blood and she spoke it fluently. Her mother came from...”

While Tomoko drifts off in a long explanation about her family's history, Katsuki's ears are still rushing with blood. Thinking about how members of his tribe say that y/n is mentally challenged does not sit right with him. Suddenly, there's a tuck at his hand. Y/n walked up to him and demands his attention. She presents him with a woven bracelet.

“Oh, yes, that. She made that out of fabric I cut off her dress. I wondered what that was about. It's quite pretty, isn't it? Your woman is quite resourceful, I have to say.”, Tomoko explains.

Carefully, y/n slips the bracelet over his right hand while Tomoko continues to explain the various things one can make with leftover fabric. Katsuki's head feels like it's about to explode. He forgot how much the old woman liked to talk. Y/n smiles up at him. Katsuki pinches her cheek in appreciation.

“Alright, old woman, I've got to get back to work. Make sure the dresses are altered the way she wants it.”, Katsuki interrupts Tomoko's torrent of words. The old woman abruptly stops her chattering and bows her head respectfully.

“Of course, chief, they'll be done by tonight.”, she tells him. Katsuki squeezes y/n's hand and turns to leave. He doesn't see the look of disappointment on y/n's face. She hoped that he would stay longer.

~*~*~*~

Katsuki lets the Todoroki soldier stew for the rest of the days. He's given a minimum of water. The knife in his leg is taken out and the wound is covered so that it doesn't get infected. After all, he shouldn't die on them that quickly.

He decides to visit the man before dinner. Maybe the prospects of food will make him talk. He enters the tent with a plate of hot stew and a slice of bread.

“Hungry?”, he asks while sitting down in front of the soldiers. The man stares right ahead.

Katsuki takes a spoonful of stew and shoves it inside his mouth.

“Ya' sure you don't want any?”, he asks challenging but the man doesn't answer him.

“How many days since you've last eaten? Two? Three? You must be starving.”, Katsuki points out.

The man grinds his teeth. “Not want the poison.”, the soldier bites out. Katsuki clicks his tongue.

“Poison? Buddy, we keepin' you alive. Be grateful, ya friends ain't gettin' any.”, he tells him. A mean grin spreads on the soldier's face.

“Sorry, mean I will not eat shit.”, he tells Katsuki. Katsuki grinds his teeth.

“Oh, sorry our food ain't good enough for the mighty soldier. Then again, maybe I should feed you like the pig you are.”, he replies and empties the hot content of the bowl into the man's crotch. The man howls in pain.

“Fuck you.”, the man grits out. “Ya, ye keep sayin' that. How's that workin' out for ya?”, Katsuki smirks.

“Now, I was nice to ya' but seems like ya' can't appreciate that. Maybe I should go back to doin' things the traditional way.”, he tells him and rams his thumb into the wound on his leg. The soldier screams out in pain.

“Katsuki!”

Katsuki whips around at the sound of the shocked voice behind him. Y/n's standing at the entrance of the tent looking white in the face. Slowly, Katsuki takes his hand off the man and turns around to her fully.

“What the hell are you doing?”, y/n demands to know. Katsuki assumes she wants an explanation, but someone else answers for him.

“What does it look like, honey? He's torturing me.”, the soldier says and lets out a croaked laugh.

Y/n stares at the soldier wide-eyed. For a moment, Katsuki is unable to move. Y/n storms past him, but Katsuki manages to catch her arm. However she twists towards the soldier on the chair.

“What do you mean? What's going on here?”, y/n asks the soldier. It's only then that Katsuki understands that they're speaking the same language. Of course they do, he curses internally.

“Well, you see honey, this lovely bastard over there...”, the soldier starts but he doesn't get to finish as the edge of Katsuki's hand makes a hard impact with his throat. The soldier makes a choking noise.

“Katsuki!”, y/n yells appalled and struggles against his hold but to no avail. He pulls her towards the exit of the tent. Y/n definitely shouldn't talk to this man. Who knows what lies the soldier will tell her.

“Bastard!”, the soldier chokes out in Drakona. Katsuki freezes for a second and turns back to him.

“You should better be careful how and to whom you talk around here.”, Katsuki says cooly but the man only grins at him.

“Scared I tell you girl the true?”, the man says and Katsuki sees red. Letting go of y/n, he storms towards the man and pushes him into the back of the chair.

“You don't talk to her. She's not yours to talk to. Don't even look at her. You understand that?”, he growls but the soldier only laughs.

“Best you knife my tongue then. But can talk no secrets then. Pity you.”, the soldier bites back. Katsuki takes a swing at him but y/n catches his wrist.

“Katsuki, don't. Are you insane?”, y/n yells. The soldier laughs in return.

“Clearly, he is.”, he points out, “But then again, he's from the dragon blood tribe. Haven't you noticed that, sweetheart?”

Y/n stares at the miserable man in front of her. His ragged clothes clearly are the remains of the kingdom's soldier uniforms. She's seen the uniform before on her brother when he said goodbye to her before joining the army. The soldier's face is covered in dirt and grime and his dark, purple hair sticks to his forehead in thick clumps.

She only wanted to look for Katsuki to tell him dinner's ready. She didn't expect to find him to torture a man who is clearly from the kingdom. She swallows hardly. What on earth is Katsuki up to?

“Cat caught your tongue, love?”, the man laughs.

Before y/n can respond, Katsuki interrupts. “You. Don't. Talk. To. Her.”, he presses. The soldier looks at him unimpressed.

“She not dragon blood tribe, right? Kingdom clothes and kingdom tongue. You steal her? Bet she prefer fuck me than you. Maybe she run away with me.”, the soldier spits into Katsuki's face in Drakona.

Katsuki doesn't want to lose control over his anger in front of y/n but the bastard makes it hard not to. “This is the last you see of her. Make sure to remember her form. It will be the last woman you ever see.”, Katsuki tells him.

Y/n's head whips back and forth between Katsuki and the soldier. Clearly, they're having a conversation she can't follow. She turns towards the soldier in front of her. Carefully, she asks: “Do you understand him?”. The soldier raises an eyebrow. “You don't?”, he returns the question. Embarrassed, y/n shakes her head.

Next to her, Katsuki yells something indecipherable and grabs onto her arm again, trying to pull her away again. Y/n struggles against him again. This time, Katsuki's grip isn't so hard since he gained some control over his emotions again. Y/n manages to free herself from him and takes a few steps back.

Y/n just stares at Katsuki. He's still red in the face from his outburst earlier. His breathing is hard and he tells her something pointing towards the exit. The soldier watches them with amusement.

“You know, he wants you to leave.”, he tells y/n. Y/n presses her lips together.

“Thank you, I figured as much.”, y/n replies and the soldier chuckles. Katsuki says something again, louder this time and tries to reach for her arm again. Quickly, y/n steps back.

“Want me to tell him something, sweetheart?”, the soldier offers.

Y/n stares hardly into Katsuki's eyes. It's one thing that the man she's stuck with is torturing somebody. That alone is a whole issue. Y/n isn't a violent person even though she knows in some situations one has no choice but to make use of it. But torturing an unarmed, tied-up man is something only people with no honor do. It's a whole other thing to hide that from her, get angry when she does find out and give her no explanation.

Y/n stands up more proudly. Shoulders pushed to the back, staring Katsuki down. He still looks angry as if it's her who is doing something wrong here.

Without looking at the soldier, she says:

“Yes, tell him that he's a dick.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

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[Please comment beneath the last update if you'd like to be tagged in future chapters]

[legendofmorons]

Fic bingo

Twilight- too many beds

And/or

Mutual pining

Twilight and the seven beds

Have you ever pine so hard you manage to sleep in the same bed despite there only being two of you and seven beds? Well, now you have ;) .

"This has gotta be one o' the most buck wild things I've ever seen." Twilight says as he looks around the room you have booked for the night.

Separated from the group you and Twilight were lucky enough to find an inn but you are in a room with seven beds.

Two people don't need seven beds!

"At least we have choices?" You offer weakly.

The entire situation feels like a fever dream, and frankly, the only thing keeping you from laughing in shock is the man at your side who seems utterly flabbergasted. You can't exactly blame him, though.

"Who needs seven beds for two people?" Twilight asks.

You shake your head, "I have no idea, maybe they get a lot of divorced couples?"

"That dosen’t make a lick of sense, darlin'." Twilight says as he looks around.

"At least it's a new and exciting problem?"

"I wouldn't call it excitin', but new is one way to describe it."

"Alright cowboy, just pick a bed." You snort.

"Just one?" He asks easily.

"Unless you plan to take up more than one bed."

"I reckon I might."

You laughs and roll your eyes. "Pick your beds then."

"After you," Twilight says with a smile, motioning to the array of options and watching you.

"What a gentleman." You offer as you begin to stalk towards the most comfortable looking bed.

"I don't s'pose you have the story of the child and the three bears?"

You look over, tilting your head. "Goldilocks? She was kind of a jerk but I don't remember there being seven beds."

Twilight laughs.

You find the bed that's most comfortable and immediately collapse on it. Sinking into the mattress is like heaven.

You prop yourself up on your elbows and let yourself watch Twilight touch every bed. It's a little funny, but you watch him eliminate every bed except the one you're on.

"How can all the beds be so bad?" Twilight huffs.

You snort, "Who knows."

"I guess I'll use this one." Twilight says, settling on the bed closest to you that he all but dissappear into the overly soft and fluffy bed.

You bite back a smile.

The bed you're on is the most comfortable... and he looks comical and also rather miserable. You make the choice to ignore any feelings and offer to share the way you would for any of your friends.

"Well, why don't you try this one?" You ask.

Twilight eyes you with what looks like suspicion, "That's your bed though."

"We can share. If all the others suck and this one dosen’t it makes sense."

He purses his lips, searching your face for any hesitation or discomfort. He seems to be pondering your offer.

Does he not want to share?

Should you offer to take the floor?

"Are you sure?" He asks.

You nod, offering a smile. "As long as you promise not to bite me or something else ridiculous."

"I don't bite my friends." He says solemnly.

"Good?"

Twilight stands, looking at you as he approaches the bed slowly. There's a hesitancy you don't understand but he seems to be trying to keep you comfortable.

He's so sweet.

Twilight sits on the edge of the bed and sighs in relief. "This is amazin'."

"I know, right?" You grin at him.

"How's that story go again? Too soft too hot?"

You shake your head, "No, Twi. It's the first bed was too hard, the second was too soft and the third was just right."

"You're sure you don't mind sharin' with me?"

"Unless you actually have fleas like Legend says I'm sure it's fine." You say immediately.

"I do not."

"Then it's fine."

Twilight offers you a smile, "Alrigh', I belive you."

"You better."

"Is it bad to say I just wanna eat and go to bed?"

"Not at all, come on cowboy let's get some dinner."

"Lead the way, I'll follo'."

"Oooh, you feel brave then?"

"I trust you," Twilight says with an earnestly that makes your heart twinge and your cheeks warm.

You lead him out of the room and downstairs to where the tavern is.

Dinner is peaceful, and you allow yourself to spend the night soaking up his presence. He's such a hoot to be around, and having his attention is perhaps more heady than it should be.

Getting ready for bed is easy. Ignoring the six other glaringly empty beds as you settle down next to him is the hard part. But really, if you close your eyes, you don't have to see it.

-------

You wake up to the sound of a stifled laugh.

You groan, pressing your face into the fabric it rests on only to find something firm under it.

There's wight across your back.

Oh.

You realize you are sprawled on your stomach with your face atop Twilight's chest and his arm over your back.

"There are six beds what are they doing?" A famillar voice whispers.

You pry open one eye to see the others in your room, Legend and Hyrule closest to you.

"I think it's sweet." Sky says, "They look comfortable."

You sigh heavily, trying to push up on your elbow but gasping a little when Twilight pulls you back down with a low growl.

Twilight moves so his other arm is around you now too, keeping you close.

"No." The rancher mutters, still asleep.

"We'll come back." Wild says with a smirk.

"I want the story." Legend says, "There are six other beds."

"Get out." You huff, melting into Twilight's embrace.

Wild and Time herd the group out, though not before the sailor gets some pictures and Legend makes obnoxious kiss faces.

Twilight groans, eyes fluttering open. "Was' i'?"

"Hey." You say.

"Darl'?" He yawns.

"They found us and had some thoughts about all the beds." You shift so you can peer up at him.

"Hm. Ya wan' go back t' sleep?" He asks.

"Yeah." You say.

"G'night."

"Sleep well, Twi."

[letsyapthenightaway]

hii would you like to write something with matt i don't know all i know is i need him 😔😔😔 also hope you're alright have a wonderful day

Matt Rempe x Plus Size! Reader

Matt's sister has been posting about them at Disney so a date with Matt at Disney!

Matt gets you to ride and try everything. Insecurities out the window today because you are throwing all diet, all "what ifs" away. It's a fun day! Lots of affection, kisses, and laughter.

Sharing snacks, going together on rides, and pictures. Get this man a chicken leg but idk he will prefer to steal your churro.

I feel like matt would definitely try to be nonchalant about meeting characters but fail. This man is so happy to see Mickey.

For fun Mickey or Gaston "flirts" with you and Matt plays along. "You're just gonna do me like that Mickey?" Or "Minnie won't like that"

Lowkey....couple pictures may be his idea. He's pulling you in close and has the biggest smile on his face.

Matching ears or he decides your ears for you. Takes his time with it too! Makes some jokes about choosing a silly headband for you but eventually chooses something you like or a classic princess one for his.

So many princess puns and jokes. And if for any reason you try to say you don't fit the princess type. Looks at you like you have THE AUDACITY and the princess thing becomes 100% more. "Yeah well I got my own princess..." With that smug smile he does.

I'm plus sized (no duh) my fear at these places is that I'm too big for the ride. Matt gets that but with height only difference is his is more acceptable. He might not understand that so you gotta take a deep breath. He would really want you to get on rides with him but he'd also just use the snack trying as an excuse not to bug you too bad.

Ik personally I do my research as to what rides are plus size friendly (I don't know much about them but there's a TikTok account that talks about this) so you drag him on those so that he can at least have some more fun. He runs on adrenaline so he'd try and get you to go on the rollercoasters. You can hear the excitement in his laugh and screams but then he'd shrug and say it wasn't anything bad.

If for any reason you can't get on a ride because of your size. He will try his absolute best to not make you feel even more embarrassed. He'd refuse to get on the ride if you can't get on the ride with him. "Babe, it's fine. I don't need to get on that stupid ride anyways." He knows you feel like shit so he will distract you. "Let's go see this show they are gonna give" or "look it's that character you like!"

Call it cliche but a kiss under the fireworks. The biggest smile on both of y'all's faces as you do. Once y'all pull away it's all giggles and smiles. His gallery is full of pictures of you both but mostly you. A big kid at heart that had a fun day at Disney with his family, friends, and his girl.

I have a request for Nico that I'm still brainstorming.

[deadhands69]

Hi jade,

I’m wondering if you had any thoughts about fantasy au bkg and the nsfw “one bed” trope? 👀👀👀

It’s one of my favorite combinations and there are so many fun scenarios! I’m thinking like legend of zelda world or dungeons and dragons. Fantasy is truly the best au!!!

Yes! Fantasy AUs are so fun, I haven't written a lot but definitely read some!

As a side note, the random thoughts went over 500 wc hence the taglist. So yes, lots of thoughts!

Raw/unedited thoughts:

✴︎ You show up to an inn in the middle of the night at the same time, there's only one room left but that's fine. You both need somewhere to sleep, there's nowhere else to go, and you can easily share it. nbd. The inskeep is surprised, but who is she to say no to happy customers?

✴︎ When you get to the room, there's only one bed. Of course.

✴︎ He would be grouchy about it but absolutely try to take the high road and offer to sleep on a couch or something. That is, until you realize there’s not one. (this is fantasy land and you're not royalty, who just has one of those lying around??)

✴︎ Realizing this, he’d absolutely try to be respectful and draw an imaginary line through the middle or something but that won’t last. That bed is wayyyy too small.

✴︎ Getting ready for bed would be interesting too. Like, if he has armor, he’s taking forever peeling that off and sleeping in practically nothing because there’s no way the padding underneath would be comfortable to sleep in.

✴︎ Even if he’s not, I still can’t imagine him sleeping in much because he seems like someone who’d run hot regardless.

✴︎ Now, for the bed part. If this is DnD, roll a 20 and you slip, fall, and land directly on his dick no questions asked.

✴︎ Roll a 1 and you find yourself knocked out on the floor where you will be sleeping tonight because he just crashed the moment his head hit the pillow and didn’t notice to help you into bed.

✴︎ But more likely, you’ll end up somewhere in the middle and here’s what’ll happen:

✴︎ You both climb into the singular bed in the room, bumping arms and legs because there's not much room. Eventually you settle in, getting comfortable but you're still touching

✴︎ Suddenly,you both realize how attractive the other is to you and find yourself laying there thinking about it while also trying not to think too much of it.

✴︎ I like AUs that have at least parallel life occurrences to canon that lead to the same character development, so I would imagine Bakugo in any universe having been through some shit. Which means, sometime in the middle of the night he wakes up from a nightmare. Initially, he's worried he thrashed around too much but let's you comfort him while he calms down.

✴︎ One thing leads to another, having not felt this calm in years as he does within minutes of being in your arms, he does the only thing his brain can think to do and kisses you.

✴︎ Having been on quests, neither of you've gotten laid in a while. Thus.. Leading to some uncontrollable horniness.

✴︎ The moment you put your hands on him, you can't peel them away. Feeling everything. Muscles, scars, softer skin.

✴︎ He can't pull away from you either. No matter how hard he tries to be chivalrous, wanting to touch you combined with knowing you want him is way too much to overcome.

✴︎ It's been a while, so he's a bit awkward but gets used to being with you quickly. He also probably cums really fast the first time but makes up for it on round two. And three.

✴︎ You're up alllll night together. You don't mean to be, it just happens. Once you both accepted it was happening, the flood gates opened and you can't stop. This is unfortunate for whoever has to share a wall with you too - the bed in the room is pretty rickety and in your excitement you're not exactly going slow here.

taglist: @cccandynecklaces @harryzcherry @mynicknameisgasoline @darhinadadragon @ch3rryjampi3

✴︎ You leave the next morning together, looking exhausted. The inskeep knows exactly what happened jusy by the looks of you.

✴︎ optional: here's where we find out she set you up on purpose or something.

@moonstonejpg @kalulakunundrum @katthekat1234 @touyaeater @kennedyonce

@softknj @minksworldy @gold24fish @nickibunny23 @nyceroni

@chaOskinq @vikizzy @kitkat13001 @kennys-partner @amira-44820

@its-evee16

[senseiofbullshit]

Had to get this out of my system because I was literally falling asleep writing it in my notes last night. I was thinking about Jean, Connie, Porco, and Reiner's favorite positions. I don't know the name for all, but hope you can pick up what I'm putting down.

Jean - Softly dominant, more of a service top. He opts for position with depth that will brush up against all the spots that will leave his partner an exhausted, satisfied mess. He can be a little rougher if you ask, but he's more about slow, long sessions that teeter between primal and passionate. He encourages and talks you through it. Isn't satisfied unless you both finish (you multiple times if possible). He doesn't mind a quickie every now and then, but they're not his favorite since he likes to take his time. He really enjoys the intimacy and considers sex quality time. Starts tweaking and getting irritable if you guys haven't had sex in a while. He's not above begging for "just a little taste, I swear".

face sitting & 69

missionary while he holds your legs open or hand pressing down on your lower abdomen

mating press

you on your back while he holds you up by the hips to keep you waist level or with pillows under you (he prefers to hold you up, but pillows leave his hands free to play with your body)

on your knees

Going down on you with the tongue/finger combo while his free hand holds you down

things he says:

"Yeah? You like that don't you?"

"That's so fucking good, baby"

"You're mine. All mine."

(chuckling) "Yeahhhh. Good girl. Good girl."

"Thaaat's it. There we go. Yeah, baby."

"So beautiful. I love it when you (act)."

"Let me hear you."

Connie - Since he's a bit of a lazy lover, he usually opts for things that are a little less work on him or where the burden is shared. Lazy doesn't equal bad. Connie still gets the job done, but if you both only finish once, he's fine with that. Always down for a quickie. He talks the least out of the four. He's focused on the moment and satisfying you both. He's fun in bed though and will actually flip a coin or do rock paper scissors for who gets on top, especially if its late or in the middle of the night.

On your knees for him

Spooning while you hold your leg up (or any variation, but leg up is his favorite)

cowgirl while he sits up/rocking horse

you spread eagle on the counter

Any variation of doggy

69

Mutual masturbation or touching each other

things he says:

"Fuck, you feel so good."

"Touch yourself for me."

"Fuck, I know you like that."

"So pretty."

Porco - I think he takes on more of a dominant role. He can be rough and teasing, but he always gets the job done and satisfies you ten times over. While he likes depth so he can push your crazy button, he also opts for control. Pretty talkative and talks you through it. He uses this sweet, gravelly, honeyed voice when he is saying the filthiest things known to man. He talks the most out of the four, constantly praising or degrading you (whatever is your fancy lol). Porco will wear your ass out and be unforgiving about it. His stamina is crazy, so he's fine if he doesn't always finish. When you look at the time, you realize it's been three hours and he's still in your guts. Opposite of Jean in the sense that you will be the one tweaking if it's been a while.

Prone bone (especially in front of a mirror) while he chokes you, has his fingers in your mouth, hand over your mouth, or grips your jaw while either talking in you ear or biting/kissing your neck

From behind, but you're upright with your back against his chest (also would be great in front of a mirror)

Bent over the couch and any variation of doggy

Cowgirl

Missionary with one leg on his shoulder

Missionary where he restrains your arms by bear hugging your midsection while he drills into you

Another one that enjoys going down on you and using the tongue finger combo while his free arm holds you down

things he says

"Look at you. Already a fucking mess."

"You look so good doing/taking (act)."

"You want me to stop?" (Laugh) "I didn't think so."

"Tell me you love this."

"My greedy girl. Always wants me to (act)."

"My pussy, you hear me?"

"Yeahhh. That's it. I'm gonna make a mess outta you. Give me some more/one more."

"I know. I know. Come on, baby. You can do it."

(Laughs) "So fucking loud."

Reiner - He feels like he was made to please you in whatever form you like. He can be dominant but leans more towards the submissive side. Everything he does it to please you and he really, really gets off on pleasing you. He likes being in control, but uses his control to satiate you before considering himself. He doesn't mind a pillow princess since he believes he should be doing a bulk of the work anyway. He just wants you to enjoy yourself and make sure you're pleased. He's okay not always finishing as long as you're satisfied, but he will never say no to you finishing him or going another round to ensure that he finishes. Checks in with you constantly to make sure you're okay. He prefers a soft, passionate environment, but will absolutely rail you if that's what you want.

Face sitting (he doesn't care if he suffocates, SIT ON IT)

Missionary

Standing doggy

Lotus

Any variation of cowgirl, but he will do the work by pistoning up into you

Standing lotus (or any position where he can show off his strength but still please you)

Certified eater

things he says:

"That feel good, baby? You want more? Tell me you want more."

"Atta girl.” (Chuckle) “I knew you could do it."

"You look so fucking pretty when you..."

"Look at me. Yeah. Mhm. Just like that. Yeah, baby."

“Look at youuu. God, you look so good.”

[at-this-point-i-dont-even-know]

Don't Go where I Can't Follow

pairing: Dr. Jack Abbott x F!Nurse!Ex-militaryReader

summary: You join Jack at the hospital after waking up alone, and the activities of the day bring up bad memories as the shooter closes in on the hospital

(Warning for normal Pitt mayhem, and gun violence. I know nothing about medical procedures, nor do I know anything about the military. Reader is Australian because I am a self indulgent bitch)

The Pitt was overrun by the time you walked through the door.

Everyone was rushing as the urgent cases were dealt with and those marked non-urgent were shuffled off to the side, interns being left to manage what they could.

You took it all in and smiled, it was like you were back in a MASH unit, a place you were more comfortable in then the sterile and normally ‘almost orderly’ Pitt that you had moved countries to work in. 

Your shift wasn’t due to start for hours but once you had awoken to an empty bed and a blaring radio there was nowhere else you could be but here.

Out of the staff room, with a phone to her ear rushed Dana, her hair long since fallen out of the messy bun you had seen her in at the beginning of the day. 

And she was sporting a shiny new bruise under her eye.

“What the fuck happened to you?” you said as you both fell into step, your fingers dancing gently over the growing bloom of blue and purple.

“Idiot patient, it's fine, not even the worst thing that happened today.”

You blew out a breath in sympathy, “Usually the crazies come out at night, is an eclipse due?”

“Only in the Pitt.”

Dana’s always watchful eyes shifted over you, and rested on your exposed neck where you knew a godawful hickey was blooming.

“Looks like you also had an exciting day.”

“And yet I woke up alone.”

Dana sighed as you laughed, it was a never ending conversation about your failed love life.

You and Dana were both charge nurses who spent more time in the hospital than at home with family and friends. When you had arrived here, fresh from an honorary discharge with a rough Australian accent and more PTSD than anyone should rightly have, she had given you a couch to crash on and all the hard truths you needed.

As you reached the desk you both shared, you were grabbing files and barking orders before your jacket was off. 

Knowing what you would be walking into you had run to work in your scrubs, not even bringing a handbag or your keys. At least four people in this hospital had a set of keys to your flat and they would either lend them to you or walk you home at the end of the day. 

“Incoming!” was yelled from the loading dock and you ran towards the sound, Dana was the best charge nurse in the country, she didn’t need you hovering.

You had been a MASH nurse for the Australian Armed Forces for over ten years, this was what you could do in your sleep.

You grabbed the first gurney that came through the doors and started working. 

Within fifteen minutes you are soaked in blood and sweat but the wave of bodies that reduced and you could catch your breath.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” 

You turn slowly, plastering a fake smile on your lips, as you pull off your apron before grabbing another.

Jack Abbott was a stone faced bastard, with greying hair and eyes that looked straight into your soul. In the time you had known him he had made more people cry then you had made laugh. 

“There was a shooting- where else would I be?”

He pulled your arm and led you from the main room of the Pitt into an exam room that now held all the emergency equipment they would need, very shortly, if the news was to be believed.

“Your shift starts in two hours-”

“So does yours.” you cut him off, ripping your arm from his grasp.

His eyes softened and his voice dropped, “You don’t have to be here. You can come back when it's done.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

Of course you knew why Jack was telling you to go home, but you wanted him to say it himself. 

“No I don’t, why shouldn't I be here?”

Jack let out a sigh and looked down at my shoulder, his glare felt like it could see through the scrubs and singlet I wore and see straight to the raised scar tissue that ruined my ability to wear a strapless top forever. 

“I got shot once. I’m good, this isn’t the first time I’ve dealt with a bullet wound since. God Jack, it's not even my first mass shooting! You can’t hide me away everytime we get gunshot victims in the ER, we live in America!” Your own accent dragged out the last sentence and you laughed without humour. 

He swallowed what he was going to say, and instead stepped closer, his own breathing becoming jagged and he leant his forehead to yours, your breath mirroring his as you both took a moment to ground each other.

“I’m not going anywhere.” you whispered to him as you kissed him gently.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

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

Once upon a time somewhere in the middle of a warzone, you and Jack had met. He was already an angry senior doctor, with more medals than he could physically wear and an attitude problem they could see from space.

You were new, a baby nurse, who had signed up on a whim. 

Hands deep in the cavity of a lieutenant that had made the mistake of wandering too far afield, a weird friendship had bloomed. 

He snarled at you, and you followed him around like a puppy desperate for love.

And while it may have been an unconventional place to find it, after a year, love had come. Or at least you had thought so. 

The years passed and you both relisted again and again to serve your respective countries. And fate had put you both back in the same towns, sharing hospitals made of canvas or blown apart buildings.

But as many relationships that had happened in the desert, with war raging around you, you were torn apart by circumstances beyond your control.

You were sent to a different MASH unit, with an inexperienced doctor who needed your steady hands. By this point you had almost as many medals as Jack, and experience that none of your colleagues could hold a candle to.

It was at this MASH unit where your military career had ended, with a stray bullet in your shoulder and a bomb destroying the medevac team that came to save you. 

You laid in the sand, holding your own wound together, under the wreck of the jeep for two days before someone came to save you.

From there it took you six months to recover physically, first in a hospital in Cairo then home to Sydney where you spent months staring at a ceiling, waiting for Jack to walk through the door.

He never did and when you finally got your phone working again, you had expected calls, messages or even an email from him, you didn’t expect complete radio silence.

He had never rung, never messaged and even your spam emails held no words of wonder from him.

Before your accident you both had communicated daily, in some way or another just to let the other know you had made it through another day. 

But you had received nothing.

With blind fear you had thought he too had been attacked, that he had lost his life somewhere in the sand. 

With shaking hands you had contacted a mutual colleague, a civilian, who had explained Jack had left the army and was now working in Pittsburgh of all places.

So that's where you went.

After three planes and way too many painkillers you found yourself at the front door of the ER.

Dana had been the first person you saw.

“Excuse me- I am so sorry to disturb you but does a Doctor Jack Abbott work here?” You had been friendly, professional and to the point. 

She smiled slightly, with a tilt of her head, “Who's asking?”

You had returned her slight smile, knowing that she would give you nothing if your next answer was not honest.

“An old friend, we used to work together.” Your posture and style didn’t require you to elaborate, between your almost crew cut hair (Most of it had burnt away in the bombing) and your no nonsense clothing, you knew she knew you were ex-military.

“He’s around here somewhere, but we’re busy so you may have to wait in chairs.” She gestured to the overcrowded waiting room, and you almost cried at the thought of sitting down. Your body was exhausted, you had left the Sydney hospital against medical orders, and the travel had exhausted you beyond anything you had ever felt.

But that faded away as he walked into the room.

He had his head down with a frown etched across his forehead as he angrily pocked at the ipad in his hands.

You would have laughed if it had been any other time, you had both been terrible at technology and preferred handwritten charts and orders over pressing buttons on a tablet.

“Hello Dr Abbott.” You called out.

He turned slowly, his body stilling like a rabbit in headlights as he looked across the crowded room. You didn’t know if the hospital staff had all shut up to watch the interaction or if you just didn’t notice anything other than the man ten feet from you.

“You-” he started- the ipad tumbling from his hands as the ten feet distance disappeared and suddenly you were in his arms. 

He smelt like sweat and lemongrass, just like he had before, and your head swam with the smell. The anger and the pain melted away as he clung to you. 

You wanted to be strong, pull him off and give you a piece of your mind, after all you had rehearsed it the entire trip.

But as his fingers dug heavily into your skin, bruising as he held you tight against him, the words melted away.

“You didn’t call me.” you whispered into his ear and he pulled away just slightly, your foreheads now resting against each other. You see tears glistening in his weary eyes.

“You’re alive, you’re alive, you’re alive-” he kept muttering, his hands not leaving your body as he touched your back, your shoulders, your arms, he kept touching you, fear all over his face.

Then it hits you, Jack thought you were dead, he had heard about the shooting, or the bombing and he must have heard there were no survivors in the days before your rescue. 

“Baby- I’m okay.” you muttered to him, over and over as you two clung together in the middle of the ER, people walking around you. But no one interfered as you held each other tight, reassuring the other you were there.

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

“The shooter is coming this way.” Jack whispered, even though there was no one to overhear. 

“I guessed as much.” you said as you both pulled yourselves back together, there would be a time to wallow in your own memories, but the ER in the middle of an active shooter situation is not the place for you.

There were SWAT all over the hospital, in uniform and out, you had clocked them the moment you stepped into the ER driveway.

Both you and Jack had dealt with awful situations, providing medical assistance while bullets flew past your ears. But no one else had. The senior ER staff had dealt with more bullet wounds then many but the shooters never dared enter the building.

“I need you -” Jack started but you cut him off.

“I’m not going home Jack!”

And the grumpy doctor only sighed and then let out a breath that was almost a laugh, “I know that, I need you to go to the yellow zone and keep an eye on the interns. It's day one for most of them and this is not exactly something that's covered by the idiots in their classrooms.”

You nodded and with a brush of your lips you separated.

The interns didn’t need you as much as you had thought, in moments like these it would make or break new doctors in your experience and one of them stood out more than the others. Melissa or Mel as she quickly asked to be called, had taken on the role of teacher as she worked between five different beds, yelling over patients to give her fellow interns any assistance they may need.

Time falls away as between the two of you, the yellow zone falls into a steady flow.

It was in an almost peaceful moment where you stopped to show Santos how to tie off a field tourniquet, after catching her trying to do something only found in inaccurate medical dramas. 

She had started to explain her actions, talking as if she was more senior doctors and you an idiot but you snapped at her, and her eyes filled with tears as they grew larger.

“You don’t get to make calls like this without an attending, do you understand Ms Santos.” She was not looking at you now and before you could snap at her you heard a small shriek from Mel who came up behind Santos. Her own eyes turned to saucers and her body shaking as she gestured for you to turn around.

The world swirls as you turn slowly, raising your hands on instinct. 

The shooter is before you, his face half hidden under a cap and his clothes, once they would have been nice, but after all the violence they were steeped in the blood of his victims. His piercing blue eyes look straight at you and his lips curl into a cruel smile.

Your training kicked in and stepped a little closer to him, your hands now way above your head, your body covering Santos’s who you could just see on your peripheral.

Mel was not in your eyeline but you prayed she stayed behind the other intern.

The shooter was talking but you heard nothing as blood rushed to your head, the gun was raised higher and higher and he stepped closer to you.

“This is a hospital, we will not hurt you but I need you to put the gun down.” It has been years since you had used your military voice but it fell from your lips without pause.

The shooter just looked at you, and his smile got broader.

“I’ll shoot you first.” he promised, raising the gun up to your chest.

You didn’t close your eyes, you didn’t rush out of the way, because if you did that the interns would be in the firing line. You would hold your position.

Movement behind the shooter caught your eye just as the bullet was released from the chamber.

Time stopped as you looked at Jack, his face now deathly white as he realises what he's walked into.

“I’m sorry-” you mouth to him, and then time resumes and you fall to your knees, pain erupting in your chest. You hear a scream and another gunshot but you can’t tear your eyes from him.

He’s running to your side but bodies stop him and then hands are touching you and grabbing at you and darkness keeps threatening to take you under.

“I’m sorry.” you try to say, but your throat fills with blood and you cough against the pressure.

I’m sorry Jack.

I’m so sorry.

[frostedpuffs]

something ive noticed in many discord servers (not exclusive to any particular kind) is that people will pop in, send their art, and pop out. nothing wrong with that i suppose - but isn't the purpose of a discord server engagement? i don't know. if im about to go send my art in a discord server, i make sure i always at least reply to the person who sent art before me by leaving a compliment or something. it just feels so rude to ignore someone else's work in favor of posting my own.

i think it should be common courtesy to at least leave some sort of comment toward the person who shared their work before you - especially if nobody else has said anything yet.

the core purpose of a fandom in itself is engaging with other fans. and i think that's why fandom as a whole feels so much less alive than it did five, ten years ago... because people simply stop engaging with others in favor of just... sharing their own work.

i guess i understand why. everyone wants that gratification. i get it, and i've been guilty of the same before. but at the same time, it makes me a little sad to see someone share art in a server, and then within a few minutes, someone else shares theirs, and so on, with all the art just getting buried without a shred of encouragement

i think maybe as a whole people should try to do better about leaving nice comments on things. (this is not me saying you absolutely have to, especially if you cannot think of something to say.) but i think it'd make fandoms a slightly better place if engagement were more common again. reply to that person's artwork, leave a comment on that fic, give a little something. even a simple "this is pretty" could really make someone's day, yknow??

[rdrclo]

How they would react to you kissing them for the first time 🦢🪻

This is just the boys, i will do a Part 2 with the girls at some point too though dw🙏

I also wrote this while falling asleep on the sofa and watching Richard Ayoade clips on youtube, apologies if its rubbish x

-

Arthur:

You and Arthur have had a close friendship for a long time. You've seen the highs and lows together—the campfires, the late-night talks, and the moments where you both just share a quiet understanding. Over time, your feelings for him have grown, but Arthur has always been a man of few words when it comes to matters of the heart. He's noticed the way you look at him sometimes, and there have been moments when he might have wondered if you felt something deeper than just friendship. Still, he never pushed it, always keeping things grounded in the reality of the life you both lead.

It's late one evening, after a long day of work and tension, and you're both sitting by the campfire. The others have gone to bed, leaving you two alone with the crackling fire and the night sky above. You're tired, but there's something about the way the firelight dances off Arthur's face, the softness in his eyes as he looks at you, that makes your heart race. You've thought about this moment for so long, but now that it's here, you're not sure if it's the right time. Still, you can't help yourself. You lean in, your heart pounding, and press your lips softly to his.

Arthur freezes at first, surprise flickering across his features. He wasn't expecting it, but after a second, his hand moves to your face, cupping it gently as he deepens the kiss. There's a quiet intensity to it, like he's been waiting for this moment in his own way, though he's not sure how to navigate it. When he pulls back, his usual gruffness comes back, though there's a hint of vulnerability in his voice. "You ain't gotta do that if you don't mean it." But his eyes say something different—he's been wanting this too, maybe longer than he'd care to admit. His breath is heavy, and the moment feels like it shifts something between the two of you, though neither of you know exactly what comes next.

-

Dutch:

Dutch has always been a bit of a mystery, even to those closest to him. As the leader of the gang, he's charismatic, unpredictable, and full of grand ideas, often pulling you into his schemes and dreams of a better future. You've worked with him for a while, and while you've respected him and his vision, there's been something more beneath the surface. You've seen the moments where Dutch's mask slips—when he's tired, when he's unsure—and in those moments, you've noticed the flicker of something softer between the two of you. He's not blind to your feelings, but he's too caught up in his own ambitions and the gang's survival to admit it—at least, not out loud.

It happens after a particularly harrowing heist. The gang is on edge, and Dutch has been putting up a front of unwavering confidence, as usual. You find him alone, pacing around the campfire, looking lost in thought. He's been distant lately, but tonight, his usual bravado seems thin, and you can see the fatigue in his eyes. With everything that's happened and the uncertainty of the future, you feel an undeniable pull toward him. Without thinking, you walk up to him, your fingers brushing against his, and you kiss him—quick, but full of all the emotions you've kept hidden for so long.

Dutch pulls back, eyes slightly widened with surprise. He's not used to someone breaking through his defenses like that. There's a long, charged pause as he stares at you, his usually smooth words faltering for the first time. "What... what's this, huh?"

He sounds more curious than angry, though, his gaze softening slightly. You can see the wariness in him, a worry that something like this might ruin the idealistic dream he's been building, but there's also something else—a quiet longing. Dutch's hand comes up, not to push you away, but to pull you closer. "If you think this'll change things, you're wrong," he murmurs, his voice thick with both uncertainty and something far deeper.

He kisses you again, leading it this time.

There's no immediate rush to make it more than it is, but it's clear this kiss has cracked the surface of a much more complicated relationship between you, one that neither of you knows how to navigate.

-

Micah:

With Micah, your dynamic has always been fiery and unpredictable. He's bold, reckless, and doesn't take kindly to being told what to do, but somehow, that hasn't stopped you from feeling drawn to him. At first, you brushed it off as just a physical attraction, but the more you spent time together—his sharp wit, his daring nature, and even the moments when he'd let down his guard around you—the more you realized there was more to him than he let on. You've caught him looking at you with that cocky smirk of his more than once, and though you've never outright admitted your feelings, there's always been an unspoken tension between the two of you. Micah, for his part, has definitely noticed you in ways that go beyond mere rivalry or friendship, but he's never been one to show vulnerability, keeping things playful and antagonistic instead.

It's late, and the camp is quiet, but you find yourself unable to sleep. You step outside the tent and catch a glimpse of Micah, sitting on a crate and nursing a bottle of whiskey. The night air is cool, but Micah doesn't seem to mind. You walk over to him, your footsteps barely making a sound on the dirt. The two of you start talking, as you often do, teasing each other back and forth, but this time, the usual banter feels different—more electric. Micah's looking at you with a challenge in his eyes, but there's something softer underneath it, something that pulls you in. You don't think, you just move. You close the distance and kiss him, quick and urgent.

At first, Micah doesn't know how to react. He freezes for a second, his lips barely touching yours, but then the surprise fades into that familiar smirk of his. His hand moves to the back of your neck, holding you in place as he deepens the kiss. It's rough, full of that wild energy he always carries with him. When you pull back, he laughs softly, his breath a little unsteady. "Well, well, look at that," he says, his voice low and teasing. "Guess you couldn't resist after all." His words are laced with both amusement and something more, and as he leans in for another kiss, it's clear he's not opposed to whatever this is—he just knows how to keep things unpredictable, even with something as simple as a kiss. Micah's always a little dangerous, and he's not going to let this moment be anything less than intense.

-

Hosea:

Hosea has always been the voice of reason within the gang, the calming influence that balances out everyone elses wild ideas and impulsive behaviour. You've worked alongside him for a while now, learning from his wisdom and respect for the world. Over time, you've come to admire his patience, his intelligence, and the kindness he shows to those who need it. You've always felt a deep connection to him—something steady and sincere. He's never been one to shy away from affection, but he's also never been particularly forward, and you're not sure if he's ever noticed your deeper feelings. But you've noticed the way his eyes linger on you sometimes, the warmth in his smile when you share a laugh or a quiet moment. He's aware of your affection, but he's never said anything, perhaps because he values your friendship too much to risk complicating things.

It's a quiet evening, the camp peaceful as the gang settles down for the night. Hosea is sitting near the fire, lost in thought. You sit beside him, comfortable in the silence, your thoughts wandering. After a long day of work, the weight of the world feels a little lighter with him here. You look at him—really look at him—and realize just how much you care for him. It feels like the right moment, and without thinking it through, you lean in and kiss him. Soft, tentative, but full of all the feelings you've kept inside for so long.

Hosea is initially startled, but the surprise quickly fades into something much gentler. He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his expression soft and thoughtful. He's always been a man of few words, but there's a tenderness in his gaze that speaks volumes. "Well, I wasn't expecting that," he says quietly, his voice filled with a warmth that makes your heart flutter. There's no teasing, no distance—just the honest affection that's always been there between the two of you. He reaches up, his hand resting gently on your cheek, and he kisses you back, slow and sure. When he pulls away, he smiles, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. "I suppose we've both been a little stubborn, huh?" His voice is low, but there's no hesitation in his touch or in the way he looks at you now. He might not have expected it, but Hosea is more than willing to let this new chapter unfold between the two of you, with the same quiet trust that has always defined your relationship.

-

Javier:

Javier has always been charming, he's full of fire and a deep sense of loyalty. You and he have shared many moments—whether it was over a drink in camp or in the heat of a mission, his warmth always seemed to draw you in. While his flirtations have always been playful, there's an undeniable depth to the way he looks at you, as if he's known all along that there's something more between you two. You've often caught him staring at you with a soft smile or noticed the way his gaze lingers just a little too long. Javier, ever the romantic, has always believed in love and connection, and while he might not have outright confessed, he's certainly aware of your growing attraction toward him.

It's one of those rare moments of calm after a job well done. The gang has settled into camp, and Javier is playing his guitar by the fire, his fingers dancing over the strings in a familiar, soothing rhythm. You sit nearby, lost in the music, letting the quiet of the night wrap around you. After a while, Javier stops playing and looks over at you with a smile, his eyes glinting in the firelight. There's a teasing quality to his expression, but something about the way he looks at you feels different tonight. Without saying a word, you get up and walk over to him, and before he can say anything, you kiss him—gentle, but full of the emotions you've been holding back.

Of course it's not long before Javier is pulling you closer, his arms wrapping around you as he deepens the kiss. His lips are warm and tender, and there's a fire in the way he kisses you back, as though he's been waiting for this moment just as much as you have. When you finally pull away, he laughs softly, his breath a little ragged. "Well, now I know why you've been looking at me like that," he says, his voice low and teasing, but there's a tenderness in his smile that lets you know he's not just playing around. He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear and gazes at you with that unmistakable intensity, his eyes full of affection. "I've wanted this for a long time," he admits, his voice softer now, as he pulls you back in for another kiss, his hands tender but eager. Javier's not one to shy away from love, and now that it's here, he's more than ready to let things go further.

-

Sean:

Your relationship with Sean has always been full of laughter, banter, and playful jabs. He's the kind of man who never takes things too seriously—except when it really matters. You've spent countless nights drinking with him, teasing each other mercilessly, and occasionally bailing him out of trouble. He flirts with just about everyone, but with you, it always feels different—like there's something more beneath the jokes and exaggerated bravado. He's never outright said anything, but there have been moments when he's looked at you a little too long or toned down his usual antics just enough for you to notice. You've always wondered if he feels the same way, but with Sean, it's hard to tell if he's just playing or if he's actually hiding something deeper.

It's after a successful robbery, and the gang is in high spirits, drinking and celebrating back at camp. Sean, as usual, is in the center of it all, telling some ridiculous story and making everyone laugh. You're leaning against a tree, watching him, unable to stop the smile tugging at your lips. After a while, he catches your eye and saunters over, grinning like he knows something you don't. "Y'know," he says, nudging your shoulder, "if ya keep starin' at me like that, I might start thinkin' ya fancy me." His voice is teasing, but there's an underlying curiosity in his gaze.

Without thinking, without giving him time to make another joke, you grab the front of his shirt and kiss him. It's quick, but firm, and when you pull away, Sean is completely still, his mouth slightly open in shock.

For once in his life, Sean MacGuire is speechless. He blinks at you, as if trying to process what just happened, before a slow, wicked grin spreads across his face. "Well, shite," he breathes, his accent thicker than usual. "That was... unexpected." He lets out a breathless laugh before shaking his head. "Not that I'm complainin', mind ya."

Then, before you can say anything, he grabs your face and kisses you back, all heat and excitement, like he's been waiting for this moment just as much as you have. When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours, still grinning. "Y'know, if ya wanted a piece of ol' Sean, ya could've said so sooner," he teases, but his voice is softer now, more genuine. There's still laughter in his eyes, but also something else—something real. And just like that, whatever this thing between you and Sean is, it's no longer just a game.

-

Kieran:

Your relationship with Kieran started off rocky, much like everyone else's in the gang. He was the outsider, the O'Driscoll-turned-hostage, and at first, you didn't know what to make of him. But as time went on, you saw the real him—the nervous, soft-spoken man who just wanted a place to belong. Unlike the others, you were kind to him, offering him small gestures of friendship when he needed them most. He grew attached to you quickly, often seeking you out just to talk or sit near you.

If Kieran suspected you had feelings for him, he never let on—mostly because he was too caught up in his own insecurities. He always assumed he wasn't worth that kind of affection, that you were just being kind because that's the kind of person you were. But what he didn't see was how your heart ached whenever he looked at you with those soft, uncertain eyes.

It's a quiet night in camp, and you find Kieran brushing down his horse near the edge of the trees, murmuring softly to the animal. The sight makes you smile—there's something so genuine about him, so unguarded. You approach, and he jumps slightly when he notices you, but then relaxes when he realizes it's just you.

You talk for a while, about nothing and everything, until the conversation drifts into something more personal. He admits, in a quiet voice, that he still isn't sure if he really belongs here. That maybe, one day, the gang will decide he isn't worth keeping around. The sadness in his voice breaks your heart, and before you can stop yourself, you reach out, gently cupping his face. He blinks up at you, startled, his lips parting like he's about to say something—but you don't let him. Instead, you lean in and kiss him, soft and deliberate.

Kieran freezes completely. For a second, you think you might have made a mistake—that he's going to pull away or panic. But then, slowly, his hands come up, shaking slightly, as if he isn't sure he's allowed to touch you. He kisses you back hesitantly, unsure at first, but when he realizes this is real, that you want this just as much as he does, he melts into it.

When you finally pull away, he's breathless, staring at you with wide, disbelieving eyes. "Well... that's, uh... that's real nice." He's still flustered, still trying to wrap his head around what just happened, but there's a light in his eyes now—a happiness he never thought he'd have. And as he shyly reaches for your hand, holding onto it like he's afraid you'll disappear, you know this moment has changed everything.

-

Josiah:

Josiah Trelawny is a man of mystery—always appearing and disappearing, charming everyone in his path with his silver tongue and extravagant tales. From the moment you met him, he treated you with a particular fondness, always greeting you with a flourish and a playful remark. Unlike the others, he never hesitated to compliment you, to offer a sly smile. But beneath all his theatrics, you saw the real Trelawny—the man who loved the finer things, who longed for something beyond the outlaw life but was still tethered to it.

Your dynamic was built on flirtation and wit, a constant dance of teasing words and knowing glances. He absolutely knew you liked him—he could read people better than anyone, after all. But did he take it seriously? That was the real question.

It's a rare quiet evening, and you find yourself sitting with Josiah near the edge of camp, watching the sky as the sun starts to set. He's in one of his talkative moods, spinning some elaborate story about a time he outwitted the law in Saint Denis. You listen with amusement, but your mind is elsewhere—on the way he gestures with his hands, the way his voice lingers on certain words like a melody.

At some point, he catches you staring and smirks. "Now, now, my dear, you mustn't look at a man like that unless you intend to do something about it." His tone is teasing, but there's something more in his eyes—something knowing.

And so, you lean in and kiss him. It's slow, deliberate, a way of answering his challenge without a single word.

Josiah hums in surprise against your lips but doesn't hesitate to return the kiss, deepening it with a practiced ease. His hands move to your waist, pulling you in ever so slightly, like he's savoring the moment. When you pull back, he lets out a soft chuckle, tilting his head as he studies you with an amused gleam in his eyes.

"Well," he murmurs, his voice lower now, more intimate. "I must say, I do love a woman of action." He brushes a thumb against your cheek, his expression softer than usual, though still carrying that ever-present mischief. "But tell me... was this a fleeting impulse, or have I truly captured your heart?"

It's clear he's still playing his usual game, but there's something genuine beneath his words. He may be a man of theatrics, but he's also a man who understands emotion, who knows the difference between a passing fancy and something real. And as he watches you, waiting for your answer, you realize this isn't just another story for him—this moment, this kiss, is as real as anything he's ever had.

-

Charles:

Since you met, you and Charles have had frequent deep convictions. From the start, there was an unspoken understanding between the two of you—one built on mutual respect and quiet companionship. While others filled the camp with noise and chaos, you found comfort in the rare moments of stillness you shared with him. Whether it was hunting together, tending to the horses, or simply sitting by the fire in silence, you always felt safe with Charles.

You weren't sure if he knew how you felt—Charles was observant, but he was also humble, never assuming too much. If he noticed your lingering glances or the way you always seemed to gravitate toward him, he never mentioned it. And yet, there was something in the way he looked at you sometimes, something soft and knowing, as if he was just waiting for you to make the first move.

It's late in the evening, and the two of you are returning from a long hunting trip, the quiet of the woods stretching between you. The air is crisp, the moon casting a soft glow over the trees, and for once, there's no urgency—no gang, no danger, just the two of you. As you walk side by side, you steal a glance at Charles, watching the way the light catches his features, the quiet ease in his expression.

Something about the moment feels perfect. Without thinking too much, you stop walking, reaching out to gently tug his arm. He turns to you, brow slightly furrowed in question, but before he can say anything, you kiss him—soft, hesitant, but full of meaning.

Charles stills, completely taken by surprise. For a moment, you worry you might have misread everything—but then, his hands come up to cradle your face, careful and deliberate, as he kisses you back. It's slow and steady, just like him, as if he's making sure you know exactly how much this means to him. When you finally pull away, he doesn't let go immediately, his fingers lingering on your skin as he searches your eyes.

"You sure about this?" he asks softly, his voice low but steady. Not because he doesn't want it—because he wants to be absolutely certain you do.

When you nod, a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips, warm and genuine. "Good," he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours. And just like that, the quiet understanding between you deepens, shifting into something undeniable—something real.

-

John:

You and John have always had an easy, natural friendship. He's rough around the edges, stubborn as hell, and constantly trying to prove himself, but you've always seen through the bravado to the man underneath. You tease him when he gets himself into trouble, patch him up when he takes a beating, and stand by him when he needs someone in his corner.

John, for all his recklessness, isn't exactly the most observant when it comes to emotions—especially his own. If he's noticed your feelings for him, he hasn't let on, too caught up in his own struggles to realize how much you care. But he's always been comfortable with you, always sought you out when he needed someone to talk to, even if he'd never admit it out loud.

It's late, and most of the camp has gone to sleep. You and John are sitting near the dying embers of the fire, the conversation drifting from old stories to the future—what you both want out of life, if there's anything waiting beyond this outlaw existence. There's something unusually quiet about him tonight, something thoughtful, and you find yourself watching him as he stares into the fire, lost in his own thoughts.

"You ever think about just... leaving?" he asks suddenly, glancing at you. "Starting over somewhere?"

You hesitate for only a second before answering. "Yeah. I do."

He nods slowly, as if turning over the idea in his mind, then looks at you properly. And for once, there's no smirk, no attempt at bravado—just John, open and uncertain. Something about the moment makes your heart ache, and before you can second-guess yourself, you lean in and kiss him. It's soft, careful, like you're afraid he'll pull away.

John tenses up at first, caught completely off guard. His brain seems to take a second to catch up with what's happening, but then, just as you start to pull away, he chases after you, pressing his lips back against yours in a way that's almost desperate—like he doesn't want to let the moment slip away. His hands come up, hesitantly at first, but then they settle against your waist, pulling you closer.

When you finally part, he blinks at you, looking equal parts shocked and breathless. "Well, uh... that was—" He rubs the back of his neck, stumbling over his words, before finally settling on a lopsided grin. "Guess I shoulda done that a long time ago."

He laughs, a little nervous but genuine, and shakes his head. "You're gonna have to be patient with me, y'know. I ain't exactly good at this sort of thing."

You smile, squeezing his hand. "Good thing I'm patient, then."

John lets out a breath, his smile turning softer. "Yeah... yeah, it is." And just like that, something between you shifts—something real, something neither of you can walk away from now.

-

Lenny:

You have always had an easy camaraderie with Lenny—quick-witted banter, shared laughs, and an unspoken trust that runs deeper than words. While others in the gang see Lenny as the sharp, ambitious young outlaw with a bright future, you see the man behind the gun—the one who dreams of something better, who carries the weight of his past with quiet resilience.

Lenny has always enjoyed your company, but whether he realizes your feelings for him is another story. He's smart, but when it comes to romance, he's a little oblivious—too focused on surviving and making something of himself to think that someone might look at him that way. You don't mind, though. You know him well enough to understand that sometimes, he just needs a push.

The two of you are sitting near the edge of camp, away from the noise of the others, passing a bottle of whiskey between you. It's a rare, peaceful moment, and Lenny is in a particularly reflective mood, talking, about how he wonders what his life would've been like if things had turned out different.

"You ever think about what you'd do if you weren't runnin' with this gang?" he asks, tilting his head to look at you.

"All the time," you admit, watching the way the firelight flickers against his face.

He huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head. "Damn shame, huh? Feels like we ain't got much of a choice."

You hesitate for only a second before reaching out, gently brushing your fingers against his. "Maybe not. But that doesn't mean we can't have something good while we're here."

Lenny turns to you fully now, brow furrowing slightly as he studies your face. "What do you mean by—" But you don't let him finish. Instead, you lean in and kiss him, slow and deliberate, giving him the chance to pull away if he wants to.

For a moment, Lenny is completely still, like his brain is short-circuiting trying to process what's happening. Then, all at once, he exhales against your lips and kisses you back, a little clumsy at first, but warm and eager. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, as if he needs to make sure this is real, that you're really here, really kissing him.

When you finally pull away, he blinks at you, then lets out a breathless laugh. "Well, damn," he says, shaking his head. "I did not see that comin'."

There's a pause, then a slow, growing grin spreads across his face. "Not that I'm complainin', of course."

You chuckle, nudging his shoulder. "Good."

He looks at you for a long moment, his smile softening just a little. "Y'know," he says thoughtfully, "I think this might just be the best thing to happen to me in a long time."

And just like that, whatever was between you before is something more now—something real, something worth holding onto, even in a world as uncertain as this one.

[hedgebotherer]

First of all, sharing because I love the art (the character design and the little details in the background!) and because I just generally love seeing the lesser-drawn Discworld characters.

But I also want to add to the Glenda appreciation, because one thing I really love about her is that she felt to me like an evolution of some of the ideas expressed through other characters. She was an asterisk of a character. I think that previously the kind of hard-working down-to-earthiness Glenda is made of was always portrayed as a good thing. Which it is, obviously. But with Glenda, Sir Terry explored how that same virtue that empowers characters such as the witches can also hold some people back. Through Glenda, I also see an attempt to criticise the Not Like Other Girls streak that trickles through characters such as Susan Sto Helit and Agnes/Perdita. This isn't a criticism of those characters in terms of the author's writing - there's a reason Sir Terry is the only person I will ever address as Sir. I think it was very much deliberate and not intended to make them Strong Female Characters, but presumably the attitude wasn't something he wanted to address at that time, except in smaller doses (most noticeably with Angua and Cheery and their shared feelings about having to be one of the lads in order to be accepted).

Glenda embodies the traits that make other Discworld characters so likeable, while also shining a light on how it harms people (women and minorities in particular) when they're shackled to those standards. It resonates with the Nutt problem of having to constantly prove one's worth to people who will never really respect it. And to a lesser extent with Pepe, who I think can most accurately be described as queer, who has to feign a more harmless, less slash-your-eyelids persona to be accepted by the public (but at least Pepe knows it's all for show). Glenda's character arc seems to say 'Actually, maybe hard work isn't it's own reward'. Be hard working, but don't keep your head down. Be aggressive when you have to be, be forthright, be frivolous, be fancy, be noticeable for something other than just doing a good job with whatever you're paid to do.

It's weird that a novel that was ostensibly about football ended up being more about toxicity (both internal and external) and the pitfalls of living up to the standards that you didn't really invent for yourself.

Glenda appreciation post