#and sometimes crying in my designated crying space
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I'm so heavily anti-advertising that all pitches sound goofy silly to me/I can never take them seriously, so I have no idea how I'll manage to to advertise my game even if I do finally finish it soon-ish lol...
#Especially how so much modern media advertising is like... getting people excited about random tropes and stuff like#''Do you love enemies to lovers? Do you love sad stories that make you do a heckin CRY? Do you love big stupid dumbo muffin cake#sinnamon roll babies who are too good for this world? Have you ever wanted to read a blah blach blah" whatever stuff and it's like#... i cannot type that... I couldnt do it.. I couldn't even think of how to do it ghbjhbjh#I am such a literal person... Like I love when an advertisement is just like 'This product works well. Look at it. Buy it if you want. Ok'#You know what makes me want to read a book or watch a show or play a game? Reading a detailed plot synopsis or the full wiki page#for it and then deciding 'yeah I wouldnt mind sitting through seeing the events I just read about happen in more detail' lol#OR aesthetics. since I do often watch things JUST for the set/costume design. Sometimes I will watch stuff literally#just because I saw a picture of a costume in it that looked really cool and I want to sketch costume looks whilst watching#But aside from appearance like... little bullet point break downs of things that are in a story just ... do not do anything to me at all.#And i just hate 'selling' things to begin with. I don't want to have to convince people to like something.. they should just... like it...#LOL.. like.. just be born liking it. just like it automatically please. Dont make me beg to you like a weird little freak. So many commerci#als seem weirdly desperate and manipulative. Like those Truck/Car commercials that will have like a freaking dog crying and#a war vet in a wheelchair with the american flag in the background and a family hugging around a christmas tree or some shint and its#just like oh my GODDD... shut UPP.. you could literally not be MORE blantant about just trying to prey on peoples emotions to build#some sort of fabricated positive association with your product/brand.. begone.. Or brands having their own twitters where they post#~~relatable content~~ as a means of shallow audience endearment GGGRR..... ANYWAY.. hhrgh...................#Maybe that's something I can ask playtesters I guess like.. I feel like I don't know my own audience very well because I am not#much of a media person?? ironically.. Like I do enjoy MAKING media. But I've never been in a fandom. I've never read fanfiction. I've never#spent much time in those spaces. I've just never really had the inclination and don't personally derive much joy out of stuff like that#(since I'm already so focused on my OWN world and projects its like.. hard for me to even find the time and mental energy to expend on#others). Even when I finish a movie or game and really like it.. I just kind of like...move on? and don't really dwell on it much? At most#I will get into the worldbuilding of a piece of media and read the wiki for a while or watch Lore info or critical analysis videos. But I#never really care for or attach to the characters or the plot itself very much. So I feel like.. the way my brain works. I'm just not as#good at approaching things from that angle? Kind of like how if you're a lifelong vegetarian whos never eaten meat - you might#struggle to write an ad for fancy brand of steaks bc you'd be like... idk what meat eaters are even looking for? whats the selling point??#Which I'm not saying that I wouldn't play my own game. i AM definitely the audience for it. But it's more like.. I would play it for my own#very niche specific reasons that I think are different from what MOST people might want to play it for. So I need to somehow#tap into the minds of the Majority who play things for Normal Reasons than pure lore collection or whatever lol.
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Two and a Half Graysons

Note: Trust and believe I'm using that horny ass line you ended with as a plot device too. LMFAO. @hhoneylemon
Synopsis: You're not officially a parent, but you might as well be. You're not officially married, but everyone seems to think you are. Between shirtless mornings, grocery store tension, and baby carrier missions, the line between “dating Mark” and “co-raising a purple alien infant with Mark” gets blurrier by the day. But it’s fine. You’re emotionally stable. Probably.
Warnings: Mild Sexual Tension (NO SMUT), Coping With Parenthood, Mild Swearing, Off-screen Canon-level Violence, Found Family & Co-parenting, fluff galour. (Original Request Link: https://www.tumblr.com/vinnyvamppp/783842276548952064/i-have-a-vision-ive-been-thinking-about-when) PART 2 HERE
Mark Grayson (+ Baby Oliver!) x GN!Reader
WC: 1.2k (so cute)
Mark doesn’t ask you to move in. He just starts making space, a shelf here, a drawer cleared there. By the time Oliver starts teething, you’re already brushing your teeth in his bathroom every morning and waking up with a foot in your ribs that definitely doesn’t belong to Mark.
You weren’t expecting him to drop out. No one was. Debbie had offered to help, of course—offered like it was the easiest thing in the world to raise a baby that wasn’t hers, born from a man who had already broken the whole family once. And Mark had just said: “I can’t ask her to do this. He’s my responsibility, my… brother.”
Then he’d looked at you. Like he was bracing for something. For the inevitable pulling away. The “I’m not ready for this” talk. But you’d just nodded. Said: “Okay. We’ll figure it out.” We. His shoulder slumped with a sigh of relief. And that’s how it starts.
It’s not glamorous. Mark’s working two jobs between diaper runs. You’re picking up shifts, catching Oliver when he won’t stop crying, and Mark looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. Some nights, the exhaustion settles over the house like fog, thick and still. Then there’s moments where Oliver laughs or falls asleep on your chest like he knows exactly where he belongs. And everything feels lighter—softer, just right.
Mark negotiated with Cecil… Kind of—out of desperation, moreover. After bringing Oliver back, Mark tried to keep up with college, parenting, and being Earth's part-time savior. It lasted about two weeks. He was late to a Kaiju fight because Oliver had a fever. Left a lab evacuation halfway through to pick him up from your job because the sitter bailed. Cecil nearly had a stroke when Mark fought a teleporting assassin with baby wipes in his pocket.
“I can’t do this full-time. He’s a baby. He’s my responsibility. I’m not leaving him with my mom again and I’m not dragging him into a war zone unless the world’s literally ending.”
Cecil—being a professional manipulator and also somehow slightly terrified of Oliver’s explosive bowel habits, reluctantly agreed. Now, Mark handles non-lethal, low-stakes missions like alien negotiations and minor emergencies.
He takes himself off the active-duty roster unless it’s a Level Red situation, and Cecil sends backup or Eve when something big hits. Mark still trains—still reports in, but often while bouncing a baby on his chest or feeding him yogurt off-camera. So what happens day to day? He flashes by your job to drop off Oliver. Literally, he’ll appear mid-conversation, hair a mess, onesie on backward.
“Hey babe, sorry—can you watch him for like two hours? There's a tidal wave hitting France. Be back by lunch. Probably.” Kisses you mid-chaos, and vanishes in a loud boom. Sometimes he leaves you with a half-full bottle and a sticky pacifier and expects you to just vibe.
If that isn't an option, he wears a baby carrier during missions. Look, not for the big ones. But if the threat is “giant sewer rat” or “angry alien ambassador who doesn’t understand doors,” Oliver is strapped to his chest like a tiny judgmental but giggly backpack with earmuffs. You even designed him a superhero onesie that says, "Invinci-baby," and yes—he wears it at every outing.
“You’re bringing a baby?”
“He likes the wind.”
“He’s drooling on your comm.”
“He’s observing diplomacy.”
Cecil threatens to fire him weekly. Debbie sighs deeply every time she sees the footage on GDA security—just to check in when needing Cecil to make sense of this. All the while watching Doc Seismic scream “IS THAT A CHILD?!” mid-monologue. Today, you didn’t realize how dangerous this grocery trip is going to be until Mark lifts the baby carrier with one arm like it’s nothing. He’s Invincible—what did you expect? His gray t-shirt rides up just enough to make your soul flicker out of your body like a dying TV screen. Focus on the produce section. Innocent terrain, right? You grab a head of lettuce. You do not look at the way Mark bounces Oliver gently while scanning for cereal. You are a good person, a person with restraint. He’s doing that thing again—being effortlessly domestic. Like, hot dad energy turned up to eleven. Every time he reads a nutrition label or wipes drool off Oliver’s chin, your brain short-circuits a little more.
You used to flirt shamelessly. Make out in supply closets, pull him into his room by the collar. But now? Now you’re in aisle six, arguing about formula brands, and trying not to climb him in front of a shelf of canned peas.
“I think we should get the oatmeal-based one,” Mark says, turning towards you. And there it is: that low voice, as he leaned in slightly. The focus with that soft-eyed, fully attentive attitude. You blink at him, trying to play it cool as you bite your tongue. “Whatever keeps his poop neutral. I'm not reliving last week.” Mark gave a crooked grin, brow raised, his shoulder hitching, “The explosion?”
“Don’t—” you groan, covering Oliver’s ear. “Don’t traumatize him again. We had to hose down the high chair, Mark.” A grin tugged at the corners of your lips. He laughs under his breath and sets the formula in the cart. You watch the muscles in his forearm flex as he pushes it forward. You’re sweating now—It’s winter. “Why do you look tense?” he asks. You gesture around helplessly. “Because this is basically foreplay, and there’s a baby in the cart.”
Mark chokes on a laugh, reaching instinctively to cover Oliver’s ears. “You can’t say stuff like that while I’m holding our son.” You freeze. “Our son?” His eyes widen a little. The cart keeps rolling. The baby stares up at the ceiling fan, utterly indifferent to the life-changing moment. “…I mean,” Mark starts, fumbling now, “he’s not yours, but like—well, he kind of—”
“Mark.” You step in close, dropping your voice. “If you keep talking in that voice and calling him our son, I swear to God, I will embarrass us in this store.” Mark’s eyes flick to your mouth, then back to Oliver. His jaw flexes with blotches of pink creeping up his neck. “I hate that we can’t do anything about this.” You both stare at each other for a second too long. Then Oliver lets out a dramatic sneeze that breaks the tension like a rock through a window. You sigh. “We’re in hell.” Mark leans over and kisses your temple. “At least we’re in hell together.” You glance at the shopping list and mutter, “Add wine.” He stares at you in bewildered silence— “For Ms. Grayson.”
You find yourself thinking about stupid things. Like the taste of oatmeal lingering on your tongue. Like whether you’ll need a bigger place. Like whose last name Oliver will have. Like if Mark knows he hums when he’s rocking the baby to sleep, tuneless and low, and how your whole chest aches every time you hear it. You’d marry him. That thought hits you while Mark is on the floor of the living room, one sock on, hair a mess, cooing nonsense while Oliver grabs at his nose. You’d marry him tomorrow. Or bend him or let him bend you over the desk right now. Whichever happens first.
You’ve seen this man explode aliens. Why is him wearing low-slung sweatpants more threatening to your mental health than intergalactic war? But you don’t tell him that. You just hand him the bottle, brush your fingers against his, and whisper, “You’re doing okay.” Mark looks up at you—tired and worn down, but smiling. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” A/N: Literally kicking my feet as I write this, I will forever love your big, beautiful brain. Hopefully, this was decent, my friend. :)
Part 2: Our Son, Apparently
MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚
#ask reply#fanfic#invincible#x reader#invincible show#invincible comic#mark grayson#fem reader#male reader#invincible x gn reader#mark grayson x reader#invincible season 3#invincible mark grayson#mark grayson invincible#mark grayson fanfic#mark grayson x you#mark grayson x y/n#mark grayson fluff#invincible fluff
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Some Astrology Behind Your Looks
Note: These are just my personal observations over the years, so let me know in the comments if anything hits home! Your Ascendant alone (or just its ruler or the planets sitting in your 1st house) isn’t enough to define your appearance. You gotta look at the aspects to the Ascendant, the planets in the 1st house, the chart ruler, and its aspects too.
The ascendant is like your default character design. Think of it as a "default skin" in a video game. The ASC ruler is like your stylist who works behind the scenes and the mastermind behind your look. The planets in your 1st house, the aspects to your ascendant and to the planets in 1st house is the DLC pack that really customizes your look.
Saturn in 1st/conjunct ASC - Stiff posture. Ages in reverse. Looks 30 at 20 but looks 40 at 60. Deep-set eyes. Wrinkles before 30. Knees, joints, or back always ache even if they are sitting doing nothing. Looks better with age. Ugly duckling as a kid/teen. Sharp defined bone structure as an adult.
Moon in 1st/conjunct ASC - BIG eyes. Puffy cheeks that people want to pinch even when they're grown adults. Pouty lips. Gets sweaty easily. Face constantly changes with emotions so lying here is impossible. Weight fluctuations. Baby face for way too long. Look cute even when crying. Wavy hair but changes with their emotions. Skin is super reactive like blushes easily, bruises easily, sensitive to everything. Round or Moon face.
Pluto in 1st/conjunct ASC - Either scary hot or hot scary. No in-between. A face that barely moves. Either angelic or villainous eyes. Hair is either jet black or deep red or whatever dark shade they wanna color their hair with. Born with a resting face. Unbothered style. Skin either pale as a ghost or deeply striking.
Neptune in 1st/conjunct ASC - Either dreamy or look like they haven't slept in days. Messy at home. Prone to get mysterious acne out of nowhere. Spaced-out eyes. Skin glows weirdly like sometimes as a built-in instagram filter sometimes greasy. Gliding instead of walking. People mistakes them for someone else sometimes.
Uranus in 1st/conjunct ASC - Hair does whatever it wants and never behaves. Either noticeably tall or noticeably short. No in-between. Posture that either as stiff as a board or slouches like a hacker. Randomly winks, raises brow, smirks or stares into nothing.
Sun in 1st/conjunct ASC - Hairline so perfect it looks like CGI. Looks expensive even when broke. Aging slows after 30. Laugh is as contagious as a virus. Neck slightly longer than average. Skin tans fast. Cheekbones pop when smiling. Looks like Greek statue in side angles.
Venus in 1st/conjunct ASC - Dimples, even in weird places. Hips curve like a renaissance painting. Balancing proportions. Gains weight only in right places. Natural symmetrical face. Baby hairs lay perfectly. Doesn't even need nail polish as they can rock without it. Shoulders have a graceful rounded slope. Weight gain makes them hotter. Wide hips, thick thighs and butt. THICC body.
Mars in 1st/conjunct ASC - Forehead vein pops when mad. Prone to random scrapes and scars. Operate at 1.5x speed. Dressing style depends on their mood. Formal when composed, bitchy when annoyed, angelic when warm and boyish when fun. Also hairstyles depend on their mood too. Struggles with hair fall in mid 20's.
Mercury in 1st/conjunct ASC - Mouth is slightly open even when they sleep. Snores. Blinks fast. talk with their hands. Looks younger than they are. Eyes move like they're reading subtitles in real life when talking. Fine or wavy hair sometimes its messy. Nails might be bitten, tapped, or fidgeted with constantly. Short eyelashes. Switchy emotions like smiles one second serious the next.
Jupiter in 1st/conjunct ASC - Gains weight faster than they lose. Rounded or slightly protruding belly if gained even a little weight. Laugh is impossible to ignore. Full wide cheeks like they store snacks there. Broad forehead. Big teeth or an over-exaggerated smile like they are in a tooth paste advertisement. plump lips. Gives "big presence" energy. Large hands and feet.
Sun square ascendant- Face would look slightly irritated even if they don't mean to. Sometimes force their smile or just look like that even when real.
Moon square ASC - Face bloats easily, especially under the eyes. eczema, redness, or dry patches are common. Cheeks puff up randomly.
Venus square ASC - Would think they are not good looking enough. Insecured about their looks. Weirdly pretty. Sometimes looks AI generated. You get me? Lips too big or nose too sharp. Beautiful but off.
Mars opposite ASC - Bad boy/girl vibes. Can look pissed off even when happy.
Sun opposite ASC - Silent but strong type. Can come off either intimidating or bossy.
Uranus square ASC - Unusual eye color, shape, or one bigger than the other. Can't really tell if they are attractive or really unique. It's like features are drawn by different artists.
Neptune square ASC - Can look slightly sleepy or like a fever dream. Soft features but slightly off focus. Look different everytime.
Moon opposite ASC - A living emoji. Puffy under-eyes are permanent.
If you’ve got multiple planets in your 1st house with a ton of aspects, you’re basically ramen noodles - complex, tangled, and impossible to replicate.
DM me for a complete astrology reading! ✨ Check out my pinned post for pricing. 💫
#astrology#astrology readings#birth chart#astro observations#astro notes#zodiac signs#spirituality#spiritual awakening#spiritual journey#vedic astrology#western astrology#astro posts#astro blog#astro tumblr#astro community#astrology notes#astrology content#natal chart#natal placements#natal aspects#natal astrology#astrology blog#astrology tumblr
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Both Ain’t Shit- Smoke vers.
Smoke Moore x Black Reader
Genre: Smut with plot
Word count: 6.2k+
Summary: You and Smoke have been having a little fling for a while now. But Smoke pushes you too far. And now it’s time to show him you can play the game just as well as him, and remind him who he’s dealing with.
Warnings: cheating if you squint, p in v, fem receiving oral, use of n word, banter, and cussing
Authors notes: i’m so sorry for making yall wait so long for this. This was very long so i think my next few pieces will be short. I have a lot more ideas to come tho! Enjoy!!
He is not my man.
I mean, yeah he be at my place more than his own. He got a designated space in my closet for his clothes, he sometimes gets packages sent to my address, and my neighbors think he’s my husband…
But Elijah Moore is not my man.
And I wasn’t his woman neither.
Or at least that's what we tell everyone…
Me and Smoke wasn’t nothing but a good time to each other at first. The risky nights, flirty texts, and playing house was fun and all at first. But then I fell too deep into our fake fantasy.
Smoke has everything I want in a man–drive, ambition, quite confidence and he gave me sex that made me forget my own name. Everything I dreamed of, but he didn’t give me the security, honesty, and title of the relationship I wanted.
I used to care, I used to ask, I used to cry about the women that approached us in public like I was some homewrecker, the days when he would leave and not talk to me, the late nights where he would up and go handle “business” without putting on proper clothes or packing his work bag. And I say this with my chest because I will never again fall for his games.
He use to gaslight me so well I thought I was going crazy and made up the entire thing. And I tried to leave, put the mess of a relationship behind me but Smoke can make you feel like you the only one, even when you know for a fact you’re not.
And I always knew, I always knew.
Between the late replies, dirty stares from women I don’t know in shops giving me dirty stares, and the way his phone magically stayed face down every time he came over.
I’d have to be stupid to not know.
But now?
I play it cool. Smile in his face, moan in his ear, and act like I’m not being used. Because I know I can run game too. He wants to be a player? Bet you I can play dirty too if not dirtier.
Because even when he’s out chasing whatever new girl that caught his eye, he still ends up in my bed. He might go ghost for a day or two, but he always shows back up with that same sorry ass smirk like he ain’t been doing me wrong. But I know I mean something to him because I’m the one he slips up and calls when he’s drunk, the one he trusts with his silence, his stress, his secrets. I’m not stupid—I know I’m not the only one he touches, but I’m the only one that sees Elijah Moore. They might get Smoke, but I get both. And maybe that makes me just as dumb as them, but at least I’m the one he always runs back to. Even if he pretends like he’s just passing through.
I don’t return the energy to the same extent—not 'cause I’m loyal, but 'cause none of them other dudes make me feel what Smoke do. They don’t got that pull on me. They don’t got that calm but dangerous aura that make your knees weak and pride nonexistent. And I hate that. I hate that I crave the same man that got me second-guessing my worth, but still got the power to fuck me like I’m the only woman in the world. They couldn’t handle me anyway—not like he can. So I let him think he winning… while I lose my damn mind behind closed doors.
But tonight he did something that was a new low.
I should have know something was off when he showed up to my door with flowers.
Smoke ain’t ever gave me no fucking flowers. He do give orgasms and headaches. He do “You good?” texts at 2 in the morning. But flowers. Roses? Never .But there he was—standing in the doorway like a fever dream—holding roses like that alone could undo months of hurt. They were fresh too, like he’d actually cared enough to stop and pick the best ones for me. The red looked loud against the cool evening light, too loud for a man who whispered lies in a voice so calm it sounded like love.
That was guilt wrapped in a heart shaped box. With a weak ass smirk.
“What’s this for?” I asked, leaning against the doorframe of my front door with my arms crossed. Staring at him with confusion and surprise in my voice.
He smirked. “ I can’t do something nice for you?” He says dressed in his typical grey suit with a blue tie, with a caring but deceitful look in his eyes.
He walked past me like he owned the place– even though some days he practically lived here. He dropped the roses in the middle of my dining room table like they meant something to me and then found his way back to me by sliding his arm around my waist. I let him. I always let him. Because I deserve some fun out of this too.
The night started like our normal routine. Dinner. Jokes. Laying in his chest while telling him about my day. He even started talking to me about how he wants to take me on a getaway trip so he can show me the world. Which should have been red flag number two. But again I just wanted to get the most out of him being with me.
The third flag was what got me though.
I was looking for one of my heels that I had recently broken on accident in hopes I could get a little money out of him for all the problems that come with him. But while I was looking I saw a little velvet box tucked in the bag he packed to spend the night.
At first, my heart jumped–thinking that maybe something came over him and knocked him into his senses to commit to me. Thinking maybe it was a promise ring or something stupid like that.
But as I got closer I realized how familiar the box looked. When me and Smoke started messing around he gave me a gold anklet as a little keep me in mind gift. And I still wear it to this day because you cant see it under my clothes in public, it makes him pound me into the mattress when he sees while we fucking, and because I thought it was a genuine gift he was giving me because he cared.(you’re a dummy bitch)
Out of curiosity I kneeled down checking my surroundings to make sure he wasn’t about to come help me look for whatever I came in my room for. I opened the box to see the exact anklet that was on my leg. The box has a note attached to it that read,
“To J.”
“J… Who the fuck is J?” I thought to myself. My blood immediately started to boil. Vision blurring. But I collected myself to steady my hands as I closed the box and zipped his bag right back up with a smirk on my face. This was my green light to start fucking with him.
I walked back into the living room. I didn’t ask no questions. Didn’t start a fight. Didn’t even make a petty remark. I gave him one more night, one last kiss, and last moan. Letting him think everything was sweet. Made it real good too, gave him my all.
Because tomorrow?
I’m getting my lick back.
Next day
I woke up like I knew nothing.
Played the same role—sweet, soft, and familiar. I kissed him good morning, made him breakfast, even ironed the shirt he accidentally wrinkled from throwing it in his bag.
He was still in bed by the time I was done, shirtless in only his underwear, stretching like he ain’t just spent the whole night with his tongue in me. The sun crept in through the blinds, laying golden ribbons across his broad muscular back. He looked good—too damn good for someone who didn’t deserve me.
I walked past the bedroom doorway with my coffee in hand, making sure to get all his shit together so he could be on his way. I looked like a woman coming down from a long night—curls falling messily from the makeshift bun, nightgown straps slipping off my shoulders from running round the house. But the second I heard his voice, I paused.
“Damn, you just gon’ walk past me like that?” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep and fake concern.
“Didn’t know you were still here,” I replied over my shoulder, taking a slow sip from my mug. “Usually you’d be gone by now.”
He chuckled, that lazy one he does when he thinks he’s charming.
“That how we acting today?”
I kept moving, gathering his keys, wallet, phone charger—placing everything neatly by the door.
“I made breakfast. Even ironed your shirt. What else you want?”
“I thought maybe we could chill for a second.”
I glanced over at him, leaving my bed, half-dressed and stretching. Taking his sweet time like he ain’t planning to meet another girl in a few hours. “I’ve got stuff to do. You got places to be and people to see, don’t you?” I tilt my head, all sweet like honey over broken glass.
He raised an eyebrow, trying to read me.
“You good? I just wanted to make sure my girl was alright after last night.” He grinned—half pervert, half innocent—as if the memory of his mouth on me gave him the right to ask.
“I’m great,” I said with a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “Got what I needed, didn’t I?”
He laughed, low and amused like he thought I was playing. But I wasn’t.
I brushed past him, slow enough to feel his heat, fast enough to pretend it didn’t burn. Before I left the room, I paused.
“Your shirt’s on the couch, still warm. Coffee on the counter, take it to go.”
I walked toward the hallway mirror, pretending to fix a loose curl, but really, I was watching him through the reflection. Watching him fake like he wasn’t confused.
He moved slow, dragging himself out into the hall, “Damn, you rushing me out?”
I turned, still calm. “Not rushing,” I shrugged. “Just... reminding you that you do have somewhere else to be. I mean, don’t you have brunch plans? I know I’m not the only per—I mean, thing you tend to in your day-to-day.” I offered a soft, fake smile
He smirked. “Why you always doin’ that?” he asked, pulling his shirt over his head, voice dipped in charm and guilt like he didn’t know where he stood.
I turned back to the mirror. “Doing what?”
He walked into the hallway like he owned it—coffee in one hand, confusion in the other. “Throwing lil’ jabs like I ain’t been here every night this week.”
I tilted my head, slow. “And yet somehow, still not doing right.”
That shut him up for a second.
“If you got something to say—”
I cut him off with a soft laugh, eyes still on my reflection. “I don’t. Nothing to say. Nothing new, anyway.”
I walked to the door, held it open like a polite hostess.
“I don’t want to stand between you and your business. They seem to be getting impatient.” I nodded toward his phone lighting up again with a text he didn’t bother hiding.
He looked at it, then back at me. “You really on one today, huh?”
I shrugged. “Not really. Just on schedule.”
He stepped onto the porch, shirt tugged, ego bruised, still confused
“You good though?” he asked again, this time softer. Smaller.
I leaned against the doorframe, cool and casual.
“Always,” I said.
And then I slammed the door in his face.
Later that day
The silence in the apartment after he left was thick. Like the walls were holding their breath, waiting for me to fall apart.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I ran a hot shower, scrubbed him off my skin, and let the steam cleanse every trace of him from my pores. Then I pulled open my closet and picked the one dress I knew would make someone stare too long and think too hard.
It was satin—deep red, the kind of red that doesn’t beg for attention but demands it. It clung in all the right places and slid over my thighs like water. I slipped on gold hoops, sprayed the perfume he used to compliment before he stopped noticing, and glossed my lips.
I needed to get back at Elijah in a way that would make his blood boil. Elijah used to have a friend named Darius that always showed me a little too much attention when me and Elijah would run into him. Compliments that were too attentive, gifts too expensive, and hugs that were intended to be more than friendly.
Elijah hated it. Hated him.
Then my phone lit up:
Darius: I’m outside.
I smiled to myself, grabbed my bag, and walked to the door with the same grin smoke gives when he’s fucked me over.
We walked into Club Eden like we’d done it before. Darius had one hand on the small of my back, the other in his pocket, grinning like we go together. I kept my chin high, every step deliberate, the red satin of my dress catching the lights just right. Heads turned, we looked good, and I knew it. But I wasn’t here for the stares. I was searching for one face in the crowd. Just smiling, slow and sweet, as Darius guided me deeper inside the club I knew too well.
Smoke wasn’t hard to spot.
Even in the low-lit haze of Club Eden, he stood out like sin dressed in success. Black slacks tailored to perfection, button-up open just enough to show that gold chain he never took off, and a gold watch to match catching flashes of light as he leaned back, calm and calculating.
And he wasn’t alone.
She sat next to him, legs crossed, laughing because she didn’t know about our twinning anklets. It shimmered around her ankle like a middle finger straight to my face.
I didn’t react. Couldn’t give him the satisfaction.
Instead, I leaned back against Darius, legs draped over his lap like it was second nature. I smiled, slow and sweet, twirling my straw in my drink as if I wasn’t locked in a silent war with the man across the room.
Smoke’s eyes met mine—dark, unreadable, but I knew that look. His jaw was clenched. His tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek. The girl next to him leaned in to whisper something, and he didn’t flinch, didn’t move. Just kept his gaze on me like I had his whole night wrapped around my finger.
Good.
I tilted my head, let my curls fall over one shoulder, and whispered something in Darius’s ear. Didn’t matter what, I just needed to see Smoke look at me.
He did and I knew I had him right where I wanted him.
“Wanna dance?” I asked Darius, my voice soft but just loud enough. He grinned like he’d been waiting for the invite. “You know I do.”
The second I stood, I felt Elijah’s stare follow every step I took. I didn’t look back. Just led Darius to the dance floor like we owned it. The bass hit heavy, the colorful led lights spun soft, and I let my body move—slow, effortless, sensual. Darius tried to keep up, hands respectful but curious. I didn’t care. I wasn’t dancing with him for him. I was dancing for the man sitting in the corner pretending he didn’t care.
Elijah didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But when I twirled to catch his gaze again—he was gone.
Just like that.
I smirked, satisfied, even as my chest tightened.
“I’ll be right back,” I told Darius, brushing a kiss on his cheek before slipping toward the restroom.
The bathroom was cool and quiet. I touched up my lip gloss, adjusted my dress, and took a deep breath. The game was fun, but it was stressful. And I was starting to feel the heat of it rise to my skin.
I opened the door, and there he was.
Smoke.
Leaning against the wall like. His arms were crossed. His shirt sleeves rolled up just enough to show the tattoos on his forearms, jaw tight, eyes darker than I remembered.
I blinked. “You lost?”
He didn’t smile. “Was about to ask you the same thing.”
I crossed my arms, mirroring him. “Bathroom’s not your usual hangout, is it?”
“I saw you dancing,” he said, voice low and clipped. “Looked like you were real comfortable.”
“Why wouldn’t I be? Darius is sweet,” I said, letting the name linger to make sure it burns.
His jaw flexed. “He’s a clown.”
“He’s not you,” I shrugged. “That’s kind of the point.”I look at him with amusement because I know i’m getting under his skin.
“You really brought him here?” he asked, stepping closer. “To my spot?”
“Oh, my bad,” I said with mock concern. “Didn’t realize I needed permission to come to the club. Should I check in next time?”
His tongue dragged across his teeth like he was trying not to snap. “You knew I’d be here.”
I tilted my head. “Did I?”
He scoffed, stepping in just close enough that I could smell his cologne. “You doing all this for what? Huh? To make me jealous?”
I smiled. “Ain’t nobody checkin for you Smoke?”
His hand came up, not touching me—just hovering near my waist like muscle memory. As he towered looking down at me, “You think I care about Darius? You think I give a fuck about that lame ass nigga?”
I leaned in, just a breath from his lips. “Well… he was talking real good about having dessert back at my place. So maybe I will leave your “spot”.”I give him a menacing grin.
His whole body tensed.
“You lyin’,” he said, but his voice cracked just enough to expose the panic under the rage.
I laughed. “Am I?”
I stared up at him, not moving. “See, I think you care more than you wanna admit. But I think you should head back to your little date. I wouldn’t want her ankles to get sore waiting on you.”
He flinched. Just a flicker. But I saw it.
“Keep playin’ with me,” he warned, voice almost a whisper. “You forget, I know how to handle you.”
I laughed, low and bitter. “Yeah? If that’s what you want to call your lame ass stroke game.”
His mouth opened—but I started to walk away before he could respond. Because I was definitely lying about his stroke game unfortunately.
“Have fun tonight, Elijah,” I said, brushing past him, the scent of my perfume trailing between us like a dare.
And then I walked away—hips swaying, heels clicking, heart pounding—but head held high.
As the night continued I still felt the heat of Smoke and his date that hes not paying any attention to anymore on me. I continued to dance, flirt, and laugh with Darious to prove that I can play game too. I even let Darious’s hands explore my body a little. Rub my thighs, grip my ass a little while dancing, let his hands run up and down my curves. By the time the lights came on in the club and all the drunks were scrambling out to their rides. I let Darious drive me home.
The car ride was actually nice. The moon was bright and full, soft R&B music was playing, and the conversation we had was amazing. Darious is a really sweet guy, but I know it would be wrong to drag him into me and Smoke’s mess. Plus I don’t want smoke to kill him…
We made it to my apartment and I knew I wouldn’t have much time until Smoke showed up at my door to interrogate me. Darious wanted to come up, but I knew if he did someone would end up in jail. So I said my goodbyes to Darious and promised him another night out soon as I walked back into my apartment.
As soon as I walked through the door I took a quick shower, changed into a silk blue night gown with white lace trimming, fluffed my curls, removed my make up and prepped my skin for whatever is going to happen in the next few hours. Lastly I got myself a glass of wine and sat on my couch and read a book as I waited for him. I didn’t know what I was going to say, but I needed to be ready nonetheless.
Not even twenty minutes late I hear a loud banging at my door. Three quick, violent knocks. Like the wood itself owed him an answer. I didn’t rush.
I took my time taking a last sip of wine, stood slowly, let my silk nightgown cling to my hips like it was made to tease. I walked barefoot to the door, cool and collected, like I hadn’t been waiting on this exact moment since I walked out of that damn club.
I opened the door just enough so he could see me. And there he was leaning against the door frame using one of arms for leverage.
Pupils dilated with nothing but anger. Jaw tight. Other hand clenched at his sides trying to contain himself.
“Where that nigga at?”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t play with me,” he snarled, stepping inside like this was his home. His head was on a swivel. “You let him fuck you?”
I shut the door. Walked right past his rage and sat on the edge of the couch, crossing my legs with purpose.
“Hello to you too Elijah, come one in?” I stated.
“Answer the question,” he snapped.
I smiled, slow and dangerous. “I don’t have to do shit.”
Smoke stepped closer, his whole body on fire with fury.
“You wasn’t gon’ fuck him.”He looked at me like he was challenging me to give him the wrong answer to send him over the edge.
“Wanna bet?” I raise an eyebrow and give a deceitful smirk.
He snatched the glass from my hand, set it down with a rough thunk, and stepped between my knees. Boiling with anger waiting for me to say the wrong thing to make him explode.
“Say that shit again.”
I looked up at him, lips parted just slightly.
“I was gon’ let him taste every inch of me… then let him sleep right where you do.”
His hand wrapped around my throat in a flash—tight, hot, possessive.
“You gon’ let another man lay where I sleep?” he growled.
I smiled, the tension around my neck turning me on, breath hitching. “I was gon’ let him do more than that.”
He paused. That’s when I stood up. No fear. Just slow, deliberate grace as I walked past him and down the hall.
“You can keep lookin’ for him if you want,” I said over my shoulder, “but if you was really scared I let that man touch me, you’d be too late. He left already.”
I didn’t wait to see if he followed. I went straight to my bedroom, sat at the vanity, touched up my lip gloss with calm hands. Behind me, I heard heavy footsteps pause in the doorway.
His eyes were all over the room. Searching. Burning.
“You think this shit cute?” he asked, voice gravel-thick. His eyes looked me up and down almost in disgust and jealousy.
I met his gaze in the mirror. “No. I think it’s fair.”
He stepped inside, slower now. Confused. Angry. Hurt. “What the fuck mean by that?”
I turned on the stool and faced him, legs crossed again. My night gown starting to rise a bit up my thighs.
“It means I’ve been waiting on you to choose me, Elijah. Or at least grow a pair and tell me that this bullshit we got going on isn’t going nowhere. But you’d rather keep me close, fuck me, then go back to pretending I don’t exist.”
His mouth opened, but nothing came out. His shoulders dropped like the weight of my words finally registered.
“I’ve given you space, time, silence. I’ve let you spin this thing however you wanted, and I stayed. Quiet. Loyal. Patient. But I’m done beggin’ a “grown-ass” man to act like one.”
Smoke’s jaw flexed. His hands were twitching at his sides like he didn’t know whether to grab me or punch a wall.
“So yeah,” I said softly. “I let him touch me. I let his hands roam a little. Not ‘cause I wanted him. But because I needed you to feel what it’s like to watch the person you believed was yours go play boyfriend to other bitches.”
Smoke’s jaw clenched hard enough to crack bone.
I watched him. Calm on the outside. Heart thudding like a war drum on the inside.
“You really was thinking of letting that nigga touch you?” His voice was low now. Dangerous. “He don’t even know what to do with you.”
I stood up slow, walked toward him like prey that didn’t fear the predator. “He may not know how to handle me,” I said, standing chest to chest. “But at least he acts like he wanted me.”
That landed. Hard. He blinked once—tight, sharp—like the words had cut straight through his ribcage. His hand gripped the back of my neck, and whispered against the shell of my ear.
“I ain’t act like I wanted you, huh? Was that before or after I fucked you outside that club becuase you was letting niggas grind on you and I had you cryin’ and creamin’ on my dick?”
My breath caught.
“Or when I had you bent over your own counter, sayin’ you was mine with a mouth full of my name? Because you like flirting with dudes in front of me. That's not ‘wantin’ you’ either?”
My knees pressed together tight.
“You sayin’ he acted like he wanted you…” he scoffed. “Cool. But did he make you cum in under five minutes on your bedroom floor? Did he eat you ‘til your voice broke because you was hitting up the dudes in your DM’s?”
“Shut up,” I breathed, voice shaking.
“Say it,” he taunted, eyes on fire now. “Tell me he could have touched you like I did. Tell me he could have made you forget your own fuckin’ name. When you go out half naked with your girls and come back with ten new numbers in your phone”
“I—” My chest rose and fell too fast. “He didn’t.”
Smoke’s gaze burned through me.
“I didn’t lose you,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Even when you out here pretending like I’m the only one fucking up. You ain’t been right by me either.”
My mouth parted, but I didn’t respond.
“You mine,” he said. “Still mine.”
He stepped forward as I kept moving back, until the backs of my knees hit the bed. Still, he hadn’t laid a single hand on me—but I could feel every word on my skin.
“Say it.”
“Say what?”, I give him a confused but intrigued look.
“You know what the fuck I’m askin’, ma.”
My mouth opened, but he didn’t wait.
He dropped to his knees and pushed me back on to the bed.
“I should make you beg,” he growled. “After that bullshit you pulled tonight.”
“But I missed this pussy…” he muttered, shoving me back onto the bed, hands pushing my nightgown up slow.
He paused. Smirked. “No panties?”
I smiled, real smug. “Why wear ‘em when I knew you was gonna end up on your knees anyway?”
His eyes darkened. Jaw clenched.
Then his mouth was on my clit immediately. Hot, angry, wild.
He licked me like he was punishing me, tongue stiff and fast, nose buried deep like he needed every drop. He groaned when I whimpered. Flattened his tongue against my clit, then flicked it until my hips jerked.
“Say who it belongs to,” he growled against me.
I gasped. “Fuck—”
He sucked my clit hard enough to pull the words out of me.
“Say it.”
“Fuck you Elija–”
He slapped the inside of my thigh. “Try again.” starting like and suck faster.
I gave in, my climax was near and continued to build, “It’s yours! It’s your pussy!”
His eyes locked on mine, lips shiny and glistening with me. “Damn right.” He licked me slower now, dragging it out, two fingers slipping inside me, curling just right.
My back arched off the bed.
“Louder,” he whispered. “Let the whole fuckin’ building know who got you cryin’ like this.”I whimpered his name, high and cracked, as he tongue-fucked me like he needed it to breathe.
“Had me stressing bout you letting some other dude in here?” he muttered between licks. “In this pussy?”
“Wanted you to feel it,” I moaned. “Wanted you to know—what it felt like.”
“Never again,” he growled. “You mine. You hear me?”
“Then act like it,” I snapped, as I begin grinding against his face. “Act like I’m yours.” I say as I grab the back of his head to push him further in to me.
He laughed low, filthy. “Oh I’m ‘bout to show you, baby.”
Then he dove back in, no mercy, dragging me through a climax so hard I shook, hands fisting the sheets, moaning his name like a prayer and a curse all in one.
My thighs were still shaking when he stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he’d just devoured something messy and rare.
He looked down at me—lips glistening, chest rising and falling, jaw tight with hunger.
“You talk too much,” he muttered.
“I was making a point.” I snap back, out of breath.
He grabbed my waist, flipped me over onto my stomach like I weighed nothing.
“Yeah?” His voice dropped. “Make it now.”
I didn’t have time to speak—he yanked my hips back, arching my ass high in the air, pressing my face down into the mattress with one heavy hand on the back of my neck.
“Say that shit again,” he hissed into my ear, breath hot. “Say how he acted like he wanted you.”
“Elijah—”
“Mm-mm.” He pressed harder on my neck, not enough to hurt, but enough to let me know who was in control. “You wanted Daddy’s attention?”
He lined himself up, thick and heavy against my soaked entrance. His other hand gripped my ass, spreading me open.
“Well, you got it now.”
And then—he thrust inside me, deep and fast. No hesitation. No gentleness. Just raw, angry, need.
“Fuck!” I try to muffle my moan as I pushed my face into the mattress.
“Nah, don’t get shy now,” he growled, snapping his hips against me again, again. “You was runnin’ your mouth a minute ago. Where all that shit talk go?”
The slapping of skin echoed through the room, loud and wet. His hips slammed into mine, balls smacking against my clit with each brutal stroke. The bedframe creaked under the force, the mattress giving under the weight of his big, muscular body.
Smoke’s build was all lean muscle and hard edges—wide back, thick arms caging me in as he pounded into me from behind, I could feel the tension radiating off him.
“You wanted to make me jealous? You wanted me mad?” he breathed, chest pressing into my back. “Well, now you got me.”
He drove deeper, grunting, hips rolling in filthy rhythm. “This what you wanted, huh? Daddy stretchin’ you out like this? Say it.”
I whimpered, arching into him, my ass bouncing back against his thrusts.
“Say it.”
“It’s what I wanted,” I moaned into the pillow. “I wanted you—fuck—I needed you.”
He leaned in closer, biting the curve of my shoulder.
“You mine, baby. You don’t gotta play games for me to see you. You all I ever see.”
He fucked me harder then, no mercy. My pussy clenching around him, trying to keep him in with every stroke.
“Look at this pussy suckin’ me in,” he growled, voice thick with possessiveness. “You act up just to get it like this, don’t you?”
His palm came down on my ass, the sting making me cry out.
“You love it when I fuck you back into your place, huh?.”
I could barely respond, the way he was hitting made my thoughts scatter like dust. All I could do was moan and take it.
“You gon’ behave now?” he asked, yanking my hair so I lifted my face off the pillow. “Or you need another round?”
“Give it to me,” I panted. “I can take it.”
That did something to him. His next thrust knocked the wind outta me.
“You do all this talkin’, just to shut the fuck up when this dick in you. That’s your problem.”
The pace got even filthier—fast, relentless, dragging sounds out of both of us that had no place outside of a bedroom.
The air was thick with heat and sweat and desperation.
“Say you mine again,” he ordered, breath ragged. “Say it like you mean it.”
“I’m—fuck— i’m yours, Daddy.”
That sent him over. He slammed into me one last time, deep and hard, filling me up with a loud groan that vibrated against my spine.
I followed right after, walls pulsing around him, toes curling, throat raw from moaning his name.
We collapsed together, breathless and shaking, tangled in the mess we made.
He was still catching his breath, eyes fluttered shut, mouth open like he was trying to gather himself.
I sat there for a second, letting the weight of what just happened settle between us. Sweat slicked my skin, my curls wild and frizzy from all the grinding and grabbing and all that heat. My chest heaved. I watched his body twitch—sensitive, eyes closed, overwhelmed, but still so hard for me.
He didn’t even notice me move.
Until I straddled him again. Hovered over him, lined us up—
And slammed down on his dick.
“Shit—!” he yelped, eyes snapping open like I’d snatched his soul. “Wait—wait—baby—”
I bounce on him hard, grinning down at him like a beast that finally caught its prey.
“You good?” I asked sweetly, breathless.
He gasped barely able to make a sound. “Damn, girl—”
“Thought so.”
I started to move. Slow at first. Just enough to hit him right. His whole body tensed, trying to brace, but he couldn’t. He was too sensitive, and I was overriding his nerves.
“I’m tired of bullshit, Elijah. I want to settle down,” I reminded him, voice low, sultry, taunting. “You going to be better for me, baby?”
“I—I am,” he stammered, jaw tight. “I am, baby—I swear—”
I sped up.
That had him groaning, loud and full in his chest. His hands shot to my thighs, gripping, begging me to slow down—and I didn’t.
“You gon’ answer when I call?” I asked, breath hitching from how deep he was hitting. “No more games?”
“Yes! I got you, baby, just don’t—don’t stop—”
I moved faster.
“Say it again,” I demanded, hips rolling harder, rougher. “Louder.”
“I’m gon’ do right! I swear to God, I’m—fuck—”
He tried to hold my hips, tried to make it last, but he couldn’t keep up. He was shaking, whining, and I loved every second of it.
But so did I.
Every stroke had my moans cracking, turning breathy and sharp, like I was losing the same control I held over him. I started to tremble too, thighs quaking, chest heaving. He was hitting that spot, again and again—stretching me just right.
My hands landed on his chest to steady myself, nails digging in. “You better,” I gasped, voice splintering. “You better fucking do right by me.”
“I will—I swear—baby, please—”
I felt it creeping up on me—my legs tightening, the heat coiling in my belly. “Oh my God—Elijah—”
“Come for me,” he begged, hips bucking under me. “Let go, baby. I got you.”
That did it. I shattered around him with a loud, raw cry, my walls clenching hard, dragging his name out like a prayer. My body folded forward as I pulsed around him, riding every wave, every tremor, until my whole frame shook.
His voice broke under me, hands locking around my hips like he never wanted me to move again. “That’s it, baby… fuck, that’s it.”
Breathless, dazed, I slumped against his chest, heart pounding, sweat glistening on my skin.
“I’m sorry,” I moaned against his neck. “I know I ain’t been fair either.”
His hands slid up my back, holding me tighter.
“I ain’t mean to hurt you,” I whispered. “I just needed to feel wanted too.”
“You got me, ma,” he said hoarsely. “You been had me.”
“I don’t wanna fight no more,” I breathed. “But you gotta do better.”
“I will,” he promised, kissing the side of my face. “You got my word.”
We laid there tangled in silence, both of us wrecked and breathless
~ I hope you liked it! Also send me some asks if you have a request, question, or fic ideas!!
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𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐀 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐃: 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐅𝐔𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐍𝐔𝐓𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋
ִ ࣪𖤐 𝓟ile one
i.) who is your person
cards pulled: high priestess. page of pentacles. 10 of wands. justice. magician.
if bel air by lana del rey song was a person it's them. magical and dreamy. strongly elegant vibes. someone who loves living in luxury or simply drawn with the idea of luxury. they usually like buying expensive things to satisfy their desire status. sometimes, they like in the dark- hideous. they usually likes to live under a golden mask with a little touch of shining diamonds. the crowds finds them interesting, their energy is fascinated. what's more interesting? they dress too well to the point it draws people's attention and attracts suitors. they are observant, watching like a hawk waiting for their prey to come. it's simple before admitting you bite the apple, they already knew. outside, damn- they only do that when they are about to buy knowledgeable books. they want to expand especially in their knowledge area. they are well educated, one of the focal point of their life is to gain and gain more muscle and learnings. they are emotionless likely be seen with their resting bitch face but it's a shield mechanism so people won't know they can be sensitive human. appearance? oh c'mon that's nothing on them as long you can debate and hit them up beyond their comprehension, they love you. they are enchanted with life- they already know the possibilities of the outcome of the dice, the next move on game chess. they know the game names and how to play it well. sometimes, they are lacking support from their socials, this can be the reason why they love to observe. if you are viewing them as perfect, their insecurities keeps bugging their head. they think they are no better than anybody. at work place and loved ones they can't attain to says "no", in short, they can be people pleaser. they carry the world although it's not their responsibility. they were hoping someone would notice them this time and not them always watching from a distance. they hoping someone can help and pick them up to carry the baggages but jokes on them it barely happens. yes, they are creative but they're are afraid to spill that tea. why? afraid of judgement from others. they think it's their fault honestly and keep blaming themselves for it, for being like that. they overthink about life and love whether they will make a move to make changes and they're gonna stick with the old feeling of worry. perhaps, not knowing much in law i can fairly say they're good treating everyone equally. they heart and mind filled with feat about choosing the wrong path but if their will is strong, they can be a good manifestator. they are aspirant of their goals and dreams.
careers, job or work they may have are: carpenter, laws and justice related, sewing or making clothes; fashion designer, model, librarian, shop owner, book shop owner, teacher, professor, motivational speaker, veterinarian, gynecologist, investor of a company or business, gym instructor, ceo, business owner, producer, translator.
ii.) message from them:
ℐ want some piece and time alone but those who surrounded me can't even give that space that i wanted. i am starting to think now, that i don't deserve such a thing like that. some of doubts keeps haunting me at night when i lay at my bed and cry, i felt horrible. it seems like my goals are tangible and unaligned with my desire and i don't know where it will be heading, i feel pressured by my family especially doing something that i don't actually like and love. i can confidently say i am good at taking other problems, giving them advices and help them out to solve it but when it comes to my problems- i don't know, i felt extremely awful handling myself alone. my problems are matters and needed attention but i keep ignoring them, so stupid of me. do you think i'm a fool? i keep overthinking. so much that i can feel it to my neck, it hurts. for now, i want to apologize to you for keeping you waiting, for not reaching out but i swear even this phase took so long i will make sure it is worth the wait.
channeled song: dive by ed sheeran
ִ ࣪𖤐 𝓟ile two
i.) who is your person
cards: the lovers. page of wands. ace of wands. king of cups. king of pentacles.
what do you call to a deep soul connection? soulmates! it's a miracle to encounter this kind of individual in this lifetime. heart over mind is functioning 24/7 in 365 days. their odd appearance makes a stand out in the crowd, they muchly care about the circumstances of their appearance. in relationship, they put a lot of work to make it balance. giving me a quote "do i need to go to the gym so we can work out?" lol. being in a relationship, makes them feel seen and heard. likely, a casanova that would break your heart. but you know what's interesting about this person? if they find the right one that they can truthfully take seriously, they are afraid of the karma they have done with their past flings and relationships. they like to be the center of attention or as i said, being seen is their desire. they keep moving, you can make them stay in one place. stay is not their thing it makes them feel bored and restless. you may able to meet them while traveling, while you having on vacation. in weddings or through couple otherwise it can be through your social connections. pursuing others heart and attention is a big deal and a big task for them perhaps they aren't afraid to show their affection to their loved ones. they're a huge tease and like to joke around but not all of their victims are appreciate their humor. they can be younger or act young regardless their age. you often notice how this person with many sports although they are not athletic with all of the sports. others views them as very extroverted, stubborn and childish individual. they have a charmed appearance. they usually live alone and miles away from their family and of course from you. they strive of huge success in many aspects of their life. they like to take advantage of their good abilities and talents to make opportunities. watching is races is one of their favorite hobby. they can be competitive especially if needed. can be dangerous and powerful if they wanted to show it off. people at work, find them as kind and unusual friendly and approachable this is because they respect everyone. i may feel that you are lucky to have this person but you can't run away from the envy and jealousy of people because this person has many secret admirers and suitors that is willing to replace you. they often sees your person as a good catch, a perfect picture. perhaps, being like that. they don't just burst their anger and emotions because they wanted it to feel but rather they calculated it much on their brain before jumping. i can't say their heart running on daily life but when it's important, don't belittle this person mind ability. they can he deadly ass serious.
ii.) message from them:
𝒟o you feel it? do you feel me? do you often see me in dreams? we are connected. our love is way deeper than the sea, higher than the tallest mountain of this world and than the widest tree. when we are together, colliding- everyone will be looking at us with so much envy and jealousy. there's a red string attached to us even if we are far away, even there's a distance between us. i hope this string will be your guidance and map to find your ways in me. you soul and mine was already engrave like a tattoo inside my heart. my heart right now is pleading in tears even the wild waves can't even swept it away but this madness roaring of the ocean that keep us split and this massive distance happening between us makes me feel in a deep sorrow. but to let you know, i keeping a promise to myself that no matter how long this journey will takes and this distance that keeping us apart i will make sure to find my way towards your direction. you are unreplacable because you are the only one in this world, no one is better than you. i desire you so much that even words can't explain how much i truthfully love you.
channeled song: every second by mina okab
ִ ࣪𖤐 𝓟ile three
i.) who is your person
cards: 2 of wands. the world. 5 of cups. the moon. 6 of wands. wheel of fortune.
you will marry someone who has a different culture and beliefs than you i can't totally say a foreigner but they can give you a foreign feelings. they vision their future in a positive way, they wanna vanquish their dreams badly. they precisely appear confident. vying and competing with their opponent because they want to overthrow it. they want the best for themselves, be the star among all. people are drawn with their convincing and lethal aura. it's they feel the luckiest or they're unfortunate otherwise they can feel both at the same time. they wanna travel, to try every culture and dishes. it can be that their work required traveling. they can work as a public servant and celebrity. they are savvy and excellent and wise with word that allowing them as a worker to get a recognition from their bosses with this kind of ability. but despite all, they are desperate when being alone. they don't want to be alone. being alone makes them feel harming and sabotaging themselves. they are hard to please. they have social anxiety or develop a mental issue growing old as a child. your destiny and this person's destiny was already written in the stars. at home, they feel very supported and loved by everyone. they are family oriented. they have a deep love for kids. people considered them as lucky and have it all individual but these people don't know the struggles they been through to achieve this so-called ideal life. i can say when they enter a room, they likely to be seen as VIP. people either hate or love their glow up and style.
ii.) message from them
ℰthnicity, culture and beliefs is not a valid barrier reason for us to stop loving each other because love is love. my the wond send my whispered adoration towards you. may this aid your coldest night and be your comfort when you feel the world is against your will. i know, you are using wind as instrument to send my messages and i want you to know i receiving them, they act as bondage and heal me and makes me feeling at ease. you are the most luckiest charm that a person could ever wish they had. you are my good luck piece.i will be more consistent to wait and find you in this undying crazy society and world. my one wish right now that no matter how this journey takes even it is goes beyond the perpetual galaxy you'll be able to wait for me and give me the kisses and hugs i truly deserve. i hoped this is worth the wait. my in the end of the aisle, i find you with you saying those words "i love you and i wait for you". may you accept wholeheartedly without denying, aching and pressured by your surroundings.
channeled song: shakespeare in love by layla kaylif
additional images that reminds me of each pile

1-2-3
ִ ࣪𖤐 𝓟ile one - extra message
❝ ℐ can't call success a success without you. without your presence by my side, i felt incomplete. my success is nothing without you. i owe you a lot for waiting you endlessly, believe me you are more than my world and i cherish you whole heartily. you believe me before touching my skin, you know my soul and i appreciate that. ❞
ִ ࣪𖤐 𝓟ile two - extra message
❝ ℐ am yearning for you in such a very long period of time, when this suffering will come to an end. i am tired with this waiting process. i badly wanna cease the moment with, cuddle and snuggle you. it's like this dash is long, it's keeping us apart but i know we are destined to be together. don't love me for my money and status, please love me for who i am. ❞
ִ ࣪𖤐 𝓟ile three - extra message
❝𝒲hen we realize that we are opposite but we also feel attracted with each other like a magnet. that's i can call "love". your affection, i can feel it. it's already shedding me in this heavy rain. i am grateful to have you in this lifetime and i want people to know the relationship between you and me. can i scream how much i love you? because i will do it until my voice is hoarse. ❞
── .ᐟ .ᐣ
all rights reserved © dawnicaltarot 2022-2025 | do not copy, repost, translate, or modify my works in any platform.
— ✯ credits to rightful owner of divider and images that i used for this project. a lot of grammatical changes are fixed.
bear with me please. this is an old work from my old account way back year 2022. back then i don't actually feel reading reversals cards so most of my cards are uprights.
#dawnicaltarot#pick a pile#pick a card#desired reality#reality shifting#shifting#tarot#future spouse#love reading#divination#tarot pac#tarot reading#witches#aespa#ningning
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𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 22
˗ˏˋ karaoke night ˎˊ˗

"Vanilla extract has always been his lifeline, and tonight is no different."
next | index
⋆。°✩ chapter details ✩°。⋆
word count: 11k
content: friendly drunkness, karaoke, lowkey interest, girl talk, unwanted appearances, trauma responses, isolation, unhealthy coping mechanisms, vulnerability, sneak peeks, soft, lowkey real conversations, subtle references to the past.
✧ author's note ✧
OKAY. Let me just start by screaming into the void real quick: SIX. HUNDRED. NOTES. And TWO HUNDRED VOTES. IN LESS THAN FORTY-EIGHT HOURS?? What the actual hell is wrong with you people??? I'm genuinely flabbergasted. Bamboozled. Reeling. I thought I had time. I thought I could chill. But NO. Y’all are CRACKED and now I’m upping the goal like an absolute psychopath because clearly you’re fiends and I am merely your supplier. I’ll give you your fix, don’t worry. Just know I’m running out of backlogged chapters and my therapist is gonna hear about it.
Anyway.
This chapter. Hoo boy. This chapter feels like the emotional hangover after a wild night—the kind where everything feels a little too raw, a little too exposed, and you’re left trying to piece together what the fuck happened between the yelling and the tequila. There's a reason why I framed it this way, too—because this is the shift. The oh shit, real people have real pasts and they bleed sometimes moment. The façade cracks here, and it does so in ways that are deliberately uncomfortable.
Jungkook is so many things in this chapter, but most importantly, he’s small. And I don’t mean that physically. I mean small like a kid trying to crawl into his own skin. That rooftop scene? I wanted you to feel the stillness after the storm, the weird quiet that happens when someone you thought was bulletproof shows up vulnerable and unguarded for once. And it’s messy. He doesn’t have answers. He doesn’t give you the sob story, not yet. He gives you glimpses. Vanilla extract, deflections, silence. All of it is by design.
(Also yes, the vanilla extract thing is a metaphor. Yes, I know it’s weird. No, I won’t elaborate. Just know it’s real and kind of tragic and also weirdly endearing. Like him.)
And Y/N… god. She’s tiptoeing the line so hard here. Because she wants to help and she wants to understand and she also very much wants to not feel. But she does. And she hates it. And she jokes because otherwise she’ll unravel. And that’s what makes this chapter so bittersweet to me—because they’re both posturing like they’re fine, but their actions betray them. Their quiet kindness, the subtle care. The intimacy isn’t in the sex anymore. It’s in the stillness. In the scent memory. In the way he says “you smell like vanilla” like it’s the only anchor he has left.
And let’s not even talk about Mia because that woman is the human embodiment of a champagne cork to the eye. I will simply say this: trauma is not always loud. Sometimes it’s a whisper that sticks to your ribs. Sometimes it’s someone’s name.
Anyway.
This chapter is long, chaotic, unfiltered, and possibly one of the most emotionally raw things I’ve written for this fic so far. So please take care of yourself while reading. You don’t have to romanticize brokenness. You don’t have to love these characters for their damage. But you can hold space for them. Just like they’re learning to do for each other.
Also Taehyung deserves a nap and a raise for his emotional labor.
As always, I’m deeply grateful you’re here, crying and laughing and spiraling with me. Keep being feral in the comments. Keep voting if it makes your little goblin brain happy. And maybe—just maybe—hug your own Jungkook if you’ve got one.
Or your therapist.
They deserve it.
⋆。°✩ read on✩°。⋆
ao3
wattpad
Tequila makes you do stupid shit, like hugging people you normally avoid touching with a ten-foot pole.
You practically launch yourself from your seat, the room tilting at an alarming angle as you throw your arms around Yeji's neck.
"Holy shit," she laughs, body stiffening with surprise before awkwardly patting your back. "Okay, this is literally the first hug you've ever given me and I don't know how to feel about it."
You ignore her, already detaching yourself and stumbling toward Irya, who catches you with more grace, giggling as you nearly topple both of you over.
"Hi to you too," she says, squeezing back gently.
Jimin is next, accepting your clumsy attempt at physical affection with the patient tolerance of someone used to dealing with drunk friends. He pats your back, concern etched in his features.
"How are you doing?" he asks, holding you at arm's length to study your face.
You flash him a thumbs up, swaying slightly on your feet. "Absofuckinglutely amazing."
"Okay, yeah. No." He shakes his head, exchanging a knowing look with Yeji.
"Why are you guys even here?!" The question bursts out louder than you intended, making several heads turn.
Yeji shrugs, all casual nonchalance. "This is a famous ramen place. Irya's been wanting to come for a long time."
"Guilty!" Irya raises her hand with a sheepish smile.
"And Jimin was like a lost puppy, so we just kind of adopted him," Yeji adds, nodding toward him.
Irya shoves Yeji's shoulder. "No, actually, I was studying with Jimin, and Yeji just came in and was like 'yo, let's have spicy ramen!' And we kinda rolled with it."
You snort, turning around to find the entire table watching this interaction with varying degrees of amusement.
Jungkook has his hand pressed against his mouth, shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter.
You mouth 'die' at him, and he throws his palms up in mock surrender, the bastard.
"Well..." You gesture vaguely, suddenly realizing you need to perform introductions. "These are my friends."
The words feel strange on your tongue—not because they're untrue, but because saying them out loud makes them real in a way you weren't prepared for.
"Yeji, Irya, and Jimin," you continue, pointing at each one. "And this is... um..."
Your alcohol-soaked brain struggles to remember the names of all the people around this table. There's Yoongi, obviously, and Taehyung, and Hobi, and... the others. The gaming nerds. And Tessa. And that other girl who judged your ramen choice.
You wave your hand in a circle, encompassing the whole table. "Jungkook's birthday squad."
Awkwardness settles over you as you realize the predicament. Your friends are here, but it's not like you can just abandon Jungkook's party to join them. That would be rude. And weird. And probably not what a good roommate would do.
Not that you care about being a good roommate. But still. Principle of the thing or whatever.
Before the silence can stretch too long, Yeji speaks up. "We were heading to the karaoke place that's like five minutes from here, if y'all want to come?"
All eyes shift to Jungkook, the birthday boy, the decision-maker.
But instead of looking at his friends, he looks at you first.
You look back at him, a silent question passing between you.
Then he smiles—not his usual smirk, but something softer, more genuine—and turns to Yeji.
“Sure, absolutely. Count us in."
“Hell yes!” Hobi exclaims, clapping his hands together. “I’ve been waiting for an excuse to show off my pipes!”
“God help us all,” Taehyung mutters, but he’s already standing, clearly on board with the plan.
“What about the bill?” Diana asks, glancing around at the mess of empty glasses and half-finished food.
“Already covered,” Yoongi says, holding up his phone to show a payment confirmation. “Birthday gift.”
“You paid for all of this?” You blink at him, genuinely surprised. “That’s… actually really nice, Yoongi.”
He shrugs, looking vaguely uncomfortable with the acknowledgment. “Whatever. It’s not a big deal.”
“It kind of is,” you insist, the alcohol making you more earnest than usual. “You’re a good friend.”
He gives you a look that clearly says ‘please stop talking now,’ so you do, but not before patting his shoulder in what you hope is a comradely fashion.
The group begins gathering their things, a chaotic shuffle of jackets and phones and forgotten scarves. You stand in the middle of it all, suddenly aware of how drunk you actually are as the room tilts alarmingly when you try to take a step.
“Whoa there,” a voice says near your ear, and then there’s a hand at your elbow, steadying you.
Jungkook.
“You good?”
“Fine,” you say automatically, then reconsider. “Okay, maybe not fine. But I’m upright, so that’s something.”
“A low bar, but I respect it.” His tone is light, teasing, but there’s something else there too—concern, maybe. It’s hard to tell through the tequila fog.
“I can walk,” you insist, taking a deliberate step forward to prove your point.
Your legs cooperate, mostly, though the floor seems to be at a slight angle that wasn’t there before.
“Never said you couldn’t.” He’s still close, though, ready to catch you if you stumble. “Just making sure you don’t face-plant in front of everyone. Would hate for you to embarrass yourself.”
“Too late for that,” you mutter, remembering your enthusiastic greeting to your friends.
A laugh escapes him, quiet enough that only you can hear it. “Nah, you’re fine. You’re just… friendlier when you’re drunk. It’s kind of cute.”
“I am not cute,” you say with as much dignity as you can muster while swaying slightly. “I am intimidating and cool.”
“Absolutely,” he agrees solemnly. “The most intimidating and cool person in the room. Everyone’s terrified.”
You glare at him, but it’s hard to maintain when he’s looking at you like that—amused but not mocking, a softness around his eyes that makes your stomach do a weird flip that has nothing to do with the alcohol.
“Shut up,” you say, lacking a more clever comeback. “It’s your fault anyway. Your stupid friends kept giving me shots.”
“My stupid friends, huh?” He raises an eyebrow. “And what does that make me?”
“The king of the stupid friends,” you declare, poking him in the chest. “The stupidest of them all.”
He catches your finger before you can poke him again, his hand warm around yours.
“Your Majesty, then.”
“Oh my god, you’re so—” You break off, distracted by the way he’s still holding your hand, casual as anything.
You pull away, flustered for no good reason.
“Let’s go. Karaoke awaits.”
“After you, Phoenix.” He gestures toward the door where your friends are gathering with the others.
You make your way over, focusing intently on putting one foot in front of the other without tripping. It’s harder than it should be, but you manage, only weaving slightly.
Yeji appears at your side, linking her arm through yours.
“How much have you had to drink?” she asks, voice low.
“A moderate amount,” you hedge. “An appropriate amount. A birthday celebration amount.”
“So, too much.”
“Maybe.”
She sighs, tightening her grip on your arm. “Babes, I’ve never seen you drunk. You sure you’re okay?
“Yuuusss,” you decide, nodding solemnly. “I stand by my choices.”
“Of course you do.” She glances over at Jungkook, who’s now engaged in an animated conversation with Taehyung and Hobi. “So, what’s going on there?”
“Where?” you ask, playing dumb even though you know exactly what she means.
“With your roommate. The one whose birthday party we just crashed.”
“Nothing’s going on,” you insist, too quickly. “We’re just… I don’t know. Trying to be friends. Or something. I guess.”
Friends. You and Jungkook.
Friends.
It’s starting to sound less terrifying.
“I see.” She grins, positioning her head on your shoulder. “Just don’t replace me, huh? I’m your new college bestie. I claim that title.”
Before you can respond, Irya bounces over, linking her arm through Yeji’s free one.
“Are we ready? The karaoke place gets busy on Saturdays.”
“We’re ready,” you confirm, smiling stupidly at the blonde. “Lead the way.”
As your strange, merged group spills out onto the sidewalk, you can’t help but wonder how the hell you ended up here—drunk, surrounded by people who barely know each other, heading to a karaoke bar on a Saturday night.
It’s bizarre. Surreal. Absolutely not how you expected your evening to go when you agreed to take Jungkook to the MoMA this morning.
But as you watch him laugh at something Irya says, his face open and relaxed in a way you rarely see at home, you can’t quite bring yourself to regret it.
Even if your head is spinning and your stomach is dangerously close to rejecting every questionable decision you’ve made tonight.
You catch his eye across the group, and he grins at you—that stupid, lopsided grin that always makes you want to either slap him or—
Well. Other things.
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too, unable to help yourself. And when he falls into step beside you as the group starts moving, close enough that your shoulders occasionally brush, you don’t move away.
It’s his birthday, after all. You can give him that much.
Somehow, the sidewalk is significantly more difficult to navigate than it was four hours ago.
"Careful," Jimin murmurs as you stumble over absolutely nothing for the third time in two blocks. He steadies you with a gentle grip, adjusting to link his arm more securely with yours.
"The ground is uneven," you insist, though it's clearly not. "Poorly maintained city infrastructure. Someone should write a strongly worded letter."
"Definitely the sidewalk's fault," he agrees, humor warming his soft voice.
You've ended up at the back of your odd parade, watching as your two separate friend groups merge into a loud, laughing mass of bodies moving through the Manhattan night. Yeji has somehow ended up walking beside Taehyung, both of them gesturing wildly as they argue about something. Irya is chatting with Tessa—a combination you wouldn't have predicted—while Hobi tells an animated story to Ryan and Seth that has them howling with laughter.
And then there's Jungkook, right in the middle of it all, moving between conversations simply like someone accustomed to being the center of attention. Even from behind, you can tell he's having a good time—shoulders relaxed, head thrown back in laughter at something Hobi says.
You can’t help but think it’s… a bit strange, seeing him like this. In the apartment, he's always a bit wound up—ready with a sarcastic comment or provocation. But here, surrounded by friends, celebrating, he seems... looser.
Happier.
It's a good look on him.
Not that you care.
"Here we are!" Hobi announces as your group reaches a neon-lit storefront, the sign advertising ‘SING YOUR HEART OUT’ in aggressively colorful lettering. "Best karaoke in the East Village."
The place is crowded—not surprising for a Saturday night—but Hobi apparently knows someone who works here because you're whisked past the line of waiting people and into the lobby with minimal fuss.
Inside, it reeks of cheap beer and cheaper air freshener, and the walls are plastered with faded posters of pop stars past and present; along with some occasional muffled screech of someone butchering a high note from one of the private rooms.
Everyone begins shedding layers at the coat check, a flurry of jackets and scarves being handed over to a bored-looking attendant who barely glances up from her phone.
You hang back with Jimin, suddenly aware of how sweaty your shirt is under your own jacket.
Great.
Nothing like marinating in your own alcohol-infused sweat to round out the evening.
"I kind of can't believe we're doing this," you mutter to Jimin, still leaning on him more heavily than you'd like to admit. "Karaoke? With these people? Is this real life?"
"It's definitely happening," he confirms, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Though I'm not sure how much you'll remember tomorrow."
"I'm not that drunk," you protest automatically. "I'm just... celebrating."
"Uh-huh." He doesn't sound convinced.
Across the lobby, Yeji and Jungkook are locked in what appears to be an intense negotiation over room selection, both of them pointing at different options on the laminated menu the hostess is holding. Taehyung stands nearby, pinching the bridge of his nose like he's developing a migraine.
"I'm telling you, the premium room has better song selection," Yeji insists, her voice carrying across the space.
"But the deluxe has the light-up dance floor," Jungkook counters, gesturing emphatically. "It's my birthday, I want the dance floor!"
"The dance floor is tacky!"
"It's not tacky, it's fun!"
"It's the definition of tacky."
"Your face is the definition of tacky."
"Wow, super mature comeback there, birthday boy."
Your eyes drift from their bickering to the quieter presence leaning against the far wall. Yoongi stands slightly apart from the group, scrolling through his phone with the detached air of someone who's physically present but mentally elsewhere.
You notice Jimin's gaze has followed yours. He's studying Yoongi with an intensity that feels almost... private. Like you're witnessing something you shouldn't.
"That's your other roommate, right?" he asks, voice soft.
"Yeah," you nod, head still resting on his shoulder. "Yoongi."
Jimin just smiles, a small, soft thing that doesn't quite reach his eyes. There's something there—a question, maybe, or a thought he's not voicing—but before you can figure it out, Yeji's sharp voice cuts through the moment.
"Y/N! Get over here and settle this!"
You straighten, blinking rapidly as the room spins slightly with the sudden movement.
“What?"
"Premium or deluxe?" she demands, beckoning you impatiently. "Tell this idiot that premium is clearly superior."
Jungkook turns to you, actually pouting like a kid who's been told he can't have a second ice cream cone.
"The deluxe has a light-up floor," he says, as if this is the most compelling argument in the world. "And disco balls."
You look between them, trying to focus through the tequila fog. It shouldn't be this hard to form an opinion about karaoke rooms, and yet.
You can't help the laugh that bubbles up at the absurdity of the situation—Yeji and Jungkook, two of the most stubborn people you know, locked in a standoff over something so utterly trivial.
"Come on, Yeji," you say, rolling your eyes even as you fight back another laugh. "He's the birthday boy. Let him make a choice that matters in his life for once."
Jungkook's indignant "yooo!" is drowned out by Yeji's dramatic sigh.
"Fine," she concedes, throwing up her hands. "But when we get stuck with a shitty song selection, don't come crying to me."
"I'll make it up to you," Jungkook promises, already bouncing with excitement. "You can choose the first song."
"Damn right I will." She huffs, no anger behind it.
Jungkook turns to you, triumph written all over his stupid handsome face. "See? I can be reasona—" He cuts himself off with a yelp as you swat at him playfully.
"Don't push it," you warn, but you're smiling despite yourself.
The hostess, who's been watching this entire exchange with the weary resignation of someone who's seen far too many drunk people argue over karaoke rooms, clears her throat pointedly.
“So... deluxe room? For how many hours?"
"Two," Hobi calls from where he's now organizing a drink order with the rest of the group. "At least!"
"Follow me," she says, gathering menus and leading the way down a dimly lit hallway plastered with even more music posters.
Your odd group trails after her like ducklings, Jungkook practically skipping in excitement. You hang back slightly, still unsteady on your feet, and find yourself walking beside Yoongi, who's finally pocketed his phone.
"You sure about this?" he asks quietly, eyeing you with what might be concern. "You look like you're about ten minutes from passing out."
"I'm fine," you insist, though the hallway is doing that weird tunnel-vision thing that definitely isn't normal. "Just pacing myself."
He snorts, clearly not buying it. "Sure."
"I am," you argue, even as you reach out to steady yourself against the wall. "Totally in control."
"Right." His tone is dry as dust. "That's why you're currently leaning on a poster of Justin Bieber."
You glance over and, sure enough, your hand is planted firmly on young Bieber's face.
You snatch it away with a grimace.
"Ew."
"Exactly." He doesn't say anything else, but he stays close as you make your way down the hall, oddly comforting in its steadiness.
Just like the day at the gynecologist.
The deluxe room, when you finally reach it, lives up to Jungkook's hype—it's large enough to fit your entire group comfortably, with plush seating along the walls, a central space that is indeed illuminated by color-changing floor panels, and not one but two disco balls hanging from the ceiling. The most impressive feature, though, is the giant screen taking up one entire wall, currently displaying the karaoke company's logo bouncing around like an old DVD screensaver.
"This is amazing," Jungkook declares, immediately bouncing onto the dance floor, which lights up green and blue under his feet. "Worth every penny."
"We haven't paid yet," Taehyung reminds him, but he's smiling as he says it.
"Details," Jungkook waves dismissively, spinning in a circle that makes the floor shift colors again. "Come on, everyone pick a song! I want to hear Hobi destroy 'Uptown Funk' again!"
"Bold of you to assume I'd repeat myself," Hobi says, already flipping through the song catalog. "I'm thinking Beyoncé tonight."
"God help us all," Taehyung mutters, but he's already grabbing a microphone.
You sink onto one of the couches, grateful for the chance to sit before your legs give out.
The room is spinning slightly, but in a pleasant way now—like you're on a very slow merry-go-round. From this vantage point, you can watch as everyone settles in, claiming seats and drinks and song choices with the chaotic energy of people determined to have a good time.
Jungkook is still in the center of it all, now trying to convince Yeji to duet with him on some song you can't quite make out over the general noise. She's protesting, but you can tell she'll give in eventually—there's a gleam in her eye that says she's enjoying this more than she's letting on.
The first note of "Don't Stop Believin'" hasn't even finished before Hobi's on his feet, microphone clutched in his hand like it's the Olympic torch and he's the last runner.
What follows can only be described as a religious experience.
The man doesn't just sing—he performs.
Every note, every gesture, every hip thrust (and there are many) executed with the determination of someone who's spent significant time studying the art of karaoke domination.
By the time he hits the chorus, the entire room is on their feet, singing along whether they want to or not.
You find yourself belting out words you didn't even know you remembered, arm slung around Yeji's shoulders as you sway dramatically.
And that's just the beginning.
Taehyung and Jungkook follow with some K-pop song you've never heard but somehow everyone else seems to know the choreography to. Irya delivers a surprisingly powerful Adele ballad that has Yeji staring at her with undisguised adoration. Seth and Ryan butcher ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ with the confidence of men who have never been told they can't sing.
Somewhere between your third vodka cranberry and Yeji's unexpectedly heartfelt rendition of ‘Dancing Queen,’ you lose all remaining inhibitions.
Which is how you end up center stage, microphone in hand, challenging Taehyung to an Eminem rap battle that neither of you are remotely qualified for.
"I've got this," you hiss, yanking the mic toward you as the opening beats of ‘Lose Yourself’ start playing. "I've been preparing my whole life. Get ready to get your ass beaten, jerkinci.”
"You've been preparing to embarrass yourself," Taehyung retorts, tugging the microphone back. "I actually know all the words."
"Bullshit. Nobody knows all the words."
The first verse hits and you're both fumbling, words slurring together as you try to keep pace with the rapid-fire lyrics.
You've got maybe every third word right, but what you lack in accuracy you make up for in enthusiasm, half-shouting into the microphone while Taehyung tries to pry it from your grasp.
"His palms are sweaty—"
"—mom's spaghetti—"
"—nervous, but on the surface he looks—"
"—SPAGHETTI!"
You dissolve into laughter at the same time Taehyung does, both of you bent double as the backing track continues without you.
"Draw," Jungkook declares from somewhere to your left. "You both lose. Spectacularly."
"I clearly won," you argue, straightening up with as much dignity as you can muster, which isn't much. "I hit at least four words correctly."
"Wow, four whole words," Taehyung deadpans. "Eminem is shaking."
"He should be," you agree solemnly. "I'm coming for his whole career."
The music shifts to something slower, and you realize you're suddenly very, very thirsty. And maybe a little dizzy.
You hand the microphone to Jimin, who's been quietly watching the disaster unfold with a bemused smile.
"Your turn," you tell him, patting his arm. "Show them how it's done."
He starts to protest, but Irya's already pulling him toward the screen, insisting they do a duet.
You make your way back to the couches, flopping down with more force than intended. The room tilts briefly before righting itself.
"Need a break?" Jungkook asks, appearing beside you with a glass of water.
When did he get water? More importantly, when did he get so considerate?
"Maybe," you admit, accepting the glass. "Thanks."
He studies your face for a moment, and you resist the urge to check if you've got something on it.
"I'm gonna hit the bathroom. Don't pass out while I'm gone."
"No promises."
He laughs, the sound warm even over the pulsing music, and then he's gone, weaving through your friends toward the exit.
You take a long sip of water, letting the cool liquid soothe your throat, raw from shouting lyrics and laughing too hard.
Your eyes dance around, noticing Hobi teaching Ryan some dance move on the light-up floor, Yeji and Irya huddled together on one of the couches, heads bent close as they flip through the song catalog, Taehyung now trying to convince Yoongi to join him for something that has Yoongi shaking his head emphatically.
It's... nice. In a chaotic, messy, not-at-all-what-you-planned kind of way.
The couch dips as someone sits beside you. You turn, expecting Yeji or Jimin, and find yourself face to face with Tessa instead.
"Hi!" she says brightly, tucking a strand of perfect auburn hair behind her ear. "Mind if I join you for a minute?"
"Free country," you shrug, shifting slightly to make room even though there's plenty of space.
She smiles, and you can't help noticing how ridiculously pretty she is even in the garish lighting of the karaoke room. No smudged mascara, no frizzy hair, no signs of being several drinks in like the rest of you heathens.
It's annoying.
Pretty people should have the decency to look at least a little disheveled when everyone else does.
“That was quite a performance,” she says, smiling warmly. “I didn’t know you were into rap.”
“I’m not, really,” you admit, taking another sip of water. “I just couldn’t let Taehyung think he’s better than me at something.”
She laughs, the sound light and genuinely amused. “You guys have known each other long?”
“Not really. Just through Jungkook, honestly.”
“Oh!” Her face brightens at the mention of his name. “That’s actually… I was hoping to talk to you about him, if you don’t mind?”
The way her voice lifts hopefully at the end, combined with the slight flush on her cheeks that has nothing to do with alcohol, tells you exactly where this conversation is headed.
Great.
Girl talk about your hookup buddy. Exactly what you signed up for tonight.
But there’s something so genuinely nice about her expression that you can’t bring yourself to brush her off.
It’s not her fault Jungkook’s… well, Jungkook.
“What about him?” you ask, though you already know.
“I just… I really like him? And I was wondering if you had any insights, you know, being his roommate and all.”
You should have seen this coming.
Of course the pretty film student would be into Jungkook. Of course she’d want insider information.
Wait.
How the actual fuck does Jungkook pull these types of women?
Like, seriously. This girl looks like she should be dating a 6’4” investment banker with good hair, not your annoying roommate who sometimes forgets to wash his coffee mug for so long it develops its own ecosystem.
The universe is truly unfair.
“I’ve only lived with him for about a month,” you say, because it’s true and also gives you time to process.
“I know, I know,” she says quickly. “But you must have some impression of him by now, right? Like, what’s he really like? Outside of class and everything?”
You take another long drink of water, considering.
The truth is, you do know things about Jungkook that probably no one in this room knows—like how he bakes sourdough when he can’t sleep, or how he gets oddly protective of Griffin’s food schedule, or the precise sound he makes when he comes.
Which is actually a thought that gives you pause.
If Tessa and Jungkook start dating, that means your arrangement would end.
No more convenient stress relief.
No more really good sex after bad days.
That would kind of suck, honestly. Because whatever else he is, Jungkook is fantastic in bed. The idea of giving that up isn’t particularly appealing.
But on the other hand… aren’t you kind of friends now? Or at least trying to be?
And friends help each other out.
Even if that means letting go of a mutually beneficial sex arrangement.
Besides, look at her. She’s gorgeous, clearly intelligent, and seems genuinely sweet. Jungkook would be a complete idiot to pass that up for occasional hookups with his sarcastic roommate.
She’s still looking at you expectantly, those wide hazel eyes so earnest it’s almost painful.
“He’s…” you start, then sigh. “Look, I don’t really know him that well outside of basic roommate stuff.”
“Oh.” Her face falls slightly.
Dammit.
Why does she have to look like a disappointed puppy?
“But,” you continue, “I can tell you he’s very passionate about film. Like, genuinely passionate, not just doing it because it seems cool.”
Her expression brightens immediately. “I know, right? The way he talks about cinematography is so… I don’t know, refreshing? Like he actually cares about the art of it.”
“And he’s good with his hands,” you add before you can stop yourself, then immediately want to die. “I mean, like, fixing things! He fixed our bathroom sink when it was leaking.”
Nice save, idiot.
“That’s so sweet,” she says, apparently not picking up on your momentary panic. “He seems really thoughtful, you know? Like, in class he’s always offering to help people with their equipment.”
You nod, because that actually tracks with what you’ve seen of him. For all his annoying qualities, Jungkook does seem to genuinely care about helping people sometimes. It’s one of his more redeeming features.
“You really like him, huh?” you ask, though it’s obvious.
She blushes, looking down at her hands. “Is it that obvious?”
“A little,” you admit, smiling despite yourself. “But it’s cute.”
And it is cute, actually.
She seems genuinely into him, not just physically attracted or playing some kind of game.
It’s surprising that a girl like her would be interested in your dumbass roommate, but weirder things have happened.
“Do you think I have a chance?” she asks, her voice dropping to a near whisper, as if she’s sharing a secret. “I mean, I’ve been trying to drop hints, but I can’t tell if he’s picking up on them or just being nice.”
You glance toward the door where Jungkook disappeared, considering. Because in all honesty, you have no idea what his type is beyond ‘willing and available.’ Your arrangement has never included discussions about who else either of you might be seeing or interested in. For all you know, he could be totally into Tessa.
And really, why wouldn’t he be? She’s gorgeous, smart from what you can tell, and seems genuinely kind.
She’s basically way too good for him, but if she can’t see that, it’s not your job to point it out.
“I think…” you start slowly, turning back to her. “I think you should go for it.”
“Really?” Her whole face lights up, and you find yourself smiling back reflexively.
“Yeah, really.”
You straighten up, suddenly feeling like you’re on more solid ground. This is just basic girl code, after all. Helping a fellow woman navigate the treacherous waters of modern dating, even if the guy in question is your occasional fuck buddy.
Plus, you can be the bigger person here.
Yes, the sex with Jungkook is great, but there will be other guys. Other hot idiots to hook up with. It’s not like he’s the only option in New York City.
“Look, Jungkook’s… an okay guy, I guess? But if you like him, you should definitely let him know. Life’s too short for subtle hints.”
“That’s what Irya said too!” She laughs, reaching out to squeeze your arm gratefully. “Oh my god, thank you. I was so nervous to ask you, because I didn’t know if you two were… you know.”
“Me and Jungkook?” You almost choke on your water. “God, no. Absolutely not. We’re just roommates. Barely even friends, honestly.”
It’s not entirely a lie. Yes, you’ve been sleeping together, but it’s just physical. There are no feelings involved. It’s just convenient, uncomplicated sex—exactly how you like it.
“Oh, good,” she says, relief clear in her voice. “I wasn’t sure, and I’d never want to step on any toes.”
“No toes here,” you assure her, wiggling your feet for emphasis. “Completely toe-free zone.”
She giggles, and you find yourself smiling back. She really is nice, which makes it hard to keep disliking her just for being pretty and put-together.
“So,” you continue, feeling oddly invested now. “What’s your plan? How are you going to let him know you’re interested?”
“I don’t know,” she admits, biting her lip. “I was thinking maybe I could ask him to coffee? To discuss a project or something? But that might be too subtle.”
“Definitely too subtle. Guys are dense as bricks. Trust me.”
“What would you suggest then?”
You tap your chin, thinking. “You should just ask him out directly. No pretense, no ‘let’s discuss this project.’ Just ‘hey, I like you, let’s go on a date.’”
“Oh god,” she groans, covering her face with her hands. “I don’t know if I’m brave enough for that.”
“Sure you are,” you encourage, surprising yourself with your sudden enthusiasm for this matchmaking endeavor. “Look at you! You’re gorgeous, smart, and frankly, way out of his league. If anything, he should be intimidated by you.”
She peeks through her fingers, looking both flattered and skeptical. “You really think so?”
“Absolutely. In fact…” You pull out your phone, opening your contacts. “Give me your number. I’ll help you figure out the perfect approach.”
“Seriously?” She beams, reciting her number as you type it in. “That would be amazing. I’m so glad we got to talk tonight.”
“Me too,” you say, and find that you actually mean it. “And hey, even if things with Jungkook don’t work out, we should hang out sometime. You seem cool.”
“I’d love that!” She looks genuinely delighted, which makes you feel a small pang of guilt for your initial judgment of her based solely on her perfect hair and flawless makeup.
As you finish entering her contact info, you glance around and realize Jungkook still hasn’t returned from the bathroom.
It’s been what, ten minutes? Fifteen? Way too long, even accounting for lines or hand-washing (which, knowing him, is probably not a factor anyway).
“Hey, I’ll be right back,” you tell Tessa, pocketing your phone. “I just want to check that your future boyfriend hasn’t fallen in or something.”
She chuckles at the term but nods, still smiling. “Sure. I’ll save your seat.”
You navigate through the chaos of the room, dodging Hobi’s enthusiastic dance moves and stepping over Taehyung, who’s now sprawled dramatically across the floor reciting what sounds like Shakespeare to a bemused Yeji. The hallway outside is quieter, though the bass from neighboring rooms thrums through the walls.
Where the hell did Jungkook go? The bathrooms are just down the hall, and there’s no way he’d ditch his own birthday celebration.
Maybe he’s answering a call? Or got waylaid by some random person?
Or maybe the idiot got lost on the way back. You wouldn’t put it past him.
With a sigh, you head toward the bathrooms, determined to drag his ass back to the party.
After all, you’ve got a stunning redhead waiting to shoot her shot with him, and you’ll be damned if your sacrifice of great casual sex goes to waste because he can’t find his way back from taking a piss.
You turn the corner, ready to pound on the men's room door and yell at Jungkook for taking forever, when—oh.
He's not alone.
There's a girl. Of course there's a girl. Because when isn't there a girl around Jungkook?
This one's got shiny black hair down to her waist and is wearing what looks like an actual fucking Chanel dress to a karaoke bar.
Who does that?
The kind of person who also wears Louboutins to a place where the floor is permanently sticky with spilled beer, apparently.
But it's not her rich bitch outfit that makes you stop.
It's Jungkook.
He looks... wrong.
He's staring at the floor like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen, shoulders hunched forward in a way that makes him seem smaller somehow. His usual swagger is completely gone. He keeps opening and closing his mouth like a fish gasping for air, not actually saying anything.
It's weird.
Really fucking weird.
Before you can think better of it, you're walking toward them.
Stupid protective instinct. Stupid tequila. Stupid feet moving without permission.
Jungkook notices you first, his eyes widening in what looks like panic. The girl turns around, giving you a slow once-over that makes you feel like you've been scanned and found wanting.
She's beautiful. Like, unfairly beautiful. The kind of beautiful that probably makes other girls hate her on sight. Perfect skin, dark eyes, delicate features that look more doll-like than human. Her smile is almost too perfect, like it was professionally installed rather than something that grew naturally on her face.
"Oh my gosh, hi!" Her voice is high and sweet, like artificial honey. "I'm so sorry, am I keeping him too long? You must be looking for Kooky."
Kooky? Is she fucking serious right now?
"Can you believe we ran into each other? What are the chances?" She grabs your arm like you're old friends, squeezing with perfectly manicured nails that dig in slightly. "I was just telling him it must be fate. Some connections are just meant to be, right?"
She's acting like you're all at some cute reunion instead of standing in a gross hallway outside a karaoke bathroom. Her perfume is expensive and overwhelming—the kind that probably has a French name and costs more than your rent.
Jungkook clears his throat, still not looking at her. "It's just a coincidence, Mia."
Mia.
The name hits like a slap.
This is her? The ex that sent those texts that made him look like he'd seen a ghost?
Bitch looks like she belongs on a billboard, not stalking her ex in a karaoke bar.
"Oh, you're so skeptical," she laughs, the sound like tiny bells. "Always was. That's what I loved about you though, always keeping me grounded." She turns to you with a conspiratorial smile. "He's the practical one. I'm the dreamer. We balanced each other so well."
She's talking about him like he's not standing right there.
Like he's a character in a story she's telling.
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name? I'm Mia."
"Y/N," you say flatly. "Jungkook's roommate."
"Roommate! Oh how wonderful," she claps her hands together like you've just announced you've won the lottery. "It's so nice to see Kooky making new friends. He was always so reserved with people he doesn't know well."
She leans in close enough that you can smell her breath—minty with an undercurrent of expensive champagne.
“Trust issues. We worked on it a lot during our time together."
She says it like they were in some kind of therapy program, not… dating.
What the actual fuck?
"I've found him pretty straightforward," you say, stepping closer to Jungkook because something is clearly wrong here.
He's still staring at the floor, still silent, still looking nothing like the annoying, confident asshole you live with.
"Oh, then he must really trust you," Mia says, eyes wide like you've shared some profound revelation. "That's so special. After everything he went through with his father, it's hard for him to let people in."
His father? Since when does Jungkook talk about his family? He's never mentioned a word about his father to you.
Jungkook's head snaps up at this, face gone pale. "Mia, don't—"
"Oh, I'm sorry!" She covers her mouth with one hand, looking embarrassed. "Was that not something...? I just assumed since you're roommates..." She turns to you and shrugs apologetically. "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have mentioned it. Please forget I said anything."
Right.
Like you're going to forget she just dropped that little bomb.
But now's not the time to dig into whatever daddy issues Jungkook's apparently hiding.
"It's fine," you say, because what else can you say?
"Anyway," she continues, her voice shifting back to that syrupy sweetness, "I was just telling Kooky we should get together sometime. Catch up properly."
She squeezes Jungkook's arm.
“I've missed our little movie nights. Nobody appreciates Park Chan-wook like you do."
Jungkook's still doing his best statue impression, eyes fixed somewhere near the exit sign like he's calculating how fast he can make a break for it.
"We were just getting ready to leave, actually," she says, gesturing down the hall. "I'm here with some friends from Parsons—we have a private room upstairs. You two should join us! We have so much champagne, it's ridiculous. My father just closed another deal in Singapore, so we're celebrating."
Of course her dad makes international business deals. Of course she has a private room upstairs. Of course she's casually drinking champagne while the rest of you slurp tequila from plastic cups.
"I don't think—" Jungkook starts, voice sounding rusty like he's forgotten how to use it.
"It would be so fun!" Mia insists, looking at you now with wide, earnest eyes. "Honestly, any friend of Kooky's is a friend of mine. I've been dying to get to know the people in his life now."
She's laying it on thick, like she's auditioning for the role of Supportive Ex-Girlfriend in some bad rom-com. It's almost impressive how sincere she sounds while being so obviously full of shit.
"We're actually here with a group," you say, firmer this time. "It's Jungkook's birthday."
"Your birthday!" she gasps, turning to Jungkook with exaggerated surprise. "Oh, I can't believe I forgot! I used to be so good with dates."
She steps closer to him, practically pressing against his chest.
"I should have gotten you something. Although I think my presence is gift enough, don't you? Just like old times." She laughs, light and tinkling. "Remember that birthday I planned for you last year? The surprise party at The Standard? Everyone said it was the best night of their lives."
You can practically see her subtext in neon letters above her head: ‘Whatever you losers planned tonight is nothing compared to what I did for him.’
"I don't think he wants to reminisce," you say, surprised by the edge in your own voice. "We should get back."
The bitch’s smile falters for just a second before snapping back into place.
“Oh, I totally get it. You guys have plans. I would never want to intrude on your... celebration."
The way she says ‘celebration’ makes it sound like she's referring to a kindergarten birthday party with paper hats and apple juice.
"We should get your number though, Kooky," she continues, already pulling out her phone. "I changed mine recently. We really should catch up soon. I have so much to tell you."
Jungkook looks like he'd rather eat glass than take her number. His hands are actually shaking slightly—what the hell happened between these two?
"I don't think that's necessary," you say, and without really thinking about it, you link your arm through his.
His skin is cold through his shirt sleeve.
This is the first time his skin’s ever been cold.
He’s usually always a walking furnace—a warm backdrop to your perpetually freezing body.
“Why not? Can’t hurt.” She tilts her head, eyes crinkling in a tight smile.
“Might hurt.”
Mia's eyes flash to where you're touching him, her smile tightening just a fraction.
"Oh, I see," she says, her voice still sweet but with something sharper underneath. "You two are..."
"Friends," you finish firmly. "Good friends."
"How sweet," she says.
She reaches out and straightens Jungkook's collar in a way that feels weirdly intimate.
“You always did need someone to look after you, didn't you, baby?"
She sighs, the sound somehow both theatrical and condescending. You feel Jungkook tense next to you.
What the hell is she talking about?
"Save my number," she says, pressing a small business card—who even carries those anymore?—into his hand. "For when you realize what you're missing. You know where to find me when you want a real connection again."
She leans in and kisses his cheek, holding it a beat too long.
“Happy birthday, Kooky. Try not to have too much fun without me."
She gives you a final look, equal parts pity and dismissal, before sauntering away down the hall, her heels clicking a perfect rhythm against the floor.
Jesus Christ. Is this real life? Did you just witness an actual soap opera villain in action?
The whole thing feels surreal, like you accidentally walked onto a TV set during filming.
"You okay?" you ask Jungkook when she's gone, because what else can you say?
He's still staring after her, jaw tight.
"Fine."
"Bullshit."
He glances at you, momentarily surprised by your bluntness. Then he sighs, running a hand through his hair.
"I... I think I need some air."
"Yeah, of course."
Not that you really have any other response ready. What are you supposed to say? ‘Sorry your ex is a walking red flag’? ‘Want to talk about whatever the fuck just happened?’ ‘By the way, what was that father line?’
"I'll be back in five," he says, already moving toward the exit sign at the end of the hall. "I just need a minute."
"Okay."
He pauses, glancing back.
“Thanks."
Then he's gone, pushing through the exit door, leaving you standing in the hallway with the lingering scent of expensive perfume and a head full of questions.
What the hell was all that about? And why does he look like he's seen a ghost? And what did she mean about his father?
You shake your head, trying to clear it.
Not your business. Not your problem. You have your own shit to deal with without adding Jungkook's ex drama to the list.
But as you turn to head back to the karaoke room, you can't help glancing toward the exit where he disappeared.
He really did look... small. Scared, almost.
Nothing like the cocky asshole who drives you crazy on a daily basis.
It's disconcerting, seeing him like that. Like peeking behind a curtain you didn't know existed.
You're going to need another drink for this.
It's pathetic, really.
Jungkook knows it. He acknowledges it fully, standing here on the rooftop of some overpriced karaoke joint in the heart of Manhattan, staring down at the tiny flask in his hand.
Not whiskey, not vodka—no, nothing even remotely respectable. Just pure vanilla extract.
Fucking vanilla extract.
He twists off the cap, lifts it to his lips, and takes a small sip. It burns just enough going down to remind him he's alive, but it tastes good.
Always good.
Sweet enough to mask the bitterness that's permanently lodged at the back of his throat these days.
It's not the watered-down shit they sell at grocery stores either—he learned that lesson quickly after one particularly desperate night ended with him gagging over his sink.
No, this is the real deal, the expensive kind he has to order online from some bougie shop in France that probably laughs every time they ship another bottle to New York City.
His therapist side-eyed him when he first confessed this little habit—because who wouldn't? Who the fuck drinks baking ingredients to cope?
But after a few awkward seconds of silence and scribbling notes on her pad (he hates when she does that), she'd shrugged and said it was better than alcohol or pills or whatever else he could be doing instead.
So Jungkook took what he could get.
If vanilla extract keeps him from self-destructing completely, then that's what he'll stick to.
He leans against the rooftop railing, cold metal pressing into his forearms through his thin shirt. Below him, lights blur together into a neon haze—yellow taxis weaving through traffic like fireflies darting between trees. The city beneath him looks both indifferent and alive, while Jungkook feels like he's barely holding it together.
Happy fucking birthday to him.
Birthdays are supposed to mean something. Another year older, wiser, closer to figuring shit out—but Jungkook just feels stuck.
Twenty-something years old and still sneaking away from his own birthday party because seeing Mia had knocked the air out of his lungs in a way that made him feel like a fucking teenager again.
Weak.
Pathetic.
Unable to even form a coherent sentence when she'd looked at him with those eyes—the ones that used to make him feel special until he realized they were just another weapon in her arsenal.
He takes another sip of vanilla extract, savoring the burn this time as it slides down his throat. It's stupidly comforting in a way he can't quite explain—not even to himself.
Maybe it's nostalgia or some childhood memory he's buried deep down beneath layers of emotional baggage and trauma from Mia and everything else he's fucked up along the way.
Or maybe it's just because it's something sweet and simple in a life that's become anything but.
He chuckles bitterly under his breath, shaking his head at himself.
"You're fucking ridiculous," he mutters into the night air.
But ridiculous or not—pathetic or not—it helps.
And right now, that's all that matters.
Twenty minutes. That's how long he's been up here, hiding like a child. Twenty minutes of staring at the skyline and trying to get his shit together. Twenty minutes of letting Mia's voice echo in his head like a bad song he can't turn off.
He closes his eyes briefly, inhaling deeply as cool September air fills his lungs.
He can hear muffled laughter drifting up from downstairs—the karaoke room packed with film school friends who've probably noticed his absence by now—and for once tonight, Jungkook doesn't mind being forgotten for a little while longer.
He'll go back eventually; plaster on another easy smile like nothing happened because that's what he does best these days: pretend everything is fine until everyone else believes it.
And then—the icing on the cake.
He mentally claps for himself at that one. Solid joke. A little on the nose, sure, but he'll take it.
You're there.
He doesn't even need to look to know it's you. That faint trace of vanilla that isn't his flask. Not the sharp, concentrated kind that burns his throat and keeps him grounded.
No, you smell like vanilla, but softer. Warmer. Like someone took the edge off and folded it into something human.
There's something else underneath it too—milky, maybe? Creamy? He doesn't know how to describe it without sounding like a complete idiot, so he doesn't try.
It's funny, though.
Hilarious, actually.
Because in the four weeks he's known you, he knows you're anything but soft.
You're mouthy as hell.
Reckless in a way that makes him think you've got some kind of death wish or maybe just a really bad sense of self-preservation.
You talk back every time he opens his mouth, like it's your personal mission to make sure he never gets the last word.
He should find you annoying.
Irritating enough to make him want to jump off this rooftop just to get away from you.
And yeah, sometimes he does—like when you leave your tea bags in the sink instead of throwing them out like a normal person, or when you steal his hoodies and pretend they just ‘ended up’ in your laundry by accident (as if he doesn't know you're lying).
But mostly?
Mostly, you're just...there.
A sudden disruption in his life when he was finally starting to feel okay again. Starting to enjoy the quiet. Heal, or whatever the fuck people call it when they're trying to piece themselves back together after everything's gone to shit.
And then you came along.
All talk back and adrenaline and thrill and sex.
Really good sex.
He shouldn't be thinking about that right now—not here, not with you standing behind him like some kind of ghost haunting his already-fucked-up night—but it's hard not to when everything about you feels like a challenge he can't help but rise to.
The way you smell, the way you look at him like you're daring him to say something stupid just so you can tear him apart for it...it's infuriating.
Addictive too.
He takes another sip from his flask because what else is he supposed to do?
He can feel your eyes on him—sharp and curious, probably trying to figure out why he's up here alone with nothing but a tiny bottle of vanilla extract for company—and suddenly the burn in his throat isn't enough to distract him anymore.
"Didn't know karaoke had a rooftop package," you say eventually.
Jungkook snorts before he can stop himself, shaking his head as he screws the cap back onto his flask.
"Yeah, well," he says, turning around just enough to glance at you over his shoulder. "Figured I'd splurge for my birthday."
Your eyebrows lift at that—just a little—but you don't say anything right away.
"You know they've noticed you're not around, right?" you say after a moment, your tone careful. "People are asking."
He sighs, running a hand through his hair.
Of course they are. Because that's what happens when you disappear for twenty minutes in the middle of your own birthday party.
"You good?" you add, and there's something in your voice that makes him look at you directly. "Because we need you back there."
God, you're annoying. Always so direct, always cutting through his bullshit like it's tissue paper.
He should hate this—hate you—but somehow, Jungkook can't really bring himself to fully mean it.
"How'd you find me?" he asks instead of answering your question.
You shrug. "Just a hunch. Figured if I wanted to escape, I'd go up, not down."
He stares at the city below, the skyline stretching out like a postcard someone forgot to mail. The cars are specks from up here, tiny dots crawling along the veins of Manhattan. It's almost peaceful if he squints hard enough to ignore the noise humming faintly in the background—the kind that never really stops, even at this height.
For a moment, it's quiet. Just him, the skyline, and the faint burn of vanilla still lingering on his tongue.
Then he hears it: your footsteps. Soft, slow, like you're trying not to startle him but also don't care enough to stop yourself from intruding.
Of course you're here.
You stop just short of the railing at first, hovering like you're testing the waters.
Then, after what feels like an eternity but is probably only a few seconds, you step closer and lean against it. Right next to him. Close enough that he can catch another whiff of that vanilla-milky-whatever-the-fuck scent that's been messing with his head all night.
He doesn't look at you. Doesn't have to. He knows exactly what you're doing—trying to see whatever it is he's staring at like it's some big mystery that needs solving.
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth despite himself because yeah, this is so you.
Meddling without actually meddling. Curious without outright saying it.
And he doesn't know how he knows that about you, but he does.
So when you finally break the silence with a casual, "What was that?"—your chin jutting toward his jacket pocket—he's not surprised.
"Huh?" He plays dumb, glancing down at his pocket like he has no idea what you're talking about. "Nothing."
Your eyes narrow slightly, and he can feel your gaze boring into him even though he still refuses to meet it.
“Nothing," you repeat flatly, like you don't believe him for a second. "Right."
"Yup." He pops the 'p' for emphasis and turns his attention back to the city below, hoping you'll drop it.
You don't.
"What kind of nothing are we talking about here?" Your tone is light, teasing—but there's an edge of curiosity there too. The kind that tells him you're not going to let this go anytime soon.
"It's just...nothing," he says again, more firmly this time but still avoiding your gaze.
"Uh-huh." You lean in slightly, tilting your head as if that'll give you a better angle on whatever he's hiding. "So nothing just happens to fit perfectly in your jacket pocket?"
He sighs, shaking his head slightly as a low chuckle escapes him despite himself.
“You're relentless, you know that?"
"Yep," you say easily, popping the 'p' right back at him. "So? What is it?"
He hesitates for a moment, debating whether or not to tell you the truth.
It's stupid—embarrassing even—but something about the way you're looking at him makes it hard to keep deflecting.
Finally, with a resigned sigh and a slight smirk tugging at his lips, he pulls the flask out of his pocket and holds it up for you to see.
"It's vanilla extract," he says simply.
You blink at him, clearly not expecting that answer.
“Vanilla extract," you repeat slowly, like you're waiting for him to say he's joking.
"Yup."
He unscrews the cap and takes another small sip just to prove his point before screwing it back on and slipping it into his pocket again.
For once, you're speechless—and Jungkook can't help but feel a small sense of victory as he leans back against the railing with a smug grin on his face.
"Happy now?"
The silence stretches a beat too long after his admission. He licks vanilla residue off his bottom lip, the sweetness turning cloying under your stare.
"It's pathetic, I know."
"I mean—it's weird," you say, shrugging. "But not pathetic-weird. Just… niche."
He huffs, drumming his fingers against the railing. "Yeah, who the fuck drinks vanilla extract, huh? Couldn't stick to whiskey like a normal fuckup. Had to be quirky.”
The word drips with self-mockery.
You lean back, arms crossed. "We all have our vices. At least you don't smell like an ashtray."
"You'd kick my ass if I smoked in the apartment."
"Damn right."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Below, a siren wails—distant, unimportant. He watches you watch the city, the neon glow catching on your eyes.
"It's… comforting. Don't know why. Ethanol or whatever—therapist says it's placebo with benefits."
"Placebo with benefits," you repeat, deadpan. "That your band name?"
He snorts. "Nah. Ethanol Enthusiasts."
"Catchy."
Another pause.
The wind tugs at his sleeves, carrying your scent again.
Fuck.
"What started it?" you ask, casual as someone asking about the weather.
His thumb rubs the flask's engraving—a nervous tic he didn't know he had.
“Didn't wanna become my old man. Found this… seemed safer." The admission tastes bitter. He backtracks with a shrug. "Therapist greenlit it. Win-win."
You hum, noncommittal.
“Explains why you're obsessed with vanilla lattes."
"Am not—"
"You are. You side-eye my tea like it's piss."
"Because it is piss. Chamomile's for grandmas."
"Says the guy sipping baking supplies."
He barks a laugh, sharp and surprised. When he turns, you're smirking—that infuriating, I-win smirk that usually makes him want to rile you up.
Now it just feels… warm.
"You smell like vanilla," he says softly.
Your smirk falters. "You've mentioned. Usually when you're—"
"Not then." He cuts you off, voice lower. "All the time. Even when you're not… y'know."
"Y'know?" You raise a brow.
"Fuckin'—wearing shit. Perfume. Whatever." He gestures vaguely at you. "It's just… you."
The words hang, raw and clumsy.
You blink, that sharp mask slipping for a half-second. He watches your throat move as you swallow.
"Huh," you say finally.
"Huh," he mimics, too quick. Deflect. Always deflect. "Maybe you're part cookie. Secretly."
You freeze. Just for a heartbeat.
Then you smirk, but it doesn't reach your eyes.
“Maybe I'm marinating."
"Maybe," he murmurs.
Another siren. Another beep. Another car being way too loud in this fucking city.
"Or maybe you were made just for me."
It slips out. Too raw. Too honest.
Shit.
Jungkook's throat tightens—what the fuck was that?
He licks his lips, grip tightening on the railing as he scrambles to claw the moment back from the edge of whatever that just was.
"I mean—" He forces a scoff, rolling his eyes like he's mocking himself. "—or you're just some undercover therapist plant. Be honest."
He side-eyes you, smirk plastered on.
“You know Dr. Liao, don't you? This is an intervention. 'Let's gaslight Jungkook into emotional vulnerability via mediocre sex and vanilla-scented body wash—'"
You snort, cutting him off. "Mediocre?"
"Painfully average."
"Excuse you?" You open your mouth exaggeratedly, and he can't help but grin at the sheer offense in your expression. "Okay wow, we are never having sex again."
"Cap."
"Are you seriously using online slang in real life?"
"Yeah, because you're capping."
"I am not capping and stop doing that, it's so cringe."
"But you just said capping too?"
"I—that's because you said it first you moron!"
"And you said it second so who's the real moron here?"
"That's it, I'm never wearing vanilla perfume ever again."
He stops abruptly at that. Looks you in the eyes.
"Like you are right now?"
You open your mouth. Close it real fast. Press your lips together.
"Maybe."
"No maybes. I can literally smell it from here."
He tilts his head slowly, letting you move back if that's what you want.
But you don't.
And he takes that as an invitation, his nose hovering over the soft spot under your ear, where you always apply your cologne on.
"Right here." He mutters, voice velvety and rough. "Really makes me wanna fuck you."
You don't move your head, but your hands come to rest on his chest, and he likes that.
Likes that, despite whatever semblance of control you're trying to channel, you're slipping out of balance.
Like you need to hold on to something—on to him.
"I could fuck you here, you know." He continues, pressing his lips against your skin as he angles your bodies just right—your back against the railing, both his arms caging you in. "Right against the railing. Give the locals a nice view."
"You're insane." You say, but it lacks conviction. He knows it does. "Nobody down there could see us from below, this is a skyscraper and we're on the rooftop."
He clicks his tongue, but can't quite hide his amusement.
"Always ruining the fun. Is this your way of saying no?"
You lick your lips. Feel the goosebumps erupt as his lips trail down your neck.
"No."
"Hmm?" He plants another kiss. "So is it your way of saying yes?"
"No."
You repeat; and this time he actually leans back a bit, trying to figure out what you're aiming for.
"It's a ‘maybe when we get home’. We are not fucking in public, Ro, during your birthday, when all your friends are gonna be wondering where we both are."
His eyes don't stray away from yours. Then, he chuckles.
He doesn't know why he chuckles. Doesn't understand what about your commentary he found funny. Perhaps it's your way of being sensitive even when he's goofing around but totally ready to fuck you for real if you so much as ask.
But it feels familiar.
Safe.
No feelings, no depth—just the usual bullshit.
He likes it. Likes how your smirk looks softer now, under the moonlight, eyes crinkling at the corners, and fuck, he needs another sip of vanilla.
But the flask stays buried in his pocket.
And then you say, "c'mon, Rogue. Your fanclub's singing off-key Mariah Carey downstairs."
And he can't help but reply with a "fuck, really?"
"Taehyung's hitting whistle tones. It's apocalyptic."
He groans, pushing off the railing. "Fine. But you're explaining why I'm not drunk."
"Tell them you're a pastry chef now."
"Fuck you."
"When we get home—"
The rooftop door slams open with enough force to make both of you jump apart like startled cats.
Taehyung stands in the doorway, chest heaving, eyes wild as they scan the space before landing on Jungkook.
"Jesus fucking Christ," he breathes, voice tight with something that sounds suspiciously like genuine panic. "You're up here? On a rooftop?"
Jungkook stiffens beside you, his casual posture vanishing in an instant.
“Tae—"
"Are you fucking kidding me right now?"
Taehyung cuts him off, storming across the rooftop with the intensity of a small hurricane.
His eyes flick briefly to you, then back to Jungkook, who suddenly looks like he wants to melt into the concrete.
"A rooftop? Really?"
You glance between them, completely lost.
There's clearly something happening here that you're not privy to—some subtext that makes this more than just Taehyung being dramatic about Jungkook ditching his own party.
"It's fine," Jungkook says, his voice careful in a way you've never heard before. "I just needed some air."
"Air," Taehyung repeats, like the word tastes bitter. "Sure. Great. Because there's definitely not air anywhere else in this building."
His hands are shaking, you notice. Actually trembling.
"What the fuck, Kook."
"Tae," Jungkook steps forward, reaching for his friend's shoulder, "it's not like that. I swear. I'm okay."
Taehyung's eyes close briefly, his jaw working like he's grinding his teeth. When he opens them again, there's a vulnerability there that makes you feel like you're intruding on something intensely private.
"You can't just—" he starts, then stops, inhaling sharply. "You can't disappear and then be on a fucking rooftop, man. Not after—"
He cuts himself off again, shooting another glance your way.
"I'm sorry," Jungkook says quietly, and there's so much weight in those two words that your own chest tightens in response. "I didn't think about it like that. I just needed to get away for a minute, and this was the first place I found."
"Because you needed to get away," Taehyung says flatly, and there's a question buried in there somewhere.
Jungkook hesitates, his eyes darting to you for just a fraction of a second.
"Mia's downstairs. Or was. We ran into her in the hallway."
The change in Taehyung is immediate and alarming. His face drains of color, then flushes with anger so quickly it's like watching a stoplight change.
"Mia's here?" His voice drops to something dangerous and low. "That fucking—where is she? Did she say something to you? What did she do?"
"Nothing. She's gone," Jungkook says quickly, reaching out to grip Taehyung's arm like he's physically restraining him. "She was with some friends in another room. Just bumped into her on the way to the bathroom."
"And said what, exactly?" Taehyung demands, not even trying to hide his hostility now.
"Nothing important," Jungkook insists, though his tight expression suggests otherwise. "Just Mia being Mia. It's fine."
"It's clearly not fine if you're hiding on a rooftop," Taehyung snaps, then immediately looks like he regrets it. His shoulders slump slightly. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—I was just worried."
"I know," Jungkook says, and there's something so gentle in his tone that you feel like you're witnessing a side of him you've never seen before. "It's okay. I'm okay. Promise."
You shift awkwardly, suddenly very aware that you're intruding on something deeply personal.
“I should, uh, maybe head back downstairs," you offer, already taking a step toward the door.
Two pairs of eyes snap to you, like they'd forgotten you were there.
Jungkook looks caught between relief and something else—regret, maybe?—while Taehyung's expression is blank now.
"No, stay," Jungkook says quickly.
Too quickly.
Then, more casually: "I mean, we were about to head back anyway, right?"
"Right," you agree, though it feels like you're reading from a script you haven't seen before. "Mariah Carey and all that."
"God, they're still on that." Taehyung rolls his eyes, making a visible effort to shake off whatever just happened. "Hobi's been trying to hit the high note in 'Emotions' for like twenty minutes. It's a massacre."
"Can't be worse than your Eminem," you say, hoping to lighten the mood.
It works, sort of. Taehyung's mouth quirks up at one corner.
"Excuse you, I killed that performance."
"Yeah, killed it dead," you agree. "Like, murder. Homicide. Call the rap police."
Jungkook snorts, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Rap police?"
"You know what I mean," you say, waving a hand dismissively. "Let's go save Mariah from Hobi before someone calls actual law enforcement."
As you all move toward the door, you notice Taehyung hanging back just enough to place a hand on Jungkook's shoulder, squeezing once—firm, grounding.
Jungkook nods, a tiny movement you almost miss, and something passes between them again—silent but significant.
But it's not your story to know. Not yet, anyway.
So you lead the way back inside, pretending you didn't notice the way Taehyung's hand shook as it fell back to his side, or the way Jungkook's smile didn't quite reach his eyes as he followed you through the door.
Some things are better left unasked. At least for now.
goal: 600 notes (this chapter was posted after both goals were reached. unfortunately the previous chapter suffered mass unvoting on wattpad after i published the next chapter. please go vote on chapter 21 in WP to restore the original numbers and not mislead any new reader 🫶🏻.)
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Insecurities with Rafayel
Tags: Comfort, Fluff, Smut
Premise: Rafayel wants to go swimming at the beach with you, but you’re insecure about the stretch marks and cellulite on your body, afraid it’ll turn him off completely. He comforts you and reassures you that he’s completely enamored by you. It’s kind of implied that it’s the earlier stages of dating Rafayel (you’ve walked along the beach with him, but haven’t gone swimming with him).
MC is gender neutral, but does have a vagina.
MC's physical body isn't described, besides saying there's stretch marks and cellulite (implied mostly on the legs). I try to make my works as inclusive as possible. I hate to leave anyone out.
~4.5k words
MDNI 🔞
It’s the summer, the perfect season for going swimming at the beach. The weather is hot, the seagulls are out, it’s an easy sweat just standing two minutes outside, so of course he’d ask to go swimming at the beach with you. It’s right by his studio, and if not that beach, the private island that he owns. And of course, he'd tell you to prepare a week ahead, and of course, you haven’t gone swimming at the beach in years. And of course, to go swimming, you need a bathing suit. And of course, your old bathing suit doesn’t fit anymore. You’re not a teenager anymore; you're an adult. An adult with a grown body. A body with skin stretched around it. You thought you didn’t care, but now that there’s plans to go swimming at the beach with him… Suddenly, it hurts to see yourself sometimes, and staring too long at the creeping marks around your lower abdomen, thighs, hips, arms, chest, etc. just makes it worse.
Those “marks” which you believe look more like lingering claw marks holding and curving around your body weigh heavily on your mind as you go shopping for a bathing suit. You see other adults and take notice of their smoother skin with less marks, and you try not to let it get to you. You know better than to compare yourself to other people, but it’s a horrible habit that’s been hard to break. Usually those comparisons are nothing more than a passing thought, but they’re lingering lately much longer than they should.
You try on various shapes and designs of swimwear. Whatever you can get your hands on, but something in the back of your mind keeps nit picking at yourself, so now you’re sitting in the changing room, kinda sweaty from changing so many times in a small space that isn’t well ventilated. You stand one more time, and you look behind you, and oh… Cellulite. As if you needed another reason to not go, and another reason to pick at yourself.
You know it’s just the horrible lighting in the room, but you can't help but start grabbing at your legs and messing with the fat distribution. You’re not going to cry. No, you’re not. You’re an adult with an adult body. This is normal. You know it’s normal, but you wish you weren’t right now. You quickly put on your clothes, and hang all the swimwear on the return rack. As you walk out the store, you’re already planning various ideas on letting Rafayel down gently.
After much thought, you decide to do it about 2 days before the date. You’re cutting it close, but a part of you wants him to be upset at you. As some sort of odd self punishment you think you deserve. Also, you do it over call, so you don’t have to see his face, hearing his disappointment is more than enough to guilt you.
“Ahh I’m so sorry Rafayel, but I accidentally picked up a shift for that day.”
“Accidentally? And you’re sure you can’t take it back?”
“Maybe I could? But it would feel kind of rude… look I’m really sorry.”
“I get it. We can go another day, right? The beach isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Also, don’t overwork yourself, cutie.”
Rafayel’s soft chuckles reverberate into your head and down your spine in a similar warmth, but your frigid guilt washes it away. You hate that you’re telling a half truth; you did pick up a shift, but it was never an accident.
Now, a few weeks pass before Rafayel tries again to set up another beach date. This time, he brings it up while you’re in his studio. Whilst he’s busy opening boxes of packages he ordered a week or so ago, you’re sitting on his couch, watching him pull out random articles of clothing, gadgets, and even some strange ceramic pieces. After some time of opening boxes, he shifts the conversation to arranging another beach date.
“I’m telling you way ahead of time, so this time don’t forget and accidentally pick up a shift please. I’ll tell you about it everyday if I have to.”
He moves to sit next to you, and you tell him okay. Unfortunately, as the conversation keeps going along, a familiar heaviness of insecurity and guilt takes the forefront of your consciousness. More specifically, you’re distracted by how you don’t even have a bathing suit, the stretch marks, the cellulite, and most importantly, will he catch on if you make another excuse again?
“Hey cutie, what’s on your mind?”
The question cuts through your trance, and you refocus your attention on him. His body is leaning towards you, and his brows are a bit furrowed as he scans your face.
“Nothing. Just thinking.”
You barely manage to roll that response out as you lean your body away from him. Can he tell something is up? Can he tell you really don’t wanna go? Well, it’s not that you don’t, but would he even still be attracted to you? Could he see you and still want to be with you? You shift your gaze down to his blouse, and peak at the defined collarbone and sculpted chest. Another comparison that adds another weight. You’ve been adding on a lot lately.
Then you look at his face again. Perfectly smooth, free of blemishes. Another weight.
“Yeah, thinking about what? ‘Cause you’re staring off a terrible lot.”
He leans even closer and a cheeky smile paints his face, but his eyes still show deep concern. And they’re trying to meet your eyes, but you won’t let it happen.
“Just... thinking.”
“Thinking… Would you let me in, please?” He’s reaching over to hold your hand, kissing your knuckles. “I promise I won’t stop pestering until you tell me.” He winks at you, and your heart beats a lil faster. You’re flattered by his gesture, but scared of his response if you told him the truth.
“I can’t go.”
“Go where?”
“The beach Rafayel.”
“Can’t? Why?” He leans back to give you space to think, but he still holds your hand, so you can’t run away from this. There’s a long pause in the air as you reach for words to catch in your mind. What’s a good reason? You want to go. You really do, but you’re not ready to go with him. The flattering, fashionable, funny guy of your dreams. What if it all falls apart at the beach? What if he tells you some crap that ‘oh it’s all in the beauty of your soul’ or some crap. You know he likes your personality already. That’s probably what has kept him with you this long. That’s not what you want to hear, but what if he’s not even attracted to you anymore after that date. And suddenly, he’s asking less and less to go on dates, and then… he breaks up with you?
“What’s going on?” He whispers, his fingers trace the side of your face. “You’re starting to seriously worry me.”
“I’m sorry. I wanna go, but… Oh it’s so stupid and embarrassing.”
“Can’t be that stupid if it’s holding you back from going somewhere you wanna go.”
You make an odd noise from the back of your throat. You should tell him. You really should, but you feel so stupid. It’s such a ridiculous reason. At least that’s what you’re telling yourself now that he’s putting you in the spotlight.
“I’m worried about something.” It took so much out of you to even say that, so you’re starting to sweat and slowly shifting away to the furthest end of the couch.
“Yes?” He lets you shift away, but never lets go of your hand. He’s starting to get nervous too, and you can feel it in the way his hands are starting to sweat, and he holds on tighter.
“I’m worried that… That you won’t like me anymore afterwards.” You stare at the connected hands– you’ve loosened your grip. Because if he wants to let you go after this, then he has every right. A good, handsome guy like him deserves an equally good, beautiful person that has more self confidence than you could ever muster.
“That.. I won’t like you anymore?” Rafayel tilts his head to the side, eyes widening for a moment, but quickly returning to normal. “Why wouldn’t I like you anymore? I’ve loved you thus far haven’t I? Why would one good date ruin that? One good date at the beach, may I add, because you’ve been fine with other dates and meetups. Even today’s meetup. What’s so different at the beach? Haven’t we walked alongside it before as well?”
You sigh and shrug your shoulders. “It’s because at those other dates, other non-beach dates, I’m dressed up. Y’know? Even when we walk alongside it, I’m still dressed up. Nice blouse, sandals, whatever. I’m not naked. Not even close. But like an actual beach date, you wear a swimsuit. I remember you told me to prepare for that, and I went shopping for it, but I just... I hate it.”
Rafayel nods along and lets you keep going, his gaze never drifting away from you despite how yours darts from place to place. In those small milliseconds that he can catch your eyes, he takes notice of the worry and fear that plagues your mind; he’s catching onto what you’re trying to push out, but he needs to hear it from you.
“Hate what?”, he whispers and reaches out to hold your other hand.
You feel a pull in the back of your throat. Like it’s holding your voice back, but you push through it because you decide, if this is really something that he can't help you through, then he was never really that flattering, fashionable, funny guy of your dreams.
“My body,” you say through an exhale that barely pushes against the pull that was holding you back.
“But your body is gorgeous.” Rafayel moves to your side of the couch and lets go of one hand to cup your face, carefully maneuvering to see your face properly. “I’ve always thought so.”
“But you haven't seen me in swimwear at a beach, Rafayel. I went shopping the other day and do you know how ugly I was.” You hate to get choked up, but it can’t be helped. These things have been weighing on you the entire time, and you’re just placing it all bare at once, to the guy you want to hide it from the most. “And I don’t want to go to the beach, and you realize ‘oh that’s ugly’ and then stop liking me. And I can’t force you to like me, so I would just have to wait until you break up with me because I know I won’t do it.” You keep rambling and forcefully pull your hands away to hide behind them. “This is so stupid and embarrassing.”
Rafayel takes the time to think about what you’ve said. As he formulates his response, he puts his arms around you to pull you as close as he can to himself, and then tucks your head under his chin as he lets you cry. Hearing you speak so poorly about the person he loves the most hurt him so deeply, yet he could only imagine the suffering you’ve been enduring with yourself. He knows this is a deeper issue than he could ever hope to solve in one day, but he hopes that at the very least, his words breach the surface and make light of what has been weighing you. “You’re not ugly at all. The opposite really. I promise. I’ve liked you for a long long time. Longer than you will ever know.” He speaks clearly into the open as he pats your head. “And I’ve been attracted to you since the beginning. I promise.”
“Only because you haven’t seen all my weird stretch marks.” You close your eyes, squeeze your legs together, and cross your arms in a poor attempt to soothe yourself and to hide, making yourself small. “And cellulite,” you mumble off, and all the weights on your soul seem to tug you down to drown you deeper towards despair as you recall the changing room mirrors.
“So-? They’re attractive as well.” You open your eyes and move your head to look at him. “You’re just saying that.” He pinches your cheek. “Nah uh. I’m not. I promise. Where are they? I'll tell you how attracted I am to every bit of you”. He shifts you to sit on his lap, your back to his chest, and his chin now rests on your shoulder. He won't let you hide any longer. You're his precious pearl, after all. You're meant to be admired. To be loved and appreciated, especially by him. His hands glide up and down the sides of your thighs for a few strokes before settling on your hips. “Go on, ” He kisses the side of your neck, “I’ll love you no matter what, and if I don’t, you can always dump me. You deserve someone who loves you for every fiber of your being, and I am that person. I promise.” He chuckles at his last remark, giving you a gentle squeeze.
You’re hesitant, but nod your head firmly. It’s true. You do deserve someone like that, and if he isn’t really that person, then he’s not yours. It would hurt to let him go, but you have every bit the ability to leave him as he does to you. Then, you lift up your shirt just enough, and pull down the waistband just enough to show the stretch marks on your abdomen.
Your head is turned away, but Rafayel looks down as his hands move to rub at your lower stomach. “Attractive. Just as I said.” He whispers and slows his fingers to trace along the marks. “Like gentle streams across your body...” He mumbles “Leading me right to the most lovely parts of you.” His hands move towards the center and his fingers peak just underneath the waistband before drawing back to your hips. You twitch in response and shift in his lap, eliciting a groan from him. “Can I see more? I wanna see all of them,” his whispers gently blow into your ear.
“Okay…” You tug the waistband an inch or two lower to expose the skin of your hips. “And there’s more around my chest and arms…” Rafayel seems to perk up at the mention, kissing your shoulder.
“You know, I invited you over because I was kinda in an art block, hence the boxes and boxes of random stuff. But I see how unnecessary that all was now.” He kisses follow the curve of your neck as one hand caresses your hips and the other creeps along your side and over your chest, lifting your shirt higher in the process.
“In Lemuria, stretch marks are seen as a sign of growth, maturity and even vitality. They’re markings of someone strong and dedicated… These lighter ones represent new beginnings and divinity…Then, these darker ones mean finding love in creativity or creativity in love. Whichever you prefer.” He speaks quietly into your ear, these are meant for you alone. “And that represents you perfectly, doesn’t it? My beautiful muse.”
“Now, what was it about cellulite?” The last weight that laid the heaviest on you, suddenly felt much lighter right now. “It’s just like. When my fat dimples and whatnot when I’m standing a lil bit. But especially when I’m sitting. But I don’t know how I’m supposed to show you really…” Rafayel’s heavy gaze never leaves as you stand up and fix down your shirt. He picks up on how you keep the waistband low. He wants to have his hands there again. He spreads his legs just enough so that when he pulls you towards him, you slot right between them. He lets you ponder, and he leans forward to kiss the marks on your skin, his fingers flirting with the waistband. You flinch when you feel his tongue flick out and drag along your marks. “Wait Raf..” He hums in response and stops, nuzzling into your stomach. “Yes, your majesty?”
“Uhm..” You never thought you’d be saying this, “I have yet to show you my cellulite.” Rafayel lifts his head up to see you and nods. “Yeah that’s right. I think I know how you can show me.” Abruptly, he stands up, lifting you off the floor, and he carries you to his bedroom. “What’s your amazing idea?” You query, and in response, he puts you down on the bed, front facing down. “Just stay still.” You can feel the bed dip as he climbs on after you. “Is it okay if I take these off?” His fingers hook around your waistband. You nod, “Yes.” He pulls them off, eyes immediately going to the stretch marks he couldn’t see before.
He swallows the saliva building in this mouth and puts his hands at the back of your knees. “Is it okay if I move my hands up cutie?” He questions, and as soon as you give the okay, he moves his hands upwards, giving a firm massage up the backs of your thighs while he works on kissing every mark on your lower back, occasionally giving small licks. He notices the dimples in your skin as he pushes his hands up towards your ass. “This is what you were worried about?” He chuckles lightly. “Oh my petite artist and your worries. These are lovely like the soft ripples of a calm ocean. Kinda reminds me of home, and the way the light barely manages to trickle through during sunset and sunrise.” The weights on your mind and soul are dissipating, and a new warm, heated feeling creeps to replace it.
You feel a fluttering kiss right at the crease of your ass and thigh, “Rafayel–!”.
“Can’t you let me savor this a little more?” You suddenly feel his entire weight press down against you. “Please?” The sensation of his breath against the shell of your ear dances with every nerve along your body. “Every mark just keeps leading me right to…,” he rolls his hips once against you, “...your most lovely parts.” Then, just before you can look back, he turns you around himself and spreads your legs, settling them around his hips. He makes sure your hips are just high enough so his boner is nudging just right against your sex. His thumbs are gently rubbing circles at your hips, and for once since this whole ordeal, you properly meet his eyes. He’s blushing, but he’s not embarrassed or shy like he usually is. His eyes carry a stronger emotional depthness. There’s a romantic sparkle, but also this heavy lust in them. His soft lips are slightly parted to take deeper breaths, chest noticeably rising and falling. You look down, and you’re transfixed at how strained his dick is in his slacks. “Cutie, I wanna feel your beautiful body, and paint it with mine.” He leans down, holding himself up with his forearms, grinding his hips down and carefully kissing along your jaw. “Would you let me?” He gives one final kiss to your lips and waits for your answer. “Yes. Please.” You don't know where to place your hands, but gripping the bed feels cold, so you hold onto his shirt, one hand over his heart where it’s warmest.
“Thanks cutie.” He smirks and presses his lips against yours again. Slowly and sensually at first, but gradually deepening as he grinds his hips against you; his hands fondle at your chest, fingers grazing over your nipples. He pulls away, feeling a deep sense of pride when he picks up on how you tried to keep following. “Want more, yeah?” He takes off his shirt and works off his slacks. Then, his calloused fingers pressed against the damp spot on your underwear. “Excited aren't we, my muse?”
He leans forward to whisper in your ear, “And I am too.” He kisses down your chest and puts one nipple in his mouth as his hands tugs down your underwear. “So good for me,” He mumbles against your chest, “Just relax for me.” Carefully he pulls your hips to the edge of the bed, mouth still leaving open kisses on your chest and sucking light bruises.
Once he was proud of the work he made of your chest, he works his kisses down against your stomach and gives a few short licks along the way before slotting his face against your pussy, letting his nose bump against your clitoral hood and tongue give long flat licks against your pussy. His thumbs help to keep you spread apart to taste every surface of you. He tries to take his time savoring you, kneeled by the bedside, but despite his best efforts, he drools and laps against you. His tongue curls up inside and then towards your clit. So engrossed in the taste and smell, he almost forgets that this was meant to please you more than himself.
And without you realizing, the entire time, he was dancing his fingers along the stretch marks of your inner thighs. He was worshiping your body, gently massaging and soothing away the weeks worth of pain you had held up.
He slowly changes his motion, taking shorter flat flicks against your clit, fingers sliding inside and feeling around the ribbing of your walls. He works you open to three fingers and rolls his tongue in circles around your clit. You can’t stop bucking your hips up and rubbing against his face. Your hands grapple at his head, grabbing onto whatever you can– you need him.
As your orgasm builds up, Rafayel resists less and allows you to guide him, giving you more control of his movement. He’s losing his sensibility, so he almost needs you to move him. His cock’s achy and throbbing, tip tapping at his stomach. He reaches down to try and stop the dribbling precum from reaching the floor but it’s a useless attempt. Precum is getting all over the floor and his hand. He can barely manage a short stroke down his shaft without whimpering. He quickly realizes that he can’t do anything for himself if he doesn’t wanna cum before you, but it’s getting painful.
He wants you to cum so bad. He’s twitching at every flutter and throb against his face. He gives up on being gentle and puts his focus on suckling on your clit. You can barely make out his meek attempts at pleading with you “please…please. Please…” With just a few more sharp tongue rolls and strokes and final harsh suckle of your clit, you cum. Quickly, he’s slurping up your orgasm, tongue taking up all you can give and gulping down as much as he can. This is his sanctuary. Where his purpose is, where he belongs, and without having realized, he came too. And it’s likely the Lemurian biology, but it doesn’t shoot out particularly far, but the semen is thick and heavy. It’s getting all over his fingers and spilling across on the floor.
But he wants to feel just a bit more. He needs to feel more, but you pull him away. His whimpers almost sound like choked up sobs, like he’s disappointed it’s over. When you loosen your grip on him, he creeps forward to kiss you. The tip of his cock is kissing at your entrance, and you’re uncontrollably clenching. “Can I?” He looks so dazed, and lost, not completely in his right mind, and you’re not any better.
“Please.” You whine, and that’s all it takes before he’s inside you in one languid stroke. He trembles the entire time, feeling overwhelmed and overstimulated inside your pussy.
“Thank you cutie,” you take notice of the shakiness in his voice. “But I think I’m gonna cum again soon.” His chuckle echoes through the fogginess of your mind; he sounds so distant and quiet with the ringing in your ears still there from your orgasm. “That’s okay.” You whisper back, reaching out to wrap your arms around his neck– it’s a weak attempt at grounding yourself, so he doesn’t sound so far away. “So please keep going, I love you.” Suddenly, he tenses up and shivers at your whispers, and you realize.
He came again. Right inside. Your eyes go wide. It feels like you’re slowly being filled with cum. Meanwhile, Rafayel’s still and whining into your neck. “I wasn’t ready for that… and I love you, too.” He refuses to show his face as he does shallow pumps, grinding his hips a little when he’s balls deep, like he’s trying to push it all against your cervix. “I’m sorry. I thought I’d have lasted longer.” After a few moments, when he’s finally done cumming, he leans back and watches as he slowly slides out, biting his lip at the view. His cock is completely coated in your slick, and mostly his cum. He takes a moment before pulling the tip out, wanting to really draw the last moment. But after he does, he lays down beside you, floating down from his orgasm.
“You know, I kinda knew something was up since the first time you ‘accidentally’ picked up a shift. You sounded really guilty. But I didn't think over the phone was the best time to confront you. You sounded so sad already.” He turns to hold you. “I was worried, you know? Maybe I had made you uncomfortable? I don't know, but next time don't be afraid to tell me these things. It's okay to depend on me, to ask me about these things.” You nod along, “I know, I was just worried and didn’t want to bother you.”
“I’ve told you before, but I guess you forgot. I want every one of your bad moods.” He reaches to hold one of your hands.
“But what if I'm too moody, and it becomes a pain?” You squeeze his hand, and he does the same in kind.
“I said every. one. I truly mean it. Besides, just seeing you smile is enough to brighten my day.”
Afterwards, there's a long pause. He breaks silence first.
“So like… when do you wanna go shopping for swimwear? I got so many ideas of what we could wear. I bookmarked soooo many tabs.”
You laugh at the sudden change of tone, “We?”
“Yeah we could go matching,” he pinches your cheek before continuing, “And I'm happy that you're laughing again, but I'm serious. Don't laugh.”
There's a light airy playfulness as the conversation continues. Giggles back and forth and light teasing. Whatever insecurities you had weighed on yourself so heavily before, feel so far away. Like it had never happened. Or like it was evaporated out of your skin, and all that’s left is a newfound appreciation for yourself.
A/N: Another week, another work done. Editing takes a lot of work btw. Rereading my own work over and over again until I'm satisfied with it. This was supposed to just be another hurt/comfort fic but it ended up having smut in the end. But it also ends on a kinda funny note, so a win in my opinion. I hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I did. Also, sometimes I like to include lines directly from the game into my writing if I can. That's what the bolded words at the end are for. I got them from that five star memory with fireworks with Rafayel. Sparkling Traces is what it's called, I just searched it up lol.
I think the smut is pretty soft though. I didn't mean to write Rafayel as being so sensitive... but I couldn't help it. It's been 800 years, I can only imagine how pent up that guy is.
OH! Before I forget, yeah I try not to describe the MC's body as much as possible ever. Unless it's specifically for the cause like yk stretch marks and cellulite in this one. I want my writing to be inclusive to all. 🥹🫶I know it's hard to read something while being fully aware it's completely not for someone like you. I remember I was originally gonna write it with a chubby/fat reader in mind, but yk skinny/thin people have stretch marks and cellulite as well. So I decided to cut that out.
But overall, thank y'all so much for reading, and if you have any ideas or suggestions, don't be afraid to ask (if you like my writing ofc). I don't bite. Follow for short updates or if you ever wanna drop me a chat, I'm open to speaking! Please shower this with as much love or more that you gave my first post 🥹🫶I appreciate every note I get on this. It really motivates me to keep publishing my works.
#lads rafayel#love and deep space rafayel#love and deepspace#loveanddeepspace#rafayel#rafayel fic#rafayel headcanons#rafayel love and deepspace#rafayel smut#smut#lads smut#lads comfort#love and deepspace smut#rafayel fluff#love and deepspace x reader#lads x reader#rafayel x reader#rafayel x you#rafayel x mc#love and deep space#rafayel comfort#x reader
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YOU COULD BE MINE — patrick bateman

synopsis: a brief overview of how it’s like to be in love with “the boy next door” patrick bateman // warnings: mentions to sex & drugs. mdni !
a/n: for my parasocial anonymously mysterious gf
PATRICK BATEMAN was always a cold heartbreaker, fit to burn, and he knows it. but the worst part? so do you.
the two of you meet halfway—your innocence for his corruption, your softness for his sharp edges, your willingness to forgive for his inability to change.
dating him is stepping into a world of perpetual luxury. he spoils you rotten with reservations at dorsia, presents wrapped in tiffany blue, uncut cocaine. the kind of materialistic attention that made you feel like you were the centre of his perfect but bleak universe. you’re his trophy, the physically flawless partner who makes him look enviable. everything patrick does is a flex, a way of saying, look at me. look at us.
but there’s another side to patrick bateman, the one he conceals behind “the boy next door”. he’s awkward, painfully so—pathetic in the way he overcompensates, always trying too hard to be the man he thinks you want him to be. he tells you “i love you” often enough to sound convincing, but the words always feel oddly rehearsed, like lines from a script he doesn’t quite understand but knows he has to deliver. it’s the same way he taps his american express card on the counter, eager to buy anything that might fill the empty spaces between you—but unable to offer anything of real substance.
you’ve been together for years now—long enough for him to know your habits, your tells, the way your lips tremble before you bite down on them, or the way your hands fidget with your necklace—a nervous tick he’s cataloged along with every other detail about you. he notices everything. “why must you find another reason to cry?” he asks. it’s not really a question. it’s an accusation, laced with an irritation that cuts deeper than he probably intends. patrick doesn’t mean to hurt you, not exactly. but he doesn’t know how not to, either.
sex is the only thing he doesn’t hold over your head, the one currency in your relationship that flows freely. it’s not something you have to beg for or negotiate. in fact, it’s almost like an unspoken truce, a way for patrick to smooth over his shortcomings and remind you why you stay. he knows what you like, knows how to make you feel wanted even when his words fail him. and he uses it, of course he does. for patrick, fucking isn’t just about pleasure—it’s control, reassurance that you’re his, that no matter how much you fight, you’ll still end up tangled in his sheets by the end of the night.
but it’s the aftermath that stings the most. you see it in the way he leaves you in your bed, cologne and sex lingering in the air as the door clicks shut behind him. in the way he doesn’t answer your questions, just shrugs and says, “i need to return some videotapes.” he comes home late smelling of bourbon and sin, brushing off your concerns with a kiss and a designer bag to smooth things over.
eventually, you stopped asking where he’d been. you learned not to question him, to count your stars that he even came home. because that’s how patrick operates—on his terms, in his world.
it wasn’t new to you. you’d seen this movie before, the kind where the man you love doesn’t love you back—not the way you need, anyway.
and yet, you don’t leave. cannot leave.
sometimes he shares his favourite music with you, insisting you listen to a specific album from his beloved artists like whitney houston or huey lewis & the news. he talks about them in a way that’s almost obsessive, like he’s desperate for you to see something in them, some part of him he can’t articulate. and, somehow, you do. you listen, not because you love the music, but because you’ve learned to understand the way he talks about it, the way he tries so damn hard to make you get him.
and then there’s the patty winters show—he’ll insist, more often than not, that you watch it with him, even though it’s something he already watches religiously. it’s never really about the show itself—not about nazis juggling grapefruits or the absurdity of it all. it’s about you being there, sitting next to him on the couch, as he soaks in every detail. patrick wants you to be involved in his world, however messed up that might be. he doesn’t always know how to express his thoughts or feelings, but in his own way, it’s his clumsy attempt at connecting with you.
it’s pathetic, really, how much you’ve come to rely on him. and how much he needs you, even if he doesn’t know how to show it. you stay—not because it’s the easy choice, not because you’re a materialistic, shallow bitch who can’t say no to designer handbags and reservations at dorsia—but because somewhere deep down, you’ve convinced yourself that you can make this work. that despite everything, maybe you deserve this mess—this flawed love. a love that isn’t perfect, but it’s there. and that’s something.
because, despite everything, he’s still there. and that’s the part that fucks with your head. patrick bateman might not be the man you imagined, and he may never love you the way you thought he would, but in this mess, he’s still yours.
#for 🎀 anon#patrick bateman#american psycho#patrick bateman smut#patrick bateman x reader#patrick bateman x you#patrick bateman imagine#patrick bateman fanfic#slasher x reader#slasher x y/n#christian bale x reader#christian bale#slasher smut#slasher fanfiction
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Just a Normal Night: Missing you
Jungkook x Reader I Modern AU I Chance Encounter I Fluff I Romance
Summary: You and Jungkook had built something steady amidst the chaos of long-distance and fame. Though you couldn’t share your love with the world, Jungkook made sure you always felt seen, valued, and included.You held onto each other in quiet ways, making the most of every message, every stolen day, but there were nights—like this one—when the ache of missing him, of pretending, became sharp and lonely.
Word Count: 9K
Masterlist
Just a Normal Night
Just a Normal Night: Seoul Edition
A/N: I hurt myself with this one... Just a quick note on formatting: Bold text is used for dialogue spoken in Korean. Italic text represents internal thoughts or feelings. Normal text is used for dialogue spoken in English.
I hope this helps make things easier to follow while reading. Thanks so much for giving my story a chance!
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It had been a few months now. You and Jungkook had found a rhythm—chaotic at times, but surprisingly solid. You’d grown used to airport runs, shared calendars, and time zone math. More than anything, you’d learned how to make every moment together count.
You’d even switched jobs to make it work. Your new role allowed more flexibility—more home office days—which meant more opportunities to catch flights out to him, or better yet, to welcome him into your space. And Jungkook had started planning his travel routes with intention. No matter where he was flying—be it Tokyo, Paris, or New York—he found a way to make a stopover at your place. Even if it was just for a day or two. Sometimes he’d arrive at midnight, exhausted but smiling, and slip into bed beside you like he belonged there. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
It wasn’t perfect. Of course not.
But it was more than you thought you’d get when you first fell for a man with a passport full of stamps and a calendar packed to the edges. What surprised you most, though, was how normal some things started to feel.
Your best friends, Pascal and Floral—your loud, protective, ride-or-dies—had long since exchanged numbers with Jungkook. They'd grilled him mercilessly, but by the end of it, Jungkook was laughing so hard he was crying. Now, they sent memes back and forth like old friends and occasionally FaceTimed him just to "make sure he was still hot." Jungkook played along with good humor, sometimes even sending photos just to mess with them.
You had group chats with some of his people too—Yoongi occasionally sent you dry one-liners about keeping Jungkook in check, while Taehyung’s voice notes were always unhinged in the best way. You didn’t see them often, but when you did, it never felt like a performance. You were part of this now, even if quietly.
Still, it wasn’t always easy. The secrecy was the hardest part.
There were no selfies online. No hand-holding in public. No sharing your favorite photos of him—at least not outside your locked folder. Not even on your photo wall. You watched from a distance as the world speculated about his life, sometimes cruelly, sometimes ridiculously, and always loudly.
And when something trended—some blurry photo, some headline about him being seen with someone else—it could hit you like a punch in the gut if you weren’t expecting it. But you usually were.
Because Jungkook made sure of it. He told you everything.
Before the rumors even started, he’d already filled you in. A potential collab with a female idol? You’d known weeks ahead. A tabloid writing nonsense about him partying? You had the real story before the article even dropped. Some out-of-context video making rounds? You’d already heard the full, boring truth from him or one of the BTS guys that filmed the video.
Jungkook wasn’t about gifts—not really, because you made him promise not to. Though he still insisted on bringing you things that made you groan and swat at him for spending too much (like the ridiculously expensive designer scarf you refused to wear outside because what if you lost it?), that wasn’t how he kept you.
He kept you by being there.
With late-night texts, sleepy voice notes, and photos from hotel rooms that always looked a little too sterile until he brought you into them—even if only over FaceTime. He kept you in the loop, in his orbit, in the spaces between the noise. And you stayed. Not just because you loved him—though you did, deeply—but because he made loving him safe, even in the shadows.
And sometimes, just sometimes, when you caught a glimpse of him looking at you—like you were the only thing grounding him to this world—you didn't care that no one else knew.
You knew. And that was enough.
But you still missed him.
No matter how well you'd both adjusted to this rhythm of time zones, shared calendars, and countdowns until the next flight, there were still nights when it hit you hard. Nights like this one—cool air brushing against your skin, the city buzzing, the distant sound of laughter from people who didn’t have to keep their love life secret.
You knew he missed you just as much. Jungkook wasn’t shy about saying it anymore. Voice notes that started with "I miss you so much…" had become a regular comfort, sometimes accompanied by a half-asleep selfie or a blurry photo of whatever city skyline he was staring at.
But neither of you could put your lives on hold. He had concerts. You had deadlines. He had fans. You had rent.
So tonight, instead of being curled up on the couch, texting or facetiming him, you were out with your friends.
Your group had grown over the past few months. It wasn’t just Pascal and Floral anymore. Tonight, Eumi had joined, along with Carmen—and Dong, who had somehow transformed from the waiter at your favorite Korean BBQ place into a staple of your group chat. He’d been charming from day one, always slipping into your conversations with gossip and impressively savage opinions about Kimchi. Over the months, he’d stayed longer after meals, accepted your invitation to a group hang, and just fit.
The six of you had started the evening at a small Italian restaurant tucked between two bookstores—a cozy spot with handwritten menus and twinkling fairy lights in mason jars. You laughed over shared plates of pasta, swapped stories from the week, and clinked glasses over how mentally cooked you all were from work.
“So,” Carmen said at one point, spearing the last mushroom ravioli and leaning her chin on her hand, “When are you finally going to get a boyfriend?” You nearly choked on your wine. “Yeah,” Dong added with a wicked grin, tilting his head. “It’s getting suspicious. All this skincare and mystery phone calls. I’m starting to think you’ve got a secret man in your walls or something.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Eumi deadpanned. “She’s probably got one locked in the basement.” Pascal, who was sitting beside you, didn’t even blink. “If she did, trust me, she’d let him out just to clean. Maybe do taxes. She’s too busy for anything else.”
You laughed with the group but sidestepped the question as you always did. “I’m just enjoying being mysterious,” you said, taking a sip of your drink with a wink. “It adds to my overall brand.”
“Mysterious and single?” Dong teased.
“Mysteriously unavailable,” Pascal said smoothly, and clinked your glass in a quiet, knowing gesture. They let it go after that. The teasing didn’t stop—but the questions did. After dinner, you all made your way to your and Pascal’s favorite karaoke bar. It wasn’t trendy or flashy. In fact, it was a little run-down—but the mic worked, the drinks were strong, and the regulars didn’t care if you couldn’t carry a tune.
You pushed through the door and were immediately hit with the warm, bassy thump of 2000s pop echoing off the walls. The lights were low and multicolored, the disco ball spinning slowly overhead like it had better days behind it. Floral was already halfway to the songbook, flipping furiously. “Okay, nobody is allowed to leave until we’ve all done at least one cursed duet.”
“Dibs on ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ with Carmen,” Pascal said, making Eumi groan.
“Only if we get to do the headbanging part properly,” Carmen said, already rolling up her sleeves.
You slid into the worn red couch, surrounded by the people who had become your safe zone. It wasn’t Jungkook’s arms. It wasn’t the weight of him leaning into you while you worked from your laptop on his hotel bed. But it was something. It was home.
And for now, that was enough.
As Pascal grabbed the mic for his first round and the opening notes of a dramatically off-key rendition of “Toxic” by Britney Spears started to blare through the speaker, you relaxed into the cushions, drink in hand, your laughter rising above the music.
Tonight, you'd sing the stress away.
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Across the world, Jungkook missed you.
He was just stepping off set after finishing his shoot for the new album concept—slicked back hair, sharp eyeliner, and a coat that looked like it belonged in some post-apocalyptic runway show. Yoongi was next up, already halfway through wardrobe, and Namjoon, still in his second look for the single concept, was heading to the makeup noonas to prep for round two.
But Jungkook wasn’t thinking about any of that. Not really. He was thinking about you.
He wished you were here. Sitting in the corner of the set with your laptop, pretending to work but really just watching him with that soft, secret smile. But this was one of those weeks—busy, mismatched schedules, deadlines for both of you—and the reality was, it just wasn’t possible to meet up this time. In a week—maybe two, max—there would be a new window. A precious stretch of four whole days that matched both your calendars, and he was holding onto that like a lifeline.
He couldn't wait.
Just as he stepped into the dressing room and reached for his phone to text you a tired selfie, a new message popped up on screen.
Pascal: Hey thought you might like a treat 🍬 (video file attached)
Jungkook’s lips curled before he even opened it. Your friends Pascal and Flora had grown close to him over the last few months. They messaged him every now and then, mostly teasing him with you, sometimes just sharing random moments from their group outings. It helped him feel connected to your life even when he couldn’t be there physically. Plus, it gave him an excuse to practice his English—although for texting, Google Translate was still his loyal sidekick.
He tapped the video.
The next three minutes of shaky camera footage had Jungkook grinning like an idiot, and within ten seconds, he was done for. His grin stretched wide. Laughter burst from his chest before he could stop it. The stress of the shoot, the fatigue pressing on his shoulders, the whirlwind of deadlines—forgotten. He watched, eyes glued to the video Pascal had sent him.
You were on screen, standing beside a Korean girl Jungkook vaguely recognized from your stories—Eumi, maybe? The two of you were in a dimly lit karaoke bar, a disco ball spinning above your heads and casting colorful speckles of light across your faces.
The two of you were mid-performance, belting out MIC Drop like your lives depended on it.
Badly. Loudly. Hilariously. Adorably.
You and your friend were giving it everything. Your choreography was a chaotic blend of real BTS moves and your own completely unhinged freestyles—wild arm swings, aggressive dabs, mic flips. You pointed dramatically on beat, lost yourself in the lyrics, and nearly dropped the mic from laughing too hard mid-line. The improvisations made Jungkook burst into breathless laughter. He cringed and cooed all at once.
You were mouthing all the lyrics—his parts too—with such exaggerated confidence that it looked like you were headlining a world tour. Eumi tried to do Jungkook’s part but gave up halfway through, handing it over to you—just as the beat dropped into Yoongi’s rap.
And you went full fan mode.
You rapped Yoongi’s lines like you were auditioning to replace him—fierce, theatrical, and way too confident for someone who tripped over the beat twice. But it only made it funnier. Somehow better. Your swagger was ridiculous. Your hand gestures had no coordination. And you didn’t care at all. The sheer joy radiating off you made Jungkook’s chest ache—in the best way.
And despite the shaky cam, he could clearly make out the proud chaos in the background.
In the background, Flora and someone else were waving rolled-up napkins like cheering batons, adding their own hype to the performance. Like they were at a concert, cheering you on like their lives depended on it. At one point, Pascal could be heard laughed so hard he wheezed, his voice barely audible, “They’re gonna break the stage, oh my God.”
Jungkook doubled over, clutching his stomach, nearly dropping his phone. He had to pause the video just to breathe. His eyes were watering from how hard he was laughing, but also… from something softer. Something warm.
“God, she’s killing it,” he mumbled, wiping a tear away and shaking his head. He couldn’t stop smiling. Couldn’t stop watching. He hit rewind, needing to see the part again where you did a dramatic spin, lost your balance, then laughed it off and did a little body roll like nothing had happened.
“Jungkookie?”
Jimin passed by in a black tank top and joggers, holding a water bottle. He paused at the sight of Jungkook hunched over, laughing like a maniac. “What are you watching?” he asked, curiously stepping behind Jungkook and leaning in.
Jungkook held the phone out without a word. Jimin leaned in. After just five seconds, he snorted. And immediately, Jimin’s expression cracked. “No way. Is that your girl?”
Jungkook just nodded, lips pressed together to keep from cracking into full-on laughter again.
“She’s destroying Yoongi’s part,” Jimin said, grinning. “Hold on—HYUNG!”
Yoongi, already halfway to the set in his stage outfit, turned slowly. “What now?”
Jimin waved him over, already laughing. “You need to see this. Jungkook’s girlfriend is coming for your position. You better step it up.”
Yoongi raised an eyebrow, skeptical, but wandered over anyway. Jungkook rewound the clip to that part and, even Yoongi couldn’t help but smirk. “She’s got guts,” he muttered, crossing his arms as he watched your overly intense delivery and dramatic mic flip. “Terrible breath control, though.”
“But better hair,” Jimin added.
“Don’t make me regret showing you this,” Jungkook said, grinning helplessly. Then you did a full-body spin, stumbled, laughed it off, and tried to save it with a half-hearted body roll—before dabbing like it was your encore. “She’s perfect,” Jungkook said without thinking, eyes still locked on the screen. His voice was soft. Full of something raw and real.
Jimin caught the tone and softened too. “She’s adorable,” he said. “Does she know her friend filmed this?”
“Definitely not.”
The three of them watched the rest of the video together, crowded around Jungkook’s phone like teenagers. And when it ended? Jungkook hit play again. Because even through grainy pixels and shaky camera work, you’d lit up the room he was in. Even from a thousand miles away. Even from a crowded dressing room in another time zone.
And it reminded him why this—you—were worth every second of distance. Every lonely flight. Every night he had to fall asleep with a phone screen instead of your voice beside him.
You were wild. You were chaotic. You were you.
And God, did he miss you. He couldn’t wait to text you. He couldn’t wait to tell you how much he loved the video. How he was now going to tease you for exactly how hard you went during his verse, how you absolutely butchered his choreo, and how he loved you even more for it. And how, next time, he wanted to see it in person.
Not through a video. But sitting beside you. Maybe even grabbing the mic himself.
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It was late when you finally got home, still humming snippets of songs you’d absolutely butchered at karaoke. Pascal and Flora had dropped you off with promises to plan the next night out soon, and now the silence of your apartment felt both comforting and oddly loud after the chaos of the bar.
You were a little tipsy—just enough to feel warm and relaxed from the couple of drinks you’d had, but still steady on your feet. As you kicked off your shoes, you glanced at the clock and groaned.
Time zone math. Ugh. What was it where Jungkook was? Morning? Afternoon? Late evening?
You flopped down on your couch, pulling out your phone. You hadn’t heard from him much today, but you knew he should still be busy on set. Just in case, you thumbed out a short message:
You: Still awake?
You were already half-preparing to open one of the goodnight voice messages he’d sent you the night before—a soothing backup plan when he was too busy to answer. But before you could even close your messaging app, your phone lit up.
Not a text. Not a FaceTime. A regular call.
You blinked, surprised. Jungkook’s name lit up your screen, and your heart jumped. You answered quickly, pressing the phone to your ear with a sleepy smile. “Hey.”
“Hey, you,” came his voice, low and warm in your ear. “Didn’t think I’d get to hear from you tonight.”
Your smile deepened. “Didn’t think I’d get to talk to you tonight. I figured you’d be busy until tomorrow.”
“We just wrapped up shooting a bit ago. Got a little break before dinner and a live later with Jimin,” he explained. You could hear the faint background murmur of staff and maybe some crew members talking, but his attention was fully on you. “So, your message came at the perfect time.”
You let out a little laugh. “Lucky me.”
“You sound…” he paused, amused. “Tipsy?”
“Just a little,” you admitted, laughing again. “We went to that karaoke place near Eumi’s neighborhood. I may or may not have screamed my way through half the BTS discography.”
“Oh no.” Jungkook chuckled, the sound deep and fond. “Was it fun?”
“The most fun I’ve had in weeks,” you said, stretching your legs out on the couch. “I think Pascal filmed some of it, actually. I’m terrified to see what he got.”
Jungkook hummed noncommittally. “Yeah? I bet it was cute.”
“Cute? Please. It was chaotic—catastrophic. I almost fell off the little stage. Eumi forgot half the words and tried to give me her part—like I could pull that off. I think Flora even brock a mic. We all nearly cried from laughing.” There was a small beat of silence on the line before Jungkook said, a little too smoothly, “Did you fall off the stage before or after the body roll?”
You froze. Your eyes narrowed. “…Wait. How do you know about the body roll?”
His laughter burst through the speaker. “Pascal might’ve sent me a little something earlier.”
“Oh my God.” You groaned, burying your face in a cushion. “He didn’t!”
“He did.” Jungkook was grinning—you could hear it. “And honestly? Best thing I’ve seen all day. I think you nearly made Yoongi cry.”
“Jungkook!”
“You were amazing,” he teased gently. “Questionable dance choices—but amazing.”
“I'm never speaking to Pascal again.”
“You’re lying.”
“Okay… I might yell at him a little first and then forgive him. But still.” You laughed despite your embarrassment, cheeks warming. “That’s blackmail material.”
“Nope. That’s wallpaper material,” Jungkook said softly. “You have no idea how much I needed that laugh today.” The teasing faded into something softer between you—his voice warm in your ear, his laughter still echoing in your chest. You curled up tighter on the couch, letting the quiet stretch for a moment.
Then, lightly, you said, “Dong’s been on his matchmaking kick again.” Jungkook let out a soft sound of confusion. “Matchmaking?”
“Yeah. After the second round of drinks, he started again asking why I’m still single.” You laughed under your breath, eyes on the ceiling. “He’s been convinced I need a boyfriend for weeks.” There was a pause. Then a low, amused hum. “Dong… he’s the one with the green hair, right?”
“Mhm. Nice guy, kind of like a human golden retriever, but relentless.”
“Hmm,” Jungkook said again, slower this time. “You think he’s into you?”
You snorted. “I don’t think so. I mean—maybe? But it’s more like… he thinks I need someone to take care of me. Like I’m out here tragically pining or something.”
“Well,” Jungkook said, mock-affronted, “I am taking care of you.”
You grinned. “I know. You’re doing a great job, too.” There was a beat of silence, and then Jungkook asked, more seriously, “What did you tell him?”
You hesitated, fingers picking at the edge of a cushion. “That I’m fine. That I’m not looking.”
“Not looking?” he echoed.
“I mean… I can’t tell anyone I already have a boyfriend,” you said quietly. “Except Pascal and Flora?”
“Yeah,” Jungkook said, his voice softer now.
“Pascal’s a good buffer,” you added. “He steps in whenever Dong starts getting too nosy, changes the subject, or drags me off to get more snacks or something. Flora too, if he catches on. But it’s still weird not being able to say anything.” You could hear the way Jungkook’s breathing shifted, the heaviness of his silence weighing between you like a held breath.
“I hate that I can’t tell anyone you’re mine,” he murmured, his words laced with quiet frustration. “That I can’t tell the guys hitting on you to back off. Can’t post about you, or even hold your hand in public.” He sighed. “But I really appreciate you being honest with me about it all.”
You pressed your cheek against the couch cushion, trying to keep your voice steady. “Of course I am.”
“I miss you more in moments like this,” he said softly. “When I know someone else might be seeing you smile, hearing you laugh, and I can't be there. I want to kiss you even more when it feels like I shouldn’t.”
“I miss you,” you admitted, your voice low. Jungkook’s voice dropped an octave, losing all its teasing lilt—suddenly quieter, more intimate. “How much do you miss me?” The way he said it sent a flicker of heat down your spine. Your breath hitched, and you felt your fingers curl tighter around your phone.
“A lot, Jungkook,” you whispered. There was a pause on his end, followed by a subtle, gravelly hum that made your chest ache. Just then, you heard the faint click of a door in the background on his end—maybe someone entering, or him slipping into a quieter space. When he spoke again, his voice was different. Focused. Steady. All the playful teasing from earlier was gone.
“What do you miss the most?” he asked. You smiled into the quiet, feeling your chest tighten at the sincerity in his voice. You didn’t rush to answer, letting the moment stretch.
“Bam,” you said eventually, with a soft teasing note. There was a beat of silence—then Jungkook groaned dramatically, laughing under his breath. “I’m trying to be sexy here. Work with me.”
You laughed too, your mood lighter already. “I thought you had a live you needed to go to?”
“I do,” he said, sighing again—but this time it was reluctant. “Just later. I want… to take care of you. If you want to stay up with me a little longer?” You closed your eyes, heart soft and full. “Yeah. I do.” You hesitated, chewing on your lip. “I… I’m just not sure how the phone thing works. Like… I don’t want to mess anything up.” You laughed a little, sheepish. “God, that sounds dumb.”
“It doesn’t,” he said instantly, gentle and reassuring. “I went to my room. I’m alone now—door’s locked. I’ve got time. If you want to try, I’ll talk you through it.”
You nodded, a small, automatic movement before you remembered he couldn’t see you. “Okay,” you said quietly, breath catching just a little. “Yeah. I want to.”
There was a pause on his end—then the sound he made was low, husky, full of quiet anticipation. It wasn’t overt, but it was heavy with promise, a kind of intimacy you could feel down your spine. It told you he was ready to be patient. Ready to match your pace.
You heard the soft rustle of sheets as he shifted, the faint creak of his mattress, the muffled thump of something—maybe his hoodie hitting the floor. The normal sounds of him settling in, suddenly layered with something new.
“You’re okay,” he said after a beat, and there was something so grounding in his tone, like he was reminding you this wasn’t a performance. “It’s just me. Just us.” Your breath shook as you inhaled. “I know. I just… haven’t done this.” Jungkook exhaled slowly, the sound barely caught by the mic. “I got you.”
You could tell he meant it. Then, quietly—like a secret slipping between the cracks of the night—he said, “You don’t have to worry about a thing, okay? I’ll take care of you.” The certainty in his voice made your breath catch. There was no hesitation, no doubt—just calm, grounded confidence that wrapped around you like a blanket. “We’ll go slow,” Jungkook continued, his tone gentle but sure. “I’ll lead. You just breathe and stay with me. That’s all you need to do.” A lump formed in your throat, full of quiet vulnerability and something deeper—trust, maybe. Or the need to give it to someone who wouldn’t drop it.
“Okay,” you whispered, your voice small and honest. “I trust you.” He breathed your name in return, soft and reverent, a kind of vow that settled over your chest like warm sunlight breaking through a winter windowpane.
“Good,” he said, his voice dipping slightly, more velvet than sound. Then you heard it again—faint shuffling, the sound of him shifting, settling, waiting for you. The night felt still and pulsing all at once, strung tight between your phone and his voice.
“Are you lying down somewhere comfortable?”, his voice soft but edged with quiet intent. You shifted slightly, the cushions beneath you creaking. “I’m still on the couch,” you admitted, glancing down at yourself. “I… I didn’t even change. I messaged you right after I kicked off my shoes at the door.” There was a short beat of silence on the line before he let out a low, affectionate sound—half laugh, half coo. “You needed to hear me that badly, huh?” Your cheeks warmed, but you smiled. “Yeah.”
“I love that,” he said quietly, and something about his voice made your chest tighten. “But that won’t do. I want you comfortable. That means going to your bedroom.” You bit your lip, nodding even though he couldn’t see it. “O-okay,” you murmured, pushing yourself up. “And out of those pants,” he added gently. “I want you to really relax. Can you do that for me?”
Your breath caught for a second. There was nothing crude in the way he said it—just warmth, intention, care. Still, you felt a shy blush bloom across your face. “Okay,” you whispered, voice nearly inaudible as you made your way toward the bedroom.
He didn’t rush you. You could hear him waiting, the faint sound of his breathing and maybe the quiet rustle of fabric on his end. It grounded you. “I’m in my room,” you said softly, kicking the door closed behind you with your heel. You reached for the button of your jeans, fingers fumbling slightly. “I… I took off my pants.”
There was a quiet hum on the other end of the line. Jungkook’s tone dipped lower, warm and full of approval. “Good girl,” he said. “Tell me what you are doing.” You swallowed, heart fluttering in your throat. “I’m in front of my bed. Just… just in my top, bra, and panties now.” A beat passed. His breath hitched softly. “You did good,” he murmured, voice like velvet. “Now lie down. I want you warm and relaxed.”
You climbed onto the bed, tucking yourself against the pillows and drawing the blanket loosely over your hips. The coolness of the sheets against your bare legs made you shiver. Once settled, you exhaled shakily. “This is… weird,” you confessed, cheeks burning.
Jungkook chuckled, low and fond. “That’s okay. You’re doing really well.” Then, softer, he asked, “Do you want to stop?” Your heart stuttered, because he sounded genuine—not disappointed, not frustrated. Just making sure. “No,” you said, the word quick and certain, even if your voice trembled a little. “I want to keep going.” There was a pause. And then his voice again—so full of affection, so gently commanding it made your toes curl.
“Alright,” Jungkook’s voice dipped lower, like warm silk poured over your skin. “Get your shirt of for me,” he said softly. “You need to feel your skin.” Your hand trembled as you obeyed, bunching the fabric of your top until the cool air kissed the warmth of your stomach. You pressed your palm there gently, and the intimacy of the act—doing it for him, guided by only his voice—made your breath catch.
“I’d love to kiss you there,” he murmured. “Right on your tummy… slow. Soft. You’d feel my lips before you’d even see my face. Can you touch where you’d want me to kiss you?” You swallowed thickly, your hand brushing over your stomach again, then up, tracing the curve of your ribs, grazing the side of your breast. You dared a pass over the top of your panties, the soft cotton warm from your skin. You inhaled shakily, your breath hitching loud enough for him to hear.
“Where did you imagine me kissing you?” he asked, his tone quieter now—lower, darker. You hesitated. “There,” you said, voice barely a whisper. “On my stomach… my chest… and…” you paused, heat rushing to your cheeks, fingers curling slightly. “And between my legs.”
The silence on the line was broken by a sharp exhale from him—half groan, half breathless curse. “God,” Jungkook muttered, and your name followed, rough on his tongue. “You’d want that?” Your heart pounded as you nodded, even though he couldn’t see. “Yeah,” you admitted softly. “I think about it.”
He let out another slow breath, almost as if he were trying to steady himself. “I’d love that too,” he said. “I’d kiss you, taste you… take my time. Then sink my fingers into you so slow.” His voice was tight now, careful. “Would you be wet enough for me?”
You shivered at the question, body already thrumming with the heaviness of want. But you made a soft, unsure sound—almost embarrassed at not knowing, at being this turned on just from his voice. “Then check,” Jungkook said gently, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Just… slip your panties to the side. Touch yourself. Feel what I do to you.” With shaking fingers, you did as he asked. And the moment your fingertips grazed over your center, slick and sensitive, you gasped—a quiet, surprised “oh” slipping from your lips before you could stop it.
Jungkook groaned like he’d been punched in the gut. “You’re already that wet?” he asked, his voice breaking around the edges. “Y/N…”
“Jungkook…” you whispered helplessly, his name trembling from your mouth like a prayer, like a need too big to hold in your chest. “Keep touching yourself,” Jungkook said softly—his voice so low it nearly unraveled you. There was a rasp to it now, almost like he was the one aching. “Please, Y/N... don’t stop.”
The word “please” caught you off guard. It was nearly a whisper, and something in the way he said it made your heart twist. It wasn’t just lust—it was longing, it was closeness across thousands of miles. He wasn’t just turned on. He was with you.
You swallowed hard, your hand still resting between your legs as your body pulsed with need. You closed your eyes, trying to steady your breathing, imagining him doing it, and let your fingers move just the tiniest bit—exploring what was already so sensitive.
“Jungkook…” you breathed, voice cracking. “I—I feel too empty.” It came out unfiltered, ungraceful, and filled with frustrated need. You winced at your own words, feeling like you were doing this all wrong, too awkward, too vulnerable. But Jungkook’s voice came right back, steady and tender. “Breathe. Just breathe for me.”
You took a shaky breath in, and the gentle hush of his voice wrapped around you like a blanket.
“I know, jagi. I know,” he said. “I would love nothing more than to be there right now… to fill you, to touch you how you deserve. But right now, I need your help. Can you do that for me?” His voice was like heaven—deep, rich, coaxing every wall you had to melt into warmth.
You nodded automatically, your lips parting with a soft sound of agreement before remembering again that he couldn’t see you. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I… I can.” There was a pause—just the sound of him breathing on the other end—and then he let out a low, ragged groan at your willingness.
“What… what should I do?” you asked quietly. “How should I touch myself How would you...?” He exhaled sharply. You could hear it in his throat, the way your words knocked the air from him. “Ugh,” he whispered. “You’re perfect. You have no idea what you do to me.” Then, after a beat, his voice came back with that same gentle authority that made you want to listen to every word. “Start slow, jagi. Just one finger, okay? Take your time.”
You let your fingers glide over yourself again—more intentionally this time, more aware of how wet you were, how much your body was already responding to his voice alone. “Tell me how it feels,” Jungkook said, quieter now. “I want to hear it all. I want to imagine it like I’m there.”
You bit your lip and whimpered softly, hips tilting into your hand. “Warm… and soft,” you managed, barely forming the words. “Sensitive. I… I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Jungkook let out another broken sound on the other end, like he was barely holding it together. You did exactly as Jungkook had asked—slow, careful, drawing little circles over where you were aching, your clint, letting your breath catch and spill into the phone over and over. For a few moments, the world narrowed down to the quiet between you, filled with the soft sounds of your breathing and his voice—low, patient, completely wrapped around you like velvet.
But the softness didn’t last long. “Jungkook,” you whimpered, his name escaping like a gasp, a plea already halfway formed on your lips. “I… I… I am—”
You broke off with a breathy groan, unable to hold back the wave of feeling rushing up from inside you. Jungkook let out a quiet laugh, warm and knowing. “Impatient already?” He knew you well now. Well enough to tease without hurting, to press without pushing.
“Not impatient,” you huffed, breath shallow. “Just… wet. I’m so wet, I need more. Please.”
You heard him inhale sharply. “Jagi,” he groaned, his voice thick with desire. “You’re going to kill me.” There was the sound of shifting fabric, and then his tone dropped, deep and reverent. “You’ve been so good for me… go ahead. Use a second finger. I want you to feel full.”
You didn’t hesitate. And the moment your body adjusted, you let out a soft, satisfied groan—sweet and aching. It felt better. Not complete, not even close, but better. Jungkook groaned softly in response, the sound wrecked and raw. “That sound—God, I wish I could see you. I should’ve called you on FaceTime.”
You smiled into the phone, flushed and breathing heavy, your voice quiet but daring. “Jungkook… what am I doing to you right now?” There was silence for a moment, just the sound of him shifting, and then he chuckled under his breath—a low, broken sound.
“You’re driving me insane,” he murmured. “That sound you make—I swear I can taste you on my lips. It’s like my body thinks I’m there with you.” You whimpered again, and his voice dropped even lower. “I’m so hard,” he admitted, breath catching. “I had to… I couldn’t just sit here doing nothing. I needed to touch myself too. Just enough to keep the edge off. Just enough to not lose it.”
Even without seeing him, you could picture him—lips parted, brow furrowed, the way his hair might fall into his eyes as he held himself. Precum slowly dripping down his shaft. The distance between your bodies was sharp, but the connection? That was blinding.
“I wish you were here,” you whispered.
Jungkook hummed, pained and tender. “I’m with you, jagi. Right here.”
“I want to hear you too,” you whisper, voice breathless and edged with a quiet plea. “Jungkook… I need to hear you.”
For a beat, there’s nothing. Then a low groan hums through the line—deep, rough, drawn from somewhere at the very core of him. Your breath catches. It’s not just a sound—it’s him unraveling, just for you.
“Yeah?” he growls, “Nothing compares to the way you make me feel… even miles away.” The words are choked with awe and aching want, reverent and real. “I want to touch you. Push your tiny little hand away and fill you so good. You would feel so good around me too. All wet and tight. Wouldn’t you?” You shudder, clinging to the sound of his voice as if it could hold you. He was so far—but he felt like he was right there, breathing with you, guiding you.
“Touch yourself more,” he says, voice growing firm but still laced with heat. “Faster now. I want you to feel it—I want your body to remember this the next time I see you. Because the moment I get my hands on you again…” he pauses, breath catching. “I’ll make sure you feel so full again. Watch how I would sink myself inside you. Give you exactly what you need. Play with your pretty tits. Fuck you stupid. Till you not even remember your own name.”
The sound that slips from your lips is helpless, wanting. You obey—your fingers moving faster, your thumb finding that perfect spot—and it’s almost too much. Your body tenses, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter.
“I’m close,” you manage to gasp, trembling. “Jungkook—I’m so close—”
“Don’t stop,” he growls, the command wrapped in velvet and fire. “Don’t you dare stop, Jagi. You are mine. Come for me.” That tone—that authority—it sends you over the edge.
Your breath fractures. Your back arches. A cry escapes you, raw and quiet and broken as pleasure crashes through you like a wave. Your legs tremble, heart racing, the high cresting through you in pulsing waves. You can’t even think—you can only feel, and he’s right there on the other end of it.
Then—his voice again. A hoarse groan. A curse, hot and bitten off.
“God, fuck,” he pants, the words all tangled and soft. “You did so well for me. So perfect.”
You try to catch your breath—but something else creeps in with the aftershocks. A quiet ache. Your chest tightens. Your eyes sting. And before you can stop it, the words slip free, fragile and cracked. “I want you here with me, Jungkook,” you whisper. “Right now. I just… I want you here.”
The line is quiet for a heartbeat. Then you hear him exhale, shaky and low. “I know, jagi,” he murmurs, voice suddenly tender again, grounding. “I want that too. So bad. More than you know.” And even though your bodies are worlds apart, his voice is right there with you—soft and real, brushing against the rawest part of your heart. “Just a little longer,” he whispers. “We’ll be together soon. I promise.”
You nod again, even though he can’t see it—biting your lip, trying to will away the tears that threaten to spill. Your body is still trembling, not from the release, but from the ache of distance. Of loving someone who can’t hold you tonight.
A whisper leaves your lips, cracked and quiet. “Okay…”
And it breaks Jungkook’s heart a little. Not just because you sounded so small—but because he knows that ache. He feels it too, right now, in the hollow between his ribs where your warmth should be. And he can’t help you with it, not how you deserve. He clenches his jaw, breathes slowly through his nose.
Tomorrow—he needed to talk to his agent first thing. He didn’t care what meetings or rehearsals got shuffled. He needed to see you sooner, even if only for a day. Just long enough to hold you in his arms and kiss the doubt and ache from your chest.
“I can stay on the phone a little longer,” Jungkook says gently. “If you want. We don’t have to hang up yet.” You hesitate, the ache still raw in your chest. “Don’t you… didn’t you say you might go live with Jimin tonight?”
There’s a pause—brief but telling—and then his voice comes through, warm and certain. “Yeah, I need to. But that can wait. You come first. I always have time for you.” Your throat tightens, eyes stinging again—not from sadness now, but from how easily he says that. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like loving you isn’t an inconvenience, but a priority.
“Can you…” you pause to clear your throat softly, “Can you tell me about your day?”
“Of course,” he says, voice immediately softening even more, like he’s settling in just to be close to you. “You wanna hear about the boring stuff or the good stuff?”
“All of it,” you whisper, letting yourself sink further into your pillow, needing his voice to anchor you. “Even the boring stuff. I just want to hear you.”
And just like that, he starts talking—gentle, rambling little details about his day: training, rehearsal, the new concept, what he had for lunch, a funny thing one of the staff said. And every word he speaks eases the weight pressing down on your chest. He says your name so gently it feels like a kiss. “I miss you too.” His admits. Quiet. Honest. “More than I thought was possible.”
There’s a pause. Neither of you say anything for a moment. You just breathe together—connected by the line, by the silence, by the way your hearts beat in tandem even with oceans between you. “You were beautiful tonight,” he says after a while. “Not just the… y’know.” He chuckles gently. “But, trying this with me. Trusting me. I don’t take that for granted. Not for a second. And… I didn’t want to make you sad tonight.”
You sniff, and this time, it’s a little laugh through your tears. “I am not sad. I’m glad you called.”
“I’d call every night, if it made you feel close,” he says. “If it helped you sleep.”
You feel better now. So much better. After hearing his voice, after the way he touched you with nothing but words—pulling you apart so sweetly and then putting you back together even gentler. Your heart no longer feels like it’s splintering under the weight of missing him. And now that you're settled, soft and safe again, you exhale a little laugh.
“You should clean up,” you murmur into the phone, your voice teasing but still thick with affection. Jungkook chuckles lowly, and the sound feels like velvet slipping down your spine. “Are you kicking me off the phone now?” he asks playfully.
“Well,” you hum, “you said you need to go live with Jimin… You should go. I’m okay now.”
There's a hesitation—just a beat, but you hear it. Feel it.
“Are you sure?” he asks, serious now, no teasing left. “I don’t wanna leave you if you’re still feeling shaky.”
“I’m not,” you say, a little smile curling on your lips. “You already fixed me. Twice, actually. So go already. I’m want to watch you.”
“You’re gonna what?” he teases, his grin practically audible. “I’m gonna watch the live,” you reply, grinning now. “For as long as I can stay awake. That way… I still get to see you today.” Jungkook groans playfully. “That’s so unfair. You get to look at me, and I still don’t get to see your pretty face.”
You laugh, blushing quietly. “Next time.”
His voice softens again. “Last chance. Are you sure you’re good?”
“Yes, Jungkook. I’m good. Go. Or Jimin will roast you for being late.”
He sighs with a dramatic little pout you can imagine so clearly. “Okay, okay. I miss you.”
“I miss you, too.”
“I’ll see you soon.”
And with that, the call ends, the line going quiet—but your chest feels warm instead of empty this time.
After a quick bathroom run and a change of clothes—your pj’s to be precise. You tuck yourself deeper into the blankets, cheeks still flushed and heart beating slow and soft. You blink sleepily at the screen and smile as you connect to Jimin’s live, waiting for Jungkook to appear.
The live is cozy—Jimin is sitting cross-legged on the floor, talking directly to the camera, his tone light and animated as he tells the ARMYs a story about rehearsal mishaps and how he nearly tripped over his own feet during a practice run.
And then—a knock echoes offscreen.
Jimin pauses mid-sentence, blinking at the door. “Oh?” he says, glancing back. “Hold on, everyone. Someone’s at my door.”
You watch the screen tilt slightly as Jimin sets the phone down and walks off-camera. The audio picks up the sound of him unlocking and opening the door—and then a familiar voice laughs low and warm.
“Finally,” Jungkook says.
The camera jostles as Jimin comes back into frame, followed by Jungkook, who’s dressed down in a hoodie and loose joggers, his dark hair slightly messy. He gives a small, sheepish wave at the camera with that signature bunny grin.
“Yah,” Jimin says, sitting again, “took you long enough.”
“Sorry, sorry,” he says with an innocent laugh. “I had something important to do.”
Jimin side-eyes him but doesn’t press. Instead, he scoots over to give Jungkook room and nudges him in the ribs. “Well, welcome. Everyone’s been waiting.”
Your heart flutters as Jungkook settles in beside Jimin, his smile soft but tired. He looks down at the screen and waves again, his fingers brushing his bottom lip like they still remember you. “Please forgive me, ARMY.”
And just like that, the ache of missing him melts into something gentler. And as he settles into the live, talking and laughing beside Jimin, you curl into your blanket, watching him glow on your screen.
You watch them—Jimin chatting animatedly, gesturing with his hands as he recounts some hilarious backstage mishap, while Jungkook lounges beside him, relaxed and quiet at first, just listening. His legs are sprawled comfortably in front of him, one arm propped behind his head as he leans slightly toward Jimin, eyes soft with amusement as his friend rambles.
You're curled on your side, the phone warm in your hand, the screen casting a gentle glow against your cheeks. Your eyes blink slower now, sleep brushing over your lashes like a wave, but you keep watching.
Jungkook glances down at his phone for a second, his thumb moving casually as he types something. Then—suddenly—his whole face breaks into a wide, boyish grin. That unmistakable, gummy smile. He tries to bite it back, but fails miserably, and he looks up at the camera with his ears turning faintly pink. Jimin gives him a look, raising an eyebrow. “What?” he asks suspiciously.
Jungkook just shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says with a shrug, barely able to keep a straight face. Jimin squints at him, but then drops it, turning back to the stream. “He’s being weird again,” he tells the viewers. “Just ignore him.”
But your screen lights up with a new notification—and your heart does a slow somersault.
Kookie 🖤: Good night. Don’t stay up too long.
Your breath catches as warmth spreads through your chest, your lips parting in the kind of smile that only he could pull out of you—tired, shy, and so full of affection it aches. On the screen, Jungkook’s still grinning stupidly, his eyes twinkling under the soft room light, like he knows exactly what he's just done to you.
You reply with a quiet tap of your fingers:
You: I won’t. I just wanted to see you a little longer.
Then you let your phone slip down slightly, resting it on the pillow beside you as you watch him one last time tonight. His laugh rumbles low when Jimin teases him again, and you tuck yourself in tighter, safe in the knowledge that you’re still on his mind.
Even when the screen finally goes dark, and your eyes close, you carry that image with you—Jungkook, smiling just for you. The ache hasn’t disappeared completely—but it’s dulled by the quiet certainty that he’s yours. Even when the distance stretches far, his heart is still wrapped around you.
And for now, that’s more than enough.
Masterlist
Tags: @dachshunddame @hecatesdescendant
A/N: Hi! Just wanted to mention that I use ChatGPT and DeepL to clean up grammar and spelling in my writing. English is my second language, and this tools help me share stories the way I imagine them, without spending hours double-checking every word. Writing is just a hobby I enjoy after a full workweek—I’m not trying to make money from it. If you’re curious or have thoughts on it, I’d love to have a friendly discussion!
#jungkook x reader#bts jungkook#jungkook#jungkook bts#bts#jeon jungguk#jeon jungkook#jungkook x you#just a normal night
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experimentations ft. the Artpop queen herself
Silly little (not so little) unrelated HC I developed later under the cut
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🎀- HC that EVE's most normal hobby - when not occupied with other things - is repainting dolls 🎀- Like in a blue moon you can catch her at the hobby lobby in mom jeans and a cardigan just looking for materials
★- In her down time (which is a bit rare these days) Nadia'll pick those ball-jointed Barbie/Bratz/MH dolls and give them a complete makeover ☆- While she's making them she's fervently thinking 'I will love you in a way that no one else EVER has' and she treats them all that way ★- She'll repaint them in the most unconventional ways possible but they're still gorgeous; a perfect reflection of her studio artwork on a body that isn't her own ☆- Sometimes if she's low on fabrics, instead of making a full-sized mockup of her exhibition fits she'll use her dolls to test the outfit design and make a mini version of the fit with small pieces of the final material ★- She's got this HUGE shelf on her pad that's got these fashion icon dolls displayed with their name and inspiration on a little plaque ☆- Whenever something significant happens and she doesn't want to paint, she'll hold onto the feeling, good or bad, and jot down an idea for a new doll's look ★- and she DOES truly love each of them - though she may have had to learn to love one in particular
🎀- She picked up the hobby in college (before she met Zuke) but didn't really think anything of it 🌸- It was just a means to practice different makeup looks and pencil techniques without sculpting something - and it was fun! She liked having a cute little gal at the end of the process 🎀- When she came up with the idea of using the dolls as models, she created a doll of herself but made the decision to make its skin completely white 🌸- When Nadia met Zuke, she sort of put the hobby aside to focus on her other art mediums, but she looked at the doll of herself and felt comfortable enough to repaint the right side pink (and she laughed a bit to herself looking at the final result, because it looked... Cute! Just like her other gorgeous dolls...) 🎀- After Rapturica, she didn't feel the need to create a doll based on her feelings as she didn't feel as hurt as she expected, but she did find it really, REALLY hard to look at the doll of herself, so she hid it away... 🎀- she picked up repainting again later but went in HARD - they began to look more artsy and alien, just like her other art pieces 🌸- After graduating she didn't really have time to repaint dolls and focused on creating other arts/music again, only occasionally using them to test outfits (but never the one of herself) 🎀- After the events of NSR though, she picked it up again as a form of self-care. It's something she doesn't have to create for the public eye, and she's rekindled the joy of creating a strange little gal and loving them despite their bizarre quirks. 🌸- ... I think she feels a bit more comfortable looking at the doll of herself now, too.
★- She's probably still got doll repaint videos up on her channel from her college days, hehe. ☆- (She's debating whether or not to make a mini exhibition about the concept of dolls.* Likely not, as she doesn't want to taint the tranquility of the act, but she still likes the idea. It's better to not mix work art with home art, anyway.) (* (How they can reflect their caretaker, they exhibit both confidence and vulnerability, they can be broken and discarded but repaired, they're still images that can be moved in a 3d space however you desire, they rely on a person to actually be 'real' ykyk that kind of thing. the symbolism of dolls.)
The doodle I made in the 3rd picture (above the cut) is inspired by those really pretty doll repaints... I think that that look in particular is one that she tested on a doll first... pre-ugly cry, that is.
Thanks for reading my very silly idea... decorated the bullets with Bows and stars because I felt like it, haha. Have a lovely day~🌸
#how does she even get her hair to do that she's so powerful...#(kinda popped off with the last one ngl ✋🙄)#i had a doodle of little Eve in my folders almost 4 years now so i decided to draw her again to see how my style's changed#i really forgot how much fun it is to just throw colors on the board... highly recommend!!!#also doubles as a destresser so it was a little relaxing :]#art#digital art#digital painting#fanart#nsr#nsr fanart#no straight roads#no straight roads fanart#no straight roads eve#nsr eve#nsr nadia#nsr eve fanart#end my suffering
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🐢📖 Raph sat cross-legged on the couch, a worn and dog-eared issue of “Jupiter Jim” in his hands. Leo and Donnie entered the room, their usual banter already in full swing.
Raph looked up from the comic, catching the tail end of Leo and Donnie’s debate. He grinned, always entertained by his brothers’ banter. “Ah, the age-old argument: science versus fiction. “Can’t we just enjoy the story for what it is?”
Leo shot a teasing grin at Donnie. “Exactly! Raph gets it. Besides, Jupiter Jim is a classic. You can’t beat the nostalgia.”
Donnie shook his head, unconvinced. “Nostalgia doesn’t make up for scientific inaccuracies, there are way more scientifically accurate space adventures out there grounded in reality, Jupiter Jim is overrated.”
Leo jumped to the comic’s defense. “Whoa, hold up! Jupiter Jim is totally old-school, the OG of space heroes. He’s, like, a classic legend. And his laser blaster? Way cooler than any gadget you’ve whipped up, Donnie.”
“please. Jupiter Jim's laser blasters happen to have a fancy design, that's all. They're not any better than my meticulously crafted gadgets because, let's face it, they wouldn't work!"
Leo grinned mischievously. “And yours aren’t any better, Donnie. They malfunction every time we’re in a tight spot.”
Donnie huffed. “Hey, those were isolated incidents! And I fixed them, didn’t I?”
Raph chimed in with a laugh. “lighten up! It’s just a comic. No need to overanalyze it.”
Donnie huffed, crossing his arms. “Fine, fine. But don’t come crying to me when you need a gadget to save your shell.”
Mikey popped his head in, curious. “What’s all the fuss about? Are we reading comics now?”
Raph gestured to the comic in his hands. “Yep, we’re diving into the wild adventures of Jupiter Jim. You in?”
Mikey's eyes lit up with excitement as he bounded over to the couch. "Absolutely! Nothing beats a good old-fashioned space adventure."
Without hesitation, Mikey plopped himself down right in Raph's lap, earning a grunt of surprise from his brother.
Raph chuckled, giving Mikey a playful shove. "Hey, watch it, Mikey! You're gonna crease the pages."
Mikey laughed, unbothered by Raph’s protest. “Relax, big bro! I’ll be gentle.”
Raph mock-glared at him before wrapping an arm around Mikey’s shoulder, pulling him closer. “Alright, but if Jupiter Jim gets crumpled, you’re buying me a new copy.”
“Always” Mikey beamed
"Alright, you knuckleheads. Chapter one: 'The Galactic Crusade,'" Raph announced in his rough voice, setting the scene. As he delved into the thrilling tale of Jupiter Jim's quest to save the galaxy, his brothers were captivated.
Leo's eyes sparkled with excitement as he imagined himself as the heroic Jupiter Jim, leading his team to victory. Donnie nodded along, though he couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at some of the scientific inaccuracies woven into the story.
"Impressive storytelling," Donnie mused, "but I think Jupiter Jim’s laser blaster would need a lot more power to take down a black hole."
His comment hung in the air, earning him a glare from Leo. "Donnie, can't you just enjoy the story for once without dissecting every detail?"
Donnie shrugged, unfazed by Leo's glare. "Hey, I'm just saying. A black hole is no joke. It’s scientifically impossible for a laser blaster to close a black hole. The amount of energy required would be astronomical, far beyond the capabilities of any handheld weapon, no matter how 'fancy' its design."
Leo sighed, shaking his head. "Sometimes, Donnie, you just gotta let your imagination take over. It’s not always about the science."
As the story ended, Raph chuckled, closing the comic with a satisfied smile. “Taking it one chapter at a time, guys. But I’m glad you’re all enjoying it.”
Leo grinned at his brothers. "Thanks for indulging me, guys. 'Jupiter Jim' may not be scientifically accurate, but it's always an adventure."
Donnie smirked. "Ah, so you admit it's not accurate."
Leo winked. "Well, Donnie, I guess sometimes we just have to let our imaginations defy gravity, right?"
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THE EUROPA CLIPPER LAUNCHED THIS MORNING, AND I AM SO NOT NORMAL ABOUT IT!!!!!
Space is so fucking awesome. We're headed to one of JUPITER'S MOONS!
Every time a launch happens, it makes the latent space enthusiast in the back of my brain jump up and down. It also derailed all my plans for today. I did have plans.
Instead, someone made one comment about how I could now maybe make mission patches on my embroidery machine, and the space thing crossed over with my current hyperfixation (silm) to produce THIS:

Mission patch for the launch of Gil-Estel! A bit messy, but a good place to start!
Design and linguistics details under the cut, because I put WAY too much thought into it and now must talk SOMEONE's ear off about it. Feel free to ignore this bit:
So, to start: Elvish NASA. I chose to call them Vardildi Elengolmo Vilciryamoyë, or VEV. The Followers of Varda, Astronomers and Astronauts. This could very much be totally wrong. Vardildi is Varda+the suffix used in Yavannildi, the followers of Yavanna. Elengolmo comes from the coined word for astronomer, Elengolmë (star-lore), with the -o suffix from nolmo, wise person. Vilciryamoyë takes the vil- from the root of vilya, meaning air, sky. ciryamo is mariner, and yë is the suffix added to the second word meaning 'and'. (I may be very, VERY wrong on this! If anyone has better ideas, I very much welcome input/guidance/constructive criticism)
So I stuck the tengwar for this on either side of the patch. (None of the tengwar is all that legible, though, I'm working on getting that sorted out) Most NASA mission patches don't actually have NASA on them, but I put it on anyway. Here is the tengwar and the start of a logo I made an attempt at (the tehta is supposed to be a shooting star, but that did NOT come through clearly in the embroidery [because it's tiny]):
(Probably going to try to make an elvish NASA patch before too long, honestly)
Most NASA patches (from research I did with great self-restraint here) have the (last) names of the astronauts. Not sure if they also have the name of the craft or if that's generally somewhere else, but I put both--Eärendil Ardamírë (his fathername and mothername) are the tengwar at the bottom of the patch, and Vingilotë is written on the keel of the ship. None of these are legible because they are small, and my machine has limits. It's a work in progress. Also I apologize for the bad lighting in the photo.
NASA patches sometimes also have a mission motto. That's the tengwar across the top of the patch here-- aiya Eärendil elenion ancalima, Hail Eärendil, brightest of stars (a common cry among elves and Frodo [when facing Shelob]).
(I half wanted to do something a bit more funny--maybe something like 'Now I have become Venus,' or 'Do I get to come down?' but this was a bit easier since it comes pre-translated into Quenya and tengwar, and also I have no faith in my Quenya translations that are any longer than a word)
The horizon is flat because Númenor exists, in the middle there between the shore of Middle-Earth and a teensy bit of Valinor and the Enchanted Isles.
The design for the Silmaril is sort of taken from the heraldic device Tolkien designed for the Silmarilli (though it isn't clear), and it is rayed with the six-pointed star from Eärendil's device. (I stuck the moon phases from the same source around the edges as well)
This was really fun, even if it might be the silliest thing I've ever made! It definitely needs some workshopping--i don't mind the black lines framing some sections from the background fabric, but I might try turning all the tengwar into lines of stitches instead-the satin columns really are illegible.
I now need to restrain myself from doing some sort of NASA/Astronaut Earendil AU, because it now sounds kind of fun (I do not have the background knowledge for this)
Sources:
NASA patches here: https://www.shopnasa.com/collections/patches
Quenya translations here: https://www.elfdict.com/
Tengwar transcriptions here: https://www.tecendil.com/
And if you want info on the Europa Clipper mission, here: https://science.nasa.gov/mission/europa-clipper
Embroidery digitization done with Embrilliance Stitchartist 1, embroidery done with a Brother SE630 machine. Thread is Brothread Cotton and YLI cotton bobbin thread, with a little sulky rayon on the Silmaril. Cloth is a black linen from Fabric Wholesale Direct.
#earendil#silmarillion#space is cool#machine embroidery#pityahano#craft#surprisingly pleased with how this turned out#since it was less 'trace this colored pencil drawing by Tolkien'#and more 'what does a ship look like in 3000 stitches or less'#space#astronaut earendil#vev-elvish nasa#lord of the rings#silmaril
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break up with your boyfriend, i’m bored
ᯓ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Mel Medarda x reader / 5.3 k words
ᯓ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 smut
ᯓ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 thank you so much for 400 followers it means so much to me here is my gift from me to you 🫶🏾
You couldn’t hate Mel Medarda. You tried. You had reason to, or at least you told yourself you did especially when she kept showing up at your place, crawling into your bed like it belonged to her, shedding her designer coat and her dignity in equal measure as she vented about her boyfriend, Jayce Talis.
Each visit was the same, and yet completely different.
One night, she’d be furious. Another, exhausted. Sometimes she’d cry. Other times she’d scoff and laugh like it was all beneath her. But every time, she’d talk about him about how he didn’t understand her, about how he prioritized his image over their intimacy, about how she felt lonely even in his arms.
And every time, you’d say the same thing:
“Break up with him.”
But she never did.
You hated being the rebound. Hated the fact that you were always the after the person she turned to only when Jayce had already let her down. You hated how predictable it had become: her complaints, your warning, the pause… and then the heat between you would rise until she was beneath you again, writhing, gasping, moaning your name like it was a confession.
She was addictive in ways you hadn’t even thought were possible.
Every time she came apart on your tongue, every time her nails dragged down your back, every time her breath hitched from your fingers inside her you wondered how Jayce could even begin to compare.
Honestly? You almost started to feel bad for him.
There was no way he could make her sound like that. Not with the way her voice cracked when you told her to beg. Not with how she trembled when you touched her just right. Not with the way she’d come undone for you again and again until her voice was gone and her body was wrecked.
You'd only met him a handful of times, and still, you were sure: Jayce didn’t have a clue what he had.
But you did.
That was the problem.
Because no matter how many times she ended up in your bed splayed out and soaking, whispering apologies she never kept you was the one left awake when she left.
And it was always you she left.
You’d tried to end things with her more times than you could count. Whatever this was this messy, undefined thing you shared with Mel it had no name and even less stability. But every time you tried to walk away, it ended the same way.
With her crying into your shirt, clutching you like she was drowning.
With her pleading, whispering desperate things against your skin like "Don’t leave me. Please, I need you."
And then, inevitably, with her in your bed needy and wrecked, body arching under your touch, like no one else could reach her the way you did.
It was never just sex. It was never just casual.
No matter how much you both pretended.
You remember the morning it all shifted.
“I broke up with him,” she said casually, her voice light as she walked around your dorm, picking up pieces of her clothes scattered across the floor. She was naked, confident, like the confession didn’t weigh a thing.
You looked up from where you were lounging on the bed, sheets tangled around your legs, your vape resting on your stomach. Mel turned to face you, smiling like she'd done something noble. You didn’t return it.
You just nodded once, slowly, then brought the vape to your lips.
Took a long pull.
Blew out a lazy stream of smoke.
“You don’t look too happy,” she said, padding over on tiptoe before settling herself onto your lap, legs straddling you like she was entitled to the space. Her skin was warm against yours, soft and familiar.
She studied your face for a reaction before dipping down to kiss along your cheek, your jaw, your throat.
“Why should I be happy?” you murmured, arms coming around her waist, your palms smoothing over the dip of her back.
Her eyes flicked to yours, confused. “I don’t know… it was kind of your idea that I do it.”
You snorted at that, a bitter edge behind it. Your grip tightened just slightly as you slid her over onto your thigh. The gasp she gave was immediate, needy.
“Really?” you whispered into her ear, tone low, mocking the words she’d thrown so carelessly. You shifted her again, guiding her hips against the firm line of your leg, and she whimpered like it was instinct.
“My idea?” you asked again, voice dark with amusement as her hands tangled in your curls. She was already grinding down harder, losing focus.
“I told you to do it,” you said, breath hot against her throat, “because he was a shitty boyfriend.”
You bit down on her neck then, slow and deliberate, your teeth sinking into the soft flesh just below her ear. She gasped, nails digging into your shoulders.
You didn’t stop.
“And how do you think Jayce would feel,” you murmured, licking over the spot to soothe it before pulling back and meeting her glassy eyes, “if he saw his then-girlfriend, and now-ex, moaning on some other girl’s leg?”
She couldn’t even answer.
Didn’t need to.
The slick mess on your thigh was answers enough
Since that day, Mel stopped coming around.
No texts. No calls. No unexpected knocks at your dorm in the middle of the night. It was like she’d vanished from your life entirely on purpose. And maybe if it had been anyone else, you could’ve brushed it off. Let it go. But it wasn’t anyone else.
It was her.
And the worst part? You knew this was coming. Hell, you’d told yourself this was what you wanted distance. Clean separation. No more blurred lines. No more slipping into bed with a girl who belonged to someone else.
But when she stopped showing up, when her name disappeared from your notifications, when the silence stretched on longer than it ever had before... it hit different.
Because no matter what you told yourself, you wanted Mel. Just her. All to yourself.
But you'd never say that aloud. Especially not to her.
The rumors started not long after she disappeared. Whispers that she and Jayce had gotten back together. No one in your circle could confirm it, but speculation spread fast—looks in the hallway, quiet side-eyes at parties, people dropping her name and his in the same sentence like it was common knowledge.
And even if it was true, even if she really did go back to him, you told yourself you didn’t care.
Not really.
What dug deeper than anything else was her silence. Her absence. The way she moved through campus like you’d never existed like she hadn’t cried in your arms or come on your thigh or whispered your name like a secret only the two of you knew.
You saw her a few times.
From a distance.
She was never alone.
Always walking beside someone friends, classmates. Always perfectly put together, smiling like nothing had ever happened.
And you started to wonder if maybe it hadn’t.
Not for her.
“You need to stop moping,” Caitlyn says, her voice dry as she hands you a freshly rolled, already lit blunt.
You give her a look, but you still take it, slipping it between your lips. The first inhale hits hard, smooth smoke curling through your lungs before you exhale slowly, the edge of your thoughts softening with the burn.
“I’m not moping,” you mutter, refusing to meet her eyes.
Caitlyn just stares you down, unimpressed. “Yes, you are. Ever since you heard that dumb rumor, you’ve been nothing but a bitch.”
She snatches the blunt back from your hand and takes a hit herself, as if she’s the one dealing with your mess.
You scoff. “Mel’s a smart girl,” Caitlyn continues, exhaling through her nose. “She knows what she’s doing.”
“Smart?” you repeat, lips curling into something bitter. “I don’t think it’s very smart to be in a relationship and still fucking some girl on the side especially one you vent to about said relationship. But hey, who am I to judge?”
You didn’t expect her or anyone, really to understand whatever it was between you and Mel. Hell, you didn’t even understand it. It was messy. Muddled. A cycle of late-night visits, unspoken tension, and hands under clothes that felt more like confessions than sex.
Caitlyn doesn’t say anything else. She just exhales, slow and patient like she’s letting you talk yourself in circles.
Later that night, she invites you to a party some frat boys her girlfriend knows are throwing it. “You need a distraction,” she says, and maybe she’s right.
Still, you hesitate.
You’ve been to their parties before. Something always happens. Someone cries in the bathroom. Someone fights on the lawn. Secrets spill like liquor.
And yet, you still find yourself in front of your mirror, pulling on that skin-tight red dress you bought weeks ago and never had the nerve to wear. It clings to you in all the right places bold, dangerous, attention-grabbing. Too much.
But maybe too much is exactly what you need tonight.
You adjust the straps on your shoulders and stare at your reflection. You don’t recognize the look in your own eyes.
Whatever tonight brings… you already know Mel will be on your mind.
Whether she shows up or not
The party is already in full swing by the time you arrive. It’s one of those oversized off-campus houses white columns, massive lawn, the kind of place that always looks expensive and slightly trashed at the same time. Music thunders from inside, the bass rattling through the porch as drunk bodies spill across the yard. People are everywhere: shouting, dancing, stumbling, making out half-clothed on the grass.
You push your way inside, and it’s somehow worse. The air is thick with sweat, smoke, and spilled liquor. The lights are low, flashing red and blue across too many faces. Someone’s grinding on someone else in the hallway. There’s a girl crying in the corner. The living room couch is barely visible under the tangle of people draped across it. All the hallmarks of a typical frat party.
Caitlyn disappeared hours ago either off to dance or to make out with her girlfriend in some shadowy upstairs room. She’d left you in the kitchen with a grin and a “don’t do anything stupid,” and that was the last you saw of her.
Now you’re posted up at the counter, nursing a red Solo cup filled with… something. You’re not sure what—it tastes like floor cleaner mixed with battery acid, but it burns just right. Burns the thoughts out of your head. And that’s the goal tonight, isn’t it?
You linger a moment longer, then drift out of the kitchen, cup still in hand. The backyard’s packed with people you vaguely recognize from campus smoking, laughing, swaying to the bass-heavy music vibrating from the house. You’re scanning the crowd when Vi spots you.
“Y/N! Come chill with us,” she calls, already waving you over with a lazy grin. You hesitate, but when you see Caitlyn tucked comfortably into Vi’s lap, your other friends scattered around in cheap lawn chairs, the tension in your chest starts to loosen.
You walk over and settle into the one empty seat. The second your body touches it, a blunt is pushed in your face no hesitation, just peer pressure wrapped in friendship.
“This shit’s expensive,” Vi says with a smirk. “One puff and you’re on cloud nine.”
You raise your brow, bring it to your lips anyway, and take a slow drag. The smoke clings to your lungs before you exhale, coughing almost instantly.
“Shit, Vi. That’s strong,” you choke out, blinking through the burn as she laughs and snatches it back for her own hit.
Between whatever’s in your cup and the blunt clouding your head, things start to buzz. Mel isn’t on your mind. Not really. Not in the way she usually is tight and sharp and impossible to ignore. Right now, she’s distant. Fuzzy. Just another shadow slipping out of view.
You’re just starting to relax, to actually enjoy yourself, when it happens.
Of course.
Because if peace exists, the universe has a sick sense of humor.
Jayce walks in first clean-cut, grinning like a politician, as if he doesn’t know a damn thing. Mel follows beside him, her posture elegant and distant. She’s wearing a golden dress.
That gold dress.
Your gold dress.
The one you bought her months ago. It hugs every inch of her like it was sewn onto her skin—silky and unforgiving in the best way. It shows off her waist, her legs, her chest. You loved that dress because whenever she wore it, you couldn't keep your hands off her. And she knew that.
She glances your way. Just once. Quick. But you catch it.
And she looks away.
Your smile comes without thinking. Automatic. Cold. Masked.
They make their way over. Of course they do. Mel sits down right beside you, all that silk and perfume and distance like a ghost in gold.
“Jayce, Mel. Glad you guys could make it,” Vi says, with a smirk that’s half-amused, half-provoking.
Jayce nods like everything’s normal.
Mel says nothing.
She just stares at you. And you stare back, letting your eyes drag over her body without shame. You don’t speak. You don’t have to. Because she knows what that dress means.
Everyone’s deep in conversation laughing, drinking, smoking but all you can do is watch her. Mel, sitting right beside you in that gold dress, pretending like she hasn’t been haunting your thoughts for weeks.
You lean in slightly, voice low and sharp like a blade meant only for her.
“Are you gonna keep ignoring me?” you whisper, close enough that your breath grazes her ear.
She doesn’t look at you at first. Just sips from her drink, keeps her eyes on the crowd. But then she turns, slow, deliberate, and lets her gaze sweep over you—up, down, and back again.
“I wasn’t ignoring you,” she says coolly. “Just avoiding you.”
You snort, unfazed. “That’s just ignoring but with extra steps.”
She shoots you a look. Cold, clipped—full of warning. She wants you to back off.
You don’t.
“So what happened to that big breakup with Jayce?” you murmur, eyes fixed forward as you speak, voice low and careful. Not obvious. Not loud. But she hears every syllable.
You place a hand on her thigh, just above the knee. Her body stiffens slightly. She doesn’t answer, doesn’t move. So you take it a step further, dragging your fingers higher with deliberate slowness.
“I missed you.” Your voice is silk now, dangerous and sweet. “Did you miss me?”
Her breath catches as your hand slides over the soft fabric between her legs. She still doesn’t speak. Just stares ahead, jaw tight, like she can will herself not to feel anything.
You lean closer. “I know he’s not fucking you right. He never did.”
You shift the fabric of her dress, just enough to find the line of her thong beneath it. She gulps. You push it aside, two fingers brushing against her—warm, already wet. And you smile.
She opens her mouth, a whisper of something forming, but nothing comes out. Her thighs tense beneath your hand. Her breathing changes, just slightly—but enough for you to feel it.
She’s trying so hard not to react. But you’ve always known how to pull her apart in silence.
Vi leans over the table, oblivious. “Mel, you want a hit of this?” she asks, holding up the blunt.
Mel hesitates. For too long.
You press your fingers in just the right way, slow and steady. Her hand grips the edge of the table.
“No,” she finally says, barely audible, biting her bottom lip as she shakes her head.
You glance at Jayce still talking, still clueless. It’s almost funny.
You lean in again, lips brushing her ear. “You’re soaking through your thong for me, aren’t you?” you murmur, your voice a mix of amusement and possession.
Mel lets out the softest moan, hidden beneath the noise of the party. Her hand covers yours under the table not to stop you, but to ground herself.
“Please,” she whispers, breath ragged. “Stop.”
But her legs stay open.
And her body keeps rocking toward your hand.
You glance up at her, then at her trembling hand gripping the edge of the table her thighs parting just slightly with each slow push of your fingers. She leans into the rhythm, like her body’s chasing you, begging without words.
“You say you want me to stop,” you whisper, lips brushing the shell of her ear, “but your body tells me otherwise.”
Mel swallows hard, her jaw tightening as she stares off toward the corner of the room. Refusing to meet your eyes.
You love it.
Love the control. Love how no matter what mask she puts on, she falls apart at your touch. Every damn time.
“I thought you and Mel were supposed to break up,” Vi says suddenly, reclining against Caitlyn with a lazy grin.
Jayce glances over, amused, like it’s a joke he’s in on. “We were,” he replies, shrugging. “But Mel can’t get enough of me.”
You nearly laugh. Instead, you curl your fingers just right and watch Mel’s body twitch.
Jayce keeps talking, oblivious. “We argue, fall out, she storms off and says she needs space but she always comes back the next morning. Like she’s hit reset. Like nothing even happened.”
Caitlyn turns her head slowly, eyes flicking from Jayce to Mel, then to you.
You don’t say a word.
Just smile.
Then you drag your fingers deeper.
Mel jolts beside you. Her thighs squeeze together, subtle but urgent. She’s holding it in, barely. She shoots you a desperate glance, eyes glossy, lips parted. Then she grabs her drink, stands quickly, and mutters, “I need to use the bathroom.”
She doesn’t look at you.
She doesn’t look at anyone.
She walks off too fast, trying to appear casual but barely holding herself together. The hem of her golden dress is still slightly rumpled from where your hand was.
You take your time finishing your drink, licking the slick off your fingers in plain sight of the table before excusing yourself. Jayce is still mid-sentence. Caitlyn and Vi just glance at each other and shake their heads like they know something but not enough.
You move through the house, upstairs, and find the bathroom door cracked just barely.
She’s in there.
Pacing.
Wringing her hands. Her cheeks flushed deep pink. She’s breathing too hard, biting her lip, trying to calm down.
You push the door open.
No knocking.
Mel turns sharply but you’re already inside, already closing the door behind you with a soft click of the lock. She doesn’t get a chance to speak.
You grab her by the waist, spin her gently into the sink, and crash your mouth onto hers.
The kiss is hard. Heated. Hungry. She melts into it with a breathy whimper, her hands immediately finding your shoulders.
Your mouth never leaves hers as your hand slides down, gathering the silky fabric of her dress until it's bunched around her hips exactly where it belongs. She's already soaking, thighs trembling, as if her body’s been waiting for you all this time.
You lift her onto the bathroom counter with ease, her back hitting the cool mirror, and spread her legs apart. The kiss breaks only when you need to breathe, but her lips chase yours, desperate to keep the connection.
“I didn’t mean to avoid you I swear,” she whispers, clutching at you like you might disappear.
“But you did,” you murmur, meeting her eyes.
Her lashes flutter as she shakes her head, voice fragile. “I- I wasn’t trying to. You just... you do these things to me and I couldn’t take it anymore.”
You shush her softly, pressing kisses to her cheek, down her jaw, her collarbone. “Then say that,” you murmur, voice low, steady. “Don’t run.”
Her breath hitches as you peel the dress away completely, baring her smooth, golden skin inch by inch. Her bra follows, then her panties damp and clinging. You toss them aside without looking. She tries to kiss you again, but you pull back, dragging your eyes over her exposed body instead.
Your hand cups her breast, thumb brushing her nipple before your mouth replaces it sucking gently, then harder. She moans, fingers curling into your shoulders, but one hand tries to slip lower, to guide yours where she wants it most.
You grab her wrist and stop her.
“Why should I reward you, hm?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. “You’re dating someone else. And honestly? This whole thing’s starting to feel a little boring.”
You step back just slightly, enough for her to whimper at the distance. Her hands reach out, but you don’t come closer.
“I mean, there’s no way he’s fucking you like I do,” you mutter, sinking to your knees.
Her breath stutters.
You part her legs again and find her cunt glistening, twitching in the air between you swollen and desperate. You don’t touch her. Not yet. You just breathe against her, warm and slow, and watch her squirm.
“Is he?” you ask, voice firm, dark, reverent. “Fucking you like I do?”
Mel’s hands dive into your locs, trying to tug you closer, trying to force you to give in. You don’t. Not until she answers.
“No,” she gasps. “H-he doesn’t.”
You smile.
“That’s what I thought.”
Then you lick her. One long, slow stroke from her entrance to her clit.
She arches off the counter, crying out, her thighs trying to clamp around your head but you hold them open.
You keep your grip firm on her thighs, holding them wide despite the way she trembles, trying to squeeze them closed. Your tongue moves slow at first deliberately. You trace soft, lazy circles around her clit, never quite giving her the pressure she wants. You feel every twitch in her muscles, every shallow breath she struggles to hold back.
You lick her again—slower this time, letting the tip of your tongue tease her clit before you suck it into your mouth and she gasps, head thrown back against the mirror. Her thighs are trembling already, trying to close again, but you press your forearm over them, pinning her open.
“Keep ‘em open,” you growl, voice muffled against her. “You wanted to avoid me, remember? Now you’re gonna take everything you missed.”
Mel moans, loud and broken, her hands tightening in your hair like she’s trying to anchor herself. You let her. You like when she clutches you like this, desperate, wrecked, losing her mind over your mouth.
Your tongue is relentless. No teasing now no mercy. You eat her like you own her, rough and deep, mouth sloppy and punishing as you suck and lap and flick her clit until she’s writhing against the mirror, legs shaking so hard the counter beneath her creaks. You grind your tongue into her like you’re trying to prove something and maybe you are.
Because he doesn’t do this to her. He doesn’t know her like this.
But you do.
“Look at you,” you murmur, dragging your mouth down to fuck her entrance with your tongue, watching her arch and whimper. “So messy for me. You’d really let him think you’re his?”
She tries to answer, but her words collapse into moans, breathless and needy. Her hips jerk, trying to chase your mouth. You slap the inside of her thigh—firm, sharp. “Use your words, Mel.”
“N-no,” she gasps, nearly crying with it. “I’m not—I’m yours, I’m yours—”
“Damn right you are.”
You stand up in one smooth motion and grab her by the throat—not tight, just enough to keep her still as you slam your mouth back over hers. She tastes like sin and desperation and you don’t give her a second to breathe before your other hand plunges between her legs.
Two fingers, deep, rough, no warning.
She screams into your mouth.
“Shh,” you whisper, kissing her jaw, her throat, biting just below her ear. “You want the whole party to hear how wet you are for me?”
Her cunt clenches around your fingers as you fuck them into her, fast and deep, curling them just right until her legs are shaking violently. You press your forehead to hers and look into her eyes—those wide, wet brown eyes glazed over with lust and guilt and need.
“You’re mine,” you say through gritted teeth. “Even when you run. Even when you lie to yourself. You still come back. You always fucking come back.”
“I do- I do- please don’t stop”
“Not stopping till you come,” you promise, fucking her harder, fingers dragging over her sweet spot again and again. “You gonna come on my fingers like a good girl?”
She nods frantically, mouth open but no words coming out. Her back hits the mirror again, one hand gripping the edge of the counter, the other still twisted in your hair like she’s scared you’ll stop.
You don’t stop.
You curl your fingers, grind your palm into her clit, and whisper in her ear: “Come for me, baby.”
She breaks with a cry—legs locking up, pussy fluttering around your fingers as she comes hard, soaking you, trembling violently. You don’t stop even then, dragging it out, forcing every drop of her orgasm to wrack her body as her mouth opens in a silent scream.
When she finally sags against you, gasping, shaking, utterly undone, you pull your hand from her and suck your fingers clean while staring her down.
Then you kiss her again, hard and claiming.
“You’re not walking out of this bathroom like nothing happened,” you say against her lips. “If he wants you back after this, he’ll have to pick you up off the floor.”
Mel’s body is still trembling against yours, her chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath, face flushed, eyes glossy and unfocused. You stand between her legs, hand still on her hip, and when your fingers brush her cheek, she leans into your touch like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded.
“You okay?” you murmur, low and close.
She nods, barely. Then she looks up at you—eyes wide, glassy, and needy—and slides down from the counter without a word.
Your brows lift. “Mel…”
But she’s already sinking.
She drops to her knees with a soft thud, the cool bathroom tile kissing her skin. Her hands find your thighs as she looks up at you, mouth slightly parted, her face caught somewhere between reverence and desperation.
“Mel,” you murmur, tilting your head down. There’s a warning in your voice—because you didn’t ask for this. But God, you want it. And she knows that.
“I need to,” she whispers, voice hoarse and desperate. “Let me. Please.”
Her fingers hook into the hem of your dress, dragging it up with shaking hands. She kisses your inner thigh first—soft, then open-mouthed and wet, like a promise. Her breath ghosts over your underwear, and you feel your core throb at the reverence in the way she kisses just beside where you need her most.
“Mel,” you murmur, tilting your head down. There’s a warning in your voice—because you didn’t ask for this. But God, you want it. And she knows that.
“I need to,” she whispers, voice hoarse and desperate. “Let me. Please.”
Her fingers hook into the hem of your dress, dragging it up with shaking hands. She kisses your inner thigh first—soft, then open-mouthed and wet, like a promise. Her breath ghosts over your underwear, and you feel your core throb at the reverence in the way she kisses just beside where you need her most.
“You were so mean to me tonight,” she whispers, dragging your panties down slow, her lips brushing your skin.You don’t say anything. Just step out of your panties and hook your fingers into her hair, holding her in place, guiding her exactly where you want her.
“But you liked it,” you say quietly. “You like me being mean, didn’t you?”
She nods, barely. “I liked knowing I’d have to earn you back.”
And then she leans in and licks—slow, one long stripe up your slit, her tongue hot and deliberate. You hiss in pleasure, your grip in her hair tightening. She groans as soon as she tastes you, and you feel it in your bones. Mel doesn't tease. She devours. She kisses your cunt like it’s sacred, tongue pressing in deep, then flattening and swirling against your clit with a pressure that makes your legs buckle.
“Fuck—Mel—”
You brace a hand on the counter, the other still in her curls, guiding her. She looks up at you with those warm brown eyes, pupils blown wide, and you nearly lose it. Her hands squeeze your thighs, keeping you open, keeping you grounded, while her mouth works you over like she’s starving.
She moans into you—deep and guttural—and the vibration nearly makes you come on the spot.
You rock your hips forward, using her face, dragging your cunt over her mouth. “You missed this, didn’t you?” you breathe, voice cracking. “Missed having something real in your mouth instead of whatever bullshit Jayce tells you?”
She whimpers. The shame in her eyes makes your stomach twist in satisfaction, but the way she nods is honest. Desperate.
You tighten your grip and push her harder into you. “Then fucking prove it.”
Mel moans and obeys. Her tongue flicks, swirls, plunges. She slurps, messy and greedy, and you know she’s doing it on purpose—knows how wet the sounds make you, how unhinged it feels to be devoured by her like this with a house full of people just downstairs.
Your hips stutter. You grind into her mouth, that coil winding impossibly tight, and Mel—good girl that she is—never breaks eye contact. She moans again, needy and wrecked, the sound vibrating through you like lightning.
And then you’re coming—fast and hard, thighs clamping around her face, cunt pulsing on her tongue, moaning her name like a prayer. Your knees nearly give out, but she holds you up, lets you ride it out on her face, lets you fuck your release into her mouth like it’s what she was made for.
When you finally exhale, trembling, legs weak, she’s still licking—slow now, almost gentle. Cleaning you up. Worshipping you.
You reach down, tilt her face up. Her lips are glossy with you, eyes dazed and adoring.
“You’re not walking out of here first,” you murmur, tugging her up into a kiss, tasting yourself on her mouth. “I want them all to see me first. Let them wonder what happened.”
She nods, drunk on you.
“Then you come out a few minutes after me,” you murmur against her lips, dragging your teeth gently along her bottom one before giving it a playful bite. “Hair a mess. Legs barely holding you up. Dress inside out. Let them wonder.”
Mel shivers, her eyes fluttering shut for a second.
And then she smiles. That sly, secret smile meant only for you.
The two of you descend the stairs together, her hand still laced in yours like she’s clinging to something she doesn’t want to let go of—like she’s afraid the moment she does, you’ll vanish.
The house is alive with noise: bass-heavy music vibrating the walls, drunken laughter echoing off tile, smoke curling through the air. It’s all blurred now—too many people, too many conversations, too much chaos. But none of it touches you. Not really. Not when your skin still burns with the echo of her body. Nobody’s paying attention.
Not yet.
But something about the air feels different. Heavier. Tighter. Like a storm rolled in silently and is just waiting for the first strike of lightning.
You lead her outside to the edge of the patio, somewhere quieter. She exhales slowly, chest rising and falling, like she’s trying to steady herself. Her lipstick is nearly gone. Her curls are a mess from your fingers. Her dress is rumpled. And she looks beautiful—unraveled and kissed raw.
Still, she hasn’t said a word.
“I meant what I said,” you murmur, brushing a curl from her cheek, voice soft but steady. “He doesn’t touch you like I do. Doesn’t know how to look at you like this.”
She blinks at you, something aching in her eyes—wide and wet and unsure. Her lips part like she’s finally about to say something back, to answer you with truth or apology or something messier. But her expression shifts. Her smile disappears.
You follow her gaze.
And your stomach drops straight through the floor. Jayce is standing on the other side of the room, just beyond the crowd. Frozen. Still. Not talking. Not drinking. Just watching. And from the way his jaw is set, from the sharpness in his stare, you know he’s been standing there long enough to see everything. No smile. No confusion. Just something cold. Mel’s fingers twitch in yours.
And then she lets go.
You don’t know if it’s to protect you from whatever happens next. Or because some part of her is still his. And that maybe, just maybe, she’s about to prove it.
I got lazy towards the end I’m sorry I’ve been working on this for four whole days again thank you sm for 400 followers this means the world to me Ⓒ atereaste
#atereaste library 📚#lesbian#mel medarda x reader#wlw#arcane x reader#arcane mel#mel medarda x you#mel x you#mel medarda smut#mel x reader#arcane mel x reader#mel medarda#mel my beloved
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Accident~ Brothers!Sturniolo Triplets
Summary: You loved to colour anything but accidentally ruin one of Nick's Space Camp designs.
Warnings: shouting, crying, angst with a happy ending
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You were a very tame three year old. You never really got into trouble, sometimes loud, but never troublesome. You also loved being close to your brothers and loved being in LA with them, which is where you are right now.
You sat at the table colouring some pictures that Chris got you, your brothers were filming a stream in Matt's room but said if you needed anything to get them, as your parents had gone out for a bit to explore LA.
You then saw a piece of paper, which you thought was free to use, so you grabbed it and started drawing all over it, not realising it was a new design for Space Camp.
"Hey kiddo!" Chris exclaimed, as he walked in, closely followed by Nick and Matt.
"Hi! Look!" You replied just as cheery, showing him the pictures you coloured.
"Look amazing, sweetheart." Matt said, softly kissing your forehead.
"Then I draw this!" You added, showing them the drawing you did.
"That looks coo-" Nick began, but froze as he saw the designs on the back.
He quickly took the piece of paper from you and looked, seeing you had drawn all over his new designs for his meeting in a week.
"You not like?" You questioned.
"These are my new Space Camp designs." He said.
"Can't you actually use your brain for once kid! Look at what you've done!" He shouted.
"Hey calm down, she didn't know." Matt said.
"Of course she did! It's obvious these are new designs!" Nick responded.
"You always mess up! Always gotta colour something! This was for a new line and you completely ruined it!" He continued.
You frowned and felt tears in your eyes, none of your brothers had shouted at you before.
"I sorry." You said quietly.
"Dude, back off." Chris said, tugging the eldest back.
You ran to Matt's room since it was the closest and curled up on his bed, crying into the pillows. Both Matt and Chris looked at Nick.
"Bro, she's three." Chris said, disappointed with his brother.
"She ruined something big for me." Nick tried to defend, but the guilt was already setting in.
"She couldn't tell. You also left it out for anyone to use, what if I accidentally wrote a list on it?" Matt called.
"I....I fucked up, didn't I?" Nick asked, both Chris and Matt nodded.
"Yeah dude, again, she's three. She can't always tell what's right and wrong." Chris answered.
"You go cool down and we'll calm her, then you talk to her when your ready to apologise." Matt said.
Nick nodded and went to cool down in his room for a bit. An hour later you had calmed down, not crying anymore as you sat with Chris and Matt watching Looney Tunes. There was a soft knock on the door and Nick poked his head in.
"Can I come in?" He asked.
Matt nodded as you curled up to Chris more, scared he would shout again. Nick frowned and came over, kneeling on the floor.
"Hey sweetheart, I'm really sorry for shouting at you. I didn't mean it and I'm sorry I scared you." He apologised.
"Accident." You mumbled.
"I know, kiddo, it was an accident and I was a horrible big brother by shouting and blaming you for something you didn't fully understand. I got you something as a sorry." He said.
Nick then pulled out a Taz stuffed animal. You smiled as you reached for it, making him smile a bit.
"Thank you." You whispered.
"Your welcome and I'm sorry again." He replied.
You smiled and hugged the eldest triplet, making Matt and Chris smile, knowing things are okay now.
#sturniolo triplets#sturniolo triplets oneshot#sturniolo triplets fanfic#sturniolo triplets x reader#chris sturniolo fanfic#chris sturniolo x reader#chris sturniolo oneshot#chris sturniolo#christopher sturniolo#nick sturniolo oneshot#nick sturniolo fanfic#nick sturniolo x reader#nick sturniolo#nicolas sturniolo#matt sturniolo fanfic#matt sturniolo oneshot#matt sturniolo x reader#matt sturniolo#matthew sturniolo#platonic#fluff#romance#brothers!sturniolo triplets#brothers!triplets#sister!reader
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ALMOST. MAYBE. NEVER | psh | p3

It had been three and a half months.
And he hadn’t missed a Saturday.
Not even once.
Sunghoon showed up with a patience you didn’t know he was capable of.
He never rushed you. Never forced you to talk about before.
He didn’t push. He just stayed—on your doorstep, in your space, slowly, steadily slipping back into your life not as a shadow of the past, but as someone new.
And you were healing.
You were learning to smile at his texts again. To laugh over takeout.
You even caught yourself staring at him in quiet moments—the way his mouth moved when he read, the soft hum he did while washing dishes.
Once, he reached for your hand at a street crossing—and you didn’t pull away. You let your fingers fold into his like they belonged there.
It was fragile. But it was real.
You were beginning to believe again.
Then you saw her.
It was a Thursday.
Not even his day, you joked sometimes—Saturdays were his.
You were picking up flowers for your co-worker’s birthday. It had rained that morning, and the sidewalks were still damp. You were humming, actually, holding lavender stalks wrapped in kraft paper when you saw him across the street.
Sunghoon.
And… someone else.
She was beautiful in that forgettable, effortless way.
Hair long and curled. Gold hoops. A flowy blouse that said: “I don’t even try.”
She laughed at something he said and touched his arm.
His arm.
The same arm you held in movies. The same one that used to curl around you during thunderstorms.
He smiled. The smile.
The same one you hadn’t seen all week.
Something cracked inside your ribs, sharp and nauseating.
Your breath hitched before you could stop it.
And you remembered—
Three years ago.
You loved him first.
And watched him walk away anyway.
This was different.
He said this was different.
So why did it feel exactly the same?
You left the flowers on the cashier’s counter.
Didn’t pay. Didn’t explain.
Your legs moved before your heart could catch up.
That night, you sat on the floor of your room, still wearing your shoes. The bouquet Sunghoon gave you last Saturday was wilted on your windowsill. You stared at it, hollow.
How stupid could you be?
Believing in second chances. In consistency. In promises not even spoken aloud.
You had let him in again.
And now, you couldn’t breathe past the fear.
You didn’t cry.
Not until your chest tightened so hard it felt like your lungs were folding.
Because this wasn’t just about now.
It was about before.
The sleepless nights. The half-goodbyes. The ache of waiting for someone who never really came.
And this time, if you lost him again—
You weren’t sure you’d recover.
[Sunghoon<3 ]: Can you be home by 7? I want to bring you something :)
You didn’t answer.
You couldn’t.
He came anyway.
Of course he did.
With a smile and a paper bag, wearing that hopeful look he always wore when he had something to give.
But the second he saw your face—
His expression faltered.
“Y/N?”
You said nothing.
“What’s wrong?”
Your voice was tired. Raw. Quiet. “I saw you.”
He blinked. “What?”
“This afternoon. With her.”
Realization flickered over his face. “Oh—Soojin.”
You let out a dry laugh. “I don’t care what her name is.”
“No—wait.” He stepped forward, hands raised. “She’s my cousin. From Jeju. I—God—Y/N, I asked her to help me with something for you—”
He abruptly stopped himself.
But it was too late. You’d already turned away.
He gently reached out, fingers ghosting your wrist.
“Please. Let me show you.”
You didn’t move.
So he slowly placed the box down on your table and backed away.
You hesitated. Then picked it up with trembling fingers.
Inside was a delicate silver bracelet—sunflower charm dangling at the center.
Below it was a folded Polaroid of you both, sitting on the gallery steps from your second Saturday together. You were mid-laugh. His face was turned toward you—not smiling at the camera, but at you.
He spoke, voice thick. “I had her design it because… I didn’t want to mess it up. It was supposed to be a surprise. For today.”
You stared at the bracelet.
Then at him.
His eyes were red now. Tired.
“I’m not that guy anymore,” he said. “I know what it looked like. But I need you to believe me when I say—I don’t make space for almosts anymore. I only make space for you.”
Silence stretched between you, heavy with all the versions of your heartbreak.
And then—
You sobbed.
You broke.
The tears came in a quiet rush, and your knees buckled onto the couch.
Sunghoon rushed to you without hesitation.
You didn’t push him away.
You let him hold you—tight, warm, apologetic, real.
Later, your head on his chest, you whispered, “I thought I was losing you again.”
“I’ll never let that happen,” he said, brushing your hair back. “Not again. Never again.”
You looked up, eyes swollen. “I’m still scared.”
He kissed your forehead. “Then I’ll stay until you aren’t.”
He didn’t ruin the surprise.
He saved it.
Because this time, it came with truth.
With love.
And with proof that even the ones who once broke your heart—can learn how to hold it right.
This time, it was different.
This time, he stayed.
This time—it was real.
The sun peeked through the blinds in golden lines, striping across the floor like brushstrokes.
It was quiet.
Not the fragile kind of quiet you had grown used to with Sunghoon—the kind filled with uncertainty and words unsaid.
This quiet was warm.
Safe.
Real.
Your cheek rested against his chest, your fingers curled lightly in the fabric of his shirt. He hadn’t changed out of it last night, hadn’t planned to stay. But when you fell apart in his arms, he simply held you tighter—and didn’t let go.
You didn’t ask him to stay.
He just did.
Not because it was easy. But because you needed him—and he knew that.
Now, his arms were still wrapped around you. His breathing was slow. Steady. Deep.
You shifted just slightly, blinking the sleep from your eyes. His shirt smelled like soap and something undeniably him. That faint citrusy-clean scent you used to bury your face into.
And for a brief second, you wondered how long you’d missed this.
Not the touch.
But the presence.
The knowing that when you woke up, he’d still be here.
He stirred gently as you moved.
“Mm,” he mumbled groggily, voice still thick with sleep. “You okay?”
You looked up, voice soft. “Yeah.”
His eyes barely opened, but he tilted his head to look down at you. “Nightmares?”
You shook your head. “No. Just… processing.”
He hummed again. One of his hands slipped up to cradle the back of your head, fingers weaving gently through your hair. “You scared me last night.”
You paused. “I scared myself.”
He opened his eyes fully then, the brown of them dark and sincere in the morning light.
“I meant it,” he said. “Every word. There’s no one else. There won’t be.”
You searched his expression. “It’s hard to believe sometimes.”
“I know.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead. “So I’ll keep showing you until it isn’t.”
You smiled faintly, and he smiled back. Not his charming one—the real one. The one that reached his eyes and lingered in the air like a promise.
“Is this the part,” you murmured, “where you go make coffee in your sleep shirt and pretend you’re domestic?”
He chuckled. “I’ll pretend anything you want if you keep smiling at me like that.”
You rolled your eyes playfully. “Gross.”
He leaned in and whispered, “You love it.”
You didn’t deny it.
He eventually got up—stumbling a little from stiff limbs and a couch that definitely wasn’t big enough for both of you. He tugged on your oversized cardigan and padded into your kitchen barefoot, hair a mess, eyes squinting against the light.
And for a long moment, you just sat on the couch and watched him move.
It was a picture you used to daydream about when he was gone.
Now it was real.
The bracelet sat on your wrist, cool against your skin.
You touched it with your thumb and whispered, “Stay.”
He turned around, holding two mugs, brows raised.
“I wasn’t going anywhere.”
Later, you sat on the floor, sipping coffee and eating leftover cookies from the night before. Your knees brushed under the table, and this time, he didn’t pull away. He leaned his head against yours, and you leaned back.
No questions.
No doubt.
Just warmth.
And the kind of love that finally stayed in the morning.
This was it.
Not a beginning.
Not a return.
But a becoming.
You looked at him, and you didn’t feel fear anymore.
You felt home.
The day passed with soft touches and warm glances.
You didn’t go out.
Didn’t need to.
It was the kind of day that felt stitched together by hands and silence and comfort. The kind of slow peace you hadn’t let yourself dream of since the first time you lost him.
Now, the city was quiet outside the window.
The glow from the lamp cast a soft amber halo across the room. You were lying side by side on your bed, limbs tangled under the blankets. Music hummed quietly from the corner speaker—low enough to feel rather than hear.
And for a while, neither of you spoke.
Until he broke the stillness.
“Can I ask you something?” Sunghoon’s voice was quiet. Careful.
You turned your head toward him, blinking in the warm light. “Yeah?”
He stared up at the ceiling like it had answers he didn’t. “What was the part that hurt the most? Back then.”
You hesitated. Not because you didn’t know.
But because you did.
You let the words come slowly. “It wasn’t seeing you with someone else. It wasn’t even the leaving.”
He looked at you then.
“It was that you didn’t try.”
Your voice cracked.
“I kept giving you pieces of me. Little things—like my time, my patience, my trust. And every time I waited for you to meet me halfway, you just… stood there. Let me fill in all the space alone.”
He was quiet.
So you continued, “You could’ve just said, ‘I’m not ready.’ You could’ve told me the truth. But you let me believe I wasn’t enough. And that messed with me in ways I didn’t even realize until I started trying to love someone else.”
His eyes filled with something heavy.
“I didn’t know how to give you anything,” he said finally. “I didn’t even know who I was. I told myself it was safer to keep you close but not too close, because I thought if I never made it real, I couldn’t mess it up.”
You let out a bitter laugh. “That’s the thing, Sunghoon. You did make it real. Just not for you. For me.”
He turned to face you fully now, eyes shining. “I know. And I think that’s what I hate most about who I was. I kept you like a secret and loved you like a habit.”
Silence.
Then, softly, “I was so scared.”
You looked at him gently, still tired, still tender. “Of what?”
He didn’t blink. “That I’d never be enough for the way you looked at me.”
Your breath caught.
You reached for his hand under the covers and laced your fingers with his.
“I wasn’t asking you to be perfect,” you whispered. “I was asking you to show up.”
He nodded slowly.
“I’m here now,” he said. “And I won’t run again. Even if it gets hard. Especially when it gets hard.”
You squeezed his hand.
“I’m still scared too,” you admitted.
He didn’t flinch.
“Then we’ll be scared together,” he said. “But we’ll talk. We’ll stay. We’ll choose each other—every day.”
He leaned in, forehead pressed against yours.
And there, in the softest space between the hurt and the healing, he whispered, “I love you.”
You didn’t say it back.
Not yet.
But you looked him in the eyes and let him see it.
Because you didn’t need to say it for it to be real.
Not this time.
Some nights heal what years tried to erase.
This was one of them.
No more almosts.
No more maybe.
Just this. Just you. Just him.
Here.
Now.
Together.
tobiosbbyghorl 2025
final part next hehe
#luvbytaerungz writes#sunghoon scenarios#enhypen scenarios#sunghoon x reader#enhypenwriters#sunghoonfluff#sunghoononeshot#enhypenxreader#sunghoonxreader#sunghoon fic#park sunghoon fluff#sunghoon angst#park sunghoon x reader#park sunghoon
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yandere!jeon jae-jun x f!reader
warnings: yandere, abusive, and toxic relationship headcannons based off of actions he has done in the show.
jae-jun’s obsession with you starts out of no where.
well, at least it was 'out of nowhere' to you.
it was a lingering glance at a party where your presence outshines everyone else in his eyes.
“you think you can just walk away from someone like me?”
he mutters, cornering you, his voice low and dangerous.
jae-jun is relentless, he will track your every move.
phone pings, social media likes, even tailing you in his sleek black car.
“i know where you were last night,”
he smirks, leaning too close, his cologne suffocating.
possessiveness is his core trait.
he’ll glare at anyone who dares talk to you, his hand gripping your wrist tightly.
“you’re mine, don’t fucking forget it,”
he hisses through clenched teeth.
he manipulates your social circle, spreading lies to isolate you.
“your friends don’t get you like i do,”
he says, feigning concern while sabotaging your relationships.
jae-jun uses his wealth to control you, showering you with extravagant gifts like designer bags and jewelry.
he does it only to guilt you later.
“after all i’ve done, you owe me,”
he snaps when you resist.
he’s volatile, his mood swinging from charming to cruel in seconds.
one moment he’s whispering sweet nothings, the next he’s slamming a fist into a wall right beside your face.
“you make me like this,”
he blames you.
he installs tracking apps on your phone, claiming it’s for your safety.
“i can’t lose you,”
he says, but his eyes glint with paranoia as he checks your location hourly.
jae-jun’s jealousy is explosive.
if you talk to another guy, its wraps.
he’ll drag you away, fingers bruising your arm.
“you think you can flirt and act like a major slut thinking i won’t notice?”
he growls, pinning you against a wall.
he gaslights you constantly, twisting your words to make you doubt yourself.
“you’re overreacting, i didn’t even raise my voice,”
he lies after a screaming match.
physicality is his weapon since he is so much taller than you.
jaejun will crowd your space, towering over you to intimidate.
“try running, and i’ll find you,”
he threatens, his breath hot against your ear.
he sabotages your job or studies, showing up uninvited or causing scenes to make you dependent on him.
"you don’t need that shit; i’ll take care of you,”
he insists.
he’s obsessive about your appearance, dictating what you wear.
“wear this dress tonight, or i’ll burn the rest,”
he orders, tossing a skimpy black outfit at you.
he’ll lock you in his penthouse for days, claiming it’s a “romantic getaway.” “just you and me, no one else,”
the locked door says otherwise.
jae-jun uses sex as control, pushing your boundaries with a predatory grin.
“you know you want this, don't act like you haven't been wet for me all day...”
he whispers against your earlobe, ignoring your hesitation.
jae-jun’s public persona is charming, but behind closed doors, he’s cruel.
“smile for me, or i’ll give you something to cry about,”
he records intimate moments without your consent, using them as blackmail.
sometimes he will crash your personal events like birthdays, family dinners as if he belongs there.
he fantasizes about a future where you’re completely his, talking about kids or marriage obsessively.
“you’re not leaving, ever,”
he says, gripping your chin.
he punishes you for perceived mistakes.
for example, he will ignore your call and ghost you for days, only to return with gifts.
“thought you’d miss me,”
he taunts.
honestly, your biggest blessing is when one of jaejun's victims back from high school comes back to haunt him.
that is if you weren't one of the ones who was terrorizing dong-eun in order to impress jaejun, of course.
you can only escape his obsessive-self after he is finished off.
masterlist
#jeon jae joon#jeon jae jun#the glory#the glory x reader#park sunghoon#park sunghoon actor#squid game#cho hyun ju#moon dong eun#park yeon jin
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