#anyway not my best work but I do like the detail on the sky

[beneaththeshadows]

I made this last year while trying to figure out how to shade. I had picked 3 chapters to sketch something about them, either a scene or something else, and for Dany V AGOT, I couldn't, for the sake of me, bring myself to do something I was satisfied with, so I decided to do something more on the "mystical" side of things and this was the result

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 19

˗ˏˋ redefining stances ˎˊ˗

"You have always put people in different categories: friends, dating and fucking. And the idea of someone redefining that makes your chest twist inwardly, because that's just not how it works. Never has."

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⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 15k

content: parental expectations, inner monologue, anxiety attacks, body reactions, redefining terms (friendship), fights, communicating (kind of...), subtle propositions, blowjob, handjob, embarrassment and insecurity / self-doubt (f), guiding (m), orgasm, cumming on face, hanging out plans.

✧ author's note ✧

WHEEEEEEW. okay. hi. hello. greetings. blessings upon your crops.

So first of all, I must humbly report that the new goal system (Tumblr and Wattpad having to align like twin stars) is working beautifully. It gave me a luxurious (dare I say scandalous) nine-day window to edit, tweak, breathe, and cry. And I only did one of those things on the floor (take a wild guess). I’m keeping it for now, besties. Let’s see if it continues to save me from myself.

Now. This chapter. Yeah. She’s 15k. And I would say “I don’t know how that happened,” but I would be lying through my teeth. Ask Koopsy. The BJ scene alone was 3k at one point. And then I had time. And we all know what happens when I have time. I rewrote it. And suddenly it’s eight. I regret nothing. It’s unhinged but like… in a deliciously purposeful way.

I especially loved dragging some vulnerability out of our girl—Y/N’s still that stubborn “keep it all inside or die” kind of girlie, but you’ll see her starting to leak, emotionally. And the way Jungkook isn’t being mocking when she cracks a little? When she masks her insecurity and he just sees her? HELLO. I giggled. I kicked my feet. I twirled my hair.

Also?? This chapter really digs into how fundamentally opposite they are when it comes to emotional frameworks. Like, Y/N hears “friendship” and sees expectations, accountability, people expecting her to care back. Hard pass. Meanwhile Jungkook is like “let’s label this so we can safely not fall.” LMAO. It’s giving defensive strategies 101. It’s giving textbook avoidant-anxious overlap. It’s giving both of you need therapy immediately and maybe a hug.

BUT. You’ll also see a little growth. A spark. A whisper of a maybe. She doesn’t fully shut down. She doesn’t say “no.” She’s simmering. And as someone with trauma? That simmer is progress. That’s real. That’s human. That’s our girl doing her best with a backpack full of emotional grenades.

Anyway. This is your 4x VERY slow emotional slow burn reminder. If you’re here hoping they’ll acknowledge feelings soon—first of all, who are you? Second of all, no. Third of all, this is not a customer service inbox. You don’t get to file complaints. You get to suffer. That’s the deal.

Enjoy the chapter, scream in my inbox, or join the crying circle on Tumblr where the rest of Kiki Nation gathers to chant “girl what the hell” in unison.

Welcome if you're new. Godspeed if you’ve been here.

Kiki out.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Pancakes smell like rain and roses and a home you can't go back to.

The smell is soft at first, curling around the edges of your consciousness as you blink against the morning light filtering through the blinds. Warm and familiar, it drags you back—not to this kitchen, not to this apartment, but somewhere far away. Somewhere softer. Somewhere safer.

Pancakes always smelled like home. Like rainy mornings where the sky was a patchwork of grays and blues, stitched together by streaks of silver rain that blurred the world outside the window. Mom would hum as she worked, her voice low and steady, blending with the sound of batter hitting the pan and the hiss of butter melting into golden pools.

She never measured anything—not really. Just a spoonful here, a dash there, warm milk poured straight from the carton into the bowl without hesitation. She’d laugh when Dad complained about her ‘eyeball method,’ but he never said no to her pancakes. Not once.

The kitchen always smelled alive on those mornings—like butter and sugar and coffee mingling in the air, weaving through the faint floral scent of the potted roses Mom kept near the window. She swore they dulled the smell of food, but they never did. The pancakes always won, their buttery sweetness overpowering everything else until it felt like you could taste them just by breathing.

You loved those mornings. Loved how they made the house feel lived in for once—like more than just walls and furniture and people passing each other on their way to somewhere else. On rainy days, it felt like home. Like something worth staying for.

Maybe that’s why pancakes were your favorite. Not because of how they tasted (though they were always perfect—soft and fluffy with just enough sweetness to make you grin through a mouthful), but because of what they meant. Because they were more than breakfast; they were a memory stitched together with rain and roses and laughter that echoed long after the plates were cleared.

You close your eyes now, letting the smell wash over you like a wave, pulling you under until all you can think about is that kitchen—the one with the chipped tiles and mismatched chairs where Mom would stand with batter-stained hands and Dad would sip his coffee too loudly just to annoy her.

And for a moment—for one fleeting second—you’re there again.

Home.

The problem with perfect memories is they're usually lies.

And then it's gone.

The mirage of home evaporates like morning dew on grass, leaving behind the acrid aftertaste of something that never really existed. Not like that. Not with the softness your mind painted over the jagged edges.

Those pancake mornings? They always came with conditions.

‘Straight A's this semester, honey? Pancakes on Sunday!’

‘Piano recital went well? Let's celebrate with breakfast tomorrow.’

‘SAT prep finished early? I'll make your favorite in the morning.’

Always a reward. Always a transaction. No matter how much vanilla extract Mom added to the batter, you could still taste the expectation underneath—bitter and metallic, like pennies on your tongue.

Makes sense why you can't enjoy things without earning them first. Why everything has to be deserved.

The scent wafting through the apartment shifts now. No longer just butter and sugar and rain-soaked roses, but something sharper. Something that stings the back of your throat and makes your stomach twist.

Guilt.

Because who the fuck resents pancakes? Who looks at a mother standing over a hot stove, humming while she makes your favorite breakfast, and thinks: this isn't enough?

You do, apparently.

You who had everything—the nice house, the private school, the parents who ‘just wanted what was best.’ The ungrateful daughter who still squirmed under their touch, who counted down the days until college like a prisoner marking time.

You don't have the right to feel trapped by love. You know that.

People would kill for what you had. For parents who showed up. For a home without holes in the walls. For pancakes on Sunday mornings.

So entitled. So privileged.

The voice in your head sounds like Mom when she's disappointed—soft and somehow, sharp at its core. She never raised her voice. 

Never had to. 

Just that quiet, ‘I expected better from you,’ that cut deeper than any scream.

Your teeth grind together, jaw clenching so hard it aches. 

There's a pressure building behind your eyes, hot and insistent, but you refuse to let it out. 

Not over fucking pancakes.

Not over the way Dad would look at your report card before he looked at you. 

Not over the way Mom rescheduled your life without asking, because ‘Yale doesn't accept students who waste time on sketching.’

Not over the way they both pretended your opinion was valued while systematically stripping away every choice that mattered.

‘We're just guiding you. We're just helping. We're just doing what parents are supposed to do.’

The smell of pancakes is suffocating now. Cloying. Sweet in a way that coats your tongue and makes you want to scrape it off.

And still, there's that whisper, that insidious little thought that's been following you since you left: Maybe if you'd been better—more grateful, more deserving—it wouldn't have felt like a cage.

Because that's the real fucked-up part, isn't it? You miss them. Miss the security of those Sunday mornings. Miss knowing exactly what was expected, even as you chafed against it.

Miss feeling like someone cared enough to map out your entire life, even if they never bothered asking which direction you wanted to go.

The guilt surges again, stronger. 

What kind of monster resents safety? What kind of daughter hates being loved?

The kind who runs away to New York and still wakes up in the middle of the night, heart racing, thinking she's late for a lesson she never wanted to take.

The kind who changed her major three times before settling on English, just because it was the one subject Dad thought was ‘impractical.’

The kind who buys her own groceries and pays her own rent and still can't shake the feeling that she's doing everything wrong. That somewhere, someone is keeping score, and you're failing.

The kind who smells pancakes and wants to cry.

Not because you miss home.

But because part of you is afraid it's following you here, to the one place that was supposed to be yours. Just yours. With no expectations attached.

The smell is coming from the kitchen. Someone is making pancakes in your kitchen.

And you don't know whether to smile or scream.

Your fingers clutch your phone, because the pressure building in your chest has to be channeled somewhere. 

The numbers glare back at you, accusatory.

8:00

8:00

8:00

Panic bubbles out of you.

Late. You're late. You're always fucking late. Dad's voice in your head, that disappointed sigh. ‘Time management reflects character, dear.’

You bolt upright, heart hammering against your ribs, and then—

Nothing is right.

The sheets aren't yours. Too dark, too soft. The wall is wrong—black, with one accent wall in deep red that you've definitely never painted. There's a carpet beneath your feet when you swing your legs over the edge. Your water bottle isn't where it should be. Your clothes aren't where you left them, you’re naked.

This isn't your room.

This is Jungkook's room.

Jungkook's bed.

And suddenly last night comes rushing back in fragments that make your skin heat up.

Not the usual—not the snarky comments across the kitchen table or the silent treatment when you're pissed at each other. Not the avoidance of the last four days where you both pretended the other didn't exist.

No, last night was... talking. Just talking. Both of you just... existing in the same space without trying to burn it down.

And then—

Jesus Christ.

You press your palms against your eyes, but that doesn't stop the memory. Him between your thighs, making those sounds like he was the one getting pleasure from it. The way he looked up at you, eyes almost black in the low light. How he touched himself while tasting you, like he couldn't help it.

And then after, when you both should've retreated to separate corners to lick your wounds and rebuild your walls—you didn't. You fucking climbed into his bed. Told him to stay. Like it was nothing. Like it was normal.

What the actual fuck is wrong with you?

You can't even blame alcohol. Two glasses of wine over the entire evening doesn't equal drunk. Doesn't equal stupid decisions. Doesn't equal... whatever the hell last night was.

So what was it?

You drag your hands down your face, feeling the heat in your cheeks. 

Are you really that easy to disarm? One decent conversation, one night where he's not being a complete ass, and suddenly you're sleeping in his bed like some kind of...

Like what? Not a girlfriend. Not a friend with benefits, because friends actually like each other. 

Just... a girl who got confused. Who let her guard down. Who maybe wanted, just for a night, to not fight everything and everyone.

Including yourself.

You grab one of Jungkook’s discarded black T-shirts (oversized ones, because he thinks he’s cool or something) and some clean boxers to entertain your thoughts. 

But it’s no use.

Your fingers dig into your scalp, tugging at your hair. You want to bang your head against the wall until these thoughts scatter, but then you remember—again—that it's not your wall. It's his. This entire space belongs to him, and you're the intruder here.

Except he didn't say no, did he? When you suggested, he didn't really hesitate. Much. Just huffed, carried you and then plopped right next to you. Like maybe he wanted it too.

And for one brief, stupid moment last night, curled up in sheets that still smelled like him, you thought… maybe this could work.

Maybe you could actually be friends.

Real friends.

The kind who talk about shit that matters. Who know things about each other that have nothing to do with sex or power plays. The kind who don’t pretend silence is neutrality and eye contact is war.

But friends means caring. And caring while fucking is a road that leads straight to complication city, population: you, crying on the bathroom floor at 3 AM wondering why you weren't enough.

Fucking is one thing. Dating is another.

Being friends? That’s a whole different monster.

And you’re not naïve enough to believe people can safely be all three at once—not without bleeding somewhere.

Sure, people who date usually start as friends. And yes, most people who date also fuck.

But you?

You don’t date. You detonate.

And Jungkook? He’s got matchsticks for fingers and a mouth that knows exactly where your fault lines are.

So, no. He doesn’t get to be all three. Doesn’t get to orbit your life from multiple angles. Doesn’t get to slip into your day like heat and leave like regret.

He’s not dating material.

But he is fuckable. Dangerously, addictively, ruin-your-life fuckable.

So that’s where he stays. Logically.

You check your phone again. Still 8:00 AM. But it’s Saturday, which means—

Your new job. Barnes & Noble. 10:00 AM.

The panic recedes, leaving behind a hollow sort of relief. 

You're not late. You have time. Two whole hours to figure out how to look Jungkook in the eye without thinking about his mouth between your legs or the way his voice sounded when he talked about his ex or how he looked when he seemed actually, genuinely concerned.

Two hours to rebuild all those walls that somehow, without you noticing, started to crumble.

You're not sure it's enough time.

The heel of your palms dig into your eyes as you let out a sigh that feels like it's been trapped in your chest for days. 

Fucking pancakes. The whole place reeks of them, sweet and buttery and—

Pain slices through you, vicious and unexpected.

"Fuck—" 

Your body curls in on itself automatically, a reflex you can't control. It feels like someone's taken a rusty knife to your insides and decided to twist. Your hand flies to your lower abdomen, pressing against it like that'll somehow help. Like you can hold yourself together through sheer force of will.

The IUD. Has to be.

It's been nagging at you for days now. Little pinpricks, the occasional twinge that made you wince but was easy enough to ignore. 

But this? This is something else entirely. This is your body throwing a full-scale revolt.

You sink back onto Jungkook's bed, chest doubling over toward your knees. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. Just like Mom taught you, back when panic attacks would hit in the middle of the night before big tests. Back when your chest would get tight and the world would spin and everything felt like too much.

‘In through your nose. Hold for four. Out through your mouth.’

‘Good girl. That's my good, brave girl.’

The memory of her voice is so clear it's almost like she's here, sitting next to you on this bed that isn't yours, in this room that smells like someone else. Guiding you through the pain like she always did. Always so calm. Always so sure.

Even when you hated her methods, you never doubted she knew what she was doing.

The pain ebbs, receding like a tide that's bound to come back. It leaves you empty and oddly fragile, staring at the dark gray carpet between your bare feet. The urge to slide back under Jungkook's covers is almost overwhelming. To just hide there until the world feels less overwhelming.

Something soft and warm brushes against your ankle.

Griffin looks up at you with those unblinking amber eyes, his tail a question mark behind him. He makes that little chirping sound that's not quite a meow, more like he's asking if you're okay in the only language he knows.

"Hey, buddy," you murmur, reaching down to scratch under his chin where he likes it best.

He leans into your touch, purring loudly enough that you can feel the vibration through your fingertips. 

Such a simple thing. Touch and response. Need and fulfillment. No conditions, no expectations. Just connection.

It makes your throat feel tight in a way that has nothing to do with pain.

Griffin bumps his head against your palm, demanding more attention. Typical. Exactly like his owner—always taking more than he's given.

The thought makes you snort softly. 

You stand, slower this time, wary of another attack from your rebellious reproductive system—yet nothing happens. Small mercies.

When you open Jungkook's door, the smell of pancakes hits you like a wall. Rich and sweet and somehow wrong. Not like home. Not quite. Different ingredients, different hands.

And there he is. In a fucking Sonic the Hedgehog T-shirt and matching pajama pants. Hair a mess, like he styled it with a fork and an air fryer. Flipping pancakes like he’s got his life together.

Standing in the kitchen with his back to you, shoulders moving slightly in time to whatever's playing through those expensive headphones. Completely in his own world. Completely unaware that you've been having an internal crisis in his bed for the past twenty minutes.

Completely, infuriatingly normal. Like last night changed nothing.

Maybe it didn't. For him. 

Maybe it didn’t. For you.

Or maybe it did. 

You sigh, dragging yourself toward the kitchen because someone needs to make sure he doesn't burn the whole fucking place down. The security deposit is half yours, after all.

Jungkook doesn’t show any sort of acknowledgement, headphones clamped over his ears, head bobbing so violently you're genuinely concerned it might detach from his neck. 

Like his brain doesn't have enough problems already without the potential concussion.

Now that you're closer, you can actually hear him—not just humming, but full-on rapping? along. 

Or trying to. 

The tinny leak from his headphones gives you just enough to recognize that god-awful song that's been all over TikTok lately. 

Gang Baby, NLE Choppa.

Of course that's what this idiot listens to while making breakfast.

He spots you in his periphery and doesn't miss a beat, turning just enough to start mouthing the lyrics directly at you. His eyebrows do this ridiculous waggle when he gets to the part about let me B-A-N-G and let me fuck some.

You curl your lip in disgust, which only makes him snort and rap more enthusiastically.

"Real classy, Rogue. Nothing says 'good morning' like misogynistic garbage at—" you check your phone, "—8:12 AM." 

He pulls one side of his headphones away from his ear. 

"Sorry, what? Couldn't hear you over this absolute banger."

"I said," you position yourself next to him at the counter, peering at whatever he's mixing in that bowl, "you have the musical taste of a horny fourteen-year-old who just discovered his dad's Playboy collection."

"Hey, don't hate. NLE Choppa is a lyrical genius."

"Oh yeah? What's next on your sophisticated playlist? 'Me So Horny'? Maybe some 'My Neck, My Back'? Real breakfast ambiance."

"Those are classics," he grins, completely unashamed. "But I reserve those for special occasions. Seduction purposes only."

"Has that ever actually worked on anyone with more than two brain cells?"

"You tell me, Nix." His voice drops half an octave, eyes flicking down to your lips for just a second before he turns back to his bowl. 

You make an incredulous sound. 

“What the fuck are you making, anyway?"

"Protein pancakes, babyyyy!" He drags out the word, lifting the spatula like it's a trophy.

Your face must show exactly how you feel about that because he laughs.

"What? Gotta maintain these gains." 

The fucking idiot actually flexes then, one arm curling up while he continues to stir with the other.

You swat at him, connecting with his bicep. 

Firm. Solid. Warm. 

You pull your hand back like you've been burned.

"God, you're so fucking stupid."

"Stupid hot, maybe."

You ignore that, moving toward the coffee maker. The one thing in this apartment worth waking up for.

"Ah ah," he tsks, reaching behind him. "Already made you some."

You pause, watching as he passes a mug over to you. 

Your mug. The dark blue one with the chip on the handle that somehow ended up being yours even though you can't remember buying it. Steam curls from it, carrying the rich scent of coffee—strong, with just a hint of hazelnut. 

Exactly how you like it.

You bite the inside of your cheek, wrapping your fingers around the warm ceramic. 

��Thanks," you mutter, the word almost painful to push out.

"So," he says, pouring batter onto the griddle, "you're eating some pancakes, aren't you?"

You purse your lips, hesitating. 

On one hand, protein pancakes sound like something a gym bro invented to justify eating dessert for breakfast. 

On the other, your stomach reminds you it's been empty since those chips you inhaled around midnight.

"Come on," he pushes, "you need protein to maintain that ass, Nix."

Your jaw actually drops. "Excuse me?"

"What?" He grins, ducking his head when you swat at him again. "I'm just saying, would be a pity to throw that to waste. You've got an amazing—"

"Ughhhhh, okay! I got it!" You cut him off before he can finish. "I don’t wanna hear it at this hour. I'll eat your stupid pancakes, my god."

He looks far too pleased with himself, flipping a perfectly golden pancake like he thinks he’s an actual chef or something. 

"They're not stupid, they're nutritionally optimized."

"Is that what your protein powder labels call them? The ones with the half-naked bodybuilders flexing on the front?"

"Hey, don't judge my fitness journey."

"Oh, I'm judging everything about you, Rook. It’s my whole brand.”

He just chuckles, sliding the first pancake onto a plate and pouring more batter. The domesticity of it all is somehow ridiculous.

It feels too normal. Too easy. Like you've done this a hundred times before.

Like maybe you could do it a hundred times more.

Dangerous thought. Very dangerous.

You take a long sip of coffee, letting the bitter heat scald away whatever the hell that feeling was.

Jungkook slides a plate toward you, two perfectly golden pancakes stacked and steaming. 

And honestly; they actually smell... decent. Not like the protein chalk you expected.

"Bon appétit," he says with a ridiculous flourish of his hand. "Try not to fall in love."

"With you or the pancakes?" You grab a fork from the drawer, sitting on one stool and poking at your breakfast suspiciously.

"The pancakes.” He says with a smirk, joining you in the adjacent stool. “I’m too much for you to handle.”

You roll your eyes, taking a reluctant bite. Fuck. They're good. Like, actually good. Not gritty or chalky or tasting vaguely of chemicals like most protein-enhanced food.

His smug grin tells you your face has already betrayed you.

"Don't," you warn, pointing your fork at him.

"Don't what?" He leans forward, one elbow propped on the table. "Don't mention how your eyes just rolled back in your head? Or don't point out that I'm right about something, and that's clearly causing you physical pain?"

"Don't be insufferable before 9 AM." You take another bite, speaking around it. "I haven't had enough coffee to deal with you at full throttle."

"What about last night? You seemed pretty happy dealing with me at full throttle then."

"Seriously? We're doing this now?"

"Doing what?" He stabs his own pancakes with his utensil. "Having breakfast? Talking? Being... you know, normal?"

"Normal. Is that what we're doing?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, last night was..." He shrugs, taking a bite of pancake. "Nice. You know? We actually talked. Didn't try to kill each other. Maybe we could do that more."

Oh god. This is exactly what you were afraid of. This weird, awkward morning-after attempt to redefine things. 

He's going to want to put a label on it now, isn't he? 

Turn your convenient arrangement into something messy with expectations and feelings and other terrifying shit.

Friends. Or friends with benefits or whatever stupid idea he’s about to come up with. 

No. Absolutely not.

"We talked," you say carefully. "We also fucked. Let's not make it weird."

"How is it weird to suggest we could be, I don't know, actual friends?"

And there it is. 

"Friends." You stab at your pancake with more force than necessary. "Right. Because that's what people who've seen each other naked are. Friends."

"I mean, yeah? Friends who fuck. It's a whole thing. People do it all the time."

You look up at him, fork frozen halfway to your mouth. 

“And how's that worked out for you in the past, Rogue? These fuck-buddy friendships of yours—all solid, drama-free arrangements, were they?"

His eyebrows furrow. "I'm not suggesting we start braiding each other's hair and sharing deep dark secrets. Just saying maybe we don't have to pretend we hate each other 24/7."

"I don't hate you," you say automatically, then immediately regret it.

He scoffs. "Progress."

"Don't get excited. I don't like you, either."

"Sure you do." He grins around a mouthful of pancake. "You like parts of me, at least."

"Your modesty, definitely. That's my favorite part."

"Not what you were saying last night."

You throw a napkin at him. It flutters pathetically halfway across the space between you. 

Stupid napkin. Stupid Jungkook.

“Can we just—can we just eat? Without dissecting our relationship status?"

"What's there to dissect? We live together. We fuck sometimes. We talk sometimes. We don't hate each other. Seems pretty straightforward to me."

"Nothing's ever straightforward. Sex is one thing. Friendship is another. Put them together, and it's a disaster waiting to happen."

"Why? What's the issue? You really think if we start being decent to each other, suddenly the whole arrangement falls apart?"

"No, I think if we start being 'decent' to each other, suddenly there are expectations. Suddenly I'm supposed to care if you're having a bad day, or listen to your problems, or worry about your feelings when we're fucking."

"Wow. The horror." He rolls his eyes. "God forbid you acknowledge I'm a human being and not just a convenient dick."

"That's not what I meant—"

"Then what did you mean? Because from where I'm standing, it sounds like you think I'm too fucking stupid to understand boundaries. Like I'll immediately start writing your name in hearts or some shit just because we've upgraded from roommates to friends."

"I didn't say—"

"I don't want to date you, Nix. I don't want to be your boyfriend. I just thought it might be nice to not act like we're in some cold war every time we're in the same room. But if that's too much emotional labor for you, fine. We can go back to pretending the other doesn't exist unless we're naked."

The sting of his words surprises you. Why do you even care? This is what you want—no messy emotions, no expectations. Just the convenience of living together and occasionally hooking up. Clean. Simple.

Except now it feels anything but.

"You're twisting what I said."

"Am I? So you're not freaking out about the terrifying prospect of actually being friends with the guy you've been sleeping with?"

"I am not freaking out." You are absolutely freaking out. "I just think it's... cleaner. If we keep things the way they are."

"Cleaner." He snorts. "Right. God forbid anything in your life gets messy."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you've got your shit locked down so tight you're about to snap in half." He stands up, grabbing his mug of coffee. "You think I don't see it? How hard you try to control everything? How fucking terrified you are of anything that doesn't fit into your perfectly organized boxes?"

Your grip on the fork tightens. "Oh, please. Tell me more about myself, Rook. You've known me for what, one month? Clearly you're an expert."

"I may not know shit, but I see enough. I see you'd rather cut someone out completely than risk them having any kind of power over you.”

"Fuck you," you spit, but it comes out weaker than you intended. 

Because he's not wrong, and that's the worst part.

"Yeah, we've established that part works great." He drops his plate on the sink and it clatters noisily. “Look, forget it. You want to keep pretending we're strangers who occasionally fuck? Fine. Works for me. Less work anyway."

"That's not what I said." You stand up. "I just don't see why we need to redefine everything. Why can't we just... let it be what it is?"

"Because I don't even know what the fuck it is! Am I your roommate? Your fuck buddy? That guy you hate but tolerate because the rent is cheaper split three ways? What the hell am I supposed to tell people when they ask about you?"

"Why are people asking about me?"

"Jesus Christ." He throws his hands up. "That's what you focus on? Not the point, Phoenix."

"Then what is the point? Spell it out for me, since I'm clearly too stupid to get it."

"The point is, I talk to you more than I talk to most of my actual friends. I see you every day. I know how you take your coffee and what you look like when you come. So excuse the fuck out of me for thinking maybe, just maybe, we could drop the whole 'we're just roommates who tolerate each other' act and admit we might actually be friends."

You stare at him, chest tight with something you can't name. 

Can't or won't. 

This is exactly what you've been avoiding—this messy, complicated conversation that blurs all the neat lines you've drawn.

"I don't do friends with benefits," you finally say, voice quiet, your plate joining his. "It never works. Someone always ends up hurt."

"Who said anything about hurt? It's not that deep, Nix. We're not in a fucking rom-com."

"No, we're in real life, where things get complicated and messy and people have expectations they don't even realize until they're disappointed."

"The only expectation I have right now is for you to stop overthinking everything for five seconds."

"I'm not overthinking. I'm being realistic."

"You're being paranoid. And kind of insulting, if I'm honest. Like I'm some lovesick puppy who can't handle a casual arrangement."

“I’m paranoid? That’s rich coming from you, Ro. Real fucking rich."

His eyes narrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're a fucking hypocrite." The words tumble out, hot and fast. "You want to talk about being friends? About opening up? That's hilarious coming from the guy who deflects every personal question with some stupid joke."

"I don't—"

"You absolutely do. Every time." You step closer, jabbing a finger in his direction. "Ask about your financial situation? Oh, it's fine, just selling a kidney next week, ha ha. Ask about your ex? Turn it into some bullshit story about how she 'graded' you after sex, like it's all a big fucking joke."

His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. "That's different."

"How? How is it different? You want me to be all open and friendly, but all you do is deflect and crack jokes.”

"I didn’t say anything about being all open and—”

"Then what are you saying?" You throw your hands up, frustration making your voice rise. "Because it sounds like you want all the benefits of friendship without any of the actual vulnerability. You want me to be your friend when it's convenient, but god forbid I ask about anything that matters."

"What do you want to know, Nix? What deep dark secret are you dying to hear? How I'm drowning in debt because my ex fucked up my credit? How I can barely make rent some months? How I wake up in the middle of the night panicking about money? Is that friendly enough for you?"

The sudden honesty knocks the wind out of you. Your mouth opens, closes, opens again like a fish gasping on land.

"That's what I thought." He tilts his head, motion clearly angry. "You don't actually want to know that shit. You just want to point out that I don't share it to win an argument."

You both stand there, breathing hard, like you’re studying each other.

But then Griffin rubs against your ankle, completely oblivious to the emotional warfare happening above his head and you…

You, honestly, feel tired.

Bone-deep tired. 

It's too early for this much... whatever this is.

"Look," you sigh, the fight draining out of you. "Maybe we're both right, in our own way. And maybe we're both being assholes."

He blinks, clearly not expecting the shift. 

After a moment, his shoulders drop a fraction.

"I’m listening.”

"Last night wasn't terrible," you say, choosing your words carefully. "Talking. Whatever. Maybe we don't need to define everything right now?"

"Revolutionary concept." His voice has lost its edge, that familiar sardonic tone creeping back in. "Not immediately labeling every interaction. Who would've thought?"

"Shut up." 

You pick up your coffee mug again, taking a sip to hide the relief washing over you. 

Crisis averted. Boundaries preserved. 

For now.

"So what are you saying?" he asks, leaning back against the counter. "We just... see where things go?"

"I'm saying maybe we don't have to be strictly roommates or strictly friends. Maybe we can just... exist in the same space sometimes without trying to kill each other. And if it turns out we don't hate it..."

"We can revisit the friend thing?" He raises an eyebrow.

"Maybe." You shrug, aiming for casual. "If you manage not to be completely insufferable."

"Tall order." He's almost smiling now. "I'll have to suppress all my natural charm."

"If that's what you call it."

You roll your eyes, relieved to be back on solid ground. 

This you can handle—the banter, the back-and-forth, the careful dance around anything too real. 

This is safe.

Under control.

"Just eat your protein pancakes, Rogue. Don't you have gains to maintain or whatever?"

"Can't skip arm day," he agrees, flexing dramatically. "These biceps don't maintain themselves."

"God, you're insufferable."

"Yet here you are, eating my pancakes, drinking coffee I made you." He gestures at your mug with his own. "Almost like you tolerate me."

"Stockholm syndrome, obviously."

"Obviously." He hums thoughtfully for a moment. "So, we're good?"

"We're..." you search for the right word, "...fine. For now. Let's just take it a day at a time, okay? No pressure, no expectations."

"I can do that." He nods, looking almost relieved himself. "One day at a time. Starting with today, where you admit my pancakes are fucking amazing."

"They're edible."

"They're incredible and you know it."

"They're protein powder with extra steps."

"They're a culinary masterpiece that your taste buds aren't sophisticated enough to fully appreciate."

"My taste buds are perfectly sophisticated, thank you very much."

"Says the girl who eats chips at midnight."

"At least I don't drink protein shakes for dessert like some kind of psychopath."

"Don't knock it 'til you try it. My midnight chocolate protein shake would change your life."

You make a gagging sound. "I'll pass, thanks."

"Your loss." He shrugs, then glances at the clock. "Don't you have to be at work at 10?"

"Yeah, but it's only—" you check your phone, "—8:30. Plenty of time."

"If you say so." He moves towards the space between the entryway and the couch. "First day, right? Gonna sell some books to the masses?"

"That's generally what happens at a bookstore, yes."

"Well, don't let your sparkling personality scare away the customers."

"I have excellent customer service skills, I'll have you know. I can fake being nice for hours at a time."

“You sure ‘bout that? Haven’t seen you be nice for more than thirty seconds."

"That's because you don't deserve my niceness."

"And the customers at Barnes & Noble do?"

"They're paying for it. You just get the real me."

"Lucky me," he snorts. "So, you nervous? First day and all?"

"It's a retail job, Rogue, not brain surgery. I think I can handle scanning books and saying 'have a nice day' without a panic attack."

"Just asking." He takes a sip from his mug. "Making conversation. Like normal people do."

"Yeah, well." You shift, suddenly uncomfortable with how... normal this feels. 

Like you're actual roommates having an actual conversation. 

Like maybe this friend thing isn't so impossible after all. 

"I should probably start getting ready."

"Right, sure." He nods, glancing at his room. "Wouldn't want you to be late for your first day of shaping young minds through literature."

"It's Barnes & Noble, not the Library of Alexandria."

"Still. Books. Knowledge. Power. You know."

“Has anyone ever told you that you talk a lot of shit for someone who reads, like, one book a year?"

"Hey, I read." He looks genuinely offended. "I just finished that one about the guy who—"

"If you say 'Rich Dad, Poor Dad,' I'm going to throw this mug at your head."

"I was going to say 'The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck,' actually."

"Of course you were." You can't help the laugh that escapes. "How original. Let me guess, you also have 'The 48 Laws of Power' on your nightstand?"

"Whatever, man." He shakes his head, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Suck my dick."

The words come out light, amused—a casual dismissal that’s not angry or bitter, just a throwaway line, the kind of thing he'd say to Yoongi or any of his friends when they're giving him shit.

But something about it—the vulgarity or maybe the signature shitty and playful challenge in his eyes—makes you reckless.

"Okay."

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes sliding to the side as the word slips out. 

Casual. 

Like you just agreed to pass the salt, not... that.

Jungkook stops dead in his tracks. His body goes rigid, one foot already pointed toward his bedroom. He turns his head slightly, just enough for you to catch his profile.

"Huh?"

You cross your arms, teeth worrying the inside of your cheek. A shrug lifts your shoulders—noncommittal, like this isn't making your heart hammer against your ribs.

Your eyes drift back to his. Meet and hold.

"I said okay."

He turns fully now, coffee mug dangling forgotten from his fingers. 

"Okay... what?"

"Sucking your dick." 

You watch his throat bobble, the muscles in his neck working as he swallows. Like he’s processing what you just said. Like you just suggested something completely alien, something that requires a full system reboot. 

And okay, fine, maybe it wasn’t the most casual thing to drop into conversation. But still. 

You arch an eyebrow, scowling at him because why is he overthinking this? Does he not want you to do it? Don’t all guys want to get sucked off? Isn’t that, like, a universal truth or something? What’s with the hesitation?

The longer he stands there, frozen and dumbfounded, the hotter your frustration burns. It’s not like you even want to do this (okay, you do, but that’s not the point). 

The point is he’s always the first one to be like “bet” whenever you throw out some reckless suggestion. 

Pushy without being pushy—he knows boundaries, sure, but he’s still the guy who’ll smirk and say “you won’t” just to see if you will. 

And now? The one time you actually offer something? He’s looking at you like you’re speaking Simlish.

You move toward him, until you're face to face. 

His mug wobbles in his grip, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

You look up at him through your lashes. 

"I said I can suck your dick if that's what you want."

A shaky exhale escapes him, warm against your face.

"Nix..." His voice has dropped an octave, rough around the edges. "Don't fool around. That's not nice."

"I'm not fooling around."

Slowly—so slowly it feels like time has stretched into something thick and syrupy—you sink down to your knees.

The kitchen tile is hard, and really, it should be uncomfortable. Should snap you out of whatever madness has possessed you.

It doesn't.

Jungkook bites down on his lower lip, the sharp edges of his teeth digging into the flesh like he's physically holding back a curse. You can see the evidence of his interest already straining against his pajama pants.

His fucking Sonic pajama pants.

Because of course. Of course this would happen while he's wearing cartoon hedgehogs. Of course this

moment—where you're on your knees in front of him, heart pounding, breath shallow—would come with this absurd detail that makes it real in a way that's almost uncomfortable.

Your hands come to rest on his thighs. 

Strong. Solid. Warm. 

"I mean, we've been hooking up for a month now. Almost." Your voice sounds different to your own ears. Lower. A little breathless. "You've eaten me out multiple times, but... I haven't sucked your dick. Not even once."

Your eyes drop deliberately to the bulge straining against ridiculous cartoon fabric. It should be funny. 

It's not.

"Is it because you didn't want me to?"

He shakes his head. Fast. Emphatic. A jerky motion that tells you everything you need to know.

"So why didn't you ask me?"

He doesn't answer. Can't, maybe. 

His throat works again, adam's apple bobbing. His pupils are blown wide, dark and hungry as he stares down at you.

Your fingers play with the waistband, slowly—so fucking slowly—pulling it down just enough to reveal his hip bones and the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath the elastic.

"Have you thought about it at all?"

"Yes." The word comes out strangled, like it fought its way past whatever restraint he's trying to maintain.

Your eyes snap up to his.

He curses when your eyes lock onto his again—the control you have, even down on your knees.

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah." He exhales, surrender in the sound. "Yes, I've thought about your beautiful plump lips wrapped around my cock, Nix. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Heat blooms in your cheeks, spreading down your neck, across your chest. 

You hadn't expected him to be so... explicit. So honest.

"Maybe." Your thumbs brush against the skin just above his waistband. "What else have you thought about?"

His mug clatters onto the counter beside him, abandoned and his now-free hand comes to your face, thumb brushing against your bottom lip. 

"Thought about how you'd look," he murmurs, voice pitched low enough that you have to strain to hear it. "On your knees. Just like this. Those big eyes looking up at me while you take me in your mouth.”

Jesus. 

Your body responds instantly, a rush of heat between your thighs that makes you press them together unconsciously.

When did Jungkook get so... articulate?

His thumb presses slightly against your lip, just enough to part them. "Thought about how warm your mouth would be.

How good it would feel. How you'd sound."

"How l'd sound?”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, confidence returning as he watches your reaction. "The little noises you'd make. The way you'd moan around my cock when I pull your hair."

Oh.

Your hand moves higher, finding the hard length of him through his pajamas. He hisses through his teeth when you palm him, fingers wrapping around his shape.

"Like this?" you ask, squeezing gently.

His hand moves to your hair, fingers tangling in the strands at the back of your head. 

Not pulling. Not yet. Just holding.

"Getting there." His voice is strained now, tight with need.

"But in my head, there's a lot less talking and a lot more—"

"Sucking?"

His laugh is half groan. "Yeah, Nix. A lot more sucking."

"Hmmm" you murmur. "Where's all that big talk from earlier?"

"Temporarily relocated," he manages. "Blood flow issues."

That startles a laugh out of you, breaking the tension for just a moment. Trust Jungkook to crack a joke while you're literally about to have his dick in your mouth.

Your hands pause, giving his bulge another soft squeeze before—

“Wait—couch.” He grabs your wrist, stopping your motions. “Let’s do this properly.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah? Better for your neck and knees and all that. Let’s go.”

You roll your eyes but follow as he then drops onto the couch, sprawling like he owns the place—which, technically, he does, but still. His left elbow hooks over the cushion rest lazily, and his knuckles come up to rest against his cheek as he leans into it. 

The picture of nonchalance. 

Except for the way his hips shift slightly, rolling upward in a small, deliberate motion as he spreads his legs wider.

Your eyes narrow. 

That little buck of his hips? The way his thighs stretch out as if to frame you? It’s not subtle. 

Neither is the look he’s giving you now—those half-lidded bedroom eyes that always seem to appear when he’s horny. His lips curve into something smug, and god he’s so obvious it’s almost embarrassing. Like one of those guys in bad romance novels who lounges around shirtless, flexing for no reason except to remind everyone they have abs.

“So?” His voice is low, dragging out the single syllable like a challenge.

You cross your arms tighter over your chest, glaring at him because—what? Is this supposed to be seductive? Is this his idea of foreplay? 

“You’re already making me regret this, you know that?”

He snorts, the sound sharp and amused as he tilts his head slightly. “I don’t know why I doubt that.”

Your only response is a scoff—short and derisive—as you step closer. The floor feels uneven beneath your feet, though you know it isn’t. It’s just your nerves playing tricks on you. 

Because this is real now. This is happening. You’re about to suck cock. Rogue’s cock.

You want this. You do. You’ve been curious about this for longer than you’d care to admit—curious about him, about what he likes and how he reacts and whether he’ll look as smug when he’s falling apart under your mouth. 

But still… You haven’t exactly done this much before.

David—the forgettable high school boyfriend who thought foreplay was optional—had pretty much stuck his dick in you and called it a day. He didn’t even know girls could orgasm until you brought it up once during an argument (and even then, he seemed skeptical). 

Your life hasn't been that tragic since then, thankfully.

A few hookups here and there have shown you that men aren't a total lost cause after all—some of them even know what they're doing! But sucking dick?

That's... different. It's not something you've done often enough to feel confident about it.

Sure, you know the basics—you've read enough spicy books and fanfics to have a decent idea of what works (English majors don't judge; they research). 

But knowing what works in general isn't the same as knowing what Jungkook likes. 

And this is his cock you’re talking about—his stupidly perfect body and his stupidly perfect everything else.

And now here you are, kneeling between Jungkook’s thighs while he looks down at you with that stupid smirk of his.

You glance up at him expectantly, hoping for some kind of cue or instruction or… anything really. Like he always does, talk shit with that big mouth of his. Dirty talk or whatever. 

But all he does is blink at you for a moment before he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his Sonic pajama pants and starts pulling them down.

His cock springs free, standing there like it owns the place. 

And okay, yeah, you’ve seen it before—plenty of times, actually. 

You’ve had it inside you, for fuck’s sake. 

But this? This is different. This is up close and personal, inches from your face, glossy and flushed and looking way too proud of itself.

Beautiful isn’t the right word. It’s a cock. A literal penis. 

There’s nothing beautiful about it—it’s just a piece of meat, veiny and slightly curved and standing at attention like it’s waiting for applause or something. 

And yet... you can’t look away. 

Why is it so glossy? Is that normal? Does he always look like this when he’s hard? You don’t know why your brain is spiraling into a full-blown analysis of his dick right now, but here you are, mentally beefing with it like it personally insulted you.

Be so fucking for real right now.

And again—there he is. Silent. Watching. Not saying a single goddamn word.

Which is weird because usually, Jungkook doesn’t shut up during sex. He’s all about the dirty talk—filthy little comments that let you know exactly what he likes, what he wants, what he’s thinking. 

But now? Nothing. Just this expectant silence that makes your skin prickle with self-consciousness.

You hate him for it.

Your hand wraps around him before you can overthink it anymore. Because okay, fine—you might not be an expert at this, but you’re not completely clueless either. You’ve sucked cock before (not a lot, but enough to know the basics), and you know how jerking off works. 

So that’s what you do: start slow, your hand moving down his length in a steady stroke.

He hisses softly at the contact, his hips shifting slightly against the couch cushion. When you glance up at him from beneath your lashes, he’s already looking down at you—his lips parted just enough to catch your attention as his tongue darts out to wet them.

And still, he says nothing.

“What?” You grunt the word out before you can stop yourself, frustration bubbling up in your chest.

“Nothing,” he says quickly, too quickly—like he wasn’t expecting you to call him out.

You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously, but his face gives nothing away.

“Okay,” you mutter under your breath, pulling back slightly as doubt creeps in around the edges of your confidence. “I’m doing everything wrong. Forget it.”

You start to stand up—because honestly? 

Fuck this. 

Fuck him and his smug silence and his stupid perfect dick that’s making you second-guess yourself when you were perfectly fine five minutes ago.

But before you can fully retreat, his hand shoots out to grab yours—not rough or demanding, just firm enough to stop you in your tracks.

“Hey,” he says softly, his voice low and almost... gentle? “Hey, no. Don’t do that.”

You stare at him for a moment, then look away because suddenly eye contact feels like too much.

There’s a beat of silence before he swallows audibly, like he’s pondering what to say. 

“Do you want me to…” He hesitates for half a second before continuing, his tone careful but curious. “Verbally tell you what I like?”

You purse your lips tightly, the edges pressing together in a way that’s almost painful. 

Because somehow, saying yes to that—admitting you need him to tell you what to do—feels like losing. And you don’t want to lose. Not here. Not to him. Not when he’s sprawled out like some kind of smug king on the stupid couch, looking at you like he’s waiting for you to figure out how to solve a puzzle he already knows the answer to.

He doesn’t push, though. His hand stays on yours, warm and steady, as you let him pull you gently back down. 

Your knees hit the floor again, and the carpet feels rough against your skin, grounding you in the moment even as your brain screams at you to get it together.

“Okay,” he says after a beat, his voice soft but probing. “What’s up?”

Your eyes snap to his, narrowing slightly at the question. “That’s what I should be asking you.”

He raises an eyebrow at that, clearly unimpressed with your deflection. 

“C’mon. Usually you’re so mouthy. You literally made me beg yesterday just to eat you out. I don’t get this sudden prude thing you’re pulling.”

Damn him. Damn him and his ability to read you so well it feels like he’s got a script for your every thought and reaction.

“I’m not acting prude,” you snap defensively.

“Really?” His lips twitch upward. “Because you’re staring at my cock like you’re mad at it.”

Your jaw tightens as embarrassment flares hot in your chest. 

“I’m not mad at it,” you mutter through gritted teeth.

“Then what’s the problem?” He tilts his head slightly, genuinely curious now. “Tell me.”

You blink at him, caught off guard by how simple he makes it sound—like voicing whatever’s swirling in your head is the easiest thing in the world. Like it’s not tied up in knots of insecurity and doubt and whatever else is making your throat feel tight right now.

Because he’s right. You could just tell him. That would solve everything, wouldn’t it? But somehow, the thought of saying it out loud—of admitting that maybe you’re not as confident about this as you’d like to be—feels like stepping off a cliff without knowing if there’s anything to catch you at the bottom.

Why does it feel like losing? Like humiliation?

His brow furrows slightly when you don’t respond right away, and then he asks—carefully, hesitantly—

“Okay… have you done this before? A blowjob?”

The question makes your stomach flip for reasons you can’t quite explain. Your eyes drop to the floor as heat creeps up your neck and into your face. 

“…Yus,” you mumble under your breath.

“Yus?” He repeats incredulously, leaning forward slightly like he didn’t hear you right.

“Yes,” you say louder this time, still staring at the carpet like it holds all the answers to life’s mysteries.

“But not often,” he guesses—and fuck him for being right again.

Your head snaps up at that, ready to fire off some kind of retort about how that’s none of his business or how he should shut up because clearly he’s not an expert on everything either—but then he laughs.

Out loud.

And it stops you cold.

Because it’s not mean or mocking or anything close to what you expected—it’s just… laughter. Light and genuine and almost disbelieving in a way that makes something inside you loosen just a little bit.

“What?” You demand sharply.

“Oh my god,” he says between chuckles. “Phoenix—is that what this is about? Why didn’t you just tell me?”

You glare at him because what else are you supposed to do? Admit he’s right? Again? Absolutely not.

He notices anyway—of course he does—and his grin softens into something closer to understanding as he leans back against the couch cushions.

“Bro,” he says lightly, shaking his head like this is all so obvious now. “It’s totally chill.”

You scoff quietly, looking off to the side because meeting his eyes feels impossible right now.

“I mean it, you want to try, right? You want to experience it or whatever? Nothing wrong with that.” He pauses for half a second before adding with a small smile: “Let me help you, aight?”

You don’t say yes. Of course you don’t. You never say yes.

You run your tongue across your upper lip instead, slow and lazy like you’re tasting the tension, and shrug—shoulders stiff like maybe it costs you something to agree. 

Which, okay. It kind of does. Dignity’s already dangling by a thread.

But he reads it. Of course he does. Like you’re a fucking cartoon strip and he’s already memorized every panel. 

He just grins—guffaws, really, because apparently this is hilarious to him—and tilts his chin toward his cock like that’s normal. Like this is a fucking TED Talk on Applied Dick Science.

“Spit.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“Spit on it.” 

Like it’s nothing. Like you’re asking him if he wants oat milk in his coffee and not literally hocking a loogie onto his dick.

Your face does something between a grimace and a snort. “What are you, a porn algorithm?”

“Relax. It’s not a kink thing. Just helps with… y’know. Glide.” A shrug. So casual. “Friction’s not your friend, Nix.”

You squint at him. “So now you’re a physics professor.”

“Professor of good head,” he says under his breath, eyes twinkling like he thinks that’s clever.

You exhale slowly through your nose. Not quite a sigh. Just enough to say fine, sure, without actually giving him anything. 

Then your eyes flick down, then back up.

And maybe you don’t mean to hold eye contact for as long as you do, but whatever. Your gaze locks on his, and his mouth hitches slightly at the corner.

One of those small, lazy smirks that says he’s watching everything you do. Which he is.

You drop your eyes again. Shift forward. Palms to thighs. Inhale once through your nose, just to clear whatever mental fog is still clinging.

Then you lower your face toward him, mouth hovering just above the head of his cock.

And okay. It’s a little intense up close like this.

Flushed dark pink at the tip, that little bead of precum catching the light. Skin taut where it stretches up and around the curve. 

And yeah, it’s pretty? Like, stupid pretty. Which only pisses you off more because it’s a dick. You shouldn’t be thinking aesthetic right now. You should be—

He hisses.

Literally just from your breath.

Like, your breath grazes the head and he inhales sharp through his teeth, a low sound punching out of his chest that he probably didn’t mean to make.

Your eyes cut up automatically.

And you absolutely, one hundred percent bite back a smirk. Can feel it twitch at the edge of your mouth, creeping in before you catch it.

He doesn’t say anything, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his face. A slight arch of his brow, a ghost of a grin that says ‘don’t get cocky’, which is rich coming from him.

You don’t let the moment stretch too long.

You glance down once more, tilt your chin forward, and—

Let spit fall from your lips.

Slow and steady.

A warm trail that splatters right onto his cockhead with a soft, wet noise you pretend not to react to. The drool stretches in a thin line as it drops, catching and sticking in places before sliding down the shaft, slick and messy in a way that feels weirdly intimate and way too graphic for how not romantic this is supposed to be.

You hear him exhale again—less sharp this time, more like a breath he didn’t know he was holding—and when you glance back up, your eyes meet his.

Big. Wide. Intentional.

Because yeah, you’ve read enough porn. You know this trick. Know the effect eye contact has. 

Especially from down here. Especially when your lips are half an inch from his dick and your saliva’s still glistening on it.

And okay. Fine. Maybe it’s a little performative. 

But he does it, too. Every goddamn time he’s between your legs, he’s watching you like it’s a sport. 

So maybe it’s not just for you. Maybe it’s projection.

It definitely is.

Because the second your spit hits his cock and your eyes stay locked on his, Jungkook makes this—noise.

Not a grunt. Not a moan. Just this tiny sound, like a choked-up breath dragged out of his throat against his will. The kind of sound you’d miss if you weren’t listening for it. 

But you are. And you do. 

Your fingers wrap around him without thinking. Automatic, almost. Like your hand just knows what to do now. It’s not a tight grip, not at first—just enough to feel the weight of him, hot and heavy and fucking ridiculous in your palm.

You give him one slow pull. A test run. Casual. Clinical.

And his head tips back instantly.

“Ahh—god, yeah,” he groans, voice pitched low and raw like it just escaped him.

You blink. Stare. Something tightens low in your stomach, unexpected.

But before you can fully process the way that noise slithered into your spine and curled up there like it pays rent, he’s looking down again. Immediately. Because apparently the view of your hand jerking him off is not something he’s willing to miss.

His gaze drops to the contact like it’s life or death, pupils blown and mouth slightly parted. He looks wrecked already, and you’ve barely done anything.

Kind of gratifying. Not gonna lie.

So you keep moving. Slow. Measured. A couple more strokes, just to test what rhythm feels natural. Your hand adjusts automatically, finding that friction-slicked spot between too loose and too tight. Thumb brushes the underside near the head, not on purpose, but—

“Yeah,” he breathes. “That’s—”

Pauses. Swallows. Licks his lips like he’s trying not to rush it. 

“That’s good, but… here.”

His voice is soft now, like he’s trying not to scare you off. Like if he speaks too loud you might slap his dick and walk out. 

And then his hand’s there. His actual hand.

The tatted one.

It swallows yours whole like it’s got a god complex. His fingers are longer, rougher, his palm calloused from guitar strings or camera work or something equally shitty—and it lands on top of yours like this is how. Like he can’t not touch. Like the need to guide is stronger than the need to just sit there and enjoy.

And okay, that’s kind of hot.

He doesn’t even do it weird. No pervy whisper, no ‘lemme show you, baby.’

Just—grips your hand, adjusts the angle, and starts moving it the way he would. His pace. His pressure. His exact rhythm.

He’s demonstrating. Demonstrating. The way he does it.

Which—Jesus. Okay. That’s a thing you’re watching now.

You track everything. How he drags you up to the head and tugs just a bit harder when you get there. Not painful, just… firmer. Intentional. Then down again—not all the way, not to the base. Just past halfway. Controlled. Like there’s a limit he doesn’t cross.

You assume it’s a sensitivity thing or maybe it just doesn’t feel good that far down. Maybe it’s one of those ‘my dick isn’t a joystick’ scenarios. 

You don’t know.

But you clock it. Catalog it. 

Mental note: no base. No excessive tug. Got it.

He lets go of your hand after a few strokes, slowly, and leans back just an inch—enough to say ‘your turn’. Still watching, though. Like a perv. Like a mentor.

Like both.

You copy what he showed you. Try to mimic the pressure, the pace, the not-too-tight but not-too-flimsy grip. Try to keep the motion smooth even though your brain’s busy yelling ‘are we seriously learning how he jerks off right now? is this real life?’

Apparently yes. It is. And it’s working.

Because he makes this sound. This little hhuhh in the back of his throat, barely audible but very much real. Not exaggerated. Just… a reaction.

You hold back a grin. Barely.

Pride hits low and hot in your chest like you just got an A on a test you forgot to study for. 

Not because he said something—but because he didn’t. 

That little exhale? That shift in his hips? That subtle fuck, yeah cue without words?

Validation.

Your eyes flick up. You want to see it. Read him.

But he’s not looking at you.

Still staring at your hand. Brows drawn, mouth slack.   

And then—

His front teeth catch his bottom lip. Plush, pink, a little too soft for how filthy he is, and he bites. Not hard. Just enough for it to dimple inward and make something flicker behind his lashes. 

The kind of flicker that screams overthinking, like maybe the feeling’s a little too good, and he’s trying to ground himself with pain or pressure or… whatever the fuck goes on in his chaos brain when he’s like this.

Then comes the sound.

Somewhere between a hiss and a grunt, like his body can’t decide if it wants to breathe through it or fuck into it. 

Rough at the edges, low, weirdly conflicted.

His head dips again.

“Also,” he breathes out, voice crackly and uneven now, “do… do this. Look.”

His hand comes up before you can ask what this is.

Big, again. His palm wraps around yours like he’s your goddamn training wheels. Not even pretending it’s not a tutorial anymore. 

His fingers press lightly into your skin, adjusting your grip—less on the full stroke now and more—

“There,” he mutters, repositioning your thumb, sliding it higher. 

Right to that spot beneath the crown. Soft little groove. Just barely noticeable unless you’re paying attention.

Which, apparently, he really fucking is.

“You feel that?” he says, voice dipping. “Right under. The… fuckin’—yeah, that. That’s the spot.”

You nod a little, but your eyes don’t leave your hand, now with your thumb angled like a pressure point. Like you’re disarming a bomb with one finger.

His voice drops again.

“Okay, now when you stroke—” his hand moves yours with his, slow and controlled, “—pull up like that, and when you hit the top, tighter there—yeah, squeeze just a little—and your thumb… drag it with you.”

He does it again. Once. Then twice. Demonstrating like this is a team sport and you’re in pre-game drills.

That spot.

That frenulum, or whatever the technical term is. 

Doesn’t matter. What matters is how his breath stutters when you pass over it, how his mouth goes a little slack while he watches.

“That’s the shit, Nix,” he says, almost like it’s to himself. Like he’s taking mental notes on his own cock. “That right there.”

Then he lets go again. Fingers slip away from yours, slow. 

And he licks his lips as he leans back into the couch, arm flopping over the top cushion like he’s trying to play it cool again, even though he’s still watching you like a fucking hawk.

So. You try.

You mimic the motion exactly. 

Same rhythm. Same pressure. Same thumb glide up the underside, and—

“Fuck.”

That one’s not breathy. Not soft. Full-bodied groan. Low and honest, punched out of his chest like his lungs just gave up the ghost for a second.

You do it again. And again.

Thumb dragging against that spot every time you pull up. Your grip tightening near the crown, loosening at the glide down.

He melts.

That’s the only word for it. 

His whole body sinks into the cushions like gravity just tripled. Thighs open wider, neck drops back over the edge of the couch, mouth hanging open now like he’s past the point of pretending he’s unaffected.

“Fuck, yeah—that is…” he pants, lips parted, eyes fluttering before he forces them open again, zeroing in on your hand like it’s holy. “That’s fucking perfect, Nix. Jesus Christ, you’ve got magic fingers or some shit.”

Your smirk barely hides itself.

He’s a talker. You knew that. But this? This is next level.

“Fuckin’ knew you’d be good with your hands,” he groans, eyes flicking from your fingers to your face and back down again, tongue dragging across his bottom lip like he’s trying not to say more but can’t help himself. “Just like that, just like that—shit, that’s so fucking good—”

Your thumb twitches tighter without thinking, and his hips flinch.

And it’s so fucking dumb, the way your stomach flips at the reaction. Like you’re the one being touched. Like you got your nerve endings scraped raw by one tiny squeeze.

But there it is—his hips flinching, a twitch so fast you might’ve missed it if you weren’t laser-focused on every damn micro-expression crawling across his face. 

His mouth opens for half a second like he’s gonna say something, maybe crack a joke, maybe tell you to go harder—but then—

He chokes a breath.

Like it gets stuck somewhere between his ribs and throat, all tangled up in want.

It is shaky, and it hitches like it costs him something to let it out. 

Like just existing through this is work.

And you see it—the way his pupils expand even more, ink bleeding into every millimeter of brown. 

He’s not blinking. He’s not moving, not really. Just chest rising and falling way too slow, like he’s afraid any sudden motion might snap this thread thin tension.

You lick your lips before you can stop yourself. Because he’s staring. Still. At your hand, yeah, but also your face now. 

Like watching you react is part of the pleasure. Like your mouth is more interesting than porn.

And okay. Maybe you’re a little into that.

Maybe that’s why your hand tightens again. Just a little. Not even on purpose this time, more like instinct. Your thumb swipes over that spot again, light and smooth and mean, and his chest fucking jerks.

Then—

A noise. Escapes him. Not a groan. Not a moan either. It’s like a stuttered-out puff of sound that crackles in his throat on its way up, all gritty and broken, like it got caught in static.

And right after that, so soft you almost miss it, he says:

“Your mouth.”

You freeze.

Your pulse jumps like you’ve been caught doing something wrong. Even though you haven’t. Not really. Just… hand stuff. Just skin and muscle and spit and heat.

But his voice? It’s not filthy when he says it. It’s awestruck. Like he’s seeing a fucking shooting star. Like it’s something to be whispered.

Your mouth.

It echoes weird in your head. Bounces off all your internal walls.

You blink up at him, eyes dragging from the handjob, and you look at his face.

And the expression there?

Jesus. He looks like he’s praying.

Not to God. Not even to you. To the feeling. To the moment. To the idea of your mouth on him.

And for some reason, your voice is already moving before your brain can catch it. “What do you want from my mouth?”

You don’t say it cute. Don’t coo. You’re not flirting. You’re daring. Like if he says something you don’t like, you’ll bite down instead of suck.

He blinks. Laughs, almost. Not like it’s funny—more like it surprised him. The way you said it. Like you slapped him with your voice.

Then, low and kind of incredulous: “What do you think I want, Nix?”

And he grins when he says it. Real slow. Not smug. Not sleazy. Just… real. Like that’s the stupidest question you’ve ever asked and he’s giving you a minute to catch up. To get there on your own. Like maybe you’re the dumb one for asking when the answer’s right there, hard and twitching and shiny in your grip.

You glance up through your lashes because fuck it, might as well lean into the trope while you’re down here. Might as well make it mean something.

And you swear to god—something inside him glitches.

Like his whole respiratory system shorts out. You hear it, barely—a tiny gulp, some micro sound buried deep in his throat like a trapped hummingbird. 

Fragile and desperate. 

Faint little flutter.

But it’s real.

Like a ‘fuck’ slips out of the space around you. Not even from his mouth. Just—exists.

As if the universe itself groaned.

And you know he felt it too because he looks at you like you just made the sun blink.

His hand lifts again, slow.

Fingers curl gently around your face, brushing the hair out of your eyes—not rough, not fast. Just… precise. Like he needs to see you. Like eye contact is currency and he’s suddenly flat broke.

You don’t move. Just let him. Let his thumb skim your cheek. Let his gaze drag over your face like it’s got weight behind it. Like you’re something he doesn’t want to blink away from.

And then—his voice. Low. Warm. Calm in that way that feels like it’s trying to keep a leash on something unhinged underneath.

“Suckle the crown a bit while you keep your hand moving. Up and down. Not fast, just… keep rhythm.”

You blink. 

That phrasing. 

Suckle.

What the fuck is he, a medieval warlord?

Still.

Your pulse stutters.

Because he says it like he’s thought about this. Like it’s not just a ‘hey, mouth on cock now’ moment, but something he’s imagined. 

Something he’s replayed in his head with specificity.

“Focus on the tip. You don’t gotta go all in yet. Just use your tongue. Like… tease the slit a little. Then suck around it. Not too hard. Gentle. Like you’re figuring it out.”

Your brows twitch up just slightly, but you nod.

Because yeah. Okay. That you can do.

And your hand’s still on him—hasn’t left. Just slick and steady, lazy little drags up and down his shaft with your thumb gliding right under the head like he showed you.

You shift forward. Let your lips ghost over the tip. Let him feel your breath first. Not teasing, not on purpose. Just… checking the temperature.

You feel the tension ripple through his thigh when you finally close your lips over him—soft, just the crown. Mouth warm and wet as it envelops the head, not too much suction yet. Just heat.

And then—yeah. You suckle. Gentle at first. Not a full draw, more of a tug.

His reaction is immediate.

Lips part. Chest jerks up half an inch.

One of those sounds again. Low. Raspy. A curse swallowed before it could hit air.

Your hand doesn’t stop. You keep it moving—slow pumps that glide down, then back up, thumb still catching that spot he likes every time you reach the top.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, voice low and rough around the edges. “That’s it. That’s—fuck—that’s the perfect pressure. Mmhm. Yeah.” 

His words come in stilted bursts, like they’re being dragged out of him against his will. 

“Keep… keep moving your hand while—ughhnn—keep sucking the tip.”

You do as he says because what else are you supposed to do? You’re not about to stop now—not when he’s making noises like that, not when his cock twitches every time your tongue flicks over the slit. 

But there’s this nagging thought in the back of your mind, this tiny voice that won’t shut up: 

Why isn’t he telling you to take the whole thing already?  

Isn’t that what most guys want? The whole deep-throat porn star routine? You’ve read enough smut (done it a couple times too) to know how this is supposed to go—or at least how it usually does. 

But Jungkook? 

He seems… content. Like he’s not in any rush to shove himself down your throat.  

Maybe he doesn’t want to rush it? Or maybe he’s just weird like that?  

Your eyes flick down to your hand. Analyze the movement. The rhythm. The way your fingers wrap around him, snug and slick, dragging up and down with just enough pressure to make him twitch but not enough to push him over. 

You remember how he did it. The angle. The squeeze. The way his thumb skimmed that spot under the head like it was a fucking button.

You mimic it again. Just to see.

And that’s when he exhales. Soft. Controlled. Like he’s trying not to let it out but can’t help himself. 

The sound drips from his lips like water hitting a rooftop—quiet, but sharp. A little hiss of breath that makes your thighs clench.

Then—

“Look at me.”

It’s not a command. Not barked. Just… said. Low and even. Like he’s asking for something simple. Like it’s no big deal.

But you don’t.

You kind of… ignore him. 

Not on purpose, really. 

It’s just—you’re embarrassed now, okay? 

You don’t want to look up and see his smug face while you’ve got his tip in your mouth like some idiot who doesn’t know what she’s doing. So you keep your eyes trained downward, focusing on the task at hand (and mouth).  

“Nix,” he says again, more pointed this time. “C’mon. Eyes up.”  

You want to bite him for that tone alone—like he’s daring you or something—but reluctantly, you glance up through your lashes. More of a glare than anything else because fuck him for making demands right now.  

He huffs out a laugh at your expression, shaking his head slightly like you’re hopeless or something equally annoying. 

“No, not like that. Like… big. Wide.” He pauses for half a second before adding with a grin: “Make your eyes pop.”  

You pull off his cock with an audible pop of its own because what the actual fuck is he talking about now? 

Your brows knit together as you scowl up at him, and he looks back at you with those stupid boba eyes of his—round and inquisitive like he doesn’t realize how ridiculous he sounds right now.

“Make them pop?” you echo, incredulous. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

He looks at you. Blinks once. Then shrugs, like he’s just now realizing how stupid he sounds.

“I don’t know, man. Just—make ‘em all wide and cute.”

You stare.

Then scoff. Loud. Disbelieving.

“You want me to look dumb and innocent while I suck your cock? That’s what you’re into?”

His eyes widen. “No—Jesus, no. Not like that.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Seriously? Because you sound like a creep.”

He groans. “God, you’re always so fucking blabbermouthed.”

“And you’re always so fucking vague,” you shoot back.

He glares at you. “I don’t mean, like—virgin vibes, okay? I mean that look you get. When you’re being a little shit. When you’re pushing buttons and pretending you’re not. That’s what I like.”

You blink. Your mouth opens. Then closes again.

He leans forward slightly, voice dropping. “I want you to suck my fucking cock like it’s all you want, while pretending you’re not sucking my soul through it. That’s what I’m talking about. Not some weird creepy thing.”

“Oh.” 

You blink once before pursing your lips thoughtfully again. 

“…Okay.”

Because okay indeed. You know what he means.

You hate that you know what he means.

He rolls his eyes, but his cock hasn’t softened. If anything, it’s thicker now. Heavier. The head flushed a deeper pink, veins more prominent. Like he gets off on arguing with you. Like this whole back-and-forth is foreplay.

And maybe it is. He’s already said twice he likes it when you’re mouthy.

Is this what he wants? You pretending you don’t know what you’re doing while you absolutely do?

You take a deep breath before shifting forward again—this time making a conscious effort to widen your eyes as much as possible while looking up at him through your lashes.

Big and round and innocent or whatever. Like you have no idea what effect this is having on him—even though the way his breath catches in his throat tells you exactly what kind of power you hold right now.

And yeah… maybe this is what he wants: you, pretending not to know exactly what you're doing while totally knowing anyway.

So that’s what you give him.

Wide eyes locked on his face as your lips part once more—and then slowly close around the head of his cock again.

And then, your hand moves faster.

Not sloppy. Not rushed. Just—more. More pressure, more rhythm, more confidence. Like your body’s finally synced up with his. Like you’ve figured out the exact tempo that makes him twitch and grunt and grip the couch like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

And he’s feeling it.

Hard (okay that was kinda funny, don’t deny it). 

You can tell by the way his thighs tense under your palms, muscles flexing every time your fist glides down his shaft and back up again. By the way his abs jump when your thumb flicks under the head. By the way he’s breathing now—through his teeth, through his throat, like he’s trying not to make noise but losing the battle.

You keep your mouth soft around the tip. Suction just enough to make it wet and warm and tight. Tongue moving in slow, deliberate waves underneath—right there, under the crown, where he’s taught you he’s most sensitive. 

And it’s funny, because you can feel it. The way he jerks every time your tongue drags across that spot, the way his cock pulses in your mouth like it’s trying to say yes, that, again, more.

And you don’t stop.

You keep eye contact, too. Big, wide, innocent. Like you’re not doing anything special. Like you’re just here, hanging out, casually ruining his life with your mouth.

He looks down at you, and his face is—fuck.

Wrecked.

Brows scrunched, mouth half open, eyes glassy like he’s buffering. Like his brain’s trying to load the next thought but keeps getting stuck on your lips.

Then he groans.

Low and guttural and sharp, like it got dragged out of his chest with a hook.

“Oh my—fffuckkkk—”

His voice breaks halfway through the word, like his throat just gave up. His hand shoots out, grabbing the back of the couch, knuckles white.

“Fuckin’—god, Nix—”

You swirl your tongue again, slow and mean, and he whines.  Actually whines. Like a kicked puppy. 

“I’m gonna—” he pants, hips twitching up into your fist, “—I’m gonna bust a fat nut, I swear to god—”

You snort around him. Can’t help it. The phrase is so fucking stupid, so him, and so hot in the dumbest possible way.

He hears it. Groans again. Throws his head back against the couch cushion and drags a hand down his face like he’s trying to physically hold himself together.

“Don’t laugh at me, you little—fuck, that tongue—”

You do it again. That wave motion. Just to be a menace. Just to see if he’ll break.

He does.

"Y-you have no idea," he pants, Adam's apple bobbing frantically as he swallows between words. "No fucking clue what you do to me when you—hnngh—when you stare up at me with those goddamn eyes while my cock's in your mouth."

His voice is all over the place now. Cracked. Desperate. Like he's trying to keep it together but you're not giving him a single inch of relief.

"Angel," he breathes, and okay, that’s a first (but at least it’s not ‘baby’, ew?) "You're gonna make me cum so hard. So fucking hard I might black out."

Your tongue flicks again—right against that sensitive bundle—and his whole body jerks like you've touched a live wire.

"Christ,” he hisses through clenched teeth. "I can't—I can't even—"

You keep going.

Hand stroking faster. Tongue teasing. Mouth suctioning just the tip, just the crown, just enough to make him lose his mind.

"Nix," he warns, voice strained and desperate. "I'm right there. Right fucking there. You're about to make me—"

His cock pulses against your tongue, the tip growing impossibly harder, slick and hot and heavy in your mouth as his whole body gets visibly ready to detonate. 

“Nix,” he pants, voice raw and desperate. “Nix, I’m—I can’t—fuck, I’m gonna—”

His breath catches. Swallowed back like it’s too big to spit out. His whole chest stutters with it, like the air’s too thick to pull in, like the pressure’s building faster than he can handle.

“Y’tongue,” he gasps, barely coherent, hips twitching up into your fist. “Stick—god, god god—stick it out f’me. Stick that pretty tongue out f’me, Nix. C’mon—”

You don’t hesitate. You just do it. Mouth popping off the head with a wet little tsk, tongue sliding out slow and flat, glistening with spit and still tinged with the taste of him. 

You hold it there, just like he asked.

And he groans.

“Look at—” he starts, but you’re already there. 

Already staring up at him with those same wide, round eyes he asked for. 

Tongue out, lips parted, face tilted up like you’re waiting for it.

He jerks forward, one hand flying to his cock, wrapping around himself and taking over. 

Fast. 

Rough. 

Desperate. 

Like he’s been holding back too long and now he’s got seconds left before he combusts.

“Yeah—ahhh—shit—ah—ah—fuck—”

And then—he breaks. Makes these little grunting, bitten-off noises—like he’s trying to hold them in but can’t. Like every spasm punches another sound out of him. Cums. Hard.

Hot, thick ropes strip across your face—cheeks, lips, chin. 

Some of it hits your tongue, sticky and salty and obscene. 

It drips down your jaw, slides over your skin in messy, wet streaks, and he’s still going. Still twitching. Still jerking himself through it like he’s trying to drain every last drop.

“Oh my god—” he chokes out, voice cracking. “Oh my fucking god—”

His head tips back, eyes blown wide and mouth slack with disbelief.

“You have the prettiest fucking eyes, Nix.”

And he sounds so, so wrecked while he says it, that you can’t help but believe him.

Like it’s the filthiest thing he’s ever said. Or maybe the most honest. 

You don’t know why your chest twists into knots. 

You don’t know why his eyes, hazed, dizzy, looking down at you is suddenly one of your favorite views. 

But you did it. You excelled at it. 

And Jungkook liked it. 

That’s what matters. 

He gives his cock a few lazy strokes, working the last drops out like he’s wringing water from a sponge, chest rising and falling in slow, heavy breaths.

Your eyes catch on the faint sheen of sweat on his collarbone and the way his lips are parted just enough for his tongue to dart out to wet them.  

“Fuck…” he mutters. “Fucking hell.” 

Another breath, deeper this time, like he’s trying to find his footing again. 

“That was fucking amazing.”  

You smile—small, sly, the kind of smile that doesn’t need to try too hard. 

“That easy, huh?”  

He snorts, running a hand through his hair, pushing it back from where it’s fallen into his eyes. 

“When you’ve got a mouth like yours? Yeah.”  

The compliment shouldn’t make your cheeks warm. It’s just Jungkook being Jungkook, all cockiness and shameless flirting. But still, you feel a flutter of… something. 

Pride, maybe. Or just the lingering high of having him completely at your mercy.

You push yourself up from your knees slowly, legs stiff from being on the tile for too long. There’s a moment where you think he might reach out to steady you—his hand twitches like it’s considering it—but he doesn’t. Just watches as you stand and brush your hands down your thighs like that’ll somehow make this whole thing feel less messy.  

“Gonna clean this mess up,” you say, already turning toward the bathroom before he can respond.  

“Want me to help?” His voice follows you—soft but not hesitant. Like it’s just something he’d offer anyone without thinking twice about it.  

You pause mid-step, glancing over your shoulder at him. 

He’s still seated on the couch, pants and boxers shoved down his hips, shirt rumpled and sticking to his skin in places. He looks ridiculous and hot at the same time—like someone who just got thoroughly wrecked but hasn’t quite figured out how to pull himself back together yet.

And for some reason—maybe because he asked so easily—you feel your throat tighten awkwardly.

“Uh…” You hesitate, fingers brushing against the edge of the doorway as you try to find the right words. “No. No, I’m fine.”  

He doesn’t say anything at first—just purses his lips slightly and nods like he’s accepting your answer even if he doesn’t entirely believe it.  

It should be awkward, but it’s… not. Not entirely. Just unfamiliar. 

New territory you’re not sure how to navigate.

“…But thank you,” you add quickly before darting into the bathroom like a coward.

When was the last time you thanked Jungkook for anything?

You lean against the door for a moment, eyes closed, trying to process what just happened. Not just the blowjob—that part’s easy enough to compartmentalize—but the rest of it. 

Not the banter either, you do that too. 

The almost-friendly moment afterward.

It felt… nice. Easy, even. 

Like maybe being friends with Jungkook wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

Maybe that’s why you step out after cleaning your face, instead of hiding in your room like you normally would. 

Maybe that’s why your eyes search for his as you enter the living room.

He’s already sprawled out like nothing happened. One arm stretched across the back cushions, legs spread wide in that annoying way men always seem to take up space. He’s even cracked one of the floor-to-ceiling windows open, letting in a cool breeze that’s slowly clearing out the lingering scent of sex.

Griffin’s curled against his side, purring loudly as Jungkook absently scratches under his chin. The cat gives you a lazy blink when you appear, like he knows exactly what you’ve been doing and is judging you for it.

You clear your throat, crossing your arms over your chest. Your eyes drift to the TV—some car restoration show you don’t recognize playing—before finding their way back to him.

“So,” you start, the word hanging awkwardly in the air between you. “Do you have plans this afternoon?”

He looks up, one eyebrow quirked in mild surprise. “After you get off work, you mean?”

“Yeah.” You shift your weight, suddenly feeling awkward. “I’m done at five.”

Why is this awkward? You just had his dick in your mouth, for fuck’s sake. Asking about his schedule shouldn’t feel more intimate than that. 

“No plans.” His fingers continue their gentle scratching behind Griffin’s ears, the cat purring so loudly you can hear it from where you’re standing. “Why? You offering something better than my thrilling agenda of watching YouTube guitar tutorials and ordering takeout?”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. “There’s this new exhibit at the MoMA I’ve been wanting to check out. Photography thing.” 

You shrug like it doesn’t matter either way. Like you’re not actually inviting him to do something that doesn’t involve getting naked. 

“Thought maybe you’d be into it. Being a film major and all.”

“Phoenix wants to hang out with me? Voluntarily? Without the promise of orgasms? I’m shocked.”

“Forget it,” you mutter, already turning toward your room. “It was just a thought.”

“Hey, no—wait.” He sits up straighter, disturbing Griffin who gives an annoyed meow. “I’m in. The photography exhibit sounds cool.”

You pause, glancing back at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He nods, and for once, there’s no teasing edge to his voice. “I’ll meet you after work? We could grab dinner after, if you want.”

“Sure.” You try to sound casual, like this isn’t the first time you’ve made actual plans together. “There’s this place in the East Village I’ve been wanting to try. Nothing fancy, just… food.”

“Food is good. I’m a fan of food.” He grins.

“Great. I’ll text you when I’m done.” You head toward your room, needing to get ready for work. 

“Sure, Nix.”

As you close your bedroom door, you can’t help but wonder what the hell you’re doing. This feels suspiciously like the friendship you’ve been so adamantly avoiding. 

But maybe—just maybe—it wouldn’t be the end of the world to actually enjoy his company with your clothes on for once.

Besides, you need to keep him occupied until eight. Yoongi had been very specific about the timing when he texted you this morning about Jungkook’s surprise birthday dinner.

Keep him out until 8. Taehyung and Hobi are setting up. Don’t mention ramen.

And yet, he hasn’t even spoken about his birthday to you. 

What kind of person doesn’t mention their own birthday? 

The same kind who makes protein pancakes and pretends everything’s fine when it’s clearly not, probably.

You check your phone. 9:15. Plenty of time to get ready for work and figure out how to navigate this strange new territory where you and Jungkook do normal people things together. 

Like friends.

The word still feels foreign, uncomfortable. 

But not entirely wrong.

goal: 500 notes.

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[navybrat817]

I wish I had a smitten Bucky. Just sees me and wants me. 🥺

I know the feeling, nonnie.

Check Yes or No

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky instantly falls for you, but waits to ask you out.

Word Count: Over 2.1k

Warnings: Fluff, could be seen as instalove on Bucky's side, attraction, slight insecurities, minor time jump, Alpine being the best, slight feels (it's me), Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: I can't send Bucky your way, lovelies, so I hope you enjoy this short, surprise fic! ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky wasn't looking for love the day he met you, but it found him anyway.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve greeted from his seat when he walked into the conference rooms and nodded to the spot beside him that you occupied. “I’d like you to meet our newest transfer. She’s also moving into the Tower.”

He was a changed man the moment your eyes met. Breathtaking was a word to describe you given how he had forgotten to breathe. He had witnessed many sunrises and sunsets in his life, a kaleidoscope of colors painted in the sky to both soothe and awaken the soul. They paled in comparison to the beauty before him.

One glance and he belonged to you completely.

“Hi, Bucky. It’s nice to meet you.”

While he wasn't sure if Heaven existed, you speaking his name was like hearing the voice of an angel.

“I’m Bucky.”

Of all the things he could've said, reiterating his name was what his mouth went with.

Instead of giving him a weird look or brushing him off when he scowled at himself, you smiled. “I look forward to us working together.”

Bucky couldn't tell you what the meeting was about that day, but he remembered the details about you. The way you leaned forward in your seat to pay extra attention when someone else spoke, also giving him an ample view of your chest before he reminded himself not to stare. The slight crease in your forehead when you jotted down an important note. And the soft giggle you let out when Steve cracked a joke.

He suddenly wished he was funnier.

“Have a good rest of the day, Bucky,” you said when the meeting ended.

Bucky didn't have to try to smile with you. It just came naturally. When you smiled back, it was easy to imagine what it would be like if you were his girl.

“You, too,” he replied, giving himself a mental victory for not screwing up his words this time. “Wait!”

You paused and looked at him expectantly. “Yeah?”

Bucky realized he had no reason to keep you from leaving. He just didn't want you to go. “Do you need help moving your stuff in?”

“I actually got my things moved in late last night, but thanks for the offer,” you replied, checking the time with wide eyes. “I'm so sorry. I have to go. I’m in 2L if you need anything!”

“Bye,” he called after you, turning in his chair to watch you go.

How did he miss you already?

Though Steve had a knowing look in his eyes, he graciously kept his mouth shut as he left the room. He reminded him an hour later that he wouldn't break any bylaws by asking you out. The punk somehow knew that you weren't seeing anyone.

Which made him happy.

While he appreciated Steve looking out for happiness, he still had to get his head on straight.

“Once I completely trust my own mind, maybe I will,” Bucky said, even though the stuff was already out of his head. He owed it to himself to take his time. And you.

Imagine his surprise when he found a note from you on his door the next day.

Hey, Bucky! Lunch on me today? Check YES or NO.

The lopsided grin on his face wouldn't go away when he read it again. You must've been interested in him enough to ask about him. How else did you know his apartment number? Why else would you ask him to lunch?

He nearly shouted “YES” in the hall before he came to his senses and simply checked the option before he returned the note to your apartment door.

When he met up with you later, he told himself it wasn't a date. It couldn't be, right? It didn't keep his heart from stopping when you answered your door. Dressed down and casual, you looked like an angel went to Earth just for him.

“Hey, Bucky,” you smiled. “Ready to go?”

He hadn't said much on the way to the cafe since he was too busy hanging on to your every word, but it was like he had known you for ages as you carried on the conversation. Your questions weren't invasive and you didn't seem to mind the occasional short answers. It was also the shortest meal of his life, over too soon for his liking, and he also refused to let you pay for his meal.

He wanted to show you that gentlemen still existed.

“Lunch again next week?” You offered.

“Sure,” he answered, his head spinning from giddiness.

But it wasn't a date.

It was time to change that.

Today was the day. Six months from the day he met you. Six months of chatting with you between missions and slowly getting to know you over weekly lunches. Six months of falling for you more and more each day and he finally worked up the courage to ask you out.

But falling was the easy part. Confessing was an entirely different story. He would either crash to the ground and hope his wounds would later heal or you’d catch him as he fell. No matter what, he wouldn't let his nerves get the better of him.

“Just like we practiced, okay?” Bucky asked.

“Meow.”

Alpine nuzzled her head against Bucky’s with a gentle purr when he huffed. She was his little partner-in-crime through and through. Like you, even though you didn't realize it, the little white ball of fur helped save him. He was fairly certain he wasn't supposed to bring her to this floor, but any reprimand would be worth it.

Besides, the Tower, office, anywhere they operated should allow them to have their pets with them, especially for emotional support.

“I'm counting on you,” he teased, placing the folded up piece of paper in her mouth. “Go.”

He peeked around the corner when he set Alpine down. The sun illuminated you from where you sat in the lounge, curled up in your normal spot on the sofa. You liked to relax there occasionally to read. He wondered what book you had with you today.

Thankfully, no one was around to disturb you.

Except for him.

“Alpine, is that you?” You asked when you looked up, closing the book as the cat approached you. While the feline was cautious of some, she warmed up to you immediately when you met and solidified that you were the one for him. “Whatcha got there? Where’s Bucky?”

His name spilling from your lips was still one of his favorite sounds.

He held his breath when Alpine jumped up beside you, opened her mouth, and dropped the paper in your lap. He immediately began to second guess himself when you unfolded it with a furrowed brow. Why did he think this was a good idea? Why didn't he just ask you like a normal guy?

To be fair, he hadn't been normal for some time.

“Will you go out with me? Check YES or NO. Love, Bucky,” you read out loud with a huge smile, which was enough to make his heart race. You giggled a moment later when Alpine bumped your hand, the soft noise making his stomach do a funny sort of flip. “Okay, okay. Let me get my pen out of my bag.”

Bucky exhaled a little as he moved to stand in the doorway. You didn't toss the paper away, so that had to be a good sign. He carefully kept himself from showing any outward emotion when you met his gaze, but his knees nearly gave out. His palms also began to sweat when you gave him a half smile.

Just when he thought you couldn't look more beautiful than you had the day before, you proved him wrong.

He ran a hand through his hair and hoped he looked halfway decent since he hadn't brushed it. But you commented a few weeks back that you liked it long when you saw an old photo, so he wanted to grow it out. He lost count of how many times he imagined your fingers in his hair

Maybe one day.

Watching you grab your pen, it was like he was drowning. The tide pulled him under as you made a mark on the sheet. His lungs burned when you handed it back to Alpine. He couldn't come up for air. He couldn't breathe.

Until you smiled again.

“Thanks, Alpine,” you said.

His cat gracefully walked back to Bucky and he swore he caught you trying not to giggle as she climbed up his leg. His heart hammered in his chest when he took the slip of paper from her mouth. Meeting your tender gaze, he couldn't bring himself to open it though.

After he told himself he wouldn't let his nerves get the better of him.

“Not going to see what my answer is?” You asked as he carried Alpine into the lounge.

“I want to,” he replied, sighing as he took a seat beside you. His cat was perfectly content to lay in his lap. “But I’m questioning if I did this the right way.”

The note you gave him for a simple lunch request may have been a small gesture in your eyes, but it meant the world to him. He thought by asking you out this way that he could give you something meaningful in return. Something that only the two of you shared.

That was all he wanted.

You turned toward him, your knee touching his. The small touch sent heat down his spine. “Open it and you’ll find out.”

He nodded, thankful that his vibranium hand didn't shake as he lifted the sheet. “Wait, let me say something before I do.”

The corner of your lip tugged as you tried not to smile. “Bucky-”

“I like you. I really like you. I have since the day we met. And I'm going to like you tomorrow. And the day after that and the day after that,” he admitted in a rush, catching your sharp inhale as he looked into your eyes. “But I know my past isn't easy to deal with. If you just want to be a teammate or colleague, that’s okay. Just. Being a part of your life in some way is more than enough.”

Alpine lifted her head and looked between the two of you, as if she was waiting with baited breath to see what would happen next.

Bucky felt a crack in his heart when you didn't speak or react, his body slumping slightly into the couch. It was okay. He took a chance and told you how he felt. He wouldn't force you to reciprocate.

“Bucky?” You asked above a whisper, reaching over to help him unfold the paper. He gasped when he saw the checkmark beside “YES”, blinking rapidly to make sure you picked that box. “I really like you, too.”

“You do?” He exhaled, grasping your hand with renewed joy. He was careful not to squeeze too hard. Hurting you was the last thing he ever wanted to do.

“Yeah. Pretty much since the day I met you,” you admitted, glancing in your lap before you met his gaze again. He saw stars in your eyes. “And your past isn't your fault, Bucky. You aren't something to ‘deal with’, okay? You’re a good man. I can give you a whole list of reasons if you need it.”

Physically, Bucky’s body was in peak condition. Your confession, however, caused all of the air to leave his lungs and made him weak in the best possible way. A familiar warmth moved through Bucky’s veins as he breathed again and it dawned on him at that moment that he hadn't felt cold since you walked into his life.

Not once.

Your faith in him gave him strength. Your mere existence gave him the courage to try. And he didn't have to go it alone.

“Wow,” he breathed, relieved and elated as he gave you a small smile. “How about tomorrow night?”

“It’s a date,” you smiled.

“Great,” he smiled back. A date. He couldn't wait to see the look on Steve's face when he told him that he finally asked you out.

“And I think the note was purrfect,” you teased at Alpine before you scrunched up your face. “I ruined the moment, didn't I?”

Bucky brought your hand to his mouth, kissing it as gently as he possibly could. He could hear your heart race. So was his. “Not at all.”

He knew it was too soon to say he loved you and it was likely too soon for you to feel that way about him, but he felt hope in your smile that you would one day.

For now, he had a date to plan all because you checked “yes”.

We know it'll be the best date ever, right? Love and thanks for reading! 💙

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[luvrrszn]

dog tags and love letters

SIMON "GHOST" RILEY x FEM!READER

summary how he meets the sweet girl he now calls home

warnings fluff heh...inaccuracies

a/n self-indulgent and probably inaccurate. i got a new laptop heh. it's sky blue. it's beautiful. heh.

masterlist

ghost is the kind of guy who doesn't dwell on the past or plan too far in the future. because both are uncertain, and both can be gone in an instant. he moves through life with a soldier's mindset—one step at a time, one day at a time, one mission at a time.

survival isn't about looking too far ahead, it's about making it through the next op, the next fight, the next breath.

he’s disciplined, calculated, but there’s an underlying detachment to it all. he knows better than to get too comfortable, to expect stability. attachments make things complicated. plans make things dangerous. so he takes things as they come, keeps moving forward, and doesn’t stop to think about what’s next until it’s right in front of him.

but everything as he knows it changes when he meets you.

—

you're like a breath of fresh air.

the first time ghost sees you is from across the bar at a pub. you're nursing a bottle of beer, deep in thought, and you don't even notice the giant staring at you through his skull balaclava.

johnny gets to you first, striking up a conversation with ease while ghost watches from afar. through his heavy scottish accent, he points out everyone in the bar. price, gaz, johnny, ghost?

johnny drags you over to ghost as you giggle, "what kind of name is that? ghost?"

the withering glare ghost sends in your direction is enough to send others skittering away. but you don't back down. you glare back at him, remarking to johnny, "careful, johnny. people are going to think your scary guard dog bites."

johnny barks out a laugh, clapping ghost on the shoulder like he’s just been let in on the best joke of the night. "oh, i like her."

ghost, on the other hand, does not react. he simply shifts his weight, regarding you with an unreadable expression. his eyes flicker over you—assessing, calculating, deciding if you're worth his time.

"depends," he finally rumbles, voice low and gravelly. "y'planning on sticking y'hand in my mouth?"

johnny wheezes, smacking the table, while you tilt your head, amused. "so you do bite?"

ghost doesn't answer, but something about the way his gaze lingers tells you he’s not used to people who don’t flinch away from him. who don’t try to appease him or impress him.

you take a sip of your beer, unfazed. "good to know."

johnny grins, watching the silent exchange like he's just won a bet. "bloody hell, i think you've just become his new favourite."

you roll your eyes. "i'm honoured."

ghost shakes his head slightly, but you don’t miss the way his shoulders loosen just a fraction. and when you get up to grab another beer, you swear you feel his eyes on you the entire way to the bar.

—

it happens slowly. subtly. almost without either of you realizing.

he starts asking you to call him simon instead. "t'you, 'm always simon, darling. never ghost."

at first, it's just coincidence. running into each other at the pub when 141 is back from a mission. simon doesn’t talk much, but he listens. he watches. you learn that under all that intimidation, there’s a man who notices the smallest details—how you like your drinks, when you get quiet because you're thinking too hard, the way your fingers drum against the bar when you're restless.

then, it’s convenience. he starts walking you home when the night runs late, always a few steps behind, silent but steady. one time, you try to wave him off, saying you're fine on your own. he just stares at you and says, "i know. humor me." you let him.

it turns into habit. him waiting for you after work. him pulling out a chair for you at the bar. him handing you his jacket when it's cold because, "you're shivering, stop bein' stubborn."

you complain, but you wear it anyway.

and then it’s something more.

you find yourself on edge every time he's away on a mission. you worry about him constantly. you check your phone every night, hoping that he's texted you that he's back.

—

one day, you're sitting on a bar stool at your kitchen island, back facing the main door. you're typing away on your computer, finishing up an email for work when you feel the air in the room shift.

like someone is there.

and you're terrified.

but when you turn around, that's when you see him.

the man who's basically a giant hunk of muscle.

simon.

he had let himself in using the spare key you'd given him ages ago. he didn't even bother going home first.

he came straight to you.

he drops his bag on the floor and doesn't even have time to shed his tactical gear before you're barreling into him at full speed. you leap into his arms, your legs wrapped around his body.

your arms are wrapped around his neck as you bury your face in his shoulder. he has one arm wrapped around your back and uses the other to pull off his balaclava.

"missed you, si," you mumble into his shoulder, "was so worried about you."

"nothin' to worry bout, sweet girl. am home now, aren't i?" he chuckles, warm breath blowing against your ear.

his usage of the word "home" doesn't go unnoticed by you.

that's when you realise—falling for him, it's a slow, quiet thing. but it's inevitable.

simon doesn't say much, but he never has to. the way he holds you—like he's afraid to let go—says enough. his fingers dig into your back, his breath is a little shaky when he exhales, and you know. you just know.

but neither of you say anything about it. not yet.

instead, he lets you fuss over him. you make him sit while you heat up leftovers, filling his plate like he hasn’t eaten in days. he doesn’t argue. just watches you with those sharp eyes, tracking every movement.

later, when you’re both on the couch—him in his usual spot, you curled up beside him, your head against his chest—you hear it.

his heartbeat. steady. grounding.

suddenly, he pauses the movie and lifts you onto his lap such that you're facing me.

"pet, i have somethin' to say. hear me out, okay?" he sounds unsure. and you're nervous. simon is never unsure.

"yeah, yeah. what's up si? you're kinda scaring me."

"no, love, it's nothing bad, i promise." he lets out a nervous chuckle and takes your small hand into those bear paws of his.

"somewhere along the way," he starts, voice hoarse, "i realised i stopped going through the motions of each mission. i stopped doing what i just had to do. i wasn't thinking about the missions anymore, not like i used to. i was just trying to finish as quickly as i could so i could get home to you."

your heart stutters in your chest, like you're unsure if you've heard him right. you let out a shaky breath, "si..."

and you see his face fall. no, no, no. he must've thought you were rejecting him. and after he'd been vulnerable with you, something he never was around anyone at all.

his expression hardens, as he begins, "forget it, it was stupid—"

you cut him off by pressing your lips onto his.

at first, the kiss is gentle. like simon is terrified you'll crumble if he even moves an inch. but then it grows hungry. you've both been waiting for this moment for so long.

it's hungry, messy, a mess of tongue and teeth.

when you finally break apart, panting, you both stay there for a moment, forehead to forehead, trying to catch your breath. the world feels like it’s stopped, and it’s just you two, finally in sync after everything that’s been unsaid. his hands are on your back, pulling you closer, like he’s afraid if he lets go, you’ll slip away.

you lean back just slightly to look at him, your eyes searching his, still trying to make sense of the overwhelming rush of emotions.

"you’re not stupid, si," you say softly, your voice shaky but firm. "i’ve been waiting for this too. for you. i just... didn’t know how to say it."

his thumb traces your cheek, wiping away the stray tear you hadn’t even noticed had fallen. "you’ve always had this way of... making me feel like maybe i could be more than jus' a soldier, y'know?"

you smile, a tear escaping despite yourself. "you already are, simon. to me, you’re everything."

he smiles back, but it’s different now. it’s not guarded or hardened. it’s raw, and real. and it’s all for you.

"guess ’m not going anywhere either," he murmurs, pulling you back into him, pressing his lips to your temple.

and this time, you know—without a doubt—that no matter the missions, no matter the distance, this is where you both belong.

[themilfsland]

Under the forbidden tree - Part I

Pairing(s): religious!mommy Wanda X female!reader

Words count: ~ 10k

Summary: A break from your studies and work. A program dedicated to foster children you decided to join. A weekend of faith, charity, and innocence under the watchful eye of the Westview church. But beneath the prayers and borrowed smiles, something unholy stirs.

- "...but have you ever sinned in God’s house?”

- "What’s wrong, Y/N? Kneel." - She repeated, this time with a slightly softer tone."

tags | content: Wanda being a little psycho, innocence/corruption, a lot of teasing, jealous, manipulation, possessiveness, improper use of religion itens, praying for grace.

A/N: My initial plan was to create an one-shot, but it ended up being too long, so I decided to split it into two parts. Honestly, I’m still not sure if that was the better choice, but anyway. Enjoy :)

Fic menu | Part II

You were running late, but not as much as the ride your friend, Yelena, had promised you.

As you packed the last pieces of clothing you had laid out on the bed — "toothbrush, comfortable sneakers, sunscreen, hairbrush, cap, towel... vibrator?!" — your mental checklist came to an abrupt halt when your eyes landed on the object placed inside one of the suitcase compartments. "Do I need to bring this?" - you wondered, a pang of guilt creeping into your conscience. Bringing your toy to a church retreat might not be the wisest decision — actually, it was a terrible one. The possibility of boredom wasn’t a valid excuse, nor was the fact that finding a moment of privacy in your friend's apartment was nearly impossible.

Your thoughts drifted beyond the present — this week marked two months since you had temporarily moved into your childhood friend’s apartment. You could call it luck or mere coincidence, but either way, it had been a huge help.

A few months ago, you received an offer to work and study temporarily at a psychiatric hospital unit in Westview. At first, you considered turning it down — far from home, a small town that felt more like a village, completely different from your life, nothing particularly appealing. However, after an honest conversation with your favourite college professor, your perspective shifted. Finding out the significant research advancements happening there reignited your interest.

But, of course, there was still one major issue — where would you stay during that period? Money was tight, and there weren’t many good housing options in Westview. That’s when Yelena practically "fell from the sky" — or rather, her girlfriend, Kate, did, stepping in to help with everything you were missing — they were your saviour.

Two weeks after accepting the offer, you stood in front of Kate’s apartment with your small collection of belongings. In a quick rundown, Yelena had explained that she met Kate at an exhibition of ancient artefacts —more specifically, weapons and combat objects. Well, none of that surprised you. In fact, you made a mental note, wondering how it was even possible for more people to share Yelena’s questionable and somewhat violent interests. Either way, things moved quickly after that, and now Kate was working in a neighbouring city to Westview. Yes, even though you had to travel a few extra miles to the hospital where you’d be working and studying for the next few months, this was still the best option, and you were incredibly grateful for it. Oh, and of course, the small yet not-so-insignificant detail — less than a month after Kate settled into her apartment, Yelena invited herself to move in. Classic.

A knock on your bedroom door pulled you back to the present. The door suddenly swung open, followed by Yelena shouting, - “I’m home! Are you still not ready? Let’s go!”

You jumped in surprise and quickly shut your suitcase. Any hesitation you previously had about the vibrator was gone. It was coming with you, whether because you no longer had the chance to take it out or simply because privacy in this apartment is definitely not an option. Maybe, in a quiet place, free from interruptions, you’d finally get to enjoy a moment to yourself.

----

On the way to Westview, Yelena convinced you to make a quick stop at a Café. After all, a little caffeine would be welcome before hitting the road.

- "Are you sure about this, Y/N?" - Yelena asked, her expression filled with doubt.

- "You mean doing a little charity work by volunteering for the kids at the orphanage?" - you replied with a question of your own.

- "Yes... I mean, not exactly about helping out, but you know, this is a project run by the Westview church community..." - her voice trailed off as if she wasn’t sure how to phrase it.

- "I know, I get what you're trying to say." - You let out a small laugh. - "Honestly, I’m not entirely comfortable with the idea of spending the next few days at a church ‘club.’ Religion really isn’t my thing..."

Yelena was trying her best to not look judgmental, but she was failing miserably.

- "Look, it’s not going to be the best place or the best people, but I’m doing this for the kids. Giving them a weekend of fun, games, and a chance to breathe some fresh air outside of the orphanage. It’s worth it." - you continued.

Yelena stared at you while taking another sip of her coffee, carefully choosing her next words.

- "Okay, I’m still not completely convinced by that excuse." - You raised an eyebrow, waiting for a better response. - "But since you’ve decided, I should warn you that where you're going is far from being a ‘club.’ Kate and I went there once. Honestly, the place looks like the perfect setting for a period horror film. There's only a chapel and three large wooden buildings."

You were about to argue, but she cut you off.

- "No, don’t defend the place before you’ve even seen it. You’ll agree with me later. Oh, and before you ask what Kate and I were doing there — the only, and I mean only, good part is the huge, beautiful lake. Great for swimming or just relaxing."

You let out a long sigh and nodded, choosing to avoid a pointless argument.

- "Maybe the truth is... I just need a short break," - you admitted in a low voice, almost as if you were trying to convince yourself.

You could hear Yelena’s voice in the background — she was probably giving you a lecture about neglecting self-care and not recognizing your limits. But her words barely registered. Your mind was elsewhere, your thoughts louder than her voice, dragging you back to the exhausting days at the hospital.

--

- "Y/N adapted so quickly here, didn’t she, Darcy?" -Jimmy asked, taking a bite of his sandwich.

- "Yeah! A little too quickly, actually. But she got lucky that we don’t currently have any patients going into the ‘dark book,’" - Darcy replied, giving you a playful wink.

The three of you were in the hospital’s break room, taking a short rest and having what might be lunch or maybe even dinner — with shifts so chaotic and schedules a mess from the overwhelming workload, this was probably your biggest meal of the day — a combo of lunch and dinner.

- "'Dark book'? What’s that?" - You asked, puzzled.

Jimmy shot Darcy a disapproving look as if she had just brought up a forbidden topic. Then, turning back to you, he answered in a tone that was far too cold. - "It’s nothing big, Y/N. Just reports on patients with more complex cases. In these instances, to protect their future, all records are archived under strict confidentiality. Once they’re discharged, it’s as if their past is erased — so there’s no public speculation and they can reintegrate into society more easily."

The idea intrigued you. What kind of cases could be so dark that they needed to be kept secret, their pasts wiped clean?

- "That sounds interesting, but I have my doubts about you two keeping secrets. I can practically read it on your faces that you know more than you're letting on."

Darcy let out a loud laugh before responding. - "Of course we do… and yet, we don’t." - She chuckled again. - "But honestly, we respect that confidentiality rule. I think it’s fair."

You weren’t satisfied with that vague answer, and your curiosity got the best of you. - "Oh, come on, guys! It won’t hurt anyone if you share just a little of what you know. Besides, I’ll be gone in a few months anyway." - You gave them your best pleading puppy-dog eyes.

Jimmy chuckled before finally speaking. - "Look, Y/N, you can dig around in our library all you want, but you won’t find anything with real details. Even we, after years here, barely have any real information."

Darcy nodded in agreement and added, - "He’s not lying, Y/N. We don’t even know the patients’ names. All we ever get are bits and pieces of stories that float around the hallways."

You kept staring, silently pushing for more, until she finally gave in. - "Jimmy, do you remember that guy who used to pull pranks on other patients? Even on Dr Strange? He was absolute chaos."

Jimmy refused to say a word, just shooting her another disapproving look.

- "Oh, come on, Jimmy. Everyone here knows at least one story about that guy, don’t give me that judgmental silence." - She smirked before continuing. - "But fine, I know you were way more interested in that other guy… the one who almost turned green when he got angry."

Jimmy scoffed. - "Now that’s a low blow. Of course, that case was more interesting, but don’t even try to change the subject. Your real obsession was that crazy patient who kept rambling nonsense and scribbling in that little red notebook… the one with those three initials on the cover."

You and Darcy were about to press him for more when Dr. Strange walked into the room. - "I believe the break is over. Time to get back to the studies."

--

- "Y/N? Are you listening to me?" - Yelena said, shaking your arm. - “Y/N!! Earth to you, hello??”

You were snapped back to reality by the pinch she gave you.

- “OUCH, YELENA! I’m here, and that hurts!!” - you grumbled, rubbing the spot where she had pinched you.

- “Yeah, yeah, I can see that you're here, physically, at least. But your mind? Oh, it went far, far away from here,” - she retorted with a disappointed tone. - “Anyway, you do seem like you need a break. Maybe your crazy idea isn’t so bad after all.”

She continued speaking as she grabbed her bag from the chair.

- “Speaking of enjoyment, I got you a little present.” - A mischievous smirk appeared on her face as she pointed to a small wrapped box in front of you. - “BUT — you can only open it once you get there. You have to promise me.” - She winked at you as she handed over the gift.

Still unsure, you took the package and shot her a suspicious look. - “This is so unlike you… but okay, I’ll accept this rare expression of affection.”

Her mouth fell open in mock offence at your comment — though she was well aware that acts like this weren’t exactly her style.

Well, you’d understand soon enough once you saw what was inside the box.

----

No matter how many times you drove down the road to Westview, you never grew tired of the natural beauty surrounding you — the towering trees lining the way, the fresh breeze streaming through the open window of the car, if you were lucky, you could even hear the birds singing as they soared through the sky.

As expected, the location was just beyond the entrance to town, requiring a small detour off the main road. A wave of anticipation and gratitude washed over you. You were excited about all the opportunities the universe was laying before you— and, of course, grateful that your friend was here to support you. After all, she was doing you a huge favour by giving you a ride. The designated arrival day for volunteers and children was technically set for tomorrow, Saturday. However, Yelena and Kate had already arranged a small camping excursion for the weekend. Not wanting to interfere with their plans, you reached out to the project administration to inquire about the possibility of arriving a day in advance. Fortunately, they responded quickly, assuring you that it wasn’t a problem — on the contrary, it was common for some team members to arrive early to help with preparations.

Once again, your mind wandered, and before you even noticed, Yelena was already steering into the front garden and parking the car.

- "Alright, are you ready to spend your next few days praying and dying of boredom?" - Yelena teased, her voice dripping with irony.

You let out a laugh. - "Girl, you are sooo dramatic! It won’t be that bad. I have high hopes it’ll be fun, and time will fly by. Just don’t forget to pick me up." - You tried to sound confident, though deep down, you had your own doubts about how interesting this place would be.

Yelena stifled a mocking chuckle, gripping the door handle. She turned her head toward you and stated, - "Good luck, then, Y/N. But seriously, don’t fool yourself into thinking this place is all rainbows and sunshine. When you’re sitting in that chapel praying…" - she pointed outside toward the small building, "… you’ll remember me and what I’m telling you now. There are a lot of weird people around here, so don’t be too easily convinced by good manners."

Without giving you a chance to argue, she swung open the car door.

You shared a brief embrace and a farewell kiss on the cheek. With a final wave, you watched the car fade into the distance.

Drawing in a deep breath, you turned toward the small gathering nearby and began making your way toward them. As you neared, a woman in the group noticed you and greeted you with enthusiasm.

- "Hello! Good afternoon! Welcome!"

The surrounding chatter ceased as the others turned their attention to you.

- "You must be Y/N, right? I’m Monica," - she said, extending her hand to greet you. You shook her hand in return, slightly surprised at her accurate guess.

- "Yes, I’m Y/N. Nice to meet you! But… um, how did you know my name?" - you asked, suddenly aware that all eyes were on you.

- "I was the one who replied to your email about arriving a day early," - she said with a warm smile. - "I was just talking about you! We don’t get new volunteers here very often, so we’re happy to have you."

She glanced at the others and began introducing them from right to left.

- "This is Clint, Scott, Agatha, and Wanda."

They all welcomed you with warm smiles. A slight unease tingled up your spine — being in the spotlight had never been your comfort zone. Clint seemed to notice your nervousness and spoke up.

- "Hey, don’t worry, Y/N. We’ll guide you through the activity schedule. Today will be pretty relaxed — we’re just preparing the welcome for tomorrow and taking care of some last-minute details."

You nodded and muttered a "thank you."

It was also evident that holding onto your luggage was wearing you out, so Monica swiftly added, - "Alright, we’ll have plenty of time to get to know Y/N over the next few days, but for now, I think it would be best to show her around. Wanda, would you mind?"

Without hesitation, Wanda stepped forward and gently took your suitcase from your hands. - "It would be my pleasure! There’s so much to do here — you’re going to love it. But first, let’s drop off your things in your room so they don’t get in the way during our little tour."

She flashed a warm smile, gesturing for you to follow, and you couldn’t help but be drawn to the vivid green of her eyes.

----

The place itself didn’t have much in terms of infrastructure, just as Yelena had warned you. There was the chapel, a large house that served as the dining hall and the main space for meetings and activities, and two additional buildings that housed the dormitories.

Fortunately, since you had arrived early, Wanda informed you that you could choose between a shared or private room. That was an easy decision—a private room, without a doubt.

Wanda followed up with something you weren’t expecting.

- "Alright, a private room for the young lady. But you should know, Y/N, that nothing can be hidden around here."

You stared at her, speechless and confused about the meaning behind her words, until she continued.

- "I’m talking about the bathroom, darling. The restrooms here are communal, but don’t worry — there’s hot water and plenty of stalls for everyone in the building."

That was… disappointing. Not the worst thing in the world, but you had always valued your privacy— especially in a place full of strangers. At least you had managed to secure a private room, you thought.

--

- "And here we are, finally, at the most beautiful part of the refuge — the lake!" - Wanda said excitedly, taking your hand and leading you closer to the shore. - "The sunset view from here is just breathtaking… We’ll have plenty of activities with the kids around this area. I’m sure you’re going to love it."

You were absorbed in the view when you suddenly realized — she was still holding your hand. A warmth spread through your body, catching you off guard. You weren’t used to physical contact, especially not with people you had just met. And yet, when Wanda gently squeezed your hand to get your attention, pointing toward a flock of birds soaring on the other side of the lake, you felt something… different.

Your palm began to sweat from nervousness. In an attempt to check if she had noticed, you turned to look at her — only to find her gaze locked onto yours. It was as if she was trying to read your mind. Strangely, it was both unsettling and comforting at the same time. She radiated kindness, an almost motherly aura. Yet deep down, you couldn’t shake the feeling that she had the power to destroy you if she chose to.

A wave of anxiety started creeping in, and to break the tension, your eyes mistakenly drifted to her lips. That only made things worse. A rush of heat spread across your skin, and you could feel your cheeks starting to burn. Acting purely on instinct, desperate to avoid an impending disaster, you abruptly pulled your hand away and turned to the side, pointing at some nearby trees.

- "This place is so green… so many trees, so many flowers. It’s really beautiful, Wanda," - you said quickly, starting to walk toward what you had just pointed at. - "Are those… fruits hanging from the branches?"

Wanda followed your awkward retreat, staying close. Too close.

Your face was burning, and you cursed yourself internally. Why do I always react like this around women? It was so embarrassing. This was exactly why you could never successfully start a relationship. It was ridiculous — being a lesbian but completely incapable of holding a normal conversation with a beautiful woman.

Before you could spiral deeper into your self-inflicted humiliation, Wanda’s voice cut through your thoughts.

- "Yes! Most of these trees are fruit-bearing. We have peach, orange, pear, plum… and my personal favourite—apples."

Coincidentally, the tree closest to you had a few ripe apples hanging from its branches. You stopped walking, determined to keep your eyes on the fruit rather than on Wanda.

Your plan failed miserably.

Before you notice it, she was standing right in front of you — too close again. Close enough that you could catch the faint yet intoxicating scent of her perfume.

Your gaze remained fixed on the apples above, but your real struggle was maintaining steady breathing. And, of course, you failed at that too.

- "Are you okay, Y/N?" - Wanda asked with a concerned expression, taking a small step closer. - "Your face looks a little flushed, and—"

- "I-I’m fine, Wanda," - you interrupted, quickly stepping back. - "It’s just… hot, I mean, because of the sun." - You fought to keep your voice steady, but it was a losing battle.

- "Oh, darling," - she said with a pity tone. - "Maybe you didn’t put on enough sunscreen. Your face is looking a little red."

Before you could react, she reached up and gently brushed her fingers against your cheek.

You froze.

Your thoughts raced so fast that they made no sense at all. A simple touch. A meaningless gesture. Why did it make you shiver? Why are you like this?

Just as you were about to combust from sheer overthinking, an apple from the tree behind you fell to the ground with a soft thud.

You let out a startled breath — partly from the sudden noise, mostly from relief.

The shift in focus was instant. Wanda let go of your face and looked down.

- "Oh, we’ve been blessed, Y/N! Look at what we have here," - she said, crouching down to pick up the apple, rubbing it against the fabric of her blouse. Then, she held it up to your lips.

- "Here, sweetheart. Take a bite."

Her eyes flickered from yours to your lips.

You didn’t move. You just… stared at her.

- "Y/N," she repeated, this time in a firmer tone. - "I said, take a bite."

A tremor coursed through your spine. There was something about the way she spoke — the quiet dominance in her voice. Instinctively, you followed, taking a small bite.

- "Well done, dear. That was so easy," - she said with a sly smile.

- "Huh? Easy?" - you repeated, swallowing the piece of fruit.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she lifted her thumb to the corner of your lips, brushing it softly as if wiping away a nonexistent trace of apple. - There was nothing there. Right? - Before you could even think to protest, she silenced you with a quiet "Shhh."

She took a bite from the same apple.

- "Mmm… absolutely delicious. Almost as sweet as you are," she murmured with a smirk, then winked at you.

Your brain shuts down.

- "Anyway, it’s getting late, and we still have things to do. Let’s go, dear," - she said, taking your hand — again. - "I have some important work for your hands."

- "W-What??" - you blurted out in disbelief.

These double meanings — was she doing this on purpose, or was your pathetic interpretation playing tricks on you?

Wanda didn’t respond. She merely pulled you along, guiding you toward the buildings without a word of explanation.

----

It was obvious that you would use your hands to make welcome signs — what else would you even use them for? — As you cut and painted the papers, you found yourself caught in an internal debate. There was no reason for you to have ambiguous thoughts about Wanda. You reassured yourself that she was simply being kind, making sure you felt comfortable around here. She was polite and respectful, and it was evident in everything she did.

As you both worked on the signs, she struck up a light conversation — never prying, never overstepping, but also not allowing an awkward silence to settle between you. When you casually mentioned that you didn’t have much knowledge of religion because it had never been a significant part of your life, she simply smiled warmly, respecting your choices.

She took the opportunity to talk about the upcoming services. For the children, there would be interactive lessons designed to introduce them to biblical teachings. For the adults, there would be mass at night, just like in Westview. Before you could even comment on it, Wanda reassured you that you were under no obligation to attend it but were always welcome to share in the Lord’s grace.

What once felt unattainable was now unfolding—you were speaking to her with ease, without anxious stuttering or overthinking every word. Wanda was an incredible woman, captivating in every way, but above all, she was deeply devoted to her faith. She was present at every service, every activity — the very definition of a right woman.

The signs were finally done, and without wanting to brag, you felt quite proud of your artistic skills. What you weren’t so proud of, however, was the mess you had made in the process. Clumsy as ever, your hands and arms were stained with paint. Wanda noticed your chaotic state and grabbed a damp cloth to help you clean up. Unexpected yet expected. The more time you spent with her, the more you noticed her nurturing aura. It was oddly comforting.

She took your arm and gently wiped the fabric against your skin.

- “You made quite the mess here, huh, Y/N?” - she teased, meeting your eyes with a soft smile. You felt your face heat up, both from embarrassment and from the way her fingers moved over your skin.

- “I’m proud of your work, though,” she continued, her voice warm. - “They’re so colourful, so full of life. In the end, the mess was worth it, wasn’t it?”

You were almost certain she said that just to make you feel better, but either way, you couldn’t stop the small smile that formed at the thought of her being proud of you.

Wanda continued wiping away the last traces of paint. Her touch was soft and delicate, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t enjoying the moment. The silence between you carried a strange paradox — both exhilarating and calming at the same time. To keep your mind from spiralling into dangerous territory, you let your curiosity take over. After all, you did want to know more about the woman in front of you. So with the smallest bit of confidence you could muster, you crossed a line you didn’t even know existed.

- “So, Wanda…” - You hesitated. - “You said you live in Westview. Are you married? Do you have children?”

The hand that had once been so gentle against your skin suddenly tightened around your wrist.

Your heart skipped a beat. The shift in her demeanour was instant, her features tensed and her breathing grew heavier. Regret flooded your chest, and you wished you could take the question back.

Seconds passed, though they felt like hours. Her grip didn’t loosen. You tried to pull your arm away, your voice barely above a whisper.

- “Wanda? I—I’m sorry if that was too personal. I didn’t mean to be intrusive.”

It was as if the more you tried to retreat, the harder she held on.

Then, finally, she spoke. - “Oh no, there’s no need to apologize.” - She let go of your wrist at last, and yet, you still felt the pressure of her fingers lingering on your skin.

- “Your question wasn’t inappropriate,” - she said, though something about the way she avoided your gaze made you doubt her words. - “It just caught me off guard.”

You unconsciously rubbed the spot where she had held you. The moment had been tense, and though you wanted to move on, you felt compelled to apologize again. Wanda let out a noticeable sigh. Wrong move. Before you could process what was happening, she took your chin between her fingers and tilted your head to the side.

- “I think there’s a little paint left on your neck,” - she murmured.

Before you could react, she wiped her bare fingers against your skin. - “Almost clean, darling,” - she continued. - “The paint dried, so it’s a little harder to get off.”

Her nails began to lightly scrape against your neck — not painfully, but enough to make your breath hitch. Your body froze again, your thoughts scattering in every direction, yet none of it seemed to add up. Such a small gesture, yet it sent a shiver down your spine. It was meaningless— just a touch, just a fleeting moment — so why did it feel like something more?

- "All done,” - she finally said, pulling back slightly. - “Oh dear, I might have been a little too rough. Your skin turned a bit red where I cleaned.”

Her voice was laced with mock sympathy, her eyes watching you intently before she leaned in. And then, without hesitation, she pressed a soft kiss against the spot on your neck.

- “Don’t worry, it’ll go back to normal soon,” - she murmured against your skin. She pulled away, her lips curling into a knowing smile. She didn’t wait for a reaction — not that you could have formed one if you tried. She simply changed the subject, as if nothing had just happened.

- “Well, that’s it. You’re officially free from your tasks with me.” - She winked and turned toward the door. - “I’d love to see you at mass tonight, Y/N. If you feel comfortable, of course.” - And then, just like that, she was gone.

----

After finishing your afternoon activities, you took one last walk through the garden, hoping the fresh air might help clear your thoughts. You had made a promise to yourself —all the interpretations you had about Wanda’s actions were just figments of your imagination. She was simply being kind, and that was it. You were the one at fault, the one creating feelings and fictionalizing reality. Plus, you even convinced yourself that she probably had a beautiful family but just didn’t feel comfortable sharing that with you.

Taking advantage of your free time, you returned to your room to organize your things and rest for a while. You even felt a spark of excitement as you remembered the gift Yelena had given you earlier. Tearing the wrapping open impatiently, you tried to guess what it could be. But the moment you saw what was inside, you immediately understood why Yelena had been so thrilled to give it to you. It was none other than a strap-on.

You stared at it in disbelief. Your friend was absolutely insane. Okay, sure — it was a good gift, you couldn’t deny that. Technically, you had no right to complain, considering that, during a drunken conversation some time ago, you had confessed your curiosity about trying one. But, honestly, first: it would be ideal to actually have someone to use it with. And second: of all the moments she could have chosen to give it to you, she had to pick now — while you were in a religious setting.

Anyway, it would be hypocritical to blame her, though, considering you had also brought something inappropriate into this environment. Still, you made a note: you weren’t going to let her get away with this when you saw her again. For now, to avoid any potential disaster, you hid your new toy deep in your suitcase, tucking it beneath layers of clothes.

----

You stood in front of the chapel door, hesitating, unsure whether to step inside.

- "Good evening. Are you not going in?"- A male voice sounded behind you, pulling you from your thoughts.

You turned around, startled.

- "I'm Peter… and you must be…?"

You extended your hand in greeting. - "Oh, sorry, I’m Y/N," you replied. - "Yeah, I was just about to go in, it's just—"

He cut you off before you could finish. - "You're the new volunteer! Nice to meet you." - He grinned. - "Don’t worry, the first time can be overwhelming. Come on, I’ll show you around."

Saying this might sound cliché, especially given the circumstances, but thank God Peter showed up to keep you company. Only now did it truly dawn on you that you were in a religious environment. The air inside the chapel felt heavy on your shoulders. Some people were wearing traditional garments, though - obviously, you had no idea what they were called. Others were arranging objects at the altar and most of them clutched bibles in their hands.

The service didn’t take long to begin, but it was enough time for you to get to know Peter a little. His situation was surprisingly similar to yours, he was a university student who was here simply to support the cause of the children. He wasn’t part of any religious community and had started participating in these volunteer activities because one of the partners at his internship happened to be the founder of an adoption center in his city.

Learning that there were others here who weren’t directly connected to the church was a relief. The pressure in your chest, that lingering sense of being out of place, softened just a bit. Besides, you were now intrigued to meet this partner Peter spoke so highly of — Mr. Stark.

--

Your eyelids drooped with boredom. The people around you were full of energy, reciting prayer after prayer, but to you, they were just meaningless words drifting through the air. Without thinking, your eyes kept wandering over the crowd, searching for Wanda. You were fairly sure she was seated near the front, beside the woman named Agatha. They seemed so immersed as if they truly belonged.

All of a sudden, the sound of drums and guitars filled the chapel. A group of people at the front stood and walked up to the altar. Among them was Wanda. Her gaze landed on you immediately. It was hypnotic. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t look away.

- "This is always the best part. The lyrics aren’t great, but at least the melody makes up for it!" - Peter whispered, nudging you with his elbow. - "At least it brings some energy to the room… and wakes up anyone who's about to fall asleep." - He chuckled.

You nudged him back, holding in a laugh to avoid drawing attention.

But Wanda noticed.

And when you looked at her again, her expression had changed. If she had been happy to see you here before, that feeling had now been replaced by something else entirely. Her eyes burned as they locked onto you — and your new colleague.

As soon as the choir finished their last song, Peter turned to you with a small smile. - "I have to go now. I promised to help with the kitchen duties for dinner," - he said, getting up.

You felt a pang of disappointment, both at losing his company and at the realization that the mass still wasn’t over. Turning your attention back to the altar, you watched as the singers from earlier now exchanged greetings with the priest. And there she was — Wanda.

From a distance, she looked so harmless. She conversed effortlessly with those around her, and everyone appeared to admire her. In a way, it felt odd watching her engage with others. She didn’t seem to be giving them those scrutinizing glances, nor did she speak in cryptic phrases designed to mislead or perhaps she behaved the same as always, and everything weighing on your mind was meaningless after all.

It didn’t take long for people to return to their seats. Some, like Peter, left the chapel, but Wanda— She didn’t go back to her place. She was walking toward you.

- "Is this seat taken?" - she asked, not waiting for an answer before sitting beside you. - "I'm really happy you came tonight. I hope it’s not too overwhelming for you, darling," she added, placing her Bible on her lap and opening it.

- "It’s been a good experience," - you admitted truthfully. - "Besides, I met Peter. He seems like a good person." - You weren’t sure why you brought him up, maybe just to fill the silence.

- "Oh, Peter. Yes, I know him," - she said, her tone suddenly firmer, colder.

Looking down, you noticed her fingers fidgeting with the rosary in her hand, gripping the cross a little too tightly. Her mood had shifted — again.

- "Uh… is the mass almost over?" - you asked, hoping to lighten the air.

- "Almost, dear. Almost," - she murmured, just as the priest began speaking again. She turned her head forward, focusing on the next prayer, but not before flashing you a small smile. You were exhausted, silently pleading for everything to end soon.

As the minutes ticked by, Wanda’s presence beside you awakened something unfamiliar. It was as if your body remained in a perpetual state of anticipation, craving something beyond reach, even though you knew your longing was forbidden. Dangerous. And then, almost as if she had read your restless mind — you felt it.

Her hand lay still on your exposed thigh, the cool beads of her rosary caught beneath her palm, pressing into your skin each time her grip tensed with every echoed “amen.” You silently cursed yourself for choosing shorts over jeans.

Unlike you, Wanda appeared entirely unbothered by the situation. She echoed the priest’s words with ease, her voice steady and sure. And with each proclamation of praise, her grip tightened just a little more, pressing the cold metal of the cross even deeper into your skin.

Then, at last, the priest spoke his final words.

Wanda turned to you again. - "I hope you have a blessed night…" - she whispered, leaning in. - "And one full of grace, Y/N. Good night." - her lips grazed your cheek in a whisper-soft kiss.

And just like that, she was gone.

You remained still, frozen in place, watching as she walked toward the others as if nothing had happened. What… was that? Was your mind playing tricks on you again? Regardless of what conclusion you might come to, one thing was undeniable — That kiss was way too close to your lips.

----

You woke up to the sound of the chapel bell ringing. You were exhausted. Pressing the palm of your hand against your eyes, you let out a low groan of frustration. Your treacherous mind dragged memories from the previous night to the surface — the chapel, a new friendship, the endless prayers, and her — Wanda. No matter how much you fought it, the memories kept replaying in your mind—her gaze fixed on you, her presence beside you on the bench, her hand on your thigh, the ghost of her lips on your cheek. Stop. You had to stop thinking about it. As if stealing your sleep wasn’t enough, you refused to let her linger in your thoughts all day too.

As you wished, things were going well. At breakfast, you ran into Peter, who instantly invited you to sit with him. He talked a lot, cracking jokes and sharing stories from college — a great distraction for your restless mind. After indulging a little too much in the delicious food, you both headed to the courtyard, where more volunteers and children began arriving. You finally met the famous Mr. Stark, whom Peter had raved about, and his lovely wife. The conversation was engaging, but duty soon called. Monica gave you instructions to take the children to the dining hall while others helped store their luggage in the respective accommodations. Everything was well-organized, and the people were incredibly helpful. While watching over the children, you even managed a quick chat with Scott, who was eager for you to meet his daughter.

The day was going wonderfully, and, without intending to be judgmental, there were moments when you almost forgot the place was tied to a religious organization. You met people from nearby towns who volunteered regularly for this cause, regardless of their beliefs. It was all about the children, and they were absolutely delightful. Laughter echoed through the air, some raced across the lawn, others tended to the garden, played ball, or explored the small farm area, where they could interact with animals and learn about them. The most rewarding part was witnessing their beaming smiles, their excitement unmistakable as they eagerly chose which activity group to join.

Speaking of which, you were assigned to oversee the lake activities. Initially, you were excited about your role, but upon realizing that "lake activities" meant swimming with the children, your enthusiasm waned. You hadn’t packed a swimsuit, after all, who would have guessed there’d be water activities at a church retreat? Never. Regardless, you worked with what you had, slipping into workout shorts, a sports top, and a lightweight shirt over it. That would do.

--

The evening bell rang, signalling the start of the night’s activities. You began calling the children out of the water and sending them over to Cassie, Scott’s daughter, who was handing out towels.

You were happy but utterly drained. You had to give your all to help your team win the water polo match against Peter, but it was worth every effort. Of course, you took the time to lift the losing team’s spirits, assuring the kids that they had played exceptionally well and placing the blame for the loss entirely on Peter. Maybe that was a little harsh because your convincing words successfully triggered an all-out water fight against him.

Well, karma always finds a way back. After all the children had left the lake and headed to the dorms, Cassie announced that only one towel remained. You and Peter locked eyes in a wordless challenge before sprinting for it. Unfortunately, he was faster, laughing mischievously as he grabbed the towel. - “Better luck next time, Y/N! I win. See you later!”

Great. A short walk to your room while soaking wet wasn’t the end of the world. Everything was fine, you told yourself — until you heard Agatha’s voice.

- "My God, Y/N! Where are you going, dripping wet like that?!" - she exclaimed, approaching you, her loud voice drawing attention including Wanda’s.

- "I’m just heading to my room to grab a towel," you murmured, not wanting to attract more stares. - "Don’t worry, just a few more steps and I’m there," you tried to sound cheerful.

- "Oh, poor little thing," - Agatha teased, giving you a mock pitying look before turning away. - "Wanda! Bring a towel, your little angel here looks like a lost, wet puppy."

A cold breeze hit your damp skin, making the temperature difference even more unbearable. Your body tensed as you saw Wanda approaching.

- "Y/N! Why are you walking around soaked like this? You’ll catch a cold, for God’s sake. Where’s your towel?" - she asked, concern evident in her voice. - "Here, let me help you," - she added, draping a towel over your shoulders, pulling you closer —too close.

- "It’s fine, Wanda. There was only one towel left, and Peter got to it first," - you admitted softly, feeling guilty for secretly enjoying her attention.

- "Peter, huh? I’ve noticed you two are getting along, maybe a little too well," - she remarked, her hand tightening on your arm over the towel. Her grip was firm. - "I hope you had fun." - You couldn’t quite decipher if her tone was sincere or laced with something else.

Your mind replayed moments from earlier. You had done your best to keep thoughts of Wanda at bay, and, for the most part, you had succeeded. The distractions of games and the children’s company helped lighten things, as long as you didn’t glance in her direction. Every time your gaze drifted toward the field where the children played, Wanda was there, watching you. At first, you brushed it off as a mere coincidence, but soon, it became unnerving. Again and again, you caught her observing you as if carefully tracking your every move.

You snapped back to the present when Wanda pulled the towel from your shoulders. You looked at her, confused.

- "Take off your shirt." - It was more of a command than a suggestion. You stared at her, surprised at her boldness.

- "I’m not saying it twice, Y/N. Your shirt is drenched. Take it off." - You stood firm, refusing to comply so easily. Who did she think she was, ordering you around? Sure, she was right, but still, you can make your own choices.

- "I’m warning you. Don’t test me," she said in a sharp tone, raising an eyebrow and stepping closer. - "Don’t worry, darling. No one will see." Your eyes locked, and in an instant, whatever determination you had shattered. She had that effect on you, whether you wanted to admit it or not.

Hesitantly, you peeled off your damp shirt, shivering as the cold air met your skin and the fabric of your sports top. Wanda gave you a satisfied smile, wrapping the towel back around you.

- "Good girl. I’m proud that you listened to me," - she murmured, adjusting the fabric on your shoulders. - "It’s okay, sweetheart." - Her voice softened as she leaned in, her hands caressing your back over the towel, sliding lower. - "It’s okay to want to act like a brat sometimes…" - Her face was dangerously close to yours, her hands now resting on your waist. - "But don’t worry. I’ll make sure you know your place." - She whispered the last words against your ear.

Taking the wet shirt from your hands, she gave you one last knowing smile before turning and walking back toward the others.

----

Your plan to stop thinking about Wanda had completely failed. The scene from earlier kept replaying in your head. Nothing made sense. Why does she act so harmless, yet suddenly she feels like a predator ready to devour me? The question tormented your mind. Well, not that it would be a bad thing for her to devour you, you thought. "STOP!" The thought was so loud in your head that you accidentally muttered it out loud. You needed to do something.

The first solution that came to mind wasn’t the best. In fact, it was the worst. But you were tired and maybe, just maybe, desperate. Whether you were ready to admit it or not, the truth was that your body craved her. The way she looked at you, her touch, her words — everything. She was driving you insane, both mentally and physically. You needed relief, and you convinced yourself this was the perfect moment. After all, you had come prepared for this.

You sat up in bed, determined. This was the right time, everyone was probably asleep by now. After skipping the evening mass and only stopping by the dining hall to grab a sandwich to go. You had been avoiding any contact.

Rummaging through your suitcase for your toy, your body burned with anticipation, your thoughts consumed by Wanda. To your surprise, the midnight bell rang, and you jumped in fright. The cool night breeze rustled the curtain by the open window, bringing a sudden clarity to your mind. "God, I mean, literally God. What am I doing? This is madness!" Guilt crept up your spine. Letting out a long sigh, you made a new decision — you needed a cold shower, now.

--

The freezing water was undoubtedly the best choice. As it cascaded down your shoulders, you felt your mind finally regaining balance. You were relaxed, at peace, when suddenly, a noise outside your stall broke the silence. A chill crept down your body. Maybe it was just the wind. Maybe it was nothing. Just to be sure, you murmured hesitantly, "Hello? Is someone there?" of course, no response. There couldn’t possibly be anyone here at this hour.

Finishing your long, calming shower, you wrapped yourself in a towel and stepped out, heading toward the bench where you had left your change of clothes. Everything was perfectly normal until you realized your underwear was missing. You shook out the rest of your clothing, but nothing. You could have sworn you brought it with you. — Had it fallen somewhere on the way? Or had you simply forgotten to grab it? — There weren’t many options left, you dried off and put on what you had. It was just a quick walk to your room. No one would see.

--

- "Y/N! You’re still awake!" - a familiar voice called out, approaching in the hallway.

No way, you thought. Your hand was already on the doorknob, about to open your room when Wanda appeared.

- "Oh, hi, Wanda. Yeah, I just… went to take a shower," - you responded awkwardly, suddenly avoiding eye contact and instead looking at the object in her hand.

- "Mmm, lucky me, then! I was heading to my room and figured I’d drop off your shirt on the way." - She extended the clothes toward you.

- "Oh, right. Thank you. You didn’t have to wash it," - you said, suddenly remembering the forgotten shirt. Honestly, at that moment, all your focus was on one thing — you were only wearing a thin pair of pyjama shorts, no underwear.

- "No problem, darling." - She offered a warm smile before tilting her head slightly. - "Are you okay? I didn’t see you at mass and dinner tonight. I missed you." - Her hand reached out, gently stroking your arm with a concerned expression.

The warmth of her touch instantly undid all the effects of your cold shower. Your body heated up fast. You tried to maintain a natural posture, but feeling so exposed beneath your flimsy shorts was not helping. You kept your response brief, gripping the doorknob tighter. You needed to get inside, for your safety. - "I’m fine, Wanda. Just tired from today’s activities."

She didn’t seem satisfied with your answer. Placing her hand over yours, she stopped you from opening the door. - "Is that all? Are you having trouble sleeping, dear?" - She squeezed your hand gently.- "How about we say one last prayer together, hm? It will help you rest." - Without waiting for an answer, she pushed the door open.

You had no choice but to nod and step inside, your pulse racing. Wanda followed, closing the door behind her. - "You know," she mused, her voice calm yet laced with something unreadable, - "I have this essential oil that works wonders for sleep. I could use it on you."

This had to be a curse. No word came from your mouth and you were afraid to face her.

Then the silence of the room was broken by her single command. - "Kneel." - Her voice was firm as she stepped closer to you by the bed.

You finally stared at her, incredulous. Your body tensed, yet you could feel a damp heat forming between your legs. She had power over you, and she knew it.

- "What’s wrong, Y/N? Kneel." - She repeated, this time with a slightly softer tone.

A thousand scenarios raced through your mind, all the possibilities of what might happen—but none were what she meant.

- "Didn’t you agree to pray with me before going to sleep?" - she questioned, raising an eyebrow.

- "Oh—of course! Pray, yes, yes, let’s do that." - You responded, your tone far too enthusiastic for the occasion, but relieved nonetheless.

Of course, kneeling was for prayer. You were so stupid. Immediately after your reply, you dropped to your knees, resting against the edge of your bed. The movement caused friction between your legs, heightening your sensitivity. This whole situation was making you feel strangely aroused and simultaneously desperate at the thought of what Wanda might do if she discovered you had been without underwear this entire time.

Before kneeling beside you, she cupped your chin, forcing you to look up at her. - "You’re a good girl, Y/N. Let’s pray to receive His blessing."

Those were the longest, most torturous minutes of your life. You fought against your consciousness, struggling to stay focused, but every little thing distracted you — Wanda’s arm brushing against yours, the rasp in her voice as she pronounced each word, the way she inhaled between phrases. — You felt guilty for desiring her this way, especially at this exact moment.

Shame. Guilt.

Your soaked folds throbbed with ache, your knees pressed against the cold floor — you were paying for your sins, and the devil knelt beside you.

- "Amen." - It was the last word you spoke before she ran a gentle hand down your back and stood up. - "That was wonderful, wasn’t it? I can feel God’s presence here." - She smiled, extending her hand to help you up. - "Alright, now it’s time to rest. Lie down, and I’ll apply the essential oil on you." - She turned, slipping a hand into her bag to retrieve the small bottle.

Honestly, you wanted to plead for her touch — to put an end to this unbearable torment — but at the same time, you felt like the most unworthy soul alive. She was doing all of this out of care and concern… right?

You lay down as she instructed. She poured a bit of oil onto her fingers and rubbed it slowly onto your wrists. - "This will help you sleep tonight, I promise, darling." - Her voice was gentle, almost a whisper. - "One last spot, and we’re done." - She released your wrists, giving you no time to protest before lifting the hem of your shirt, and slipping her hand underneath. Her fingers trailed just above your chest, massaging slowly. The motion caused the delicate fabric of your shirt to brush against your hardened nipples — she must have noticed. Just a few centimetres more, and she would be cupping your breast.

You couldn’t contain it, pressing your legs together, seeking any friction where you craved it most, a quiet moan escaped your lips.

- "You’re so good for me. My good girl." - Her eyes locked onto yours as she smiled. - We’re finished."

- "Goodnight, Y/N. I hope you have sweet dreams." - She stood up and left, leaving you there, needy and desperate. And you could swear that just before turning away, her gaze lingered on the damp spot forming at the center of your pajama shorts.

----

You slept peacefully, like an angel, and for that, you couldn’t hold it against Wanda. She had been right. However, that was the only credit she deserved. Last night had been a whirlwind of emotions and desires, forbidden ones. No matter how much your body craved her or how, in fleeting moments, you believed she might feel something for you too, none of it mattered. It was wrong.

Perhaps God had heard your prayers because your day went wonderfully well. In the morning, you had breakfast with Peter and Cassie. In the afternoon, you were in charge of the arts and painting activity group. Time flew by in the company of the children — so much fun and laughter. You even had the chance to teach them about recycling and how discarded materials could be turned into toys.

Everything was going perfectly — too perfectly. Until Monica approached you. Simply put, one of the church volunteers, an older woman named Sharon, requested a private room, claiming that her roommate’s snoring was unbearably loud. At first, you thought Monica was asking you to check the accommodation list for an available room, but then it clicked. She was actually asking you to give up your room for Sharon. Well, fine. It was a bit inconvenient, but you didn’t mind too much. After all, no one deserved to share a room with a noisy sleeper. However, the proposed solution for your lodging took you entirely by surprise — Monica suggested that you move into Wanda’s room.

You had no excuse to refuse. What could you possibly say? "I’m having forbidden thoughts about a religious woman and I think I’m losing my mind?" So, you had to accept it.

--

You didn’t have much to carry to your new dorm, or rather, Wanda’s dorm. Even so, Agatha offered to help with your belongings since Wanda had given her the key to unlock the room for you, as she was tied up with something else. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little disappointed that Wanda wasn’t here.

You stepped into the room, a wave of anxiety settling in your stomach. It was nearly the same size as a single dorm, the only difference being two twin beds separated by a nightstand. You couldn’t help but picture Wanda sleeping there and wondered why she had a shared room all to herself.

Agatha walked in right after you, lingering by the door for a moment before heading straight to the window above the beds, pushing it open to let in some fresh air.

- “Feel free to put your things in the wardrobe, Wanda won’t mind,” - she said with confidence, settling onto Wanda’s bed.

You nodded in agreement, carefully placing your suitcase on a table near the wardrobe, mindful not to knock over the items already there. Then, you quietly began unpacking your few pieces of clothing.

Agatha decided to break the silence and asked - “Y/N, have you ever sinned?”

A strange question, you thought, but maybe not so much, considering the place you were in. You took a few extra seconds to think of a response. - “Mm… I guess everyone has sinned at some point, right?"

She let out a laugh. - “Smart answer, darling. But have you ever sinned in God’s house?”

You froze in front of the wardrobe. Did I hear that right? You wondered to yourself. A pang of guilt tightened in your throat as if she knew some secret you’d been hiding. - “Mm… I don’t think I understand. You mean in church?” - you lied, feigning innocence as you resumed putting your things away.

You could feel her gaze on you, the heat creeping up your neck as she studied you. - “Never mind. You’re still too pure, aren’t you?” - she chuckled again, but this time, there was something more suggestive in her tone. - “Anyway, it’s good that you’ll be keeping Wanda company here. She’s been down all day.”

Agatha was right. Your afternoon had been busy with group activities, but in the few moments you glanced around and caught sight of Wanda, she seemed… indifferent. For a moment, you told yourself she was just overwhelmed with tasks or maybe, just maybe, you weren’t as interesting to her anymore, not enough for her to seek you out in a crowd. Whatever the case, something had changed.

- “Really? What happened to her?” - you asked, trying not to sound too concerned.

- “Yeah, she won’t be able to attend the kids’ farewell or the final mass tomorrow since she has to leave in the morning,” - Agatha replied, idly twirling a strand of her hair before continuing. - “That’s a shame. She’s always loved the last day, but unfortunately, she has to go back to Westview to take care of her boys.”

- “Boys??” - you asked, almost cutting her off as she finished speaking. There was no doubt she noticed how quickly the topic had caught your attention.

- “Yeah, her boys. They’re adorable. Too bad I can’t say the same about their father,” - she replied as if it were common knowledge. Common to everyone except you.

You put away the last of your clothes and stared at the back of the wardrobe. Agatha had just dropped a fact you weren’t prepared to hear. You felt pathetic for ever indulging in your own fantasies, a slow-burning frustration creeping in, frustration at yourself. Wanda wasn’t to blame for any of this. It was all in your desperate mind. “Just one more night here, then you’ll be gone. You can do this. You’re here for the kids.” You kept repeating it in your head as you turned to zip up your suitcase, eager to leave the room. But in your emotional haze, you pulled the zipper too forcefully, causing the suitcase to shift and knock over a few nearby objects, sending them tumbling to the floor.

- “Shit,” - you muttered, frustration slipping out before you could stop it.

- “Oh God, everything okay over there?” - Agatha asked, craning her neck to check.

- “Yeah, yeah, sorry for the language. I’m just a bit clumsy,” - you said, quickly crouching down to pick up what had fallen.

The moment you saw what had fallen, you silently prayed not to be cursed. Lying there was a red hardcover notebook and Wanda’s Bible. You carefully picked them up and placed them back on the table. But, as luck would have it, one of the Bible’s pages had crumpled from the fall. Hoping to smooth it out, you opened it where a bookmark had been placed.

There were countless handwritten notes and highlighted passages. The sight warmed your heart. Wanda was truly a devoted woman. But then, one message stood out.

It was written in red ink:

“Father, forgive me;

For I have sinned;

This love isn’t holy;

But I’m too far in.”

Your eyes widened. You were about to read it again when you felt a hand on your shoulder.

- “Y/N? Are you sure you’re okay? Have you finished unpacking?” - Agatha asked.

You quickly shut the Bible, placing the small notebook on top of it. In one swift motion, you grabbed your suitcase from the table and turned to face her.

- “I’m fine, and everything’s set. We can go.” - You forced your best fake smile before striding toward the door, eager to leave.

[canonical-transformation]

What is genshin lore even about 😭

(CW: unhelpful tongue in cheek. My best attempt at "accurate" but it depends which in game lore you trust.)

Firstly, Teyvat has its own "laws", so write that down.

Among the greatest of these laws is Fate, which the god of wisdom calls "the ultimate knowledge" because we... we don't know the future? Fate cannot be changed; also, Fate can be changed, and subverted, and superceded, if you try hard enough. Fate is inscribed wrITTEN in the sTaRS of the (false?) sky, which seems to be where the Shades live.

Fate is also the Ley Lines, which are memory, which is artifacts; memory is also Ararakalari, which is good for defeating Big Iron Chunks. If you don't have Ley Lines, use a dying angel and a cursed immortal soldier to make your own. If you don't have these, an Alberich will do, too.

Another law of Teyvat is stop trying to make gestalt consciousnesses. It didn't work for King Remus, it didn't work for Rene de Petrichor and his Narzissekreuz Ordo, it didn't work for King Deshret— or did it? Historians disagree on the exact manner of his demise—so no, you may not hire postdocs for your rebranded sentience slurry. For all we know Gosoythoth is a gestalt consciousness. Gosoythoth is of the Abyss. Haborym tells us the Abyss has no innate intelligence, though perhaps it's more accurate to call it a non-sentient animalistic intelligence. There's also the Abyss Order, which doesn't appear to be affiliated with the Five Sinners, but is affiliated with the former royalty of Khaenri'ah, a nation which I am not going to mention again due to commitment to the bit.

Teyvat, everyone agrees, is a continent of seven nations. (Well, seven nations plus an autonomous Snezhnayan protectorate(?) that's really well known for using moon magic or something. But that's a retconned protectorate so despite it probably being the grave of one or more moon sisters, good luck finding any mention of Nod-Krai outside of limited-time events. As Haborym once said: "Oh, them?, yeah, they seem cool. I guess go check them out in version six? There's plot stuff there, and yeah it's a detour that the pre-1.0 roadmap never mentioned but the journey is what matters.") The seven nations are were administered by seven Archons, who each sit on one of the Seven Thrones and each have their own Gnosis an average of one Gnosis. The Gnoses are the bones of the Third Descender. Who was that, you ask? Anyway, the Thrones and Gnoses correspond to the Seven Elements. The fact that there are seven Elements appears to be a historical contingency, based on the political division of the powers of Light back in Nibelung's reign, when he and his seven Dragon Sovereigns once ruled the world.

This was long before the days when the divine envoys walked among humanity.

If the phrase "divine envoys" made you jump in your seat, you have issues. You know who else had issues, eventually? The unified civilisation that once spanned Teyvat: a seeming federation of city states that predated the Seven Archons, containing a mix of humans and divine envoys (angels?). They were created by the Primordial One, who #descended upon Nibelung's dragon civilisation declaring terra nullius and won the ensuing war. TL;DR, they got colonised. (...though "colony" implies an imperial core, whereas the Primordial One was seemingly acting alone. Sometimes eldritch entities just show up in Teyvat from the implied void between worlds, like a cosmic whale seeking magic water. Actual example btw.)

The Primordial One may have been Phanes. (Who? Great question.) Phanes(?) had four shades, including Ronova, who controls death (not to be confused with the Big Dipper star "Beidou"), and Istaroth, who was the moment, who was every moment. (Tellingly, she was Kairos — details on subtleties here.) Phanes(?) and its shades also created the so-called Human Realm, with the subjugated Dragon Vishaps mostly confined to their native Light Realm. There was also the Void Realm, likely the aforementioned void between worlds, some of which is likely the so-called Abyss. Anyway Phanes(?) had a plan for the humanity it had created. It loved them dearly. Luckily the path to temptation had already been sealed, whatever that means.

Everything changed when the Second Who Came arrived. This Second Descender may have been the [artifact leaks] who intended to [artifact leaks] [artifact leaks] but instead [artifact leaks]. Either way, this Descender brought forbidden knowledge: likely just the kind censored by the Shades, but maaaybe the Abyssal kind that killed two gods millennia later.

War was rekindled. Phanes's(?) faction, the eventual victors, quashed heresy with a rain of Divine Nails: a mix between kinetic bombardment and AoE terraforming!curses. Humanity's world got flip-turned upside down. In the case of one Liyue city, literally upside down...... or was it everyone else who got flipped? #specialrelativity Tsurumi got shrouded in a fog of menace., seemingly unrelated to the time loop some millennia later. Sal Vindagnyr got a permawinter, and the princess could not complete her mural even as the priest made his pilgrimage. Byakuyakoku fell beneath the sea, where they invented Greece and child scapegoats. Sumeru's original forests turned to desert. (Speculative: Fontaine got FRIKEE'd, a technical term for getting displaced several nautical miles into the air and not coming back down.) Mondstadt doesn't appear to have been directly nailed but it's also developmentally centuries behind all its peers, as if someone took an industrial revolution setting and then added the blandest medieval fantasy elements to it because BotW comparisons sell.

The ruins of the unified civilisation litter Teyvat and their architecture can be found everywhere — they loved their Celtic knots. For the low cost of some petrified Moon resin that apparently only Descenders secrete, you can poke at their old Irminsul shrines (their Leylines now infested with monsters) for access to the memories within the Leylines.

According to Wolfy, who is a fictional character and also real, the Envoys were cursed in various ways, largely being turned into Seelies: shadows of themselves forever guiding lost travellers home. (According to Fischl, who is also a fictional character and also also real, the kingdom of eternal darkness that is shrouded from the heavens shall eventually re-emerge and punish the wicked usurpers: this is foretold by Fate.) There are various exceptions: Nabu Malikata; Yohualtechutin. The one mentioned by Wolfy is Nicole Reeyn, who is the second-most Seelie coded character in the game because she likes being a good guide.

Seemingly later there was the Gnoses and the Archon War (at least in Liyue and Inazuma) and then there was nobody left who shared the memories of osmanthus wine so dear to Morax, besides the several dozen illuminated beast vassals, in his employ, and also Marchosias, who got Rukkhadevata'd, a term that is the opposite of getting Arama'd. (Arama was an Aranara but then they had to be a worldtree. Rukkhadevata was

More recently, there was the Siege of Poisson. Parsifal was there [citation needed][disputed]. Possibly because of this, Tenoch and Bosacius died soon after, and a whole lot of Hilichurls got made. Stars fell from the skies, and according to the promotional Xbox wings one of them was once the scion of a glorious kingdom.

[translatemunson]

death defying acts | bradley "rooster" bradshaw

series summary: Only one percent of US aviators can say they are Top Gun. You weren’t part of the elite aviators for the country, nor someone that quickly climbed the Navy ladder. Your skills and destiny led you to Intelligence work, and you believed you weren’t using your full potential. Until one day you’re transferred to San Diego to work with Captain Pete ‘Maverick’ Mitchell and The Dagger Squad. New team, new mission, new challenges, and one small problem named Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw.

this is a bradley "rooster" bradshaw x fem!reader series

general content warning: minors please DNI thank you, lots of inaccuracies regarding the US Navy and aviation (I did my best researching, but some details might have slipped off or I just ignored in order to create my storyline), afab!reader, no descriptions of reader (tried to keep those as broad as possible so anyone could see themselves here), angst, implied and explicit smut, violence, action, implied deaths and lots of fights. for more details, check each individual warnings at the beginning of the chapters.

chapters

file 001 — call sign: Hyde

file 002 — brand new bar, same old problems

file 003 — things never go as planned

file 004 — Warbird takes the sky

file 005 — TBA

more files to be announced

series note: the following events take place after the uranium mission seen in the movie. i'm making things up and trying to keep it close to reality as much as possible, but this is fanfic, so chill guys. as per usual, i'm taking requests for scenes or ideas for dda (death defying acts), so please don't be shy and send me those via askbox or dms.

author's note: hi guys! it's me, effie with another fic about hot guys i'd like to— you know what i mean. english is not my first language, and i tend to take a few weeks to update the story, but don't give up on me, ok? anyway, first time writing for top gun: maverick characters, so i'm doing my best with all the details i could pick up from the movie.

banners credits to @cafekitsune

[disassembly-required]

So I know it's common for folks to headcanon Khan was always obsessed with doors, and that obsession was more or less an arbitrary passion he had... but I can't help but feel there's a really important detail that, when considered, suggests otherwise?

In episode 4, when Khan is showing the contents of "Nori's kooky insane ramblings" closet, one of the things he quotes Nori said was "build doors against the coming sky demons"

I feel this implies

a) building doors to protect from the murder drones (that she apparently had an intuition about) was Nori's idea

b) Khan, on some level, believed this was a "kooky insane rambling" and not something he took seriously

(important to remember Nori had some level of memory loss/disorganized cognition when she was recovered from the lab; Khan didn't know the significance of her history there, and Nori wouldn't have been able tell him everything, only these ominous bits and pieces that didn't entirely make sense.)

Therefore, c) Khan likely didn't even start building any doors before the murder drones came, since in the exposition intro, the workers were otherwise just living casually, not hiding away in the outpost.

So I'm led to believe perhaps... when the "sky demons" were real and they killed Nori, Khan felt responsible for her death because he didn't listen to her. He didn't build the doors.

And perhaps that's where his obsession stems from, that fatal mistake he never wanted to make again. And we can say it's pretty maladaptive, since he became so preoccupied with doors, he was more emotionally invested in them than Uzi. But in his mind, he must have thought his life's work WAS all for her, to keep her safe, where he failed Nori. Khan also became way too comfortable in his maladaptive coping, feeling SO sure behind his doors, he would never have to actually face a murder drone ever again.

All that said, it also puts his actions in the pilot into a bit of a different light, when he abandoned Uzi. I don't think Khan was simply frightened seeing a murder drone and acting cowardly. I think he was having a flashback and a panic response. I mean, Uzi's appearance takes after her mother, yeah? It must've reminded him of Nori being attacked, which is.. even more harrowing with the heavy implication N was the specific murder drone who killed Nori. Even if Khan didn't actively know it or recognize him, looking at N's face filled him panic. He was being brought back to Nori's death.

I think there's a few different reasons he may have chosen to close the door. I don't think it was done in a sound mind "this is clearly for the greater good, only losing one drone instead of the whole colony" thought process. I'm sure that was part of what he was weighing the best he could possibly process. But I think another reason may have been the fact that he already felt like he already failed Uzi, and by extent Nori once again, and he ....didn't want to see it happen again. Whether he didn't believe Uzi's gun was strong enough, or believed he wouldn't be able to aim, or believed wouldn't even have a shot at all before N attacked him too, ultimately he must've felt like the scene would play out the same (we are left to wonder if Khan tried to fight back when it was Nori...) and he didn't want to see Nori (through Uzi) die again.

Which sounds awful of course, but PTSD will do that to you. You'll make terrible, impulsive decisions because your mind is trying to protect itself from further damage. Had Uzi actually died, I think the regret would have hit him like a truck and destroyed him. I don't think he would have stood by a decision he made during a panic attack.

Anyway I got a little sidetracked re: Khan's trauma, but my main thesis here was: doors was Nori's idea. Khan didn't listen until it was too late. Then his entire world became doors.

[weewookinard]

Mommy, do you believe in magic?

Jee-Yun has a revelation for her mom about her new favorite uncle. “It's about Uncle Tommy, I think he's a wizard.”

Or, a new Jee-Yun shenanigans story about Maddie having to deal with her daughter's curious and creative mind.

Go read it on AO3

(and discover my other Jee-Yun shenanigan)

It's the first thing I wrote since the death of my dad. I'm sorry it took me so long. I'll try to work on my other projects as soon as possible. Thank you so much for everyone's love 💖

You can also read it after the cut 💖

“It's about Uncle Tommy.”

Maddie barely holds back the sigh that threatens to cross her lips. Jee-Yun hasn't stopped talking about him since he showed her a photo of his new cat, Arnold, the day before. In fact, she never stopped talking about him since he came into her life. It might have been irritating if the duo hadn't been so endearing, the little girl fascinated by this new addition in her life.

Questions about him, his life, what are his favourite cereals and who is in his opinion the best member of the paw patrol squad. Stories about their adventures, visiting the zoo and playing with dolls and going to see movies with him and Uncle Buck, every detail retold multiple time. Thoughts on how he is the best story reader she knows because he does great sheep voices, and on how strong he is, and do you know mom that he has a car that is older than dad?

“What about Uncle Tommy Jee?” She asks as she continues chopping carrots, mildly focused on the recipe now that her daughter is in front of her, a serious frown on her face.

“I think he's a wizard.”

The mom stares at her daughter, wondering what she had done in her previous life to deserve such hardships. The knife stops mid movement, as if she needs every part of her body to stay attentive.

“What do you mean, he's a wizard?”

Jee-Yun looks to the left, then to the right, before she approaches the kitchen counter, her face just at the right size for her big brown eyes to be seen. Her voice is muffled even though they are the only one in the house right now.

"I heard him tell Uncle Buck how he flew to save some lady the other day." The kid stops, a serious expression on her face, as if this is enough to explain her point.

Which is not.

Maddie waits but nothing more come. Nothing but Jee-Yun, so sure about her discovery.

"And?" She asks, not sure what to expect.

Her lack of shock seems to disappoint her daughter whose frown deepens, the same way Buck's used to when he was a kid. It melts Maddie's heart to see how Jee looks like Howie and still inherited the Buckley pout.

"And? Mommy, Uncle Tommy can fly! Did you hear what I just told you?" She throws a disbelieving look at her mom, as if she's doubting the sanity of the woman. "Normal people can fly mom, only witches and wizards and Tinker Bell. Everybody know that."

It's vexing really, but Maddie decides to ignore it, more interested in what her daughter is saying.

Finally, she puts down her knife, carrots forgotten, and her hand goes through her hair in a gesture supposed to help her focus on what logic means to a five-year-old.

"Sweetheart, Uncle Tommy flies a helicopter, he does not fly in the sky by magic to save people."

Her other hand comes and starts to stroke her belly where the baby is calm. One day this new little one will, too, asks questions and believes things. She hopes it will stay this cute.

Because yes, Jee-Yun is really cute right now, even if she looks like a mad woman.

"No!" She replies, "Tommy is a firefighter and firefighters use fire trucks, they don't use helicoper!" Her pronunciation is not great, and it adds to the picture, making Maddie smiles with tenderness. Which is apparently not what her daughter wants if she judges by the look the little girl address her.

"Don't laugh!" Her pout and her little crossed arms don't help Maddie stay serious, but she tries anyway.

"I'm not laughing Jee-Bug! And I know that firefighters use fire trucks but sometimes there is no road to go where the fire is, so they have to use other vehicle. Like boats, or helicopters."

Jee-Yun takes a minute to think about what her mother just said. She looks disappointed and it makes Maddie's smile flicker. Away the magic, away the wonder of childhood. She hopes this hard reality won't break the admiration the little girl has for her uncle. Being the cause of such a disappointment would be too hurtful.

When the kid finally manages to find her voice again it's timid, soft, sad. "But... But he told me we could go and fly together to see what's in the clouds. I thought he would teach me how to do it..."

A part of Maddie's heart hurts to see her little one so sad about not being able to fly. The other one decided to picture Tommy flying in a superman suit and it's one of the most hilarious things she ever pictured.

She takes a few steps toward her daughter and tries to lean over her despite her really pregnant belly. Her hand comes and caress Jee-Yun's face. "Baby... Maybe he said he would take you with his helicopter? Uncle Buck told me it's a really big one, I'm sure they can find a spot for you. Maybe you will be able to watch him pilot."

She doesn't know if it's the cuddling or the words but Jee's face lights up, her smile back. "What?!" Her scream resonates in the whole house. "I knew Uncle Tommy is the best! I have to pack my suitcase so we can go on a trip with the helicoper! Do you think we can go see the stars today? I need to take my shampoo for the travel!"

Maddie doesn't have the time to respond to the little girl. Her daughter vanishes as fast as her sudden sadness. It makes Maddie smile while her hand search for her phone.

She now has to ask her brother's boyfriend if he can organize a chopper date. She hopes it can happen soon enough because Maddie knows there is no way she'll be able to unpack Jee-Yun's suitcase until she actually sees the clouds.

[water-to-drink]

Be a Gladiolus in a Field of Belladonnas pt13

Catching Up with Old Friends

(Summary): After Diluc found you and your team, you all discuss what to do next

Part 1 Last Part Next Part

✧ Masterlist ✧

(Characters): traveler!Lumine, abyss prince!Aether, Childe, Paimon, Diluc, Kaeya, ???, & ???

(Tags/Warnings): gn!reader, talks of violence, foul language, suggestive language, (if I missed anything lmk)

(Word Count): 2.1k

“Italics” = Non human speaking

That night was supposed to be just like any another. The cool Mondstadt wind blowing his curly red hair. The slight crunch of grass underneath his boots were the only sounds that accompanied him

This night is just like the others, no hilichurls or slimes to be found. Even their little camps are abandoned with signs that they were newly abandoned. It was odd but Diluc kept on, still on his guard

Looking up at the sky he sees a shooting star, similar to the ones that would announce a new vessel being chosen. Could this be a sign of your return after such a long time of not being able to sense your divine presence. Sure there were times where you wouldn’t use your vessels but this time it was different. Instead of feeling the faint light you make them feel it was just a bitter cold that radiated throughout all of your vessels’ bodies, even the traveler hasn’t felt you in what had been months. As hope began a swirl in Diluc’s chest the night sky instantly is alight like it was dawn

Soon it turned to night again, leaving the young master in a state of bewilderment. Cautiously heading towards the spot where the abnormally bright shooting star landed, a sound could be heard. The familiar sounds of hilichurls and someone running from them. His walk turned into a sprint and after what felt like an eternity, Diluc was greeted with the sight of someone running towards him. You

After making quick work of the hilichurls, the young master turns his attention towards you, without realizing his mask was knocked off in the struggle until you pointed it out

Seeing there’s no use in keeping his identity secret he relented. “My name is Diluc, what’s yours?”

“I… think it’s, Mentir.”

“Master Diluc! Good morning!” You greeted

“Good morning, your Grace.”

You pouted. “What happened to you saying my name?”

“I’m sorry, but it feels odd to refer to you with such formality. How is are you holding up?” Diluc asked

“I’m doing good, especially when Kaeya and Childe made breakfast for all of us.” You said. “Kaeya was telling us what’s going on. The leaders congregating to capture me and search parties looking for me. I’m just glad that we didn’t run into any of them last night.”

“You seem really cheerful for someone being hunted by all of Teyvat.” Kaeya teased

“Well you have to look on the positives because if you don’t you’ll just end up curled up in a ball crying uncontrollably and in a catatonic state.” You nervously laughed out. “But, there is something that keeps me sane.” You breathed out. “The thought of me chopping that bitch’s head off.”

You looked at everyone to see horrified faces except for Childe who looks excited and proud

“Uhh, anyways.” Diluc said as he went into a room to fetch something. “It’s not much, but I tried my best.” Diluc presented your jacket, once in your hands you examined the stitch work. It was crude at best, but you can tell it was made in earnest

“Thanks, I appreciate your work, Diluc.”

“Oh, it’s nothing.” Diluc said as his face turned a bright red

“And do you have a pen and paper that I can borrow.”

Diluc quickly went to retrieve a pen and paper and gave them to you. Taking the pen to the paper everyone around you and watched in anticipation, waiting to see what the divine creator will write down. You got nervous until you remembered an important detail

“I just realized I can’t write the Teyvat script. Can one of you do this for me?” You turned and offered the pen To anyone

“I can do it for you, your Grace!” Childe said as he took the pen from you and start to get ready to write. “Go ahead, your Grace.”

“Okay, Dear Pierro I know that you all are worried about me but I’m writing this letter to inform you that I’m well and need to travel around Teyvat to get my old powers.” You explained the situation in the letter, mainly the trees and the allies that know about your true identity. Finally done writing the letter, Childe presents the paper for you to read. Looking through it, you look up at the expecting ginger. “Not gonna lie, this shit looks like chicken scratch. I can’t use this, but thank you though.”

“I’ll get another piece of paper.” Diluc said as he went to fetch the items

“I’ll write for you, your Grace.” Aether said

Diluc handed Aether the paper and he took the pen from Childe, the blond began to rewrite the letter. While waiting for the letter to be written you turned towards the redhead

“Hey, Diluc, can I annoy you one last time?”

“You can never annoy me, your Grace.”

“Can you fetch your bird friend?”

“Of course.” Diluc said as he walked towards the window. “I would suggest you stay away from the window, your Grace.” Diluc opened the curtains, letting light shine into the room. Once the owl came near the young master, its attention quickly shifted towards you and ignored Diluc. Flying around you until it landed on your shoulder, thank whoever is watching that your coat is thick enough to protect you from the owl’s talons

“Your Grace! I’m so glad that you’re safe.” The owl said as it rubbed its face against yours

“Haha, stop it that tickles, little guy.” You chuckled as the owl kept showing you affection. “I’m serious, I need you to deliver a letter for me. I want this letter to go to Snezhnaya, especially the Zapolyarny Palace, hand it to other birds and tell them about the letter.” You told the owl as you took the letter from Aether and giving it to the bird. “Wait, before you go, I need to know something.”

“What’s happening?” Kaeya asked the traveler

“Oh, their Grace can talk to birds. Apparently only they can do that.” Paimon explained

Kaeya and Diluc looked on still confused but accepted the fact nonetheless

“Understood, I won’t let you down, your Grace.” The owl told you before taking off and flying out the window

“That’s one less thing to worry about, what’s next.” You said the window was closed once again along with the curtains being drawn

“Is something on your mind, your Grace?” Lumine asked

“What Diluc’s owl told me, he said that the archons haven’t been seen on Teyvat for days.”

“Well Yae Miko did tell us that Ei is in her head but that doesn’t explain the other archons.” Paimon pondered as she rubbed her chin. “Ugh, all this thinking is making Paimon’s head hurt.”

“Whatever the case is, we need to talk about our next course of action.” You retorted

“Their Grace is right, we’re wasting time standing here doing nothing.” Childe said as he crossed his arms and nodded in agreement

“Liyue is out of the question, with the millelith, and the Adepti.” You reasoned, leaving out all of the imposter fics you read that depicts Liyue as a hell of earth for the reader labeled as an imposter

“Fontaine is our best option, since the tree is far away from the city where most people live.” Lumine explained

“There’s going to be a shipment coming for the wine, the same wine Kaeya was stealing,” Diluc said as he glared at his brother. “perhaps you all could hide in the crates.”

“That might be too risky.” Aether pondered

“Maybe we can leave the boat before it reaches the port, like making an ice bridge. Me and Lumine have ice powers.” You suggested

“Yeah, like the ones you make when using Kaeya as a vessel.” Paimon smiled

“That is an idea but their Grace’s elemental energy is unstable.” Aether reminded

“We won’t know until we try, and besides we have two cryo users.” You said gesturing towards Lumine and Kaeya. “Oh since we’re here for a few weeks, it wouldn’t hurt to train on my sword skills.”

“Ohh, I’ll help you train your Grace!” Childe announces excitedly

“Thanks, but let’s have Kaeya train me. He isn’t going to be with us for long so it only makes sense. And I want to get as much sword skills as possible.” You said, not mentioning how scared you are to go up against someone as bloodthirsty as Childe, though you know he’ll never hurt you but it feels like a kid going up against a professional soccer player while in a wheelchair

Once the furniture was moved out of the way, the twins, Paimon, and Diluc watch from the sidelines as you and Kaeya face each other with your swords drawn. The sword feels heavy in your hands

Childe is right behind you giving you pointers. “Keep your feet apart from each other.” He instructs as he nudges your feet away from another. “Next straighten your back.” You instinctively do. “Good, you got this.” Childe pat you on the back

Kaeya began to circle around you and instantly you knew he was looking for an opportunity to strike. Lunging towards you, you dodge the attack. Your movements never felt so natural like they do now, limbs moving with such fluidity that it rivals the waves of the ocean. You gripped the sword and in a blink of an eye you’re instantly in a plateau filled with blue rocks, even the ground is a muted blue. In front of you is a feminine figure

“You amaze me, kid. Didn’t think you had it in you.” They said

“Wh-who are you?” You asked, hating how much your voice shakes in that moment

“But that doesn’t mean I’ll let you off that easy!” The figure charged at you and instinctively you raise you sword and feel it slice something

You blink and now you’re back at Dawn Winery and you’re cutting into Kaeya’s side

You drop your sword and Kaeya lands on his backside

“I’ll get the med kit!” Diluc said as rushed to get it

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry! I didn’t see it was you, I blinked and I was somewhere that wasn’t Teyvat! I don’t know what came over me. I’m so sorry.” You rambled out as you kneeled in front of Kaeya and examined the wound

“It looks worse than it actually is, you got me good, your Grace.”

“I’m so sorry I hurt you, Kaeya.” You put your hands above his bloodied hand. “I did it again, I don’t want to hurt anyone else anymore.” Suddenly a golden light comes from your hands and a warn sensation swirls within his chest. Gone is the youthful light your eyes held and now it’s replaced by a mournful and more mature nature. It’s almost as if the human side of you that was in front of him moments ago is gone and now replaced by the divine creator side of you

The light stops and when you take your hands off of the wound, it’s now gone. Its only remnant is a slight glimmer on the captain’s skin

“Oh my god. Did I do that?” You asked in astonishment, the familiar youthful glint back in your eyes

Resting his chin on his palm he throws you his signature smirk

“If you wanted to touch me that bad, you could have just asked. I’m more than happy to do some skinship with a hottie like you.”

“You had to ruin it.” You said disgusted.

“I take it that their Grace healed Kaeya.” Diluc inquired with a medical kit in his hands

You stood up and helped the knight up as well. “I can’t think about sleeping with anyone when I got all of Teyvat is trying to kill me.” You muttered

“Wait! So when this blows over, then I’ll have a chance?!” Childe asked excitedly

“Maybe, I think about it. But I make no promises.”

Lone footsteps echo throughout the Plane of Euthymia. The steps get louder to a lone purple haired woman meditating

The figure stops in behind her and speaks. “Baal.”

“What do you want?” She asked coldly

“I need your help.”

“Why do you need me, you know I can’t show my face to their Grace after I raised my sword to them.”

“If they knew of our situation then they wouldn’t hold it against you, now really think about this.”

Ei took her time to reconsider until her feet hit the ground and turned towards the figure. “Alright, I go with you.”

Taglist:

@chuuya-brainrot @creation-magician @tartarsaucechi1de @vvyeislazzy @aludicpoet @undecidingfate @annoying-mary @randomnatics @bore2808 @esthelily @yurivision @angelamelamela @chocolatekuns @ghost-mint @mmmhyperfixation @legendaryexperthideout @lapinaenmicoche @sinsdumbdrabble @rebeccawinters @imyme20 @nymphsdomain @sun7lowxr @blackcoffex @itz-luna @flowerypesky @land-of-eternity @deathcvltcivilofficial @d4y-dr3am3r @yuriclouds @artwitch @mercy-not-merci @xyaxyn @starxvs @dreamoffireflies06

[stilljuststardust]

Hey my sister wants to shift, she’s 13, what is the most basic “here’s what you need to know and never listen to shifttok” song you’ve got for her?

∘₊✧Explanation✧₊∘

Thanks for the ask! I'm sorry this took me so long I've been having some health issues.

Disclaimer, please read:

There are SO many different perspectives on how it works. Mine is not the only one and though all perspectives are valid, I'm going to assume that you chose to ask me because you are familiar with my blog and how I personally view shifting.

I'm going to try to leave LOA out of it but that is how I personally view shifting.

What is shifting?

Shifting is when you become aware of the life you're living in another reality. The reality you shift into is just as real as the one you are currently in. It will feel real because it is.

How to shift

Strictly speaking, you don't have to do anything to shift. How people shift is so personal and customized and nothing is necessary to do it but I'll try my best to give "instructions" anyway.

You decide you're in your DR, you decide that it is true and it has worked, ignore anything outside of yourself that tells you otherwise, and know that it is true because you freaking said it was.

You decide you've shifted and ignore anything but that decision. That is IT. Don't worry about this reality, it doesn't matter. Don't worry about any aspects of this reality you can still hear see or feel, they won't stop you from shifting don't let them distract you.

ALL you have to do is become aware of your DR. I know that it can be hard to conceptualize that for a beginner so most people use methods.

Methods

To start off: It is not necessary to have a method. Many people just intend to shift and then they do. That's it. You don't have to do anything, however I recognize that for someone who isn't familiar with shifting "just intend to" is probably an unhelpful answer.

Most methods can be divided into two categories, awake and asleep methods.

Awake methods revolve around becoming aware that you are already in your DR.

Asleep methods revolve around becoming aware that you will wake up in your DR.

Common features in both kinds of methods:

Meditation

Visualization

Affirmations

Affirmations are pretty straightforward, you repeat a sentence that aligns with your goal over and over. "I have shifted. I am in my DR."

What I personally do

I robotically affirm all day "I am going to shift tonight" robotic affirmations are just repeated affirmations without feeling. So all day I just say it to myself again and again.

I then take some time to sit down and imagine my desired reality, my favorite street, pretty things I would see throughout the day, stuff that grounds me in the feeling of it.

Then I just lay down and tell myself I'm there no matter what. No matter what I feel hear or see I am there.

Doesn't matter I'm there.

Frequently asked questions

I am choosing to put these first because I feel like they really clarify what shifting is and how it works.

Will I have memories of my destination reality once I have shifted?

Yes, you have always existed in that reality and you have a life's worth of memories there. When you become aware of a reality and of the version of yourself that exists within it you also become aware of your memories there.

How does scripting work/ what is it?

It is a description of the reality you'd like to shift into, usually written. Think of it as an the address of the reality you'd like to shift to. You specify the details of the life you would like to become aware of. Having one is not necessary.

Can I script [insert anything here] ?

Yes. You can script anything, and I mean anything. If you can imagine it, it is possible. The realities we shift to do not have to follow the rules of this one and what is impossible here doesn't have to be impossible there. You want to script the sky is purple? Then it is. You want to have wings? Congratulations you can. I cannot stress this enough, ANYTHING you want can be scripted.

Relevant posts

Your desired reality already exists

An old post of my own shifting routines nothing listed is necessary, the list exists to give ideas not instructions

How to visualize

A good post on shiftok misinformation by my awesome mutual

[local-lamppost]

Initial thoughts cause it's 4am

Spoilers

First off, wow... it's really good. I've been saying that if season 2 is as good as season 1 Arcane would be my new favorite show and we are on track. Anyway, just gonna list stuff until I can process/rewatch a billion times

Mel lived! I was so certain that they would just kill her off, make that Ambessa's motive (give Jayce a reason to keep fighting the Undercity) but it's much more interesting keeping her involved in the narrative. Love her trying to bother understand and undermine her mother. Those Black Rose guys best not have hurt a hair on her perfect head.

Speaking of. What in the Utena are these Black Rose magic people? I love the look of their magic. I wonder how they can corrupt people. Is it a spell? Do they slip them something?

Love how the divide of Jayce and Viktor was done. Jayce betrayed Viktor's wishes of destroying the Hexcore. Last season, Viktor wanted to forget about using the core to save himself after Sky and begged Jayce to destroy it when the core wouldn't allow Viktor himself to do it. In Jayce's mind though, the core is the solution to Viktor's problems. He didn't know it killed Sky or that it can influence Viktor, but all Viktor can comprehend is that Jayce didn't trust him. Didn't keep his promise. And this is fresh off of Jayce's season 1 antics against the Undercity, so Viktor's faith in his partner was already shaken. Viktor's also comfortable in his mortality/death, even though he wants to prolong it like every other human, but Jayce can't fathom loosing Viktor-the man who saved his life and made his dreams reality.

(Side note: Am I a JayVik shipper? I never considered myself one, but after writing this...)

JINX HAS A KID! I love this choice. Give Jinx a kid so she is able to learn what Silco and Vi had to go through with her, that no matter how big or dangerous a scheme to take this child into account. The confrontation in ep 3 really showed what Jinx will have to consider now that this kid's decided to adopt her as an older sister or something. Especially nice detail of how Vi-who has always had to consider the kids in her life-immediately stops fighting and starts looking for ways to keep the kid safe.

I was wondering how Jinx would loose a finger and Caitlyn shooting it off to save Vi is just- The fact that the only way these two can show they care about Vi when it comes to each other is by hurting the other.

Sevika's new arm is fantastic. It's a peace offering from Jinx, but also a way for Jinx to feel better (it was something she could fix). The mechanics of it are really fun. It reminds me of Kite's weapon from HxH with how it didn't always work/give her what she wanted in the fight. I especially love the victory rockets and built in theme song.

Ambessa is so interesting. Between her character song to the introduction of just what she is fighting against, I am very intrigued. She reminds me of Cersei Lannister, except she loves her kids as more than just extensions of herself (as of what we've seen, but I think that'll stick). Her using Salo to establish herself-which also keeps Mel safe by distancing her-but also dropping him in order to prop up Cait at her first opportunity is such a clever move. She truly is the fox and the wolf, but she is above all a mama bear.

Not much to say about Heimerdinger or Ekko yet, but I am definitely curious to see what they do about the wild runes with Jayce. The three of them have a fun dynamic, what with Heimerdinger still being peeved about magic/being ousted, Ekko hating topside and having a new reason to do so with them poisoning his tree, and Jayce being recently seperated and divorced from both his partners.

Vi is an enforcer. I didn't know how they were gonna handle this, but they did it so well. Of course she wants to fix things for the people her sister hurt. She feels responsible. She can say she doesn't blame herself, but how true is that? Why else would she be wearing a badge if not for her guilt? She is desperate to do something right and being an enforcer seemed to be a way to make Cait happy, get her gauntlets (what she believes is necessary to make any kind of change), and be first in line in the hunt for Jinx. She says that her sister is dead, that Jinx is a desecration to Powder's memory, that they are not sisters but isn't it supposed to be 'nothing is going to change that'? How much of all this is just something Vi is telling herself to keep going? Cait is her motive right now, but after ep 3 I definitely see why she starts spiraling.

(2 Side note: Her new best friend/drinking buddy is such a real one. They have a bender in the gutter together and now he's following her into and out of the enforcers. I wonder if he knew Vander? In any case, he is a delight.)

Cait and Vi kissed... CAIT AND VI KISSED! Then NOTHING HAPPENED AFTER! NOTHING! No immediate break up, nope.

So Cait. I love Cait and I am hyped for her arc this season. I am ready to fight tooth and nail for her. I am a Caitlyn defender. So what she's being manipulated into leading a military state due to her grief/unresolved anger/guilt/Ambessa being better at this than her, she looks amazing in her cape. It balances.

Seriously though, the writing for Cait especially is so solid. She is desperate to hold herself and her family together, to protect her city. She still wants to protect the innocent, to heal the Undercity, but her anger at a select few of those she wants to help is clouding the greater image for her. Vi seems to be acting as her better half, the side that cares for the innocent-the protector. Ambessa is the agressor, encouraging Cait to take drastic military action against the Undercity as a whole. Vi's disillusionment with Cait is due to the fact that Cait desire to heal, not harm, is what caused her to fall for Cait to begin with. To see more than some privileged topside enforcer, but a woman who genuinely cared and was willing to abandon her peaceful naivety to learn for the greater good of strangers.

I'll also point out that they separate when Cait starts blaming Vi for them loosing Jinx. Before, everyone but Cait put responsibility on Vi, she was supposed to be the one to help lighten the load and absolve some of the guilt. Now Cait is becoming another one of those who slam the blame on Vi. She changed. Why does everyone around VI change?

Can't wait for the next batch of episodes.

[myarmsaretoolong]

Get to know your mutuals!!!

cheers @stevie-marigold for tagging me!

What's the origin of your blog title?

doccy who! plus me mum always used to say i have telescopic arms. personally i think they're a normal length

OTP(s) Shipname:

johnlock, i will forever be a johnlocker no matter which version of those freaks we're talking about

Favourite colour:

orange <3

Favourite game:

factorio! i greatly enjoy the spagetti of it

Song stuck in your head:

antmusic by adam and the ants

Weirdest habit/trait?

darling everything i do is deeply weird, couldn't do something normal if i tried

Hobbies:

writing, reading, nuisance making, music enjoying, getting in the way, and various wool-related crafts

If you work, what's your profession?

im the imp who sits in your camera and paints the pictures for you (im out of blue btw)

If you could have any job you wish, what would it be?

id invent hexopostcards, which are hexagonal postcards and only have pictures of six sided things on. if a thing has more than six sides than you've got to have the seventh+ side(s) off the edge of the postcard. if it has less than six you have to draw where the rest of the sides could feasibly be. then id retire

Something you're good at:

answering questions truthfully

Something you're bad at:

eating dog food

Something you love:

doing jigsaws

Something you could talk about for hours off the cuff:

doccy who. i just do that anyway

Something you hate:

jigsaws that have too much sky so its all just blue (doesn't include my starry night puzzle)

Something you collect:

vinyls, posters, things ill use someday, names, ideas of things to write

Something you forget:

my best friends birthday. i have it written down and i still forget consistently

What's your love language?

circular gallifreyan

Favourite movie/show:

oh theres so many. doccy who and torchwood, sherlock, merlin (im really from a specific time going by those answers) loads of films too but, to say an obscure one to make me sound cool, mcfarland usa

Favourite food:

the souls of the damned. failing that pasta

Favourite animal:

@zelda-wheelz

What were you like as a child?

weird nervous about everything and a nerd

Favourite subject at school?

maths! don't ask me to remember a single thing from my alevels though

Least favourite subject:

drama. hated acting in front of all those eyes

What's your best character trait?

i like to think im quite nice

What's your worst character trait?

asking @zelda-wheelz the answers for half these questions

If you could change any detail of your life right now, what would it be?

id move

If you could travel in time, who would you like to meet?

george michael, so long as i can bring my mum

tagging: @captainfairygodmother @b1uetrees @by-gray

[klovesmatt]

reader x soft!matt

synopsis: you and matt have a picnic till nostalgia hit you and makes you reminisce your guy’s childhood memories

dividers by @bernardsbendystraws

“Echoes of the summer”

It was a perfect summer afternoon. The sun hung lazily in the sky, casting golden light over everything. Matt and I were lying on a blanket in the park, the soft hum of nature surrounding us. The air smelled faintly of grass and the distant scent of barbecues wafted from nearby picnics. It was one of those rare days where the world felt completely still, like time was taking a breath, and for a moment, it felt like we could just exist in that perfect peace forever.

Matt was telling me about some ridiculous thing that had happened during one of his videos, his voice light with laughter. He had this way of making even the most mundane stories sound entertaining, his eyes sparkling as he animatedly explained each detail. I couldn’t help but smile, the warmth of his presence filling me with a sense of calm.

But then, out of nowhere, a wave of nostalgia hit me. It wasn’t anything specific—just a feeling, a sudden pull backward. I found myself remembering our childhoods, those simpler days when everything seemed less complicated, when we didn’t have to worry about time or the future. The memories weren’t clear-cut; they were more like flashes of moments—riding bikes down streets in our neighborhood, laughing about absolutely nothing, feeling invincible in our tiny worlds.

I shifted a little, my mind wandering. It was as if the scent of the summer air, the soft breeze rustling the trees, all combined to trigger something deep within me. A strange kind of ache followed, a longing for something I couldn’t quite grasp, but I knew it was connected to us—who we were before life had gotten so busy, before things had become complicated.

Matt must have noticed the change in my mood because he stopped talking and turned to face me. His eyes softened with concern.

“Hey, what’s up?” he asked gently.

I looked at him, the nostalgia still lingering, and smiled a little. “I don’t know… Just got hit with a wave of memories. You know, of when we were kids. Everything was so much easier back then, wasn’t it?”

He chuckled, brushing a lock of hair from his face. “Yeah, I remember that. I remember you, actually. You were always the one organizing the neighborhood games—always the leader.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Yeah, I guess I was. You were always right there with me though—right behind me, helping out in your own way.”

Matt smiled and lay back down on the blanket. “I miss those days,” he said softly, almost as if he were speaking more to himself than to me. “But at the same time, I’m glad we have what we have now. This… this feels like the best of both worlds. We still get to have the carefree days, but now we’re also making memories together that’ll last even longer.”

I nodded, the bittersweet feeling slowly melting away, replaced by a quiet kind of contentment. It was true—while those childhood days were filled with innocence and freedom, now we had something even more special. We had grown together, made it through life’s ups and downs, and somehow, we still managed to keep the lightness of those childhood memories alive.

I leaned over, resting my head on his chest, and we stayed there for a long time, letting the warmth of the summer afternoon wrap around us. The past was always going to be there, tucked away in the corners of our minds, but the present—this moment—was even more beautiful than I could have imagined.

“Let’s make new memories,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the breeze.

Matt squeezed my hand gently, his voice soft but sure. “We already are.”

hey guys so nostalgia is going to be the death of me anyways I hoped you enjoyed and lmk if u have any requests

-klovesmatt

please do not copy my work and tag me if you get any inspiration

[2g-1k]

2G1K - Chapter 6 What the Sigma?

I went from wanting to post this in Nov, then early Dec, then Xmas, then New Year, and somehow i managed to fail ALL these deadlines. Crazy what fanart and support does to a person lol. thank you @tthevoic3s we all say in unison

Just to be safe- mentions of blood (it's like 7 drops max), depressing thoughts, dehumanisation maybe? honestly idk

Masterpost

Hey guys, welcome back to another Geoguessr speedrun!

Now here we have…let’s see. Blue sky, looks like something from Earth, cool. Um, tacky fences made of wood, that appears to be doing a good job so far in keeping me in considering I haven’t left the enclosure yet…check. Would need more stuff to accurately pinpoint us right now. Anyway chat, I believe we need more details to know where to put that pin on the map, so we gotta look further!

Evans peeked outside the tacky wooden fences—actually walls— and the crowd went wild!

Hundreds of tiny people were behaving very reasonably when seeing a gigantic human being. The most reasonable of the bunch ran away, not even sparing a second to look back at what they were even running from. Evans personally thought they deserve a ten out of ten for taking the best action for survival, even if it probably would not work. Realistically speaking. Evans could outrun them in two steps.

There were people who just froze. Played dead, even. Possibly a rating of six for this. Works for animals half the time, though Evans kind of isn’t one, and they just successfully made themselves more susceptible to capture. Low survival rate, not the best reaction towards seeing a giant, but whatever.

The remainder of the crowd, though a minority, were probably the weirdest of them all, considering they appeared to be…kneeling down, kowtowing, clasping hands…why? Would their god save them if he even planned to harm them, which he didn’t?

Evans wondered what they were thinking. Maybe back home, if a similar situation occurred, there might be people reacting the same way as them, but he couldn’t know for sure. It wasn’t his fault no giant fell off their plane onto Earth. He’d ask them, but again, the fact that they probably speak some other alien language will probably make asking questions like this impossible.

So the next best thing he could do is to observe one himself. Sure, they may not understand his intentions, though why does it matter what they think if he won’t cause them harm?

Evans stretched his hand out towards the crowd.

Thwack!

Evans was blessed with an arrow to his hand.

Guess what— I’m under surveillance. I did NOT notice the four archers positioned at the corners of my so-called prison walls.

But why did they shoot him?

Evans had a theory unproven. Obviously they don’t want him to cross those walls. The next course of action, is of course, to prove it. Even if it was the only possible explanation. So Evans cleverly stuck his other unharmed hand beyond the walls, and sure enough—

Thwack!

Evans flinched, though the next arrow still managed to lodge itself in his skin. Cool. Now he has one arrow in each hand. Funny, since he felt nothing except perhaps, a minor stinging on where the arrows landed. It wasn’t even bleeding.

So Evans decided it was probably fine to pull it out, and so he did.

He started bleeding. Yay, blood! My favourite food!

So he was right. They didn’t want him to leave.

Honestly they were overestimating themselves. The walls were as high as his knees, Evans could simply jump over them if he really wanted to. God, he could even easily outrun their tiny little legs. The arrows sting at best, and even then they don’t pose a significant danger to him, all things considered.

He only chose to stay inside and listen to them because there weren’t any benefits if he didn’t do that.

Also because this was an interesting discovery.

Also because he wasn’t in much danger…

Also because it didn’t look like they planned to do unspeakable things to him… 

Yes, yes, he knew, stranger danger, but from every situation he’s been in so far, it seemed as if one is much more dangerous than all others. It was also quite clear that everyone involved knew who exactly was the more dangerous stranger at the moment.

Beyond the walls, the noise level slowly went from making Evans think he was at a K-Pop concert, to a noise level more common in libraries. Assuming it was because the commotion had died down, it means the tiny crowd outside had left, or at least most of them should have.

Evans stared at the two blood covered arrows in his palm. Everyone is scared of me, isn’t it? He knew as much. Leaving would be a good idea, if they wouldn’t mind the anxiety of not knowing where something as dangerous as him is at all times. So he couldn’t leave, thanks to whoever invented the saying “keep your friends close and your enemies closer”.

…Oh right, it was Sun Tzu. Fuck you, Sun Tzu.

Staying here and making them equally anxious it is, then. Evans really hoped it was the right choice.

Mostly because he was very much starving right now.

He might as well try to give a decent impression of himself while he was “in captivity” right now, in fact. Who knows, they might slip poison in his food or drink. They already did it once, and they can do it again. Actually, now that he thought about it, how much of a dosage did they need to send him to dreamland, and never wake up even once, to move him here?

Thinking about things without an answer sucked, and Evans thought this question sucked, so he mentally waved it away.

He looked at the arrows again.

He looked at the archers, who aimed at him, and nocked their arrows.

Not that the arrows or any weapon of theirs were especially threatening to Evans, of course, though who would ask for unnecessary wounds anyway? He already had enough from that fucking plane. His fingers carelessly swiped at the still-open cut on his right cheek. The searing pain told him “nuh uh”, which was a good sign to not touch it again for the time being.

Evans’ current plan for peace was kind of easy in theory. Give them back the arrows, they think he is a good person, or giant, or some secret third other thing, and everyone lives happily ever after.

So why did the idea of actually executing the plan make his hands go cold?

A drop of sweat from his hands fell onto the ground. His face went cold too. His breathing became fast, shallower. His heart was fully preparing to stop. He was just being stupid. Seriously, why would anyone be nervous at a time like this?

Nope. Nope. NOPE. I can NOT do this.

It was not that exchanging information was impossible for them. It was impossible for him to communicate normally.

He threw away the arrows, far away from him, the enclosure, from his line of sight.

Evans gloomily slumped against the walls that, surprisingly, stayed in place.

Now what?

Great question. Too bad he himself couldn’t answer it either.

At the moment, he felt like a cup of water that had been freshly microwaved. The water, hot but deceivingly tranquil, would explode once interacted with. The last 24 hours had given him too much to distract himself from his current predicament. No matter what, he had to face reality.

Pry away the initial amazement of discovering a brand new world, where he is strong, undefeatable, unstoppable, and all that’s left is the bleak reality of him, so large and so alone in this undersized place. What was the point of it all when there was, as far as he knew, no way to go home? He couldn’t even muster the courage to communicate, to ask where he was!

He was human. Humans feel hunger, sadness, pain, homesickness.

He felt all of it.

Would his days be spent living in an oversized pen, for the tiny people to ogle him like some— like some exotic animal? For them to tell stories of him devouring children at night, to scare them into behaving? Are his choices just that now? Between exotic and fearsome?

Do the archers see him that way, too? Just an animal to be disciplined and tamed?

Was he human in their eyes?

Another drop of liquid fell onto the ground, but only Evans knew whether it was sweat, or tears.

…

Evans had to cut his emo session short when he suddenly saw the part of the walls opening up. It was only too bad he couldn’t dwell on his sadness for a little longer. He jolted up, sitting prim and proper, not really sure why he did so when it wasn’t like it would change their impression of him much.

Three carts were pulled by the tiniest horses ever, along with several more soldiers? Guards? He couldn’t know for sure unless he asked. Each cart was piled high with equally miniature food, ranging from meats to fruits to other random stuff he couldn’t identify due to its size or simply because he had never seen it before.

A fourth cart pulled up later, carrying more of what Evans supposed was alcohol. That one he will not touch, guessing that it might put him to sleep again. He had enough sleep for now. He needed to be awake if he wanted to know more, to leave, or learn something useful eventually. Can’t learn shit if he is fucking sleeping anyway.

The guards saluted, possibly to Evans himself, which somewhat confused him, then did the fastest march out of sight after the carts were delivered it was almost funny. He didn’t even have the chance to study them before they Spanish and vanished on him. Oh well, less people to mess up in front of. Time to eat. Being hungry, he devoured the food in less than five minutes. He had no opinion on the food. They simply tasted like food.

It was maybe another infinite moment of boredom and halfway throughout his emo time when the doors opened again, startling Evans for just a fraction of a second.

Another tiny person walked in alone, humming to himself, carrying a smaller cart of even tinier bottles.

His eyes accidentally met Evans’.

The loudest scream Evans could never expect from a person with lungs as small as that loudspeaker of a person pierced the air, sending birds flying and people covering their ears for fear of going deaf.

[adrift-in-thyme]

@telemna-hyelle it took more than an hour (sorry about that) but here it is! The Four/Dot fluff I promised!

I hope it helps you end your day on a good note <33

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He isn’t ready for this.

Four moves along the wooded path as if in a trance. He knows every step of this place like the back of his hand. But usually, he is much more attentive than this. Usually, he keeps a watchful eye on the surrounding area, scouting for the stray chu or keese. 

Today, however, he cannot seem to keep his mind on such things. The sunlight dappled earth beneath his feet, the scent of leaves and bark baked in the afternoon warmth, the breeze that caresses his cheeks, and the chittering of the many critters that scamper about within the foliage – they are all lost on him.

He feels Dot’s hand in his, her palm smooth and warm. He smells her perfume – light and sweet like the cotton candy they spin at the yearly festivals. He hears her laughter, bright and unrestrained and free as she tells a tale from her day. He sees her, radiant, hair like strands of gold and eyes the color of the joyful sky.

She looks at him, says something he can’t comprehend. He nods, conjures up a smile. With luck, it won’t be as strained as he feels that it is.

He has faced beasts one hundred times his size, navigated the pain and confusion of being split into four, saved the world twice. But by the golden three, he is not ready for this.

And yet, he is going through with it anyway. He can’t back down now. Not when his best friend is right here beside him, every moment of basking in her presence strengthening the love he feels for her. 

Four squares his shoulders. Yes, this is the right thing to do. The hardest things often are. 

The Minish have done a spectacular job preparing the clearing. That much is evident as soon as it comes into view. Everything is as they had planned. Every detail has been attended to with immaculate care.

Vines drape over tree limbs, their slim strands heavy with layered blossoms. Flower petals drift down in lazy pirouettes to join the coat of vibrant pink already lying on the forest floor. The sun glimmers through slightly parted branches. Not far off a fairy fountain casts its soothing glow. Soft notes of magic drift to Four’s ears as he leads Dot forward.

“Link,” she breathes, gazing upward and all around, eyes wide with adoration, “this is beautiful.”

“Yes, it is,” he agrees with a calm he in no way feels. “The Minish worked very hard on it.”

Dot turns to him now, head cocked in question. “The Minish? What do you…”

She trails off as he drops to one knee.

It feels as though he is kneeling on a bed of silk. But the sensation in his chest as he reaches into his pouch is about as pleasant as the Big Octorok sitting on him.

The ring is in his palm though, a delicate thing melted and shaped and fired by his own two hands. It had taken countless tries to get it right, to meld the corners into the perfect curve, to carve the designs in the way he imagined them to be. Making jewelry is not quite the same as crafting a sword. It requires a different sort of skill.

But he had found that skill within him. And he had created something beautiful. Something he will be proud to see upon her finger.

“Zelda,” he murmurs and curses the way his voice trembles a bit at the end, “Zelda, Princess of Hyrule, my dearest friend…” He raises his head, gazes into those big blue eyes. The ones that had shone with empathy when the pieces of himself had threatened to shatter him anew. The ones that had glowed with mirth and joy at the festivals, brightened when he told a joke, gone sharp with interest when he told a tale.

The eyes he has gotten lost in so many times before, and hopes to many more times in the future.

“Zelda, will you marry me?”

She stares at him for a long, agonizing moment, hand held to her mouth, emotion surging across her face. Then, she laughs. She laughs and the world sings with the noise. And she swoops down and lands a kiss right on his lips.

“Was…” he croaks when his surroundings have swung back into focus and the dizzying mixture of elation and trepidation have abated somewhat, “...was that a yes?”

“Oh, Link, of course, it was! Of course!” Her hands are on his face. The ring shines on one of her fingers, though he can’t remember placing it there. Everything is a haze, a haze of wonder and joy and fear. 

It looks perfect there, though. Almost as though she was born to wear it.

“I’ll marry you, Link!” She cries, visage aglow. “I would like nothing more!” 

A laugh bubbles from his lips now, smaller and more hesitant, but overjoyed nonetheless. He stands and suddenly, his arms are around her and hers around him and they are hugging like the world depends upon it. Like if they let go, this moment, this delicate, beautiful moment will solidify and shatter. 

Perhaps, it will. But Four likes to think that it is stronger than that. Like they are.

He blinks away the tears and smiles.

As a sword is forged to endure the struggles of time, so is their friendship made to withstand the toughest of tribulations. And that makes moments like this one even more precious.

“I love you,” she says and her very soul is in the words.

Four holds her tighter and makes himself a promise that he will never let her go. He will never allow her to fall in harm’s way again, never leave her to face life alone. No, they will stand tall through it all. Together. 

“I love you too,” he whispers. “I love you too.”