#had to make a few last-minute tweaks because

[mewn1verse]

Tepidarium

w.c: 3.3k, slight yan mydei x gn! reader, slight tweak in canon, post 3.2, a little pick me before Phainon becomes Phangry 💀, Phaidei if you squint (don't squint it's clear as day), mentions of blood, death, depression, and no other warning because it's pretty vanila (⁠・⁠∀⁠・⁠).

It was near the last quint of the curtain-fall hour when your teleslate vibrated with a message. The screen showed the message from one of your older colleagues–

“Prepare the bath chamber, the crown prince is coming.”

You paused, double-checking the text, trying to make sure it wasn’t a lag in the golden threads, which had gotten a little slack since the siege against Nikador. He wasn’t due to arrive for another two days. The journey from the Abyss of Fate to Okhema should’ve taken at most five days, if not a week. Did the battalion finish their patrols early?

You had no answers to your brewing hypothesis, only more questions. It would take you at least an hour to warm up the bath this late into the day, and fifteen minutes more to ready the bath chamber. Without another thought to feed your anxieties, you rushed from the main baths to the Court of Seasons, leaving your friends bewildered with no explanation in your bath gown. 

Mydeimos, the Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos, and the Chrysos Heir called Mydei, had chosen you as his bath attendant. It was unheard of for the Crown Prince to use the bath for leisure rather than recuperation, and when the rumours spread through the golden threads all across the city, even the Chrysos Heir closest to him bit back a laugh. 

You didn’t question it. Who were you to deny the direct command of your tribe’s leader? Though he had assured you time and time again that it was less of a command and more of a request, if you could take his stoic disposition at face value. 

Even if the Crown Prince refused to supplicate your inquiries, your resume made up for it. Having worked at the Court of Seasons long enough, despite being a Kremnoan, you were also one of the few attendants intimately familiar with the Court’s hot baths. The intensity of the baths makes even the mightiest of warriors admit defeat. It was only natural that Mydeimos would turn to somebody who could bear the brunt of his extreme baths.

Yet, Mydeimos needed you for anything but your expertise; indignity seeped into your bones every time he made you stand near the door, refusing to let you perform your duties. He had no other reason binding himself to you other than to serve him; nevertheless, he did pick you, and you were obligated to serve him as he saw fit.

‘So much for my last shift,’ you grumbled, annoyed by your time stolen yet again by the prince. Thank Nikador, you reached in time before you could face his vexatious visage, finding the baths empty. 

Not even the inebriated acolytes of Phagousa were anywhere to be found. It would be easier for you, then, if you still bore the gods' favour. 

You picked various helpings of fruits and desserts you know he would like from the dining table, and you didn’t forget to get the pitcher to the brim with his favoured beverage– pomegranate juice with bits of goat cheese. The dismal red swirled into a muted pink hue, the tartness of fresh fruits wafting in the air. 

The bath, with the changed water, heated up in no time with Georios’s blessings. Bath salts tickled your nose after they dissolved completely into the water; it was a mild yet strong fragrance suited to him. 

You checked the temperature twice, adjusted the tray to his preferences, put out oils that he used after his baths, and waited patiently, akin to a dog waiting for its owner to come back home. 

But an hour passed before agitation completely overwhelmed you, your foot rapping aimlessly over the tiled floor. You hadn't experienced such terrible anger before, and you were a Kremnoan who were known for their brutal customs.

Mydeimos was anything but tardy. No matter how he had treated you he had never disrespected you with such indignity. Either you have been had or something else happened–

The large doors suddenly swung open, revealing the man you had been waiting for. You turned around, you clipped automatic greetings ready on your tongue, but they died a swift death under the harsh gasp you gave out involuntarily.

There he was– your patron, your king, and a guardian of Okhema, standing so perfectly still you thought he had been embraced by Thanatos. The golden locks that spun gold under the light of the Dawn device looked ashen, his braid half undone and thoroughly mused. 

His complexion didn't fare any better. Mydeimos’s pallid face remained stone still, like a corpse, but you knew better that death’s shadow could never shroud him.

You didn't ask, you didn’t move, you couldn’t move; you remained rooted in place, processing the events unfolding before you. 

Mydeimos walked, no, limped towards the dressing chamber as if his body were a burden he could bear, brushing past you. His eyes never met yours, and you desperately wanted them to. 

This man…. he couldn't be Mydeimos. He was the man who had driven you mad for the past months with his impeccable grin and authoritative voice, someone who would rather have you read books to him like a lullaby than help him in the bath, all the while gifting you with opulence far beyond your station just for playing sentry. 

He treated you with far more familiarity than you were comfortable with, yet in all that time, you were never acquainted with the other parts he had hidden away so skillfully.

A heavy thud broke you away from your reverie. 

You glanced up to see his armor and adornments laid bare on the ground without care. You swiftly grabbed the baskets to put them in the cubicle, your hands shaking as you did it. 

His clothes, meager as they were, didn’t fare any better. You could mistake them for rags, even though they were made of the highest quality silks, as they loosely hung from Mydeimos’s body, and he tore at them more as if they had personally offended him. 

You didn’t try to help him remove his clothing, fearing the same treatment as the poor fabric, and remained unmoving behind him with a towel to tie to his waist. 

The prince disregarded you once more, your existence a passing image to him, and sauntered towards the tub, nude and uncaring. 

Don’t cry, you told yourself, your lips quivering, yet tears spilled anyway, either from fear or hurt, you couldn’t tell. Your fingers quaked under the towel’s weight as you put them on a nearby kline. Don’t cry, you told yourself as you made your way back to your usual post, not seeing the hand about to curl around your arm. 

The recoil you suffered from his strained pull knocked the air from your lungs. You started wide-eyed in disbelief, before quickly shutting your eyes closed. 

Mydeimos had marched back when he found you turning his back on him, his body partially wet. He tilted your chin up, his warmth all but diminished, to face his once firm but benevolent gaze. You found none. Instead, a yawning chasm enveloped his sun-lit eyes, something ancient, the depth of them drawing you closer. 

Is this what he faces after each death? This endless abyss? 

His lips parted, but no voice expressed his reason. He merely looked, and looked, and looked. The prince petted your cheek, his worn finger wiping the tears you didn’t know had slipped. Maybe he was apologizing, expressing his regret through his actions rather than words. 

In a way, it was much like him, even when you would rather he talk than soothe. 

You thought providing him space rather than comfort might be better for him and you, though you had severely misjudged the situation in your panic. Mydeimos would rather seek solitude than companionship, but he could never completely turn it away; you knew of this after two weeks into your professional relationship. 

At present, the last thing he could ask for was desolation; the intoxication of death must have tormented him into fraying his sanity, and he didn’t want to dwell on it alone. 

You placed your palm over his, hoping he would feel reassured through your quivering hand. He observed it, his eyes softening at the gesture. 

You led him back to the still-heated bath. You were sure that if you hadn’t, you would have bolted out of the room. You sat on the edge of the tub, peering at him as he sat down. Mydeimos seemed slightly placated, the air of tension easing a little, his shoulders sagging slightly. The marks adorning his golden body shone, ruby-like and mesmerizing. 

His back faced the mural depicting the myriad-eyed lord of the skies casting their gaze upon the earth-born. The blood and dirt that you hadn’t noticed on him turned the water murky, and in his current state, he couldn’t wash himself properly. 

You took a washcloth to remove the remaining grime before putting the oils on his body. No scar remained on his undying body, not even a blemish to leave its mark, but what couldn’t be seen physically had expressed itself in other ways. Mydeimos the Undying. What a fitting name. 

“I-I am sorry,” you dropped the cloth into the tub, your grip slacking. You looked at him, finally speaking, finally sounding like himself, yet the first word he uttered was an apology? And to a servant?

“Whatever for, Your Highness?” You tried to keep your voice steady. 

Try as you might, the king you served was a warrior first and foremost, able to tell at a single glance that fear had still gripped you. The one emotion Kremnoans scoff and sneer at.

He passed the cloth back to you, his touch lingering longer, before pulling away, staring at the wall. “I’ve imposed something on you that wasn’t yours to soothe. That is what the apology is for. As for coming here, unannounced,” he looked you straight in the eye– “consider it to be your last duty.”

“My last duty?”

“Yes, after this, you will serve me no longer. Rejoice, attendant,” he motioned for you to bring him the goblet, which you do, your head spinning at the newfound information. 

What did he mean by ‘serve no longer’? Had he picked another attendant? Or had he sworn off the public baths altogether? 

 You heard a laugh, the familiar, exasperating lilt resounding in your ear. The prince grinned, and a subtle shine returned to his once-dead eyes as he sipped on his beverage. “Are you sad that you have been replaced?” His eyes shine a bit brighter with mischief; if not for his calling for strife, you would've thought him to be a paragon of Trickery. 

“Don't worry yourself to death, attendant, I am just merely tying loose ends before the inevitable arrives.” There he was, the King who tormented you so; The one whose countenance you could never remove from memory. 

And here you were, trying to be amiable, be agreeable for his sake. You gave him too much credit. 

“And what is this ‘inevitable’ that beckons your attention, my prince?” You paid extra attention to the sore muscles, using a bronze strigil to collect the used oil. The fear served as a fuel in plotting your revenge upon the prince. The lord of strife would be proud. 

“Ugh, I will not b-bore you with the details. Hey, a little slower with the fingers,” he grimaced, but never pulled away, instead leaning more of himself into your lap.

You nodded in understanding, a tight smile gracing your face, as you removed the dirt and caked blood from his nails. Carefully and precisely. 

“Huh, maybe the elders weren't wrong when they said that your hands worked like ‘magic’,” he observed, his tone observant and endearing. 

Maybe if you let me work, I could show more of my ‘magic’, you thought, sulking.

“The oils you are using today aren't the usual, though.” 

“They were a recommendation from Lord Phainon,” you said. 

The shadow that had previously looked over him like a blade had returned when you uttered the name, his eyes suddenly sharper, somber. Melancholy.

“....Phainon,” Mydeimos muttered the name, as if it were the first time he had said it. The perfect Chrysos heir who shared the battlefield with the Crown Prince, someone who couldn't be seen without the other. 

You thought better of it to speak, to ask of his sadness, but your glib mouth betrayed you too quickly– “Has something happened with Lord Phainon?” 

A silence stretched between you two. The warmth returning to him might have been a dream, for he turned quiet just as fast, not deigning to answer you for a long time. 

You had heard from your other Kremnoan colleagues, about how the prince refused to challenge the trial of strife and let an outlander take on the Coreflame, which should have been rightfully his. 

The scandalous inclinations aligning their thoughts saddened you for the prince. The weight of the crown drowning in patricide was enough of a burden on the despondent man; the weight of a titan would be more if not enough. 

A King and a Titan, but which would be him? Who would be called Mydeimos? 

He spoke, sensing your unease at the prolonged silence, “He failed the trial.” 

Your mouth dried. “Is he okay?” 

“The Deliverer is not a man who would crumble so easily, if that had been the case, he would've fallen by my hands a long time ago.” he stared at his worn palm that you had just massaged, the skin blooming into a healthy colour. 

“The Coreflame of Nikador has returned, but has no candidate to take up its authority.” 

Yet. 

You got the implication, the heaviness of the answer weighing in your gut. If Mydeimos took on the trial and became the demigod of strife, that would mean a return to the city of your tribe, Castrum Kremnos. 

But the way he said the words, as if he were tasting a dish for the first time, told you a different story. A different outcome that Mydeimos wanted. 

“I-I see.” You were no warrior. You hadn't held a spear since your childhood. In a way, you were more Okheman than you were a Kremnoan. Sitting in the baths, chatting away with patrons and colleagues, and washing away your troubles in the blessed waters of Phagousa suited you much better. 

Yet, listening to the woes of your prince only pierced your chest much harder. A Kremnoan would want a return to the glorious voyage of strife, but an Okheman would only shiver at the prospect of its return. 

“You don’t have to think too hard about it,” a thumb pressed upon the crease forming upon your brow. You scrunched your nose, surprised by it, as Mydeimos looked at you from your lap.

His head now rested comfortably on your thighs, as if he always belonged there, his lustrous, sprawled golden hair akin to a halo. He would make a fine titan, or a god-king, like in the tales of old Era Chrysea. 

“Phainon may have failed, but he will bounce back to his old self in no time, you’ll see.” Here he was, consoling you when he was the one looking for salvation in those waters. 

“I do not doubt Lord Phainon.” Your fingers find themselves in his hair. The noise he let out made you smile. “It is you, Lord Mydeimos, who…. has me worried.”

“Mydei.”

“Pardon?” He blinked at you from his throne, his eyes shining the way they used to, the way you’re familiar with. “Call me Mydei. It's a request, attendant.” Always a request, never an order.

Mydeimos was the king you served. Why would he try to be Mydei now, after all this time? A pit formed in your stomach, unable to comprehend him or this situation. You tried to, anyhow.

“Mydei.” You didn’t think you would be this sure of anything ever in your life. He smiled. It was one of the many times he did that night, and one of the few where he spoke this much when you didn’t expect him to. 

He didn’t come here as your king; he came just as Mydei. Just Mydei. 

“I’m glad that I occupy your thoughts this much, attendant. I was getting worried as well that you would abandon your king without a single thought if I told you this.”

“That would never happen,” you declared, scratching a particular spot that he liked, his face betraying his contentment. His happiness. “You are too grand a fixture for me to forget about.”

“That’s a relief, then,” he tugged at the stray hair framing your face, his voice unusually soft. “I am glad I came tonight, I wasn’t sure if I would get to see you again.” 

You paused, puzzled. “Where would I be, if not the baths?”

“That’s another relief, knowing I could find you here whenever I need you.” 

You never thought you would notice his red-stained lips, the gravity of his presence pulling you closer, closer to divinity, closer to devotion. Maybe he noticed yours as well, his gaze dipping lower than it should. 

You hadn’t thought of tasting the juice he drank from his lips before. What would it taste like? Would you find the tart sweetness of the fruit by licking into his mouth, his tongue melding along yours, or would you find a different flavour altogether? 

Maybe he had thought of it before you, before you could think about him like this, with your palms holding his face in reverence. 

You had never prayed to Nikador, not with the heart and passion the other Kremnoans do, but if you could choose a god to kneel to, it would be Mydei. Always Mydei. 

Yet this moment had come too late for both of you. 

Mydei abruptly got up, his back now facing you, when only seconds ago you could feel his breath, and took the towel you had put on the kline. 

He lingered near the threshold he had walked in from, no longer near demise or lunacy, his face half turned, like he didn’t want to leave. 

But he did, in the end, like he always did, giving you a brief ‘farewell’, his back the only thing you saw until his departure. 

You sat there staring at the door for a few good minutes, the water around your feet already cold. You didn’t know why, but you felt so cold. 

You knew he wouldn’t come back to warm you up like you both wanted to. He stopped being Mydei when the door closed behind him. 

Consider it to be your last duty. Even the flimsy threads holding you both together had been severed under the waters.

And something told you, something ancient, something cyclical, that it would be the last time either of you would see each other. 

Mydeimos took the trial just a day after his visit, becoming the demigod of Strife as well as the last king of Castrum Kremnos. He ended a nearly thousand-year-old dynasty with just word of mouth.  You swore you could see the fearsome General Krateros shaking his head dismally when he announced to the assembly in the Hall of Respite.

Having bid farewell to all, the king marched back home alone to fight back the black tide, just like his predecessor before him. He would never return until Era Nova dawned upon Amphoreus.

He bid goodbye to all but you, which was what you wanted to tell yourself when you almost smashed his favoured wine goblet against the wall, but he did say goodbye. 

Mydeimos had already made up his mind when he came to you that night, and he knew what you would say, would plead with him if he had told you, and he couldn’t bear to say no. Mydei could never say no to you.

But Mydei was also Mydeimos, and the king had a duty he was too deeply rooted in and a promise he couldn’t afford to break. So he left, breaking your heart because that was inevitable. 

And so you pray to the new god of war, with tears in your eyes, the new strife–

“May we never meet again, in this life or the next. And if we do, then may this reunion be born of strife.” 

[kyoshithewriter]

Pomum. (Part One).

Summary: In which a young woman learns her family’s business is not as innocent as it seems and that the forbidden fruit is always the sweetest.

Warnings: There will be violence, age gap, mentions of drug use, smut and angst. (18+)

A/n: And here we go. The fic that I was hesitant to publish because I stopped feeling it a while back and started borrowing bits and pieces from it (if you see anything familiar please ignore, I tweaked it as best as I was able to looool). Hopefully, I don’t fall out of love with it again and discontinue writing it:/

Sofía is staring; she knows she is. She’s also aware of how creepy it is but she can’t help it. His eyes have drifted in her direction a few times and she had tried to avert her own swiftly. Though, she’s certain he caught her once or twice. It feels like there are heated stones on her face, just like the ones they use at that spa her mom loves to drag her off to for their ‘girl’s day out.’ While those stones are usually relaxing- calming; this heat makes her tingle from head to foot- flushed, flustered. Sofía does a quick sweep of the room to ensure that no one is looking in her direction before her eyes are fixed on him again. It’s automatic. He’s the kind of person that commands attention. From his towering height, to his well fitted designer suits and expensive watches; they help create a certain aura of not only someone who’s important but highly confident. He’s always the picture of calm and collected but never relaxed. In their line of work, it would be stupid to be. But she has never witnessed him raise his voice or react too emotionally to any situation, no matter how dire. Not like her father whose anger is explosive when things aren’t going his way, whose laugh echoes around the entire mansion when he finds something amusing. Sofía knew from the very first day her father had brought the man to their mansion two years ago and introduced him as his new ‘business partner,’ that she was in trouble. However, she did not anticipate this crush or whatever it is to persist for this long. It’s even more pathetic because she’s certain that man has not said more than ten words to her directly over the years.

“Sofía, did you hear what I said?”

Sofía startles slightly at the impatient edge in Donavon’s tone. She’s seated on one of the expansive crème couches in the living room watching her father (Donavon), Virgil and a few lackeys her dad calls his security having a hushed conversation in their large, colourful, Spanish- style kitchen. She had been lost in her thoughts about the older man again and missed whatever it was her father had said. Judging by the scowl on his face, he had been trying to get her attention for a while.

“Um…”

The man heaves a sigh.

“Adrian did not show up for work today. Virgil is heading back to his office so he’ll drop you off at school. I have to investi- I have something else to deal with.” The man switches his mouth at the last minute. Sofía wants to roll her eyes. Her father thinks she is so naive that she hasn’t figured out that he’s not just some ordinary owner of multiple car dealerships. It takes a few seconds for her brain to process what her father said, and when it does, her cheeks would’ve flamed a bright red if her skin wasn’t cocoa brown.

“Is Adrian okay?” She manages to squeak out. Adrian is her driver (she knows he’s also somewhat of a bodyguard), though they weren’t close, the man was nice enough and they share similar tastes in music so the car rides were always enjoyable. The question seems to immediately add a few extra wrinkles to her father’s angular face. He scratches uneasily at his full beard that’s streaked with a few silvery hairs.

“He’s not the type to not show up to work without communicating with me. But I’m sure he’s fine. Probably hungover or something, don't worry about it. You only have one class today, yes?”

Sofía offers a nod, though she wants to roll her eyes at the question. The man knows her timetable like the back of his hand.

“Good. I’ll send someone to pick you up immediately after. As soon as class is dismissed you come straight home, understood?”

Sofía’s spine automatically straightens at his commanding tone.

“Understood.” She echoes quietly.

“Good. Virgil, you let me know as soon as you hear anything.”

Sofía shoots a nervous glance at the tall, caramel skin man who just offers a subtle nod. His hair is in his signature slick back bun at the back of his head; his goatee neatly trimmed. The man fixes his dark brown eyes in her direction and her body hums. She stands, smoothing her hands along her midi bodycon nude dress that matches her long sleeve cropped, shrug sweater. She styled her long, thick, jet black 4a hair in a half up- half down look that’s complemented by curls from an overnight twist out.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you’ve been dressing up to go to classes. Remember you’re only there to learn, you’ll start courting Romano soon.”

“Dad!” Sofía’s cheeks flush in anger.

“Sofía you list-”

“I’m already behind on schedule, finish this conversation later.” Virgil rudely interrupts her father. Usually, that disrespect wouldn’t be tolerated. Usually. But for some strange reason, the rules tend to be flexible when it comes to Virgil.

“Come.”

One word. One word said in her direction and Sofía’s legs feel like jelly. She takes a second to catch her breath fearing she’d crumble to the ground in a heap if she moved immediately. ‘Come’. She wants to. Preferably with him so deep-

“See you in three hours.” Her father reminds her sternly.

She barely looks in his direction as she gives a subtle nod before jogging to catch up with Virgil’s long strides.

**********

Buildings and cars blur together in a multitude of colors in her peripheral as the black Porsche goes well above the speed limit. Adrian was never allowed to speed with her in the vehicle, but with the man currently around the wheel she feels no fear. In fact, she’s too busy drooling to even care.

“You’re not subtle, you know?” The man speaks without taking his eyes off the road.

Sofía sputters. “What?”

“You need to stop before your father thinks there’s something going on between us.” He says gruffly, an annoyed tick to his jaw.

“What do you mean?” Sofía feigns ignorance.

“You stare at me. A lot. If I notice then other people will.”

“You think people are going to assume there’s something going on between us because I look at you?” She scoffs even as her cheeks burn and her heart gallops in her chest.

“It’s not just the fact that you look at me, it’s how you look at me.” He clenches his hands around the steering wheel.

“And how do I look at you?”

“Like a love sick puppy.” His tone is so conversational despite his embarrassing words.

Sofía wants the ground to open up and swallow her. Embarrassed doesn’t begin to describe how she feels.

“You’re crazy…”

“I understand that you can’t help attraction; but you’re young and my partner’s daughter. If he suspects there’s something going on because you can’t stop staring it’s going to cause a lot of trouble that I don’t want to deal with. Control yourself.” For the first time since they got in the car, Virgil turns his head in her direction to pin her with an annoyed look.

Ouch.

“Your head is clearly all the way up your ass. I stare a lot because I don’t trust you!” Not exactly a lie. Sofía was puzzled the night of her twenty-second birthday party when her dad first introduced the man. She is used to meeting her father’s “business partners” but the dynamic amongst all of them was still clear: her father was the boss. His word is law— he calls the shots. With Virgil, it’s not the same. There always seems to be some invisible power struggle going on between them. They might think it’s subtle but Sofía is usually really good at reading people: their emotions, their motives, their intentions. There’s a very thin line between the top of the hierarchy when it comes to her father and the man in the driver’s seat. Who is he? And why does her father secretly fear him? Mr. Hernandez is too proud a man to ever admit it or let it show; he’s good at hiding it but not from her. She sees the way he fidgets when Virgil is around, she notices the way he swallows a little too heavily in his presence. She sees it all.

He stiffens subtly in his seat; “And how have I been untrustworthy?”

“Who are you really? And how did you become my dad’s ‘partner’?”

The man doesn’t respond. Tension. His knuckles turn white with his grip on the wheel. The silence stretches between them for another minute before the car gently rolls to a stop. Sofía was so busy glaring at him that she didn’t notice they had entered campus.

“Be at this exact spot at 11:35 and not a minute later. Your father hasn’t said it yet, but he’ll want me to be the one to pick you up.”

Sofía gathers her bags and water bottle with a roll of her eyes before exiting the vehicle. She uses more force than necessary to slam the door shut behind her then moves across the manicured lawn of the university campus.

“Like a love sick puppy.” She repeats to herself mockingly. “Who the hell does he think he is?” She hisses under her breath. ‘But you do stare at him like he hung the moon,’ her brain unhelpfully supplies. The vehicle peels off behind her, skating across asphalt and scattering a few small pebbles. Sofía enters the lecture hall just behind her professor of organic chemistry who has already begun urging the class to get settled. Mr. Schmidt is a tall, pot-bellied, pale man with wispy brown hair and dull blue eyes. He lectures like the plain brown suits he wears to classes-mundane, boring. But there’s no doubt that his knowledge of the subject is extensive. He often comes without supplies; no books, no laptops or projectors, just knowledge off the top of his head. It’s so impressive that Sofía has recently grown to admire him, and despite his boring lectures, she looks forward to his classes the most. Sofía pushes thoughts of Adrian, her father and Virgil to the furthest corner of her mind and gives Mr. Schmidt her undivided attention.

*******

Sofía sits stiffly in the passenger seat with her body angled towards the door on her side of the luxury car. Virgil returned to pick her up in a black G-wagon instead of the Porsche he had a few hours ago. She’s being petty but she vowed to never look in his direction again since her stare offends him so much.

“Drop the attitude before he thinks I’ve done something to offend you.” Virgil mutters as they turn onto the quiet street that leads to her house.

“Well, for your information, you have.”

The man scoffs but the furrow between his eyebrows deepens.

“Because I told you that you’re not subtle in the way you stare at me?”

“Those weren’t your exact words but yes. And since you hate when I look at you so much I’ll just stop doing it.” She keeps her eyes on the window that she can barely see through. This vehicle is heavily tinted and he’s kept the windows up with the air conditioning whirring on the highest setting.

His chuckle in response lacks humor.

“How old are you again?”

“Stop acting like I’m a child. You know I’m 24… in a few days.” She tacks on the last part under her breath. She doesn’t want to remind him of how much younger than him she really is.

“Well you should stop acting like a child.” He retorts. “This behaviour-”

“I wouldn’t be doing this if you didn’t embarrass me!” She admits before biting into her plump lower lip.

“That wasn’t my intention. I’m just… honest. You do look at me like you want to fuck me, Sofía-”

“And what if I do? What if I do want to… you. Is that so bad?”

The man whips his head in her direction after her question. His almond shaped cocoa brown eyes meet her molten chocolate, doe ones.

“Yes. Yes it would be.”

“Right, because you’re not attracted to-”

“Because I’m ten years older than you. Because I’m your father’s friend. Do you understand how complicated that would make everything?”

The black, metal gate slowly squeaks open ahead of them.

“So if my father weren’t to know-”

“Sofía.” His knuckles pale against the steering wheel.

“He wouldn’t-”

“Stop.”

She immediately bites down on her lower lip. He didn’t yell but he didn’t have to. The one word, cold and clipped from his mouth was enough.

“We won't speak about this again. Ever.”

Sofía swallows around the lump in her throat as she offers a subtle nod. The car pulls to a stop at their front door in the circular driveway. Sofía hops out the vehicle, gently closing the door behind her offering her father a tight-lipped smile as he greets them in the foyer.

“Everything okay?” Her father’s hazel eyes are so colored with concern.

“Uh, yea just a little sleepy.” The lie rolls off her tongue smoothly.

“Alright. Head upstairs, I need to talk to Virgil.” He presses a gentle kiss on her forehead.

Sofía’s blood runs cold at the look on her father’s face as he turns his attention to the man behind her.

“You’ve heard something.” Virgil states with a clench to his jaw.

“Yes. And it’s not good.” Her father replies solemnly.

“Is it about Adrian? Is he okay?” Sofía questions timidly.

“In my office, Virgil. We’ll talk later, Sofía.”

The duo make their way upstairs sharing hushed whispers. Sofía doesn’t need to hear their conversation to know what happened. Adrian is dead.

[oumoumimi]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY JUNGKOOK 💛✨️

[09/01/1997]

(cr. namuspromised)

[kikiwie]

call me back? 𖦹 ˚.

————————— 𐔌⋆🍊 ̟ ˚ !! 𐦯 —————————

in which you get in a heated fight with the haikyuu boys, and it takes longer to reconcile than usual.

you didn't need to see his message appear on your screen. especially not after waking up.

after going days without speaking and feeling better, you were able to stop thinking about him so much. but now that he was reaching out, you felt as though all of your effort was gone.

he mentioned something along the lines of wanting to meet up and talk. you really couldn't look at it for too long or you might lose what little sanity you had.

this was the worst fight you’ve had in your relationship, and you didn’t know what to do. you knew you couldn’t be mad forever, but some things said did hurt, and you could admit you said things you shouldn’t have too.

you screamed into your pillow, and you didn’t know if it was from dread or something else you didn’t want to recognize. that you missed him more than you wanted to.

immediately you grabbed your phone and texted the group chat to ask if you should text him back fast or wait because you were not sane enough to handle this situation.

you, of course, ended up giving in after 2 minutes, which you didn’t even finish asking your friends. even if you tried not to give in, you knew you loved him too much for that.

(he would’ve seen you or sent a text earlier, but he didn’t know if you were still mad. he was tweaking because you were non verbal.)

suna, osamu, sakusa, kenma, tsukishima & kageyama.

the last thing you expected to happen today was to see him standing in front of your door. you felt horrible for him because he was so wet from the rain, but you were hesitant.

"what brings you here?" despite your best efforts to appear cold, your eyes betrayed you as you glanced at him. "not even going to invite me in?" when you glared at him, his attempt at a smile turned wary.

"i didn't ask you to come here.” he didn't like it when you crossed your arms. you felt so distant.

"i just had to see you. to talk. i really miss you, and i wasn't expecting for the fight to go to this.” with a sigh, you decided that it would be best to have that discussion inside.

he entered when you stepped aside. "come, i’ll get you some dry clothes and a towel." he agreed, and he followed you to your room to get one of the hundreds of sweatshirts and shirts he stored in your dresser.

shortly after, he changed and came back with the towel in his hair. he gave you a hug when your back was to him. “i’m really, really sorry. i promise i’ll do anything to make this better..” he kept rambling, and you knew you couldn’t be mad forever.

kuroo, iwaizumi, terushima, daisho, akaashi & semi.

he tried to be nonchalant about the whole situation. like it didn’t bother him at all. (he in fact did care. just in denial) that was until he realized it wasn’t one of those times where you’d fight and after a few hours you would talk it out after you’ve both cooled off.

nope, he was going insane. he tried calling you and texting you, but you weren’t answering. it was really messing with him and with his performance in whatever he was up to.

he’d stalk your socials sometimes to see if you were up to anything, but you weren’t giving him anything to stalk. now he was just getting worried. usually you would repost on tiktok or post on your spam, but nothing. just radio silence.

that was until a miracle happened. your mutual friends had decided on a night out and invited you both. that was his chance.

when he saw you, he tried not to run to you and shower you with kisses like he usually did. but at this point he was getting desperate.

being the hopeless man he is, he had to talk to you. to fix this and never fight with you again and shut up whenever you want him to.

let’s just say he almost got on his knees and begged for forgiveness because he couldn’t last another second without you by his side. (in a way that didn’t seem too desperate, of course.)

atsumu, oikawa, bokuto, tendo, futakuchi & koganegawa

they don’t fight with you. they get told to shut up, and they do. they get told to sit down, and they sit. (they just love you a lot)

tanaka, nishinoya, hinata, lev & yamamoto

————————— 𐔌⋆🍊 ̟ ˚ !! 𐦯 —————————

this was for funsies, might not be too accurate. hope you enjoyed either way. <3

[supi-wupi]

Second Place - Joshua

pairing: Joshua x Reader

synopsis: You’ve loved him since day one, but he’s in love with someone else. As you help him write love letters to his crush, he unknowingly discovers your unsent letters—confessions hidden in plain sight. 

wc: 4.3k

genre: Angst, Unspoken/unrequited love, second chance

warning: Emotional angst, Unsent letters and misunderstandings, Separation/abandonment, Mental health struggle mentions, Heartbreak, mentions of exhaustion and burnout, joshua crying on stage, members confused, grievinga/n: This can be considered an alternative ending to my work ‘Penpal’, which you don’t need to read before this, it just gives background context to the name ‘Shuji’.

The studio always smelled like burnt coffee and citrus-scented air freshener—two things Y/N constantly relied on to stay awake through 3 a.m. writing blocks and last-minute composition tweaks. It was her quiet place, her second home. And lately, the only space where she could love him in silence.

Joshua.

She'd been writing songs for the group since before they debuted. First as an intern, then as a contracted lyricist, now a ghostwriter whose name was never printed but whose words shaped half their discography. No one questioned it. And she preferred it that way.

Well. Mostly.

It was easier to hide in the credits when the person you loved was singing words you wrote for someone else.

“Y/N,” Joshua called softly from the doorway. “You got a minute?”

She turned, blinking the sleep out of her eyes. He wore a hoodie half-slipped off one shoulder and held a notebook in one hand like he wasn’t sure whether to offer it or clutch it to his chest.

“Yeah, of course.” Her voice was lighter than she felt.

He stepped inside, hesitating. “So… I wanted to ask you for help with something. Again.”

You always do, she thought. But she smiled. “Lyrics?”

Joshua nodded, his grin sheepish. “It’s stupid, probably, but I wanted to write something for… someone. You know. Just something personal. You’re better with words.”

She didn’t ask who. He didn’t offer the name. But it didn’t matter. She already knew.

It had been the same for months now—Joshua appearing with half-formed verses and flushed cheeks, shyly mumbling about how this girl made him feel something he couldn’t explain. And Y/N, like a fool, would spend nights bleeding her heart into lyrics she could never claim as her own.

“Do you have a melody?” she asked instead.

He hummed the beginning of something gentle, a chord progression she recognized from their last jam session. It would make a beautiful ballad. A confession song.

It would destroy her.

“Give me a few days,” she said, reaching for her pen.

He looked relieved. “Thank you. Really.”

“Always,” she whispered once he’d left.

—

She stayed long after the studio lights dimmed, laptop screen casting a dull glow across her face. The chorus came easy—hearts in hands, breathless hope, longing wrapped in soft vowels and sweet consonants. She knew his voice well enough to mold the words into something that would sit right in his mouth.

That was the problem.

Every word she wrote tasted like love.

Her own.

—

[Unsent Letter — Dated 12/09/2017]

Dear Shuji,

You smiled when you read the lyrics today. You said they felt real. That they captured exactly how you felt.

You don’t know they’re about you.

You don’t know that every time you describe her, I think of all the things I’ll never be.

But I keep writing, because it’s the only way I can love you without ruining everything.

Yours,

Nie

—

Joshua found the letter by accident.

A week later, rummaging through her desk while she grabbed them both dinner, he was looking for a spare cable when he noticed the envelope tucked inside a draft folder. It wasn’t labeled, but curiosity got the better of him.

He read it once.

Then twice.

The handwriting was hers. The paper was old, the fold lines soft with time. But there was no name. No context. Only the nickname: Shuji.

His heart skipped.

Only one person called him that.

When Y/N returned, he smiled like nothing had changed.

He didn’t ask.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Not yet.

—

Joshua started to notice little things.

The way Y/N stopped looking at him when she spoke. How she paused before answering, like measuring every word before it left her mouth. The ghost of a smile that used to be automatic now took its time showing up.

But she still helped him write songs. Love songs.

She always did.

—

The melody they settled on was soft and simple—just guitar, piano, and breath. Y/N filled the gaps with metaphors that made Joshua’s chest ache in a way he couldn’t explain. He didn’t ask where she pulled those images from: The way she laughs into her sleeve, like hiding joy makes it stronger. Or: I loved you like a secret—loud and unspoken.

He thought maybe he was finally finding the right words.

Even if they weren’t his.

“I’m thinking of giving it to her,” he said one night, when she handed him the final demo. “Just… directly. Not through a release or anything. Just me. And her. What do you think?”

Y/N swallowed. “I think… if it’s honest, she’ll hear you.”

She didn’t tell him the honesty was borrowed.

She didn’t tell him that the verses were carved from her own heart.

—

Later, after he left with a hopeful smile and a folded-up lyric sheet, Y/N sat back and stared at the empty chair across from her.

You really think she’ll hear you?She’s not even listening.

She reached for the drawer.

She shouldn't read the old letters again. But she always did.

Except… one was gone.

Her hands froze.

She counted them twice.

And it was definitely missing.

—

[Unsent Letter — Dated 04/11/2019]

Dear Shuji,

You asked me what falling in love feels like. I didn’t answer, but this is what I wanted to say:

It feels like watching your favorite song play out in front of you, knowing you can’t join in. Like standing in the audience when you know the harmonies by heart.

It feels like writing lyrics about someone who’ll never read them—and hoping they never do.

Because then maybe, you can keep pretending they were yours.

I don’t want to pretend anymore. But I will. For you.

Yours,

Nie

—

He found this one in a second notebook—one she left on the piano bench in the practice room. The edges were worn, the ink faded. It was dated years ago, before he even realized she was the one gluing their group’s emotions together behind the scenes.

The nicknames again. The handwriting again. That same ache in the words.

He didn’t confront her. Not yet.

Maybe she’d written these for someone else. Maybe it was just a coincidence.

Maybe he was starting to realize the truth and didn’t know what to do with it.

Still, he kept the letter folded in his bag.

Just in case.

—

Y/N noticed it first—the shift in how he looked at her.

Like he was watching her with a question on his lips he didn’t know how to ask.

But it didn’t matter. Not really.

Because the moment she saw him holding hands with the girl in the lobby—her—the one he’d been writing songs for… it all came crashing down anyway.

—

That night, Y/N didn’t cry.

She packed her laptop. Shut down the studio. Took the long train ride home. And when she got in, she did the one thing she swore she never would.

She started a new letter.

—

[Unsent Letter — Dated 07/02/2022]

Dear Shuji,

It’s not her fault. It’s not yours either. I should’ve said something years ago.

But I was always scared of being a burden you couldn’t put into a melody.

I was scared that if I told you I loved you, I’d lose the only part of you I was allowed to keep.

So I wrote you songs instead.

But you never heard me.

I think it’s time I stop writing.

I think it’s time I go.

Yours, almost.

—

She didn’t show up to practice the next morning.

Not in the studio. Not in the back room where she usually scribbled lyrics on her tablet with earbuds in, mouthing melodies no one else could hear.

Joshua didn’t panic right away.

Y/N had always been consistent, but not rigid. She sometimes needed air—walks at night, weekend disappearances for inspiration, quiet hours with her thoughts and no one else's noise.

But when she didn’t answer his texts by lunch—and her shared drive folder remained untouched, with nothing new since the demo he’d used for the girl—something in him shifted.

He told himself she’d be back.

She wasn’t.

Three days passed.

Then four.

When Seungkwan asked if she was sick, Joshua just said, “She’s taking a break.” It sounded better than I don’t know where she is, or maybe I’m the reason she left.

Because now, with every quiet hour that passed, the letters began making more sense.

He re-read them at night. Alone. In bed. Memorizing the curves of her handwriting like he used to memorize chord changes.

She hadn’t signed her name.

But it didn’t matter.

The letters weren’t a puzzle anymore.

They were a mirror—and he had never bothered to look into it.

—

[Unsent Letter — Dated 08/13/2021]

Dear Shuji,

They always say to write what you know.

But how do I write this? This knowing. This silence.

I know your favorite coffee order. The tempo your foot taps when you’re anxious. The way your shoulders tighten before you laugh. I know you want her. I know I’m not her.

But I still write you love songs like I’ve been asked to.

Like you’re not breaking me every time you sing them.

I love you so much it hurts. And I hate myself for it.

Yours,

Nie

—

He found that one in an old shared lyric book—one they used to keep between the two of them, back when they were still experimenting with writing as a duo.

It had fallen behind her desk. Tucked into the middle like a secret.

The page before it had a scratch melody he remembered vaguely. A soft ballad. It had made him tear up the first time he heard it.

He thought it was because it sounded like longing.

He hadn’t realized it was.

—

He messaged her again.

[11:03 PM] You wrote those letters, didn’t you? Why didn’t you say anything?

No reply.

[11:47 PM] Was I really that blind? Please talk to me.

Still nothing.

The next morning, he got an email.

—

Subject: For the Team From: [Y/N] To: [SEVENTEEN Staff + Members] Time: 5:26 PM

Hi everyone,

I’m officially stepping away from the group’s lyricist role to pursue something quieter. This decision wasn’t made lightly, and I’ll always be grateful for the years we spent creating together.

Please take care of yourselves.

With love, Y/N

—

The air left his lungs like a silent apology.

The rest of the team read the message with wide eyes and murmurs of she didn’t say anything. But Joshua said nothing.

Because he’d known.

Maybe not in time.

But he knew now.

And it felt like losing a song before he ever got to sing it.

He went back to the studio that night, even though the others had left. Just in case she'd left something else behind.

She had.

In the pencil drawer was one last envelope. No name. No date. Just folded paper, waiting like a confession.

His hands shook when he opened it.

—

[Unsent Letter — Undated]

Shuji,

I hope you don’t hate me.

I hope when you find these, if you find these, it’s because some part of you wondered.

Some part of you looked at me and thought, maybe.

If not… then at least now you know.

I wrote every song for you. Even the ones you asked me to write about her.

I loved you when you didn’t see me.

I loved you when you looked right through me to find her face.

But I loved you.

And I’ll keep loving you… just not here.

Yours, once.

—

He sat there for a long time.

Letter in hand. Empty studio. No background melody. No voice humming beside him.

Just silence.

And for the first time since debut, Joshua Hong had no words.

Joshua stared at the unsent letter in his hands like it held the answer to everything he’d missed.

“I wrote every song for you. Even the ones you asked me to write about her.”

His chest tightened at the words. Every song—every lyric—was a confession he’d been too blind to hear.

The studio felt emptier than ever, the echoes of her absence ringing louder than the microphones ever could.

He couldn’t let this be the last note.

—

The next day, Joshua sat alone in the practice room after everyone left, opening a fresh blank page on his tablet. His fingers hovered, unsure. He hadn’t written a lyric for weeks—not since Y/N left.

But this time, it wasn’t for anyone else.

It was for her.

—

[Joshua’s Letter — Draft]

Dear Y/N,

I didn’t know. I didn’t see the signs, the quiet tears hidden behind your melodies.

I was so focused on who you weren’t, I missed the person who loved me all along.

I’m sorry for the silence, for the songs you had to write alone.

If you’re listening somewhere out there, know this—

I’m trying to find my own words now. For you.

J.

—

He saved it, but didn’t send it. Not yet.

In the following days, he found pieces of her everywhere: a coffee cup on the corner of the studio desk, a half-finished notebook of lyrics, a familiar scent in the hallway air.

Each small thing a reminder.

And a question.

Why didn’t she stay to tell him?

He asked the members, careful with his words, hoping someone had heard from her.

They all shook their heads.

“She’s busy, probably taking time for herself,” Woozi offered quietly.

But Joshua knew better.

—

That night, his phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number.

“Shuji, it’s me. I’m sorry I left like that. I needed space, but I’m not gone forever.”

His heart pounded.

Could it be?

—

Joshua stared at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Four simple words that stirred a thousand questions—and a hope he hadn’t dared to feel in months.

He typed back slowly, carefully.

“Where are you?”

Hours passed with no reply. The silence stretched, heavy and uncertain.

—

The next morning, a new message came:

“I’m still figuring things out. But I want you to know I’m okay. Maybe we can talk soon?”

Joshua exhaled, a mixture of relief and nervous anticipation flooding him.

—

He sat by the window, guitar resting in his lap, eyes tracing the skyline of Seoul as if searching for her in the distance.

The songs he once wrote for her now felt like letters waiting to be opened—pieces of his heart scattered across melodies and unsent words.

He knew the road ahead wouldn’t be easy. There were wounds to heal, misunderstandings to unravel, and time to reclaim.

But for the first time in a long while, Joshua felt a quiet promise flicker inside him—

A promise to try.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to start.

—

Aftermath

Joshua never thought he’d be standing there, in front of the world, with his heart laid bare.

The moment was etched in everyone's memory—the moment when, on stage, under the bright lights, his voice cracked with emotion and his eyes glistened with unshed tears. He apologized, not for the crowd, not for his fans, but for you. The promise he had broken. The way he had walked away from you, from everything, without a word.

The silence after the apology was deafening.

Everyone wanted to know the truth. What did it mean? What did he mean by it?

You knew. And that was the problem.

In the days that followed, the weight of what had happened didn’t lighten. Instead, it became heavier, suffocating in its own right. Joshua’s apology had echoed across stages, but you were still the one who had to live with the silence.

—

It wasn’t long before he started looking for answers in the wrong places. In places that were never meant to be discovered. You had hoped—no, you had expected—this day would come. You had written so many letters to him over the years, carefully pouring your heart into words that never saw the light of day. Letters meant only for him, but never sent, because to send them would have meant losing him entirely.

And now, they were all he had left.

He hadn’t meant to find them. He hadn’t meant to see the words you had written, the confessions buried in the folds of old notebooks and drafts. But now, he had them. All of them. The letters, the songs, the pain you’d tried so hard to hide.

—

Joshua had been spending every waking hour in the studio, lost in the music that was no longer his alone. The songs, the melodies, everything now felt tainted with the truth he had ignored for so long.

"Shuji, I'm sorry," his fingers hovered over his tablet screen. "I didn't see it. I didn't see you. I was too blind to realize."

It was a draft, but it was a start.

But even as the words took form on the screen, they felt like they were coming too late.

And then came the message.

The silence had been unbearable, and in the silence, you had left.

—

You hadn’t told him. You hadn't told anyone. You'd just slipped away. Packed up the parts of yourself you had given so freely, and left. You were no longer the invisible force behind the songs. You weren’t the lyricist, the ghostwriter—just a woman who had loved him too much to stay.

Your decision wasn’t easy. But it was necessary. The love you’d hidden for so long had taken everything from you, and you couldn’t afford to keep giving pieces of yourself away when he never once saw them.

Your last message to him was simple. A quiet goodbye in the only way you knew how.

"I’m still figuring things out," the words came, hesitant and soft. "But I want you to know I’m okay. Maybe we can talk soon?"

—

Joshua held his breath as he read your message. It wasn’t the answer he had been hoping for, but it was something. A sliver of hope. He stared at the screen, the weight of the words pressing against his chest.

"Where are you?"

The response came slowly. Hours passed before he finally got an answer.

“I'm okay. I'm not gone forever. But I need time. We need time.”

His heart ached.

Time. It was all he had left now. Time to undo the damage. Time to finally listen to the words you had been whispering for years.

Joshua didn’t know how to fix things. He didn’t know where to start. But he knew one thing—he couldn’t let the silence swallow everything.

As the days stretched on, Joshua found himself writing songs again. Not for the group. Not for anyone else. Just for you. They were the songs you had written for him, once. The lyrics you had poured into every melody, every note, every verse.

He had missed it. He had missed you.

And maybe, just maybe, this time he wouldn’t be too blind to see.

He hit send.

"Y/N... I’m sorry. I know I can’t fix everything. But I’ll spend every day trying to."

The message was simple. But the promise was everything.

And for the first time in months, the silence felt a little less heavy.

—

Joshua stared at his phone screen, his thumb hovering above the send button, unsure if the words would be enough. Would they ever be enough?

He thought back to the letters. The confessions you had written, the ones you had never shared. Your words were so raw, so beautiful, and yet he had failed to see them for what they were. The melodies, the lyrics—they had always been pieces of your heart, pieces of you, woven into songs for him that he had accepted without ever questioning.

But now, now that it was too late, all he could feel was the weight of every moment he had missed, every opportunity he had wasted.

He had heard the lyrics, but he hadn’t listened. He had felt the melodies, but he hadn’t understood. All of it had been a confession—an open secret—but he had been too blinded by his own self-doubt, too focused on the girl he thought he was meant to be with, to see you—the one who had been there all along.

The truth was a bitter pill, one he had swallowed too late.

—

It was a few weeks before he saw you again, and even then, it wasn’t how he imagined it would be. There were no grand gestures. No reunion at the studio or a dramatic confession at a concert.

It was just a text.

"Meet me at the café?" It was you, as simple as always. But this time, Joshua wasn’t sure how to feel. His hands shook as he read the message again, each word a reminder of everything that had led him here.

"Of course," he replied.

It was the first step. A small one, but the only one he could take.

—

The café was quiet when he arrived, the usual hum of conversation muffled by the early hour. He spotted you right away, sitting by the window, a cup of coffee in front of you, your fingers tracing the rim of the mug absentmindedly. You weren’t looking at your phone. You weren’t avoiding him either. You were just... there.

For a moment, Joshua froze, unsure of how to approach you. He had rehearsed a hundred apologies, a thousand explanations, but in the end, none of them felt right.

What could he say? "I'm sorry" felt so small in comparison to everything that had happened between you two. And yet, it was the only word that seemed to keep coming back.

You noticed him standing by the door, hesitating, and for the first time, you gave him a soft smile. It wasn’t the warm, easy smile you used to share, but it was something. Something that made his chest tighten.

“Joshua.” Your voice was soft, almost like you weren’t sure how to address him anymore. You had been so used to calling him Shuji, to speaking to him as someone who knew your every thought, every word. But now… now there was distance. The kind that couldn’t be crossed with a simple smile.

He walked over slowly, sitting across from you. The silence that hung between you felt thick, heavy, like something unsaid that both of you were too scared to voice.

"How are you?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You looked at him, your eyes tired, but there was something else there too—something he couldn’t quite name. “I’m doing okay. A lot of changes… but I’m alright.”

You avoided his gaze for a moment, your fingers curling around the handle of the coffee cup, as if it were the only thing anchoring you to the present. Joshua's heart skipped. It wasn’t the answer he wanted. It wasn’t the answer he needed. He needed you to say that you were okay because of him, that he had fixed something, made up for everything he had done. But the truth was that you had already made up your mind long before this conversation.

He didn’t say anything at first. Instead, he just sat there, watching you, trying to gather the words that had been locked inside him for months.

"I'm sorry," he finally said, the words coming out in a rush. "I didn’t see it. I didn’t see you."

Your eyes flicked up to meet his, and for a brief moment, there was something in your gaze that he didn’t expect—something like understanding. But it was fleeting.

“I know you didn’t,” you replied quietly. “But I couldn’t keep waiting for you to see me.”

Joshua’s heart clenched at your words. The air between you was thick with everything unspoken, everything that had been left unsaid. The letters. The songs. The moments that had never been shared. It was too much, and yet, it was nothing compared to what he had lost.

"I was a fool," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "I was so caught up in everything else, I never took the time to see what was right in front of me. I—"

“No,” you cut him off, your eyes soft, but firm. “You weren’t a fool, Joshua. You were just... lost. So was I. But I can’t keep pretending like I wasn’t waiting for something that would never come.”

Joshua swallowed hard, the knot in his throat threatening to choke him. "What do we do now?" he asked, voice rough.

You sat back in your chair, your gaze thoughtful, distant almost. “I don’t know. Maybe we take things one step at a time. But I’m not here to be your second choice. I need to find my own way now, too.”

The words stung, more than anything he had heard before. But there was truth in them. And that truth was something Joshua wasn’t ready to face. Yet he knew it was the only way forward.

“Then... I’ll wait,” he said, his voice steady despite the storm inside him. “If you want me to. I’ll wait. Because I owe you that much.”

You didn’t say anything for a while. But when you finally spoke, it wasn’t to shut him down. It was a quiet agreement, a fragile understanding that neither of you was quite ready to step into each other's lives again, not yet. But maybe, just maybe, there would be a way forward.

“Okay,” you said, your voice small but resolute. “Maybe we’ll figure it out someday.”

Joshua nodded, the silence between you two more comfortable now, not full of things left unsaid, but things left to be discovered.

For the first time in a long while, he felt like he might be on the right path. Even if it wasn’t clear yet, even if it took time, he knew he wasn’t walking it alone.

masterlist ♪

[dduane]

The Bad Armor Drinking Game

In the digital art dep't...

So, having just sorted out the new figure for Queen Eftgan in the Middle Kingdoms books, I spent most of last week (while continuing to recover from the household upper respiratory infection) doing preliminary planning for the visual of a scene from The Door Into Sunset in which all the MCs are out on the battlefield. The big battle (or the final one of a sequence) will be the next day, and last-minute tweaks are being made to strategy and tactics. Which means putting most of the our-side protagonists together in a command tent, bent over a table covered with maps. (The "sketch" for this scene is over here.)

But sweet Goddess in a bucket, the shopping I had to do to make sure I had those guys' armor the way I wanted nearly drove me around the bend. From the digital artist's POV, the main problem with this is realistically arming the female characters. And the reason for this is simple: Almost all of it that's currently available from Daz is crap.

There are a very few notable exceptions. In Eftgan's case, for example: she's wearing the female-fighter version of the male-fighter harness that Herewiss has on. Sickleyield and Moonscape Graphics have done good work here.

But almost all the other female-use armors available at the moment? Argh. It had been ...a few years, I guess? since I last went armor-shopping. Last week I'd hoped there might at least be some new possibilities in the Daz shop. But instead I found so much more useless crap than before that I was tempted to start day drinking. And by evening, there were enough drink-triggers to start my very own drinking game.

I am not going to illustrate the triggers enumerated below, as I don't want to embarrass the artists. But if you look at the items turned up by this search, you'll have little trouble finding the things that would have left me in a drunken stupor within an hour or two.

My baseline: if I'm going to buy digital armor, either for male or female characters, it has to be something that I myself wouldn't be embarrassed to show up wearing at a swordfight. Otherwise, I start hitting the virtual bottle.

So I'd drink when I see:

Armor that fails to cover or at least protect vital vulnerable areas. Not just vital organs, but seriously important places like the insides of thighs and arms, the throat area, etc. (And yeah, I know and enjoy the various webcomics that illustrate, for humor's sake, the idea that the more bare flesh a female warrior displays, the safer they somehow are. But I'm dealing with the "realistic" side of combat here. Yes, some of my characters are magic workers, but the reason they go out and get themselves armor is so they don't have to waste precious magical ability dealing with something that steel will manage perfectly well without them having to think about it.)

Armor that should serve a useful protective purpose but nonetheless doesn't because it's been twisted by the armor maker, for design purposes, into a shape that means it's now essentially useless. Drink, for example, on seeing an example of "Silly Pauldron Syndrome:" i.e., shoulder pieces that will not only not protect you from a shoulder cut, but will direct it toward the space between neck and shoulder. ...Drink again if the pauldron also somehow blocks your view of what's going on around you. Another drink for pauldrons, gorgets or neck pieces that poke your eye out when you turn your head.

Armor covered with decorative doodads that do nothing but get in your way or serve as something for your adversaries' weapons to catch on. The proper purpose of armor is to deflect blows away from vulnerable areas, not to catch and keep them there. No one is going to waste expensive metal (and armourers' labor time) on decorations that are a liability. Anything that would catch a thrusting sword? Drink. Drink twice if spikes are involved.

Poorly thought-out attachments to armor (loincloths, capes, etc), Drink if these would inevitably trip you or otherwise interfere with you if you tried to run in them: or that would make it easier for an attacker—especially from behind—to pull/knock you down and kill you. Two drinks if the attachments are asymmetrical. (Because, what, this is supposed to help somehow?) And drink for loincloths in general, because, FFS, why.

Boob armor. If you're a woman who's fought with the sword at all, you know that unless you're absolutely dead flat in front, you bind up somehow to get the frontage safely restrained before the action begins. Armor that purports to separate your breasts into two different casings is simply idiotic. All that it does do is signal that you're female. (And you're doing this why, exactly? On a this-world battlefield, this strikes me as nothing but a recipe for trouble.) One drink for boob armor. Another drink for conical boob armor that would make even early!Madonna look askance. Two drinks for boob armor that covers only the tops of the boobs. Honestly, WTF!!

And: Armor that just looks silly. Armor that makes you go "Oh FFS, give me a break now" and look away. Two drinks (or more) for armor that covers hardly any of your character, but for which the designer is possibly charging you even more than for an intricately made and well thought-out piece of work with a lot more protective real estate.

...(sigh) So many drinks. And so little armor worth having. ...Anyway, I got away from that series of shopping sessions with my sobriety intact. Small mercies.

But let me show you something hilarious that came up along the way.

Very, very few of the people making and selling armors on Daz betray any sign of a sense of humor in their marketing images. The rig below, though, popped up suddenly and reduced me to gasps of helpless laughter.

This, I kid you not, will come up in that "armor" search above. Let's be charitable and refer to it for the time being as "fighting gear".

I haven't shown you the best of this, though. These two figures weren't alone. There was another.

This guy should be an example to us all. He's thinking, "They're gonna make me go out there wearing some stick-on leather nipple straps and half a rug from IKEA? Fine. I'm gonna make it work." ...And he not only owns it: he rocks it. This is a badass of some kind or another, and he has my sword, or axe, or whatever.

All I can say is: Good on the product designer for doing something genuinely funny for a change: because at that point, I seriously needed it.

(sigh) And now back to work.

ETA: A quick note per various recommendations of others online doing this kind of analysis: Thanks, but I don't need to go outside the household for more of the same. I'll just yell up the stairs to @petermorwood, who probably has some that's way more acerbic than mine. :)

[mummyemmatojames]

52. Pull-Ups on My Mind: A New Obsession

Hello, dear community! Emma here, your Mummy-in-training, with an update on our MDLB and FLR journey as James’s grounding week continues. I’ve got pull-ups on my mind—honestly, I can’t get enough of my little boy all pampered up in them. It’s become this unexpected thrill for me, and I’m leaning into it, even finding excuses to keep him in them longer. I’d love to unpack this with you and hear if anyone else has felt this pull!

Why Pull-Ups Are Driving Me Nuts

Ever since I tweaked the grounding rule—ensuring James uses his pull-ups by loading him with fluids before bed—I’ve been hooked. Seeing him in the morning, all saggy and wet in his Drynites, waiting for Mummy to change him, is just so cute and vulnerable. His wild hair, his shy little “Morning, Mummy,” the way he stands there letting me peel them off—it’s lit something inside me I can’t shake. I’m finding excuses to stretch it out, like saying, “Mummy will change you after breakfast,” just to keep him in that soggy, pampered state a bit longer. Yesterday, he sat at the table eating his cereal, pull-up sagging under his pajamas, and I couldn’t stop smiling—he’s my little boy, totally dependent on me, and it’s driving me nuts in the best way.

Nursing him while rubbing his pull-up bottom has become my favorite thing. Last night, after his two water bottles, nursing, and formula, I tucked him in at 7:30, but not before a long cuddle on the couch. I had him latched on, my hand patting his padded bum—feeling that slight crinkle and the warmth of it—and it was so satisfying. It’s not just the punishment anymore; it’s this deep, nurturing rush that’s got me hooked. I don’t quite understand why it’s hitting me so hard—maybe it’s the control, the care, the way it makes him so small and mine—but I can’t get enough.

A Trip to the Baby Aisle

Yesterday, I took it a step further. We were low on Drynites—only a few left from the pack—so I took James to the shop, still in his grounding mindset (permission for everything, early bedtime). I led him to the baby aisle and spent about 30 minutes there, browsing with him by my side. I wanted him involved, so I said, “Pick the ones you want, sweetheart—whatever looks fun.” He hesitated, face red as he glanced around, but finally pointed to a pack with Toy Story designs—Buzz and Woody smiling on the front. I could tell he was pretty humiliated, standing there in public picking out pull-ups like a toddler, especially with other shoppers nearby. I grabbed the pack, paid, and got us home quick.

Back at the house, I tried them on him before his nap—slid them up under his pajamas—and realized they didn’t fit. They were too small, bunching awkwardly, and he squirmed, saying, “They’re tight, Mummy.” I laughed it off—“Oops, wrong size!”—but now I know what he needs (a bigger size, hopefully still in cute designs). He was still flushed from the shopping experience, so I reminded him, “This is part of your punishment, little one—you earned it after the other night.” That settled him a bit, and I put him down for a 20-minute nap with a bottle. He woke up perkier—no fussing—though I could tell the trip lingered in his mind.

Leaning Into It

He’s on night three of seven now, and I’m loving this pull-up twist more each day. Tonight, I’ll do the same—two dinosaur bottles of water, nursing, formula—and whisper again that they don’t come off until they’re used. Seeing him soggy in the morning, waiting for me to change him, is my new favorite ritual. I’m even tempted to keep pull-ups in the mix after the grounding ends—not all the time, but maybe as a special “Mummy’s choice” night—because it’s so satisfying for me. He’s vulnerable, cute, and completely mine in them, and it’s deepening our dynamic in this wild, unexpected way.

James is still grumpy about the grounding—hates the 6:30 bedtime, the permission rules, and now the pull-ups being non-negotiable—but he’s complying. The shopping trip humiliated him, sure, but he perked up after that nap, and I think he’s starting to accept this as his consequence. I soften it with cuddles and praise when he’s good—like after he asked permission for a snack today—but I’m holding firm on the punishment. Act like a drunken toddler, get treated like one—that’s still the line.

What Do You Think?

I’d love to hear from the community—have pull-ups ever grabbed you like this, where the caregiving just clicks? Did you find yourself stretching it out too, or adding them beyond a punishment? For those who’ve shopped for them together, how did you handle the public embarrassment—any tricks to keep them steady? And if you’ve got insight on why this soggy nappy thing is driving me so nuts—control, nurturing, something else—I’d love to hear it. I’m obsessed, and I want to keep this special without overdoing it.

Thank you for being here as I revel in this pull-up phase. My little boy in his pampered state is lighting up my Mummy heart, and I can’t get enough.

With all my love, Emma (aka Mummy) 💕

[inthelow]

AUGUST — jeon jungkook.

Pairing: fem! reader x idol! jeon jungkook

Summary: A fleeting love, hidden truths, and the ache of wanting someone you were never meant to keep. Jungkook should have known better.

Genre/Warning: fluff, summer love, angst / cursing, cheating, homophobia.

Author’s note: you’re probably gonna hate me for changing a little the “story” of the song but in my mind this was a life-changing idea😭🙏🏼.

Los Angeles was the perfect place to create music. Usually when a world-renowned group like BTS thought of a place to draw inspiration from, they thought of LA. Jungkook was no exception. When he was finally able to find the time to start working on his first solo album, the suggestion to go to the States was not overlooked. Besides being able to meet with producers he loved working with and admired, it was also a good excuse to get out of Korea and forget about all the problems that were going on around his personal life. So, the last week of June and just in time for the beginning of summer, Jungkook packed his bags and together with his team decided to travel to the United States.

Working in a music studio is usually very different everywhere. Although he liked working in America, he really appreciated the quietness they had in Korea when making music, especially when it was just him and his producers in the room. The California studio was totally different, he was surrounded by people. Producers, writers, guitarists, drummers, bass players, other singers, even music critics.

The studio was surrounded by people everywhere you looked. Being the first meeting, of course, everyone wanted to know the main idea of the album so they could work on it. He knew that the first few days would be a bit crowded, as they always were when he worked with BTS, so he was anxious for the next week to come so he could start working with fewer people.

It wasn't a bad feeling, he knew. Although he loved working on his music, working with too many people was sometimes too much for him. Ironic, since all his life he had been surrounded by people everywhere he went. That, when he loved being by himself, was one of the drawbacks of his job. But he knew he could not complain, not when he was doing what he loved, not when he had achieved so much more than he had ever dreamed of. Sometimes though, he just needed to go away and breathe, away of all the movement.

He’d been in the main booth for hours, tweaking the vocal of a track that refused to sound right in his ears, trying not to hate it just because he couldn’t fix it. His head buzzed. His ears rang. He needed a break — just five minutes to stretch his legs, splash water on his face, breathe something that didn’t smell like stale foam. Jungkook had only been in California a week, but he already moved like someone who belonged to the walls of the studio — the soft echo of unfinished tracks trailing behind him, the scent of coffee gone cold in corner mugs, the low thrum of bass bleeding from under closed doors. The air here always smelled like dust, citrus cleaner, and potential. A place where songs might happen. A place where he might finally feel like he was doing something worth remembering.

He just started walking around the studio, without any specific location. Honestly, working alone on his music in the U.S. wasn't turning out to be as exciting as he thought it would be. Maybe because he didn't have his six other colleagues who could shamelessly interrupt those people's conversations in order to get ahead of the process of going straight to the music. He didn't, even though he was one of the biggest stars of the moment, he sometimes felt very shy and small with so many people.

He walked down the hallway lined with faded gig posters and one dying plant, and opened the third door on the right, thinking it was the bathroom.

It wasn’t.

It was a storage room, or maybe just a forgotten one. Empty except for a folding chair, a cracked mini fridge humming uselessly in the corner, and — most notably — a girl sitting cross-legged on the floor, holding a bag of Doritos in one hand and a phone in the other, laughing silently at whatever TikTok had just played.

You looked up like you’d been caught stealing state secrets.

“Shit,” you cursed in english, tucking your phone into your pocket before standing up and bowing slightly. “Hi, nice to meet you. I was in my break, I'll keep working now.”

He almost looked relieved that you spoke Korean, not really having the strength to think in another language. “I’m sorry, I was looking for the bathroom— This is definitely not it.”

“It’s not,” you said, deadpan. “But it could be, if you’re brave.”

He coughed out a laugh before he could stop himself. You didn’t smile, just crunched your chip and watched him like he was the one sitting illegally in a storage closet.

“Do you know where the real bathroom is?.”

“First door in the next hall.” You informed.

It look like you were trying to find a way to get out of the room. He was in the door, and he realized you were probably not supposed to be in a break.

“Thank you.” he nodded, still not moving. “You can still take your break in here, by the way. I'll go.

“It's okay, I just finished.”

“I'm Jungkook.” He bowed.

“I know, nice to meet you.” You bowed the same as you walked past him to leave the little closet.

Before he could say anything else, you were walking away.

Rude.

The funny thing about meeting someone new — someone you don’t expect — is how quickly they become everywhere.

Jungkook didn’t even know your name, but he started noticing you in the following days with the kind of attention he usually reserved for lyrics or vocals he couldn’t shake. You weren’t loud. You weren’t flashy. You dressed like comfort was your only priority and carried yourself like you’d seen everything already and weren’t particularly impressed. But you were always there. Sitting cross-legged on the front step, answering emails or maybe pretending to. Laughing with the producer’s wife in the hallway. Handing out coffees from a tray without asking names, just knowing. Sometimes you’d pop into the booth to drop off a cable, say something vaguely, and vanish.

He used to see you in the night or some mornings during the week so he started to get curious about your job. He was already two weeks there and knew what everyone did for work, except for you. It wasn't like he was looking for a place or moment to talk with you, he was actually very busy with his work but when he saw you alone at night in the reception of the studio, he nodded to you before talking, ready to get that little curiosity out of his mind.

The studio always looked a little stranger at night — quieter, obviously, but also softer, like the walls were less sure of themselves without the hum of music to hold them up. Jungkook liked it that way. No pressure to produce anything. Just existing between takes and fluorescent light. He was walking toward the front desk, his bag strap slung across his back, more out of muscle memory than purpose, when he saw you again— behind the reception counter, reorganizing a stack of crumpled papers with mechanical disinterest, like the pages had personally offended you.

“Good night,” he said, slowing to a stop. “Or… good luck with the paperwork.”

You didn’t look up. “I’m not leaving yet.”

“Oh.”

He stood there, unsure whether that meant he should keep walking or… talking.

You finally raised your eyes. “I mean, you can say good night if it’s your bedtime. I’m just saying I’m not leaving yet.”

“It’s not my bedtime.”

“Good. That would’ve been tragic,” you said, tossing a paper into a drawer like it owed you money. “You looked like the type to stay up and overthink your day until three in the morning.”

He smirked. “Guilty.”

A silence stretched, comfortable in a weird way. You flipped a few more pages, then pushed the stack aside like you’d just given up on it.

“What are you even doing?” Jungkook asked, leaning a little closer over the counter. “You work reception?”

“Technically,” you said, using your pen to spin a binder around like a lazy roulette wheel. “I’m a ‘clerk.’ That’s what the sign-in sheet says.”

“Clerk?”

“Yeah. Glamorous, right?” You leaned back in the chair, finally making eye contact. “I open. I close. I try to keep the printers alive and help with stupid things the people need around here. Sometimes I find lost AirPods and hoard them like a raccoon. Classic clerk things.”

He laughed. “You’re really selling it.”

“You’d be surprised how many dreams start this way,” you said, completely deadpan. He wasn’t sure if you were joking. That was the thing about you — your tone was always hovering in that delicate no-man’s-land between sincerity and satire.

“How’d you get the gig?”

You shrugged. “Nepotism.”

“Fair.”

“My uncle owns the place. Summer job while I’m here. My third year already.”

“You’re from Korea?”

“Busan.”

That surprised him. “No way. Me too.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Huh. Small world. Weirdly American sentence, though.”

“What?”

“‘No way, me too.’ It’s like the universal icebreaker here. That, and pretending you like oat milk.”

He blinked. “Okay, I do like oat milk.” You smiled faintly, as if you’d just proven a point. He cleared his throat. “So you live here now?”

“No,” you said, “I’m here for the summer. Just needed to get away from… Busan, I guess. Studying scenic arts. Theater and stuff.”

“You’re an actress?”

“God, no,” you said quickly. “I mean, maybe. Kind of. I’m a bit of a fraud. But mostly I like lighting. How a mood can shift because someone flipped a switch.”

Jungkook liked that. He filed it away. “And when you go back?”

“Back to pretending I have a five-year plan.”

“Must be nice to have the option.”

You rolled your eyes. “I come from a family that thinks failing is a kind of eccentric art form — as long as you’re doing it from the second floor of a condo in Haeundae.”

Ah.

“So you’re rich,” he said, not unkindly.

“Don’t worry,” you replied. “I’m very ashamed of it.” He smiled. You didn’t. “I’m joking,” you said after a beat, though the way your voice dipped made it unclear who the joke was really for. “Kind of.”

You two went quiet for a moment, your fingers tapping idly on the desk.

“You always talk like that?” Jungkook asked.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to entertain yourself.”

You considered this, then gave a one-shoulder shrug. “No one else seems to be doing it.”

That was the first thing he really liked about you. Not the hair — always down like you were halfway to giving up. Not the sarcasm, though that helped. But this: the way you said things not to be liked, but because they made you laugh. As if the world was a play, and you weren’t waiting for anyone to catch up to your lines.

You stretched a little in the chair, yawned into the back of your hand.

“Anyway,” you said, “you should go overthink your song. Or whatever musicians do at midnight.”

Jungkook lingered a second longer. “Good night. For real this time.”

“Mm.”

He learned your name the next day. And he noticed you again next week.

—

It happened on a Wednesday. The kind of slow, gold-tinted California afternoon where the sun dipped lazy and arrogant across the pavement, too sure of itself to move quickly. Jungkook was leaving the back entrance of the studio, guitar slung over his shoulder, and for once, he wasn’t in his head. He’d stayed late again — not working, not really — mostly just fiddling around with a loop that wouldn’t cooperate. It was past five, just late enough for the shadows to stretch out across the sidewalk like spilled ink. As he stepped into the soft heat of the evening, he caught sight of something to his right — or rather, someone.

You.

You were wheeling a scratched-up mint-green bike down the front steps of the studio, balancing a canvas tote bag over your shoulder and muttering something to yourself while trying to untangle your headphone wire. You looked like you’d biked through a film set — loose hoodie, hair twisted up with a pen, sunglasses already in place like you knew the sun would bow for you. You didn’t see him, or maybe you did and didn’t care. You swung a leg over, kicked off the curb, and coasted down the street like gravity had been waiting for you all day.

Jungkook stood there for a moment too long, watching. There was something in the way you moved — casual, assured, a little chaotic — like you didn’t ask permission to take up space, and wouldn’t apologize for how you used it. He hadn’t expected to see you outside the studio. And he definitely hadn’t expected that the image of you riding a cheap bike with your bag hitting your hip would stay with him like a stuck chorus line.

He saw you again the next day. This time, you were kneeling on the floor under a desk, fixing a tangled mess of cords. Jungkook walked in, coffee in hand, and leaned casually against the counter.

You didn’t look up when he walked by — just said, flatly, “It’s not the bathroom either, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

He grinned. “I’m starting to think there is no bathroom.”

You popped your head up. “It’s a myth. Like happiness.”

“I’ve heard of that one,” he said. “Sounds fake.”

You shrugged. “Wouldn’t know. I’m just here for the air conditioning.”

Jungkook smiled. “You know,” he said, “you really blew past the speed limit yesterday.”

You didn’t look up. “That’s because I don’t believe in laws.”

He grinned. “You ride often?”

“Every day. Unless it rains. Or I forget where I put my keys. Or I’m emotionally unwell.” You finally glanced up at him. “Why?”

“I ride too,” he said, trying to sound chill and not like someone whose heart had skipped at the shared hobby. “Used to ride back in Korea. Still do, sometimes.”

“Huh.” You sounded vaguely suspicious. “What kind of bike?”

“Custom. Matte black frame. Pretty fast.”

You squinted. “So you’re one of those.”

“What does that mean?”

“The serious kind. Probably wears gloves and leather outfits.”

He laughed. “I don’t wear gloves.”

“Mmm,” you hummed, unconvinced. Then: “Wanna race?”

Jungkook blinked. “What?”

“A race. You and me. Around the block. Winner gets bragging rights and maybe a free granola bar from the staff kitchen.”

“That’s your prize structure?”

“I’m not made of money,” you said, solemn. “Despite the rumors.”

He hesitated, still smiling. “Actually… speaking of that.”

“What, granola?”

“No—” He shifted slightly, voice quieter now. “Racing. Hanging out. You know, stuff like that… It’s not always easy for me. Because of… who I am.”

You tilted your head, standing up. “You mean the idol world?”

He nodded. “Yeah. The music. The people. The cameras. Rumours. Fans who love me until they don’t. Strangers who think I owe them something personal. It can get… messy. Very fast.”

You didn’t say anything right away. You just blinked at him slowly, like someone trying to make sense of math you didn’t care about. Then, dry as ever:

“Uhm. Yeah, that sounds fucked up.” He let out a laugh, startled. “Seriously,” you added, mouth twitching at the corner. “I’m not emotionally equipped to get involved with your PR disaster. Maybe next summer.”

He laughed harder now, and something about the tension in his chest loosened. He liked your sarcasm. He liked your refusal to tiptoe. There was no awe in your tone, no caution. Just… blunt honesty, soaked in your own amusement.

He sipped his coffee. “You’re mean.”

“Is that bad?.”

“I like it.”

He did. He really, really did.

You straightened up a little, tucking a pen behind your ear. “Anyway, I’m going out with some friends tonight. There’s a street race. Nothing fancy, just a bunch of people who think two wheels makes them cooler. You wanna come?”

He hesitated again. His mind flicked through logistics. Risk. Noise. Photos. Hate. Gossip sites.

But then it settled on you — on how you said things like they weren’t invitations, just facts he could follow if he wanted to.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Okay. I’ll come.”

Your eyes lit up for just a fraction of a second — the smallest smile tucked at the edge of your mouth, like a secret. “Cool.”

“Should I bring anything?”

You leaned forward slightly. “Just don’t wear gloves.”

You were quick with it. He liked you.

—

The parking lot wasn’t a real venue — more like a forgotten slab of concrete tucked behind a shuttered mall. There were cracks in the asphalt where weeds had found their way through, illuminated by the flicker of overhead sodium lights that buzzed like they were trying to whisper secrets. But the energy in the place was magnetic — loud music, low engines purring, clusters of people standing around with plastic cups and too much confidence. The kind of place you didn’t find unless someone texted you a blurry location pin and a “just trust me.”

Jungkook pulled the brim of his cap lower and adjusted the black mask across his face. It wasn’t paranoia — just muscle memory. His bodyguard had offered to come, but Jungkook had said no. Something about this night felt like it needed to be his.

You were already there, leaning against the hood of a car with a bottle of something fizzy in hand. You were laughing — that same dry, sharp laugh that made people look up — with two others. One was a guy Jungkook hadn’t met before, tall with dyed green hair and a Busan accent thicker than his own. The other was a girl with short curls and round glasses, who immediately gave Jungkook the once-over like she was scanning for weak points.

“There he is,” you said, like you’d summoned him. “Right on time.”

“Is there a schedule?” Jungkook asked, walking up with a small wave.

“For cool people,” you replied.

The tall guy nodded. “You’re the singer, right?”

Jungkook tensed slightly. “Maybe.”

The girl snorted. “Don’t worry. We’re not fangirls. We like your earlier group stuff, though.”

Jungkook let out a laugh and shook his head. “Thanks… I think.”

They introduced themselves — Minho, the green-haired guy, apparently someone you had known from high school, and Ara, his cousin, visiting for the summer and unimpressed by most things except the color of the sunset and the physics of drift turns. You all drank something vaguely alcoholic that came in unmarked glass bottles and talked nonsense: favorite summer snacks, how LA drivers were psychopaths, and whether or not aliens would be able to out-sing Jungkook in a karaoke bar.

The race started around ten. It wasn’t official, but everyone moved toward the strip of road like something sacred was about to happen. The two cars lined up, engines snarling, lights low. And when they took off, smoke and sound exploded into the air. Minho whooped loud enough to make heads turn.

You leaned closer to Jungkook, the edge of your arm brushing his. “This is the part where people pretend to know about horsepower.”

He grinned. “So what should I say?”

“Something like: ‘Damn, he really kicked into third gear there.’ Say it low, and nod like you know the pain.”

He tried it. You burst out laughing.

The race was over too fast. Cheers rose, someone passed around more drinks, and a guy with a GoPro insisted on showing everyone the slow-motion replay like it was a World Cup goal.

Eventually, Minho and Ara said goodbye — they had an early morning hike that Ara was determined to do, and Minho was pretending to be excited about.

“Don’t die,” you told them.

“Only emotionally,” Minho called back.

Then it was just Jungkook and you again. The night felt warmer than it was, the pavement still radiating heat, and the stars playing hard to get behind LA’s haze.

“Thanks for letting me crash your plans,” he said, pulling his mask down now that the crowd had thinned.

You stretched your arms over your head. “You weren’t terrible.”

“High praise.”

“You’re welcome.”

You two started walking slowly in the street, trying to leave that place.

“I think,” Jungkook said, glancing sideways, “this is the first time in a long time I’ve been out without my bodyguard.”

You looked at him like he’d said something ridiculous. “Do you feel naked? Or alive?”

He chuckled. “A little of both. Mostly like someone’s gonna notice and yell ‘liar’ at me from a rooftop.”

“That would make this night way more exciting.”

“You say that, but you’d run.”

“I’d film it first.”

He shook his head, laughing. “You’re dangerous.”

You grimaced. “I’m just a bored girl with Wi-Fi.”

You two reached the sidewalk near the edge of the lot, and you paused, nodding in the direction of the studio. “My bike’s still at the studio. Left it there earlier ’cause Minho picked me up in his car.”

“Want me to walk you?”

You considered him for a moment. “Want to do something stupid?”

He raised a brow. “Define stupid.”

“Ara left her bike there too,” you said. “I have a second helmet and an empty city. We could chase dumb decisions for a little while.”

Jungkook stared at you, quiet. The streetlight caught the edge of your face — that half-smirk, those eyes that never asked for anything but always said too much.

“You sure?” he asked.

You shrugged. “You said you ride.”

He thought of the studio, his team, the curfews and image management. And then he thought of you — bike keys in one hand, sarcasm in the other — and decided that maybe tonight wasn’t for being reasonable.

He smiled. “Let’s go.”

And so you did.

—

The helmets clicked into place with a soft finality, and then you were off.

The roads weren’t empty, but they felt like they belonged only to you — the soft, hushed kind of night that pressed its palm against your chest and made you feel alive. The air was warm, laced with ocean salt and gasoline. Jungkook followed you — the soft blur of your hoodie fluttering behind you like a loose flag, your bike slipping between cars and curves with the kind of casual recklessness that made it seem like the city opened itself just for you. You two took the route that traced the coast. It was already past midnight by then, and the Pacific lay beside you, humming under the moonlight — black velvet and sharp silver. The tide crept in slow, licking the sand in long sighs. The wind tugged at his sleeves, and every now and then, you would glance back to check if he was keeping up. He always was.

When you finally pulled over near a low stone wall at the edge of a cliff path, he parked beside you and pulled off his helmet, hair a little wild, breathless in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

“Damn,” he said, laughing softly. “You really don’t believe in laws.”

You snorted. “I told you that already.”

You two sat on the wall, letting your feet dangle over the side like kids skipping school. The water below shifted in endless motion, a liquid heartbeat under a sky full of nothing.

“You do this often?” he asked, voice low.

“Sometimes. When I can’t sleep,” you replied. “Or when I want to feel like I’m somewhere else.”

He looked at you. “You don’t like here?”

“I don’t like anywhere when I’m stuck in my head.”

He nodded slowly. “Fair.”

You yawned, a little tired. “So. Singer boy. Why music?”

He exhaled, resting back on his palms. “Because I sucked at math. And I liked the feeling of making noise and having people think it meant something.”

“That’s poetic.”

“I meant it to be pathetic. It didn’t work” he sighed. “I just love singing.” You laughed. “What about you?” he asked. “Why scenic arts?”

“Because I like pretending I’m someone else,” you said easily. Then: “And because no one in my family gets it.”

“Ah,” he said. “The rebellion route.”

“More like the escape hatch.”

He watched you for a moment. You weren’t trying to impress him. Not one bit. There was something almost infuriating about that — how you leaned into the silence without needing to fill it. Like you were just letting the world be what it was.

“Come on,” you said, sliding off the wall. “You want to see something tragic?”

“Always.”

You walked your bike a few blocks and he followed, pushing his beside yours. You didn’t talk much — the silence was easy now, a soft thread between the two of you. He reached an old, sand-colored building with a cracked stairwell and a tiny red mailbox that had probably belonged to someone’s grandmother. You two went upstairs to the fourth and last floor.

You unlocked the door and gestured him in.

Your apartment was small. Not ugly — actually kind of pretty in the way a song demo is pretty before it’s produced to hell. Mismatched furniture, books piled in corners, a record player sitting on top of a suitcase. The window overlooked the beach, and even now the waves could be heard faintly crashing in rhythm. The walls were a little rusty like the door. And it felt like home.

“This is where the rich girl hides from her responsibilities,” you said, tossing your keys onto a chipped ceramic bowl. “My parents pay for it. For the guilty of letting me grow to be a bad daughter.”

He stepped in carefully, like it might vanish if he moved too fast. “It’s… kind of perfect.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You expected something more like a penthouse?”

“No,” he said. “I expected it to smell like incense and bad personality.”

“I ran out of incense.”

You poured some wine in two different mugs — one said World’s Okayest Artist, the other had a faded Hello Kitty sticker on it. You handed him the cat. You two sat on the floor instead of the couch. The lamp beside you gave off the kind of light that looked like it had a filter over it — soft, amber, like everything was set in memory already.

He glanced at the books on your shelf. “You read all of Murakami or just enough to win arguments?”

“Just enough to confuse people and win at Tinder bios.”

He laughed.

You two talked — about Busan, about how American bread was too disgusting, about your best friend back home who you missed but didn’t want to text too often. He told you how being famous didn’t really feel like being known, and how most days he wasn’t sure what version of himself people loved anymore.

And then the bottle of wine was almost empty. And you were drinking from it.

Jungkook took a slow sip, the bottle still warm from your hands. “So… what’s your most dramatic flaw?”

You tilted your head, pretended to think. “I self-sabotage with flair. Like, I’ll destroy something good and then critique my own technique.”

He laughed. “You do it with commentary?”

“I like to give feedback.”

He grinned, that slow, surprised kind of grin like he wasn’t used to someone making him laugh so easily. “Okay, that’s impressive.”

You looked at him. “What about you?”

He looked down, then up again. “I take stupid decision when I start liking someone.”

The words hung in the air longer than necessary.

Something shifted. It wasn’t dramatic. Just one of those quiet tilts in gravity. A breath. A longer glance. The kind of silence that makes everything louder. You blinked. Your expression was unreadable for a beat, then you smirked slightly, like you’d just dared yourself to do something.

“You always say things like that?” you asked. “Or is that a Jungkook special?”

“I don’t always mean them,” he replied.

“Do you mean that one?”

He didn’t answer. Not in words.

You didn’t stop him when he leaned in — slowly, like the ocean pulling in a tide. And you didn’t laugh when his hand brushed the side of your face, hesitant and reverent, like he was touching something fragile, something already slipping between his fingers. Your lips met like they’d been circling the moment all night without admitting it — warm, wine-soft, a little tentative at first. Then deeper. Slower. Your fingers slid into his hair, and he let out a breath against your mouth like he hadn’t realized he was holding it.

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It was lingering, magnetic, the kind that made time bend a little. He pulled you closer — gently, not demanding, just… asking. You answered moving slowly to be on top of him, putting your legs to the sides of his waist, like gravity had finally won.

When you two broke apart, you rested your forehead against his.

“Are you sure?” You whispered, voice low and sweet.

He nodded before grabbing the sides of your face to kiss you. This time harder and decisive. He wanted you.

Outside, the waves kept reaching for the shore like they always did — over and over, as if that alone made it worth it.

The first day of August, you two slept together.

The evening sunlight spilled through the slatted blinds like melted gold, painting long, uneven stripes across the wooden floor of your apartment. It was the kind of lazy, heavy light that made the world feel suspended — like nothing could reach you two there, not time, not reality, not the rest of your lives waiting somewhere beyond the Pacific.

Jungkook sat on the rug, shirtless, the soft cotton of his sweats rolled low on his hips. A battered acoustic guitar — missing one string and held together by stubbornness — rested against his thigh. He strummed it absently, the same three chords over and over, half-tuned, half-invented. His voice, when it hummed softly into the hollow air, was barely audible. Just enough to fill the room. You lay sprawled on the couch, one leg dangling over the edge, a wine bottle on the floor beside you with a cheap coaster you never used. Your hair was in a lazy braid, your face turned toward the last light of day. For a moment, you looked like a painting he’d once seen in a museum in Madrid — the kind where the eyes followed you even when you walked away.

It had been a week of this.

Of soft mornings with your toes pressed into his calves. Of naked afternoons with tangled sheets and movie soundtracks echoing in the background. Of slow-burning evenings like this one — all tension and ease, like a match held just before striking. He didn’t ask what this was. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

His phone buzzed once on the table, and he ignored it. Not wanting to talk with that person right now.

Yours rang next — a cheerful little chime that didn’t suit you at all. He looked up and saw the name on the screen, a girl’s name. He didn’t think anything of it. Probably a friend or family. The kind who sent memes at weird hours or called just to vent about the world.

“Phone,” he said, tossing it gently in your direction.

You caught it without looking.

But something in you stilled.

You sat up fast — not rushed, but different. Like something shifted behind your eyes. You didn’t say anything as you stood, walked toward the bathroom, phone pressed to your ear. The door didn’t shut all the way. Just enough for privacy, just enough to keep him out. Jungkook kept strumming the guitar, but his fingers felt slower now. He played the same loop three times before stopping altogether, leaving it to the side.

You came out about five minutes later. Your face was clean, unreadable. Your braid was now undone, fingers threading through the waves distractedly. You didn’t say anything about the call. Didn’t explain. He didn’t ask. Instead, you stepped around him, barefoot on the rug, and dropped into his lap with a fluid, practiced kind of carelessness that didn’t feel careless at all.

“You want to do something fun?” your asked, your voice low, tight at the edges.

He raised an eyebrow. “I thought we were already doing that.”

“Something stupid fun,” you clarified, voice light but eyes sharper. “Like something you shouldn’t do.”

“Didn’t we do that last week… This Monday, yesterday and minutes ago?” he chuckled.

You didn’t laughed. Just leaned in and kissed his jaw, the corner of his mouth. “I’m serious.”

He studied you for a second. The way your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. The way your hands were fidgeting with the hem of his sweats — not playful, but restless.

“What happened on that call?” he asked quietly.

You looked at him for half a second too long. Then shrugged. “Nothing. Just someone from home.”

“You okay?”

“I don’t know,” you said, and then smiled again. “But I will be. Once we do something fun.”

He wanted to press. Something told him to. But you were already standing, pulling on a hoodie over your bikini, grabbing your keys.

“You coming or what?” you asked, not turning around.

He got up slowly, grabbing his shirt. “Okay,” he said. “Lead the way.”

Outside, the night was beginning to stretch — warm and blue, a summer hush hanging in the air. The kind of night that felt infinite, right until the moment it ended.

—

After some walking around and drinking some wine in a cheap bar in the corner of the neighbourhood that was opened that late at night, you arrived to the place you wanted.

By the time you reached the beach, the sky was bleeding from deep navy into a soft shade of almost-morning — the kind of indigo that makes everything feel a little surreal. The moon still hung like a witness, pale and tired above, watching as you parked your bike at the edge of the boardwalk and kicked off your shoes. The sand was cold at first — a chill that crept up ankles and calves — but it didn’t stop you and Jungkook. You ran ahead, your hoodie flapping behind you, arms stretched like you were daring the sea to catch you. Jungkook followed, slower, letting the weight of his fame, his choices, his fear of being seen by paparazzis, fall away with every step.

There was no one else. Just the two of you. The world still asleep or drunk or somewhere in between.

You stopped at the shoreline, toes in the foam, eyes turned to the sky.

“Ever wonder if the ocean’s tired of people talking to it like it’s a therapist?” you asked, without looking back.

Jungkook laughed. “Probably. But it’s free and always available. That’s rare.”

You glanced at him, smiled. “Fair.”

He stepped beside you, your shoulders brushing. The breeze tangled his hair. You peeled off your hoodie without ceremony, revealing the black bikini you wore underneath. Then the shorts followed, tossed carelessly into the sand.

“You coming?” you asked, already wading into the water.

“You’re insane.”

“It’s just water,” you grinned, glancing back. “What else is new?”

He hesitated for a second — then pulled off his shirt, then his sweats, and followed you in.

The Pacific was cold. Not biting, not cruel — just enough to shock the breath out of him. You squealed when the waves met your thighs and dove forward like a seal. He waded deeper, laughing, until you two met somewhere in the middle. You splashed him first. He returned the favor. Soon both of you were half-drowning in laughter, soaked through and breathless, the water catching the moonlight like broken glass.

After a while, you and Jungkook stopped. Just floated. Side by side. your legs barely brushing under the surface.

“You ever think this is the best it’s going to be?” he asked quietly, staring up at the darkening sky. “Right now. This… middle-of-nowhere moment that no one else knows about.”

“Sure,” you said. “But then I get hungry and realize I still haven’t found the best sandwich yet. So, hope lives.”

He turned his head to look at you. “You make everything sound both tragic and stupid.”

“It’s a gift,” you replied. “Yours is wannabe brooding poet with sad-boy abs.”

He groaned and dunked you under briefly, sputtering when you resurfaced, punching him weakly in the shoulder. You kissed him then — half-laughing, half-drenched — and it was soft and open and a little salty from the sea. Your mouth tasted like adrenaline and wine and something he was starting to want more than was smart.

When you two stumbled out of the water, soaked and shivering, you dropped down in the sand like your bones had given up. Jungkook laid beside you, arms tucked behind his head, watching the slow arrival of dawn. Your eyes were closed, hair spread like a halo around you, lips slightly parted. You hummed something low and familiar — a melody he couldn’t name but wanted to steal. Your back, still wet, glistened faintly in the early sun.

He wanted to write his name there. Not in ink or scars, but something softer — something that wouldn’t stay, but would be remembered. Instead, he reached for the sand beside you and traced it there — K O O K— in small, crooked letters, drawn just beneath the curve of your spine.

You didn’t see it.

You just hummed.

And he didn’t need you to look. He just needed to feel like he belonged somewhere, even if it was only in that stretch of sand between your shoulders and the rising sun.

Jungkook wasn’t sure when your number became his favorite name to see on his screen, but by now, he was wired to it — like a reflex. When the phone lit up with your contact, he was already smiling. It was late afternoon, the sun dipping lazily below the studio windows. He was leaning against a mixing console in the back room, sipping something fizzy and half-flat from a paper cup when your name buzzed onto his screen.

Y/N.

He picked up on the second ring.

“Hey,” he said, already softening.

“Hey,” you echoed. Your voice was lighter than usual, almost cautious. “What are you doing tomorrow?.”

He hesitated. “Supposed to meet Jimin since he’s in the city. Why?”

There was a pause, a kind of breath between syllables. “Don’t cancel for me.”

He smirked. “Who said I was?”

“I know that tone, babe. That’s the I’m going to pretend I didn’t have plans if you give me a better offer tone.”

He shrugged, though you couldn’t see him. “Alright, you caught me. I’m tragically available now. What’s the better offer?”

“I was just thinking…” You paused again. “We could hang. Maybe do something fun. You seemed like you needed that.”

He felt his chest warm, stupid and pleased. “I always need that.”

“Okay. I’ll call you later.”

But you didn’t.

Evening slid by — first warm, then cool — and the messages stayed unread, the silence stretched longer than it should’ve. At first, he assumed you were running late. Then busy. Then distracted. But by midnight, the open-ended promise of your voice was just a memory replaying too often. And he had canceled his dinner with Jimin for you. He told himself he didn’t care. He’d known you for what — two weeks? That wasn’t enough time to feel disappointed, right?

The next morning he called you, a casual kind of check-in, but his voice betrayed more curiosity than he wanted.

You picked up after two rings.

“Hey,” you said, like nothing had happened.

“You disappeared yesterday.”

“Ah, shit,” you said, voice low and apologetic. “I’m sorry. My uncle called me into the studio and then I had to go to some gallery thing for a friend. It got messy.” He let the silence speak for a second. “You okay?” you asked.

“Yeah. Just… you said you’d call.”

“I know,” you chuckled. “I suck. Where are you?”

“About to head out.”

“I’m at the mall close to the studio,” you said. “Trying to find a gift for my cousin. Or an excuse to not be here.”

He smiled, something settling into place in his chest.

“Okay, meet me behind the mall.”

You laughed. “You’re such a cliché.”

“I’m serious. Ten minutes.”

You didn’t say yes, but he heard you grab your bag through the receiver.

Ten minutes later you found him standing next to your bike, wearing your helmet — which was slightly too small for him — and leaning on one leg like he belonged in some chaotic coming-of-age movie. He was dressed in jeans and an old tee that clung in all the right places. With the visor down, no one would know who he was — just another guy with a smirk and a stolen helmet.

You stared at him for a beat. “Is that my bike?”

“Is that my rider?” he shot back, voice muffled under the helmet.

“You’re absurd,” you muttered, grinning as you approached.

“Get on,” he said.

“You’re not even going to ask nicely?”

He flipped the visor up and raised an eyebrow. “Please, princess, may I have the honor of driving you through the city on your own bike?”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile didn’t falter. “God, you’re lucky you’re hot.”

You two rode — weaving through the back streets of LA, the palm trees flashing by in staccato bursts, wind in your faces, anonymity you shared accomplice. It was freeing, how none of it made sense, and yet all of it felt inevitable.

When he stopped for gas at a grimy station off Sunset. He bought some juice, paid for the gas. You leaned against the handlebar and watched him fill the tank.

“You know,” you said, “this is very Grease, but with more depression and better outfits.”

He laughed. “You’re the only person I’ve met who talks like life is one long indie film.”

“That’s because it is,” you replied, stealing a sip of his drink. “You’re just not watching closely enough.”

He looked at you then — hair tangled, cheeks flushed, the edge of mischief curled around your mouth like a secret. And he realized, with a low thrum of dread and excitement, that he was in trouble. Because two weeks shouldn’t feel like this.

And yet, here he was — riding through cities just to hear you make jokes only you found funny.

The air in your apartment was thick — not just with the heat, but with that slow, humming closeness that came after two bodies stopped pretending they weren’t made for each other. The overhead fan spun in lazy circles, stirring nothing but the weight of summer and skin. The curtains danced just slightly in the sea breeze, casting faint shadows across your bodies lay sprawled on your bed, sheets barely clinging to you two.

Jungkook’s bare chest rose and fell in sync with yours, his fingers tracing thoughtless shapes along your waist. Your leg was thrown over his, your lips trailing faint kisses along the side of his jaw, your hair brushing his shoulder. You hadn’t said much in the past few minutes — that kind of silence had started to become normal between you two, not awkward, not heavy. Just quiet. Laced with something more.

“So,” you murmured eventually, your breath warm against his ear, “your new song. The demo you were humming yesterday. Is it going to be about me?”

He knew what you were doing. Making him cringe, trying to embarrass him and pretend you were offended if he said no. always finding your own amusement.

He chuckled. “Too soon.”

You raised an eyebrow, resting your chin on his chest. “Too soon to write a song about a girl you’ve been practically living with for two weeks straight?”

“I haven’t lived here. I’ve… visited.”

“Visited?” you laughed. “Your new guitar’s on my couch and your boxers are in my laundry.”

He grinned, lazily brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “You’re very hospitable.”

“Am I?” Your tilted your head. “You’re the one who keeps buying wine and pretending you’re a guest.”

“I like the illusion.”

“I’ll start charging my hospitality.”

“I’ll pay extra.”

You two laughed. And then kissed — not deeply, not desperately, just a soft brushing of mouths, like punctuation on a sentence too long to finish. When you pulled back, you sat up slowly, hair falling over one shoulder. “Be right back,” you said, disappearing into the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind you. Jungkook lay still, staring at the ceiling for a beat. The fan creaked slightly overhead. In the background, the low hum of city life drifted through the windows — cars, laughter, waves.

Then your phone buzzed.

It was on the nightstand beside him. He hadn’t been looking for it — he’d been watching the shadows ripple across the ceiling. But the vibration startled him. A message preview lit up the screen. From the same contact he’d seen days ago. A girl’s name. No hearts, no pet names — just plain, and somehow more intriguing because of it.

“Can we talk? I said I was sorry for what happened…”

He didn’t touch it. Just stared. A single message, sitting on the screen like an open door he wasn’t supposed to look into. His stomach tightened. He felt weird, confused. He looked away immediately when he heard the sink stopped. The moment felt like it had shifted slightly, tilted just a few degrees off balance. When you returned and saw your phone, the smile you gave him didn’t quite reach your eyes. You turned off the screen, and slipped it into your bag.

You moved quietly, slipping back into bed beside him, laying your head against his bare shoulder. He looked down at you, something about the silence digging under his skin.

“You okay?”

“Sure,” you said. He waited. You didn’t elaborate. After a moment, you added, “I’m not a good person.”

He blinked. “That’s a weird thing to say after sex.”

You let out a dry laugh, then turned to face him more fully, your head now resting in the crook of his arm. “No, but really. I’ve been thinking about it lately.”

“You didn’t kick a puppy on your way home, did you?”

You smirked, but your eyes were far away. “No, just… I do things without thinking. I take whatever I want, and I don’t really stop to ask if someone else might get hurt because of it.”

“Okay,” he said carefully. “But that’s kind of… human.”

“I think it makes me selfish,” you thought. “Maybe kind of a dick.”

He tilted his head. “You are kind of a dick.”

You let out a soft laugh, your mouth curling. “Thanks.”

“But I’m kind of a dick too,” he added. “I lie all the time. I ghost people. I bail on birthdays. I use my job as an excuse to avoid feelings. I pretend I don’t care about stuff when I do.”

You looked up at him, curious now. “Why?”

He shrugged. “Because caring makes you vulnerable. And vulnerability is bad PR.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. “That might be the worst reason I’ve ever heard.”

“Doesn’t make it untrue.”

You two were quiet for a moment. The breeze shifted the curtains, the scent of sea salt drifting in.

“Maybe we should try to change that,” Jungkook said suddenly.

You raised an eyebrow. “What, like a personality rebrand?”

“Yeah,” he said. “New us. Better us. Less-dick us.”

“Does that mean I have to stop saying shitty things that no one else laughs at but me?”

He pretended to consider. “Maybe. Or maybe that’s your one charm.”

You poked him in the ribs. “Asshole.”

He caught your hand, gently, pulled it to his chest. “Let’s try,” he said again, more softly this time.

You looked at Jungkook, really looked — the quiet way he was watching you, the hesitation in his voice, like he didn’t want to spook you.

“Okay,” you said. “Let’s try.”

That wanting— the wish of trying, the want of it. It was enough for him.

He kissed you then, slow and warm, his hand tangled in your hair. There was no urgency in it. No firestorm of lust. Just a long, drawn-out breath between you two, like you both were carving out something fragile and new. Like you knew you were walking a tightrope but were choosing, together, not to look down.

And outside, the August heat settled deeper into the night.

The city was quiet at 4am, strange in-between hour when night loses its edge but morning hasn’t yet begun. Your friends had found a street vendor tucked between two neon-lit buildings, the smell of sizzling meat and onions hanging thick in the warm air. A table stood crooked on the pavement, plastic chairs wobbled on the uneven sidewalk, and all of you gathered around it like an offbeat family of the night. Jungkook sat beside you, your knees brushing under the table.

Minho, sharp-tongued and a little too observant, was poking fun at Ara’s taste in movies while Jungkook’s friend, Jung, nodded politely, nursing a cheap beer. Laughter fluttered in and out of the conversation like moths to the glow of the barebulb overhead. For a moment, Jungkook let himself enjoy it—this imperfect little corner of the world where no one cared who he was.

Then—

“Have you talked with Betty?”

The question dropped like a stone in water. Jungkook tensed.

He looked up, mid-bite, instinctively. There was a shift in the air. You didn’t flinch. But there was a pause. Measured. It was Minho who asked it, but his voice was casual, unaware of the fracture he’d just made.

Then you answered, brushing a piece of lint from your sleeve with calculated nonchalance.

“Yeah.”

The name… it rang familiar to Jungkook. Betty. He remembered it—flashing on your screen, unanswered. A quiet thread that had woven itself through the last few days.

Minho didn’t seem to catch the edge in your tone. “She seemed weird when I called her last night.”

You set your chopsticks down, slow. “What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know.” Minho shrugged. “Just… is everything okay between you two?”

“Yes,” you said simply. But the gaze you sent him said more: mind your own business.

Minho didn’t take the hint. “Are you sure? I mean, I know in Busan it can be kinda—”

“Dude,” you snapped, cutting him off with a forced smile, “we’re eating and having a nice time, okay? Later.”

The conversation stumbled for a moment before Ara filled the silence with a joke about how bad the food was. Everyone laughed, too eager to escape the tension. But Jungkook wasn’t laughing. He sat quiet, processing. So Betty wasn’t just a name on a screen. There was a weight to it. A presence. Both Minho and Ara clearly knew her. And the way you had shut down the conversation… that wasn’t nothing.

He waited until you two were back at your apartment. The night had gotten cooler, the sky outside smeared with dark purple and navy. As the last weeks, you two drank wine barefoot in your kitchen, the overhead light a dim yellow hue. You leaned against the counter, glass in hand, as Jungkook spoke.

“Who’s Betty?” he asked, gently.

You looked down at your wine, turning the glass in slow circles. “She’s…” your lips curled into something like a smile, but it was humorless. “Betty.”

Jungkook tilted his head, patient. “Is she your best friend?”

You let out a breath, a sound between a sigh and a chuckle—dry, self-deprecating. “Something like that.”

He watched you closely. “Are you guys having problems? I mean… having friends leave for a while can be hard.”

There was a long pause. Then, softly, you said, “I love her.” The words clung to the air like smoke. Jungkook didn’t move, didn’t breathe. “It’s just…” you added, your voice thinner now, “sometimes it’s hard.”

“To be far away from each other?”

“Being in Korea.” You said quietly

Jungkook blinked. “She doesn’t live there?”

You smiled, and it was a tired kind of thing. Sad, maybe. “That’s why it’s hard.” You stared past him for a second, toward the window, where a sliver of moon was caught in the glass. “Sometimes I wish we were different people,” you said, almost to yourself. “Everything would be easy.”

He opened his mouth, confused. “What do you mean?”

But you pulled yourself out of whatever thought you were lost in, blinking hard as if shaking yourself awake. “Leave me,” you said, brushing it off. “I’m just drunk and talking shit.”

“It seemed kinda deep, what you were saying.”

“It’s not,” you replied quickly, your voice sharper now. “I’m too young,” you laughed—short, almost bitter. “I don’t know anything.”

He wanted to say something, to push, to ask again what you meant, to tell you that you didn’t sound like someone who didn’t know anything. But before he could speak, you leaned in and kissed him. It wasn’t playful or teasing. It was slow, aching, a kind of interruption that asked not to be questioned. His hands found your waist, but even as you two kissed, the name echoed in his mind.

Betty.

Whoever she was, Jungkook didn’t know the whole story. But something told him there was something else he couldn’t understand.

The night air still clung to you as Jungkook pulled the motorcycle to a slow stop in front of your building, the metal of the chain cold against his fingers as he looped it around the wheel. You were already stepping off, brushing the hair from your face as you slipped off the helmet and shook out your long, dark strands. The streetlamp above your flickered once, then steadied, casting a warm halo over your bare shoulders.

“Half of September?” he asked, trying to sound casual, but there was a hesitation there—like he was still doing the math in his head, still hoping he’d misheard you seconds ago.

You nodded, adjusting your jacket as you hopped lightly onto the sidewalk.

“Yep. I’m traveling the second week of that month. Flying back just before classes start.”

He stilled, one hand still on the lock, the other trailing behind you in the air.

“That’s… soon,” he said, finally. It came out softer than he meant it to, almost unsure.

“I know,” you answered, tossing the keys from one hand to the other. “It’s stressing me out, actually. I haven’t opened a textbook in months. The idea of lectures makes me want to dissolve.”

Jungkook laughed a little, then jogged the last few steps to catch up with you. You two started up the narrow concrete staircase toward your apartment, but halfway up, he stopped.

“Hey,” he said, gently pulling your arm so you’d turn to face him. The light from the stairwell window hit his face at an angle, and for a second he looked so earnest it made your chest ache.

“Hum?”

“Will you call?” he asked. He shrugged as if trying to make the question seem smaller than it was. “When you’re back at school. Just to talk or… I don’t know. I’ll be in Seoul by the end of October anyway. But my family’s still there in Busan, and I might visit, so… yeah.”

You paused. Smiled. And then, instead of answering, you leaned forward and kissed him.

It was slow at first, then deeper, a little desperate in the way that summer kisses get when you start counting days backwards instead of forwards. Your mouth tasted like the mint tea you two had earlier, sweet and cold. He smiled against your lips. This was how you were. That kiss that made him forget he had even asked a question in the first place.

“I won’t call,” you said, pulling away just enough to say it with a grin that made it sound like a dare.

Jungkook blinked. “Mean.”

You laughed, your eyes lighting up for a moment, then grabbed his hand and tugged him up the last few stairs. The hallway was dim and smelled faintly of sea salt and rust, your sandals echoing against the tile as you led him toward your apartment door. You didn’t say anything else—just turned and kissed him again, this time harder, your back against the doorframe. It was the kind of kiss that made promises in silence. And broke you in the same breath.

Jungkook didn’t ask anything more. He didn’t press. Not when you were kissing him like that. Not when your fingers curled around the hem of his shirt like you needed to hold onto something. Later, he would realize that was the way you said goodbye—never answering questions, never looking back.

But in that moment, he still lived for the hope of it all.

The lock clicked as you pushed the key into the door, still half-laughing, still kissing him by pecks. Your cheeks pink with heat or the weight of wanting.

The door creaked open.

And then, all at once, your smile fell.

“Mom?”

The hallway light spilled into the apartment, and there she was—your mother, standing by the small kitchen counter, a cup of tea in hand, startled and halfway through tying her hair up. Jungkook froze. He was still holding your hand. You blinked, then took a quick step back, releasing him like you had just remembered gravity. Your mother looked between the two of you— Your flushed face, Jungkook’s shirt halfway untucked, the late hour.

It was awkward, and quiet, and very, very real.

Your mother—dressed impeccably in a tailored suit, every inch the commanding presence. Your eyes flickered with an unmistakable tension, a shadow passing over your usually composed face. Jungkook felt the shift instantly, the air thickening with unspoken expectations. Even as a pop star used to stages and spotlights, this woman intimidated him. He bowed his head slightly, an awkward but sincere gesture of respect. And then, the flicker of your stolen kiss before the door opened—a moment he instantly regretted. Fuck, he thought bitterly. Bad first impression.

“I made dinner,” your mother announced with a sharpness that brooked no argument.

Jungkook glanced at you, who looked caught between surprise and apprehension.

“What are you—?” you started.

“I had some free time. Let’s sit so we can talk,” she said, eyes settling on him. Then, softer, “You can stay.”

Jungkook shifted uneasily under your gaze. “Jungkook,” you said, as if to remind him he was a guest, “you probably have a lot of work. You can go—

But he knew better. If he wanted any hope of a future with you, of anything beyond these stolen moments, he needed to stay and try. Swallowing his nerves, he straightened and said, “Sorry for the bad impression. My name is Jeon Jungkook, it’s a pleasure to meet you, and of course I’ll stay. I’ll help serve the plates.”

Your eyes shot him that look—the one he’d seen before: get the fuck out and mind your own business. He ignored it, the sinking feeling in his stomach replaced by stubborn resolve.

The three of you gathered around the small table, the clinking of cutlery filling the heavy silence. Your mother, ever poised, spoke of work with practiced ease, her voice occasionally drifting into sharper tones. Jungkook spoke of his music, his touring, the strange world he inhabited—she nodded at one point, “That’s why you look familiar.” He smiled politely, but caught your subtle frown, the flicker of unease that he couldn’t quite read. To him, he was making a good impression, but clearly, not everyone agreed.

Your mother’s gaze sharpened. “When are you coming home?” she asked casually, but the undercurrent was clear, the challenge laid bare. The atmosphere shifted suddenly, like a storm breaking. “Is this the apartment we’re paying for?” your mother’s voice was cold, biting. “All rusted and badly cared for.”

You bristled. “I like it that way.”

The older didn’t miss a beat. “I don’t think you actually do. You need to take care of things.”

“I do.”

“Are you two dating?”

Your cheeks flamed red. “Mom, not now, okay? Let’s talk—”

She cut you off with a sharp scoff. “Well, at least he’s better than the one before.” The disgust in her voice was palpable. Jungkook sat up straighter, curious and alarmed. What was so bad about the guy before? The woman’s eyes flicked with disdain. “What a bad experience.”

A faint smile hovered on Jungkook’s lips, but it died when he caught your haunted look. You stared at the floor, trembling between breaking and burning with rage. Your eyes darted to your mother, full of silent fury.

“Any man I date would be better for you.”

“And with reason.”

Before the conversation could spiral further, the doorbell rang, slicing through the tension. She stood up to open the door, you rubbed your face with frustration.

As your mother swung open the door, Jungkook kissed your lips in an attempt to soothe the mounting storm within you. But you froze, the shock of seeing Minho—your friend from Busan and, he guessed, a link to another world you kept tightly shut—made you stiffen. Your mother’s expression darkened, disapproval obvious.

“I knew something was happening,” Minho said bluntly.

“It’s not what you think,” you hurried to explain.

“It is,” your mom said, eyes hard. “She’s finally dating someone good. Now go tell your little friend to stop bothering my daughter.”

“Mom, shut up!” you snapped, rushing to Minho’s side. “Please, let me explain.”

“You don’t need to. Believe me,” he said, disgust thick in his voice. “I already knew this was going to happen. I just needed to confirm it.”

Minho turned and left, and you wanted to follow him, but your mother’s iron hand closed the door before you could move. Frustration clenched your chest. Jungkook frowned, confusion blooming into concern. It was happening… what he thought it was happening?.

“Stop that. You knew it was for the best,” your mother said sharply.

“You don’t know what’s best for me!”

“I’m giving you the best!” she snapped back, voice rising. “You know it’s best to get far away from that weird…”

“Stop talking shit about her! If she’s that bad, I’m so much worse…”

“No, you’re not. You’re not…”

“I am! I’m fucking am, Mom!”

“You can’t date someone like that! Do you know what would happen? It’s a disgrace—I can’t have a daughter that…”

“It’s my life.”

“And you’re living it wrong. You don’t like her…”

“I love her!”

Jungkook’s world slowed, heart shattering with every word. Watching the tears streak down your face as you screamed at your mother, the raw pain in your voice—he finally understood. You were in love with her. You were in love with a woman. You were in love with someone else.

“You don’t know what you want! You’re too young,” the older woman said, shaking her head with finality. “Don’t make me regret paying for those shitty art studies and this apartment.”

Jungkook’s eyes flicked to you, softening despite the harsh words around them. The truth was undeniable—your mother was a fortress of cruelty, a gatekeeper of judgment. But none of it mattered to him. What mattered was the girl in front of him, breaking apart but still standing. He stood up. You wiped the tears from your cheeks and looked at him, awareness blooming in your gaze. Like you finally realized he was still there.

“Jungkook…”

He took a slow breath, stepping back toward the door. “I should go.”

“Please, let me explain…”

He shook his head, smiling sadly. “You don’t have to. I understand now.” Bowing politely to your mother, he said, “Thank you for the food. It was nice.”

You followed him, voice trembling. “Kook, I didn’t mean—”

He chuckled, dryly. “You did.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I just feel really stupid. I should have known.” He paused, voice breaking. “Good luck with Betty.”

That last word hung between the two of you, heavy and sharp. You seemed to realized your bigger problem— that the real problem wasn’t dealing with Jungkook. It was dealing with her. The one whose name haunted the space between you two.

Jungkook close the door behind him before walking out of the building. His eyes started to get wet as he waited for a moment. Ten seconds. You didn't followed him. And he knew the reason. You weren’t in love with him. You were never his.

In the end of August. Trying to call your girlfriend, you realized you had lost her. Her and Jungkook. You should've know better.

In the end of August, Jungkook walked home with a broken heart and a bottle of wine.

happy pride month to all my bisexuals out there fr

standing by the real values of bisexuals and making her cheat her girl with a man🤚🏻

(i hate that stereotype but i wanted to do this plot so bad)

hope you like it, i know i change the story of the song so much but i had this idea and i had to write it 😭 idc what u have to say i ATE with this one so stfu

i only accept criticism if you say this plot is perfect first thank u

[chrystal-ink]

Shadow X GN reader

Unwrap your present NSFW MINORS DNI

description: it’s shadows birthday and once the party is finally over you and shadow can finally celebrate with some alone time

Warnings: reader has a vagina, oral sex (male receiving), breeding kink, Reader is in heat, improper use of contraceptives, Unprotected sex, praise kink, penis in vagina sex, over stimulation, cock warming

Notes: hey guys I really wanted to get this out in time for Shadow’s birthday, unfortunately I had some personal things come up this week so I had to cut this down a bit in order to get it out in time, hopefully it’s okay when I get some time I’ll definitely be adding to it and maybe tweak a few things here and there either way

-enjoy

“Bye Amy, I’ll see you next week for tea” You shut the door behind you heaving a sigh of relief. “ that’s the last of them, now it’s just you and me.”

“Good” Shadow responded “remind again why I agreed to a party?”

“Because Rouge would have complained if you didn’t and Amy would have thrown you a surprise one anyway”

“Oh yah”

You smiled and kissed Shadow on the cheek.

"Well, now that it's just you and me I think it's time for me to give you your present,"

"You already gave me my present remember."

You chuckled at the misunderstanding. "No honey, it's a different kind of present.

Shadow looked confused.

"Just meet me upstairs in five minutes okay." you kissed him on the cheek before playfully nibbling on his ear. as you walked away you noticed shadow's face go red as he finally understood what you meant.

You rushed into your bedroom ripping open your closet and digging out the small box you had hidden your lingerie in. normally you wouldn't be in such a rush to get Shadow in the bedroom wanting to take a moment to build up the romantic tension, but today you needed him like you needed air.

Shadow didn't know this but his birthday fell right in the middle of your heat cycle. normally you could control yourself with the help of your birth control but your pills were, let's just say a bit wrapped up at the moment.

All day you had been waiting for this, you needed him in you bad. You almost felt sorry for taking your clothes off to change into the lingerie but you also knew that he would have much more fun tearing this off anyway.

You finished putting your set on an getting into position just as Shadow opened the bedroom door.

Shadow couldn't believe his eyes when he saw you you were in a sheer set leaving nothing to the imagination the he could see the g string you wore underneath a big bow on your chest being the only thing keeping the set on you.

"Hi" you greeted flirtatiously as you sauntered over to Shadow.

Shadow nodded at you unable to form words.

you gave him a smirk before pressing your lips to his. he returned the kiss passion blooming as your lips collided. it wasn't long before you felt his member poking you upper thigh. You wanted him to put it in you so bad but you also knew it was his day and he needed to be treated more than anything.

Shadow watched as you knelt down pressing kisses along his torso as you got on your knees making yourself eye level with his cock. You looked so perfect almost innocent as you stared up at him your eyes full of adoration towards him. you smiled up at him before lifting his cock with your hand and placing a small kiss on his on his tip.

"Fuck" he groaned as you took him into your mouth making your way up his length. Your tongue traced around his most sensitive areas as you sucked on him quickly pulling him closer to orgasm.

Shadow looked down enjoying the sight of your head bobbing along his cock going as far as you could go. he held your head guiding you on where he needed the most attention rough moans leaving his lips as you continued.

you sucked on his cock like your life depended on it, desperate to taste his seed. you could feel your pussy practically dripping as you took Shadow in tears streaming down your face. it wasn't long before Shadow went over the edge, spilling his hot salty cum in your mouth white ropes coating the back of your throat.

You released from him with a satisfying pop his cum still dripping from your lips.

Shadow gently lifted your chin to get a better look at you. he wiped your tears off your face and wiped your mouth clean.

"You're perfect" he stated. "should I take care of you now?"

"Not yet my love," you got up making your way to your bedside table. "I have one last gift for you." you opened the drawer taking out a wrapped small box. you placed it in Shadow's hands encouraging him to open it.

Shadow tore through the paper revealing your birth control case.

"I don't understand"

"That is my birth control for the entirety of next month, I'm giving you total control over it, you decide if I'm going to take it, or more importantly if I'm not."

Shadow looked down at the small pill box in his hand the implications of what you were giving him fully dawning on him. he could tell by your scent that you hadn't taken your pill today either it took everything in him not to stop the party earlier just so he could fuck your brains out.

he grew hard thinking about how he was going to finally be able to breed you properly. fill you up with his offspring marking you as his forever. he had a real shot this time, and he's never been one to waste a good opportunity.

he looked at you and gave you a smirk before tossing the pills into the wastebin in the corner of the room. wasting no time he picked you up and laid you on the bed taking the end of the ribbon he pulled it gently unraveling your top leaving it bare he buried his face in your breasts kissing and sucking on them riling you up even more.

Moans left your lips as his fingers hooked onto your panties, with barley any effort he ripped them off tossing them aside.

taking your hands he gently pinned them above your head holding them in place with one hand using the other to spread your legs as far as they could go.

He paused for a moment taking in the sight of you before leaning in close and whispering in your ear "You are going to look so good carrying my child."

He shoved his cock deep into you your slick aiding in his mission. You let out a whimper as you adjusted to his length. he began thrusting into you so incredibly slowly enjoying your soft moans as his tip brushed against your clit.

his thrusts teased you, a hunger growing inside you you needed more friction so much more.

"please baby more it feels so good" you whined out

Shadow heard your plea and began going faster you walls beginning to tighten around him.

fireworks danced across your skin as he fucked you into the mattress instinctively you locked your legs around his hips ensuring he wouldn't remove himself anytime soon.

Shadow listened to every quiet gasp every panting breath each one encouraging him on to fill you up he wouldn't stop, not until you were good and pregnant by his hand.

"Oh, You're so good to me shadow" you called out "So good"

Your words rung in his head like a bell. letting go of your hands he instead brought you in for a passionate kiss. he brought his lips down lower kissing your neck in the place he knew drove you wild.

His hands grabbed your breasts massaging them gently thinking about how full of milk they'll be once he finally breeds you. who knows maybe you'll let him have a taste someday.

The tension in your core was rising threatening to snap any minute as Shadow continued his passioned thrusts into you.

"Shadow I-"

"It's okay my love cum for me"

You obeyed the tension finally snapping waves of pleasure washing over your body.

"Don't stop" you requested "Please don't stop. I want to feel you in me more"

Shadow listened as he snapped his hips faster and faster into you.

Your hands wrapped around his shoulders instinctively clawing into his back as the overstimulation began to take hold. As Shadow rode you through your orgasm you found yourself drowning in your pleasure, confessions flowing from your mouth like a river.

"I'm yours, all yours for the rest of time." you called out. "Please Shadow, fill me up Give me twins, triplets, Fuck a whole litter"

Your words were all shadow needed to hear he quickly repositioned you folding you into a mating press thrusting into you as fast as he could.

Stars entered your vision as a second orgasm was quickly ripped from you your mind growing fuzzy from the pleasure.

You screamed out as shadow continued thrusting into you in a way that hurt so good. you tossed your head back onto the pillow praising Shadow for the way he made you feel, there was truly nobody else who could make you feel the way he could his cock felt like it was molded just for you.

with a few more thrusts Shadow finally finished, hot seed spilling inside you, Still he kept thrusting into you his instincts taking over pulling one final orgasm from both of you.

Shadow took a moment to unfold you taking care not to remove himself from you just yet. he held you close enjoying the way your gummy walls felt around him as the last of his cum spilled into you.

he pushed some stray hair out of your face a dreamy look plastered on your face.

"Did I do good?" you asked.

"You did perfect."

You sighed perfectly content in the moment basking in the feeling of Shadow being so close to you.

"Any more requests for the birthday boy?"

"Just one, I don't want you to leave this bed, not until you're pregnant do you understand?"

"Anything for you darling." you replied snuggling into him as he held you tighter.

Best birthday gift ever.

[prettysatomii]

Gon wouldn't stop pestering Killua about you. It was starting to get on Killuas nerves due to the sheer volume of questions.

“Do you like her?” Gon would enthusiastically ask, waiting for the answer. Even with how blind Gon was to love, he could see it written all over Killua.

He would just grumble instead of answering the question. Too embarrassed about his own feelings, to be frank you were the first to make him feel that way. It confused him to no end.

Eventually Gon gets him to open up about the situation.

“She keeps on texting me,” He sighed out glancing at his phone flashing on and off. Opening his phone to text you back before shutting it down once more. Gon curiously glanced over with an eyebrow raised, trying to decipher his best friend's feelings.

“Is that like…A bad thing-“

“No.”

“Do you like her??” Gon asked once more, smiling brightly. Casually peeking over to see what the two of you talked about. Killua responded quite fast with you.

Killua stared at the message he last sent before swiping up to re-read. He huffed, not wanting to wait more than a minute for you to respond.

“Do I like her?” He repeated Gon's question, “No, definitely.” A faint pink coated his face as he covered it with his hands.

Gon just blankly stared at him while Killua tweaked out. No, definitely? Was that a definite no, or a different way of saying yes?

“Is that a yes? You do like her then!” Killua flicked Gon's forehead. He was embarrassed and embracing the fact he had feelings for you while Gon was asking stupid questions. Killua thought that the flick was well deserved.

“Of course I do, idiot!” He murmured after, “You don’t have to be so loud about it geez.” Killua looked around all while Gon rubbed his forehead.

“What if she hears?” Glancing over his shoulders scanning the perimeters.

“She’s not even here,” Gon said, but also looking around to see if he saw you. Which he didn’t. “Want me to tell her that you like her?”

Killua's face scrunched, his eyes twitching. “Don’t even think about it.” Gon laughed at his expression, “You look funny, but I won’t.”

Gon lied, He did tell you. He sent you a message saying that Killua had feelings for you. Told you to be bold about it because Killua would take years trying to confess.

It made you nervous, but it was expected. I mean, it wasn't like Killua was good at hiding his feelings for you. He was always flustered around you, let you snatch a few of his chocolates, even tug at his hair without much complaint.

He definitely likes you.

You soon responded back to killua after deleting and rephrasing your message multiple times. Straightforward was the best. That's what Gon said, right?

‘I have feelings for you, Killua.’ That was typed with trembling fingers, but he didn't need to know that. You threw your phone to the opposite side of your bed, regretting your decision you rushed back to your phone.

Seen. 1 minute. 2 minutes. 3 minutes. 4 minutes.

You were about to kill Gon.

Killua on the other hand was starstruck, staring at the message. Gon had to slap the back of his head to get through to him. You would think he was rejecting you if he didn't answer. With that, Killua typed fast but never sent anything. Rewriting and erasing everything he typed, just like you.

“Just say you have feelings for her too!” Gon rushed him before snatching the phone, “I’ll do it for you since you can’t.” The blood in Killua's face drained as he registered what Gon did.

But he couldn’t really be mad when he saw your quick answer.

’I was nervous that you weren’t going to respond but I’m glad that you feel that way about me too.’

He glared at Gon before deciding to let it slide. His fingers clicked at the letters, phone up in his face, smile plastered.

‘I was going to respond faster but Gon was doing something Stupid so I needed to help him.’

Killua lied, trying to play into a nonchalant act. ‘But I can stop by wherever you are. We can talk or whatever you want.’

Inspo- Stephanie by Nafeesisboujee

[judeswhore]

i want him.

“it’s wonky.” jude pouted dramatically at you through the reflection in the mirror, fingers tugging at the black material of his bow tie. there was a slight tremor in his hands, one you would have missed if you weren’t completely focused on him, and it sent a painful ache through your chest. “why won’t it sit right?”

“c’mere.” setting your lipstick down on the dressing table you made your way across the room, met your boyfriend halfway when he turned around and felt a smile tug the corner of your mouth. despite the wonky tie he looked gorgeous, the white fitted shirt stretched tight across his chest. if this wasn’t such an important event you would’ve dragged him straight back to bed.

the second you stopped in front of him he settled his hands on your waist, large palms warm through the thin material of your dress, fingers pulling you a little closer until only a few inches separated you. there was a glint of excitement in his eyes, paired with a flicker of nervousness and that ever present heat that always lingered when he was looking at you and it made your skin prickle. you shifted a little and raised your hands to fix his tie.

“you have no patience, y’know that?”

“i’ve been trying to fix it for like ten minutes.” he argued, pout still set in place, so ridiculously adorable you just had to press up and kiss it away. jude made a happy noise in the back of his throat. one of his hands smoothed over your lower back and he pulled you even closer, hips flush together.

he watched you work in silence for a few seconds, his gaze heavy as he flickered it over your face, down your neck and even further along the plunge of your dresses neckline. his attention was like the drag of his finger, featherlight but enough to make your heart race with need. you tweaked the material one last time before patting his chest and flashing him a smile.

“all done.” you told him, palms brushing across his shoulders and down his arms, smoothing down his shirt as you went along. or at least that’s what you wanted him to think, really you just wanted to feel him up a little. jude flashed his own smile, quick and full of amusement before he dipped his head and kissed the corner of your mouth.

“m’glad you’re here.” he whispered, nose nudging lovingly against yours before he pressed your foreheads together, eyes falling closed for a second. he hummed happily when he felt your hands against his jaw.

“i wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else.” you mumbled, pushing your own kiss against his lips. ‘i’m proud of you, baby. so proud.” the words made him grin even brighter, eyes crinkling adorably at the corners and you couldn’t stop yourself from pitching forward and smothering his face in kisses.

jude could only laugh, muttering something about getting covered in lipstick marks but he clearly didn’t care enough to make you stop. you only let up when you were sure your lips had met every inch of his face and he knew just how happy you were for him. a final kiss was pressed against his mouth, long and lingering because you didn’t want to pull away.

“i love you, golden boy.” you grinned up at him with those words and watched a shy smile curve his mouth, eyes flashing as he watched you step away from him.

“i haven’t won yet.”

“doesn’t matter. you’ll always be my golden boy whether you have a trophy or not.”

[theemporium]

[5.6k] an attack in the winter break leaves max reeling as he tries to cope with a new and furrier version of himself. the world seems to think mad max is returning to them but your presence says otherwise.

[find other fright night specials here]

.

It had been a completely normal day when Max Verstappen had his whole life changed. 

Or as normal as it could be on a cold, wet January day in England during the winter break.

The run up to the season had been weighing down on everyone’s shoulders, last minute tweaks and changes and updates being made in hopes of making a car that will continue to dominate the grid. The factory has been busy, day in and day out. With less than a month until the car launch, it felt like everyone was working themselves to the bone to get the car ready. 

Max was no different. Though, it was less about data sheets and car parts for him, and more about practising on the sim until he was beating the previous laps he set. He liked having feedback to give to the team, he liked feeling like he was contributing to the early mornings and late nights. He liked feeling useful to the team. 

He ignored most of GP’s warnings about running himself down on the late nights, waving the older man off with a smile and a promise he wouldn’t stay much later. And it was partially true, he didn’t stay too late. 

No later than you did. 

Because if there was someone equally as determined and dead-set on giving this car everything they had like he was, it was you. 

It had become a routine between the two of you on those late nights where you were the only ones left in the factory. Max would finish up at the sim, make his way towards your office on the other side of the factory where he would walk you to your car, chatting your ear off about anything other than engineering and cars and data to help get your mind off work. Even if it was for a few short minutes. 

There were some days where the two of you would sit in one of your cars for a bit, to just talk. Other days, one of you was too tired to drag the night out further. It varied but it all fit the norm.

Just like that day. 

The flickering street lights accompanied you both as you made your way towards the car park, with Max nodding and laughing along to some story you had been telling him about one of the other engineers. At first, he thought he had imagined the growl—one of those instances that could be brushed off with wind and bushes and the darkness around them that made everything look a bit scarier. 

But then he heard it again. And he saw a flash in his peripheral vision. And next thing he knew, a large beast appeared out of thin air and was heading straight towards you and Max’s body reacted with pure instinct and quick reflexes to shove you out of the way before the beast tackled him to the floor. 

It was a blur after that. 

Hot, searing pain exploding through his body. Blood roaring in his ears. His heart pounding so fast in his chest. The white dots blurring his vision as he tried to turn his head away from the beast. The glimpses of fear and horror on your face before his vision had gone black. 

The biggest concern at that moment was whether or not Max would be okay. If he would be able to compete at the start of the season. If he would be able to continue at all. If the public would somehow find out and expose the story before Red Bull could even prepare a statement. 

The beast was the last thing on either one of your mind’s that night.

But when Max woke up the next morning, completely unscathed with only his bloody, ripped clothes as a reminder of the previous night. The two of you knew there was more to that beast than a normal animal attack, that you were dealing with something beyond your imagination. 

Max Verstappen didn’t expect to go into the next season worrying how in loving fuck he was going to balance being a Formula One driver and being a werewolf. 

Despite what critics and idiots behind a phone screen like to think, Formula One was a very physically taxing sport. Max had spent the better part of his whole life giving his body to training and endurance so he could compete at the level he does. Most athletes are more in tune to their bodies and their wants and needs than the average person, and Max was one of them. He knew his body. He knew his limits. He knew strengths. He knew his weaknesses. 

That knowledge was completely useless when he became a werewolf. 

One attempt at a workout and a dented metal bar later told Max that this whole werewolf thing came with a lot more setbacks than he realised. He understood pretty quickly that this wasn’t something he wanted to get out to the general public. He didn’t know how it would be perceived—hell, he wasn’t even sure how he perceived it. 

But someone had to know. He couldn’t hide it for the rest of the season. 

In the end, a few select people in his team knew about his lycanthropy and they worked together to keep it hidden from everyone else. 

It was a mindfuck working with Rupert to sort out a whole new workout plan, to evaluate his newfound strength and other abilities, to learn his body all over again at the age of twenty-seven. It was weird having to explain to GP, a man who he considered his brother, that he was no longer the man he was before the winter break—that he was hardly a man at all, anymore. It was fucking weird having to look you in the eye and see the conflict of emotions on your face whenever you saw him, whenever you replayed the way he saved you from the same beast that created him. 

It was fucking weird. 

But he could learn. Resilience and perseverance were two traits Max learnt at a very young age. He didn’t give his whole life to this sport just to throw it away because of his newfound—and unwanted—lifestyle. He refused to let it ruin more than it had. He was a werewolf but that didn’t mean he was going to give everything else up. He would deal with his lycanthropy like he did with other problems in his life—privately and out of the spotlight. 

He just failed to realise that something could risk that privacy. 

And he failed to realise it would be his own short temper that could possibly expose him. 

…

Preseason testing taught the team a lot about the car. 

Yet, all Max was learning was that the car was shit, the media were nosy and his patience was nonexistent with every human interaction he had outside of the team garage. He could feel his skin prickle whenever a camera was pointed at him or a microphone was shoved in front of him or his name was called out. 

He thought the glare on his face would be enough to keep people away but it was wishful thinking. He was the reigning world champion and he was driving, what was seeming to be, a hopeless car. It was a journalist’s wet dream.

“Your eyes.”

Max clenched his jaw, ripping the balaclava over his head. “I’m not glaring.” 

“Not that,” GP hissed, trying to pull Max to the side, away from the cameras peering into the garage. “Your eyes.” 

Max huffed. “Stop talking in fucking riddles, mate.” 

“They are yellow,” GP whispered frantically. “Like your—“

“Fuck,” Max groaned, snapping his eyes shut as he let out a deep breath. “Fuck, what? Why? It’s not a full moon. It shouldn’t—”

“There’s a lot that shouldn’t happen with you that does,” GP pointed out, feeling the glare from Max behind his closed eyelids. “We need to get you out of here.” 

“They will see,” Max replied. 

“Put your helmet on.” 

“Yeah,” Max snorted. “Because that won’t be fucking obvious.” 

GP sighed. “Well—”

“What’s happening?” 

Despite not being able to see you, Max still turned his head towards you, almost instinctively. He could feel your hand on his arm, warm and comforting and—

“His eyes look like glow sticks,” GP muttered. 

“So he says,” Max bit back, because he was annoyed and pissed off and GP was the easiest target. 

“He’s trying to help,” you scolded lightly, your thumb swiping back and forth, almost passively like you didn’t realise what you were doing. “Let me see.” 

GP straightened. “That’s risky—”

“Let me see.” 

Max let out a shaky breath, slowly blinking his eyes open until you came into focus.

“Blue,” you said with a soft, reassuring smile. “They are blue now.” 

Max’s shoulders dropped with relief. 

“Get him back to his driver’s room before it happens again,” GP murmured. 

Max bristled, a looming realisation that he was essentially being grounded by his race engineer making his skin feel prickly. But he couldn’t disagree, it was already a close call with his eyes flashing in the garage. He didn’t need the cameras catching it either. 

“If anyone asks, we will say Helmut lost his mind and made you wear contacts whilst you drive,” you teased, keeping your hand on his arm as you waited for him to grab his things. 

Max huffed out a laugh. “I’m sure he will like that.”

“You’ll protect me,” you grinned back at him. 

And yeah, Max would. 

…

The next close call happened after the season had started. 

The car had been improved since the shit show that was the preseason testing weekend, but it wasn’t all that great either. Max knew it was a process, knew the team were reaching the point of getting the car to a truly competitive and dominant state. It just took time and he just needed to be patient. 

But patience wasn’t something Max had a lot of these days. 

All in all, a podium wasn’t bad with the state of the car currently. However, Max knew that the media would be ready to push back, to insist the reigning world champion should be on the top step and not the third, that he should have all the answers to his own failures. 

He could feel it. 

He could feel the shift in his gums as his canines pushed through, pushed against the confinement of his helmet. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He could hear the crowd booing over the blood roaring in his ears. He felt like the whole world had been dialled up to a hundred the second he stepped out the car after pulling up behind the number three sign. 

He could feel it. 

He could feel the way his team reached out for him. He could feel their hands patting his back like it didn’t make his whole body tense. He could feel their hands patting his helmet like it didn’t make his head feel like it was spinning. He could feel their hands reaching to hold his neck, to bring him closer, to suffocate him more. 

He could feel it. He could feel it. He could—-

“Another trophy to add to the shelf?”

Max’s head snapped around to see you on the other side of the barrier, headset still around your neck and a smile on your face that made the third place feel a little less pathetic. 

“Probably hidden in the back,” Max managed to mutter out, somewhat muffled by his helmet and the chaos around you both.

“Surprised you have enough space,” you joked, teasing and lighthearted and so distracting that Max almost didn’t feel the way your hand covered his gloved hands, the way your thumb swiped over the tips of his fingers. 

He hadn’t even noticed his claws retracting, hadn’t even noticed them ripping through the material of the gloves in the first place. 

“Oh,” was all he could say.

“I’ll take care of it,” you assured him, not risking any more with so many people and cameras and microphones. “Go enjoy the podium.” 

“You’re gonna stay here?” Max asked, something in his chest twisting at the idea you would have to run off back to the garage, to the screens and data sheets and computers and away from him.

“I always do.” 

…

It took a few months into the season before a race weekend aligned with a full moon. 

Truthfully, it hadn’t even been a risk that Max considered which, in hindsight, was probably pretty stupid. It should have been one of the first things on his mind the second he realised what he was. It should have been a top priority after his first full moon, somewhere in late January—a night full of pain and discomfort, an experience Max didn’t want to repeat but knew he would have to. 

Ignorance was bliss and all that jazz. 

Yet, it was the Canadian Grand Prix where Max found himself battling more than just the championship that weekend.

He was lucky enough that it wasn’t a night race but that didn’t change the fact he was snappy all weekend, more so than usual. He was irritant and annoyed and perpetually fighting the growing pain through the weekend as it got closer to the full moon on Sunday night. 

GP asked if it was safe for him to even race in this state.

Max, honest to god, snapped his teeth at the older man in response. 

It was tense and suffocating in the Red Bull garage.

No one seemed to question Max’s awful mood any more than it was expected. A few people poked and prodded but the gritted, sharpy responses they received in response was enough to make most people back off. It was being played off as jet lag, a bad quali session and a grid penalty that didn’t feel all that deserved. 

Max was adamant he could race and deal with the full moon. He wasn’t going to let it ruin his career, the sport that he loved and adored and had given his life to. He wasn’t going to let it get the better of him, even if that meant just being snappier than usual to the media. 

And despite GP and Rupert’s concerns, Max was coping well. 

Until lap 57 happened. 

“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH HIM?!” 

“Max, stay calm.”

“I’M FUCKING LAPPING HIM! IS HE FUCKING STUPID?” 

“Max,” GP tried again but his voice was a muffled buzzing in his ears, hardly coherent over the anger and adrenaline and rage rushing through him. His body was acting on muscle memory alone as his car dragged on, as it crawled into the pits before he rushed back out. 

He refused to listen to GP telling him to retire the car. 

He refused to let that fucker in the Alpine think he could fuck his race and get away with it.

He refused—

“He’s growling,” GP hissed, hand covering the microphone and his voice dropping as he leaned over to where you sat on the pit wall beside him. His lips barely moved, not with the way the cameras were laser-focused on him and his reaction to Max disobeying the orders that were broadcasted to everyone watching.

“Fuck,” you muttered, pulling your headset off and reaching for his. “Hand it over.” 

GP frowned. “I don’t think this is going to work—”

“Trust me,” you insisted. 

Conflicting emotions swirled in his eyes before he ripped his headset off, muttering something under his breath before he handed it to you. 

“—FUCKING DICKHEAD JUST—”

“Max?” 

There were a few moments of silence and, for a brief moment, you wondered if the connection had cut. You wondered if he had somehow disconnected the radio from his side, you almost turned to ask GP if it was possible to do before you heard his heavy breathing. 

“I know you’re upset,” you continued, taking the chance and hoping he was listening. “It was a bad move. But you’re a good driver, a great one even. You can save this race. I know you can. Focus on the racing, not the rest.” 

Your words were careful and precise, painfully aware that the radio messages were probably being broadcasted. You knew whatever you said would be picked apart by the media and public, dissected under a microscope. But despite your caution, your only focus was making sure Max was okay. 

“Breathe and win,” you said, your eyes watching the racing feed on the screen in front of you. “I know you can.” 

It was completely silent beyond the sounds of the car until—

“I can. I will.”

You bit back your smile. “Good. I want to see you on the top step, Verstappen.” 

He did, in fact, go on to win the race. The celebration with the team was postponed as he spent the night in aggravating, uncomfortable pain—alone, suffering, excruciating. He refused to let any of you stay with him, to see him in that state, just like he did every full moon since the attack. 

But he still won and that was something nobody could take away from him. 

...

Despite his success in Canada, it was clear the outbursts and frequent accidental exposures of his wolf were becoming a problem. 

It was something he needed to get better at controlling if he wanted to continue the way he was, if he wanted to keep his lycanthropy away from the greedy hands of the journalists. This was his life now, it was something he had to accept and learn and grow with. 

It was just a little hard to do when he didn’t know how.

“This is stupid.” 

Rupert sighed, ignoring the glare Max was currently staring into the side of his head as he continued to hook the heart monitor onto him. “It is no different to when we do this for your training.” 

“Except this time you are purposefully pissing me off instead of torturing me,” Max bit back.

“We want to help,” GP corrected, leaning against the wall opposite of him. “You need to learn how to control the wolf side of you.” 

Max scoffed. “Maybe people should stop being stupid then.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” GP snorted before getting a nod of confirmation from Rupert that they were ready to go. “Okay. We are going to start easy, alright?” 

Max nodded. 

GP glanced down at the laptop in front of Rupert that had Max’s current heart rate showing before looking back at the driver. “Following the incident with Pierre Gasly in the Canadian Grand Prix, do you think you should be more careful when lapping cars?” 

Max let out a noise of disagreement. “What the fuck? Why should I be careful? It’s not my fault he is slow!” 

“I’m sure the PR team will love that response,” GP deadpanned, watching as Max’s heart rate started to speed up. “The stewards deemed it a racing incident.” 

“And the stewards are fucking stupid,” Max snapped back. “I was lapping him. I had priority. Everyone knows that. It’s their job to know that too.” 

The heart rate continued to increase and GP could have sworn he saw a flash of yellow in Max’s eyes.

“Max, control it,” Rupert reminded him.

“I’m trying,” he gritted out.

“They are going to keep poking, Max,” GP continued. “They did it before and they will do it again. They will push and push and push until they get the reaction they want, the one that fits their agenda.” 

Max growled in response. 

“I know you’ve seen it already,” GP said, listening to the beeps of the heart monitor get faster and faster. “Mad Max is back. He is unpredictable. Unhinged. That’s the story they want and that’s the one you are giving them.” 

Max’s breaths were getting heavier. “They don’t know—”

“Exactly, they don’t know,” GP pointed out. “And we don’t want them to know so you have to learn how to control it before you wolf out on them. Before you let them win.” 

His eyes were bright and glowing and yellow, a flash of sharp teeth under his curling lip as he growled and snarled and—

“I’m here! I’m here! Sorry, I’m late, I was getting coffee. Did we start yet?” 

It was like a flip had switched. 

GP and Rupert watched the scene in front of them like it happened in slow motion. The way Max seemed to perk up at the sound of your voice. The way the glowing eyes and sharp teeth seemed to slowly morph back to the Max they knew. The way the rage and anger and frustration was nowhere to be seen by the time you walked into the room, a tray of coffee and a bag of pastries in each hand. 

You stood there, watching the three of them stare at you with mixed expressions. “What? What did I miss?”

“Interesting,” GP commented. “Very, very interesting.” 

…

“You like her.” 

Max let out a string of curse words, almost knocking the mugs of hot water over before he put the kettle down and turned to face his race engineer with wide eyes. Heightened senses aside, he didn’t hear GP sneaking into the kitchen. Or even realise he had been watching Max mutter away to himself for the last five minutes.

“Fucking hell, mate,” Max grumbled, placing a hand on his chest. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“And don’t change the topic,” GP retorted with a knowing look. “You like her, don’t you?”

Max hated the way he could feel the tips of his ears start to burn. “Like who?” 

GP raised his brows in response. 

Max deflated, his shoulders dropping. “Look, I know what you’re going to say—”

“I think she’s good for you,” GP interrupted.

Max blinked. “Okay, maybe I didn’t know what you were going to say.” 

“She’s your anchor,” GP noted, his lips twitching upwards. “I had my suspicions but today confirmed it.”

“Anchor?” Max repeated with a frown. “Mate, is that not a news thing? She’s an engineer—”

“No, I—” GP let out a deep sigh, muttering something under his breath. “God give me strength. I mean that she helps ground you, helps you differentiate Human Max and Wolf Max.”

“Oh,” was all Max managed to mutter out.

“She’s good for you,” GP repeated with a soft smile. “And she understands you. Maybe if you tell her, we can work something out and—”

“No.” 

He frowned. “No?” 

“No,” Max repeated, blunt as ever. “I’m not telling her anything and neither will you.” 

GP’s frown deepened. “Max—”

“No, you don’t get it. She…” The boy trailed off, swallowing harshly as he tried to voice his thoughts. “You didn’t see what happened that night.” 

“Max—”

“I saved her,” Max stated. “I saved her and she’s only here because she probably feels guilty. I…I don’t want to tell her and make her feel like she has to feel the same because I almost died or something.” 

“You liked her before,” GP pointed out. “Is it so hard to believe that maybe she felt the same? That she cared about you way before you jumped in front of a werewolf for her?” 

Max clenched his jaw. “Drop it. I’m not telling her and neither are you.” 

GP sighed but he knew it was pointless to fight the stubborn boy over it.

“And she doesn’t find out about this anchor nonsense,” Max added, turning around and busying himself with the mugs on the counter. “We’ll find another way.” 

…

GP’s words about you being his anchor rung on a loop inside his head as the next race weekend approached. 

The Spanish Grand Prix was always quite a hectic one on the schedule. The fans were wild and passionate. There was usually more of a buzz around the world championship by this point, an insight into a real fight after nine races. And it brought back good memories, wanted memories of his first ever race win.

It was a reminder why he was here, why he kept coming back every weekend. He wanted to race and he wanted to win and he wanted to be successful. He wasn’t going to let the lycanthropy stop him. 

And even if he would never admit it, GP was right. 

You were his anchor, you calmed the angry, rapid wolf inside him. It was like everything he felt around you when he was human was amplified. He felt seen, accepted. You took him for how he was, not how you wanted or expected him to be. 

You saw Max—not the racing driver or the face of F1’s current dominance. 

You just saw him. 

It was hard to feel anything but relaxed and calm around you, to know that his words weren’t going to be overanalysed or thrown back in his face.

“You ready for this race?” 

Max gripped his helmet a little tighter, fighting the urge to lean back against your touch as he felt your palm between his shoulder blades. He turned to look at you, smiling a little at the clear concern on your face. Like you were prepared to find a way to postpone the whole race if he said no.

“The car’s been good all weekend,” Max replied, biting back his laugh when you rolled your eyes.

“I wasn’t talking about the car,” you grumbled, scoffing. “Obviously the car is good. I was working on it.”

He beamed. “I’m good. Promise.” 

“You gonna win?” 

“For you? Always.” 

Max took deep satisfaction in the way your heart skipped a beat at his words. 

“I’ll be happy whatever you end up,” you told him earnestly, your hand squeezing his shoulder and he had the oddest urge to keep your hand there, to place his own over yours.

Max swallowed harshly. “But you deserve a podium so that’s what I’m gonna get you.” 

You laughed, the sound easing something in his chest. “You’re cute when you’re cocky.”

He barely got a chance to process your response as you headed towards the pitwall, prepared for the race ahead and leaving the boy glued to his spot, blushing like mad.

For what it’s worth, he did win the race. 

…

Things were going smoothly until the British Grand Prix.

Max had been able to keep the wolf inside him subdued and relaxed through the first two races of the triple header. He was racing well, he was being polite to the media, he was acting like the Max before the accident. 

And despite his history and previous experiences at Silverstone and the ever loyal British fans, he didn’t think things would be all that different this year. He would maybe get booed, maybe have a few more probing questions. But nothing more than that.

Nothing quite like this.

It was Friday when it happened. 

Max thought the worst of the weekend—media day—had been put behind him. He was ready to get back in the car, he was ready to make the triple header a three-for-three and win Silverstone. He was ready for a somewhat normal race weekend, one where the focus would be on the five Brits on the grid rather than him (especially with it being Ollie’s rookie season).

Sometimes, he forgot just how passionate fans could be. He forgot just how insane they could be too.

The whole thing felt like it happened in slow motion.

He was a few steps behind you and GP and Rupert, taking a moment to sign merch and take pictures with fans who had been waiting for hours. He assumed the group of you had made your way into the paddock, already heading towards the Red Bull motorhome. 

He hadn’t expected for the hair on the back of his neck to stand up, to feel his whole body react before his brain had. His head whipped around at the exact moment he saw the crazed fan reaching towards you. His body was moving as he watched the scene unfold, as they reached for the collar of your shirt and pulled, as their lips moved to mutter something about Red Bull and whatever nonsense they thought justified their attack. 

And before anyone could even react, Max was already shoving himself between you and the fan and ripping their hand away from you. He could feel his heart pounding, his body shaking, the telltale pain in his gums of his canines begging to push through. He could feel himself lose control as the anger and fear of seeing you hurt took over him. 

“Back. The. Fuck. Off.” 

The fan’s eyes widened, something quite like surprise and terror written across their face as they staggered back. Max had half the mind to wonder if his eyes were glowing yellow, if his face was starting to transform, if the crazed fan was starting to see the monster Max truly was.

“Max.” 

An honest to god growl escaped his lips until he felt warm hands wrapping around his biceps, until he felt someone pulling his body away from the fan and away from the crowd. 

“We need to get him out of here.” 

It felt like he had blacked out. One moment he was staring at the crazy fan, contemplating letting his wolf take over, to give into the anger and rage coursing through him. And the next he was in his driver room, his name being called on repeat and warm hands cupping his face as he slowly blinked back into reality.

“There he is,” you smiled, your voice a soft whisper as you kneeled in front of him.

“I–” Max started but he couldn’t get his words out. He couldn’t say what he wanted to say, not with his heart still pounding, not with the wolf inside him howling and whining and begging to check that you weren’t hurt.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” you repeated like you could see inside his head, like you could hear the panic in his wolf’s howl. “Max, look at me. I promise I’m okay. You stopped anything from happening.” 

He tried to take a deep breath but it was staggered and wheezy. 

“I’m okay,” you continued to repeat, dropping one hand from his face to take his hand in yours and intertwine your fingers together. 

Max’s eyes flashed yellow once more before he clenched them shut, urging himself to calm down, to relax, to control his wolf again. And after weeks of being on top of his lycanthropy, it felt a bit pathetic that he sat there for god-knows how long, not trusting himself to lift his head and look at you until he felt human again.

“M’sorry,” he managed to rasp out.

“Don’t apologise,” you murmured, quick to give his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Please never apologise for being you.” 

Max let out a bitter laugh. “That wasn’t me—”

“Max,” you started but he shook his head.

“Did anyone see?” 

You took a few moments before responding. “No. Other than the fan but I don’t think they really knew what was happening. I don’t think any of the camera angles caught it either but GP is making sure the media team are ahead of that.” 

“Good,” he managed to mutter, swallowing harshly. “We don’t need anyone else seeing what a monster I am.” 

“Max,” and the way you said his name sounded absolutely broken. “You’re not a monster.”

His lips twitched upwards, almost self-deprecatingly. “You don’t have to lie—” 

“I’m not lying,” you said, a little more insistent this time as you lifted his head up to meet your gaze. “You’re not a monster, Max.” 

His chest tightened. “You’re just saying that because I saved you.” 

“No,” you shook your head. “I’m saying that because it’s what I truly believe. You are the furthest thing from a monster I have ever met.” 

Max could feel his voice waver as he spoke. “Not anymore. What I am now is—”

“Beautiful,” you whispered, smiling softly as your thumb swiped over the apple of his cheek. “Just as you’ve always been. Just as I’ve always thought you were.”

Max couldn’t quite find the words to respond.

“You saved me. And despite having every right to blame me for what you are now, what you’re having to suffer through every full moon, you don’t,” you continued. “Where most people would give up, you fought back. You took your life back. You’ve made it work, Max. Do you realise how fucking brilliant you are? You had to learn your whole body again and you’re still winning races like nothing changed.” 

Max let out a shaky breath. “I’d do it again.” 

“What?” 

“Even knowing what happened, knowing what was going to happen to me,” Max spoke, keeping his eyes on you, keeping his ears focused on your heartbeat. “I would push you out the way. I would jump in front of that wolf all over again.” 

Max wasn’t sure how you would respond but he hadn’t expected you to grab his face in your hands and kiss him. The tight feeling in his chest melted away the second he felt your lips on his, the second he was able to get his hands on you and pull you closer. He would’ve been embarrassed at the pleased rumble in his chest if it weren’t for the fact he was too happy to care. 

“I’ll make you see how beautiful that ‘monster’ in you really is,” you whispered against his lips, your nose lightly nudging against his. “No matter how long it takes.” 

Max was sure that he still had a long way to go and a lot more to learn before he could ever say he felt fully normal again. But the idea of facing the road ahead with you by his side felt easier than tackling it alone. 

He may still be Mad Max to everyone else but he was just Max to you. 

And if he was being honest, the opinion of his anchor was the only one he really cared about.

.

[clockwayswrites]

Not 'Not So Imaginary' getting a sequel fic(let) for @deadonmayn week...

Have a little start, even though I've been trying not to share my domayn week work, because dramatic theater kid Jason is dramatic.

-

“I never thought I’d see you again!” Jason lamented, dramatically, as he flung himself at Danny.

Danny caught Jason dutifully, having expected such dramatics (though they had to be braced a little by Diana not to fall over from Jason’s exuberance). Hiding a smile against Jason’s hair, they patted Jason lightly on the back. “There there.”

“Don’t there there me!” Jason said and pulled back enough for Danny to get the full force of his pout. Danny was very sure that Jason thought that since even Bruce mostly folded to that pout, Danny had no chance, but Danny had been living with Diana and her pout was truly lethal. Still, Jason continued valiantly with his rant. “It’s been over three weeks! Do you know how long three weeks is! That’s twenty-one days! It’s been twenty-three, that is so long—”

Jason’s words cut off with a muffled little ‘murf’ as Danny leaned in and pressed their lips together. It was still just as effective as it had been twenty-three days ago as it stunned Jason long enough for Danny to flip the cover of their SGD up so that they could use it. While Danny spoke much more these days than before, it was still a challenge to find the right words at the right time. Their device was easier and they clung to it gratefully.

“We talked everyday,” Danny said. The mechanical voice had been tweaked some over the last few weeks to something Danny was happier with. They didn’t think it was too different, but it gave Jason almost as much pause as the kiss had.

“What?” Jason shook his head, dark curls flying. “No we didn’t, we texted every day, that’s not the same!”

Danny glanced down at their SGD and back up again with a pointedly brow raised.

“I’m not being abelist! That’s still us talking! I mean texting isn’t us talking in person, I mean— stop making me feel like a bad host. Alfie, tell Danny I’m not a bad host!”

“Well, Master Jason, you have left our guests standing on the porch for several minutes now,” the balding, mustachioed man standing primly in the doorway said.

Danny guessed he had to be ‘Alfie’.

Jason threw his head back with a dramatic ‘ugh’ stomped inside, and then held the door open with a little bow. “Madam Diana. Ma— Mis— What’s the proper title for a they, Alfred?”

Alfred blinked, once. “I suppose that depends on your friends preference. Would you prefer Master, Miss, or Mx?”

Danny’s nose scrunched up as they thought.

[stringlessau]

IT'S STRINGLESS' 1 YEAR ANNIVERSARY (+ early concept art compilation)

Posting this dumbass little video to start off the day since we have a lot of little gifts for our awesome community today.

One of those things is something i've been wanting to do for a very long while: posting a lot of the original concept art for stringless (since ive always enjoyed seeing other people's early concepts) some of these i have posted massively before, some are completely unseen, so it'll be fun

This one is the page that started it all, his design is at the same time largely unchanged and also completely different

All i have to say is that it originally said (regarding spamton and swatch) "they bicker like an old married couple" but then i thought about it and i changed it so theyre literally just married

Didnt mean to make swatchton, made it anyway lmfao

Right after that, i got working on neo designs, I wanted to make him really scary looking, the original concept was to make him look skeletal and generally for him to look insane and like he had been reanimated from the dead, but a lot of people had told me over time that they didn't really like the design, I was very defensive over it but I ended up taking criticism and i actually really like the new neo, it balances the uncanniness of the original design with the sleekness of my new art

Payton was a natural next step, without someone to sell the thorn ring there'd be no neo, so although his design visually stayed almost the same, he went through a lot of color revisions (thanks mostly to @maskedalterego, who helped me to nail his final color palette), he suggested the gloves, and helped me to balance the saturation of the design since really I've never had a good eye for color.

His final design, color wise, was just me experimenting using the colors of my sona at the time on him, which I was hesitant to do but was so happy with the palette that I kept it.

It's interesting that he was originally intended to be the pink addison (since he sells one of the snowgrave required rings), and the reason he ended up being the blue addison was corey beepington (and the eviction notice short which I have taken one too many concepts from), this still influenced me to make his outfit pink initially, which still is a huge part of his character design

That exact same night, I created concept art for Raster (weirdly, I was sure I created them before Payton, but it might be because I was generally uninterested in Payton earlier on), their design is also largely unchanged, I just got better with shapes and color, I also ended up changing their cheek markings after seeing some swatchton fanchild art by ne0nbandit

A first until now, the first concepts for payton neo were made on paper

I took very long on this design, and I only updated it every few weeks to make tweaks because I felt the concept was too good but my execution didnt make it justice

I'm very proud of how the design looks now, as of the latest neo redesigns, I feel I could finally make this idea justice

Swatch's design went through some last minute changes, I wanted to use this color palette for swatch to contrast with spamton, but decided against it, then i changed their hair to be longer, to make their Stringless design distinct from their regular Deltarune design

Historically, these two are pretty important, the first pieces of art I ever made featuring Rakhin's old design, when he wasn't part of stringless and I was just befriending rope (he made me Payton fanart first, fell in love with his style), the contrast is beautiful

Now to finish this post, here's some unseen Snowgrave route art I made over the time Stringless has been in development, they're all pretty quick sketches, but i love them nonetheless

Thanks everyone for the insane reception this AU has gotten, I haven't been feeling very good this whole year for a huge amount of reasons I can't get into, but Stringless and its community always helps me to remember why I do the things I do

Thanks for everyone's comments and everyone's kindness, thanks especially to @theropeaaa , for being the literal other half of this AU, without whom I couldn't have ever done the Stringless pages, @maskedalterego for helping me and listening to my ramblings since the start, @scamp-boxx for being this AU's biggest hype man (the first ever comment on the first spamton concept art was by them, and they helped me nail so much of the snowgrave route), @boykisserwoah and @weirdohno , for also being here from the start and making an absolutely insane amount of fanart oh my god, @gutamajunk , for motivating me to create Raster, and writing several story outlines on the first days of stringless that were the foundation for the pages, and diaryous milch and rory, our friends that have helped with character designs, story ideas, voice acting and have generally been instrumental to what stringless is today

THANKS EVERYONE <3

-Nick

[leviathanleva]

Sugar Bomb

Pairing: Findlay 'Hazard' Docherty x Fem!Reader

Description: Hazard takes it upon himself to secure dinner for everyone one evening. Out of the kindness of your heart, you volunteer to help out only to find out he's gotten you a treat along the way.

[2.1 k words]

Chapter 6

It was a night like any other, calm, and relaxing, everyone was sprawled around the living room, doing their own thing while waiting for Hazzard to come home with take-out. Your stomach growls in anticipation, but you ignore it with ease and return to the mini-game on your pad, poking away at it until dinner arrives. Legs crossed, one foot dangling in the air, bobbing up and down casually; you’re sprawled on the couch like it’s nobody’s business, this was the life.

Phonk is playing from the speakers, turned low so Susie could focus on some last minute document forging. The smell of charred metal is in the air while Touch-Up twiddles with a small addition to Hazard’s gun. There’s a storm raging outside, freezing cold rain which makes you worry for the well-being of your favorite Scotsman. Deaf thunder comes through the music every now and again, makes you shift further into the sofa.

In truth, you could have whipped up something for the phreaks, but everyone had agreed, much to your displeasure, that you slave over them too much and need a break. Hence why Findlay was currently out scouting for your next meal while you sat back and molded into the cushions with a half-empty can of soda on the coffee table.

The gate screeches open and you instantly perk up.

BoomSlang is about to stand from her armchair and leave to help with the groceries when you motion for her to stay put.

“I’ll help him, you just chill.”

“Thanks, babe.” She smiles at you sweetly and returns to tweaking one of her countless weapons as you make your way to the hallway.

It’s a cold day and you tug your cardigan tighter around yourself to fend off the chill trying to nip at your skin. Your slippers drag across the floor as you make your way to the front door. The light at the entrance flicks on and you can’t help the upward tug on your lips as you make your way over.

“Fin?”

“Aye, daftie.” You hear him before you see him, along with the rustling of plastic bags and paper boxes brimming with grub. “The hunt went well.”

“I’ve no doubt.” You giggle and round the corner, then stop to take him in in all his glory.

He’s wiping the soles of his cybernetic boots on the mat, caking it with mud, and shaking droplets of rain off his leather jacket before hanging it up. His hair is a wet mess and the front of his tee is soaked because he refuses to zip up that damn jacket no matter the weather outside.

He looks chilled to the bone, you make a mental note to turn up the heater once you make it to kitchen and have him sit to warm up before dinner.

“What’s that for?” You point to the pink cupcake secured in one of his hands, it seems to be taking all his self-restraint just to not accidentally smush it.

It’s a pretty little treat, chocolate base wrapped in a frilly red cupcake mold, topped with baby pink frosting and edible glitter. Maybe it was your prolonged hunger that was drawing you to it, but it was as much of an eye candy as it would be satisfactory at the bottom of your belly, you were sure.

Was it someone’s birthday again?

“Is for you, luv.” Findlay states proudly, grins down at you and offers you the pastry that looks minuscule pinched between his fingers. “Li’le birdies like pre’y pink treats,…right?”

You couldn’t smile any wider as you took it from him and offered countless words of gratitude. You were ready to tear up at the gesture, but you’ve cried enough in the past few months so you decide to keep your tears for another occasion.

“Yes, we do.”

You’re staring at the damn thing like it’s the most precious treasure in the world and it warms him to see you so pleased, aside from your expression feeding his gentlemanly pride.

“Glad you like it.” He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, chuckling at the childish glint in your eyes before picking up the take-out bags from the floor.

“We can share it.” You say sweetly and raise a finger to his mouth before he has a chance to protest. “I insist, you little twit.”

You usher him down the hall and scurry to turn on the kitchen heater on full blast. The room has been uninhabited since early morning when you made coffee, so it’s only fair it’s freezing cold and the windows have frosted over. You leave the cupcake on the kitchen counter and holler at the rest of the gang that dinner will be ready in ten before fetching a towel for Hazard’s hair from a cabinet in the corridor.

“Here, handsome.” You toss the cloth over his neck and give his large upper back a pat before returning to your precious edible treasure. “Dry off before you catch a cold.”

The bread knife goes through it like butter and you’re already watering at the mouth by the feeling, not even being able to imagine how heavenly it would taste.

You turn back once the cupcake is split and see the Scotsman still has the bags in his hands, not knowing where you want them put.  You’d half expect him to just set them anywhere and tend to drying himself off, but he was standing in the middle of the kitchen like a lost pup.

“You want your half now?” You ask and rest one hand on the table next to the treat before licking the leftover frosting from the bread knife. You’d thought he’d jump at the opportunity and practically thrust the take-out in your hands before wolfing down his share, but no, he still just stood there.

He was up to something…

If you hadn’t blinked you could have almost caught the little lightbulb coming to life above his head. He nods then, determined to execute his makeshift plan you were blissfully unaware of.

“Ye.”

You motion for him to take his half, but he doesn’t budge, instead he smirks and raises his occupied hands slightly.

“Hands are full, bonnie.”

“So what?...You want me to feed it to you?” It was supposed to be a joke and you do giggle as you say it, but the unchangeable expression on his face makes the grin die on your lips. “You’re kidding…”

When he doesn’t respond or laugh off the mock offer, you scoff. Your hands come to rest on your hips and you shift your weight from one leg to the other.

“You’re a big baby, you know that?” Despite the scolding tone you’re already picking up the bigger half of the cupcake, intending to walk up to him and do as he’s asked, but when you turn around he’s already standing right behind you.

Eager much…

You want to wipe the frosting all over the smug smirk plastered on his mouth, then lick it off, yet your features shift to soft adoration and you reach up, standing on your toes. You cup his cheek gently and bring the treat to his lips. If he truly wanted to be babied, you were fine with providing, even if he thought he was a big shot for lying to you about being unable to eat his share by himself.

He has to remind himself that his hands are very much occupied and he can’t just slide the bag handles on his wrists and encase your waist in his hands.

Right, very busy hands, no way of doing anything with them at the moment…

Right…

He opens his mouth and takes the treat, scarfing it down with ease, leans in when you try to step away and go wash your hands. His tongue comes in contact with the tips of your fingers, and he licks the frosting off, being thorough in his mission. His eyes never leave yours as he does so, laps at you like a dog, seeming to find more satisfaction from your flesh than the edible glitter clinging to your digits. The sharp ends of his canines graze your nails, his lips press into your skin – warm, soft, tantalizing.

You swallow back a whimper, can’t move an inch, you’re rooted to the spot, squished between him and the table. Rain drops trickle from his hair down his forehead, his whiskey orbs are burning holes into your very soul.

The heat from his tongue gliding over your fingers has your entire body overwhelmed with goose flesh and you shudder before mumbling out weakly.

“Findlay…”

“Aye?”

You swallow a lump of excitement and anxiety caught in your throat, then speak softly, making sure your voice doesn’t travel outside of the kitchen.

“Why do you torture me so…?”

He chuckles at that and succumbs to the urge to lay one hand on your hip after sloppily slapping the bags of food on the dining table behind you. He squishes the supple flesh there, and makes you squeal in the process.

“Payback for yer perfume, hen.” He hums, a deep, husky rumble that reverberates in your core. He leans closer, finally letting your hand free only to lower his face to yours. You can feel the cool steel of his nose piercing gently grazing your cheek. “Mah sweet wee hen…”

His lips are so close to yours that you feel his huffs collide with your breaths, can smell the sweetness of the cupcake on his tattooed tongue. You could lean in right now, just an inch closer and your mouths would be sealed together, no telling what would happen next.

How wonderfully painful all this was…

“Is dinner ready yet? Susie said she’s sick of my whining.”

You lurch back at JackDaw’s voice. And just like that, the spell is broken, the room comes back into focus. The door to the kitchen has been open this whole time, someone could have walked in on you two. You wanted to bury yourself alive at the implication.

“Ah, almost lovies!” You call back hastily and slip between Findlay’s fingers, take the leftover bags from his other hand, and set everything on the counter to plate. “Tell the others two more minutes!”

But your torturer isn’t done yet. He comes behind you as you shakily prepare everyone’s meals, presses a hand against your tummy, pulls you back into him, and rests his chin briefly against your shoulder, the tip of his nose drawing against the skin of your neck.

“Fill mah plate good, aye, hen? I’m starvin’.”

You nearly collapse on the spot with how flustered you are, have to resort to gripping onto the edge of the counter to keep steady as Hazard slowly pulls away. You listen for him, hear a chair screech and glance back to see him sitting in his usual spot while toweling his hair casually.

He’d be the death of you. The fucking death of you. You were sure of it.

But what was stopping you from indulging?

The fact that you refused to be a part of a fling, that’s what. You didn’t want casual, you didn’t want just sex, you wanted him for as long as you drew breath, even if that sounded a bit overdramatic in your head. You wanted to be in it for life, just as he’d told you when you’d first met, if you’re in it with him, you’re in it for life. But whether that sentiment extended to his romantic life was a mystery to you.

And it wasn’t a question to just throw out there when nothing was going on between you two besides the occasional pushing of buttons. Or maybe something was going on and you were blind to it, it was never certain when Hazard was involved.

You didn’t know why he hadn’t just asked you out, why he constantly teased you and treated you so lovingly yet refused to take the next step and kiss you. What was stopping him? Was he worried your friends would disapprove? You doubted anyone would object. But then what was the issue…

You watch him as you portion the food – lazy, unbothered, confident, the man you love so deeply yet can’t find the strength to risk it all and just confess.

You were a wuss, a fucking coward. You wish things were different.

He notices you staring at him over your shoulders, grins that famous grin of his, and gives you a wink as he leans back in his chair. You’re ready to die when he pats his thick thigh, silently offering you a new seat on the table for the night. You avert your gaze and focus on the food in your hands.

For sure he’d be the death of you.

<<< Chapter 5

Chapter 7 >>>

Masterlist

[just-tryina-live]

ok, I said I was over it, I lied. when the marvel execs said this movie would be ‘just like winter soldier!’ They were definitely not lying. I’ve seen people talk about how bad this movie is and even people saying it wasn’t so bad. How good or not good it was is besides the point!!!!!! They literally copy pasted the plot of CATWS, tweaked a few things, and added some BLM so that when inevitably, people said they hated it, they can cry racism! Like sorry, we’re not racists, we love Anthony Mackey and Carl Lumbly! Your movie was just BAD and they did what they could with the script. Don’t get me wrong, most actors involved did GREAT in their roles, and I almost died when I saw Bucky randomly showing up, but the plot didn’t make much sense because it was just CATWS in a different flavor! Another thing, because I got started and now I can’t stop, why would most of the marketing be that Red Hulk would be in the movie and then only show him for about ten minutes in the last half hour? And don’t get me started on how Sam ‘talked him down’!!! It literally took Bruce YEARS to get the Hulk under control, and he didn’t even have crazy anger issues!!! All we saw about Ross was that he was impulsive and angry and HE was able to get Red Hulk under control in like two seconds??? Make it make sense! Like I get that Bruce and Hulk are different people and Red Hulk and Ross are not, but it still doesn’t make sense that he was given this new super power and immediately learned how to control it. Part of the MCU problem these days is that the writers don’t realizes that if they want to continue the MCU, they need to leave problems to solve. Winter Soldier didn’t end with Bucky realizing who he was, it ended with him walking off into the distance, having saved Steve, on his way to becoming who he was. But Brave New World left nothing to the imagination. The Leader (I’m still upset they didn’t give him the huge head he has in the comics) is arrested, Ross is locked up (I did like that, poetic justice), and Sam goes off with the promise of recreating the avengers. That feels like the ending to a first novel or first movie in a series, like the author isn’t sure if they’ll be green lit for another one, so they need to wrap up all the loose ends, with just a hint of something to come, just in case. The end credits scene wasn’t even fun! We didn’t get to see any cameos, like Bruce at the end of Iron Man 3, or continue the story, like in Spider-Man Far From Home! All we got was the Leader telling us what we already know! That the doomsday is coming. Boring! I would’ve wanted to see Sam hanging out with Bucky or Sara chewing his ear off for not coming over all the time. Something fun like that. And if not fun, then it should be something to advance the plot! Maybe like the end credits scene where Thanos says ‘fine I’ll do it myself’ etc.

anyway in conclusion, this movie left much to be desired and was clearly a pale imitation of the artistry that was CATWS. And the MCU had got to step up their game and stop playing politics. (If you’re going to have an Israeli character in your movie, either make her actually Israeli and don’t erase her ethnicity and Jewishness, or don’t have her at all)

Kevin has got to figure this stuff out or the theaters are going to be empty by the time Doomsday comes out.