#i like my characters soft and kind and sweet

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 17

˗��ˋ reconnecting ˎˊ˗

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

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⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 9,6k

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

✧ author's note ✧

WASSSSSUPPPP my peoplessss!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

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

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

And then: Friday. 

Glorious, beautiful Friday.

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

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

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

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

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

Jungkook. 

Just thinking his name makes your jaw clench. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No I didn’t.”

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

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

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

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

Nothing feels right. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John Mayer.

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

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

You don’t recognize it at all.

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

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

The old man squints. "Fifteen."

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

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

Perfect.

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

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

Transaction complete. Gift acquired. Problem solved.

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

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

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

That's absolutely all.

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

"Just decoration. For the vinyl wall.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You slow your steps, scanning the options.

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

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

Your stomach rumbles.

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

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

You blink. “Okay, what?”

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

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

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

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

“She’s ridiculous,” you mutter.

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

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

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

“So, Emma’s birthday tonight?”

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

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

You hesitate. 

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

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

“You don’t have to be.”

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

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

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

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

“And now?”

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

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

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

Irya watches you, quiet for a second. Then—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You say that like you’re sure.”

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

“Real time?”

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

“Okay, but that is a valid crisis.”

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

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

And then—

“I got us free dumplings.”

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

You blink. “How?”

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

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jimin,” Irya supplies.

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

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

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

You take a sip of your drink. “Mmhm.”

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

You nearly choke. “Oh my god.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snort, shaking your head.

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

“Are you excited?”

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

You pause, setting down your cup. 

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

Yeji nods. “You gonna introduce us?”

You blink. “Uh. Yeah?”

Irya arches her eyebrows. “Yeah?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You roll your eyes. “Jesus.”

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

“Wow, lucky me.”

Irya grins. “So lucky.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

That quiets them for a beat.

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

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

You nod, not entirely trusting yourself to speak.

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

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

She winks. “I know.”

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

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

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

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

Third time's the charm, right? 

Or maybe fifth. 

You've lost count.

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

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

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

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

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

That's karma, feline edition.

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

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

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

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

Before this apartment. 

Before Jungkook. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Liar."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where did you learn to—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone has their secrets.

Private pieces they're not ready to share. 

You, of all people, know that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Priorities," you agree with a smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ready," you confirm.

You're halfway out the door when you pause. 

Something's missing. The final touch.

"Oh, wait. Cologne."

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

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

Ember.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you didn't even know his name then.

The door swings open without warning.

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

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

A long pause.

Your eyes drift down his torso, inevitably.

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

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

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

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

And maybe he is. 

And maybe you aren’t.

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

He avoids your gaze.

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

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

Neither of you moves.

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

Then, he masks it. 

But you caught it. 

He remembers the fragrance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Excuse me," you murmur.

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

Like he’s hesitating. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he doesn’t. 

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

The movement feels like it costs him something.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We are always doing that,” you deadpan.

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

The answer? You don’t know.

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

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

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

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

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

Emma does not confirm or deny, which says enough.

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

It’s strange.

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

But now—now you’re an observer. 

A guest.

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

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

You blink, thrown. “About what?”

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

Your stomach knots.

Jungkook. She means Jungkook.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s disgusting.”

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

“You wish.”

“Oh, I know.”

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

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

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

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

You raise an eyebrow. “Europe?”

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

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

And yet—she looks alive talking about this.

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

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

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

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

You hum, thoughtful. “So, Europe.”

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

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

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

People change.

You’ve changed.

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

Emma eyes you for a long moment, then smirks. 

“Your turn.”

You blink. “What?”

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

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

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

“I hate you.”

She grins. “I missed you too.”

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

This is nice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’s pretty.

Really pretty.

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

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

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

You clear your throat. “Hey.”

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

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

You blink. “Emma told you that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You weren’t expecting that answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And maybe that means nothing.

Or maybe it does.

You’re not sure.

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

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

You have no fucking idea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But also—

You kind of are.

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

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

And honestly?

You kind of like not knowing.

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

You exhale. “Jesus, Yeji.”

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

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

“You were being too friendly.”

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

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

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

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

Yeji tilts her head. “That a problem?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod, barely perceptible.

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

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

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

She hums. “They make you lighter.”

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

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

She’s already grinning like she knows the answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bad vibes," you repeat flatly.

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

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

"Explain."

"What?"

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

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

"Jungkook."

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

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

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

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

"Fake how?"

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

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

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

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

Like it’s personal.

“You're saying he's controlling."

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

You're quiet for a moment, processing. 

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

His eyes flick to yours, then away. 

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

"But it is about someone."

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

"Mia?" you ask softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And you think that's Jason?"

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

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

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

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

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

He nods, looking away. "I know."

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

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

"Yeah?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sounds thrilling."

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

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

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

He snorts. "Sounds about right."

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

"I bet it is," he agrees quietly.

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

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

The question catches him off guard. "What?"

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

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

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

"Right."

"What?" he demands.

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

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

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

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

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

"Phoenix?"

You turn back. "Yeah?"

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

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

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

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

Your pulse stutters. "Excuse me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It doesn’t.

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

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

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

But says it anyways. 

“I jerked off after you left.”

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

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

"What image?"

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

Your legs threaten mutiny.

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

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

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

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

“I want to eat something else.”

“What if I don’t want you to?”

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

“You don’t?”

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

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

All thoughts of resistance evaporate faster than they came.

"I do," you hear yourself reply. 

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

You realize two things simultaneously:

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

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

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[wheresarizona]

Spring Breaks Loose

summary: It's a beautiful Spring day, and you're spending it with Javier and your two pet calves, Daphne and Velma. To keep your husband on his toes, you ask him some very random questions.

pairing: Javier Peña/f!reader

rating: T (No y/n, Husband Javier Peña, Soft Javier Peña, mild language, oral sex mention (f + m receiving), domestic fluff, slice of life, pregnancy, waxing poetic about cheese, romantic comedy, Javier referring to you, Daphne, and Velma as ‘his girls’)

word count: 1.5k

a/n: Hello there! To celebrate Learning to Live's third birthday (insane), I wrote something that has art! Thank you to all of those still reading this labor of my love. It means a lot to me that you've stuck with me this long. This story will always have a special place in my heart, and I'm so happy to share it with others. ❤️❤️❤️ Thank you!

Art by the incredible @kenobiwanx! (Thank you, it's perfect!)

(Note: Cielito is a reader-insert character and written without physical attributes, so you can picture her however you want. Cielito is you! I just needed a reference for the artwork, so I chose a model that kind of looked like me. 😊)

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

The warmth of spring is a welcome change from the chill of winter. The shining sun will begin its descent soon, and you’ll watch it from the base of this towering oak tree, beneath its curving branches and green leaves. You sit with your husband while the two calves you call your bovine daughters graze nearby.

His large palm is a comfort, resting on your belly, your hand over his.

“Okay,” you start. With how you’re lying back across Javier’s lap to prop yourself up on his bent knee, it’s easy to gaze at his beautiful, smiling face. “Would you rather fight one horse-sized duck or one hundred duck-sized horses?”

For the last twenty minutes, you’ve been asking him random questions. If you could be any Skittle, what color would you be? Red. Do you put on your socks left or right foot first? Right. Do you like piña coladas and getting caught in the rain? Yes, as long as it’s with you.

“A horse-sized duck or a hundred duck-sized horses…” he replies. “Hmmm.” His expression shows he’s really thinking it out, which delights you. “A horse-sized duck could do some real damage. I think I’d choose the duck-sized horses. It’d be a bitch fighting a hundred, but definitely better than a giant fucking duck.”

“Solid answer.”

“What would you choose?”

“Oh, absolutely, the duck-sized horses. You’re right about the horse-sized duck doing damage. That’s a no, thank you from me.”

He chuckles. “You got another question?”

“Ummm.” You take a second to think of one. “Oh! If you had to choose, would you give up cheese or blow jobs for the rest of your life?”

He frowns. “Can I still eat you out?”

You giggle. “Yes. You can give oral, but you can’t receive it.”

“Fuck, this is a hard one.”

You smile. “I know.”

“You give really fucking good head.” That makes you preen. “But, a lot of the shit you cook has cheese in it, and you know how much I love your food.”

The only person whose cooking he loved more than yours was his late mother’s. But, from what you’ve heard, eating her food was a religious experience, so you understand.

“You love it a lot.”

He smiles. “I do. I can’t believe I’m saying this. I’d give up blow jobs.”

“Wow, that’s a little surprising. Also, very sweet that you’d choose my cooking over getting your dick sucked.”

His free hand caresses your face, his thumb stroking over the apple of your cheek. “I can live without blow jobs, but I can’t live without your food—”

“Awe.”

“—or eating your pussy.”

“Oh my god,” you giggle. “You’re ridiculous.”

He chuckles and quickly pecks your lips. “What about you?” He asks when he pulls back. “Cheese or my mouth?”

Your eyes widen. “Oh.”

“It’s hard to choose, right?”

“Yeah, it is. ‘Cause you are fucking amazing at eating pussy. Like, you deserve the highest honor for being the ‘World’s Greatest Cunnilinguist.’” That makes him laugh, his smile so big his dimple appears. “It’s true. I’m not even joking. Then we have cheese—glorious, delicious cheese. A gift to humankind. The eighth wonder of the culinary world.”

He’s amused. “I think I know, but which would you give up?”

“My god. I’m sorry, babe, but I think it has to be oral. I can’t imagine living without cheese. It’s cheese, for goodness’ sake!”

“I’m not surprised by your choice. You fucking love cheese.”

“Um, who doesn’t love cheese? Like, cheese is so good that many lactose-intolerant people are willing to suffer for the tasty goodness, and I don’t blame them. Also, you love cheese. Don’t deny it!”

He’s looking at you with soft eyes and a soft smile, the fondness clear on his handsome face. “I do love cheese.”

“Thank you. Now, it’s your turn to ask a question—look, the girls are curious about what their dad is gonna ask.”

The calves approach you both and lie down—the red one, Daphne, choosing a spot in the grass beside you to rest her head in your lap while her sister, Velma, gets comfortable on the ground by Javi’s feet.

It makes you smile, your hand moving to stroke your fingers over the red calf’s head.

“Can’t let my girls down,” he replies. “Let me think.” His eyes move away from yours for only a moment as he thinks about it. He meets your gaze again. “If you had three wishes, what would you wish for?”

“A classic. I’m assuming no wishing for more wishes?” you ask.

“Correct.”

“Okay. Universal healthcare, perfect tits, and for our family to be happy and healthy.”

He huffs in amusement. “You already have perfect tits.”

“Right now, they’re pretty great, but I’m thinking post-however many babies we’re gonna have, and, you know, aging.”

“They’ll still be perfect.”

You smile, playfully swatting at his chest. “Stop it, or I’ll beg you to get me pregnant.”

His lips turn up, his expression matching yours. “You’re already pregnant.” For emphasis, he rubs his palm over your dress-covered tummy where you aren’t even showing yet.

“Fine, double pregnant, which—“ You frown. “—when I actually think about that, it sounds awful for a first pregnancy. I have bad enough heartburn with one baby growing inside me, and don’t get me started on the morning sickness. Why do they even call it that? It’s misleading. This shit is all day. How worse would all of this be with two buns in my Easy-Bake oven?”

He leans forward to kiss your forehead. “Thankfully, this time around, you don’t have to find out.” He sits back to look into your eyes, his eyebrows creasing in concern. “Are you nauseous right now? Do we need to head back to Pop’s?”

Instead of coming out here on horseback, Javi brought you in his truck with the girls in a trailer behind it. He drove slowly, so the bumps weren’t too bad.

Your free hand went over his on your stomach again, giving him a reassuring squeeze. “No, I’m okay. It’s not too bad right now.”

“If it gets worse, tell me, and we can go.”

“I will. Thank you, babe. So, what are your three wishes?”

“A chance to talk to my mom again.” That didn’t surprise you. She passed away eight years ago, and he missed her dearly. “I’d love to tell her how happy I am, and all about you and her first nieto (grandchild) on the way.” He rubs small circles on your belly.

“She’d be so excited about her nieto (grandchild).” It is still too early to know the baby’s gender. “Not only that, I think she’d be more excited than Pop, and that’s saying something since he literally shows the sonogram to every single person he talks to.”

It’s true. He keeps it in his wallet, and any time he goes into town, he shows it to whoever he sees.

An amused huff leaves him. “You’re right. She’d be way worse than Pop.”

“We’d love it, though.”

“Yes, we would.”

“What‘s your second wish?”

“To have a baby with you,” he answers immediately.

You smile. “How does it feel to know that wish is going to come true?”

His face visibly lights up with a toothy grin that makes you giggle. “Fucking amazing. I am the happiest man on the entire planet, and it’s all thanks to you.” He pecks the tip of your nose.

“I wouldn’t say it’s all me. I mean, you had a part in making the baby. It was a small one that only lasted like, ten seconds, but it was still pretty important.”

“Sure, but I believe you once said that I only contribute a pleasurable 1% to our group project that you are doing 99% of the work on. By those numbers, I think you deserve all of the credit. So, it is all thanks to you, mi amor (my love).”

“If you insist.”

“I do. I honestly can’t believe how fucking lucky I am. I’m married, we have a kid on the way, we’re gonna have a house, and a dog. Christ, two years ago? I never would’ve imagined this was what my future looked like. Someone could’ve told me, and I wouldn’t have believed them.”

“You’ve come a long way, and I’m just glad you’re finally getting to live a happy life.”

“I am, too.” It’s hardly any effort for him to lean forward, closing the distance to press his plush lips to yours in a tender kiss—warmth spreads through your veins, and your eyes close, relishing this sweet moment. When he breaks away, he gently nudges your nose with his, and your eyelids flutter open, the expression on his face showing his love and happiness.

“You’re adorable,” you tell him. “What’s your third wish?”

He’s smiling. “For our family to be happy and healthy.”

You share his look. “You, sir, are a sap.”

“You said it first.”

“I did.”

“What’s the next question?”

“Why do I have to come up with all of them?”

“Because you’re better at it than I am.”

“That is so true. Give me a second.”

“Okay.”

You sit there against his leg, one hand over his, the other petting Daphne as you think.

“This next one might be a bit controversial,” you say.

“Okay?”

“Is a hot dog in a bun a sandwich?”

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Thank you for reading! If you’d like to be tagged in my fics, please fill out the form in my bio, on my masterlist, or just let me know! 

[thdalsk]

My MC for @childrenofcain-if! Under the cut is just me yapping a lot more than I intended 💔

Mina Rosaria Young

- Charming, sweet, and gentle, Mina is someone who always sees the best in others and makes a genuine effort to befriend everyone she meets. Her empathy and easy smile have a way of quickly disarming people— but for all her geniality, it’s not so easy to get her to talk about herself. Maybe she has some walls, maybe she’s afraid of being a burden. Still, her soft spoken demeanor doesn’t mean she’s any less of a go getter, and she’ll ace every challenge sent her way. Where ballet taught her self expression and poise, debate and public speaking taught her the art of persuasion. She loves dressing up and will never go out in an outfit she doesn’t feel cute in. Don’t let her elegant appearance fool you, though; the grace she walks with is often punctuated by the tables, chairs, and other miscellaneous items she runs into while her mind is elsewhere. Romantic and idealistic, she may be somewhat naïve in her belief in inherent goodness. When someone who cares deeply about everything is faced with a hurt too cruel, do they end up caring about nothing at all? -

Relationships:

C LACROIX: Just wants to be friends. Pretty please.

V NÆSHOLM: Fast friends!! Was totally chill (maybe a little too Chill™) with their first meeting. She thinks they’re super lovely and fun to be with.

W OSTENDORF: Why does babes look so famil— OHHH (she missed them lots and is very happy to see them again)

M WHITLOCK-SINGH: Immediately charmed. Was kind of starstruck upon first meeting and might have a small crush on them in a mostly admiring kind of way (for now). She finds them very easy to talk to and enjoys their frequent philosophical discussions! Greatly appreciates their support and kindness in a new environment.

D DIACONU: Thinks she should stay away from them. Not because she dislikes them— in fact, she finds them very nice and honestly quite funny. But they make unfamiliar butterflies appear in her stomach and cause a strange tickle in her chest. And she knows they’re no good for her, that falling for them would only end in heartbreak (though maybe it’s already too late)

I was debating whether or not to put the RO notes bc I feel like I don’t have a good enough grasp on their characters to be writing anything from their POVs 💔 But it looked nice so… aesthetic purposes won me over;; 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ I’m so sorry if they’re out of character 😭

[annovaz]

"CAUGHT IN YOUR GRAVITY"

pairing: sunghoon x Jake's cousin/Gym crush!reader

word count: 1,4k (for the time it took to write this you would think i wrote at least a 100)

genre: smut, fluff, angst, neighbors-to-lovers, best friend's cousin, little bit of everything lowkey

Summary: Sunghoon has a little gym crush on the girl who always catches his eye—only to find out she’s Jake’s cousin. When summer heat and lingering gazes turn into something more, things get complicated…

Warnings: language, sexual tension, jealousy, heated arguments, smut, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, soft confession, slight angst, possessive!Sunghoon, jealous!Sunghoon, (dw hes sweet tho) confident!reader, sunbathing and ogling, frat party setting, Heeseung being a player, minor alcohol consumption, all characters are of age.

a/n : guys its my first time writing and i feel like this is kind of bad so if it is pls tell me so i can delete it lol, i dont think writing is my thing. anyways i rlly hope u guys enjoy it tho bc i worked hard on this,

love u all (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

Sunghoon didn’t do crushes, or relationships for that matter.

Or at least, that’s what he told himself every damn day.

He was disciplined, focused on his studies ( you'd be surprised to see his friend group), and spent two hours in the gym every evening. He never skipped leg day and never let distractions ruin his arrangement—until she walked in.

Tight gym shorts. Fitted top. Confidence dripped in every step she took.

And the worst part? She didn’t even glance his way.

Sunghoon wasn’t the only one who noticed her either. The entire gym seemed to pause whenever she walked by, men sneaking glances, some too obvious for his liking. She was the kind of girl everyone wanted to look at, but no one dared to approach. Too untouchable. Too out of reach.

But that didn’t stop Sunghoon from looking.

It started with curiosity—the way she moved with ease like she belonged there. Like she actually knew what she was doing. He saw the way she pushed herself, the sweat dripping down her back, the way she bit her lip when she concentrated. And then it became an obsession.

He adjusted his own routine to match hers, subtly timing his sets to steal glimpses in between. Sometimes she caught him. Smirked. Kept going, unbothered.

Fucking hell.

So imagine his shock when he walks into Jake’s house with his parents on his side for the family dinner and finds her sitting at the table, smiling like she owned the place.

“Sunghoon, meet my little cousin, Y/N,” Jake announces proudly. “She just moved back from Cuba, so treat her well.”

Sunghoon nearly chokes on his drink.

Jake’s cousin?

The girl he’d been lowkey (highkey) ogling for weeks?

No fucking way.

She turns to him, lips curled into an amused smirk, and says, “You’re staring.”

Jake laughs, slapping Sunghoon’s back. “Dude, what’s up with you?”

Sunghoon clears his throat, forcing his eyes away. “Nothing. Just—uh. Nice to meet you.”

“Oh?” Her eyes glint with something unreadable. “You look familiar.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Her smirk widens. “Maybe from the gym?”

Shit. Busted.

Jake’s mom beams. “Oh, that’s wonderful! Sunghoon practically lives at the gym. Maybe he can show you around.”

Y/N tilts her head. “I think I’m doing just fine on my own.”

Fuck, she was cocky. Sunghoon felt something tighten in his chest.

Dinner is a blur. Family chatter, laughter, and praise are thrown at the kids. Jake’s parents gushing about how he and Sunghoon grew up to be such handsome young men. Meanwhile, Sunghoon’s focus is elsewhere—on Y/N, her amused glances, the way she sips her wine with a smirk, completely aware of the effect she has on him.

She’s a natural at charming the family, effortlessly slipping into conversations, making even the older relatives laugh. He can’t help but admire the way she carries herself—so sure, so unbothered. So fucking beautiful.

And every now and then, their eyes meet across the table. Lingering. Silent.

Summer is hotter than usual.

Or maybe it’s just because Y/N lives right next door.

Sunghoon finds himself outside more often, mowing the lawn shirtless, lifting weights in the yard, knowing full well she’s sunbathing just a few feet away. Her tiny bikini leaves nothing to the imagination. He tries not to look, but he fails miserably.

What he doesn’t know is that she’s watching, too.

They exchange subtle glances, but never words. The tension simmers between them, neither acknowledging it nor acting on it. But it lingers—silent, electric, undeniable.

One evening, she catches him hunched over a car, shirtless. “You work too much,” she teases, leaning against the fence separating their yards.

Sunghoon wipes the sweat off his brow. “And you tan half-naked too much.”

She laughs. “Jealous?”

He smirks. “Just saying, you’ll burn one day.”

“Guess I’ll need someone to rub sunscreen on me.”

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t respond.

She tilts her head with a cheeky grin. “No volunteers?”

Fuck. She was dangerous.

Jake throws a frat party.

Sunghoon should’ve known it would be trouble.

The music is loud, the house is packed. He’s talking to Jay and Jungwon when he notices him. Heeseung. Leaning a little too close to Y/N, whispering something in her ear. She laughs.

Sunghoon sees red.

Storming over, he grabs her wrist, pulling her aside. “What the hell are you doing?”

Y/N yanks her arm free, narrowing her eyes. “Excuse me?”

“Heeseung? Seriously? You know what he’s like.”

She crosses her arms. “And why do you care?”

“Because I—” He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. “I just don’t want you getting hurt.”

“You’re not my boyfriend, Sunghoon.”

That stings more than it should. He clenches his jaw, staring at her. Then, in a split second, he’s kissing her. Hard. Desperate. Possessive.

She kisses him back just as fiercely. Hands roaming. Clothes shifting. He picks her up and sets her on the counter.

"fuck," he looks down at her figure on the counter, raking his eyes down her body. "you're perfect"

Y/N grabs his face and pulls him in roughly for a kiss. Sunghoon's hands travel down her body and rip her tight shirt off. Y/N lets out a small gasp, watching as he grabs at her chest, leaving marks all over her neck and torso. His kisses slowly move down her stomach to the waistband of her miniskirt. He looks up to ask her for permission, but Y/N's already grabbing at both her skirt and panties.

"Please, Sunghoon, I need you so badly," she said between little gasps. Sunghoon leaves soothing kisses on her inner thighs. "Shh baby, let me take care of you"

He finally faced her bare cunt, his breath hitting her core. "You smell so sweet," he said before placing a kiss on her pussy, causing Y/N to let out a moan.

"God, Park that feels so good." she moans, throwing her head back as his tongue focuses on flicking her clit. Her hands move down to Sunghoon's scalp, pulling on his hair, causing him to let out a little moan into her pussy.

"I can't get enough of your pussy, I could stay down here forever" He mumbles in her cunt while inserting two fingers in her hole.

The continuous kitten licks and the pumps in and out of her pussy drive Y/N over the edge. She feels the knot forming in her stomach tighten as she arches her back into Sunghoon's mouth, letting out a lewd moan and riding out her high.

"Sunghoon, I need you inside me, right now." Y/N orders as she pulls him up for a kiss, tasting herself on his tongue. " As you wish, my princess," He says unbuckling his belt.

When his cock finally springs free, Y/N finds herself admiring the length and girth, grabbing it and jerking slowly. Sunghoon groans but lets her set the pace. When she glances up at him, eyes full of mischief, he decides he's had enough and turns her over on her stomach.

"God you drive me crazy," He whispers in her ear, leaving small kisses below her ear. "Tell me how much you want my cock baby," he said while teasing her hole.

"So much, please Sunghoon, please fuck me now." she sobs out in desperation, pushing her hips back to get an ounce of friction. His grip tightens, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her breasts, his hips jerking forward roughly, both letting out wrecked moans in relief. His cock is sucked in her warm cunt as it kisses her cervix. She matches his rhythm and meets his hips, his cock going impossibly deep.

Sunghoons grip on her tightens like he's trying to ground himself through the pleasure, moaning her name like a mantra.

"Shit - fuck, I'm gonna-" Y/N's voice breaks as she nears that high again, body shuddering, moving her head to kiss Sunghoon. "c'mon baby, cum with me, let go." reaching a hand down to circle her clit, he keeps eye contact as they unravel together.

After, as they catch their breath, he presses his forehead against hers. “You’ve had my attention since the moment you stepped into that gym, I've been yours since then,” he murmurs. “Not just because of how beautiful you are. But because you’re kind. Fierce. Stubborn as hell.” He chuckles. “You drive me insane, Y/N.”

She smiles, fingers tracing his jaw. “So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying, will you be mine as I am yours?” he asks, gazing into her eyes with a hopeful look.

"of course, I will dumbass, I would've been yours from the start if only you had said the word." She smiles at him cheekily, fingers brushing through his hair.

"Now that I've got my answer" he lifts her up, smirking, “let’s bring this to the bedroom.”

She laughs, kissing him again. “Lead the way, Park.”

Thank you for reading ♡

[bittertincture]

Turn My Eyes | Chapter Four | Words are a Honeycomb | Priest!Joel

The Rating: Explicit (18+)

The Chapter Summary: A lighthearted exchange between you and Father Joel reveals a fleeting moment of connection, despite your guarded nature.

The Tags: I would like to withhold some tags for the sake of the story. But I will tell you that this story will deal with the following: Religion (which may be offensive to some readers), Religious Imagery, Religious Trauma, Violence, Explicit and Consenting Sexual Acts between Adults, Forbidden Relationship, Power Exchange, Mentions of Death, Angst. There is much more but those are the pertinent ones.

The MC:  The female character of “You” is able bodied with hair long enough to be grabbed. She is English speaking and while I wrote her from a white, former Catholic woman’s perspective, I hope the language I use is inclusive enough that many walks of life you can imagine themselves as her.

The Author’s Notes: It's been really lovely seeing all the hearts on here for my tale. It's been restrained so far but we have some dark and twisted lust on the horizon. Thank you so much for the wonderful response to this story! I’m truly grateful for your support and for taking the time to read along. If you enjoyed it, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments, and feel free to re-blog. Your feedback and shares mean the world to me.

The Credits: The Line Dividers are by @saradika-graphics The Story Image is made by myself. If you would like to use it please give proper credit.

Gracious words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones - Proverbs 16:24

The morning light filters through the lace curtains, casting delicate patterns against the walls of your childhood bedroom. The bed is soft; the scent of lavender lingering on the pillow from Nana’s careful hands that feels like homecoming, but the weight in your chest reminds you that you don’t belong anywhere right now.

You roll onto your side, staring at the ceiling, your mind circling back to yesterday’s potluck. To the way Father Joel carried himself; poised, unreadable. You don’t trust people like that. The ones who hold themselves too still, who keep their words measured like they’re afraid of what might slip if they let their guard down. You saw it in his hands, the faint scars on his knuckles, the way his fingers twitched ever so slightly when someone spoke to him. He’s hiding something.

They always are.

You exhale, rubbing your temples, trying to shake him from your thoughts. It doesn’t matter. You won’t see him again.

The sound of dishes clinking from the kitchen downstairs reminds you that Nana is awake. You force yourself up, stretching your aching limbs. The bruise inside you, metaphorical, but no less painful, throbs dully. Your ex’s voice still lingers in your mind, twisting the truth until you don’t even trust your own memories. You wonder if you’ll ever feel like yourself again.

Downstairs, Nana greets you with a warm smile and a plate of biscuits. “Morning, sweetheart. Did you sleep well?”

You lie, because she deserves that much. “Yeah.”

She doesn’t believe you, but she lets it go. Instead, she starts talking about yesterday, about how happy she was to see you at church, even if she must have known you didn’t want to be there. She talks about the way things were when you first came to live with her, when you were just a grief-stricken teenager trying to make sense of losing everything. You love her for the way she tiptoes around the hurt, for the way she lets it settle without poking at it.

Then she brings up Margaret.

You don’t need to hear much to know Margaret already dislikes you. You could see it in her pursed lips, the way she sized you up like she’d already decided who you were before you even spoke. The kind of woman who thrives on rules and unspoken expectations. The kind you’ve always seemed to disappoint.

“I never did take to Margaret,” Nana admits, in the closest thing to gossip you’ll ever hear from her. “But she means well.”

You hum noncommittally. You aren’t sure you believe that. “She doesn’t like me.”

“You don’t know that,” Nana insists, stirring her coffee with slow, deliberate motions.

Sure I do. Women like her are all the same.

“Has she read my books?”

Nana sighs, pressing her lips together. “She knows about them.”

And there’s your answer; Margaret, self-appointed morality police of St. Vincent’s Catholic Church, would sniff out any perceived scandal like a bloodhound. You let out a short, humorless laugh.

“I don’t write them anymore,” you say, more for Nana’s benefit than anything.

She nods, taking a sip of her coffee before setting the cup down with a soft clink. “I know. And I think that’s for the best.”

Your jaw tightens. You know she never approved, even when the royalties paid your bills better than your ex ever could.

“But you used to love writing. I know you did. You got that scholarship remember? For that short story?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe you just need to write something like that again, something more wholesome.”

You swallow hard, fingers curling into your palm beneath the table. How do you tell her that the ugly, the taboo, the twisted are what flow so easily from your fingers? That the darker corners of the mind are the only places where the words come naturally? How do you tell her that purity feels like a lie when the world is anything but?

“Maybe,” you lie instead. So many lies so early in the morning.

Nana watches you, eyes warm but knowing. “You won’t know unless you try.”

She says it with such conviction, such unwavering faith in you, that for a brief moment, you almost wish you could be the person she wants you to be. But you aren’t. And you don’t think you ever will be.

"So, what did you think of Father Joel?" she asks, her voice full of expectation. You hesitate, the memory of the potluck still fresh, the way he felt just a little too polished. But Nana is watching you, waiting, her smile unwavering. You force a polite nod, unwilling to dampen her enthusiasm, but deep down, your opinion hasn’t budged.

“Seems nice.”

“He’s done so much for St. Vincent’s,” Nana beams at you, her eyes alight with admiration as she stirs a generous spoonful of sugar into her tea. “Just wait until you hear him preach during Easter. Wowee.”

She expects you to join her in that church full of people with forced smiles. They make your skin itch. You can’t imagine sitting through another sermon, pretending it means something to you when it doesn’t. You tell her as much, bracing for the disappointment in her face.

She nods, taking it in stride. “I understand, sugar. I do.” There’s a pause, then, softer, “Would you consider helpin’ with some volunteer work instead?”

You could say no. You should say no. But Nana asks for so little, and right now, she’s the only solid thing in your life. You owe her more than you can ever repay.

Nana is quiet as she waits for your reply, her hands wrapped tightly around the caramel-coloured drink in its chipped floral mug. The same mug she’s had since you first lived with her after the car crash that claimed your parent’s life. The car taking them to Sunday Mass of all places while you lay in bed with a fever, unaware that only two miles from home they lay unseeing in a fiery wreckage.

How can you deny her anything?

“Alright,” you say, the word heavy on your tongue. “What do you need help with?”

Her face lights up, and despite yourself, you feel the smallest flicker of warmth.

“On Tuesday we make up baskets for the needy,” she says. “Could always use an extra set of hands.”

You take a breath, letting the weight of it settle over you. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

She pats your hand, small but steady. “I knew you would.”

And just like that, you are tethered to something again, whether you want to be or not.

Father Joel had noticed you the moment he stood behind the pulpit that Sunday morning. Not because you carried yourself with reverence, not because you bowed your head in quiet contemplation, but because you didn’t.

You sat stiff-backed in the pew beside your grandmother; arms crossed over your chest, mouth curled ever so slightly into what could only be described as a smirk. You weren’t here for God. You were here for her. That much was obvious.

When he spoke his homily he observed that his words crafted with care and meant to uplift did not reach you.  Forgiveness would not reach you that morning. He knew this not because of any grand revelation but because he heard you scoff. A small sound, barely there, but in the cavernous quiet of the church, it may as well have been a shout.

Fascinating, he had thought, if not a little frustrating.

At the potluck you confirmed his suspicion. You had no love for the Church, no reverence for the men who donned collars and spoke of sin and salvation. You met his gaze too directly and your sharp words laced with a dry amusement that should have irritated him.

And yet Joel was no stranger to disdain. He had seen anger, grief and bitterness. He had counselled the lost, the faithless, the doubting. But you weren’t searching for answers, you weren’t looking for peace. You had built a wall, brick by stubborn brick and you had no intention of letting anyone inside.

The way you spoke to him was churlish, dismissive, yet edged with something lively, something almost teasing. It lingered in his mind longer than he cared to admit. And though he knew he should have been perturbed, he found himself amused instead.

You had not returned to mass since. Had he driven you away? Or had you simply indulged your grandmother’s wishes for one morning, never intending to come back at all? The question needled at him until, after the following Sunday service, he found himself approaching your Nana.

She smiled when she saw him, small and knowing, as though she had been expecting this conversation. After the casual greetings and enthusiastic praise for his sermon was over, Joel felt he could broach the subject of you more casually.

“Was that your granddaughter I met with you at the potluck?”

“Yes sir. My one and only.”

"She hasn’t been back," he said, careful to keep his tone neutral. “I worry my sermon scared her off. Or perhaps she was just visiting.”

Your Nana looked disappointed, sighing softly as she adjusted the gloves on her delicate hands.

"She’s here to stay for a while, though I doubt she’s happy about it.”

“Oh?” 

“She’s been through a lot, Father. The divorce, for one. Cleaned her out. The way that no-good s-” she catches herself, her weathered cheeks pinking. “Well, I can’t say exactly what he is in polite company.”

Joel can’t help but grin. He’s heard it all.  “Sure you can.”

“No,” your Nana insisted with that brittle immovability. “I can’t.”

Joel remained silent, allowing her space to speak, though the mention of your divorce sent an unbidden twist through him. He wondered if it had hardened you or if you had always carried that sharp edge, but before he could ask, Nana continued, her voice quieter now.

“But it’s more than that, really. Life hasn’t been kind to my granddaughter. She knows loss better than most. It started young, you see."

Oh.

"The Church used to be her refuge, once upon a time." Nana’s voice was wistful, her eyes drifting toward the stained glass windows. "But something changed. Now it feels more like a wound she can’t stop pressing on. She’s severed from it."

He had seen it, in the way you had sat in that pew, like an outsider, like someone standing at the edge of something once beloved, now foreign.

"She’s a lovely woman," Nana continued, and there was that small, amused glint in her eye, like she knew something he didn’t. "Smart as a whip, funny and a heart as big as all get out. She just doesn’t make it easy to see."

Joel chuckled under his breath.

“She’s gonna volunteer here with me on Tuesday night though,” your Nana said with a renewed enthusiasm. “With the hampers for the needy.”

“That’s wonderful,” Joel replied, a little taken aback by this He had assumed your distaste for the church would extend to every branch of it.

"Be patient with her," Nana said, her voice gentle but firm, as if she were bestowing a great piece of wisdom. "Not everyone finds their way back so easily."

Joel nodded, though he was not sure what patience would accomplish. He could not make you return. He could not make you see something in the Church that you no longer believed in.

And he could not, should not, dwell on the way your sharp tongue and unreadable eyes had lodged themselves into the quiet corners of his mind.

The evening air is crisp yet warm enough to kiss your cheeks as you and your Nana step inside the church hall that Tuesday evening. The scent of wax and old wood lingers in the space, mingling with the warmth of brewing coffee and the faint sweetness of donated pastries. Around the room, folding tables are lined with cans of soup, boxes of pasta, and bags of rice, all waiting to be packed into hampers for families in need.

Your Nana, determined as ever, rolls up her sleeves, though the weariness in her movements don’t escape you. She is smaller than she once was, her energy dipping in a way that worries you. Still, she smiles at you as she sinks into a chair at the head of the table, insisting she can manage just fine from there. You don’t argue. You know better.

The other women are already gathering, the ones you remember from the service, kind, gentle-faced, welcoming in a way that leaves you unsettled. You are an outsider in this world, yet here, they act as though you belong. Mrs.Clifford pulls you into a sweaty hug that you return, hiding your grimace.

“I was worried we might have scared you away,” she says with a jovial laugh.

“No. Not at all,” you lie.

Margaret, of course, is present too, standing like a sentry near the door with her arms folded over her chest. She is all tight smiles and sharp eyes, her voice coated in saccharine sweetness that does little to mask the steel beneath.

The group of you load the items onto the large folding tables creating an assembly line of perishables, socks and of course, a bible for each package. Chattering voices are on either side of you, your Nana giving you a sly wink from one end of the table. You return it, still feeling out of place.

"Well, let’s get organized, shall we?" Margaret’s voice carries over the quiet hum of conversation. "We’ll start at this side-"

She pauses as the doors squeal open and in he strolls.

Father Joel.

The room shifts around you, the air subtly changing, though you can’t quite explain how. In your mind he is not meant to be here. He is a figure of the pulpit, of hushed confessions and quiet authority. But here he is, rolling up his shirt sleeves like any other volunteer, stepping forward with that same steady warmth that unsettles you more than anything.

"Ladies," he greets, nodding to the group before his gaze lands on you. "Good to see you here."

“So wonderful to see you here, Father Joel,” your Nana says surprised.

"I hope y’all don’t mind if I join," Father Joel says, flashing a charismatic grin around the room. The women all give fluttering shakes of their head, their coos like the sound of a loving dove. You want to roll your eyes but hold it in.

“Of course not, Father,” Margaret gushes with delight, motioning to the space between the two of you. “Here, there’s a place right next to me.”

And you realize with an internal groan, right next to you. 

You hold your breath as he moves to stand beside you at the table. He’s taller than you, his profile striking when you spare a brief look his way.

“I didn’t think we’d see you tonight,” Margaret coos, the hampers on the table forgotten. “I thought the schedule said you would be at that seminar in Round Rock?”

Joel shifts his broad frame to look over to her, his shoulder bumping yours in the process. You pull back instinctively, your face twisting in irritation.

“Decided to skip it,” he murmurs. “Feel’s hypocritical to go to a meeting about volunteering in churches and then not do it with mine.”

The others, especially the older women, beam at him, their fondness apparent. Even your Nana brightens, sending you a look as if to say, See? Isn’t he lovely?

Margaret goes on to explain how the assembly like will work. Each partnered couple will place their items in the hamper and slide it to the next. Not rocket science and not all that interesting to you.

“You wanna partner up?”

Joel’s voice is low and warm, surprising you. You glance up to see him watching your face, his gaze unreadable. You shrug, aiming for nonchalance.

“Sure.”

His lips twitch, as though he’s suppressing amusement.

As the assembly line forms, you and Father Joel work quietly with one another packing canned goods, stacking boxes, ensuring each bag is filled evenly. You don’t speak much at first, but as the rhythm of work settles in, the stiffness eases.

The rhythmic sound of cans clinking together echoes softly in the church hall as you and Father Joel work side by side, your hands moving with practiced precision yet the air between you feels thick.

“So when did you move back here?” His voice is low, warm, the kind that lingers in the air like sunlight catching in a morning fog.

His eyes, steady and searching, don’t demand a response, but you feel them on you, and the question hovers between you like a weight.

You barely glance at him, a small shake of your head as you clip your reply, “A few months ago.”

There’s no elaboration, no invitation to know more, but his quiet persistence doesn’t let the silence stretch too long. He tilts a little closer ever so slightly, though not intrusively as he grabs the loaf of bread and tosses it into the bag.

“And how long will you be stayin’?”

He asks it gentle, measured, as though testing the waters of your reluctance.

You catch yourself for a fleeting moment, considering your words. You are tethered here only by the tenuous thread of your grandmother’s hope, but saying it out loud feels too raw. Too much of the truth for a conversation like this.

“I don’t know,” you murmur, your voice softer now, the edge dulling, just a little.

 Your hands hover over the pile of cans, arranging them with deliberate slowness. He nods, as though expecting nothing more, but there's an underlying note of quiet understanding in his gaze, something that makes you feel seen, not as a stranger or an outsider, but as a woman wrestling with more than she cares to admit.

You continue your work, and the rhythm settles again between you, but this time it’s different. The silence is not heavy with judgment or discomfort; it’s simply the space where things are left unsaid, and yet, in that space, you feel a strange kind of ease. He is warm in his presence, steady but not overbearing. He does not pry, does not push. And somehow, that makes it easier.

Father Joel’s hands pause over the cans, his eyes flicking to you with a glimmer of mischief.

“You know,” he says quietly, his voice carrying a soft chuckle, “I’ve always wondered why canned peas seem to find their way into every single hamper. Are they some kind of universal cure-all?”

His question hangs in the air, lighthearted, inviting a spark of humor. The corners of your lips twitch before you can stop them, the tension from before starting to loosen just a fraction. You meet his eyes briefly, the briefest flicker of amusement passing between you like a secret. It’s the first time you’ve truly relaxed since you walked into the room, and for some inexplicable reason, you find yourself responding just a little.

“You’d think they were the holy grail of vegetables,” you reply, your voice quieter, but with a touch of playful sarcasm you hadn’t intended to let slip.

You almost laugh but bite it back, letting only the slightest exhale of amusement pass, the sound surprising you more than him, but the way he smiles at you genuinely and without a hint of mockery makes it feel like you’ve been let in on some quiet, shared joke.

For a moment, you forget to guard yourself, and the weight of everything else; your past, your doubts, your walls, lightens just a little.

 He chuckles in return, a sound that resonates deeper than you would expect. You don’t know why, but the way he’s looking at you now, as though you’ve just cracked open the door to something more, unsettles you. Still, you let it linger, this small shift, this brief connection.

Until Margaret decides she’s had enough.

"My, my," she says, her voice too loud, too pointed as she curls around Joel to look your way, like the serpent testing Adam. "Look at you two, workin’ together so well. It’s lovely to see.”

Joel gives a brief nod by way of reply as he places the large ham into the hamper, his eyes focused on the task. You don’t bother looking over from what you’re doing, your mind elsewhere.

“It’s so nice to have new folks pitchin’ in, helping others.”

You glance over with your hands stilling over the box of pasta you were about to place in the hamper. You know that tone. It is the tone of a woman looking for a crack to widen a wound to press.

Joel, however, remains perfectly composed. “She must take after her Nana.”

“You’re right about that!” Your Nana laughs at the end of the table, her face pinking delightedly. “Now if y’all will excuse me, I’m gonna go powder my nose.”

Nana gives a soft grunt as she pushes herself from her chair. You watch her hunched form move out of the kitchen, her cane tapping away until it diminishes altogether.

As the assembly line continues to take shape, the older ladies hum in quiet conversation, their hands moving with an ease that comes from years of doing this work.

“It really is so lovely to have you here,” Mrs. Clifford says from across the table, her upper lip wet with sweat. “You’ve grown into such a beautiful woman.”

The words linger in the air longer than you’d like, hanging like delicate threads of praise that you’re not sure how to untangle. A flush creeps up your neck, your cheeks burning beneath the weight of it.

There’s a murmur of agreement around the table from the older women. You feel your face heating uncomfortably and you hunch your shoulders as you mutter out your thanks.

You clear your throat, shifting uncomfortably as you glance down at your hands, suddenly aware of their slowing movements of the way the air feels heavier around you. That familiar, awkward feeling stirs inside you, but it’s quickly followed by something else, something more guarded, a prickling sense of self-consciousness.

Your eyes flicker over to Father Joel, his body close enough that you can feel the subtle shift of his presence beside you. Is he thinking the same thing as they are? Does he see it, too? Your breath catches in your throat, but you force your gaze back down to the hamper in front of you, unsure of how to move past the sudden vulnerability that has overtaken you.

The question hangs there, unspoken, but you feel it, his proximity, the quiet energy between you, the way his hand brushes just slightly against yours as you both reach for another can. You wonder if he notices it, too, or if it's only you who feels the fluttering pulse of something unexpected.

Margaret’s sharp gaze never strays far from you, her eyes glinting with a predatory watchfulness. She’s been hovering at the edge of your conversation, and as you and Father Joel continue working side by side, her attention shifts toward you with a kind of deliberate timing, as though she’s been waiting for just the right moment.

Her mouth, always tight, curves into a too-sweet smile as she curls around Father Joel to gaze at you like the serpent tempting Adam.

“The rest of us so little about you,” Margaret offers.

“Not much to know,” you say quickly.

You think you feel Joel’s eyes on your profile but you don’t give into your curiosity to make sure.

Margaret tilts her head, her smile polished to a gleam. “I never asked you at the potluck. What is it you do for work, dear?” she asks, her voice thick with the kind of saccharine interest that makes your stomach twist.

You hesitate. Not for long, but long enough for her and the other women to notice. The truth isn’t something you parade around town, especially not in a place like this, surrounded by insincere platitudes and old morals.

“I’m a writer,” you say carefully, hoping that will be enough to placate her today. “Or, I was a writer. I don’t really write anymore.”

Joel makes a noise of interest, but you barely notice because Margaret’s eyes have lit up with something that isn’t quite delight.

“Oh, how wonderful! We don’t get many writers around here. What do you write?”

The words are laced with meaning and the way she says it, so innocent and dripping in false politeness that it makes your skin prickle. She knows damn well what you used to write.  

You clear your throat, shifting your weight as another bag of rice goes into the hamper. “Romance,” you admit, keeping it clipped. “I used to write romance novels.”

You feel the temperature rise in your chest, your pulse quickening, as Margaret continues, her words laced with a thinly veiled edge. Her smile deepens, just a fraction.

“Oh, I thought so.” She folds her hands primly in front of her. “I remember hearing about your books a few years back. You did quite well for yourself, didn’t you?”

Your fingers tighten around the loaf of bread you package. You did do well for yourself back when sales were strong, before marriage, before the messy divorce that left you too drained to write anything that didn’t feel like pulling teeth.

“One book. Yeah.” You raise your head to give Mrs. Clifford a warm smile. “Mrs. Clifford, could you pass me the-“

“I remember hearing about it,” Margaret continues with a little giggle to herself, the sound like nails on a chalkboard.

Father Joel’s posture stiffens beside you as Margaret’s gaze flicks to the other ladies, who are now listening with curious interest, like hens pecking at a scrap of gossip.  Her voice lowers dramatically, but not so low that everyone can’t hear.

“It was similar to that… Twenty Shades book, right?”

You want to shrink, to disappear, but instead, all you can do is stand there, feeling the sting of her words like an open wound being scraped raw. You can’t reply.

Margaret’s expression is all warmth on the surface, but there’s a glint in her eyes, a quiet triumph, like she’s just coaxed a confession out of you without ever having to ask. “You must let us know if you ever write something… more wholesome,” she adds, her smile never wavering.

Margaret’s thin smile widens, but you catch the faintest flicker of satisfaction in her eyes. She’s relishing this, the discomfort she’s causing, the way your past is spilling into the present, tainting everything.

You feel the heat of Joel’s body press a little too close as he shifts, his hand hovering near the edge of the hamper. When you finally raise your eyes Father Joel is watching you. Not with pity. Not with amusement. Just... watching. Waiting to see how you will respond.

You exhale slowly, smoothing your hands over the table. Then, with deliberate ease, you pick up the pasta, drop it into the hamper, and meet Margaret’s gaze head-on.

 “Sure, Margaret. I’ll be sure to do that.”

“Wonderful,” she says about to say something to Sadie across from her when you cast your own syrupy grin her way.

“But it’s nice to know you enjoyed my book,” you say, voice light, lilting, just enough of a smirk curling at the edge of your mouth.

She stops dead in her tracks, her pale eyes widening as she stares at you. “P-Pardon me?”

“You mentioned knowing my book,” you say with a casual air of indifference. You place the can of green beans into the paper bag. “So I just figured you were a fan of my work.”

Margaret’s face is pink and splotchy. From your peripherals you think you see Joel’s mouth twitch into a suppressed smirk under his facial hair.

“I don’t… I don’t read dirty books,” she says the last two words in a whisper. You’re gratified to see her face has turned a deep maroon. It takes everything in you not to laugh out loud.

“Oh, I see,” you give her a thoughtful look. “So then you’re just a fan of me.”

A pause. A beat of silence. And then Father Joel laughs. It’s not a chuckle, not a restrained, polite sound. It’s a full, rich laugh, genuine in a way that sends heat curling through your chest.

Margaret purses her lips, clearly un-amused but the other women chuckle as well, shaking their heads in amusement. Clearly Margaret is not the beloved figure she thinks she is. You watch as her polished face morphs and she gives a false giggle, something that feels like nails on a chalkboard.

“Oh you are so funny,” she says with a toss of her silky hair over one shoulder. “Just like your Nana. I bet the both of you just sit up there all alone in that big house laughin’ all day and night.”

Your smile and amusement dies in an instant and Margaret sees the change. Her eyes linger just a moment longer, as if savouring whatever small victory she thinks she’s won, before giving you a final, knowing smile and sweeping her gaze away toward the other women.

Father Joel takes a slow breath, his gaze soft but steady as he turns toward Margaret. His voice, when he speaks, is gentle, almost paternal in a way that carries weight without needing to raise itself.

“Today I was thinkin’ about this weeks homily,” he begins, his tone calm and measured as he continues to work on the hamper. “There’s a verse in the Bible, from Proverbs 16:24, that says, Gracious words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones. It reminded me that the words we speak can either lift someone up or tear them down.”

His eyes shift briefly toward you, though he’s careful to keep his focus on the group as a whole, ensuring no one feels singled out. “It’s wonderful to know how words have this powerful ability to soothe or hurt.”

His words hang in the air, thoughtful, but not reprimanding.

"A kind word is a sweet thing, like honey in the heart," he says as he smiles, the corners of his plump mouth softening with understanding, but his gaze never wavers from the group.

“I don’t recognize that verse,” Mrs. Clifford says softly.

“That’s alright Helen, it’s because it’s not from the Bible. It’s from a poem. "A Garden of Peace by John Masefield.”

With one final glance around the table, he lets the silence linger for just a moment longer before turning his attention back to the task at hand. “Now, shall we get back to building these hampers, so we can spread some of that sweetness around.”

There’s no accusation in his tone, no judgment, only a quiet reminder of the grace that should guide their words and yours. A flutter of soft laughter like the wings of a butterfly sounds around the table, the tension broken as busy hands get back to the task in front of you. You don’t bother looking over at Margaret.

He tilts your way, shoulder against yours only now you don’t pull away. You accept it, your hands busy working. At this closer distance you observe he smells incredible. Something clean, fresh, with a whisper of something deeper. Sandalwood, maybe. It clings to him, just as the hint of warmth from the night air lingers on his skin.

You hate that you notice. You hate that the sight of him, sleeves pushed up, forearms dusted with fine hair, does something strange to your stomach. Unaware of your inner turmoil Joel leans just slightly closer, voice lowered so only you can hear.

"You think you’ll consider comin’ to Mass on Sunday if I bring canned peas? They are the holy grail of vegetables after all."

[forsaken-headcanons]

Here I am again! As my explanation for the ship, one day while me and my friend played Forsaken we tried to do voice acting for the characters we played. At first, He played as Shedletsky and I played as Two Time, but then he switched to Telamon. The way we made the two of them interact was pretty sweet, making both of them be pretty knowledgeable about a lot of things and with that they got along well, both being wise yappers. So, in conclusion, a ship was born. Another note to add about Telamon is in our shared headcanons he’s kind of a spirit of sorts? He shares a body with Shed and kind of pops out to take over at times, magically getting his robes on whenever he’s in control and switching back out of them when Shed comes again. Now for the headcanons!

Whenever the two of them cuddle and are happy together, Two Time purrs and Telamon coos like a chicken.

Two Time tends to get a more insane and feisty when in their second life, and Telamon tends to calm them and help them through it.

They’ve thought about getting married, but it’s complicated because Builderman and Shedletsky have already gotten married, so for now they remain partners.

Although Shedletsky has no attraction for Two Time, Telamon shows much of it for them.

Whenever Shedletsky’s in control and Two Time is near, Telamon often shares his little compliments and comments about Two Time in Shed’s mind, making them loud and clear.

Although Telamon cares deeply for Builderman, Two Time has grown on him and reached a higher soft spot of love in his heart.

The both of them occasionally have quiet moments, where they just show affection to each other without any words.

They both share a love language of gift giving, often gifting small trinkets and items to one another.

I think that’s all I’ve got for now, I hope you enjoy my little crackship! I think about them very often.

-🖤🪽 anon

Well ain't they adorable. I quite like this.

[softlyposessive]

Can I request Yandere Omega Izuku Midoriya x Alpha Male reader. Alpha male reader is kind of a jock, big, strong, protective alpha but a sweetheart, kind, and caring. Yandere Omega Izuku has had a cush on Alpha male reader since before UA beause Alpha male reader was nice to Izuku even when he was quirkless, and is sill crushing on him now that they are both in UA together.

Soft Words, Sharp Teeth

 ♡ Character: Yandere Omega!Izuku Midoriya x Alpha!Male!Reader  ♡ Warnings: Yandere themes, soft jock alpha reader, obsession, A/B/O dynamics, stalking, yandere thoughts (not super dark), pheromone/scent mention ♡ A/N: Thank you so much for all the love on my last post… over 200 likes on my very first fic is actually insane and made me do a little scream into my pillow <33 I’m so grateful to everyone who read, reblogged, and sent sweet messages—it means the world!! This one was a request (my very first, actually, so I hope it satisfies!) Thank you for the delicious prompt, and please feel free to keep sending them in!! I had way too much fun writing soft jock alpha reader with an unhinged omega Midoriya watching him like a hawk. Hope you enjoy the descent~  ♡ WC: ~1k

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

You’ve always liked the way Izuku smells. It’s subtle. Calming. Kind of like fresh-cut grass and ink. You think it might be from all the time he spends scribbling in those notebooks of his, muttering about quirks and battle strategies. But there’s something warmer under it—sugary and a little sharp, like fruit left too long in the sun. Overripe, almost. Dangerous, if you weren’t used to it.

But you are used to it.

You’ve been sharing classes and training sessions since UA started—known each other even longer. You’ve sparred together, sweat together, laughed breathlessly on the ground after Aizawa kicked your asses in joint combat. You’ve carried him when he’s collapsed, tucked him under your jacket when it rained, brought him water bottles when he pushed himself too far. You’ve always looked out for him—because that’s just what you do.

You’re an alpha. The urge to protect is in your very bones. And Izuku’s always looked like someone who needed a little protecting.

Small. Sweet. Nervous. Smiles like he doesn’t think he deserves it.

So of course, back in middle school, when Bakugou was cornering him—snarling like a mad dog with sparks in his hands—you stepped in. It wasn’t even a question. Just instinct.

You remember the look on his face. Like someone had just handed him the moon.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

It was after a training session, when most of the other students had already parted ways, eager to shower and rest, that you approached him.

“Hey, uh… Midoriya?” You jog up beside him, still wiping sweat from your neck with a towel. “You good?”

He startles like he didn’t hear you coming—which is weird. Omegas usually clock alphas the second they’re within five meters. You’re about to apologize when he turns, eyes wide and shining like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“Oh! Yes! I-I’m good! Fine! Thank you for asking!”

He’s twitchier than usual, fingers tapping rapidly at his thigh. His scent flares—warm and sugary, like the air right before a thunderstorm.

“You sure?” you ask, tilting your head. “You kinda zoned out there.”

He stares at you. Hard.

It’s something he’s done for almost as long as you’ve known him—like he’s trying to memorize your face down to the way your lashes fall.

“You’re always checking on me,” he says softly.

Your ears go a little red. “Well—yeah. That’s not a bad thing, is it?”

“No,” he says, his smile curling at the corners. “It’s not bad at all.”

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

You’ve always liked Izuku. But lately, you’ve started to notice him.

How he always seems to be in the same place as you. How his eyes track you when he thinks you’re not looking. How his scent clings to your clothes sometimes, even when you’re sure you haven’t touched.

You chalk it up to proximity. Dorm life. Sparring partners. Shared meals.

You try not to think too hard about how your favorite hoodie went missing for a week… only to show back up in your laundry pile smelling faintly of something that wasn’t you.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

“You remember, right?” Izuku says one day after training.

You blink, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “Remember what?”

“In middle school. When you helped me.”

You pause, towel halfway to your face. “Oh. Yeah, of course I do. Bakugou was being a dick. You looked like you needed backup.”

A lazy smile makes its way onto your face at the memory—of the way Bakugou balked at the mere idea someone would contradict an alpha as powerful as him. He’s always been a little full of himself that way.

“I did,” Izuku murmurs. “And you were the only one who gave it.”

You shift awkwardly. Compliments always feel weird coming from him—too intense. Like he’s seeing something you don’t. Like there are heavy meanings behind his innocent words.

“I mean… anyone would’ve done it.”

“No,” he says—and suddenly, he’s close. Close enough that you can see the freckles on his neck, the way his lips part like he’s tasting your scent. “No, they wouldn’t have.”

You swallow, the hairs on your neck standing on end. His eyes are green fire.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

You’re in the library studying together when he looks up at you innocently, chin resting in his palm, a gentle smile on his face.

“Do you… have anyone?”

You blink in surprise, not expecting a question so bold from the shy omega in front of you.

“Huh?”

“A partner,” he says casually, tilting his head. “Anyone you’re scent-matching with? Nesting? Courting?”

You laugh nervously, rubbing the back of your neck. “Uh. No. Not really. Haven’t had time.”

Izuku tilts his head. His lashes lower. His scent pulses in waves like heat. It’s sickly sweet and all-encompassing—the familiar smell washes over you.

“Good,” he whispers, eyes refocusing on the papers in front of him, scribbling quickly in a notebook.

You laugh again, but it’s thinner this time. “You’re not, like… trying to set me up with someone, are you?”

He pauses, pen stilling on the page. Then he looks up again with those same intense green eyes. You freeze, feeling your heart rate spike.

“I think I’d be a good omega for you,” he says simply—like it’s the weather forecast. He punctuates it by sliding his chair just a little closer to yours.

The words hit you like a punch to the chest.

You stare at him. He’s still smiling. Still soft. Still sunshine and tea and nervous fingers. But there’s something underneath it now—something sharp. Wild. A thread pulled too tight.

“You—you’re teasing, right?”

He laughs. Light. Easy. But his eyes never leave yours.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

You walk away, a little shaken. Behind you, Izuku stays still. Watching.

His fingers twitch at his side.

Your scent is stronger today. Tired. Vulnerable. A little confused.

It makes him want to crawl under your skin. Make you understand.

You don’t need to keep looking. You don’t need to be gentle to anyone else.

You’ve already chosen. You just don’t know it yet.

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

[sysig]

Still a thief at heart, stealing kisses (Patreon)

[bumblingbabooshka]

One of the best Voyager scenes to indicate Tuvok & Neelix's dynamic and how I think Tuvok is just as if not more 'annoying'(positive) than Neelix is when Neelix pours Tuvok a fresh squeezed glass of a fruit juice blend and Tuvok's like (paraphrased) "I don't want to drink this." and Neelix is like "Can you please try it?" and Tuvok's like "I don't want to, you're really bad at this sort of thing. It's going to taste bad." and Neelix says that Ensign XYZ said she LOVED it, she even had a second glass! And Tuvok says Ensign XYZ could drink poison without a second thought and Neelix is like "Tuvok could you please just TRY it? Just try a little SIP of it PLEASE??" and Tuvok sighs and rolls his eyes and sniffs it before taking a sip and it turns out he loves it. Turns out it tasted good actually. And then after all that Neelix tries to talk to him over eggs (which he's again cooking fresh for him) and Tuvok tells him he doesn't wanna hear "the life history of his breakfast." Absolutely insufferable this man I would have burned his eggs on PURPOSE!!!!

[olliepurples]

mdarc chapter 4 spoilers (tw negative)

i'm a couple of doors into the mystery labyrinth, and it's getting a little annoying having shinigami and yuma go "but how could this have happened? who could have done this?" when i literally knew it was yakou as soon as the game told me that the poison had a delay. this is so silly like "how could anyone have got past this, they would have died in thirty minutes!" ok! narrow your suspect pool to people who die in the next thirty minutes then! damn!!!

[luckyagain]

Referring to Louis and Harry as a dagger and rose besides just not making sense (why would they tattoo themselves on themselves? if anything, they would have gotten each other's tattoos) is also just reductionist and insulting to both of them. You view them as one-dimensional characters where Harry is soft & feminine and Louis is harsh & masculine. If you can watch Louis doing the gender reveal and think he was acting like a dagger, you weren't paying attention.

louis was out here looking like THIS last night and you want to talk about fucking emojis??? 🌹🗡️

[cerealbishh]

"Just another nobody pretending to be a somebody." "You're the best somebody I've ever met."

🎥: @bikinibottomdayz

[quietlyblooms]

my headache is finally going away, so we'll see if i manage anything before i pass out! i have the urge to write but i also have the urge to work on combining my muse lists on @diliqence, though that means deciding on an aesthetic to stick with and i don't wanna think about that rn uvu i'm not sure i even have it in me to move muse pages, so!! we really will just see.

[osamucide]

⊹ I AIN'T NOTHIN' BUT A NASTY DOG!

. . . BSD MEN AS OVERUSED PORN PLOTS!

wc: 5.3k

cw: MINORS DNI—explicit sexual content, gn!+afab!reader, a lot of anonymous sex, dirty talk, BIG DICK MEN, probably a good amount of ooc, some questionable dynamics/dubcon that can be read through the lens of roleplay and/or prior consent. character-specific warnings—chuuya: public sex, penetration; dazai: penetration, riding, creampie; kunikida: professor/student, oral (m!receiving); fukuzawa: secretary/boss, office sex, oral (m!receiving), facefucking; atsushi: HEAVY DUBCON WARNING, stuck, perv atsushi, penetration; akutagawa: blackmailing if you squint, degradation, choking, penetration; oda: penetration; ango: public sex, penetration, riding; nikolai: dubcon, home intruder f!masturbation, penetration; sigma: a tiny bit of perv sigma, oral (f!receiving); fyodor: priest!fyodor, religion/blasphemy kink, christianity-specific, oral (m!receiving)

reid: putting my dual major in journalism to work by subtitling these like bad porn videos. little not so thought out drabbles many with no definitive ending just silly whore thoughts. some are more stupid than sexy but either way i hope you enjoy because this was a blast to write HAHAHAHA

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

⊹ CHUUYA NAKAHARA—HOT GYM BUDDIES CAN’T WAIT UNTIL AFTER THEIR WORKOUT TO FUCK!

“Yeah, that’s a lot better. Look at you, you got it,” the pretty redhead mutters, his hands still firmly on your hips as he spots your squat. “Give me one more, I know you can.”

The praise prompts you to draw in a deep breath that has nothing to do with your next squat; anyway, this gorgeous man, kind enough to help you with your form, believes in you. So you bend once more, squatting down, down, and pushing back up—until on your way back up, you feel your legs begin to buckle.

“Woah, woah.” It’s sweet how concerned he sounds as his hands fly up to the bar and his feet nudge you forward to help you replace the weight on the rack, but his hips end up pressed to yours, and you’re gasping. “You okay?”

You’re fine, caged between him and the bar as he leans over your shoulder to glimpse your face that’s flushed from exertion. Only exertion, surely, even though your ass is pressed firmly to his pelvis. He doesn’t seem hard, but you can still feel it, and it feels big.

“Yeah,” you breathe, moving to duck under the bar, but it’s low and you’re feeling a little dizzy, so you teeter backwards into him, and as his hands find your waist again. “Yeah, I’m about to be done anyway.”

“You should really stretch after maxing out like that,” he suggests, turning you around. “Don’t wanna be hurting, do you?”

But you can only look into his intense eyes and shake your head lightly before he’s easing you to the ground on your back, settling each of his knees over one of your thighs, and slotting his shoulder beneath your hamstring. He pushes forward, gently, slowly, looking to you for anything wrong; and there isn’t.

There’s nothing wrong, except for the fact that you can feel his huge dick against your pussy through both of your shorts.

It’s all you need to start moving blindly, reaching down for his waistband, pawing at his neck, mashing his lips to yours, and he doesn’t hesitate to do it back—he lets up on your leg only to slip your shorts off before your ankle is back over his shoulder and he’s grinding the head of his cock into your wetness.

“You gonna let me in, baby?” he pants hotly, looking down at you squirming beneath him. “Yeah, I know you will—you’re strong, you can take it.”

His tip catches on your clit, and you gasp before he’s plunging into you, setting a brutal pace. “Oh, fuck!”

“Oh, fuck, yeah,” he groans. “So fuckin’ tight.”

He hits the inside of you perfectly, his soft ginger hair falling loose from its low pony—you wish you knew his name so you could scream it, but you settle for moaning, panting, cussing, as he throws your other leg over his shoulder and drills into you on the gym mat. ⊹

⊹ OSAMU DAZAI—MY OLDER BROTHER ALMOST CAUGHT ME FUCKING HIS BEST FRIEND!

“Shit—I’ll be back, gonna go shower this off. Asshole.”

That was what your older brother, Chuuya, grumbled at Dazai before scurrying off to the bathroom. The three of you had just gotten back from getting ice cream, and Dazai had the brilliant idea of snatching Chuuya’s cone from him and sticking it in his hair. Cursing ensued the entire walk home.

And Dazai popped the tail end of his cone in his mouth and grabbed for your wrists as soon as your brother was out of sight, which leads you to now—in the living room, on the couch, bouncing furiously on his cock as he grunts.

“Osamu—be quiet!” you plead with him, but you’re moaning, too.

His lips fall into a grin. “Don’t worry, cutie, I can still hear the shower—fuck! Just keep—keep doing that, you feel so fucking good.”

So you reinforce your grip on his shoulders and slam your hips down to meet his, over and over, drawing sinful sounds from both of your bodies as you’re separated by a single thin wall from your brother—Dazai’s best friend, who would probably murder both of you if he found out you were fucking.

And then the water turns off. You muffle the choked cry you let out into Dazai’s shoulder, so damn frustrated that you won’t get there, not before Chuuya comes back—but Dazai’s flipping you onto your back, grabbing you by your hips, pulling you into him with such fervor that you almost shout.

“Need it, baby, I need to cum in this pussy—”

“Osamu!”

But even you can’t tell if you’re egging him on or warning him to stop—with no sound buffer and Chuuya undoubtedly coming back any minute, your body decides for you that you need it, too, you need to cum and you will, no matter how much your mind protests; your eyes flick nervously up to the hallway when they’re not rolling back from how Dazai’s rearranging your guts.

“He’s gonna come back—unh—and you’re gonna sit here with my cum in you, and he won’t even fuckin’ know.”

He’s digging his nails into your hips and ass, making you twitch, reaching down to rub your clit hard, and when you cum, clenching around him, he shoves his palm over your mouth and spills into you with a last few wet smacks.

Dazai’s scrambling back into his pants as footsteps pad down the hall; he all but throws himself at the other end of the couch as you curl up, dressed but fucked silly, focused on not letting the evidence of what just happened gush out of you and leak onto the couch.

“Fuck was that noise?” Chuuya mumbles, sauntering out as he’s tying his wet hair up.

“Hm? I don’t know, I didn’t hear anything.”

When Chuuya turns toward the kitchen, Dazai tosses you a wink. Your face burns as you feel yourself leaking. ⊹

⊹ DOPPO KUNIKIDA—COLLEGE HOTTIE SUCKS DICK FOR EXTRA CREDIT!

"You do realize I'm going to have to fail you," your professor informs you, looking into your eyes with a little regret. Truthfully, you've always been personable in class and shown promise as a student, and he's disappointed. Not in you, just in your poor academic performance during your final semester.

"There has to be something I can do to make up for it," you nearly plead, hands clasped together on the edge of his desk as you look to him with hope. You know you've been slacking, but you need this class to graduate.

"I don't know—" He sighs your name, clearly confliced. Your attendance record is less than impressive these days, and Kunikida's enforced a strict class participation policy throughout his years of teaching—as well as no extra credit—something he makes clear to all of his students in all of his classes, and you especially should know better after taking his classes for four years. "I don't know. Like what?" Maybe you can do a few credits in the summer and still walk at graduation, or pick up an internship. But he wants you to take the initiative and accountability.

He doesn't really know how to protest when you're slipping out of your seat and sinking to your knees as a spark starts to gleam in your eyes. You rattle off a few academic ideas for posterity, but ultimately find your hands sliding up his thighs and fiddling with his belt.

Fuck it, you think, you'll be out of here soon enough. Plus, Kunikida's always been kind, compassionate, understanding, and sexy—too invested in his field to even notice that handfuls of students on campus would throw themselves at him given the chance. Maybe he'll finally understand, you muse to yourself, as you work his hardening cock out of his dress pants.

He chokes out your name when you take his length in both of your hands; he's all the way gone when you're swirling your tongue over his tip, giving in to your little idea for extra credit sooner than he'd ever admit to himself.

"Oh, fuck—" He's staring up at the ceiling of his office in pure bliss because his student is working hot, sloppy kisses down the underside of his cock. His hands twist into your hair, and you gaze up at him, doe-eyed, as his head falls forward and he looks at you through his glasses. "Keep going. Don't fucking stop."

He's trying not to thrust into your mouth when you fondle his balls; his pretty blond bangs are dampening with sweat, and you can't take your eyes off him as you bob your head faster, hollowing your cheeks around him and moaning at the taste of your professor's cock heavy in your mouth. He twitches and jumps at your attention to detail—your fingers raking tracks down his thighs, your frantic tongue, your fluttering lashes and sugary moans, gags, and slurps that are music to him.

You know, as he falls apart more and more by the second, you won't have to worry about this class anymore.

"Unh—uh, yes, oh, fuck, we'll work something out, yeah, gorgeous? Just don't stop—d—don't stop, don't fucking stop, I'm gonna cum down that pretty throat, yeah, and we'll get it all figured out." ⊹

⊹ YUKICHI FUKUZAWA—NAUGHTY SECRETARY SEDUCES HOT BOSS!

You're perched on his desk when he returns from the meeting—Yukichi, your boss, who, lately, you can't stop thinking about climbling like a tree. You're sure your coworkers see it, too, but you're his personal assistant; no one gets to be as close to him as you, and he trusts you.

Which is why you'll put the moves on him today.

He runs a hand through his silver hair—obviously stressed—sighing as he pulls his office door shut and turns to you. He speaks your name, holds a few papers in your direction, begins instructing you on what he needs from you next.

But you know better what he needs. The papers that make their way into your hands are quickly forgotten about on his desk as you uncross your legs and hop down, sauntering up to place on hand on his arm, the other on his chest.

"Sir, you look so tense. Are you sure there isn't anything else I can do?"

He makes his way to sit down in his office chair, disregarding your touch in a way that has you following after him like a puppy in need of attention.

He doesn't answer, but he also doesn't protest when you settle between his knees beneath his desk and push his yukata and haori up to pool around his hips. His dick is thick and veiny, even soft; when you spit in your hand and begin to work him up and down his mouth falls open with a sigh, and he grows at least two inches as he hardens beneath your grip.

You didn't think you'd be able to fit his absolute monster cock in your mouth, but you find yourself, throat open, with your nose pressed to his happy trail as you swirl your tongue and breathe through your nose frantically; he holds your face down, speaking very little but making up for it with the way he grunts hotly in that deep, rough voice as he bucks into the back of your throat.

"Unh—ugh..."

You breathe through your nose as his hips fall into a brutal pace; his hands on either side of your head keep you pinned in place as he uses you, takes his stress out on you. Your fingers massage his balls, and you can't help the way you hum around him when he twitches in your mouth.

Yukichi pulls out of your jaw and you gasp for air, wiping the spit that drips down your chin with the back of your hand, but he's not done. When he does speak, it's demanding, low, and it makes your cunt throb with need.

"Get up. Get up, sit on the desk. 'Need to fuck you."

You do as you’re told, open up for him with no hesitation, smiling as he works his fat cock into you—yeah, his stress will be gone in no time with the way he fucks your hole so hard and fast that you shake with each creak of his desk. ⊹

⊹ ATSUSHI NAKAJIMA—STUCK IN THE ELEVATOR WITH MY SEXY NEIGHBOR!

"Ah! Atsushi, open the door!"

"Um," he frets, punching the button until he's sure it'll break. If it's not broken already. "I—I can't, it's not working!"

Not working? Is he fucking serious? You're trapped in the door—all you did was try to reach back out for your bag you'd set by the elevator and now you're stuck, by the waist, between the two sliding maneuvers, your bag dangling from your hands.

"It's supposed to have a sensor! It's not supposed to even close when someone's on the threshold!" you cry through your teeth as you try to squirm out. Atsushi's mind is already working, though, over the way you're pinned in half, wiggling your ass as you struggle against the industrial strength of the elevator door. "Atsushi, help me, please call someone or something—"

But his hands are on your hips, pulling backward, and you can't help the noise of surprise that slips out of you.

"Atsu', I seriously don't think that will work, please, just call—Atsushi!"

His hands shake as he slides your pants and underwear down your thighs, exposing your ass; he tunes out your protesting as he undoes his belt. You hear the clink of it hitting the ground, you feel his fingers dipping into your cunt from behind, and he cannot be fucking serious.

"I'm sorry," he cries like it's out of his control—he feels like it is. "I'm sorry, you're so hot, you're right here, I've wanted this for so long."

And you feel yourself beginning to drip at his desperate tone. You can't fucking believe it—this is depraved. This is some shit you would've never expected from the sweet, cute boy in the apartment across the hall who helped you drag your bedframe and couch from this very elevator to your room but here he is, prodding at you with his pathetically leaky cock while you're stuck in the damn elevator door.

And you'd be frustrated with how your body reacts, but as he slides his dick along your cunt, drenching himself in your wetness, you can't help but arch back into his touch.

"Atsushi, you have to fuck me, please."

And he does, fast and unpracticed—he whimpers for you, tells you you're all he thinks about when he jerks off; he confesses that he looks through his peephole when he knows you're leaving for work or school just to get at least one glimpse of you everyday to fuel his imagination, and you gush around him, the pain of the door trapping you falling irrelevant, drifting out of your mind, as he buries his face in your shoulder and humps into you like an animal, pounding against your cervix.

"Fuck, that's right, so good, so, so good—better than I could've imagined—agh, fuck, that's right, take it all, take it, take it, take it...!" ⊹

⊹ RYUUNOSUKE AKUTAGAWA—HOT BABE HAS NO MONEY, LETS THE DELIVERY BOY DESTROY THAT PUSSY!

You rifle through your wallet and hum when you come up short. "Um, I... know you said you don't have a card reader, but I don't have enough cash."

The delivery boy looks at you with little more than boredom until you invite him in.

"Here, let me look in my room—I might have more stashed somehwere..."

He stands over you, searching you with his curious gray eyes as you dig through a drawer, a bag, another bag, only to come up short again. You even peek under your mattress for good measure, but you're just out. You turn to him sheepishly.

"I, uh... I don't have enough, I'm really sorry."

"Well, I can't leave without some form of payment," he deadpans, and you try to think of something, anything—you have a few giftcards for other delivery services, some jewelry—but he's letting his bag fall off his shoulder and grabbing you by the hips before you can register what he means.

You end up face down, ass up on your bed as a compromise, his hips rutting into you from behind as he holds your wrists behind your back. Ryuunosuke his name tag read—you're quick to adopt a way around that mouthful, moaning out, "Ryuu, Ryuu, please!" as he splits you open and calls you a whore.

"Fuckin' slut—"

When you're able to glance back for a second you can see his pretty black hair swaying with each rough thrust, and you're sure he's hitting your lungs—he's so fucking deep inside you, and you're gasping, moaning for more.

"—so eager to—unh—take this dick. Probably hiding your cash somewhere."

But whether you are or not doesn't matter; your eyes are rolling back to the hard smack of his hips against your ass and the white-hot pleasure that rolls through you every time he plows straight into your g-spot, and he's throbbing inside of you at the way your cunt grips him. Your pizza's getting cold on the counter in your kitchen, but you don't care—not when he bunches his fingers up in your hair to arch you back up to him so he can wrap his other hand around your throat.

You hold onto him as he bends you, pulling air down into your lungs when you can, and his gravelly voice barrages you with more words that make you gush around his cock.

"Gonna let me cum in this pussy so you don't have to fork over a few bucks for a pizza? Pathetic."

His teeth sink into your shoulder, his other hand reaches down to torture your neglected clit, and you're sure he's gonna break you over this, your hot delivery boy who just so happened to have the idea to fill you up as payment. You pant his name desperately between thunderous moans—you're gonna cum soon. ⊹

⊹ SAKUNOSUKE ODA—THIS PLUMBER FIXED MORE THAN JUST MY PIPES!

"Okay, that should do it." The man stands up, back to a height at which he towers over you, and you lean on the doorframe to the kitchen as he shuts the cabinets beneath your sink. "It's all movin' again."

You were in your robe when you answered the door, but you'd be lying if you said you didn't run to the bathroom to fix your hair and swipe on a little lip balm while he was working. Really, you hadn't meant to try to fuck the plumber. But this man was gorgeous, with his auburn hair, stubble-lined jaw, large hands, broad shoulders. You felt your eyes widen when you first laid eyes on him, and now you'd been throbbing thinking about what those thick fingers could do other than plumbing.

You pull your robe tighter around yourself, hoping to subtly accentuate the outline of your body. "Thank you so much, really, I don't know what I'd have done without the sink."

"Probably used the dishwasher a lot more," he cracked dryly, and your previous words suddenly feel stupid, but it only serves to make him hotter.

"How should I pay you?" You stride over to him. "Cash?"

"You can just pay online." He looks tired, but he has a well-meaning smile on his face.

You look a little incredulous. "Really? I can't—do you accept tips? Seriously, top notch work and super quick. I can't not thank you."

"I'm really not supposed to take tips," he drawls, running a hand through his hair. You find yourself biting your lip; you can't look away from him. You must look like a rabid animal right now, but you can't help it.

He doesn't tear his eyes away from yours.

"I mean, unless..."

Those three words are what find you on your back in your bedroom with your robe thrown open, the sweet and efficient plumber named Sakunosuke standing at the edge as he impales you on his cock. He worked you open with those fingers first, fast and harsh, just how you begged him to, but nothing could've prepared your weeping hole for the stretch of his fat dick—and now he's pounding into you, his hands clutching your waist as you hold your legs open for him to thrust deeper, deeper.

“Oh, shit. Unh—so wet—“

His groans come from his chest, deliciously—he looks a little like he knows he shouldn't be doing this, but your cunt is sucking him in like it was what he was supposed to come here for all along. You spasm and clench around him and he throws his head back, your whole body rippling as his strong hips and heavy balls smack lewdly against your ass with each thrust.

“Mmph—fuck—break that sink of yours more often, alright?” ⊹

⊹ ANGO SAKAGUCHI—I JOINED THE MILE HIGH CLUB (EXTREMELY RISKY)!

The man you met in the airport bar—oh, he’s pretty.

He's even prettier in your mind when the pilot announces phone permissions now that you're in the air, and the first notification your phone receieves is from him.

I have an open seat next to me in first class. Come visit.

You don't hesitate for a moment. You stride forward from the economy section, past the flight attendants who protest at you flimsily to search for his seat number—you see his unmistakably gorgeous hair, his glasses, his sharp side profile as he speaks to an attendant, catches you in his peripheral, and then shoos her away.

There's hardly niceties before one of your legs is slung over his knee and he kisses you with fervor. You don't think too hard about the people around you—none of whom can actually see you but without a doubt will know exactly what's happening in a few minutes—as you grind down onto his thigh, bite his lips, draw soft gasps from him when your knee nudges his bulge.

Before you know it, his cock is free and he slides your underwear to the side so you can sink onto him; he groans shamelessly when your wet heat envelops him completely, causing heads to turn in your direction, but you just brace your knees against the airplane seat and your hands on his shoulders make quick work of milking him of everything he has.

He kisses you, hot, heavy; he smells good, he smells expensive, and you tear his dress shirt open to rake your nails down his chest as he grabs your hips, letting his head fall back and a full-bodied moan into the cramped air of the plane as he does so. You lift up to let him thrust, let lewd smacks resonate throughout first class, and with your chest in his face he rides your shirt up to latch his teeth to one of your nipples; you echo him, moaning unabashedly, running your hands through your hair, gripping him as people look on.

"Fuuuck, yeah, feels so good," he praises from beneath you. "Knew I had to fuck you from the second I saw you." His eyebrows draw up in concentration as he looks down at where your bodies meet and continues fucking up into you hard. "Hah—listen to that cunt cry for me. You like being watched, huh? Gonna let me fuck you 'til the plane smells like sex? Huh?"

You nod, messily, desperately, and he quickens his pace ever faster, pulling you back down into a sloppy kiss.

An attendant awkwardly approaches in the aisle, but the gorgeous man who's destroying your insides just holds up a palm, shoos her away again.

"Fuck—so sexy. Keep takin' this dick." ⊹

⊹ NIKOLAI GOGOL—LUCKY INTRUDER GETS TO FUCK HORNY VICTIM!

You're splayed out on your bed, two fingers stuffed deep in your cunt—and he's just surprised you didn't hear him breaking the lock on your front door.

When you meet his eyes, you're so glazed over with pleasure that you barely miss a beat, your gaze only blowing wide when he peers around your bedroom doorway. His snowy white hair, his sharp features—you can't find the sense to be alarmed at this unfamiliar man, the one holding your laptop and—is that your wallet?

Doesn't matter—they're clattering to the ground, another factor here you can't find it in yourself to care about as his gray eyes are locked onto you fucking yourself open on your sheets. The sheen of sweat that covers your skin, your desperate moans as you grind your clit against your palm, the obscene squelching that comes from your wet cunt—they all serve to propel him over to you, prompt him to dig his already-hard cock out of his pants as you just watch, beg him with your stare to come fill you up. You're so lucky he's here, really—you look like you're struggling to get deep enough with your pathetic little fingers; he guesses it's only fair that he repay you for the material goods he's about to rob you of and pawn off on whatever sucker will buy them for cash, right?

"Right? I'll help you out—" He gives his cock a few pumps as he positions himself between your legs, "—looks like you need it, sweetheart."

You can only bite your lip to supress the moan that leaves you as he enters your cunt and lifts your fingers up and out of you by your wrist to swirl his tongue around them, lick them clean. He's huge—even your third and fourth fingers weren't enough to prepare you properly for the burglar’s dick in your needy pussy, so you let out strained combinations of gasps and screams when he starts to drill into you mercilessly. You can't help the way your ankles link behind his back, the way you reach for him—and he smiles wickedly when your eyes roll back.

"You like having a stranger's cock deep in your guts, huh?" he speaks between deep sighs and grunts. You can only babble your incoherent agreement, your laptop and wallet forgotten, the actions of this man forgotten, everything but how desperately you need to squirt all over him forgotten—you reach down and rub your clit, play with your nipples as your mouth is frozen open as you moan, moan for this man who's just broken into your home. "Uh—yeah, you're gonna like takin' all my cum, too, I bet." ⊹

⊹ SIGMA—MASSEUR HELPS HIS SEXY CLIENT RELIEVE STRESS!

"Oh, yeah—right there," you groan softly as the heel of his palm meets the center of your back. You've been looking forward to this full-body massage the whole week, and this man was not disappointing.

He works his way down your back, twisting knots out as he goes—his lithe fingers feel like heaven against you, overworked from hours at your desk hunched over your computer.

But it's a full-body massage, as mentioned before; when his fingers dig into the plush of your asscheeks, you can't help the groan that leaves you.

"That okay?" he inquires; you think you hear a shake in his voice.

"More than okay," you reply, thinking you could fall asleep as he works you into relaxation. You could close your eyes from how good it feels, or you could peek behind you and see his face burning with blush at your sounds. You do the former, but smirk a little at how sweet it is of him to check in.

He checks in again when his hands are inching your underwear down, and you tell him of course, he's the professional.

He's still the professional when he climbs up on the table behind you and buries his flushed face into your cunt. You arch up and back, crooning, as his hands stay massaging you, spreading you apart, kneading your ass with career expertise and plunging his tongue into you with enthusiasm.

"Oh! Oh—feels good," you breathe, grinding back into his face, onto his nose. He laps at you happily, this masseur you've barely looked upon for a total of twenty seconds, but you can't lie to yourself and say you didn't think he was pretty when he led you back to his room; he hums into you, sending you shivering, twitching. "Please, more."

"Mhm," he mumbles, releasing one of your asscheeks to lay back beneath you and insert a long, thin finger into your pussy; you sigh, you settle onto his face, and his tongue speeds up in this new position in a way that rips a high moan from your lungs.

Not hunched, but arched, the stretch feels heavenly on your back in combination with the way he pumps another finger into you; you graciously sit up, throwing your head back, begging, pleading for more until his tongue settles into a tight back-and-forth rhythm over your clit. "Please, please, please—"

You grind against his nose, your moans become more erratic, and you dig a hand into his hair as your hips move in dizzying circles over his head.

"Cum for me?" he asks, muffled by your pussy; you'll ride him until his face is soaked. ⊹

⊹ FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY—CONFESSING MY SINS ENDS IN HUGE CUMSHOT ALL OVER MY FACE!

“And I’ve been terribly, terribly lustful, Father Fyodor,” you say with regret. “It consumes me. I really never used to be like this."

"Temptation lurks everywhere," the priest sympathizes. You can barely see him through the grate, but his soft, forgiving voice sounds close to you. "The Devil and his army are constantly exploiting our vulnerabilities to try and turn us to sin, but worry not, child of Christ; we're human. I'm here to guide you. Continue."

You shift on the wooden seat in the booth, crossing your hands tighter over your lap. "That's really all. It's been very concerning to me. I think about it... I think about it so much."

"About what?" Father Fyodor prompts, and you bristle even more at being asked to elaborate.

"Sex," it barely comes out as more than a whisper. "I can't help it—it's everywhere. It leaves me feeling so... exhausted and frustrated, and the only thing that helps is... Well..."

But you're met with silence. You know he wants you to go on. You're here to confess, after all.

"...touching myself. I do it at least once a day. It's like a burning within me—nothing helps but—but—cumming all over my fingers." Your voice is laced with shame—the throbbing of your cunt as you talk makes you feel all the more guilty, and you can only imagine how he's shaking his head. "That's all. That's all."

"You'll do penance," he says, comfortingly. "When we bring our sins to the Lord and repent he cleanses us of them."

The grate pops out of the window, and you see the the waist of his alb as he speaks his next words.

"You'll take communion, now—" the cinctures around his waist fall undone beneath his hands, and the alb is hiked up to reveal a leaking cock, pretty and pale and bobbing in the air of the confessional. "—and be saved from the flames of perdition.”

"Yes, Father, please. Anything to be saved." But your mouth waters in a way that you know has little to do with your thirst for salvation.

"Take this; eat. This is my body," he recites the scripture as his length reaches through the window; your hands, eager and already on the threshold, accept him willingly. As you wrap your mouth around him, he groans, and it's like seraphim singing their holy, holy, holy.

"That's it—child of God, follower of Christ; I absolve you of your sins," he gasps as his tip hits the back of your throat which was begging for forgiveness moments ago. His hands reach through the window to stroke either side of your face, and then hold you in place to fuck your throat. "The Lord will forgive you for this." ⊹

[misscammiedawn]

Just read The Strange Case of Harley and Harleen and my god I needed a little bit of positive plurality in my life this week.

The way Pam and Harl's relationship adapts to accept the Harley/Harleen split makes my heart swell.

The way Pam sees the difference between her girlfriends.

And assures her that she accepts and loves all sides of her.

And does what she can to accommodate Harleen's memory holes.

The core relationship of this book is just so sweet and positive in accepting things as they are without judgment or pushing. Just acceptance and love.

And after finding that in our own life, I know what a powerfully positive thing it can be.

But the Harley/Harleen relationship is well handled too. There's friction and denial at the start but the two develop and trust one another by the end and Harley takes a seat as my favorite kind of character, the morally ambiguous protector.

I love the way Harley's protectiveness of Harleen is depicted and how she tries so hard to keep her from interacting with the criminal underworld of Gotham.

It's just saccharine and kind.

Highly recommend the book to anyone who just wants soft and kind plurality vibes. Heaven knows the majority of the fiction involving split personalities are flooded with angst and darkness and though this book contains a few dark plot beats like DV it never feels painful or sorrow inducing.

I'm so happy I read it.

[yandere-romanticaa]

Seen the request, so I shall deliver. Could you pls write a drabble or hcs of a yandere sunday with an isekaied reader?

Good timing because I'm actually planning a non yan isekai fic for him, I wonder if you saw that post. Here it is in case you haven't.

Sincerest apologies if this isn't the best, this fic is 100% emotionally charged by my obsession with him and frankly with a little bit of a high for passing a tricky exam. This is a treat for myself.

EDIT: Please check out this wonderful comic that @danijaci made me based off this fic!! 😭🫶

Picking up the cup from the fine oak table, you gazed towards the eerie galaxy before you, hundreds upon thousands of stars giving you a constant reminder of just how far from home you truly were. Taking a sip from the little porcelain cup you could not help but to hum in delight, the soft notes of the tea soothing your nerves ever so lightly as you pretended to ignore the heavy gaze which lingered at the back of your head.

Even from this distance, it was easy to tell that Sunday was eager to approach you. Still, he kept his distance and made a silent offering in the form of the very tea you drank at the moment.

Anything is better than Himeko's coffee but you were never going privy her to that.

In a not so distant past, all of this was nothing but fiction. The Express, the story, the characters - it was all nothing more but fiction, something to pass the time as your days went on and on, the same monotony repeating each and every day.

It was hard to not think about your friends and family, what sane person would not? Lord knows how they must be feeling right now, worried sick out of their minds with indescribable sorrow. In their eyes you had merely vanished, not a single trace to be found. For all they knew you could have been left for dead in a ditch somewhere, beaten, bloodied and broken, never to see the light again or if they were even more inclined to be morbid, you had succumbed to a fate worse than death. Death at the very least grants you finality, that all is over regardless of what happened moments prior.

But that was simply not the case for you.

Here you were, lounging about in a comfortable chair as you pondered on your old life while enjoying tiny little luxuries, far away where none of your loved ones could reach you. However, life was funny sometimes because it had some fun games in store.

Sunday was very kind upon arrival. He made sure to always be there for you, always checking up on you, always there to keep you company. You were already smitten with him but now to actually witness him in the flesh was just... Indescribable. You got along like a house on fire, so much so that the crew liked to tease that you ought to just get a room. Sunday, ever the gentleman, would just brush their words aside and assure you to not take their playful little jabs to heart.

You wouldn't say anything, resorting to merely giving him a smile but not because of what he said but rather of what he did not - never once did he actually shut down those perverse accusations. Never, not even once did he deny them.

He became an emotional crutch, someone to whom you would come running to when things got tough and he would always welcome you with open arms. Sunday would hold you tenderly, his serene voice dripping with honey along with a tender drop of ecstasy, for his excitement with holding you would just show itself sometimes. His grip would be too tight at certain moments, never quite ready to let you leave. His hugs were warm and comforting, he always smelled so good too. He smelled like kindness and sweet wildflowers, always lulling you back to him no matter the time. In dark corners and perhaps even under the watchful eyes of the crew, Sunday would wrap his scarf around your head, securing the soft fabric in order to provide you with a sense of comfort.

It was humiliating just how much you would try to inhale his scent as much as possible. You wanted it etched deep inside your memory, you wished for it to linger on your very soul and for it to follow you everywhere you went, sticking to your being like tar. The fabric of the scarf would muffle your ears a little but someone was always chatting in the background. Be it March bickering with Dan Heng, Mr Yang scolding someone for doing something they were not supposed to, or just Conductor Pom Pom trying to give a speech, all of it was irrelevant.

You were ready to kill whoever would try to pry you away from sweet Sunday. That thought came often which had left you worried - just what kind of person had you become? Regardless, you kept your mouth shut and had no plans of sharing such violent sentiments with anyone, particularly not to the one you held so dear.

When it was time to part for the evening you would bid the crew farewell and wished them a good night. You always made sure to take a few extra seconds with Sunday, just to ease your aching soul. He would tell you to sleep well and would see you in the morning, ready to take on any endeavor that crossed your paths.

As everyone parted ways, Sunday would wander off somewhere dark and distant, somewhere no one could see nor hear him. He would fall to his knees and clutch his chest in agony, fat tears streaming down his face as he did everything he possibly could to steady his raging heart. In a rush he would reach for the scarf which clung around his neck, his grip tighter than iron as he would bring it close to his nose. Taking a large, deep breath, Sunday was greeted by your familiar scent which would promptly calm his poor heart.

He sometimes wondered if his heart would start bleeding from the pain due to the sheer intensity of his emotions.

This was wrong, everything about this was not right and it hurt. Sunday was obviously ill but he had no clue on how to fight this... This emotion, this white hot feeling of need whenever you stood by his side. He started to choke on the air around him and fell into an abrupt coughing fit but even then, he could bring himself to remove the scarf from the lower part of his face.

Sunday wept and sobbed, filthy snot coming out from his nose but he could not handle that now. He needed you, Oh Heavenly Aeons, how he needed you. However was he going to tell you how he felt? How, oh how was he going to express the sheer magnitude of his true thoughts? He would scare you off, he was sure of it.

Even with this pain, even with these clipped wings and bleeding heart, Sunday had never felt so alive, so harrowingly present in the moment whenever he was with you.

Perhaps, he was doing himself a kindness by just letting you be. Drink your tea, be at peace.

He can always just make you another cup if you so desired.

Without knowing, you both haunted each other in the most agonizing way known to mankind and neither was strong enough to face the reality of the situation.