#i love bell's attempt to keep the peace

[ghostlyarchaeologist]

"Had I have been there, I would have kept trying rather than risk a surgical procedure."

"That's the thing, you weren't there."

Rescue 77 S01E03 A Bumpy Ride.

Bonus angry boi:

[thef1diary]

💭 on my mind: I can’t stop thinking about using Charles as a sleep aid (or more like his dick) like just being unable to fall asleep and he wakes up because you’re moving around and he just knows what you need. Just some soft sleepy sex 🥵

Use Me | C. Leclerc

absolutely loved this idea omg I had sm fun with this.

warnings: 18+ smut, very poetic descriptions of sex ngl, unprotected sex, riding, just soft sleepy smut as requested

wc: 660

masterlist

© thef1diary 2024. all rights reserved. Do not copy, steal, translate, or repost any of my work

You lie in bed, tossing and turning, the weight of the day still heavy upon your shoulders, refusing to slip into the comforting embrace of sleep. Your mind racing, thoughts swirling like a storm. But amidst the chaos, you glance at Charles who is still blissfully asleep. One idea persists as you look at him, growing stronger with each passing moment.

His silhouette is barely visible in the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains. He sleeps peacefully, undisturbed by the turmoil raging within you. You hesitate, unsure if you should disturb his slumber, but after tossing and turning a couple more times, the decision is made for you. He moves closer to you, wrapping his arm around your waist and tucking his head in the crook of your neck.

“Can’t sleep, ma belle?” He mutters, his voice deep, lined with sleep while his eyes flutter open for a moment, drowsy and confused.

His voice only adds on to the growing need between your legs, and you press your thighs together in a failed attempt to relieve it.

You shake your head, “no, Charles. Please?” You turn towards him, facing him while your hand runs down his bare chest, feeling every ridge of muscle until you’re stopped by the hem of his boxers. He knows without words what you need, what you crave from him.

Without a word, he turns to lie flat on his back, taking you with him, allowing you to straddle his thighs. Your head buried into the curve of his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of his skin, already beginning to find solace in the rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, before whispering the words that ignited your body with desire. “Use me.”

In the hushed stillness of the night, his touch is like a balm to your restless soul. His warmth seeps into your bones, calming the frantic thoughts that have plagued you, that have taken away your ability to fall asleep. With his caress of his fingers on your cheek, each whispered word of comfort, you feel yourself surrendering to the peace only he can offer.

The desire that sparks between you two isn’t one of passion or urgency, simply just a gentle, tender longing born from the need for connection.

Both of your clothes are quickly shed, punctuated by the sound of your sigh as you sink down on him, pressing your hands against his chest to stabilize yourself. Charles’ hands rest on your hips, urging you with light squeezes, sinful words, and breathy moans leaving his lips.

As the minutes tick by, you feel the tension slowly drain from your body, replaced by a profound sense of peace and thoughts of only him.

He thrusts his hips up a couple times, catching you by surprise, draining your energy even further when he presses his thumb against your clit, rubbing slow enticing circles.

Charles sees your eyes drooping while you struggle to keep up the pace to bring yourself over the edge. He tightens his hold on your waist, pulling you closer before rolling over on the bed to take control.

Still keeping the slow and steady pace, he deepens his thrusts, watching you grab onto the sheets above your head to ground yourself.

In the silent intimacy of the night, you find yourselves entwined in a slow, unhurried dance of bodies, feeling the sweat on your skin gather and shine in the glimmer of the moonlight trickling in.

Soon enough, both of you reach your orgasms, allowing all the tension to seep away from you as the mixed cum drips out of you and onto the sheets below.

As sleep finally claims you, it’s not just the exhaustion that lulls you into slumber, but the comforting presence of Charles pressed up behind you, a beacon of relief in your restless mind. Together you drift off into dreams, wrapped in the warm embrace of his arms.

Taglist: @nikfigueiredo @jointhehunt67 @bokutos-babyowl @sya-skies @charlesleclercsonlywife @dreamingonbed @wonnou @lochnoch @llando4norris @monsieurbacteria6 @namgification @lilymurphy03 @sargeantdumbass @hiireadstuff @racingheartsposts @d3kstar @xjval @namjoonswaifu @isabellewinchester @thedecalcomania-blog @casperlikej @khaylin27 @mlioravanfleet

[yourmomsawh0r3]

Sting benedict bridgerton x pregnant female reader

Benedict Bridgerton had always prided himself on maintaining his composure under pressure. However, today, as he observed his pregnant wife, Y/N, wincing in pain and clutching her arm after a wasp sting, his usual calmness swiftly dissipated.

“Benedict, it is merely a sting,” Y/N endeavored to soothe him, though her voice wavered, betraying her own discomfort.

Benedict's eyes widened with panic, his breaths coming out in shallow, rapid gasps. Tears began to form as he attempted to steady himself. "It’s alright. Just focus on me, please,” he whispered, more to himself than to her.

Y/N reached out, her hand trembling slightly as she touched his cheek. "Ben, you are not well. You are trembling. Allow me to assist you, please.”

His gaze locked onto hers, and he took a deep breath, trying to focus. "I promise I shall keep you safe, no matter what," he vowed, his voice cracking slightly.

Y/N smiled weakly, feeling a rush of warmth despite the pain. "I know you will. Now, let us tend to this, together."

With her encouragement, Benedict managed to calm down enough to gently inspect the sting. His touch was tender, his concern palpable. As he carefully tended to her, Y/N felt a sense of reassurance wash over her. She knew, without a doubt, that Benedict would always be there for her, no matter the circumstances.

But then, Y/N's face went pale, and her eyes rolled back as she collapsed into his arms. His heart pounded with sheer panic as he gently shook her, calling her name with increasing desperation.

"Y/N, my love, please, wake up!" His voice cracked, tears streaming down his cheeks. He scooped her up into his arms, her limp form cradled against his chest, and sprinted towards the house.

"Help! Someone, please help!" Benedict's shouts echoed through the halls as he carried her inside, his eyes wild with fear. He laid her carefully on the settee, fumbling to find the bell to summon the family physician.

Within minutes, the doctor arrived, quickly assessing the situation. "She is experiencing an anaphylactic reaction," he said urgently. "We must administer epinephrine at once."

Benedict watched, helpless and terrified, as the doctor injected Y/N with epinephrine and followed up with antihistamines. Every second felt like an eternity, his breath caught in his throat until he saw the color slowly returning to her cheeks and her breathing becoming steadier.

As Y/N slowly regained consciousness, her eyes fluttering open, the first sensation she felt was Benedict’s warm hand clasping hers. She tried to rise, but a wave of dizziness compelled her to remain still.

“Take it easy, my love,” Benedict murmured, his voice soft yet laden with concern. “You are safe now.”

Y/N’s hand instinctively moved to her stomach. “The baby,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Is the baby alright?”

Benedict’s face softened, and he nodded reassuringly. “Yes, the baby is fine. The doctor has assured me that all is well.” He squeezed her hand gently. “You gave us quite a fright, but both you and the child are safe.”

Tears of relief welled up in Y/N’s eyes as she placed her other hand over her belly, feeling the reassuring flutter of their baby moving inside her. “Thank the heavens,” she breathed.

Benedict brushed a strand of hair away from her face, his eyes filled with love and relief. “You and our child are my world, Y/N. I do not know what I would have done had anything happened to you.”

Y/N managed a weak smile, her heart swelling with gratitude. “Thank you for being there, for saving us,” she said softly.

Benedict kissed her forehead tenderly. “I shall always be here for you, my dearest. Always.”

As the evening settled into a calm hush, Benedict sat by his wife’s bedside, ensuring she was comfortable and at ease. The scare from earlier still lingered in his mind, but seeing Y/N safe and resting brought him a measure of peace. He finally decided to retire for the night, though sleep was elusive.

A soft rustling and the sound of footsteps caught his attention. Rising from his chair, Benedict moved quietly through the house, following the faint noises until he found his wife waddling into the kitchen in her bedtime attire.

“Y/N, my love, what are you doing up at this hour?” he asked gently, concern and amusement mingling in his voice.

Y/N turned, a sheepish smile gracing her lips. “I have a hankering for something sweet,” she admitted, her eyes twinkling with a playful glint. “I could not sleep.”

Benedict’s eyes softened with affection as he watched her make her way to the larder. “And what, pray tell, has caught your fancy?”

Y/N pulled out a decadent chocolate cake, setting it on the counter with a satisfied sigh. Benedict chuckled, shaking his head fondly. “Chocolate cake, of course,” he murmured.

Without another word, he moved to a drawer, retrieving two forks. He handed one to Y/N and took the other for himself. “We shall indulge together, then,” he said, a warm smile spreading across his face.

They settled at the kitchen table, the cake between them, and began to enjoy the rich, sweet treat. Each bite was a shared moment of quiet joy, a balm to the events of the day. Benedict watched Y/N’s eyes light up with each forkful, his heart swelling with love and gratitude.

As they savored the cake, Y/N reached across the table, taking his hand in hers. “Thank you, Benedict,” she said softly, her voice filled with warmth. “For everything.”

Benedict squeezed her hand gently. “Always, my love,” he replied, his eyes shining with devotion. “For you and our child, always.”

They sat there together, in the soft glow of the kitchen, enjoying their midnight snack and the unspoken promise of a future filled with love.

[taexual]

sleepwalking ● 19 | jjk

pairing: jungkook x fem!reader

summary: due to unfortunate circumstances, you ended up managing your ex-boyfriend’s band. you thought you’ve both made peace with it, but suddenly he’s very eager to prove to you that first love never dies.

genre: rockstar!jungkook / exes to lovers

warnings: explicit language, ANGST & FLUFF (i mean it, watch out), SLOW BURN

words: 14.5k

read from the beginning ○ masterlist

chapter 19 ► so dig two graves, ‘cause when you die, i swear i’ll be leaving by your side

When the tour bus arrived in Glasgow, you realised that you had slept perhaps a quarter of an hour in total tonight. Discomfort and Regret had become unwelcome companions that kept you up.

Last night, you had planned to talk to Jungkook, but he flipped the script and did all the talking instead. And if you had to describe your choices from then on, you’d have to accept that, essentially, you had run away without saying anything.

You realised now, through tossing and turning in your bunk the whole bus journey, that this was your recurring pattern.

When you and Jungkook first broke up, you’d barricaded yourself in your apartment and only ventured outside when it was unavoidable, like to go to work. Or when your friends forced you out of bed. They tolerated your need for silence in moderation—a few days of self-imposed isolation were okay. But two consecutive weeks was a little excessive.

In Stockholm, the impulse to run away had gripped you right after your conversation on the bridge sank abruptly in the waters below. In Oslo, you had actually run away after you’d almost kissed. You could still feel the shivers on your skin from the cold night air on the rooftop terrace. And, of course, you’d also planned to avoid him when you arrived in Manchester.

It was a pattern that was doomed to end in failure every time, yet you stubbornly refused to give it up.

You wanted to escape the feelings that frightened you, but they only ran faster. They chased after you like daunting shadows. They caught up with you. They engulfed you.

This perpetual cycle wasn’t just futile, it was also unfair—to you and to Jungkook. And to Rated Riot, too.

It had gone on for too long.

You were determined to redeem that today.

While Jungkook and the boys were doing an interview on a local radio station after the soundcheck, you chose to stay at the venue to work. Initially, you only intended to answer internal company emails and update the label executives, but unsurprisingly, that morphed into more tasks that needed your immediate attention.

Seated at your laptop in the band’s dressing room, you spent a good couple of hours finalising Rated Riot’s schedule for the rest of the week, emailing back journalists and verifying their credentials before issuing backstage passes for upcoming interviews, and humming along to a tune playing in your headphones.

It was then—during the chorus of an old Bad Omens song that was loud and messy enough to keep your mind alert and focused—that Seokjin decided to tap you on the back.

You jumped up as high as it was humanly possible and pushed your laptop away as if to protect it from intruders—which was what your mind assumed Seokjin to be, apparently. He took a step back, shocked and very entertained by your violent startle.

“Shit, sorry,” he said, attempting to suppress a smile. “You’ve been—you’ve been working here by yourself for hours. I’m taking a coffee break. Want to join me?”

With one hand pressed to your chest, you slid your headphones off and checked the time on the corner of your laptop screen. “Uh, sure. Coffee sounds nice.”

The two of you found a quaint café a few blocks from Barrowland where Rated Riot would be playing later that evening. But despite the cosy setting, you chose to grab your coffee to-go. It was a warm, sunny day outside. Seokjin thought you could use some fresh air.

“So,” he said eagerly, as soon as the café bell tinkled, announcing your exit, “what’s on your mind?”

You met his question with surprise. “What do you mean?”

He maintained an air of nonchalance, sipping his Americano and observing casually, “your pupils are massive. You look like you’re planning a revolution. Or a massacre.”

You took a sip of your drink and regretted not stirring the caramel in better. You wondered what it would be by the end of tonight: revolution or massacre.

“I was—well, it’s nothing much,” you said. “I was just thinking that things might be different when we got home.”

“How so?”

The two of you crossed the street towards a small, vibrant green space—not quite a park—with a tree-lined pathway in the middle and an old blue police box nearby, reminiscent of Doctor Who.

“Well,” you said, “I hear Brazil is really nice that time of year.”

“You’re thinking of going on holiday?” Seokjin asked, surprised. He’s known you since you joined the company, even before you started to manage Rated Riot, and he was well aware of your lack of holidays. The HR department, however, remained blissfully ignorant about it.

You shrugged. “For starters.”

“And then?”

“And then we’ll see.”

The ambiguity in your response wasn’t worrying in itself, but combined with your reluctance to meet his gaze and the intense concentration on your coffee—even though you winced every time you took a sip—it was certainly alarming.

“You’re not… going to quit, are you?” he asked hesitantly. “I’ve heard about Reconnaissance.”

Of course, he’d heard. At this point, enough people knew about it for the news to have a ripple effect and circulate backstage.

“No,” you said, trying to dispel the tension with an airy laugh. “Of course not.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

“I’d find a replacement first.”

Seokjin’s casual stride came to an abrupt halt. A few steps ahead, you realised he’d stopped and turned around.

“No,” he said.

His firm declaration made you stutter. “Th-that—that wasn’t a question.”

“And that’s not an option,” he argued. “You can’t quit.”

“I’m not saying I’m leaving for sure. I’m just saying that if I did leave, you wouldn’t even notice the difference,” you said. “I’m a very good teacher.”

With that, you started to walk away, leaving him little choice but to catch up.

“And I love all of you guys,” you continued while Seokjin grunted next to you. “I wouldn’t leave you with someone I didn’t personally trust to take care of you and the band.”

He shook his head, his determination unwavering. If he had known about the band members’ conviction that no one would blame you if you left Rated Riot due to the alluring offer from Reconnaissance, Seokjin might have been tempted to express his disagreement with his fists.

Of course, people would blame you—Seokjin was the people in question.

You belonged here. You were an essential part of the team.

He was convinced of this, and he was going to be annoying about it.

“Okay, I appreciate that,” he said, his tone tinged with incredulity. “Except, what the fuck are you thinking? Of course, we’d notice the difference! You’re you. We love you.”

“That means a lot—”

“But not enough?”

You hesitated, caught off guard by the intensity of his anger. “No, it’s—”

“Alright, look.” He stopped walking again, the paper cup of coffee in his hand more of an accessory than a beverage. “Is this about Jungkook?”

An unexpected heat surged through you and a cascade of excuses immediately raced through your mind. You scanned the pathway, reading the names of the bands imprinted into the pavement with colourful stripes—artists who’d performed at Barrowland before, you assumed—so you wouldn’t have to look at him.

But this was Seokjin. If there was anyone who knew everything that was going on in the band, it was him. You didn’t want to give him pretend reasons.

“In part,” you admitted.

“Well, if that’s the case, then it’s an even more definite no,” he asserted, his resolve unyielding.

You sighed and attempted to smile, but there was a hint of awkwardness in your expression. “I’m not taking votes, Jin. I’ll talk to Jungkook about this, and—”

“You can talk to anyone you like. All the gods you can find, even,” he interrupted. “But you’re not leaving.”

“Jin—”

“Look, when you accepted this job, the fact that you and Jungkook used to know each other didn’t matter,” he stated, tactfully omitting the word ‘relationship’—a nuance you appreciated. “What difference does it make now?”

As you bit your lip and lowered your eyes, Seokjin sensed that there was a difference, after all. It occurred to him that perhaps he wasn’t entirely up to speed on everything that was happening on the tour, after all.

“Okay, you don’t want to talk about it, and I’m not asking you to,” he said, his words gentle, but his tone strict. “What I’m saying is that nobody cares. You can date, you can break up, you can—I don’t know. You can pretty much do anything as long as you don’t kill each other. No one cares.”

“The label cares,” you blurted, the words unpolished and agitated. “I care.”

He waved his free hand dismissively. “The label cares about profit. We’re making a profit from you both. Maybe even more when you’re together because you’re both less annoying that way.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “How are we annoying?”

“Are you kidding? All mopey and sulky?” He stuck his tongue out and pretended to gag. “You make me sick and miserable.”

You snickered softly at the dramatic display. “Fair. Sorry. But fact is, it’s still a good opportunity.”

“Well, sure,” he conceded. “But is that really the reason you want to leave? Or is it because you think that what you’re doing with Jungkook is wrong? You think others will disapprove or think less of you. You think this is highly unprofessional, and it would make more sense to work elsewhere.”

It felt oddly incongruous to hear him articulate—so easily, without a moment’s hesitation—everything that you had been thinking.

“Well, that’s a factor, too, of course…” you said, your voice faltering.

“I think that’s the main factor.”

Taking a sip of your coffee, you mumbled, “I think you think too much.”

“I think you don’t think enough,” he countered. “You can’t leave, not even for Reconnaissance. You’re part of the team, our team. We all are.”

You looked at him, and he raised his eyebrows expectantly—waiting, clearly, for you to admit defeat.

While you didn’t technically need his consent to quit, the sheer determination in his stance made you feel as though his approval was, indeed, a prerequisite for anyone choosing to leave.

“Now you’re making me feel guilty,” you said.

“As you should!” he said—nearly bellowing in his frustration. “But you should feel guilty about mistakenly thinking that you should leave. Not about being in love with him.”

His words struck a deep chord and your heart began to rattle violently in your chest. “I’m—right. Yeah. I need to talk to him about—about everything.”

His tone softened at your reaction.

“I think you should sit down for ten minutes and gather your thoughts before you do that,” he advised. “You should sit and accept that we don’t care if you go out with Jungkook. Whatever you decide, we’re all cool with it. As long as you are, too.”

Afraid that your eyes would betray your thoughts, you shifted your gaze to the silver barks of the graceful birch trees around you. “Do you know about the bet?”

Seokjin took a slow sip of his coffee to allow more time between these overlapping conversations.

“Yeah,” he said. “Is that... uh, have you two worked it out?”

“We’ve—I think we have. I think the bet wasn’t even the main issue, actually, it just—it sort of highlighted all our problems,” you admitted. “We—we’ll have to work through the rest.”

“Right. Okay,” he said. The sun rolled out from behind the buildings, casting a golden glow on the trees and the empty path ahead of you. He squinted and took a sip of his coffee before speaking. “Well, then I can safely tell you that everyone backstage knows about it.”

The disappointment on your face was absolute. “Oh. That—that’s lovely.”

He smiled sympathetically as the two of you continued down the faintly coloured path. Despite the sunshine, the cool breeze toyed relentlessly with the edges of your jackets.

“Don’t worry about it too much, though,” he said. “It’s nothing more than a silly joke backstage. We’re not judging either of you.”

You did worry about it. “What… do you mean by ‘silly joke,’ exactly?”

The two of you arrived at a large sycamore tree with leaves that glimmered in emerald hues under the sun, and Seokjin stopped, grateful for the shade.

“One of the roadies started it,” he explained. “It was just a game. A bet, actually! Funny.” He chuckled at the irony, but stopped himself when he noticed your stoic expression. “Anyway. Someone suggested that Jungkook’s friends were trying to sabotage your relationship by making this bet with him. So, we bet on Jungkook fighting his friends for you. Which—that cost me money, actually. When he showed up at the airport in Cologne with a black eye, I lost fifty euros.”

It took you a minute to process this, and you felt so uncomfortable that your fists itched with an urge to fight someone, too.

“You—so, you bet that he wouldn’t fight his friends?” you clarified, almost hopeful.

“No. I bet that he would,” he said. “But I got too big-headed and bragged about how he wouldn’t miss a single punch. So, everyone claimed that I lost and took my money. Really, I thought he knew how to fight. And he was doing it for a noble cause.” A dramatic pause ensued, and then Seokjin smirked. “I mean you, by the way.”

“No, yeah, I got that,” you said bitterly. “But you didn’t even know the actual—everyone just assumed he had a black eye because of me?”

He pulled his lips together to stifle a chuckle as he moved his cup of coffee away.

“Can you blame us?” he asked with a leisurely shrug. “He’s in love with you, and his friends are complete idiots. And then he shows up with a black eye! The dots connected themselves. Although, personally, I thought Luna or Maggie could have socked him in the eye, too. You three are very protective of each other.”

You tilted your head, your posture a warning. “I see. So, we’re a telenovela to you. Did you bet that I would knock someone out if I found out what you were up to?”

“Not yet,” he said, clearly delighted by the prospect of this happening in the future.

“Did you get your money back at least?”

“Yeah. But then I lost it again.”

The leaves of the sycamore tree rustled impatiently as you groaned. “How?”

“Another bet,” he said. “Some people—including Jimin, by the way—thought that Jungkook’s friends would never come to another Rated Riot show. In the UK specifically. We were very specific about the details in this bet.”

“Right, of course.”

He smirked, unapologetic about the amusement he derived from this. There were all sorts of games happening backstage at any given point in the tour; nearly everything became a joke here. And Seokjin hoped to show you that yes, people did know about you and Jungkook. But unless they could find ways to make it funny, they didn’t care.

He could tell that the more he talked to you about this, the more you started to recognise the absurdity of it all, too.

“Right. Well, Jimin won that round. I actually—I thought Jungkook would change his mind and bring his friends back,” Seokjin confessed. “Serves me right. I should have trusted him more.”

You raised your cup in his direction.

“Yeah,” you said. “Serves you right for making bets about this. He blacklisted Sid.”

“He—oh!” Seokjin seemed very pleased to hear this. “Well, that was worth my money, then.”

“Hmm.”

He grinned, the mischief still lingering in his eyes.

“We have another bet going on,” he said.

“Anoth—well, of course.” Your teeth dug into the coffee lid as you tried to take a sip, but reconsidered. “So, what? Who’s getting a black eye this time?”

“It’s whether you’ll get back together.”

Your irritation wavered in surprise. A rustling stirred inside you as though you had swallowed the wind and carried it within.

“Well,” you said. “Where’d you place your bets?”

“Drink your coffee,” he said. You did. It had cooled and turned unpleasantly sweet as the caramel settled. “I haven’t bet on that yet. But if you told me if you’re considering going back to him, I could win my money back.”

You made sure to swallow before looking up.

“That’s not solely up to me, though,” you said, sensing an obvious defensive undertone in your own voice. You didn’t make much effort to conceal it; he would have read right through you anyway. “A relationship typically involves two people. I can’t force him to be in it.”

Seokjin offered a patient smile.

“Please,” he said. “Everyone knows he’d burn down half of Europe for you.”

You swallowed again.

It was just you. The only one still fighting it.

“Well, in any case—” Seokjin said, distracted, suddenly, by a particularly cheeky pigeon that kept flying up to your ankles, then to your knees. “That bird is going to steal your coffee.”

You glanced down, and the shift in your position frightened the pigeon into flying a few metres away. Seokjin nodded in approval.

“Anyway,” he said. “What I meant to say is that I don’t know how much my opinion is worth, but if the only reason you’re considering quitting is because of this, then that’s nothing. You sit down, you work through your problems, you get back together, and you’re good to go. Well, good to stay. It’s up to you. No one else cares.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Everyone’s talking. They’re making bets about us. We—we’re a joke backstage. And yet you think we should get back together?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Give us something else to bet on.”

Exasperation flashed across your face. “I’m thinking I’d like to sic that pigeon on you a little bit.”

“Oh, but what would you do without me?” He was grinning in a manner so endearing and genuine that you felt your lips stretch into a defeated smile as well. “You know we’re family. That is what we do. And you said it yourself – everyone’s already talking. And no one’s truly bothered by it. You might as well do what you want.”

You took a big gulp of your coffee to finish it.

Some of the humour faded from his eyes while he watched you. He looked around—to make sure the pigeon hadn’t returned and to gather his thoughts.

“Just think about it, okay?” he said. “You know how they say ‘measure twice, cut once’? Why don’t you measure three times? Four, even. Five. Or, I don’t know, as many times as it takes until you realise that there’s no need to cut anything. Everything’s great as it is.”

Your face felt warm. “That’s very profound.”

“It is.” He nodded, his exaggerated confidence faltering a little when he saw the gratitude in your eyes and suddenly found himself timid. “I’ve also got a few carpentry jokes if you’re in the mood for those.”

Laughing finally, you shook your head. “Maybe later. But thank you for this.”

“You’re welcome,” he said. “And notice how I’m not saying ‘anytime’? Because there can’t be another time that this happens. In fact, the next time I see you, it’ll be as if we never had this conversation.”

Still smiling despite his threatening tone, you put your palm to your forehead and extended your fingers in a salute. “Sir, yes, sir.”

He nodded, content with your response.

“Now go back to that café and bring me a scone,” he ordered, his expression bright again. “I got distracted by your misery and forgot to buy one.”

You snorted and nodded—you did owe him a scone, at the very least. Seokjin stepped deeper into the shade by the tree and waited while you jogged back towards the café. He looked up to see your lighthearted expression reflected in the window across the street and felt himself exhale in relief.

He’d done his job—you knew everyone needed you here.

You returned to the venue with enough scones for the whole staff, and as you passed them out, almost everyone on the team regarded you with a mix of curiosity and anticipation. It was a nice change from their earlier concerns about your health, but you still felt uncomfortable.

There was an obvious reason you enjoyed working backstage: here, you successfully evaded the spotlight. You did your work quietly and got to spend time with your friends.

But lately, you’d been feeling everyone’s eyes on you and, naturally, your instinctive reaction was to flee. Really, this had to be inherent; you wondered if your brother shared a similar flight-or-flight-never-fight response when confronted with an uncomfortable situation.

And still, you forced yourself to wait.

Following your conversation with Seokjin, you decided on the key points that you needed to discuss with Jungkook. And they were simple: share your thoughts with him and make a decision together.

You’ve never really tried this with him before; open communication was a recent development for the two of you. But you meant what you told Seokjin: a relationship involved two people. And regardless of what -ship you and Jungkook were currently in, your decisions still influenced his, and his influenced yours.

You had hoped to speak to him after he returned from his interview, but it was almost funny how time worked against you today.

After the band returned, you went to help Jungkook with his bandages, and the company executives decided to respond to your email with a phone call. And so, you were forced to stay on the phone with the label the whole time before Rated Riot went on stage.

That was okay. You figured you would talk to Jungkook later.

But later just wouldn’t come.

After the concert, you waited for the band to finish taking pictures with their fans before you took them to another interview with several more radio hosts. And when you returned to the bus, the curtains on Jungkook’s bunk were drawn. You didn’t want to wake him in case he was asleep.

The only time you finally had direct contact with Jungkook was on the plane to London. He surprised you by approaching you from behind and casually lifting your carry-on to the overhead compartment. Then, as though he hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary, he turned around to return to his seat.

“Wait,” you called out. “Can I—can we talk? Yoongi said he’d switch seats with me.”

Jungkook stopped, his stomach sinking. He was the undefeated champion of misinterpreting situations—he hadn’t forgotten how your conversation had ended last night, but he still thought this was about Sid.

Because while you were beating yourself up about your avoidant tendencies, Jungkook was grappling with a different problem.

Since this morning, he had been bombarded with incessant text messages from an unknown number that ranged from vaguely bothersome (“UR SO DUMB LMSAO”) to genuinely threatening (“DNOT THINK THS IS OVER YOU FUCKVING CUNT”). All texts contained a certain distinctiveness: full capitalisation, typos, and a disturbing scent of wounded ego.

It was Sid, Jungkook was absolutely sure of it.

He seemed to be in a white powder induced frenzy, which wasn’t particularly unusual—Jungkook didn’t think he could remember the last time Sid had been completely sober—but the frequency of the texts was a little unsettling. Jungkook thought the bet was over now, even if Sid wasn’t satisfied. But clearly, Sid was craving something more.

Jungkook wasn’t sure how you would know about this or why you would bring it up now, but he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket again, and he thought this had to be the reason why.

“Sure,” he said, trying to mask his apprehension. He turned on airplane mode on his phone and looked up. “What’s, uh—what’s going on?”

You gestured at his seat. He sat down with bated breath—as if his life was about to change and he needed to brace for it—and waited for you to settle beside him.

“I wanted to, uh, explain myself,” you began as the plane filled. The rhythmic sound of people shuffling across the aisle was oddly soothing. Jungkook, however, appeared perplexed. “And to thank you, actually. For being there when I—well, when all of that happened. I’m sorry I caused—”

“You’ve already thanked me,” he interjected. “And you better not tell me that you’re apologising for fainting right now.”

“I’m—well, I’m just saying, you were right,” you said, disheartened by the disbelief in his eyes. You placed your water bottle on the fold-out tray and shifted in your seat. “I should have known better. Rested more. I guess what I’m saying is that I’m sorry I didn’t listen, and it all led to... that.”

He sighed. This wasn’t about Sid; this was about something worse.

“That’s who you are, though,” he said. He should have known this would be something you would blame yourself for once you recovered. “You always have to get everything done, or you—you can’t sleep. You need to, uh, work on that, but you don’t need to apologise for it.”

You looked down, tracing a shaky finger over the armrest between your seats.

“And,” he added before you could speak, “to be fair, a lot of things that happened on tour were actually out of your control. You had no choice but to put in extra time and effort, I guess. The stage constructions collapsed, the venue was flooded—”

“Right, but these—well, anyway,” you cut yourself off, reverting to your original train of thought. “I’m sorry you had to drop everything a-and worry about me. Well, not just you; the whole thing ended up being a big scene that disrupted everyone. But I—I wanted to say this to you, first of all.”

He observed you for a long moment. Between the truce you’ve decided on in your hotel room, the conversation he’d overheard about your meeting with Nick, and the disturbing messages from an unknown number, Jungkook was having a hard time comprehending what he’d done to warrant an apology from you right now.

Then, a troubling thought occurred to him: what if this was your way of saying goodbye?

He had let you go last night. What if you had decided to leave, and this was the prelude to the end of your time together?

“I’m—I didn’t have to do it,” he said. “I did it because I—well, I mean, you were passed out. Of course, I wanted to make sure you were okay.” He leaned forward in his seat. “It kind of sounds like you’re forgetting that you’re not just the manager here. You’re also my—uh, y-you’re our friend. We all would have acted the same way if it had been anyone else. It’s an ‘all for one, and one for all’ situation with us. You know that.”

He was right; your team had grown so close that none of you would have hesitated to help each other. Your unease simply stemmed from the fact that you were the one receiving help this time.

You swallowed. You thought you owed him an explanation about everything, but you haven’t even really gotten to it yet.

“Thank you,” you said. “For what you said and—and for what you did. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

He gave you a hesitant smile. “Was I really so terrible at taking care of you that it made you change your workaholic ways?”

You raised your eyebrows, surprised by the gentle teasing in his words.

“No, you di—you were great. Except for the fact that you didn’t need to do that,” you said, shooting him a look that he promptly rolled his eyes at. You added, “I say that with gratitude, of course. But, um, I felt very uncomfortable just lying there while everyone else—well, can��t let that happen again. Anyway, this isn’t—”

“I hope it won’t happen again,” he interrupted. “But it’s—well, you’ve spent your whole life taking care of... everything. Your brother, your mum, uh, e-even me. It’s second nature to you, I don’t know how else to—you can’t help but actively try to fix things. So, I-I don’t mind being the person who reminds you to take it easy sometimes. I just want you to listen.”

He’d said something very similar to you last night and you dug your teeth into your lower lip so you wouldn’t argue.

You thought you weren’t doing a very good job of fixing things—nevermind that you’ve subconsciously turned absolutely everything around you into your personal responsibility, and it was simply unrealistic to take care of it all.

“Thank you,” you chose to say. “I just, um—I don’t want you to think I’m talking to you so you’d make me feel better. You don’t need to do that. And it’s my turn to expla—”

He whipped his head to look at you so suddenly—an almost offended expression on his face—that the rest of your sentence got caught in your throat.

“Wh—why do you always think that?” he asked. “That I do something for you because I feel like I have to?”

“I don’t—I know you’re not—ah.” Leaning back in your seat, you attempted to rearrange your thoughts as if you were shuffling stubborn cards in a deck—trying to find the one you needed to win a game against yourself. “That’s not even the main thing I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Okay,” he said, a little worried. “What is the main thing?”

It took you a moment to find your breath.

“The conversation that we had last night—well, not just last night, actually, it’s been happening for a while. But, uh, last night specifically—it wasn’t supposed to end like that,” you said. He lowered his eyes. “That’s what I wanted to, um—to bring up. Because we’re not talking again, you know? I mean—okay. That’s not true. You are talking. But I’m not. I-I think it’s still new to me that we’re—that we’re actually talking about things. About everything. I’m sorry I haven’t said much to you in return.”

You exhaled when you finished speaking—finished stammering, really—but you didn’t feel relieved. There was a lot more you had to say.

Jungkook, on the other hand, felt his thoughts drift back to Amsterdam once again, when he had entered your hotel room to apologise, and you told him you forgave him and apologised in return. He remembered the pained, laboured beating of his heart as he listened to you—thinking, all the while, that he had no right to want you all for himself.

Now, he had some additional time to think about how to respond, because the flight attendant started the safety demonstration at the front of the plane, preparing for take-off.

He fastened his seatbelt, relieved by the silence on his phone—but the quiet pause between you as the plane lifted off the runway felt very loud in his head.

“You know,” he said after a few minutes, “you find the weirdest things to feel guilty about.”

You furrowed your brows while Jungkook idly twirled the onyx signet ring on his index finger.

“You’re never obligated to respond to what I tell you,” he said. “I didn’t say any of those things to you in Manchester in exchange for your immediate forgiveness, or for some similar stories, or for—anything, really. You don’t owe me anything. I just wanted to tell you everything, and that’s it.”

“I-I get that,” you shifted in your seat, restricted by the seatbelt, “but I’m your manager. And I-I left you in a confusing, stressful situation by yourself when I refused to talk to you right away. That was—it was unprofessional at best, and cruel at—”

“You’re more than that to me, though,” he cut in. You gripped the armrest tighter. “You know that. And you didn’t… leave me in that situation as my manager. You left me there as my ex-girlfriend. You have that right. You were confused and stressed, too.”

Your gaze slid over his black and grey flannel and the t-shirt with a Rated Riot logo underneath. The plane cruised at the designated altitude, but you still felt pushed into your seat like you had during take-off.

“I don’t—I’m not sure those two roles can be separated any longer,” you admitted.

Oh, whispered an alarmed pang of his heart. And, oh? echoed the multitude of shivers rippling underneath his skin.

“What are you saying?” he asked.

You drew in a breath. You didn’t want to start from the beginning because you had a feeling that he might not let you get to the end, so you decided to start from the explanation—the one that you’d come here to give him, but kept getting sidetracked as he responded to you in ways you weren’t anticipating.

“People on tour,” you began, “are very invested in our, uh—situation.”

Jungkook arched an eyebrow. “They’re invested?”

“Apparently, we’re a popular topic backstage.”

Quickly enough, he thought he figured out your implication: if he hadn’t played along with Sid, the staff on this tour might have been having very different conversations.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“No, that’s not—well, it’s not just your fault,” you replied. “It takes two, right?”

“Right, but I was the one who made the bet.”

“You—okay. But this isn’t about the bet—” you paused. Reconsidered. “Well, alright, the bet sort of kick-started a lot of things, but it’s not—that’s not the problem from my point of view right now.”

Oh, once more. And then, ah.

You were talking, he realised, about the things you didn’t want to talk about in your hotel room in Manchester. The things you’ve affectionately labelled as “a confusing, stressful situation.” The things you were supposed to discuss later, when the time was right. Except he had succumbed to the terminal case of nothing-matters-anymore-if-you’re-leaving-the-band and got drunk instead.

“Okay,” he said. “That’s… fine with me.”

“Alright,” you said. “So, here’s our problem: I’m your manager.”

Jungkook raised his eyebrows and pulled his chin back.

“If that’s our only problem,” he said, “we are very lucky people.”

A brief smile flickered on your face.

“It’s our biggest problem,” you clarified. “But we definitely are lucky.”

Encouraged by the amusement in your eyes, he grinned. “Because we have each other?”

Your smile grew and even the plane itself seemed to shake a little when his heart rate accelerated at the sight of it.

“Because we can solve this problem,” you said.

His face fell. He thought he could guess where you were going with this.

“How do you mean?” he still asked, his voice a low murmur.

You thought you could have used some of the whiskey that Jungkook had sought out last night.

With a measured breath, you said, “I leave the band, and—”

“Wait,” he cut you off. “Is that supposed to be—”

“Hear me out first—”

“No, listen—if the problem is that you’re my manager,” he said, “then you leaving Rated Riot is not the solution.”

Jungkook sounded a little like Seokjin had earlier—a stark contrast from the way he’d spoken to you last night by the bus.

“Are you suggesting that because people are talking about us backstage?” he pressed.

You turned away. “It’s not just that. I mean, they’re already talking and that’s—well, it’s not great. But we can’t stop the wheel from turning now, or however that saying goes. What we can do, however, is stop it before it gets worse. And by that I mean, you know—we need to decide what the hell we’re doing.”

That was what he wanted, he thought. But now he was confused.

You seemed to want to make a decision about your relationship together. Yet you also seemed to believe that leaving Rated Riot was the best option. He failed to see how both of these things were possible at the same time.

“So, you’ve made up your mind, then?” he asked. “About leaving?”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about,” you said. “I don’t want to leave the band, but—”

“Well, that’s the thing, then,” he said sharply, unfastening his seatbelt. Turning to face you, he stumbled over his own confusion, “I’m—I don’t want to hold you back. I told you. But I thought you—I thought it would be—I thought you wanted to leave. I thought—but you want to stay. So, stay.”

Stay.

It was very simple, really, very concise. But it carried a lot more weight than his words last night when he had caught you off guard. When he had let you go.

You wanted to stay. You just didn’t think you should.

Your response wasn’t particularly verbal. “Hmm.”

“Is it me?” Jungkook asked. “Am I the only reason you’re thinking of leaving?”

He didn’t sound accusatory, even though you were prepared for it. He sounded apologetic instead—almost guilty—and you were completely unprepared for that as a million tiny needles pricked at your heart.

“You’re not the only reason,” you replied. “You’re part of it. And I don’t—look, I-I don’t want to leave. But that sounds reasonable when you look at where we are right now.”

He heard nothing of what you’d said.

“That’s not reasonable in the slightest,” he insisted.

“Jungkook—”

“You have to stay. If you—”

“But if that’s the choice that would make more sense for us,” you interjected, exasperated, “then I don’t mind leaving. If—if we weren’t working together anymore, then maybe we could try to finally figure our shit out.”

Now he heard it.

He had a vague awareness that the other passengers behind you had turned off their screens and removed their headphones, choosing to listen to your conversation instead. But he was too stunned by the look in your eyes to care.

So, that was what you were trying to say: you were prepared to leave Rated Riot to fix your relationship.

He opened his mouth to speak, but it took another minute for coherent words to come to him.

“We can—we can figure our shit out while working together,” he said. “Why do you have to leave?”

“It’s—you have to understand,” you said, “that I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m pretty sure neither do you, but that’s how you usually function.” Jungkook sobered up enough to offer a noncommittal shrug. You continued, “but for me—this is freaking me out. I don’t—I don’t know what’s going to happen and what we should do, and—leaving the band sounds—it seems reasonable. It seems safe. Smart. And that’s what I’m clinging to.”

He swallowed, not trusting himself to move. “But that’s—”

“Please, it’s—this is what I wanted to say to you—what I should have said to you last night.” There was a pleading tone in your voice. He nodded, quiet while you continued. “If I stay with Rated Riot, and we try to solve our problems… there are only two ways that can go, right? We both know as much. Either we get back together, or we don’t.”

Jungkook was mesmerised by how glaringly simple this was, in principle: either you used a label on your relationship, or you didn’t.

He knew he was going to love you either way, but he couldn’t breathe, suddenly, at the thought of this other choice in this dilemma—the choice where you didn’t get back together, and he spent the rest of his life deliberately going crazy, so he could return—at least in his mind—to that day seven years ago when he first met you.

“Well, uh, yeah,” he managed to say. “That’s pretty much the choices that we’ve got.”

You reclined in your seat, lifting your gaze to the light control buttons overhead.

“If we get back together…” you began, exhaling. “Then, we might have to face a lot of problems from the label. But we might be alright in the end. I don’t know.”

Jungkook tightened his jaw. He attempted to formulate a response that would be logical and appropriate in this situation. But really, his head felt too small for his thoughts and his tongue too big for his mouth.

“That’s… that’s good to know,” he eventually said.

“Mhmm,” you replied distractedly. “But see, what if we don’t get back together? Or we do, but it doesn’t work out?”

That was what worried him, too—but for different reasons.

He knew that you were looking at this from a pragmatic perspective. A logical, what-would-make-more-sense perspective.

He didn’t think he’d ever looked at it this way. For him, this was simple: he loved you and wanted to be with you. He didn’t care how inconvenient and illogical it might seem to those around him, and he refused to think about what would happen if this love didn’t work out. It would have to. How could it not?

But he recognised his privileges; he knew he didn’t have as many responsibilities as you did. And, alright, fine, he thought about it—realistically, if you broke up again, he’d probably drink until he turned into a puddle of whiskey, while you’d flee across the globe to get away from it all.

And yet—was that all there was to this? Just rationality and calculated decisions?

Jungkook cleared his throat and asked the question that he believed really mattered here.

“Do you love me?”

Someone on the plane gulped audibly and held their breath. He wondered if it was him.

The colour of your eyes deepened, then blurred. “I-I—that’s—that’s not—”

“Answer me,” he whispered.

You tried, but no words came out. This moment resembled the nightmares that haunted you lately: you opened your mouth to scream, but silence stifled every sound you tried to make.

“T-that’s—” you began and stopped yourself before you could stutter any further. You took a breath. “That’s not important right now—”

“How can it not be—”

“Because I do love you,” you said quickly—the words slurred into one desperate Idoloveyou, a hopeless Idoloveyou, a how-can-you-possibly-expect-me-not-to Idoloveyou. “But I don’t think I should. I don’t think you should, either. We’re a—we’re a fucking mess.”

Visibly frozen, Jungkook found himself thinking that if this was the sixteenth century, and the two of you just happened to have this conversation in some public square, the townsfolk would have surely accused you of witchcraft.

It was uncanny, the way you cast a spell on him with just four words—all four of which he heard with perfect clarity: I do love you. Granted, he wasn’t sure if he heard the rest. He felt like he was already burning in your place.

“Right,” he thought he said. He couldn’t feel his face. “But we’ve always—”

“I’m—I have to—I do owe you,” you said. He watched you, his expression oscillating between mild confusion and outright bewilderment. “You said I don’t, but I do. I could have told you what was going on in my head like you told me. Honestly, all this time, whenever I talked to people, they all told me to speak to you. To talk it out. And I closed up in my head instead. If I don’t talk about it, I don’t have to deal with it. You know?”

He blinked, finally. “That’s—”

“I’ll explain it, though, okay?” you said. “Please?”

You gave him too much power—as if he could ever say no to you. As if he could stop listening. As if every fibre of his being didn’t ache to stay close to you.

Warm—so unbearably warm that it felt like he was in the middle of exploring the landscapes Dante depicted in Inferno—Jungkook wiped off the sweat from his palms on his dark jeans.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, okay.”

“It won’t take long,” you assured. “Really, I don’t even have much to say. I’m fucking scared. That’s all there is to it.”

Jungkook seemed to be practising the lost art of swallowing his tongue. He wanted you to continue and you were biting your lip in a way that suggested that this was not all there was to it. You only wished it was.

You took a trembling breath, and your lungs followed—quivering, it seemed, as they tried to provide you with the oxygen necessary for all that you were about to say.

“I spent the first fifteen years of my life watching my parents break up and get back together again,” you began. “And do you know what I felt every single time they broke up? Actual rage.” You laughed wryly here like this reaction was absurd. “But when they got back together, I was fucking—I was hopeful. I refused to speak to them, of course—I was a teenager—but I was… Inside, just like my mum, I also hoped that this would work. That this time would be the one.”

You swallowed and lapsed into a silence so long and heavy that Jungkook worried you might never speak again.

Fifteen years, he thought. And all this time, he’d assumed that your dad left for the final time when you were twelve. That was already bad enough, of course, but Jungkook hadn’t realised that the back-and-forth between your parents that you’d mentioned back in Tilburg had taken place after that. He hadn’t realised that you and your brother had gone through three years of almost having a father—and your mum through almost having a partner.

“I knew they were a tragedy together,” you continued. Jungkook didn’t know how to raise his eyes to look at you. “It was obvious that it wouldn’t last. I always knew it, and I always said that to my mum. But deep down, I still fucking hoped that they’d get together and it would work.”

You shook your head with a cold, unforgiving smile.

“How fucking stupid,” you concluded. “All hope does is bring misery and disappointment.”

“You were a child,” he said, his brows drawn together—sad and a little scared for your younger self. “You just wanted your parents to be together. You wanted a family.”

“Yeah,” you said with a sigh. Then again, “yeah.”

A minute passed without either of you speaking. Flight attendants crossed the aisles, offering complimentary snacks, but missing you—either by mistake or because there was no one in your seats on the plane. The two of you were somewhere else.

“I think,” you said once the commotion around you quieted, “that I wasn’t just angry at my mum for trying again and again, even though it never worked. Or for never losing hope that maybe they could be happy together. I think I was also angry at myself. Because I never truly lost hope, either.”

Jungkook hung his head, his lips tight in silent contemplation.

“So that’s what I’m afraid of,” you said. “I’m scared that this—us—will turn out to be like that. I’m scared that we’ll let wishful thinking take over, and we’ll get back together even though we shouldn’t. Even though it’s obvious that we won’t last.”

Right away, he wanted to insist that you would defy those odds. That there was nothing obvious about the two of you whatsoever. He wanted to promise all that and more, but it wasn’t right—not after you endured fifteen years of broken promises between two of the most important people in your life.

“You, um—” he started to say and coughed suddenly, caught off guard by his dry throat, “—you told me before that you admired your mum’s courage. F-for trying again.”

You handed him the overpriced airport water bottle that you had bought earlier. Jungkook nodded in gratitude.

“I did,” you confirmed. “And I do admire that about her. But I don’t have any of her courage.” You brought a shaky finger over your forehead, not quite scratching it. “I always say that I don’t believe in second chances, but the truth is, I think I do believe in them. I’m just debilitated by my fear that these second chances might not work out.”

Jungkook lowered the bottle. He’d emptied almost half of it in a single gulp, but an anxious undercurrent inside of him had absorbed it before he could feel any relief.

“Is that, um,” he tried to ask, “is that something you feel in general or—or because it’s us?”

You thought about that for half a second and shook your head.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been in a situation where a second chance held so much significance,” you said. “This isn’t a mistake that you can fix. It’s not a human error. It’s you and me. And it’s so—it’s final. There won’t be another chance for us, it’s now or never. And what if it’s never?”

You lowered your gaze, your fingers restless as they toyed with the sleeves of your black shirt. Every now and then, you’d lift your hand to your bare neck—you still hadn’t found any of your necklaces—as if seeking a distraction from the weight of the moment.

“Y-you are—you’re my—” you tried and couldn’t. Finally, you looked at him, and the words you couldn’t voice were right there, shimmering uncertainly in his dark eyes. “You’re my first thought in the morning and the last one at night. I don’t think my heart could take it if I started to have hope for us again, but we didn’t work out in the end.”

Jungkook felt his heart trip over several beats—

Stumble down his ribs—

Crash into his stomach—

Roll around the hollow cavities somewhere at the very bottom—

Rise suddenly, all the way back to his chest—

Expand—

Expand—

Expand—

And explode, it seemed. In a flash of light so vivid and intense that for a minute or two, his blood stopped running and he survived on nothing but the words you’d just said.

“And so that’s what I meant,” you finished, and he struggled to hear your next words over the loud pounding in his chest. “If I stay here and we don’t get back together—or we do, but not for long—then what? We see each other every day, we try to act like nothing’s wrong, we learn how to go back to being professional, and then four years later, you make another bet?”

Jungkook found the end of your sentence so utterly unexpected that he wasn’t sure if he had even heard you correctly. His response was half of a gasp and a fractured “I—” before you cut him off.

“I’m joking,” you said with a gentle smile—one that managed to feel both, very fitting and completely out of place in this situation. “That’s—well, that is why I think it’d be more reasonable for me to leave. That way, I think, we could figure it out without some dramatic, tragic consequences in case it, uh—in case something goes wrong.”

“R-right,” he said. A warm haze settled on his face in a delicate shade of pink. It appeared almost soft to the touch. “I… I understand. I-I don’t—I don’t know if there’s anything I can say that would take that away. All of your fear.”

You swallowed and nodded. “Yeah. There might not be anything to say at all.”

Jungkook hurriedly ran his tongue over his lips. He wasn’t thinking about you leaving right now. He was thinking about you staying and fighting through it.

He wanted to say something more, but he didn’t think he could mend these particular wounds in your heart. They ran deeper than his love could reach.

It wasn’t him that you should have talked to about this. It wasn’t him that could help you reach an agreement—or, at least, an understanding—with your own self.

“You should talk to your mum,” he said.

You looked up from the floor of the plane, surprised. “What?”

“Talk to her,” he repeated. “Just to hear what she thinks about everything. To hear her reasoning. To understand why she made the choices that she did. I think that would be good for you both.”

Your surprise deepened and gained an edge. You looked alarmed, as if the notion that a caregiver could ease your hurt rather than deepen it was new and foreign.

“I’ve—we’ve never—my mum and I have only talked about her relationship with my dad maybe once in our whole lives,” you said. “I have never even talked to her about my own relationship. You know I haven’t.”

He nodded solemnly. “I have, though.”

“What?” you asked. There was a ringing in your ears. “You have—you’ve talked to—to my mum? About—”

“I’m sure she’ll tell you everything.”

For a good minute, you watched him with an expression that held more questions than possible ways of asking them.

“I—I’m very confused right now,” you managed.

He nodded again, understanding, but still not offering any explanations.

He’d told you most of everything, really—he’d called those bits of the story “Haunting” and “Cursed.” But the rest of it had to be something you pieced together on your own.

For a long time, he had imagined this to be something that would hit you years later, perhaps when you would accidentally hear an old Rated Riot song. You’d think no, it can’t be, and you’d rush home. You’d pull out the albums, the track lists, and the lyrics.

And you’d know.

These conversations with your mum were his far side of the moon—invisible, but still present, still heavy.

These conversations were his thoughts and hopes and countless fears.

They were everything he brought to Rated Riot and everything he expressed in the recording booth, in Namjoon’s studio, and on stage.

They were his past and his present, and someone else’s future.

They were him without you, but still searching for you every morning when he woke up.

They were you, you, you.

Everything he’d ever talked to your mum about had been his songs. And all his songs had always been a tale about you—in every banal, every impossible narrative he could find within himself.

They were about seeing you and growing wings.

About kissing you and coming home.

About losing you and bleeding out.

About forever and five minutes that don’t mean anything once they’re over.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not capable of much else. “I needed her help with something. I didn’t really tell her anything, uh, directly, so to speak. But she—she knows. She’ll tell you everything. It’s just, um—you have to talk to her, too. You have to tell her what you told me.”

Airplanes, you realised suddenly, made it very easy to force yourself to stop running away. There was nowhere to escape—you could see the clouds reflected in his eyes and you were already falling in them anyway.

“I’ll talk to her,” you said.

Jungkook gave you a small nod and scratched his knee absentmindedly.

“I want you to stay,” he stated. “With the band. It’s—it’s selfish, but it’s the truth. I’ve always tried to encourage you to stop thinking so much a-and just do what you wanted, and this—this is what you want, despite your fear. You want to stay.”

You looked at him with a forlorn expression and he felt his hands twitch at his sides.

“But what will we do?” you asked.

“We’ll figure it out,” he promised. “I mean, we’ve gotten this far, right? So, give us a chance. We’re not completely hopeless. We can... talk our way through it all, step by step.”

You’ve talked your way through a lot and you have gotten this far, that was true. Even if the journey hadn’t been pleasant.

Seokjin had told you earlier today that as long as you stayed with the band, no one would care about what happened next. And, really, no matter how you looked at it, this was what it all boiled down to: it was just you.

Only you—afraid of what others will say, afraid of getting hurt and hurting him again, afraid of doing too much, and afraid of not doing enough.

“I’m—” you tried, “w-we don’t know what will happen. That’s why I’m—”

“I know,” he said. “And you’re right. We don’t know what will happen. That’s fucking terrifying. I’m scared, too.”

He did look a little scared, but he licked his lips and successfully collected himself.

The two of you were so close to meeting in the middle and taking that first step together—just a little more strain between your shaking, outstretched hands.

“And I-I know that the bet is another thing that—that might make it harder for you to believe that we can—that we can work it out,” he added, spinning his ring around his finger twice more. “But I want you to know that it—the bet was a fucked up thing to do. But it gave me a reason to talk to you about everything that I already wanted to talk to you about. I’m—even without the bet, I would have approached you, eventually. It just—I was fucking scared, so it might have taken me longer.”

It wasn’t just you.

Fear was in the epicentre of everything you were saying to each other. It was like the wind in every city you visited on this tour—inescapable, uncontrollable, persistent.

He was afraid, too—of trying and failing. Afraid of getting his heart broken and breaking yours. Afraid of never finding the forever that he desperately wanted with you.

“My point is,” Jungkook finished, “I think this is inevitable, because—well, let’s be honest,” he chuckled softly, trying to lessen the gravity of his confession, “all I’d ever wanted in my entire fucked-up life was you.”

Your breath trembled.

Something very deep inside of you wanted you to believe that inevitability was meant for the two of you, too.

“It’s been four years, though,” you said with a faint shake of your head. “What if it takes us another four to find a way to make this work?”

“It—well, I don’t really care how long it takes, to be honest,” he said. “I’m going to die yours.”

He said that and your heart stopped beating for a moment to listen.

To wait.

To make one thing very clear for you: you would never survive losing him again.

And you were scared—completely petrified—to find yourself in a situation where losing him was possible. Where it was likely.

Jungkook saw it on your face. He saw everything—the anguish, the pain, the doubt, the fear.

But he felt a little exhilarated to find the fight in your eyes, too. This fight was the reason you were talking to him about things that you’ve never talked about. It was the reason you were here.

“We’ll decide everything else when the idea of—of trying again doesn’t scare you so much anymore,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “When you hear your mum’s point of view, and you can make a, uh—an informed decision.”

He noted that there was something softer in your eyes when you looked at him again, but he could still discern the lingering edges of doubt.

“You think that’ll help me make an informed decision?” you asked, touched by his choice of words.

“I hope it will,” he replied. “But we can work it all out, either way. I just think you need to talk to her. It’s been so long.”

“Right. It has been.” You clasped your hands around your neck and tucked your chin between your palms. “It—it probably won’t be an easy conversation, though.”

“Nor will it be short, I imagine.”

“Hmm. Probably not.”

He sensed the growing distance between you as your eyes ran over the back of the seat in front of you. He knew you well enough to understand what you were doing: you were mapping out the rest of your story in your head.

He didn’t like that. Your stories rarely had happy endings.

“You don’t—don’t start planning it ahead, though,” he said hastily—before you reached the unhappily ever after in your mind. “It’ll be late when we land in London. You need to sleep. Talk to her after that. When you—when you’re not working. We can wait. We have time.”

Finally, you allowed your gazes to meet again—and to linger a little longer this time.

You took a moment to note that, despite knowing Jungkook for so long, every time you looked at him, you still needed a minute to will yourself to keep breathing. You remembered thinking, after your first few dates, if that would ever go away—logically, it should have.

But you watched him now, seven years since you’ve met, and the beating of your heart still felt backwards.

I’m going to die yours

I’m going to die yours

I’m going to die—

“Okay,” you finally said. “I’ll call her as soon as possible.”

He nodded twice and closed his eyes for a brief respite—but hesitated, suddenly, before opening them again.

He wondered, for a suspended moment, what it would mean for you—this ‘as soon as possible.’

Then he looked at you and decided to tell you what he wanted it to mean.

“Before that happens, though—before you talk to her, I mean—I-I want to still be able to see you,” he said and did so assertively, using the phrase I want, but really meaning, I must. “I don’t want to not talk to you.”

You felt your frosty expression crumble effortlessly into a soft smile.

“We’ve agreed to a truce, right?” you said easily. Lightly.

His heart soared.

He was smiling, too, but with caution—his lips were pressed together as he bit into his lip ring to contain his smile to a level that he thought appropriate.

His shining eyes gave him away, however, and you wondered—the thought sudden and overwhelming—if there was a point in your life when you weren’t in love with him when he smiled.

“Let’s try a friendship,” he proposed.

“Oh—” Your smile abruptly turned into laughter as you remembered trying this once before. It had lasted for about two days. “You know we can’t be friends. We don’t know how.”

The gentle cadence of your laughter made him weightless.

“What are you talking about?” he teased—so high that he was certain the flight attendants were going to ask him to take it down a notch because it was dangerous to float on the ceiling in the middle of a flight. “We can be whatever the fuck we want to be.”

Your laughter grew bolder, strengthened by the relief that you’ve had this conversation, that you’ve decided on your next steps, however uncertain they were—and his smile spread.

You could see him beaming through your half-closed eyes, and there was absolutely nothing—no matter how big or small, significant or not at all—that you wouldn’t have done for him when he looked like that, and no amount of fear could have stopped you.

He'd burn down half of Europe for you, Seokjin had said.

You were worried you’d burn all of it for him.

“Honestly,” you said, “we’re such a mess that I have nothing else to say. Sure. Let’s try being friends again. Why not?”

“For the time being?” Jungkook asked. There was a tentative glint in his eyes. “Until we figure out if—until we decide what we’re going to do with us?”

It was very considerate of him to say ‘we’ here, when you knew that you were the one who needed to get it together in the end.

“For the time being,” you confirmed.

“And you’ll stay?” he asked once more. “With Rated Riot?”

Last night, he had told you he was letting you go, and you needed to hear it—not just to see how much he’s grown, but to fully understand yourself. To stop jumping from possibility to possibility. To accept that it was okay to do what you wanted sometimes.

The past few days were like flipping a coin and realising, while it was mid-air, which side you were hoping it would land on.

“I’ll stay.”

Jungkook thought that this flight was going to be the most thrilling part of his day. But a miracle happened as soon as the plane touched down in London.

His grandmother called him.

It wasn’t an accident like he had initially assumed when he saw her name on his phone. She called because she missed her favourite grandson and wanted to wish him good luck at his concert (and chastise him a little for not wearing “enough clothing” on stage).

Jungkook wasn’t sure if the tears in his eyes were because she’d remembered who he was, remembered what he did for a living, because she’d called, or because she’d confirmed his long-held suspicion that he was her favourite grandson.

Perhaps, and most likely, it was all of these things.

He was so excited that he stared at his phone even after the call had ended, ignoring the influx of more unintelligible, frantic messages from the same unknown number. He probably would have spent the rest of the night fixated on the screen if his battery hadn’t run out by the time everyone settled in the hotel.

At that point, there was nothing Jungkook wanted more than to tell you about the fifteen-minute phone call. However, he couldn’t call or text with his phone off—and waiting for ten minutes until he found the charger in his suitcase seemed like half of an eternity.

Unaware of the lateness of the hour, he lingered outside the hotel, thinking of a plan.

In the end, he decided he didn’t want to draw more attention to your friendship—he hiccupped on the word even in his thoughts—and approached the decorative garden at the front entrance. Ficus plants (artificial, as it turned out) rested in a bed of pebbles (real, for some reason) and Jungkook grabbed a handful of those before heading back to the south wing of the hotel.

He counted down the windows until he identified yours, then took half a dozen steps back from the wall and tossed a pebble at your window. It hit the glass with a gentle thud and dropped onto the grass four floors below.

Jungkook waited for a minute—or what felt like a minute—and tossed another one, making this one bounce against your windowsill before it slipped into your room through the crack of the open window.

He waited again and, finally, your curtains fluttered. A moment later, he saw your puzzled face as you opened the window and covered your squinting eyes with your hand, peering down into the darkness.

“Jungkook?” you called out. “What—what the fuck are you doing?”

“Trying to get your attention!” he shouted with an elated lilt in his voice.

You picked up the pebble from the windowsill and lifted it. He couldn’t see it very well from the ground, but he could see your confused expression.

“By throwing rocks at my window?”

“Yeah!”

“How—are you—for what—”

You stopped. There wasn’t a singular question you wanted to ask, because nothing about what he was doing made any sense whatsoever.

You leaned over the windowsill to get a better look at him, but it didn’t help much. The light from your hotel room made it difficult to discern his expression in the pitch-black night. And the garden lights adorning the exterior of the hotel only highlighted his white sneakers.

“I’m sure there were a lot of steps you could have taken before you had to resort to this,” you shouted into the night. “Most people text. Or knock on the door.”

“My phone’s dead,” he explained, lifting a black block that you assumed was the dead phone. “And I didn’t want anyone to see me going into your room. Can you come down here?”

“Wh—hold on a second.” You retreated into the room to put on a robe over the t-shirt you had worn to bed. The night wind felt a little less frigid when you leaned out of the window again. “Can you just come up here? It’s nearly six in the morning, no one will see—”

“Come on, we finally have a few days off!” he shouted, implying, clearly, that you’d have time to catch up on sleep later. After days of him forcing you to rest, this was very unusual—but, really, quite welcome.

You realised that something important must have happened for him to do this. However, his buoyant voice—and this whole situation in general—also made you wonder if he was drunk.

“I meant that it’s cold outside,” you said. “Wouldn’t it be warmer to—”

“I can—it’s not that bad,” he ended up saying after quickly surmising that his offer to warm you might lead to you throwing that same pebble right at his forehead. “Please?”

You were well aware that this could go on for a while, and it probably wouldn’t be long before your Romeo-and-Juliet-esque conversation attracted the attention of the hotel staff, who would politely ask you to find a different accommodation. The manager already didn’t seem especially pleased when he found out that a rock band would be staying at his hotel.

“Alright. I’m coming down,” you said. “Put the rocks back where you found them.”

He snickered and watched you close the window, disappearing inside of your room.

By the time he returned the remaining pebbles back to the garden, the sky was already beginning to paint itself red. The clouds obscured the rising sun, but Jungkook turned his head just in time to see you walk through the hotel door, and he felt like it was the middle of the day already.

“What’s going on?” you asked, a little concerned about the size of the grin on his face.

“My grandma called me,” he said. “She’s having a good day. She remembered me.”

“Oh, my God!” you gasped. All of your irritation about leaving your warm hotel room at this hour vanished in an instant. “That’s great news! Did you talk to her?”

“Yeah!” He nodded, nearly laughing in pure, beautiful euphoria. “The whole call, she was okay. Even scolded me for breaking the glass on her favourite picture frame when I came to say goodbye to her on the last night before the tour.”

You laughed, infected with his bright mood. “Jungkook, that’s—that’s fantastic. I’m so—”

Instinctively, he pulled you to him by wrapping his arms around your waist. For just a moment, he tightened his embrace and lifted you up slightly, laughing breathlessly when you gasped in surprise.

“I know,” he murmured into your neck as he lowered you to the ground. “I still can’t believe she really called.”

He held you close to him with one hand around your waist, and another one on the back of your neck—and you were stunned for a split-second. Then finally, muscle memory roused you, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, resting the side of your head against his.

“I’m—I’m so happy to hear that,” you whispered, feeling his breath on your shoulder and the goosebumps that rose on your skin as a result.

“I am, too.” He slowly pulled his head back to look at you, and the sight of the smile on his face was enough to pierce your heart with something that you could never remove. “You’re the first person I wanted to tell this to.”

Wordlessly, you pulled him back into a hug. You could feel the stretch of his cheeks against yours as his smile widened, and you realised you’d never want to run away from this. You’d always want to stay.

You were going to stay.

No. That wasn’t right.

You wouldn’t just stay with Rated Riot, determined to destroy every ounce of your fear for him. You’d have mopped up whole oceans for him. Captured shooting stars and stuffed them into jars. Flooded the entire world with an endless sea.

You’d have done anything to have him here like this: smiling so much that he could barely speak while his chest thud-thud-thudded against yours.

You felt so much of it—this vast love that refused to die no matter how much it was beaten—that you didn’t know what to do with it all.

A minute later, you pulled back slightly—a little dizzy from the intense whirlwinds inside your chest.

“T-thank you,” you stammered. “For telling me. I’m really—I’m so happy for you.”

His hands lingered on your waist, extending the moment to the very end.

“Thank you,” he replied, taking a reluctant step back. “She, um—she asked me to say hi to you. You know, from her.”

You were surprised that she remembered you—and brought you up!—and your smile returned, encouraged by the bashful look in his eyes when he said this.

“Give her my best the next time you talk to her,” you said.

“I will.” He nodded eagerly, then slowed down. “Although, I, uh—well—I don’t know when that’ll be.”

“That’s okay,” you replied quickly, not wanting to lose the lightness of the moment so soon. “The important thing is that she’s having a good day today. And she called you!”

You raised your voice at the end of the sentence, and it was enough to rekindle his excitement.

“She did!” he sang. “She said I was her favourite grandson, by the way. So I was right.”

“Oh—hmm.” You remembered pretending to argue with him about this in Stockholm and couldn’t help yourself. “Well, alright. I guess that makes sense. Remember that stray orange cat that she used to feed every night? Reginald?”

“Reggie,” he said, grinning. The cat was one of the first things his grandmother mentioned when she called tonight; it had stopped coming to see her, but continued to take up a large place in her heart. “What’s he got to do with this?”

“Well, I mean, she loved him so much, even though he scratched her every time she got too close,” you explained. “Clearly, she always had a soft spot for troublemakers.”

“Okay, now,”—he clicked his tongue—“my grandma did actually love that cat a lot, so I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You snickered and he laughed, too, and for a moment, he thought his chest might have exploded if he felt any happier than he did right now.

Then he noticed you clutching your robe closer to your body. Whatever you’d worn underneath wasn’t enough to keep you warm now that the initial excitement slowly began to fade.

“Do you, uh… want to go back inside?” he asked, gesturing at the exposed skin of your wrists. “You’re shivering.”

You looked down at your hands. “I’m okay. But maybe we could sit?”

You turned to look around. There was a bench right at the edge of the garden, next to a bronze-coloured flowerpot that was placed in the pebbles Jungkook had used to “get your attention”.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

You shivered all over again when he sat down next to you, and the bench turned out to be smaller than it had appeared. You could feel every bounce of his restless legs.

“So,” you said, “what did you two talk about?”

He brightened at your question, and suddenly, you didn’t think he was anywhere near close enough.

“Oh, so many things,” he said. “She told me she’d like to see us perform. Can we make that happen when we go back?”

“Absolutely,” you promised.

“Yeah?” His smile widened and his bouncing increased. “She’ll probably hate it. Mosh pits aren’t her thing.”

“We’ll put her in the balcony seats,” you suggested. This conversation felt so ordinary that it was hard to imagine you could be talking to him about anything else. “She’ll love every second of watching you on stage.”

“She said she saw pictures from the tour,” he added, giddy. “My cousins showed her Maggie’s Instagram profile.”

“Did she see your pirate cosplay?”

Jungkook displayed a remarkable resilience to the pirate jokes after that first concert—you and Jimin suspected that the response from the audience played a big part in his newfound immunity—and he chuckled at it now.

“She did,” he said. “She said I reminded her of Kurt Russell in Escape from New York.”

You pulled back a little to get a better look at him, even though he no longer needed to wear the eye patch. Most of the discolouration around his eye had already faded and you’d managed to cover up the scratches with a few smaller, skin-coloured adhesive pads.

“Well, shit,” you said. “Maybe I do kind of see the resemblance. You’ve got the hair.”

“I don’t know who that is,” he admitted.

You widened your eyes. “Jungkook. You don’t know Snake Plissken?”

“No, but my grandma said all her friends had a crush on him after the film came out,” he said. “Except for my grandma, of course. She insists she only ever had eyes for my grandpa.”

You both chuckled at this with a childlike glee—the thought of a love that spanned decades felt exhilarating and very possible as the sky awakened above you.

“My mum liked Kurt Russell, too, after the film,” you said. “And she was nine at the time. She snuck into the theatre with her brother and his friends.”

Jungkook inclined his head thoughtfully. “Maybe that guy’s not so bad, then.”

“He’s a classic,” you corrected. “But your taste in films isn’t.”

“That’s actually exactly what my grandma said,” he remembered. “She told me not to come home until I watched it.”

You could hear his grandmother saying this exact thing to him and felt yourself smile again.

“I think you’d love it if you watched it,” you said. “So, it’s not much of a threat.”

“Really?” He looked at you, but only for a fraction of a moment. “Would you—I mean, it’d be cool if we could—”

You knew what he was asking. And your response—like most of everything else tonight—came as a reflex. “I’m sure we can rent it on Amazon.”

“Okay,” he said, his shoulders slumping against yours in visible relief. “That—I’d like that.”

Unwelcome, the raw breeze of the late hour caught up with you, and you felt your body shudder involuntarily once more. Determined to ignore the chill, you opened your mouth to continue the conversation, but Jungkook suddenly leaned forwards.

“Here,” he said, slipping out of his dark flannel. “Put this on. It’s not much, but—”

“No, no—” you tried, but he drew closer to drape the flannel over your shoulders. “You’ll catch a cold.”

“I’ll be fine,” he insisted, pulling back. To further reduce the significance of the gesture, he added, “it’s what friends do. And I’m warm anyway.”

You clutched the collar of the flannel tighter to prevent it from sliding off. Or just to have something to do with your hands. “Well—thanks, friend.”

A powerful waft of his cologne permeated your senses, and you closed your eyes, preserving the refreshing blend of woody and citrus notes that already took up a significant amount of space in your memory.

Every time you inhaled, his scent mixed with a different moment from your life—and it all flooded your mind in an unstoppable sequence.

Meeting Jungkook—

Kissing him for the first time on that rainy night in the park—

Hugging him hello every morning before class—

Borrowing his clothes when you stayed at his dorm—

Losing your mind when you found yourself alone and his scent returned to you, uninvited.

Jungkook appeared to be sharing your memories in real time as he inhaled sharply and tapped his fingers against his shaky thighs.

“Friends,” he said, swallowing, “probably don’t kiss each other.”

His words ignited a fire in the pit of your stomach without any matches.

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. “Yeah, uh—t-they probably don’t.”

“Hmm. Right.”

“As your friend,” you said, sitting up straighter and letting his flannel settle around your shoulders while you lowered your hands to the wooden bench underneath you, “I’m pointing out that you’re on a high because your grandma called. That’s why you’re thinking about—”

“I’m on a high because I’m with you,” he stated. “My friend.”

The fire inside you spread rapidly, wildly, uncontrollably.

The way you were starting to lose feeling in your fingers from gripping the bench so tightly, yet you refused to let go of it, should have probably been studied scientifically.

“Well, then,” you said, “let’s look at it this way: have you ever kissed friends before? Sid maybe?”

Jungkook snorted. “God forbid.”

“Minjun, then?”

“No,” he said. “Do you think I should?”

You snickered. “No. But if we’re friends, too, then we probably shouldn’t do that, either.”

He looked at you, his lips puckered in thought. Unconsciously, you had started to scrape at the dark paint of the bench.

You hadn’t meant a word of what you’d said. He suspected as much.

“Probably not,” he agreed. “But we’re such a mess, though, right?”

The echo of your own words on the plane brought a smile to your face again—a reaction more rooted in easing the sudden surge of anticipation rather than genuine amusement.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “We’re such a mess.”

Jungkook felt a little afraid, which was something that he always felt when the world around him blurred, and he found himself incapable of looking away from your lips.

It was dangerous, this tunnel vision. This singular focus. This impossible, magnetic pull that defied all reason, that made the whole universe tremble with a silent—

He leaned closer.

For a fleeting moment, the space between you was filled with nothing but your echoing heartbeats and silent memories.

For a fleeting moment, time itself held its breath.

You remembered Oslo and the way Jungkook had pulled away. You remembered how worried you were, how horrified—he was drunk, and he’d pulled away. He’d done the rational thing.

Funny thing, rationality.

You thought you were perfectly rational when you closed the remaining distance and your lips brushed against his—hesitant, uncertain, tender. A permission, a question, and his unequivocal death, all in one.

Jungkook inhaled—as if checking if he was alive or just pretending to be—and reached up to touch your cheek. He pulled you closer and stole the remnants of your breath with his kiss.

It was fair, he thought. You had stolen his entire soul.

The touch of your lips lasted for less than a minute—not nearly enough time for the trees around you to exhale in clandestine relief—but the softness of his mouth, the slow, intoxicating smacking of your lips against his, and the faint notes of mint on his tongue did irreparable damage to your pulse.

He stole that too, he supposed, because when he pulled away, his heart seemed to beat with enough strength to support the lives of half the population.

“Do friends discuss what it means if they kiss?” he asked, winded. His chest touched yours every time it rose in an attempt to recover.

Your laughter was breathless, too. “I’m thinking no.”

“I like what you’re thinking.”

Something very tranquil and very happy was inscribed into the contours of your features.

Soft red feathers spread across the sky above you as the city slowly stirred awake.

For the first time in a long time, everything felt like it was supposed to.

“I have a free day tomorrow,” you said. “Well, today.”

Jungkook was a bit puzzled by the shift in conversation but went along with it nonetheless. “Yeah?”

“Mhmm. The girls and I made plans, but I’m, uh—I’m going to call my mum before I go. I set an alarm for it and everything,” you said with a self-conscious chuckle. “I’m going to talk to her.”

“Oh.” He was shaking a little, he realised. He hoped you wouldn’t notice it and decide to give him his flannel back. “Well, that—that’s good. You should do that.”

You nodded, lowering your gaze to the grass and the pebbles below. “Yeah.”

“I’m going to kiss you again,” he decided. “For good luck.”

Your surprised smile overshadowed everything else he wanted to tell you.

“Oh,” you said. “Is that what friends do?”

“Yes,” he replied. “You didn’t know? It can’t be just one kiss, that’s bad luck.”

“Actually, I heard even numbers are bad luck.”

He gasped theatrically. “Oh, but that’s terrible! I’ll have to kiss you three times, then. To be safe.”

You smiled and shook your head. He died a little then, because everything was here, just like in his worst nightmares and his favourite daydreams: your scent, your eyes, your smile. All of you.

“You’re always such an idiot,” you said with so much affection that the wind crept away miserably, defeated by the warmth in Jungkook’s gaze when he looked at you. When he felt your hand on the side of his face—gentle and careful so as not to touch the healing bruises on his cheek.

“Hmm.” He wasn’t sure if he’d ever remember how to breathe again. “You said you love me, though.”

“I do,” you said, beaming, as you ran the tips of your fingers over the edges of his wolf cut. “It’s a burden I have to live with.”

He shivered from your touch and leaned in—impatient, all of a sudden. His lips met yours with a soft, rehearsed touch, and he thought he died all over again when you pulled him closer.

Your heart brought back the memories of sensations that you’ve tried to bury; it revived them and set them loose in your chest when you kissed him back and felt the smile on his lips.

Your heart threatened to quit it, to burst into flames and take you down with it when you felt his tongue slowly glide over your lower lip.

Your heart settled right against his when you parted your lips. When you felt his warm breath mingle with yours. When you held onto him with everything you were feeling, and he held onto you.

He kissed you in every way that a friend wasn’t supposed to, and groaned softly when he touched the back of your neck and felt the relentless roughness of goosebumps under his fingertips. Your body reflected everything he was feeling.

Every time your lips met—gentle and feverish—every time he pulled you closer—frantic and heated—every time you inhaled when he exhaled—sharp and eager—you were setting fire to something that once was and building something new in its place.

There seemed to be small fragments of a foreign nature inside of you both—fragments that had danced with each other long before your first kiss and would continue the lively, eternal swaying for years and years after your last.

Maybe it was dust from two neighbouring stars, drawn together by a force stronger than them, but forced to crash somewhere on earth and settle and quiver and wake up inside of you both.

Or maybe it was something less grand. Maybe it was just luck. Just coincidence.

“See,” you whispered, pulling back. “I told you we don’t know how to be friends.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he replied, kissing the corner of your lips. The sparks inside him were fierce and relentless when you smiled in response. “I think friends can decide what sort of friends they want to be.”

“What sort of friends are we going to be, then?”

“This sort.”

You could see the northern lights and the tails of comets in his eyes before he leaned in to kiss you again. You could taste the longing for the Milky Way and the whispers of timeless meteors on his tongue.

And it all solidified this for you: the two of you were not luck and not coincidence.

You were something much more.

chapter title credits: bring me the horizon, “follow you”

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[cece693]

Well Mannered Son (Norman Bates x M! Reader)

In my attempt to write beyond my go-to slashers, I thought Norman Bates would be a good change of pace. I love his character and (in my opinion) he's a good blend of nice guy and murderer.

Summary: The rain didn't stop, causing you to pull over and seek shelter at Bates Motel. The attendant was cute but raised a hell of a lot of red flags. But who said you were the most sane to begin with?

tags: reader isn't the most sane, ignores red flags, thinks Norman is cute, in a creepy sort of way, mother approves, good thing you're a man

The rain pounded against the windshield, so heavy that the wipers couldn’t keep up. You were driving aimlessly, like you often did when your mind got too noisy. Thoughts swirled in your head, dark and restless, pushing you further down the winding, empty roads. But tonight, the storm made things dangerous—even for you. Home was still an hour away, and with the weather getting worse, you knew you couldn’t make it.

That’s when you saw it—the flickering neon sign of Bates Motel. Its glow barely pierced the darkness, but it was enough. You didn’t hesitate to pull over, the car skidding slightly as you came to a stop in the small gravel lot. The place looked like it had seen better days—run down, forgotten—but that didn’t matter. It was shelter, and it was exactly what you needed right now.

Drawing your jacket over your head, you stepped out of the car and made a run for the office. The rain hit you hard, soaking through your jacket in seconds, but you ignored it. The small office was dimly lit, musty, and eerily quiet. You kicked the door shut behind you, pulling off your drenched jacket and shaking it out as you looked around.

“Hello?” you called out, glancing toward the empty reception desk. There wasn’t even a bell to signal your arrival. For a moment, you considered just going back to your car and sleeping there for the night. It wouldn’t be the first time. But before you could turn to leave, a man appeared from the back office, his face lighting up when he saw you.

“Hi, sorry about the wait. The rain didn’t let me hear a thing.” he explained quickly, a nervous smile playing on his lips as he walked toward the desk.

You stood still, your gaze fixed on him. He wasn’t conventionally attractive, not in a striking way, but there was something about him. He was awkward, almost too eager, but that awkwardness had its own charm. His hair was a little messy, like he’d spent too much time fussing with it, and his clothes were plain, almost old-fashioned. But it was his eyes that held your attention. They were bright, but shadowed by something deeper, something that told you this man had secrets.

“It’s no problem,” you finally said, offering a faint smile in return. “I was just hoping to get a room for the night. The storm’s too much to drive through.”

He nodded quickly, his hands fumbling to open the guest book. "Yes, but my mother and I like this weather. Peaceful. I’m Norman, by the way.” he added after a pause, giving you a look that seemed to weigh you against something in his mind.

“Nice to meet you, Norman.” you replied, signing your name in the book. "I'm M/N." You feigned to not notice the way Norman stared as your hand moved across the page, almost as if committing every stroke to memory.

“Room one’s available. It’s just next to the office.”

“Thanks.” you said, taking the key from his hand. Before you could leave, Norman hesitated, his eyes flickering briefly to the doorway behind him. “You know, if you’re hungry or anything, we’ve got dinner at the house. It’s just up the hill. My mother’s there.”

Mother. The word sent a curious ripple through you. You didn’t think much about your own mother, but there was something about how Norman said it that made you pause. It wasn’t the word itself, but the way he spoke of her, as if she was more than just his mother. She was everything to him.

Most people would find that unsettling. But not you. You found it adorable, actually. Endearing. That level of devotion, the way he seemed so close to her, like she was his best friend. How sweet was that?

“She’s your best friend, huh?” you asked with genuine interest.

Norman blinked, caught off guard by your lack of discomfort. “Yes… yes, she is. We do everything together. She’s really quite special.” His smile grew, this time more genuine, a little less awkward.

“Sounds nice,” you said simply. “Not many people understand family like that.”

Norman’s eyes widened just slightly. He was used to people reacting differently to him, but you weren’t like them. You didn’t pull away; you didn’t give him that look. Instead, you stepped closer, and for the first time in a long while, someone wasn’t treating him like a freak.

“Would you like to meet her?” he asked suddenly, almost eagerly.

Most people would’ve run right there, maybe politely declined or pretended to be tired. But you? You nodded without a second thought. "Sure. I’d love to. Just let me dry off a bit and leave my jacket in the room."

Norman’s eyes lit up with a mixture of surprise and excitement. "Oh! Yes, of course. Take your time. I’ll, um, let Mother know you’ll be joining us."

You gave him a small nod and headed out of the office, back into the rain for the brief jog to your room. The motel seemed even quieter now, the pounding of the rain on the roof the only sound cutting through the night. Inside your room, you hung up your soaking jacket and ran a towel through your hair, looking at yourself in the mirror.

There was a strange feeling in your chest—something like anticipation, maybe curiosity. You weren’t exactly sure what drew you to Norman. Most people would’ve found his oddness unsettling, but you found it comforting.

Maybe because you weren’t so innocent yourself.

The thought crossed your mind as you stared into your own reflection, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. You had your own darkness, your own secrets, skeletons in your closet that would send most people running. You liked the way Norman wasn’t trying to hide his oddness. Maybe that said more about you than him.

You headed back out into the storm, making your way up the hill to the old house. The path was slick with mud, and the house itself stood like a shadow looming over the motel. It felt timeless, stuck in a place that was half-memory, half-reality. But instead of dread, you felt an odd sense of calm.

Norman was waiting for you at the front door, his shy smile greeting you as he stepped aside to let you in. The house smelled faintly of old wood and something cooking—homey, in a way you hadn’t expected. You stepped inside, shaking off the rain from your hair.

“You’re just in time,” Norman said, leading you through the narrow hallway into the dining room. “I…um, I hope you don’t mind a simple meal. Mother likes to keep things traditional.”

“I don’t mind at all.” you said easily, glancing around. The dining room was dimly lit, the table set for two rather than three. Norman noticed your gaze. “Mother wasn't feeling well enough to come down tonight. But she’s watching from upstairs. She can see everything.”

For a moment, his words hung in the air. Most people might have felt a chill run down their spine, but you just smiled. “That’s okay. I hope she recovers quickly." Sitting at the table, you couldn't help but add “And I hope she enjoys the company. I wouldn’t want to disappoint her.”

Norman’s face brightened at that, his smile almost childlike in its innocence. “You're not. Mother already thinks you're very polite."

Dinner was served, simple but comforting—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans. You ate quietly at first, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. In fact, it felt like Norman was waiting for something, watching you closely for any sign of discomfort. You could feel his eyes on you, and you couldn’t help but test the boundaries a little.

"You’re a good cook," you said, breaking the quiet. “You must’ve learned that from your mother.”

Norman blushed, his gaze quickly flickering down to his plate. “Y-Yes. She taught me everything. She’s very particular about how things are done.”

“I can tell.” You leaned forward slightly, your voice soft but teasing. “It’s good to know you listen to her so well.”

The compliment seemed to catch him off guard. Norman’s face turned an even deeper shade of pink, and his hand fumbled with his fork. “Oh, I—I try. She always says that a man should be respectful, especially around good people like you.”

You raised an eyebrow, feeling a tug of amusement at his awkwardness. He was trying so hard to keep it together, but your presence was clearly making him flustered. You couldn’t resist pushing just a little more. “Well, I think you’re doing just fine.” your voice lowered slightly, “In fact, I think your mother would be proud of having raised such a well-mannered son."

As the night wore on, the conversation flowed easier. Norman grew more comfortable, though he still stammered and blushed when you pushed him with subtle flirtations. You found it charming, the way he tried so hard to maintain control, only to crumble with the slightest pressure.

Eventually, it was time to leave. You stood at the front door, Norman’s eyes lingering on you as he awkwardly fidgeted with his hands.

“I, um…I hope you sleep well tonight.” he said, voice soft.

You couldn’t resist one last push. Leaning in slightly, you smiled. “I’m sure I will, especially knowing you’re close by.”

Norman blinked, his face turning scarlet again, and for a moment, he looked like he might melt into the floor. Before he could stammer out a response, you took a step closer, leaning in and gently pressing a kiss to his lips. It was brief, just a soft brush, but enough to feel the warmth of his skin and the way his breath hitched in his throat.

When you pulled back, Norman looked utterly stunned, his eyes wide and his face a deep crimson. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. “Goodnight, Norman.” you whispered, giving him one last smile before walking down the hill.

As you walked back to your room, you couldn’t help but grin at yourself. You knew you’d see him again tomorrow. And the next day, and the next day, and the next day...

[extinctlesspains]

𝐶𝑙𝑢𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠: 𝐾𝑤𝑜𝑛 𝐽𝑎𝑒-𝑆𝑢𝑛𝑔

𝐵𝑦 𝑒𝑥𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑐𝑡𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠

»»——⍟——««

○ ❃ ○ ❃ ○ ❃ ○ ❃ ○ ❃ ○ ❃ ○ ❃ ○ ❃ ○

𝑃𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: 𝐾𝑤𝑜𝑛 𝐽𝑎𝑒-𝑆𝑢𝑛𝑔 𝑥 𝑓𝑒𝑚! 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟

𝑆𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦: 𝐹𝑜𝑟 𝑎𝑠 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟, 𝑦𝑜𝑢'𝑣𝑒 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑎 𝑐𝑟𝑢𝑠ℎ 𝑜𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑 𝐾𝑤𝑜𝑛. 𝑌𝑜𝑢'𝑣𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑖𝑡 𝑣𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝐾𝑤𝑜𝑛 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑚𝑒𝑡 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙. 𝑂𝑛𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑦 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑔𝑒𝑡 𝑎 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑜 𝑓𝑟𝑢𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙 𝑡𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑏𝑙𝑒, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑙𝑒𝑡 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠, 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑎 𝑗𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑦 𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑜𝑤𝑛... 𝑂𝑟 𝑚𝑎𝑦𝑏𝑒 ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑚𝑒.

𝐺𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: 𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠, 𝑐𝑜𝑏𝑟𝑎 𝐾𝑎𝑖 𝑎𝑢!, 𝑓𝑙𝑢𝑓𝑓 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑠𝑡.

𝑊𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: 𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑢𝑎𝑔𝑒, 𝑘𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔.

■□■□■□■□■■□■□■□■□■■□■□■□■□■

As you striked the punching bag in front of you, your eyes caught glimpses of Kwon saying goodbye to his girlfriend. Your jealousy and anger raised as you watched them interact. His eyes were full of love but hers... No, they were filled with manipulation.

Scoffing, you grabbed your water bottle from a small bench nearby that was shaded by a tree. "Looks like you've been getting in more training." A familiar voice pulls you out of your exhausted state. Realizing it was Kwon, you turned to face him with a soft smile.

"Yeah, just letting out some steam." You chuckled, playing off your jealousy with a friendly action. Kwon raised his brow, as if he was wondering what was keeping you so worked up. "What steam?" You placed your water back down on the weak bench, shaking your head with a smile.

"Don't worry about it." Your smile and words played a small role but it took some worry off of Kwon's shoulders. Even if he didn't show it, you were still one of his favorite people and he wouldn't want anything to upset you.

After nodding, Kwon walked off to a separate part of the dojo, preparing for his own training. You couldn't help but beat yourself up for not telling him the truth, but a part of you is troubled on how he doesn't know you like him in the first place. You gave obvious signs on your liking towards him, yet it seems as if he never picked up any of them.

You sighed in defeat before returning back to the punching bag to resume your training session.

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇

That night, it was pouring. The smell of rain and dirt filled the air, making it musky. As you leaned back on your couch for at least one second of peace, the bell rung.

"Coming" You grumbled, making your way towards the front door. All that anger disappeared when you were met with a drenched Kwon standing outside your door. His black hair had been flattened from the rain, and his cocky look had been wiped from his face. Instead there was a vulnerable look plastered on it.

"Kwon?" You whispered, your voice breaking at the sight. "Come in.... quickly." You scoot to the side, letting the soaked and hurt Kwon walk in through the doors. "What... What happened?" You led him to the living room before running to the bathroom and grabbing a towel for his shaking body.

"She had another guy..." He let out while staring at the floor. Tears filled his eyes, making you stare at him with a hurt expression. "Oh... Kwon..." You went in to grab his hand, attempting to console him. "I... I went to go visit her after practice and she had another guy over and she was kissing him... It started raining and your house was closer so I figured if I could stay ov-"

"Hey..." You squeezed his hand at his ramble. "It's okay, you can stay here." Your smile and words gave him comfort and warmth, making him lean in and hug you. "Thank you" He whispered in your ear. Your heart tightened at his words. He pulled away slowly, covering his body with more towel.

"I-..." Kwon sighed. "I don't have anyone else" He fiddled with his fingers "What are you talking about?"

"All I have is karate and you..." He scoffs. "I can't even get a girlfriend from karate." You furrowed your brows. "Kwon, your still young... And I bet you can get a girlfriend whenever you want!-" You started off but was cut from Kwon's words.

"Who? Who would want to date me?" He spat out, his pain turning into anger. Taking a deep breathe, you stared at him with a soft look.

"Me..." His anger slowly dissolved, staring at you with a confused expression. "It was about time I told you." You looked down, grabbing a nearby pillow to hold.

"What do you mean about time?" He took the pillow away from your lap, interlocking your hands together.

"I've liked you for a long time, Kwon." You whispered, looking up to meet his eyes. "Do you understand how difficult it was to see you get mistreated all the time?" Frowning, he took his hand to place it on your cheek.

"Hey, I hear you... Okay?" He brought your faces closer together. "To be fair, I've always liked you. I was just scared you wouldn't feel the same, so I ran to other girls." He admitted. "Well wasn't that a pussy move." Chuckling at my comment, he brought his lips to mine, kissing them with a burning passion.

He brought a hand to the back of my neck, making sure I kept close to his figure while his other hand held my chin to keep me in place. While parting away for air, he touched our foreheads together.

"How about, hm? Was that a pussy move?" He breathlessly spoke, making me shake my head with a smile.

"Absolutely not..." I replied before connecting our lips once more.

[badaslovie]

jealous kisses

pairing: bada x reader

summary: bada and tatter were seen holding hands at a concert and you can't help but feel jealous.

warnings: 🤏🏼 suggestive

wc: ~ 1.5k

a/n: sooo i've never written before and honestly it's not the best, please spare me. also absolutely no hate to tatter i love her 🫶🏼

your head found a place in Bada’s lap as you both lounge around on lusher’s couch; her fingers tracing their way up from your cheeks to play with strands of your hair. you lean into her touch, reveling in her affection. it’s rare these days –with all the filming– for you both to have a moment to breathe and just enjoy the day. bada took this opportunity to have a movie night with you and the rest of team bebe, as a sort of team bonding moment, and lusher was nice enough to offer her apartment as the meeting place.

“what time did you tell them to come?” you look up from your phone to face lusher, who’s sitting on the couch diagonal to you.

“minah texted in the group chat that they were heading up so they should be-” your attention turns to the door at the ring of the bell. “-here.”

you sit up straight –cuddling into bada’s side as she wraps an arm over your shoulder– to make room for the others as lusher makes her way to open the door for the rest. they each pile in taking off their shoes and coats, greeting you three with hi’s and hugs.

“i brought snacks! everyone’s favorites!” cheche waves around the snack-filled bags in her hand.

everyone settles into their respective spots on the couches and excitedly dig into their snacks while searching on their phones for movies that the team could agree on.

“oh my god unnie did you see the picture the fans took of us? at the concert last night.” tatter hands bada her phone, you peek over to see a picture of bada guiding tatter to their seats by her hand. you knew bada and tatter were just good friends, but that didn’t stop your stomach from churning.

“this is so funny people are theorizing that we could be in a relationship, but little do they know…” tatter giggles, hinting at the lack of awareness the public had of your relationship with bada. you two are private about your relationship, to keep your peace away from prying eyes and also because you are on competing crews for swf2. you’re starting to regret that decision.

the others also giggle at the predicament, each saying a variation of how the public would be surprised to know the truth, unaware of your tense body sitting quietly next to bada.

“hey, are you alright love? you seem tense.” bada asks, giving your shoulders a light squeeze.

“uh yeah. i’m just gonna use the bathroom really quick.” you pat her leg and stand up. your head was spinning with so many thoughts that you didn't notice the others quieting down as they watched you beeline down the hall.

you lock the door to the bathroom and turn to face the mirror above the sink. your reflection looked like a blur; your mind racing with the event that just occurred, to all the comments swf2 contestants would make and all the times they were being touchy with bada. but bada would always set boundaries, some distance when anyone would get closer than what she knows you’re comfortable with. and usually you didn’t mind her holding hands as a platonic gesture, you did with your crew and friends too, but the comments just ate at your insecurities. your relationship might not be public, but you weren’t sparing with your affections, so why weren’t comments made about you two?

you turn on the faucet and attempt to wash away the lingering worries. you unlock the door to head out after drying your face, only to be stopped in your tracks by the sight of bada with her arms crossed, leaning against the wall. her brows were furrowed and her gaze was on the floor before she realized that you had opened the door. her eyes full of concern soften as they meet yours.

“you got up so abruptly and looked pale. are you sure you’re okay?” she steps forward to examine you closer, her eyes searching your face for any sign of illness.

you nod your head. “yeah i’m fine, i just needed a moment.”

“if this is about the picture, you know tatter and i are just friends right? you’re the one i want, no one else.” she reaches up to tuck a loose hair behind your ear and slides her hand down to rest by the base of your neck.

“i know… i just needed a moment to pull myself together.” you sheepishly look away, avoiding her eyes. 

"hmm i see..." she hums, stepping forward again and backing you into the wall as she places an arm above your head. 

“is someone jealous?” she brings her head down trying to meet your eyes and you catch a glimpse of her knowing grin. 

“you’re so cute when you’re jealous,” she coos, nudging your chin up with her finger to get you to meet her eyes. “you get all pouty and embarrassed.” her eyes trail down to your lips and like a pair of magnets, her lips slowly find their way to yours. her slow gentle kiss, the warmth of her touch, lulls you for just a moment.

when she pulls away, your eyes make contact for a moment before you avert back it to the wall.

“why are you still avoiding my eyes?”

“i can’t look at you right now.” you mumble.

she lets out a chuckle. “and why is that?”

“because…”

“because…?” she raises her brows expectantly.

“because! If I look at your pretty face right now, it’s just gonna remind me how every other girl thinks you’re pretty too and i can't stand it!” you huff out.

she bursts out laughing, throwing her head back.

“it’s not funny.” you whine, shoving her shoulder.

“maybe just a little.” she says, which makes you pout more –drawing her eyes back down to your lips. she brings a hand up to cup your jaw, pulling your face close enough that you feel her breath on your lips.

“i might hug other people, might even hold their hand… but my lips belong on yours.” her eyes still intensely staring at your lips, her tongue instinctively pokes out to wet her lips as she grazes your bottom lip with her thumb, pushing down on it a little.

“i only kiss you” she pulls you in to connect your lips, a little harder than the last. the kiss grew a little rougher, sloppier before she pulls back. “like this.” bada leans her forehead against yours, trying to catch her breath. you could see a string of your mixed saliva connecting your lips. from the way bada smirks, you can tell she noticed too.

“i only touch you like this.” her hands slide down your body slowly, making sure to take her time. she grazes over your clothed chest, down to pull you at your waist making you arch your body into hers, chests flushing together.

she looks down at where your bodies touched, biting back a smile, before reconnecting your lips. you can tell she was getting needy by how eager her kisses were. her tongue brushes over your bottom lip asking for access, which you give, letting her tongue explore yours. you wrap your arms around her neck, wanting her closer, needing to feel more of her. you feel her fingers dip under the seam of your shirt, grazing lightly over your skin. as though a light graze was not enough for her, she brings her warm hands up your shirt to feel more of you. she stops just above your rib cage, thumbs almost dipping underneath your bra.

“fuck baby, i love how you feel.” she pants out. her touch and words spread warmth throughout your body and your hands instinctively find their way to the back of her neck, giving the hairs a slight tug. she moans into your lips. the sounds of sloppy kisses and her quiet moans echoing through the halls send heat between your legs. as if she can sense it, bada pushes a leg in between yours barely grazing where you need her most. you tug at her hair a little harder for being a tease.

“ah, impatient are we?” she groans, loving the slight pain that shoots down her neck.

“YOU TWO BETTER NOT BE MAKING BABIES IN MY BATHROOM!” the sound of lusher’s voice booming from the living room breaks you two apart.

“THAT’S NOT EVEN BIOLOGICALLY POSSIBLE.” bada yells back, rolling her eyes.

“we’ll continue this later.” she smiles, giving you a quick peck.

bonus:

“so did y’all pick a movie?” bada asks nonchalantly as you both sit back down on the couch.

“yeah, but uh… unnie you smudged your lipstick a little.” kyma pointed at the side of her lips.

bada eyes widen as her hand quickly shoots up to wipe at her lips. the other girls laughed at bada incriminating herself.

“idiot you didn’t wear any lipstick today.” you swatted her hand.

[jymwahuwu]

okay hi i’m new here and i was wondering if 1.) i could be 🍧 anon. and 2.) i was hoping to request yandere!jing yuan with a fem!reader who and yes this goes back to another rq you did of jing who kept spamming and calling reader to do the naughty, becomes super fed up with his shit and starts avoiding him irl. as like, she’s avoiding him and what have you, the texts- calls- and pictures all get progressively more frequent, until you’re basically waking up to pictures of him laying in bed w/o a shirt or, a pic of him after he gets ready- asking if you like his outfit and think he looks good.

but like reader becomes so annoyed that she tries blocking him, changing her number, avoiding him, and he only takes it as motivation to keep up his antics because he KNOWS how flustered it makes you, and he isn’t going to stop. but now he’s becoming slowly more creepy to the point he calls you and says “oh hey bby i’m on my way over 😘 leave the door unlocked for me”

anyways— thanks if you get the chance to do this request! i love ur work and can’t wait to see more from you!

related content: yan! jing yuan keeps spamming you and calling you

thanks for your encouragement! sure u can be 🍧 anon! visiting your house is really creepy lmaooo is there any way to stop him?

TW: yandere, non-con, harassment, looks like delusional but he's not delusional, somehow super lucid

Oh this is going to happen someday, you have all the desperate attempts to stop Jing Yuan- block him, keep changing numbers, check yourself on the street if you are being followed, and walk into the crowd. What you get are messages from [new number] praising your stunts (for avoiding him) and telling you that he really wants you to bend over if it's not in public. There's even something like "[photos 2], [photos 9], [voice message 2:16]". A large number of explicit texts and photos to lure your desire.

You look for a button to turn off message notifications, but somehow there's no way, just like you can't hang up those calls. You believe that your mobile phone has been hacked, but that is the power of Xianzhou technology, what ability do you have to refuse…?

Today's a weird but good day - you didn't see [new messages 42], nor were you distracted by morning and late-night phone calls leading you to surreptitiously watch porn. You're at home enjoying the peace of mind while sipping your favorite drink and watching space TV. However, halfway through the show, you receive a call from the general.

"Huh?" You were a little numb.

"Oh hey baby I'm on my way over!" There was a cheerful voice over there, which brought a bit of sunshine compared to the previous low voice. "Remember to leave the door unlocked for me-" You didn't hold it steady for a few seconds, and the drink in your hand spilled out - what does it mean? Jing Yuan on the way to your house?

"Wait… what?!" The call was over. You opened the chat history with your trembling fingertips, there was indeed a message last night saying "Baby here has a surprise for you tomorrow so we can have a good time (♡˙︶˙♡)"

What follows is your choice, but with the same consequences. You can leave the house temporarily, or stay in the house but lock the door and put a stick or something on the door handle. Leaving the house will only be caught by him like a kitten and brought home under the shocked eyes of everyone. And the option to lock the door, you're so naive, aren't you? Jing Yuan rings the door bell first and tells you "baby your dear boyfriend is here". After getting no response, the general murmured that he was lucky to have your spare key, and you who eavesdropped behind the door covered your mouth to suppress the screaming - how could he have your house key? Seeing that the door handle was stuck, Jing Yuan casually smashed the door handle with a relaxed smile on his face.

It's like a surreal nightmare for you now with an immersive live-action experience.

"Baby, I'm home. Are you eager?" He put his hands around your waist and lifted you off the ground. This is the first thing Jing Yuan does after entering your home. No matter how flustered and annoyed you are, asking him to put you down, the general will hold your waist tightly, feeling your breath contentedly. It takes a full minute before you get back to the ground.

Jing Yuan tries to act like a thoughtful boyfriend, cuddling with you on the couch watching a show (ignoring your struggle in a huff, stroking your boobs), giving you teahouse's popular drink (and throwing the original drink). There's a raised tent rubbing your butt, and you writhe in embarrassment.

General's plan for you is a sweet date at home, and… a sex marathon! He already told you how to pamper you, right? He started holding your cheek and kissing you affectionately and slowly, even as you whined with your eyes closed and pushed his chest with tears. He shudders as the cock buries into your warm and tight walls. It was better than he'd ever imagined in any call. You whimper "no", "this is too big", "I don't want to…" Jing Yuan shushes you, tells you you are adorable, stretches you unhurriedly with his dick.

Even though your house is small for him, Jing Yuan sees this as a lovely bird house. He starts fucking you all over the house, from bumping you on the dining table to overstimulating you and forcing you to squirt on the bed. If you have a balcony or a garden, Jing Yuan even considers taking you out to tease you a little. Of all the furniture, his favorite is your little bathtub. After being exhausted, Jing Yuan puts you in a bathtub filled with warm water and bubbles for you to relax, just like a responsible boyfriend would do. After taking a bath, he knew that you might not be able to walk by yourself now, so he carried you to the bed. He changes you into a pajamas patterned with furry animals. He loves doing these sweet things for you!

General pats you on the back, gently wiping away your tears. Your screaming isn't getting any help. You can only whine, sob, and sniff - until... you hyperventilate and fall asleep. He knows it's a packed schedule for a first date, so it's understandable that you'd be overwhelmed.

He took a picture of your sleeping face, clasped his fingers with you, and fell asleep together. There will be more sweet dates in the future. You will get used to it, right?

[iloveroblox48]

Every weekend you and your boyfriend hanta had “sleepover saturday” wich meant one of you would go to the others dorm,you guys would eat a bunch of snacks,watch whatever moive you wanted,maybe some skincare then hit the hay.it was a simple routine you guys had fell into,you and him cherished it,the long week of training and school falling away as you guys relaxed into each other’s presence.

so thats what led you here you had texted hanta asking about your dorm or his it was his of course his room was so relaxing, the smell of incense and his cologne always wafted through it.once you had confirmed your plans you had went out to get snacks walking to the convince store was something you did together but he wasn’t responding so you went alone listening to your music.

you headed inside the bell of the door ringing throughout the store.you made your way to the candy aisle picking up your favorite candy and his,then you made your way to grab his favorite orange flavored cake,a bag of chips,a couple of drinks, and some random face masks you had saw.you made your way back you assumed you would have responded by now but he didn’t you were starting to grow a little worried but you know he would have told you if something was up.

so after you texting him multiple times that you were on the way to his dorm,you had finally arrived at his door you saw a small amount of light peeking through under the door,so you knew he was awake,you knocked a couple times,only to no response,so you decided to call out to him

“Hanta? love? im coming in” no response again

you opened the door to see if he was even in here,the smell of his vanilla and cedar wood cologne plus an all to familiar incense filling your nose.you looked around to see if he was in here only to be met with him in his hammock sleeping soundly a big fluffy blanket draped along his body,hair disheveled, drool on his cheek.he looked so calm you didnt want to wake him,you put the bag of snacks down near the door turned off the main light and turned on the little light,you made your way towards him,attempting to tip toe towards him as quietly as you could.

“S’that you?”his voice rough

“yeah i tried not to wake you up,sorry hans”

“its fine just come ere”he lifted the blanket to invite you in

you made your way in the hammock your body lying on top of his your cheek pressed against his chest,his arms draped the blanket back on you guys again,then wrapped around your waist,your bodies now entangled into one on top of the hammock.his hands drawing small shapes on your waist.you were growing tired the comfort of him and his presence slowly relaxing you,taking all the stress away from you.you were fighting this battle of sleep,losing of course,eyes becoming heavier and heavier to keep open.

“love you so much” his voice rumbled out,he planted a small kiss on your forehead then fell asleep,you were being stubborn trying not to fall asleep,you soon did though it was hard not to the way he was drawing patterns on your waist,the comforting cologne,the warm blanket,and most of all his soft heartbeat guiding you through the night of peaceful sleep.

❣︎ ➝ Masterlist here!

❣︎ ➝ A/n:i love him so much (๑>ᴗ<๑)

[gaybananabread]

AHHH, ok ok. This is my first time like ordering anything so I’m nervous asf. But I’d like oranges, grapes and cherries with Ler!Jax and Lee!Pomni. Obv everything platonic, and like, go nuts with the plot. (Idk if this is worth mentioning pero I have this silly little headcannon that Pomni squeaks like a squeaky toy when squeezed so like, IF YOU WANT, you can add that.)

IF YOU DONT DO THIS ONE ITS OKK, I rly enjoy your writing and hope you have a great day/ night, tyy <33

Fruit(s): Oranges, Grapes, Cherries

Aww thank you Anon! You’re all good, and love that Pomni would absolutely become a dog toy (¬‿¬). Jax is definitely interesting to write for, and I like playing around with his asshole-ness. Thank you for requesting, and I hope you Enjoy!

Lee: Pomni

Ler: Jax

Summary: Pomni is still getting used to the circus, anxious and uneasy in the new environment. Jax tries to help out, though he does it in his own annoying way.

Warnings: none! This is a tickle fic, so if you don’t like that, scroll away!!

In the circus tent, small NPCs ran wild, knocking things over and babbling nonsense. They were like the Gloinks, but so much worse. Caine had dipped on them once again, leaving the characters to fend for themselves. Zooble peaced out, but the others were stuck with them.

It took nearly the whole day, but they had managed to contain the little monsters until Caine came back to woosh them away. For most of the characters, it was weirdly routine. For the newest arrival, however, it was more than off-putting. Pomni just felt…out of place in the digital world. She wandered around the tent, trying to calm herself down.

-

Jax was walking around, trying to find something to do. He would have messed with Ragatha, but her and Gangle were having some kind of “girl’s day.” Ugh…he wanted no part of it. 

Just as he was considering going to explore the forbidden rooms, he heard the faint jingling of bells. Pomni must’ve been “exploring” the grounds again. While she wasn’t his usual target, the jester would probably keep him entertained until something else happened.

The smug and confident smirk he always wore shrank as he approached her. Pomni looked so…so tired. Tired and way too wound up. Still, he sauntered over, trying to gauge just how upset she was. “Hey, newbie. You sane after that horror show?”

Pomni flinched at his voice, taking a second to register what he said; she’d been spacing out for most of the day. “U-uhm…yes? Why?”

He rolled his eyes, trying to act as aloof as possible. “Really? ‘S just that ya look like you’re about to fall apart. Hey, you think that’s possible here?” Jax cared about how she was doing, but he had an image and a rep in the circus. No way he was jeopardizing that.

“Shut up, Jax…” She turned away from him, rubbing her arm and looking down. The girl felt crummy enough; she didn’t have the energy to deal with his junk. 

He chuckled, leaning down and getting eye-level with her. Jax was bored, yes, but he didn’t want to see Pomni so down. Might as well try and cheer her up. “Aww, c’mon Pom-Pom! Try a smile; it won’t kill ya!” He reached out, trying to poke her side in an attempt to get her to smile. Before he could even get close to her blue side, she gasped softly and jerked away from his hand. Oh…that’ll work.

The look on his face was a dead giveaway to his plan. “Jax, no! I swear, don’t you even think abo-KYAH!” Pomni was cut off by a sharp poke to her stomach, whatever she was trying to say lost in a squeal.

“Oh, I’m doin’ more than think about it~” Jax’s voice was smug as ever, his gloved hands wrapping around her middle and wiggling them into her sides. The bunny crouched down, just so he could whisper in her ear. “Tickle tickle, Pomni~”

Squeaky and bright giggles bubbled out of her, only making Jax’s smirk grow. Pomni was much less amused, kicking and wriggling around in his grip. “Y-youhuhu prihick! Gehet ohoff mehehe!”

“Nah, don’t think I will.” One fun thing the purple rabbit noticed; Pomni was blushing. Really blushing, so brightly that it put the circles already on her cheeks to shame. So, of course, he called her out on it.

“Wow, I didn’t know you could blush like that, newbie!” He cooed, making sure to poke up and down her ribs as he spoke. “Thought bright red was crybaby’s thing, but you go girl~” 

“Sh-shuhut uhuhuhup!” The bells on Pomni’s hat jingled with every sharp jolt and tug, only making the scene funnier. Jax was thoroughly enjoying himself; he had maintained his vibe while also making Pomni smile. True, he was being a bitch about it, but it was working.

Wanting to try something else, Jax clamped both hands firmly on her sides, giving them a nice squeeze. Nothing could’ve readied him for what happened next. “Jahahax! Wouhuld you- *squeak*” 

Suddenly, his hands stopped moving, giving her a quick breather as the shock and amusement set in. After a few seconds, a loud bark of laughter escaped him, his voice more playful than it had been the whole time. “No *sproing*-ing way… You squeak?!” 

Without any further warning, he dug into her sides, rapidly squeezing them in the hopes of more squeaks. “J- *squeak* COHOHohome ohon! Quihihit- *squeak* JAHAX!” The sound was almost like a dog toy’s squeaker; it endlessly amused Jax, leaving the rabbit wanting more and more of the adorable sound.

“This has gotta be my favorite quirk of yours, squeaky-toy!” He squeezed and poked along her sides, sneaking a quick rib scribble in every few seconds. Best day ever…

“P-PLEHEHE- *squeak* NOHO! JAHAX!” While he was more than enjoying the squeaks and laughter, he could tell Pomni was wearing out. Not wanting to potentially get on Ragatha’s very-bad side, he stopped squeezing the jester. “Alright, alright, no more squeezes. That was fun, though~”

Pomni went almost limp in his arms, trying to catch her breath. She looked up at him expectantly, expecting to be released. Jax only laughed at her expression. “Oh, newbie, no. I never said I was done~” The ever-growing blush on her cheeks made him smile wider, his almost haughty confidence growing.

He tested out her neck, smirking at the surprised giggles he received. “You’re just a walking tickle-spot, aren’t ya? There anywhere you ain’t ticklish?” Deciding to be a bit merciful, he kept the tickling to light scratches, exploring the area. 

Much to his surprise, Pomni’s giggles softened, her body going almost slack against his. Jax wondered if he’d managed to kill her for a second, but he soon realized that she was just…enjoying it. Pomni wasn’t trying to push at his hands anymore; she just grabbed his wrists and loosely hung on.

“Aww, Pomni! You like this, don’t ya~?” He continued lightly tickling underneath her chin and the front of her neck, basking in the lazy giggles and lax squeals he got. Jax had no idea how someone could practically melt from getting tickled, but he wasn’t gonna question it. 

“Ihihihi- shuhuhut ihit…” Pomni could’ve had a better response, but she was too comfy to try. While he was still tickling her, it felt much more relaxing and nice in that spot. She could’ve stayed there all day…

Quickly realizing the jester was about to fall asleep on him, Jax stopped and patted her back. Pomni took a few shaky breaths, residual giggles still squeaking out in her daze. The bunny boy just chuckled, trying to help her wake up, in a sense. “You’re good, I’m done, wakey-wakey.”

Pomni was tired, though, and feeling like mild revenge. She just leaned into the purple boy, closing her eyes and letting the sleepy relaxation take over; girl was out in seconds. 

“...Pomni?” Jax’s smirk slowly fell, his brow-area bunching. She hadn’t moved in a few seconds, though he could see her breathing. Did she… That little-

Seeing her asleep on him felt strangely similar to a kitten napping there. It felt wrong to move… “*boing* it…”

Hopefully Ragatha and Gangle will be done soon…

[lady-rose-moon]

Wildest Dreams || Chapter Two ||

A/N: Helloooo everyone, I am sorry that this took so long to be published, I forgot which chapters I had and hadn't posted. Also, My laptop kind of stopped for a week so there's that! I really hope you like this chapter, it really ups the ante! I will not keep you further, ENJOY!

↣ MASTERLIST

“Are you happy, darling?” the gentle voice cut through your peaceful silence and a smile broke through on your lips. The man had reached your side by now in your dreams, his golden and green armour dazzling you as it caught the suns rays perfectly. His ebony hair fell across his shoulders and his green eyes never looked away from yours for long. For him, it seemed, you were a precious diamond. If only this world was real.

“I am very happy,” you replied softly, whispering into the winds and knowing that he’d heard you, this world was entirely yours so you knew he could hear you, you wanted him to. “The sky is prettier than it was before,” you remarked with a soft sigh, feeling his hand slide onto your shoulder as a familiar fuzzy feeling overwhelmed you. His skin was soft, his long fingers perfectly fit your shoulder. As if you were made for him or he for you.

The man chuckled and turned his gaze to the skies for a few moments before he turned to face you again with a loving gaze. “The skies are always this beautiful on Asgard, my dear,” he replied, his casual statement giving you a fraction of an answer to your dreams.

“Asgard,” you whispered curiously, your eyes meeting his and you saw a slight smile light up his face as he reached forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“You are a smart woman, Y/N, a rare jewel to occur these days,” the man commented with a smile, his breath caressing your face as you leaned into the touch, “use that rare jewel to your advantage.”

You awoke after that feeling confused and a little annoyed at the man for not giving you the answers that you desired. Going about your day, you couldn’t help but think about the last words that the man had said to you before you awoke. How sincere he sounded, how lonely his voice rang through your ears, how his eyes – even though they were filled with love – were also filled with heartbreak.

Normally you’d head off to work after the dreams left you but today was a Saturday and the world was your oyster. “I don’t even like oysters,” a voice rang in your mind, similar to the man in your dreams. Something told you to not follow your Saturday routine of Tumblr, Netflix and ice cream, however, drawing you out into the world and down to your local coffee shop.

The bell jingled as you stepped into the door after the brisk walk through the winds and the ignorant heads-down crowd of London. The coffee shop greeted you with the scent of hot chocolates, coffees and foods that were being prepped for other customers. Taking a deep breath in, you smiled and stepped up to the counter, “one hot chocolate, extra marshmallows, please.”

“That’ll be £3.95, Miss,” the server said with a polite smile before tapping in the order and lifting her head, “cash or card?”

“Card, actually-,” you began before someone interrupted you.

“Cash, if you don’t mind, my dear, the lady seems to have forgotten her chosen payment method,” came a familiar voice from behind you and you turned to see the man that you’d gotten used to seeing in armour standing behind you.

You were about to protest and tell him that you had your phone but then you realised that in your hurry to leave the apartment, your phone had been left behind, same as your purse. How odd, you thought as the man passed the cash over to the server, I could’ve sworn my phone was in my pocket.

The man took the change and smiled at the server before turning to you and holding out his hand with the money to you. “Here,” he began with a raised brow and friendly smile, “fetch yourself something to eat on your way home.”

“You don’t need to do that,” you replied in shock as you gazed up at him and attempted to reacquaint yourself with his human attire after weeks of seeing him in just your dream-conjured armour. He’d been gone without a trace for weeks and then showed up today? Yeah, not a coincidence.

“I insist,” the man replied with a smile before pushing the money into your hands and grinning mischievously at you.

You just nodded and looked away, your gut telling you that something was wrong, very wrong with the situation. He’d disappeared for weeks, no meeting on the way to work, back from work, in the coffee shop, nothing! Then, after your dream with him last night, he suddenly shows up!?

“You are a smart woman, Y/N, a rare jewel to occur these days,” the man commented with a smile, his breath caressing your face as you leaned into the touch, “use that rare jewel to your advantage.”

The man before you was the same man from your dream, that’s for sure. Only, he wore suits and kept his hair either up in a half up half down man bun or braided. His green eyes held a promise of mischief and yet also held a sadness. The man in your dreams appeared to hold only affection and love in his eyes when he looked at you. Was it possible that you had called forth the man in your dreams because you were attracted to the man in front of you?

“You never told me your name,” you murmured absently and when you realised that he was looking at you, your cheeks heated and you avoided his gaze again, turning to watch another server prepare your drink.

Before the man could speak, the server looked in your direction and called out, “one hot chocolate, extra marshmallows.”

You smiled at the man and took the cup, sniffing the scent before nodding to your dream-man and walking out of the door. Only, when you were on the step outside did you realise that it was raining. Odd, it wasn’t raining when you stepped inside a few minutes ago. Then again, this is England, it’s conventionally known for its rain. Sighing and accepting your fate, you began to make your way back to the apartment.

It only took a few moments for the rain to cease beating down on your hair and when you looked up, you saw an umbrella held above your head with the man holding it. You only stared at him for a moment before muttering a soft, “thank you”, and standing close to him to escape the pouring rain surrounding the small piece of fabric protecting you.

When he began to walk, you didn’t realise and almost got soaked as the umbrella moved over you. When you did realise, you hurried after him and held the handle of the umbrella just above the man’s hand as you walked down the streets. Nothing was said as you walked, just a quiet that you’d expected to be awkward but instead it was serene and comfortable. You took the time to sip your hot chocolate as you watched the people around you scurry through their day, some forgetting their umbrellas and ending up being soaked and some walking with purpose below the safety of their umbrella.

As you turned onto your street, you looked up at the man and really looked at him for the first time. At his eyes, his hair, his physique, his lips, how he walked and then you thought back to the man in your dreams and decided that they were one in the same. You didn’t know how but this man was visiting you in your dreams, using some sort of magic.

“Here we are,” his voice broke you out of your thoughts, pulling you back to consciousness on the street, the rain still beating down on the umbrella as his emerald eyes gazed down at you.

You brushed your hair back with your nails before staring at your apartment door and then back at him before whispering, “who are you?”

Instead of shock at the question as you expected, the man’s lips turned up in a sad smile and he cupped your cheek, a spark of warmth ripping through you at the feeling, pulled you close and kissed your forehead. “My name is Loki, darling,” he whispered against your skin, sending a shudder down your spine at how familiar this was for you.

You knew the name was familiar, where had you heard it before? Keeping the thought in mind, you whispered a soft goodbye and retreated back into your apartment block and hurried up to your home. While the elevator whirred to your floor, you took a sip of your hot chocolate and were surprised when the liquid was still as hot as it was when it was given to you. It should’ve been cold by now. Another oddity you added to the collection.

Pressing your key into the lock, you gazed out of the window at the end of the hallway and saw that Loki was still standing there, under the umbrella, sad eyes trained on you even from the height of the tenth floor of the block. Opening the door, you left him standing there in the rain, and stepped in.

~~

As soon as you fell asleep, you woke up in your paradise. This time, you woke up in the comfort of your Dream Loki’s arms. Sitting up, his arms moved and fell from your waist as he eyed you warily, as if expecting something like an outburst.

“How are you doing this?” you asked instead, visibly taking him by surprise before he settled and held your cheek in the exact way that he had just hours before on the pavement outside your apartment block.

“Magic is a wonderful thing, min kjære,” Loki replied softly, his eyes taking in every aspect of your face as he shuffled closer to you, only releasing a hurt huff when you moved back slightly. “You’re not ready yet to know the truth, you’re too much like them currently,” he continued after a moment of peace, his hands fussing with a corner of his cloak and you could tell that he was seeking your reactions. He wanted your opinions.

You looked around your paradise, the greenest trees and grass, the golden castle in the background, the sound of birds chirping in the trees, swords clanging in the distance, many things that gave you peace, a peace that you’d never felt in your waking life.

“This place…” you whispered softly, your eyes landing on him, tilting your head as he studies you, “it’s beautiful, Loki.”

He seemed to light up at the compliment and took one of your hands after a moment of hesitation, bringing it to his lips and he kissed your knuckle. “It’s all for you, my darling,”

“But why? I am not even someone special, why me?” you whispered, your brows pulling together with a look of confusion as you stared at the man before you. He seemed to know more than he would be willing to tell you and that disturbed you quite a bit.

Loki seemed to pause before he stood and pulled you close to him, his eyes roving deep into your soul. “You,” he began, his voice heated with promise and desire, “are the most important person in my whole world. No one equates to your value in my mind.”

Before you could respond, you were ripped from your dream into the waking world by the shrill ring of your burglar alarm.

A/N (2): ooooooh what happens! Tune in next time for all to be revealed!

Regular tags:

@lokisgoodgirl @lokisninerealms @slpnbty2001 @jennyggggrrr @hahaha12123445 @ozymdias @holdmytesseract @itsybitchylittlewitchy @lovingchoices14 @xorpsbane @huntress-artemiss @muddyorbs @nerdy-fangirl-65 @lonadane @silverfire475 @chantsdemarins @iamsherlocked1479 @kittiowolf210 @just-someone11 @stupidthoughtsinwriting @loki-laufeyson-1054 @fictive-sl0th @coldnique @anukulee @eleniblue @asgards-princess-of-mischief

Fic Tags

@jaidenhawke @crimson25 @buttercupcookies-blog @loz-3 @qalijahbydior @isimpforloki @fournat @chantsdemarins @izka8520

[papurgaatika]

My Pain Fits in the Palm of Your Freezing Hand

Pairing: Din Djarin x Reader

Minors DNI with my work please !!

A/N: happy angst posting, fellow angst lovers!!! I love torturing the little guys in my computer. Okay but honestly this one hurt to write a little bit. First and foremost thank you to @almostfoxglove for letting me participate in this challenge,, it was in fact challenging but the creative juices were flowing like crazy. Secondly- thank you to my beloved beta readers @carlynkurin and @joelsdagger for reading this, im so glad i could make you cry, it was my honor to do so. I hope the rest of yall enjoy this but in the way that it breaks your heart. Peace and love from me xoxo

Tags: major character death, angst, literally just angst, guilt, some more religious metaphors, major character injury, hurt no comfort, no reader desc

please lmk if I forgot something!! Word Count: 1.5k

Summary: Din was a mandalorian damn it, he was supposed to protect you.

The crash was not one either of you had expected. Always the steady pilot, Din never expected to crash, not even when the weather of this particular planet was practically unnavigable because of the snow. The wind blew and rocked you both like a church bell, swinging you into the sounds of mourning. You were the first one to fall. Never being one to sit still, your seatbelt was off, and you practically slammed into the side of the crest as Din tried to land safely. 

Trying is never enough in hindsight. The impact from the wreck is dire, Din’s hands in a steel grip, trying to steer the ship in any direction, your body laying there under parts of wiring and crates that came undone, the ship sinking into the ice below you.

Din rips his belt off, his armor mangled somewhere in the mess. His first, no, his only priority is you. And the way you looked made his heart drop into the pit of his stomach. Weak. The only word he could find for you was weak. Metal from the ship had given you a sickening cut along your abdomen, blood soaking your shirt as you gazed at him with big frightened eyes. He rips off his cowl, moving to you in a millisecond and trying to put pressure on the wound. You hear him whispering soft praises and empty promises of you being okay into your ears, and despite it all, you know. You know he can’t save you from this, that he hasn't felt the blood trickling down the back of your head down your neck. 

You try to whisper to him that it was okay, that he was hurt and cold, that he needed to take care of himself too, but he was stubborn. He was supposed to keep you safe. To protect you, so damn it, that is what he was going to do.

You manage to reach a weak hand out to cup his face, your soft hands so cold. So cold he swears they would freeze around his face, but despite that your touch is somehow as soft and gentle as it’s ever been. You can feel his tears hitting your palm, your thumb rubbing softly over his cheek, the stubble a familiar cherished feeling in your hand. You’re telling him it would be okay, that he’ll be fine, still attempting to soothe him despite how weak you sound. You stay like that for what feels like eons, your voice getting quieter, and your touch growing softer with every passing moment until they stop. 

The ship is eerily silent, and it makes Din panic. He was used to silence before he met you. He was content only having his thoughts, but that changed with you. You were loud and talkative and suddenly, he felt himself opening up. He was sharing things he had never shared with anyone, telling you things about his childhood. Was he supposed to be glad to survive this? To be thankful that he had somehow managed to outlive another loved one? He was holding you in his arms like you were a child, cradling you as if that would block anything that could hurt you.  Your breathing was shallow and labored and your heart was racing like the wings of a hummingbird. Din wanted to take that little bird and keep it locked in a cage, safe from the pain and hurt he had managed to put you in, keep you far away from him. 

And as sudden as the crash itself, the flutter of those wings stopped, and you went limp in his grasp. Despite the hollow look on your face, you looked peaceful, as if this was the only way you were freed of the suffering you had been put through. Time stills for a moment. Bile rises in his throat when he feels you slump in his arms. His hands are freezing and shaky as he cups your face, begging. Pleading for you to open your eyes. 

God those eyes that he loves so much. The warmth in them that might have been able to melt the snow surrounding him. The teasing glint that came out anytime he said something that made you laugh. The absolute love that he could see in them. The love that he was never going to be able to see again. Din feels his heart pounding in his chest, hammering away like the armorer, and his memory floods with the first time he took his helmet off in front of you. 

“You are my new creed” he had said, words spoken like a man finding god. His hands were holding yours, shaky and gentle. “Nobody else, nothing else, matters to me anymore. Not when I have you” Your eyes hadn’t met his for a few seconds. Almost too scared, as if he would disappear as soon as you laid eyes on him. And your beloved Din, always so soft and gentle with you, just tilted your chin up, his calloused hands a stark contrast to your soft skin. You both stood there, frozen in each other's eyes, neither of you daring to look away. Melting each other, committing the other to memory, becoming one. 

Din replays the memory in his mind until it hurts him physically. He was still holding your body, limp and colder than it should have ever been. You hated the cold. Teased him for how uncomfortable it was to walk next to him in the armor. You deserved to be warm, to stay soft, like you had done for him. How many times had you reminded Din that he needed to eat more than a ration pack? How many times had you taken a blanket and wrapped it around him when he fell asleep in the pilot’s chair? How many times had Din deserved that kind of treatment? 

How could he have deserved you? Especially now, when he had done this, allowed this to happen to you. How was he meant to go on, to persist without the one thing that was truly good in his life? 

He stands on quivering limbs, the temperature setting in, his joints stiff, and picks your body up with a silent sob. He moves you to the bunk and tucks you in. Fixes your hair how you liked it, and wipes the remnants of the tears from your cheeks. If he could do nothing else, he would make you comfortable, he owed you that. You lay there, and for a moment Din is half expecting you to stretch your body out and wake up. Wipe your tired eyes, give him a groggy smile, and whisper good morning, like you always did. 

You don’t. 

You lay there, pale and unmoving, and so heart-wrenchingly cold. No matter how many blankets he would manage to put on top of you, he can't warm you up. Not how you were supposed to be, not how he wished it. Din finds himself curled up by your feet, the freezing floor of the razor crest biting into his knees, but he can't feel it. All he could feel was the ache in his chest from losing you. He wished there was a way to seek your forgiveness for this, a way for him to beg for absolution, to seek salvation in your arms again. And yet he knew there wasn't. That he was damned. Damned with the sins of what he did to you, of the burdens he should have bore instead of you. He was shaking now, the cold that seeped into his body finally making its presence known as he sat with himself. He had stopped shivering at some point, so cold he felt almost overheated. His shirt was thrown off somewhere, the coolness of the air biting into him so much that his skin was practically blue. He was too warm for his liking, something you would have relentlessly teased him for before. He swears for a moment that he can hear the golden tune of your laughter, the melody of his heart ringing in his ears. 

It was calling to him, he was certain of it. Certain that there was a place for the two of you, that in just a moment you would follow after him off of the ship and run into his arms. A smile graces his lips at the thought, his feet dragging himself up and over to the walkway, pressing the button and stumbling down on wobbling feet. The snow is no longer in front of him, replaced with a patch of green. A garden, your garden, the one you both had always dreamt of. He breathes in the air and lets his eyes close as he feels the all too familiar feeling of your hand on his shoulder. He steps down the ramp and his feet sink, the crunch of his body hitting the snow falling on vacant ears.

 He was forgiven.

[danielmolloystits]

reprise. (armand/daniel, 2/4)

Summary:

Armand thinks himself great at first impressions. He ought to be, having spent so many years twisting himself into whatever shape most pleases. But when he met Daniel, he had already shattered into the pieces of himself that are loud, insincere, cruel. The pieces that are not worth loving, some part of his mind whispers, in a voice that could belong to Louis or to Lestat or to any number of others whom he has tried to fit inside of himself and keep, an endeavor which has only ever ended in the same blistering disappointment. And now—as he is sitting in the wreckage of another failed attempt at shaping himself into a home, covered in plaster dust from an outburst of rage only a fraction as bright as that which he deserved—now all there is left in front of him is Daniel. — Armand, Daniel, and the monsters memory makes of us.

Pairing: Armand/Daniel (Devil's Minion) WC: ~7,300 Rating: E

“Is the face-petting a necessary part of the memory rehabilitation process, or…?” Daniel fidgets a bit where he sits across from Armand, the movement bringing them so close that their knees brush. He’s referring to the fact that the vampire is currently cupping his jaw in one hand, slowly gliding his thumb over the hollow curve of Daniel’s cheek.

Strictly speaking, it isn’t necessary; Armand could just as easily accomplish the task from thirty feet away. But in a deeper, more significant sense, he thinks that it is—he has an overwhelming need to feel the instant that Daniel remembers what they were to each other, to hold it warm and alive in his palm. To capture the moment and encase it in amber, to reify it by memorizing its shape underneath his fingertips.

Besides, it isn’t as though Daniel takes no pleasure in the caress. Armand can tell as much from the thoughts he’s doing a poor job of concealing, even underneath the layers of confusion and annoyance that endeavor to cloud them. For all that Daniel’s mind has forgotten Armand’s touch, his body is still hardwired to crave it, the very bones of him engraved with each of the vampire’s names: Arun written into his wrists, Amadeo in his thighs, Armand carved like an exclamation down his spine. His rib cage a symphony of baby, sweetheart, angel, lover.

So he doesn’t feel particularly guilty when he says, “It will make it easier.” After all, it’s only a lie by omission.

Daniel swallows and nods, evidently electing to take Armand at face value for once. The vampire is too grateful for his acquiescence to fully appreciate the irony. “Well then. Let’s get on with it.”

“Let’s,” Armand agrees, and as he strokes down Daniel’s cheek once more, he permits his thumb to stray a little closer to the corner of his mouth. It’s an indulgence he probably shouldn’t allow himself, but restraint has never been his strong suit when it comes to Daniel. “I’ll go slowly,” he promises, the way it trips off of his tongue nudging up against something that makes the other man’s cheeks pinken.

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” Daniel says flatly, in such a naked attempt at deflection that Armand’s chest tightens with a vicious sort of hope.

“Perhaps,” he replies, tone agreeable. “But you’re the only one for whom I’ve made it a habit.”

Daniel’s expression sours, then. “Really? I guess I wouldn’t know.”

The barb lands as intended, sending a sharp, bright pang to Armand’s insides like the tolling of a bell. Still, Daniel doesn’t lean away from his touch.

It would definitely, definitely be a bad idea for Armand to swipe the pad of his thumb over Daniel’s bottom lip right now, to put more pressure on a peace that is already so close to fracturing. He does it anyway. “Then I think it’s time you found out,” he says, enunciating each syllable with a quiet caution, as though navigating a minefield on his tiptoes. As though Daniel is still the prey he’s pursuing from the shadows.

Daniel inhales a shuddering breath at the touch, eyes cracked wide open and wanting for a feeling he cannot yet name. Slowly, he nods once more.

Armand does not require any more encouragement than that, closing his eyes and sliding inside the familiar terrain of Daniel’s mind. It is not hard to find where his memories have been altered, the negative space that Armand once occupied; it is all over, the stain of him soaked irreparably into the folds of Daniel’s brain even if he isn’t aware of it.

The memories were never gone, not really. Just locked away, bound in crimson thread and tucked safely where Daniel would not be able to find them. But Armand can, and he does, carefully unspooling the ties that hide himself from Daniel’s recollection.

As he does, he is struck by the invigorating thought of how it might feel to bear witness to their years together through Daniel’s eyes. Of course, most of the time, he already knew what Daniel was thinking as the events of their lives unfolded; he was less guarded in those days, more open to Armand’s intrusions into his psyche.

This, though—this is going to be different, Armand thinks. Because it is one thing to know how Daniel felt and another thing entirely to feel it for himself. He finds the idea of it breathtaking; it is as though he has finally discovered a way to crawl inside of Daniel, to burrow under his skin and make room for himself inside of his body. To build a home inside of this strange, impossible human so that he never has to leave. Can never truly be left.

To Armand, such a notion is nothing short of a revelation.

In the first memory that resurfaces, Daniel is sitting in a taxi cab that’s at a standstill in Boston traffic, when seemingly out of nowhere Armand opens the door and slithers inside. By this point, they have met a few times, talked even, but only at Daniel’s urging. Not once has Armand approached him so brazenly. Hell, it had been like pulling teeth to even get a name from the guy.

A frisson of excitement alights in Daniel’s gut at this deviation in the pattern, and his heart kicks up a rabbit-quick rhythm as he watches the vampire settle primly into the seat beside him. In spite of the utter shamelessness of it, there is no self-consciousness to how Daniel stares at him as he does; if anything, he feels he is owed a bit of ogling in the wake of Armand’s continued insistence on showing up unannounced.

“What are you doing here?” Daniel asks after a minute, patently unable to stem the tide of his own curiosity even if it means sacrificing whatever veneer of coolness he might have managed otherwise.

“Joining you for dinner,” Armand replies, pinched and prissy, as though they’d had these plans for some time and it was incredibly rude of Daniel to have forgotten.

Daniel just laughs. “Of course,” he says. At this point, he figures, this might as well happen. “Where are we going?”

Armand smiles, his typical closed-mouth affair of omniscient amusement, electing to say nothing in response. Instead, he leans forward to murmur an address that Daniel doesn’t recognize to the cabbie.

The rest of the ride is a trudge through congested city streets, silent enough that Daniel starts to reflect on the insanity of what he’s doing. Because really, he’s breaking bread with a bloodsucking monster here, right? Getting dinner with him, even, like Daniel is some chick he’s trying to woo.

Predictably, Armand is reading his mind again. “If you don’t enjoy my company, Daniel, I’d be happy to let you return to your evening.”

Daniel blinks at him. “By that do you mean you’d actually leave me alone? Or would you, you know, go back to following me like a deranged stalker?”

Armand merely looks at him. It’s answer enough.

Daniel snorts, knocking his shoulder against the vampire’s. “It’s fine. It’s not like I had any plans.” I must be fucked in the head or something, because I kinda like having you here, he thinks but doesn’t say, knowing full well that Armand hears it anyway.

When they arrive at their destination, a dingy hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant in the North End that seems to be run by three generations of a single family, Daniel raises an eyebrow.

“I would have expected you to take me some place a lot fancier, given the whole…everything about you,” he comments, glancing down at Armand’s clearly-expensive attire. Not like he actually minds; if anything, he prefers joints like this one. It’s more that whenever he thinks he has Armand pegged, the guy turns around and surprises him.

“Would you rather I wine and dine you properly, Daniel?” Armand asks. The mirth etched into his features is carefully concealed, hidden under layers and layers of obfuscating masks, but Daniel likes to think he sees through all of that.

“Nah,” he answers, nice and easy, as their hostess ushers them to an empty table. “But don’t expect me to put out unless you foot the bill.”

“Naturally,” Armand says amicably, placing a hand on the small of Daniel’s back as he pulls out his chair and guides him to sit down. Daniel flushes a bit, wondering—not for the first time—what the hell they’re doing here. Armand, obviously, hears the thought. “We’re getting dinner, Daniel.”

“But why?” he blurts out as Armand takes the seat across from him, spreading his napkin delicately across his lap and then folding his hands atop it.

“Must I have a reason?”

“Most people have reasons for the things they do, yeah.”

“I think you’ll agree that I’m not most people.” Armand pauses then, his eyes scanning over Daniel’s face like he’s searching for something. Daniel can’t tell whether he’s found it or not, but either way, he continues, “I want to remember. What it’s like.”

There’s a soft ache where Daniel’s heart clenches for a second, the sympathetic echo of the mourning he imagines Armand must feel. “To be human? It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

“To exist.”

Daniel doesn’t really know what to say to that. He tries regardless: “I guess I can help with that.”

“You already have, Daniel.”

The food ends up being spectacular. When Daniel says as much on the ride home, Armand smiles at him, a real one, and it’s like looking at the god damn sun. It’s radiant. It’s blinding.

The memories come more quickly after that: the two of them strolling down the sidewalks of Paris, of New York, of Prague. Of anywhere and everywhere with streets that thrum a hungry, insistent bassline underneath the soles of their feet. Where the city has a pulse, where the city is alive.

Most of them are just snippets, brief flashes of the moments that exist in the liminal space between more significant events. Knuckles brushing over the back of a hand; glances that are not stolen but freely gifted. Armand is less a fixture of Daniel’s life at this point and more of a specter tied to his soul. It’s just that Daniel doesn’t so much mind the haunting.

Many of the memories feel soft and distant, the edges made indistinct by the pleasant haze of nostalgia that folds over them like a throw blanket. More still are warped and blurred by whatever poison Daniel had picked that evening. But all of them are heady with the sense that they are building to something, every interaction buzzing with the persistent mechanical whir of a roller coaster climbing towards that first big drop—the mounting anticipation before your stomach falls out from under you.

That is, until they’re in a nightclub in Berlin one summer evening in 1978. Daniel has had quite a bit to drink, but hasn’t yet had anything to sniff, smoke, or swallow; the vampire always chastises him when he does, and it isn’t enough of a deterrent to actually stop him most of the time, but it does tend to delay his hunt for the night’s undoing.

He’s currently sitting at the bar with Armand as the two of them trade observations about the miscellaneous strangers who populate their world tonight. Sometimes, the vampire will point to one of them and ask Daniel to guess their life story: the woman crying openly on the dance floor, the man who looks out of place in his business suit, the couple who alternate between kissing and fighting. When Daniel does a good job deducing details about them from context clues, Armand smiles warmly at him and shows him what he sees inside of their heads.

They’re leaned in close, mere inches of space between their foreheads as they play this new favorite game of theirs, ostensibly so they can hear one another over the synth-pop beats blaring from the club speakers. If Daniel is being honest with himself, though, he thinks it might have more to do with the physics of celestial bodies, the slow and inevitable pull of gravity.

The combination of the alcohol and the proximity is making Daniel feel brave tonight. Braver than usual, brave enough to press up against the ever-thinning wall that separates him from Armand.

“This music is terrible,” he says despite the fact that he doesn’t really mean it; he actually sort of likes how the beat reverberates through him, makes him feel like his bones are in a cocktail shaker. “Do you want to dance?”

The grin that spreads across his face is wide, goofy. Hopeful.

Armand makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, a hum that indicates thoughtfulness or maybe just acknowledgment that he’s been asked a question. “I do not think that would be wise,” he answers after a second, sage-like and frustratingly devoid of emotion.

Daniel’s expression sours a little, but not enough to wipe the smile away entirely; after all, there are other ways for him to have a good time tonight, and this is as good of an excuse as any to start looking for them. He shrugs and hopes that it comes across as nonchalant. “Whatever.” With two quick swallows, he downs the rest of his drink and then stands. “I’m going to dance.”

With a wry twist of his lips, Armand gestures for him to go ahead. Then he murmurs, low and sultry, directly into Daniel’s mind: Have fun.

Daniel tries to pretend that it doesn’t send a shiver running through him at a gallop; he’s still annoyed that Armand rejected his invitation. More than that, he’s wounded and confused as to why, when it seems so much like the vampire wants him back.

I will, he thinks in response, making his way into the sea of bodies. There’s something almost grotesque about it, how the crowd writhes and squirms like a nest of maggots descending on roadkill. It would be so easy to lose himself in it, to forget the lines where his body ends and the next one begins. To forget the maelstrom of complicated feelings he’s currently wading through.

The notion has a certain amount of appeal.

Stay where I can see you, Armand tells him, breaking through Daniel’s miasma of self-pity to speak to him telepathically once more. And although his words are perfectly polite in tone, they have all the weight of a command behind them. I’d like to watch.

Heat spreads in Daniel’s chest, blooming from his sternum out until it washes over his shoulders. Whether it’s from arousal or irritation is unclear. Maybe, he replies, as coolly as he can manage with the liquor running hot and wild in his blood. If I feel like it.

You would deny me the pleasure of observing you?

Of course he wouldn’t. I might, he replies anyway, as he tries to move his body in time with the music, tries to look good doing it. He’s not sure it’s all that successful. If there was someone who actually wanted to dance with me.

I doubt there’s anyone in this club who doesn’t, Armand says, as if it’s not even worth questioning. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world that he would be desired.

And Daniel really, really hates that. Hates that Armand can turn him down and then pretend to want him in the next breath. Hates that he never just says what he means. Hates that he has no idea if the vampire is actually interested or if he’s just fucking with him.

He hates it enough that, when he notices a man a few feet away eyeing him with blatant interest, he smirks at him as flirtatiously as he can and beckons him over. Let’s find out.

The man smiles, pushing his way through the throng of people until he gets to Daniel. He’s handsome: tall and brunette with a nice, square jaw that he can imagine someone wanting to bite. The kind of guy who could probably have his pick of the whole club, but here he is, choosing Daniel instead.

It’s nice, he thinks. To be chosen.

The searing weight of Armand’s stare bores into his back and it emboldens him, makes him curl his fingers around the collar of the man’s leather jacket and draw him in until the lines of his body run parallel to Daniel’s own. The stranger grabs Daniel around the waist with his human-hot hands, his fingertips just barely brushing the curve of his ass as he brings them even closer together.

As they dance, he can feel Armand watching him, can feel the path the vampire’s eyes burn over the lines of his body. Like he’s trying to brand Daniel with his gaze. Like he’s marking his fucking territory.

The audacity—the arrogance—of it pisses Daniel off, so he leverages their new position to roll his hips into where the man is waiting to meet him, and then they’re barely even dancing at all anymore. It’s more like grinding, like rutting, like the sort of thing you’d see in a National Geographic issue that you wouldn’t want to show your kid.

In response, the handsome stranger leans down and starts pressing messy, open-mouthed kisses to his jugular, and Daniel moans.

Then, suddenly, the world seems to stop. All of the people on the dance floor freeze in position, including the guy Daniel’s dancing with, and he nearly stumbles from the abrupt halt in their movement.

“Wha—?” he mumbles, taking a step back and looking frantically around the room. It’s like he’s accidentally stepped into the world of a photograph, uncanny and altogether unsettling. The only evidence that time marches on is the heavy bass that continues thudding from the club speakers.

You wanted to dance, Armand says inside of his mind, tone clipped and overly formal, and Daniel swings his head around to look at him. The vampire is stalking towards him, deftly sidestepping the frozen club-goers until he reaches Daniel. So let’s dance.

“How did you—?” he starts, but Armand distracts him by sliding his hands under the hem of Daniel’s t-shirt until he can rest his cold fingers on the bare skin of his waist. As far as strategies go, it’s a pretty effective one, and Daniel gasps and leans into his touch.

“Hush now, beautiful boy,” the vampire whispers, and then he’s turning Daniel around so his back is pressed against Armand’s front. He leans down to nose at the spot where the other man had been kissing. “Dance with me.”

Daniel’s heart hammers in his chest in time with the beat, so fast and frantic he belatedly worries it might up and take flight. At first he doesn’t move at all, stunned into stillness, but then Armand is gently encouraging his hips backwards to meet his own, and Daniel’s body finally gets with the program. He sways into Armand’s touch, and he can feel the grin it earns him stretching against his neck, and it’s second nature for him to thread his fingers in Armand’s dark hair. To keep him exactly where he is.

The way they dance to the music then is sinuous, filthy. Their bodies move together like two parts of the same whole, like Daniel is the rib cage swelling over Armand’s lungs on every inhale. Like Daniel’s veins are the ones wrapped around Armand’s blood. It’s a hysterical sort of ecstasy, the sensation of the vampire’s bared fangs scraping so delicately over the skin of his throat. The tiny, reverent kisses he presses there, as if trying to paint over those left mere moments ago by that already-forgotten stranger.

“Please, Armand,” Daniel beseeches him, not entirely sure what it is that he’s asking for. “I need—”

“What do you need, beloved?” Armand asks, and the fingers on Daniel’s hip creep lower, inward, teasing little touches that narrowly avoid tracing the outline of his hardening cock.

“You,” Daniel rasps, throwing his head back onto the vampire’s deceptively-muscular shoulder. “Please, please.” It falls from his mouth like a prayer, half-begging and half-benediction, and Armand groans where his teeth press against the boy’s fluttering pulse.

Wordlessly, the vampire cups him in his hand and squeezes, the delectable pressure of it sending sparks shooting up Daniel��s spine, as visceral and electrifying as touching a live wire. He tries to buck his hips into the touch, instinctively seeking out more of the contact, but the vampire holds him in place with a cold, steely grip. Daniel whines—a desperate, humiliating sound—but Armand does not relent, evidently refusing to allow even a breath of space between his own hard length and Daniel’s ass.

Mine. It plays on a loop in Daniel’s mind, sharp and resonant like a violin string snapping. Mine, mine, mine.

“Yours.” All that’s left of Daniel’s voice now is a rough, broken whisper. “I’m yours, Armand, I’m yours.”

At that, Armand growls like a savage, feral thing and unbuttons Daniel’s jeans. He seems more animal than man, more monster than human, and Daniel thinks that maybe that ought to scare him.

It doesn’t.

Roughly, the vampire maneuvers Daniel’s pants and boxers down past his thighs, pushing at them until they lay in a puddle around his ankles. Then he’s half-naked, his cock curving up towards his belly with desire, and Daniel only has a moment to think about what he must look like—hard and leaking in the middle of the dance floor—before Armand is grinding into him again and he isn’t thinking anything except God, please, more.

“Fuck,” he curses, reaching back to grab a handful of Armand’s ass in a wanton attempt to get him even closer.

The vampire makes a pleased noise and sinks his teeth lightly into Daniel’s throat. He seems like he’s barely keeping it together when he asks, May I have you, Daniel? Would you like that?

Daniel would. In fact, if Armand isn’t inside of him soon, then Daniel worries he might go insane with how very badly he wants it. He tries to convey as much telepathically to Armand, but all that comes out is a muddled jumble of yesyesfuckpleaseyespleasefuck.

For the first time since their hips have connected, the vampire allows them to part, and Daniel almost complains about it until he hears the sound of Armand unzipping his absurd pleather pants. Soon, it’s followed by the slick, telltale slide of lubricant coating skin. Belatedly, Daniel wonders where he got it from.

Then, he feels the careful press of the pad of a finger spreading him open, and Armand is wrapping an arm around his waist and lining himself up, and he only has to wait another second before the vampire is pressing inside.

It burns, of course, a feverish sort of stretch that at first threatens to overwhelm him. But Daniel has done this before (has done it a lot, even), so he forces himself to relax into it, to give himself over to the sensation of being pulled apart instead of fighting against it. It feels like ages have passed before their hips are flush once more, the delicious torture of that slow eternity dragging a high, keening whimper from Daniel’s open throat.

Once he’s finally fully seated, Armand stills in an attempt to give Daniel a moment to adjust to the size of him. It isn’t surprising, Daniel supposes; he’s always been so very careful not to hurt the poor little human.

But Daniel, for one, isn’t having any of it. Move, fucker, he hisses impatiently, needing more than anything for Armand to take Daniel’s insides and claim them as his own, to mark him as if Daniel were something worth keeping.

Needy, Armand chastises inside of his head, but he mercifully takes the direction: suddenly, there are sharp-tipped nails digging into the soft flesh of Daniel’s hip and another hand pressing at the base of his neck to compel him to bend over further, and then Armand is pounding into Daniel like he means it, like he’s starving for it. Like Daniel owes him fucking money.

It’s too intense, it’s too much, and it’s everything Daniel needs right now. With every thrust, the vampire caresses something inside of him that makes the pressure in Daniel’s groin build from an ember into an inferno. His head drops down, his bones too liquid to support the weight of it any longer; his fingers claw desperately, shamelessly, at the arm that’s holding him up. All of the frozen faces watching him from the dance floor make him feel like a cheap whore, and the depraved little moans that keep spilling from his throat aren’t helping matters much either, but he doesn’t care. All he cares about right now is the place where their bodies join, the entire universe forgotten in favor of the rough drag of Armand’s cock fucking him so deliriously full.

It doesn’t take long before he’s on the precipice of a climax that feels like it’s going to splinter him into tiny pieces, that’s going to take him apart bit by bit and then put him back together again. And right as he’s on the edge, he hears Armand’s voice in his mind once more, whispering the word mine over and over, as if he isn’t even aware he’s doing it.

Then there are fangs sinking into Daniel’s neck, flooding his veins with an ice-cold numbness as though he shot up liquid nitrogen, and it pushes him over and off of the cliff, down into a ravine that seemingly has no bottom. He comes harder than he can remember in a long, long time, without Armand even touching his cock, his release coating the floor of the nightclub and the shoes of the stranger he was dancing with.

It’s only as the aftershocks are wracking his body with feeble tremors that Daniel notices how lightheaded he’s gotten, how his vision is starting to turn dark at the corners from the blood loss.

Armand’s hips stutter, his cock twitching as it paints Daniel’s ass with his own orgasm. It’s the last thing he feels before he collapses into the vampire’s waiting arms, the world falling away around him and replaced with a warm, comforting blackness.

[aaronontherun]

Okay, there are two things about the ending of GO S2 that I cannot get out of my head after finishing the rewatch:

1. Gabriel's descent to earth

2. Aziraphale's reaction to the offer of Metatrash

(The rest under the cut)

The thing about Gabriel's descent to earth is that when he comes down to earth, he has not been fired yet. He decides to come down.

What's interesting about this is that in the last few minutes of the last episode Gabriel says his original plan was to leave heaven to go to hell, to join Beelzebub.

The quote goes:

Beelzebub: "Silly, silly angel. Why?"

Gabriel: "I was coming to you, but I... I forgot."

So... he had not been fired yet (because he left heaven before Michael and the lot could get a hold of him again). And he had originally planned to go to Beelzebub ("oh, you're sending me to hell, aren't you?" -> he was kind of counting on that). But after hearing he will lose his memory and go down to earth, he decides to ditch that plan and make himself forget all of it to go to earth (where he did not really intend to go in the first place) to give a box to Aziraphale that says "I am in the fly", that he knows will make him remember.

Why?

My working theory is that since he was the highest ranking angel, he knew about the plans of heaven. He knew about the second attempt at Armageddon of course and he did not want that to happen, because of his love for Beelzebub and the war that would break out. But I reckon he also already knew about the Second Coming.

And by wiping his own memories, he deleted that knowledge for all of heavens associates. But by storing it in the fly and transporting that to earth instead of hell, he brought it to the safest place he knew.

"The Second Coming will be a fearful, mournful time for the wicked, but it will be a day of peace for the righteous."

I don't know if I am reading something into it here, but to me it also sounds like a clue. The only other pair that kind of unites the powers of heaven and hell like Gabriel and Beelzebub is Aziraphale and Crowley. And we know that connection to be quite a strong one (as seen by the "teeny tiny miracle" that ended up sounding every god damn alarm bell in heaven). Crowley is a fallen angel and does not particularly care for heaven or hell and Aziraphale is still an angel and also does not conform with everything that heaven does. And Gabriel knows that.

BUT as far as we know, neither Aziraphale nor Crowley have had contact with the fly or the memories. For now we only know Gabriel kept his memories out of heaven by going to Aziraphale and that he probably knew more than he let on.

The question is, does the fly still exist or did it get destroyed when it went into Gabriels eye?

Also, given the CLUE that takes up almost half an episode - the part of the song that we don't really get to hear is this:

"Everyday seems a little longer,

Every way, love's a little stronger"

Everything we have seen points to an ending where you don't have to choose a side. Where there is no need to categorize into black and white, but to just accept shades of grey. Which is obstructed by heaven (the big corporate agenda, that needs people to think in black and white) and hell (which holds the outcasts that could not keep up with the agenda, but still cling onto it in their own competitive way).

Okay and this is the perfect transition to Aziraphales reaction to the Metatrons offer.

Because after years (or millennia in Aziraphale's case) of being oppressed and silenced and having to be careful around everything he says, I think Metatrons offer to put him in charge of heaven is in Aziraphale's eyes the only perspective of ever getting out of his misery while still doing good.

He *could* have given up heaven and fallen like Crowley, joining him that way, but instead he takes the route of trying to take Crowley with him to the very top of heaven.

Which, in my eyes, is a very very clear sign of the abusive relationship he has with heaven.

I don't think he realises that he is still just a pawn in a big chess game, also and especially as archangel of heaven.

As both Beelzebub and Gabriel said: "As if we make the rules..."

That is not how it works.

(I also find it very interesting, that the voice of god (basically the manager of heaven) asks if anyone ever "asks for death" (I mean, come on) whereas god, talking to Job, is genuinely fascinated by him and his goodness.)

I don't know if I can put this thought process into proper words, but I feel like the problem is that Aziraphale is still clinging to the whole concept of "doing good" and preserving his own status in the organisation. I don't think he is going up there to "change it from the inside" with a wicked plan in mind. When the Metatron made the offer, he told him that he would be "such a good leader, kind and honest", "be able to make a difference, be put in charge of everything". Which is exactly how they get you. He did not tell him he would be in charge of the second coming right off the bat. He lured him with being able to make everything better for everyone (which is all Aziraphale really wants) while keeping and continuing to receive approval from above (which Aziraphale is so afraid of losing).

Which is also what he tells Crowley about. The trust he is being given, the opportunity to make a change, the opportunity for Crowley to regain validation from heaven.

And only when he has accepted the offer, the Metatron specifies the details of the deal and that "doing good for everybody" means initialising the Second Coming, that has already been well planned (and that is everything Aziraphale never wanted to be a part of, but he won't disappoint them by saying no now).

"We could have been us" feels so powerful in that context, because I feel like what it really meant was "we could have been us without the approval of anyone". Without the need to justify their actions, think about right or wrong in the sense that heaven or hell would have categorized them. The freedom to work as a team, as the shades of grey they naturally are, containing both "good" and "evil" in a way that they balance each other, not desperately trying to put one of them out. (Also worth noting here, that throughout the seasons Aziraphale *has* done "evil", but only if he could somehow twist it to be "good" (see the episode with Wee Morag, right?), which showcases the pointlessness of categorizing again).

"I forgive you" from Aziraphale is such a heartbreaking line here, too. Because it is not him speaking, really. It is him already speaking in place of the organisation he is going to work for. "I forgive you for not regaining approval. I still love you."

"Don't bother", Crowley says and his whole posture drops. "For me it was never about that."

[medi0creking]

Yellowink - Ceroba - Bijutsu

btw, this is canon. I claimed it like forever ago, but I procrastinated the real thing.

anyways

Lore:

in a timeline where ceroba was the focus on undertaleyellow. in a timeline where undertale yellow was never finished. A lost soul was formed with a tragic life that never lived. memories of a time that simply never happened.

Ceroba. tho she never knew her name. She always felt grief and pain from this non-existent event. But it felt so REAL.. it happened.. did it not?

Due to her pain, grief, and anger. She tore her own soul out in order to end herself. This attempt on her life proved useless. she lost all ability to feel and all ability to move over time.

One day, in an untold amount of time later. Paint fell from the heavens of her unfinished world rotting. This rot wasn't bad.. it contained the emotion, the power, the love, THE PASSION, and THE CARE of all that could have been.

This pain fell upon Ceroba, and she awoke with a feeling of vigor and purpose... tho it was short-lived, she could at least move. She began to capture and contain this paint. The paint brought her emotion.

She enjoyed it for a while. tho she would have episodes of immense grief, so she lowered her dosages. She was able to be content and peaceful. they find a way outside their world and discover a collection of portrait and painting just floating in a gold space.. she dubbed it. "The Grand Gallery."

so much love and care, and passion put into each project and world and universe! There wasn't much at the time.. but for what there was, passion was shining the brightest.

-------

Quirks and Powers and misc:

- ceroba never knew her name. Since her discovery to protect the Grand Gallery. She named herself Bijutsu

- Doesn't vomit paint nearly as much as ink. she manages her paint incredibly well. she is very careful and only takes very light doses.

- Bijutsu summons Efude from a bell she keeps in her. so she doesn't have to carry the brush around all the damn time

- She can travel via any liquid and fire. HOWEVER, doing this can drain her emotions. So she does it sparingly and only if nessccary.

- Her home, now rotting with paint. It has become the catalyst of the creativity of the multiverse.

- Bijutsu feels a connection to Kankos and Chujins but doesn't know what they look like. It is too fuzzy to recall memories that never existed.

- Bijutsu is very much a cheerleader when it comes to helping out with creativity. She encourages it and pushes it to be better and to be healthy. No matter if the project is good or evil.

- Bijutsu isn't very energetic and is the ultimate lawful neutral. She protects the multiverse from it being destroyed. However, she isn't opposed to experimenting and helping others with projects that focus on VERY horrible things. (Like the events of underverse).

- Bijutsu cuts herself off from any connections and friendships. She is too scared to interfere with other worlds, but she loves sightseeing. Maybe she can learn.

[yelena-bellova]

Twenty Years Later: Joel Miller x F!Reader - One Shot #2

One Shot: Symptoms of Survival

Plot: Neither one of them was quite sure how the fight even started.

Word Count: 1k

Warnings: light language, ptsd (16+)

A/N: SURPRISE!! This is my best attempt at making Sunday feel a little bit like TLOU Sundays.

I’m trying to strike a balance between fluff and angst in these follow-ups. This is by far one of the more angsty ones. I feel like the show did a great job of showcasing Joel’s trauma, but I wanted to explore some more symptoms of PTSD that he and Rosebud would for sure suffer from. Happy happy happy! Enjoy reading, my loves! ❤️

P.S. I didn’t fully spell check this so there may be mistakes 😜

————

Neither one of them was quite sure how the fight even started.

Joel had risen early in the morning for his patrol shift and had stayed out all day doing repairs with Tommy.

Y/n had slept in, going unneeded in the mess hall kitchen until the lunch shift. She’d taken a walk with Ellie, stopped by Maria and Tommy’s to visit the former, and had been back home fixing dinner by sunset.

Ellie took her dinner in her room, still functioning outside her normal self after the events of their journey. It had been a month since the hospital, and a month and a half since Silver Lake. Neither Joel nor Y/n pushed her on the matter and let her attend to herself for the evening, leaving them on their own.

Y/n asked a question about his day.

Joel’s answer was snippily short.

Y/n jumped at his irritability and returned it.

Before they knew it, Joel was storming out the front door and Y/n was leant against the kitchen counter, both of them seething.

It was less than an hour later that Y/n felt the hot air in her body cool and she took a breath. It wasn’t the first time her hyper-vigilant state had put her in some sort of trance. Coming out of it felt like waking up from a long, unannounced nap.

Sliding her winter coat onto her shoulders, Y/n left the house and made her way to the center of town. There had never been many instances where Joel needed to get space from her, but she knew exactly where his hiding place would be.

Joel sat at the bar of the Tipsy Bison, thankful that it was empty. He poured himself a second glass of some amber colored liquor he’d drank with Tommy last Friday night. It was so easy to be happy with his new life; Ellie’s safety secured, Y/n and him finally married, his brother returned to him…he wasn’t sure why the anger that belonged to the worst of him was bubbling up again.

The bell on the front door rang and Joel sighed. He inhaled to tell off whichever of his neighbors had dared to bother him with their presence, but his eyes stopped his mouth.

Y/n stayed at the door, watching her husband’s facial expressions change. He went from blind anger, to surprise to guilt within a span of five seconds. Once she was assured he was calm, she hung her coat and crossed the room.

Joel pulled the liquor bottle closer to him to give Y/n a place to rest her arms. He couldn’t dare look at her, shame consuming him over what he’d turned their evening into.

Even their most uncomfortable silence had peace weaved in between the cracks.

Y/n sighed, keeping her hands folded in her lap. There were so many ways to phrase what she wanted to say, but direct was the only way her and Joel knew how to talk to one another. “We’re different.”

Joel furrowed a brow and glanced up at his wife.

“We’re the same,” Y/n continued, “But different.”

Joel stared down into his glass. “I’m not even mad,” he mumbled, raising his voice a little after, “I’m not. I don’t get it.”

“Neither am I,” Y/n shook her head, she took a deep breath before launching into her true speech, “We have seen…a lot of shit. A lot. And we can’t expect to come out of it the same as we were.”

Joel turned his head to face her as she spoke. It was the same conversation they’d had when they’d gotten back together. It felt like there was a new point to the painful truth.

“There’s not exactly any Zolofts to pop or shrinks to see,” Y/n continued, “But we’re fucked up.”

“Sometimes when I wake up…” Joel said, shaking his head at himself, “I’m just angry. Don’t know why, don’t know how…I just wake up angry at everyone and everything.”

Y/n nearly scoffed, “I feel like I’m always on edge. Ellie’ll brush past me or someone’ll slam a door and I jump like there’s gunfire or something.”

Where Joel felt like he was failing, Y/n only felt stronger with science to back their problems up. Mutual trauma was deeply ingrained in both their minds and it was only natural for their bodies to react accordingly.

“I’m sorry,” Joel whispered, meaning it with every fiber of his being. He’d promised never to hurt Y/n again, and here he was doing it.

Y/n slid her hand across to bar to cover Joel’s. He didn’t owe her anything. “Don’t.”

Joel flipped his hand to take Y/n’s, the two of them resting in the quiet. They felt like the best of their old selves with one another, but they couldn’t ignore what the world had turned them into. It was a new dance for them to learn together.

“Maybe when we feel like this…” Y/n started, “We tell each other? Give each other some warning so we know how to handle the day?”

Joel watched his fingers as they glided back and forth against Y/n’s hand. He felt ridiculous for requiring such delicate handling.

“Hey,” Y/n nudged Joel’s chin up with her finger, forcing him to look at her. He was transparent as glass. “It’s not our fault.”

The mind has a way of making it’s own devilry feel like the host’s fault. Joel couldn’t help but feel responsible for his actions. It would take him a long time to fully grasp that he wasn’t the problem.

“It’s not our fault,” Y/n whispered again as she slid her hand to the back of Joel’s neck. He leaned into her touch and their foreheads met in the space between their bodies.

They stayed like that for a few moments, Y/n’s free hand rubbing Joel’s thigh and his nose nuzzling against hers. It was there that they felt fully back on their feet, returned to reality from the ordeal of the day.

“Let’s go home,” Y/n finally said.

Joel nodded and drowsily pulled back, setting the liquor bottle on the other side of the bar along with his glass. Y/n crossed the wooden floor and retrieved her coat before coming back to meet Joel. They looped an arm around one another as they walked out the door, Joel pressing a kiss to his wife’s temple. There’d be more bad days, plenty of them, but so long as they didn’t have to face them alone, there was daylight to be found.

————

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