#love writing me an emotionally constipated man | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kazucee · 22 hours ago

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WRITING THIS DOWN ON MY NOTES.

REN. REN. REN. LET ME JUST SAY YOU ABSOLUTELY COOKED WITH THIS FIC. Here is my commentary on every part of it Mwheheheheh. You can see how it gets from me commenting rens beautiful writing to me just going absolutely feral with every banger line.

Re: ACT I.

First of all. Reader is so true to life, the awkwardness? The clumsiness? Idk there really is something about the way you write the reader that makes her so animated and so relatable 😭 I love how she tries to get close and how mydeimos just lets her because he couldn't be bothered enough to care.

MYDEI. HOW YOU WRITE HIM MAKES ME WANNA GIGGLE AND PUNCH THE WALL. WHEN HE CAUGHT YOU BEFORE FALLING, FAVOURITE CLICHES OF ALL TIME AND IT STILL MADE MY HEART RACE. he's so silly, this emotionally constipated man will be the end of me istg.

—

lots of pretty scenery descriptions in the gardens part, Ren can I just say that your writing is akin to watching a storybook come to life right infront of me? The words twisting and contorting to an entire world as I read,.

—so, with a woven basket tucked under your arm, you wander through the palace gardens first, where roses and marigolds flourish in a riot of color, their petals unfurling like delicate silk under the afternoon sun. honeysuckle vines twist gracefully around the trellises, their sweet fragrance lingering in the warm afternoon air.

> God I love this description. Pls let me make a home out of these words.

“you don’t need to do anything reckless just to get my attention," he murmurs at last, his voice softer now, no longer edged with frustration. then, almost hesitantly, he adds, "...if you want something, just come to me."

> FORK ME. FORK ME BRO. I CAN IMAGINE IT NOW. IM CRYING. HO. NOW KISS. I CAUGHT YOU FAKE IDGAF-ER. HE'S SO STUPID I HATE THIS (live reaction)

and just like that, your husband walks ahead, idly twirling one of the flowers between his fingers. hardened steel and soft petals, strength and fragility; it doesn't look out of place.

> Chat is this a reference to the first part? The one about how pink suits him so well as well? The one about how softness suits him? The one about how //you// suit him? If this was a reference to that part. It's golden. Loved this. I love it when parts of the fic relate and reference each other and mesh into a cohesive whole.

Re: ACT II.

mydeimos meets his opponent’s strike head-on; phainon, captain of the royal knights, his equal in skill if not in strength, matches him blow for blow. the force of the impact ripples through his arm, but he does not waver. instead, he swiftly pivots, forcing mydeimos onto the defensive.

> PHAINON MENTIONED. (sorry just had to add this. ROYAL KNIGHTS PHAINON MY BELOVED)

“you land one lucky hit and suddenly you’re talking like you’ve dethroned me.” mydei scoffs, already turning toward the weapons rack. phainon watches him go, shaking his head to himself before following suit.

> LOVED HOW YOU WROTE THE TWO'S RELATIONSHIP HERE. MY FAVORITE DUO IN THE HISTORY OF DUOS. The bantering> the action scenes> sighhhs dreamily. I love cocky Phainon sm this stoopid blue eyed bug *grips him and shakes*

for a wound that’s already gone, he finds it strange —how reluctant he is to let it fade.

> Uhm. This entire scene> this entire fic should be in the library of Alexandria. The tenderness- the vulnerability? The //why do you still look at him that way// BECAUSE SHE LOVES YOU YOU FOOL! also the part that goes:

“…not much,” he admits instead. “you act as if i’m on death’s door.”

“and you act as if you’re invincible,” you retort softly.

> OH. OH DUDE. FIGHT BACK BRO FIGHT BACK. LET ME GET UP FIRST REN GEEZ. that killed me inside. Standing forking ovation because this was delicious. A five star meal. Also his darling wife? Yeah okay I see you. I see you.

Re: ACT III.

mydei was super Ultra Mega fine in this bit. Like yes king pop off no on gets to treat your spouse like this 🤭

phainon’s steps slow, his brow lifting ever so slightly, as if he isn’t sure whether he misheard you or if you’re simply playing coy. "you don’t think he—" he exhales a sharp chuckle, running a hand through his hair. "hah. now that’s funny."

> HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH. AHHAEHHAEHWUHAWUAHEUHW. PHAINON WHAT. NO. COME BACK HERE. reader my dearest ily but be so fr rn.

at some point, curiosity gets the better of you. “your highne—”

“mydei.”

>Giggled like a school girl. MYDEI MYDEI MYDEI. It's simple moments like this that makes me grin till I feel my the skin of my lips split.

(because with you, he doesn't need to be the prince of kremnos, nor the valiant warrior they call mydeimos. he’s just your husband, mydei.)

> He's just our husband. Mydei. THE SOB I LET OUT. OU. I WANNA CRADDLE THIS MAN IN MY ARMS. I WANNA BE CRADDLED IN HIS ARMS. HE'S JUST MYDEI. *Breaks down*

and this time, when his hand hovers close to yours, you don’t resist the urge to let your fingers brush.

> He. He took care of the flowers. Man. I feel single. TF you mean he went to the market to get fertilizer so that he can take special care of the flowers you gave him. Huh. I'm. Ren I hate you sm /pos

RE: ACT IV

OH. AS SOON AS I READ THE TITLE. I WAS SOLD. I JUST KNEW IT'D BE KICKING MY FEET. SIRI PLAY JEALOUS BY NICK JONAS.

I mean no disrespect

It's my right to be hellish

I still get jealous

> Mydei at some point probably. Except he meant all the disrespect.

mydei’s eyes flick to him, and if looks could kill, phainon would be six feet under —and the former wouldn’t even spare the effort to toss dirt over his grave.

> THE FACT THAT ITS PHAINON BAHABWHABEJW I LOVE IT. PHAINON YOU SLY FOX YOU. I LOVE HIM SO MUCH TTTT. phainon and mydei interactions my beloved. It's the 'you dare utter those words infront of me? Are you asking to be stabbed?' stare.

phainon tilts his head, his smile just sly enough to make you wary. “feed me.”

> WINGMAN PHAINON. YES SIIRRRRRRRE. I SEE YOU. I HEAR YOU. I KNOW WHERE THIS IS GOING.

mydei smoothly takes the sweet straight from your fingers, his lips brushing against your fingertips in the process; his gaze locked onto yours as he takes a bite.

and before you can pull away —the barest hint of his tongue swipes against the sugar-dusted tips of your fingers, licking away the faint trace of sweetness left behind.

> FORK YOU REN. FORK YOU TO THE HEAVENS BECAUSE WTHUCK IS THIS. YOU CANT SLIP THIS IN CASUALLY. WHAT ABOUT MY HEART. YOU'RE GONNA SEND ME INTO A COMMA. MYDEI LIKES SWEET THINGS? HELLO? WTHFOWBTOWNCOWNG. I CANT EVEN DESCRIBE THE FEELIGNS IM FEELING RN. MY FACE FEELS HOT AND MY HEAD STARTED THROBBING. if I die now, ren is the culprit. MYDEI ARE YOU A CAT. YOU FORKING. SMOOTH CRIMINAL. TOO SMOOTH. LIQUID SMOOTH.

phainon wonders if he’s about to be thrown out of the castle with the way you and mydei glare at him (for different reasons, respectively)... but judging by his smirk, he finds the risk well worth it.

> phainon playing match maker is my favourite thing ever. THIS CONNIVING MAN BWUHAUEHAUW.

you glance back down at your embroidery, but before you can add another stitch, phainon strides up to you, shaking out his arms with an exaggerated sigh. “ow… you saw that, right?” he whines, flopping down beside you with an exaggerated sigh. “he’s being so rough with me today!”

> REN IM SORRY HELP WHY IS ALL MY COMMENTS ON PHAINON. what a whiny baby 😭 Phainon my beloved why must you trump my comments on mydei. Ren Phainon fic when? Rennie I'm begging on my knees. Anyways back to fawning over mydei.

a warm hand brushes against your temple, fingers gently threading through your hair as they tuck it behind your ear.

his gaze is so unbearably soft.

> Oh dude fork me. I'm sorry that the only compliments I can give is practically just boothill curse words but like fork me to hell because. BECAUSE. EUEUUEE IM GNAWING AT THE SHEETS. MYDEI YOU. YOU FOOL. YOU SOFTIE. YOU SWEETHEART.

Re: ACT V.

without a word, your husband takes the handkerchief from your hand, presses it to his brow, and dabs away the sweat collecting at his temple; then folds it neatly and tucks it into his belt where everyone can see.

> FUCKKK YEAHHHH BROOOOOOO. THIS IS WHAT IM TALKING ABOUT. THIS IS WHAT THE CROWD WANTS. THIS IS WHAT WE WERE WAITING FOR. I DREAMED OF TIMES LIKE THIS.

you manage a soft smile. “then bring back the victor’s crown for me, will you?”

“if it’s for you,”

> My heart. It's overloaded with pomegranate juice and cake.

in a flash, he wraps an arm around your waist and hauls you into his arms, lifting you effortlessly off the ground. he spins you in a wide, sweeping circle before drawing you close. his eyes locking with yours, a triumphant grin playing on his lips.

> WHERES THE TROPHY. HE JUST COMES RUNNING OVER TO ME

TOUCH THEM CALL THE AMATEURS AND CUT EM FROM THE TEAM.

LITERALLY THIS MOMENT. THIS MOMENT. PINNACLE OF MY LIFE. ALTER OF MY DAY. I LOVE THIS. MOMENTS LIKE THESE MY BELOVED. WELL EXECUTED. FELT EVERY RUSH OF EMOTION AS I READ..

Re: EPILOGUE

he hums, the sound low and content as he presses a kiss to your temple. “i do,” he whispers. “if there’s one thing i’ll always be sure of, it’s you.”

> perfect end. Love forehead kisses till I die. ON MY GRAVE. I NEED THIS FIC ON MY GRAVESTONE. ENGRAVED IN THE MARBLE WHERE I LAY.

—how to win my husband over 101

in which : you marry the ruthless prince of kremnos, and everyone says you'll never thaw his heart. but you’re nothing if not stubborn. surely all you have to do is win him over right? how hard can that be?

wc 8.7k (it’s worth it trust me), historical au, marriage of convenience, sunshine x grumpy, strangers to lovers, you fell first + he fell harder, fem reader referred to as “princess” / “milady”, ts burns so slow u might rip ur hair out sorry, heavily ib how to get my husband on my side. art by @/kannbergri on x.

surprise pookies @vxnuslogy @luvether @knnichs @kazucee it’s finally here!!!!

PROLOGUE: HOW TO SURVIVE THE EARLY DAYS

you married a stranger to save your homeland.

there was no love in the arrangement, no romantic vows exchanged beneath moonlit skies, no promises of forever whispered in soft voices. just firm handshakes and signatures inked on parchment.

it was a straightforward agreement: kremnos would protect your people in exchange for a union, and you were sent to marry the crown prince, mydeimos, to solidify the alliance.

you had heard his name long before you ever saw his face. prince mydeimos of kremnos —a name whispered with reverence, with fear, with awe; carrying the weight of countless victories carved into the blood-soaked chaos of battlefields.

but none of those stories prepared you for the reality of him.

the grand hall of kremnos' palace feels colder than you imagined.

marble floors stretch endlessly beneath your feet, polished to a gleaming perfection that seems to reflect the distance between you and the life awaiting you here. the walls, adorned with banners of deep reds and golds, do little to warm the oppressive air.

servants pass by in hushed movements, their heads bowed, their whispers inaudible. the air carries the faint aroma of polished wood and lingering incense, yet there is no warmth to be found —not in the hall, not from the people, and certainly not from the man standing at the far end of the room.

you bow slightly out of instinct, a gesture of respect, though you feel foolish doing so in the context of your marriage.

dressed in the royal garb of kremnos, a deep red cloak embroidered with gold thread draped over his shoulders, his marigold eyes lock onto yours with piercing intensity.

“princess,” he greets you, his words polished to a fault —exactly what you’d expect from a prince.

“your highness,” you reply, matching his formality.

“welcome to kremnos, i trust the journey was not too difficult.”

it’s not a question, you realize. merely a statement to acknowledge your presence. you offer a polite nod, “the journey was smooth, your highness,” you reply, your voice steady despite the unease creeping into your chest. “thank you for your hospitality.”

you watch as he takes a glass of reddish liquid from a servant standing nearby, lifting it to his lips with ease, the vibrant color catching your eye.

the rich crimson hue seems too unnatural for something as mundane as wine. your gaze fixes on the glass as he drinks, a chill running down your spine as an unsettling thought creeps in.

is he drinking... blood?

your heart skips, a sudden nervousness, and you quickly avert your gaze, unable to meet his eyes.

he catches your stare however, “what is it that you find so fascinating?”

flustered, you lower your head, stammering, "i... beg your pardon, your highness.”

you can feel your pulse quicken, the heat rising in your cheeks as you panic. the weight of his cold gaze is almost unbearable, and you fear you’ve already made a fool of yourself.

for a moment, you dare not look at him, the silence stretching uncomfortably between you.

the prince casually wipes the red liquid from his lips with the back of his hand, as your eyes drift involuntarily toward the glass once more, still questioning its contents.

his eyes flicker to you as they narrow, “still curious?”

you freeze, wrecking your head for a sensible answer lest you further embarrass yourself.

with a sharp sigh, he places the glass down on the tray. “it’s pomegranate juice, nothing more.”

you blink, stunned for a moment, the absurdity of your previous assumption crashing down on you.

“pomegranate juice,” you repeat softly, as if testing the words to see if they make sense.

“yes. is that so difficult to believe?”

that night, you lay on the luxurious bed in your chamber, the events of the evening swirling in your mind. you shake your head, embarrassed by your own overactive imagination.

you turn onto your side, pulling the heavy blankets tighter around you, but sleep evades you.

yes, your husband is a man of few words, fewer emotions, and absolutely no warmth when it comes to you. yet within that frost lies a heart, waiting for the right touch to thaw it.

ACT I: HOW TO DRAW HIS ATTENTION

over the weeks, you've learned many peculiar things about your husband.

you’ve noticed, for instance, that he always rises before dawn, and spends hours in the training grounds perfecting his form —an unyielding warrior at heart. or how he has an unusual preference for adding goat's milk to his pomegranate juice, a combination that strikes you as strange yet somehow fitting for him.

you’ve also discovered that, contrary to expectations, he favors the color pink —an oddly delicate choice for a man so rigid in his demeanor. and while he is undeniably polite, he also remains stern and is not one to easily open up, not even to those closest to him.

all that you've learned, you’ve used in an attempt to earn his favor, though your effort often feels like trying to breach a concrete wall.

(one day, you deliberately rise early, before the sun fully breaks over the horizon, and make your way to the training grounds.

there, you find a concealed spot in the shadows, watching him spar with the guards. you’ve gone, in part, because you want him to know you care, but also because of the impressive display of his skill that subconsciously draws you in.

it’s not long before he notices your presence; his expression remains impassive, but his gaze hardens, narrowing slightly as he observes you making your way to him from across the field.

as you finally reach him, you extend the water in your hand. but just as you take a step closer, your foot catches on an uneven stone. you stumble forward, crashing into him, and spilling the cold water across his chest.

the gasp that escapes you is quickly followed by frantic apologies.

"princess," he says coolly, the water dripping from his toned muscles, tracing the lines of his broad shoulders and down his chest. "...are you always this clumsy, or is today a special occasion?"

ah.

well at least he has jokes..?)

or after noticing how he often stays silent during meals, you decide to change the pace.

(at the dining hall, you ask about his interests, but he only gives brief, impersonal responses; his attention fixed on his plate, quietly indulging in the honey-drenched pancakes. you try to make a lighthearted joke, but he doesn’t even look up, offering only a polite “i see” before the silence drapes over the table again.

so, you finally decide to try a more… direct approach —flattery. surely, no man can resist a little charm, right?

you lean close as you gather all the courage you can muster, batting your eyelashes at him hoping you appear as endearing as you intend.

"i must say, my dear husband, you —uh, you are unmatched in your… strength and wisdom. it’s no wonder my heart can’t help but be drawn to you..?”

well that didn’t exactly sound convincing.

“and… your arms, they’re quite impressive. i mean —wait, that’s not what i meant—”

and that certainly didn’t make it any better!

you brace yourself, expecting a sharp rebuke or, at the very least, some irritation. but instead, he simply nods, offering a brief, detached “thank you” before turning his attention back to his meal.

you immediately avert your gaze, feeling a pang of relief. though it’s strange to think that at any moment, your husband might decide to chop your head off for being so foolish (...if he felt so inclined) he is the crowned prince, after all; and while his politeness is unsettling, it’s still better than his wrath... right?)

either way, it’s clear that your efforts have made not the slightest dent. better luck next time!

today will be different.

failure has never sat well with you, and after last night’s mortifying attempt at charming your husband, you refuse to let things end on such a dismal note. if words fail, then perhaps actions will speak louder.

so, with a woven basket tucked under your arm, you wander through the palace gardens first, where roses and marigolds flourish in a riot of color, their petals unfurling like delicate silk under the afternoon sun. honeysuckle vines twist gracefully around the trellises, their sweet fragrance lingering in the warm afternoon air.

you kneel amidst the blooms, fingers brushing over soft petals, feeling the gentle give of each flower beneath your touch. carefully, you pluck a few of each, tucking them gently into your basket, mindful of their fragile stems. you arrange them just so, already picturing the bouquet coming together in your hands.

but as you wander further, you find yourself drawn toward the edge of the estate. past the hedgerows and beyond the garden’s stone pathway, you notice something that catches your eye, a cluster of wildflowers —soft pinks and gentle whites.

perfect! these will be the finishing touch to complete your bouquet for mydeimos.

pleased with yourself, you smile and make your way toward the water’s edge. leaning forward, you stretch out to pluck one, your body lowering toward the ground, shifting your weight slightly, when—

a sudden force slams into your back.

the breath is knocked clean from your lungs. there's no time to react as the world tilts violently, and before you can even scream, the cold shock of water swallows you whole.

it’s deeper than you thought.

icy water rushes into your nose and mouth, sending a searing burn down your throat. panic grips you as the world above fractures into shimmering light, distorted by the rippling surface. you try to push yourself up, but alas, the weight of your dress still drags you down.

as you thrash around uselessly, your limbs start growing heavier. the surface above you slips further away; and the last thing you register is the sensation of strong arms wrapping around you —with a final strained breath, your vision dims to nothingness.

the next thing you feel is warmth.

your head rests against something solid, a steady rise and fall beneath your cheek .a firm hold keeps you close, one braced securely around your back, the other hooked beneath your knees.

you blink sluggishly, your lashes heavy with water. that’s when you realise, you’re in the arms of your husband.

his hair clings to his forehead, damp strands framing the sharp angles of his face. droplets trace slow paths down his jawline, soaking into the dark fabric of his tunic —leaving nothing to the imagination.

for a moment, disoriented and breathless, you can only blink up at him.

did he jump in after you..?

“why did you wander off alone?” he chastises, snapping you back to reality.

your throat feels tight, your heart hammering in your chest. "i-i just wanted to do something for you!" the confession spills from your lips, desperate, your fingers clinging instinctively to the soaked fabric of his sleeve.

it’s foolish, maybe, but you’re still reeling —from the near drowning, from the fact that mydeimos saved you.

he exhales sharply, exasperation heavy in his breath. "why are you like this…" his grip tightens on you, but there’s a tension in his voice as if he’s swallowing something he can’t quite put into words. “didn’t i say there’s no need to attract attention this way?"

the accusation stings, your brows knit together as you shake your head, droplets of water slipping down your temples. "i just… thought you’d like some flowers."

his fingers, still curled beneath your back, twitch slightly, his hold unconsciously steadying you.

mydeimos shifts, adjusting his hold on you before finally rising to his feet. the movement is effortless, but even so, a sharp chill runs through you as the air bites at your damp skin. before you can fully steady yourself, he places you down, his hands lingering for a second longer than necessary before withdrawing.

your dress clings uncomfortably to you, heavy with water, and when you glance down, you spot the basket lying a short distance away, half-tilted on the grass. the flowers you so carefully picked are scattered around it, petals crumpled, stems bent.

a pit forms in your stomach. all that effort, and now—

a shadow moves beside you. mydeimos steps forward, the hem of his cloak grazing against the fallen blooms. he considers them for a moment, then looks back at you.

“well?” his voice is steady, and you can’t quite grasp the intention behind it. “you went through all that trouble to gather the flowers… aren’t you going to give them to me?”

sure they're not nearly as perfect as they were when you first picked them. still, you kneel, fingers brushing over the damp grass as you carefully pick up the least damaged flowers, smoothing out the crumpled petals as best you can.

“…here.” slowly, hesitantly, you extend the bouquet towards him.

his fingers brush against yours as he accepts the flowers. “sorry they’re ruined,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

he shakes his head, unbothered. “they’re mine now, so i’ll take care of them.”

there’s no mockery in his expression, no disdain for your failed efforts. if anything, there’s something almost unreadable in the way he looks at you, something that makes your heart lurch against your ribs.

he spares you one last glance, then turns. “come. you need to get changed before you fall ill.”

and just like that, your husband walks ahead, idly twirling one of the flowers between his fingers. hardened steel and soft petals, strength and fragility; it doesn't look out of place.

somehow, it fits him too well.

ACT II: HOW TO CARE FOR A WARRIOR

once a year, the empire erupts into feverish anticipation for the annual gladiatorial tournament. a traditional competition of strength, bloodshed, and sheer willpower.

held in the heart of the capital, within the city of kremnos; warriors from across the kingdom —such as knights from noble houses, seasoned mercenaries, and ambitious upstarts, all gather within the grand coliseum, each vying for glory, honor, or a place in history.

and three weeks from now, the coliseum will roar with life, filled to the brim with nobles and commoners alike, all eager to witness the blood and glory that’ll unfold within the arena.

the tournament may be weeks away, but mydeimos knows better than to grow complacent.

within the castle training grounds, the clash of steel echoes through the air, each strike reverberating like a war drum. two figures move in relentless rhythm, locked in a sparring match that is as much a dance as it is a battle.

the crown prince presses forward, his sword carving ruthless arcs through the air, a feint —then a sudden, brutal swing aimed at his opponent’s side.

phainon barely manages to parry, their blades grinding against each other in a fierce deadlock. exhaling sharply through his nose, he holds firm against the pressure. “mydei,” phainon mutters, breathless. “don't hold back."

mydei’s gaze remains unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something —amusement, perhaps, before he abruptly shifts his weight. with a sharp twist, he breaks the deadlock.

“HKS,” he counters, shoving forward with enough strength to force phainon back a step. “getting tired?”

phainon lets out a short laugh, adjusting his stance. “not in the slightest.” he disengages, spinning his blade in a quick counterstrike.

alas, the fight reaches no clear victor, ending in yet another stalemate.

exhaling, phainon lowers his blade. “not bad.”

but before mydei can respond; a slow, warm trickle down his arm draws his attention. his gaze flickers downward —a thin slash mars his bicep, blood welling along the cut.

the knight’s expression shifts, eyes catching on the wound. “heh looks like i take the win this time,” he gloats, though there’s a slightest hint of concern in his tone.

“...though i do apologise, your highness,” phainon says, eyeing the wound with a tilt of his head.

mydei rolls his shoulder, testing the ache, then huffs. “nothing to be sorry for.” his lips curl slightly, eyes flicking back to phainon.

“but don’t think this means i’m letting you off easy. we’ll settle it properly next time.”

“oh? and here i thought you’d take the loss with dignity for once,” phainon snorts, sheathing his blade in one smooth motion. “but i suppose i wouldn’t want you growing too accustomed to losing.”

mydei doesn’t know why you’re worrying so much.

the cut is insignificant, to him at least. within hours, it’ll be gone —his body already stitching itself back together. he doesn’t need tending to, least of all by you.

and yet, here you are.

as you sit beside him, your hands deftly press a cloth soaked in cool water to his wound, cleaning away the dried blood with careful strokes. for some reason, seeing you like this —fussing over him with a tenderness he’s never quite experienced before —renders him quiet.

“…you’re frowning,” he murmurs.

“because you’re hurt,” you say as a matter of factly, setting the cloth aside before reaching for a bandage. your fingers are gentle as they smooth it over his skin, lightly tracing the curves of his biceps.

he watches the way your lips press together, tying the final knot with a delicate tug, patting the fabric down as if to reassure yourself that it will hold.

something tugs at the edge of his mind.

you’ve pretended to love him ever since you stepped foot in kremnos; he thought he knew every expression you wore, every feigned tenderness. but this —this time, it’s different. there’s no audience here, no need for the carefully crafted role of the adoring wife.

so why do you still look at him like that?

his breath stills. he doesn’t know what to make of this.

“…please be more careful next time.” mydei glances at his arm, the ache is already fading.

you don’t know how pointless all of this is. by morning, there won’t even be a scar.

you exhale softly, your brows still furrowed in concern. then, as if unable to help yourself, your fingertips ghost over the bandage, smoothing it down with a tenderness that makes his chest tighten.

“does it still hurt?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

he should say no. he should tell you it’s nothing.

but when he looks at you —sees the way your eyes linger on him, so earnestly unguarded. he falters.

“…not much,” he admits instead. “you act as if i’m on death’s door.”

“and you act as if you’re invincible,” you retort softly.

he freezes.

he almost laughs at the irony of it —because in some ways, you aren’t wrong. his body will always mend itself, his wounds never lasting long enough to be of real consequence.

but his darling wife doesn’t know that.

and perhaps that’s why he lets you worry, lets you dote on him with such sweet, unknowing devotion. because, against all logic —against everything he’s told himself, he finds that he likes it.

your touch finally retreats, hands settling in your lap. “i’ll leave you to rest, your highness.”

you rise from your seat, and as you turn to leave, mydei catches himself watching the space where your hands had been, the phantom warmth still resting against his skin.

for a wound that’s already gone, he finds it strange —how reluctant he is to let it fade.

ACT III: HOW TO AVOID MISUNDERSTANDINGS

"sir phainon, thank you for showing me around the city," you say, offering the man beside you a faint smile as you step around a corner.

the knight dips his head, “of course, milady. the pleasure’s all mine."

you’re glad phainon took time off to accompany you —wandering the city alone would’ve definitely left you lost and stewing in your own thoughts.

phainon glances at you, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. "but i’m surprised his highness let you wander the city with another man," he muses.

you let out a small laugh, running your fingers along the petals of a flower display as you pass by. "well, i don’t think he cares."

you shoot a puzzled look at him,"what is?"

to phainon, who’s seen the way mydei looks at you, heard the way he speaks of you; your words make no sense at all.

—but he holds his tongue. "nothing, milady. let’s keep walking before i say something i shouldn’t."

the warmth of the moment sours when you round a corner near the market square. there, just past a cluster of gossiping nobles, mydei stands stiffly, arms crossed as he listens to a young woman speak.

you recognize her —a lady-in-waiting that serves in the palace.

“…always playing the victim,” she sneers, voice pitched just loud enough to draw attention. “everyone pities her, but really, she’s just an outsider to kremnos—”

your steps falter, confusion flickering across your face. is that lady… talking about you?

“she was never worthy of standing by his highness’s side!” the lady continues with simpering disdain.

beside you, your companion stiffens, his fingers subtly curling at his sides. he’s noticed, too.

but before you can fully process the words, she lets out a haughty laugh. “she tripped herself that day. i only gave her a little push and—”

“what?” mydei’s voice cuts through the air, his eyes narrowing.

the lady startles, whipping around to face him, but quickly smooths her expression into one of feigned innocence. “y-your highness…” she lowers her head just slightly. “i only meant that a mere nudge shouldn’t have been enough to send her stumbling so helplessly.”

she offers a small, demure smile. “unless, of course, one lacks the grace befitting a princess.”

“it was unfortunate that your highness was troubled because of—”

her words trail off as her gaze flicks to the side, right where you stand.

and in that fleeting moment, mydei follows her line of sight.

your breath catches. you hadn’t meant to be seen.

a small, almost imperceptible smirk forms on her lips; just as mydei glances to your side, his attention diverted for a split second; she falls toward him, her body angling toward him in a way that all but demands he steady her.

you feel a jolt of realization —her intentions are clear as day towards you.

mydei’s eyes barely flicker as she topples toward him, but his hand moves —not to steady her, as she so clearly intended, but to seize her wrist in a firm, unyielding grip.

with a sharp tug, he wrenches her upright, the motion not even close to an act of chivalry.

a startled gasp slips past her lips, her wide eyes darting up, stunned by the strength of his hold. the gathered onlookers murmur amongst themselves as the prince fixes her with a cold, unreadable stare.

“tell me. are you purposely trying to cause a misunderstanding between me and my wife?”

the lady blanches, her mouth opening and closing as she scrambles for a response. “y-your highness, i would never—”

“spare me the excuses.” his fingers uncoil, and she stumbles back, barely catching herself. she cradles her wrist as though burned, whether from pain or humiliation, it’s hard to tell.

“guards.” mydeimos doesn’t raise his voice, but the command rings clear. two armored figures stationed nearby immediately step forward, “take her away.”

“y-your highness, i only—”

mydeimos doesn’t even spare her a glance as he delivers the lady’s fate. “for daring to put her hands on the princess, she is to be punished accordingly. let this serve as a reminder, such conduct has no place in my court.”

the color drains from her face as the guards seize her by the arms, her protests falling on deaf ears. the onlookers part to make way, some exchanging knowing glances, others whispering amongst themselves.

then mydeimos’ gaze softens —only slightly, in your direction.

phainon leans in, “and yet, milady insists that his highness does not care?”

but you don’t respond, heart fluttering traitorously in your chest as mydeimos turns on his heel and strides toward you.

with a small tilt of his head, he nods to phainon before finally speaking.

“she was desperate,” he remarks, voice edged with dry amusement. “did you see how she threw herself at me? pitiful.”

he studies you for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze. “...you weren’t fooled, were you?”

you blink, caught off guard by his question. “of course not, your highness.”

ah. was he worried you’d misunderstand?

his lips part slightly, but no words come, instead he just exhales softly, as if to himself. “good.”

phainon, ever perceptive, arches a brow but says nothing of it. instead, he steps back with a knowing tilt of his head. “well then, i shall take my leave. duty calls, after all, milady, your highness.” with that, he turns on his heel and disappears into the crowd, leaving just the two of you.

mydei’s eyes linger on you —searching, almost reluctant, before he finally tears his gaze away. “we should go.”

he starts walking, and you follow, the quiet rhythm between you shifting in a way that's hard to place. it’s subtle, so subtle that if you weren’t paying enough attention, you might’ve missed it.

the way his steps fall in sync with yours, slowing his usually large strides ever so slightly, as if unconsciously matching your pace. the way his hand hovers near yours, close enough that if you swayed even slightly, your fingers might brush.

it doesn’t feel intentional, and yet, it doesn’t feel like an accident either.

the marketplace hums around you both; vendors calling out their wares, the scent of fresh bread and spices curling through the air. but your mind is elsewhere, lingering on the man beside you, on the things left unsaid.

at some point, curiosity gets the better of you. “your highne—” “mydei.”

…would it be foolish of you to think of it as a plea? that, beneath the indifference he wears so well, he cares how his name sounds when spoken by you?

(because with you, he doesn't need to be the prince of kremnos, nor the valiant warrior they call mydeimos. he’s just your husband, mydei.)

you glance up at him, but his gaze stays ahead. he doesn’t offer an explanation; your thoughts linger on that single word, and maybe that’s why, after a moment’s hesitation, you decide to give it a try.

“mydei… what were you doing in the market today?”

he doesn’t answer right away. a terribly fond smile tugging at his lips.

he looks good like this, you think.

with a glance to the side, he replies, “nothing of importance.”

a half-truth, at best.

your thoughts drift back to the last time you were here —the flowers you had given him, bright and delicate in his hands. an odd sight, perhaps, yet somehow, they suited him.

a ridiculous thought takes root before you can stop it.

could he have been looking for ways to take care of them? …surely not.

but any doubt vanishes the moment a florist calls out to him. “your highness! you’ve returned! here, this is the care guide you requested, along with the special fertilizer. it should help the flowers bloom beautifully.”

mydei takes the offered items with a nod, thanking the florist who beams, clearly pleased to be of service.

"you must truly cherish them, your highness," they remark. "not many would go through such trouble for a simple bouquet."

mydei only hums in response, tucking the items away as he turns back to you. for a moment, it almost seems like he might explain himself, but instead, he merely lifts a brow, as if daring you to say something about it.

warmth unfurls at the edges of your chest, spreading slowly, irresistibly.

you press your lips together, fighting the smile threatening to surface. "so," you muse lightly, "you’ve been taking good care of my flowers?”

mydei exhales, the ghost of an amused smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "it would be a shame if they wilted so soon,” he says. then, as he starts walking again, a quiet afterthought —so soft you almost miss it.

"especially when they were a gift from you."

and this time, when his hand hovers close to yours, you don’t resist the urge to let your fingers brush.

ACT IV: HOW TO TAME HIS JEALOUS HEART

it’s late —past the hour most would retire, yet the training grounds remains lit by torches that flicker against the cool stone walls, their flames casting long, dancing shadows. mydeimos leans back against the walls, arms loosely folded across his chest as his gaze follows phainon sharpening his blade a few paces away —though, truthfully, his thoughts are elsewhere.

it’s phainon who breaks the silence first.

“you know,” he starts, glancing up without looking directly at the prince, “you’re awfully quiet these days, your highness.”

he wipes his sword down lazily, throwing a glance over his shoulder. "...say, mydei."

mydei doesn’t look up, but his posture shifts, "what?"

phainon lets the silence drag for a moment, almost like he’s weighing his next words.

“do you have genuine feelings for [name]?"

the words land like a blow in the silence between them; he doesn’t bother to wait for an answer.

“because if you don’t, i was thinking maybe i’d give courting her a try.”

ah. that does it.

mydei’s eyes flick to him, and if looks could kill, phainon would be six feet under —and the former wouldn’t even spare the effort to toss dirt over his grave.

phainon laughs quietly under his breath at his comrade’s reaction, not bothering to hide the tilt of his mouth.

“don’t cross the line.” the words fall from mydei’s lips, low and clipped like a warning.

phainon laughs —the kind of laugh shared only between men who’ve known each other long enough to grow used to the other’s sharp edges.

“relax,” he drawls, sheathing his blade with a lazy flick. “i was just joking, you can stop glaring at me now.”

“i’m not mad i—”

“you’re not mad because you think i meant it,” he cuts in. “you’re angry because you know i’m right. you’ve been walking around pretending like she doesn’t mean a thing to you, bottling up every damn thing you feel for her. if it were anyone else, they’d have given up by now.”

mydei looks away. “she’s not anyone else,” he mutters.

phainon smiles. “then tell her.”

mydei stays uncharacteristically silent as phainon steps past with a clap on his shoulder. “you're lucky she’s patient.”

the sour look on your husband’s face whenever phainon’s name comes up is a recent development.

you first noticed it in passing: an almost imperceptible downturn of his lips, a restrained (but still noticeable) eyeroll or the press of his lips into a tight line. at first, you thought nothing of it. but lately… it’s been happening a lot.

right now, you’re seated in the castle’s sunlit tea room with someone you can now call a friend —phainon. the scent of fresh brews curls in the air, warm and comforting, but it does little to soothe the frustration tightening in your chest.

phainon leans back in his seat as you lay your troubles before him. surely, as one of mydei’s closest friends, he could offer some worthwhile advice on how to win the latter’s heart.

because at this rate, if you don’t manage to win him over before your contract runs its course, you wouldn’t be surprised to wake up with his sword cold against the nape of your neck.

“so… what do you think?” you ask, poking at a pastry with your fork.

phainon hums, tilting his head in thought. “he’s a reserved man —you’ve probably figured that out by now. give him some time, he’s the type to take forever to realize what’s right in front of him.”

he shrugs, a smirk tugging at his lips. “though, i do hope milady won’t give up on him just yet.”

you nod, committing his words to memory, but then he suddenly straightens, that familiar glint of mischief lighting his gaze.

“actually,” he muses, glancing down at his hands, now dusted with crumbs and icing, “my hands are a bit of a mess from this cake. mind doing me a favor?”

he lifts his sugar-coated fingers in emphasis.

you eye him suspiciously. “...what kind of favor?”

phainon tilts his head, his smile just sly enough to make you wary. “feed me.”

narrowing your eyes, you scoff at his request, “look, buster—”

“just this once,” he interrupts, grinning. “think of it as repaying me for my advice.”

there’s something almost too innocent about the way he leans in, like he’s well aware of what he’s doing… or rather, what exactly might happen if a certain someone were to walk in.

still, with an exaggerated sigh, you pick up a piece of pastry and lift it towards him—

only for a firm grip to catch your wrist before you can.

just your luck.

mydei smoothly takes the sweet straight from your fingers, his lips brushing against your fingertips in the process; his gaze locked onto yours as he takes a bite.

and before you can pull away —the barest hint of his tongue swipes against the sugar-dusted tips of your fingers, licking away the faint trace of sweetness left behind.

did he just—?

heat rushes to your face. your mouth parts, but no sound comes out.

phainon whistles lowly. “oh yeah i forgot to mention,” he says, far too amused.

“the prince has a sweet tooth.”

for a moment, the only sound in the room is the soft clink of porcelain as phainon sets down his teacup, watching the scene unfold with thinly veiled amusement.

all you can do is stare —frozen, pulse skittering in your throat.

mydei, on the other hand, is utterly unbothered. if anything, he looks as composed as ever, chewing leisurely, as if he didn’t just—

your fingers twitch in his grasp. finally, he releases your wrist, his touch lingering just a second too long before he pulls away.

you snatch your hand back like you’ve been burned, curling your fingers against your palm as if that will erase the phantom heat of his lips, the fleeting press of his tongue.

the annual gladiatorial tournament is only days away, and kremnos is already stirring with anticipation. you’ve heard the chatter in the halls, the wagers placed on champions, the hushed whispers of which warriors will rise and which will fall.

seated on a bench near the training grounds, you let the rhythmic clash of weapons fade into background noise, your focus trained instead on the fabric in your hands. a delicate handkerchief, its edges carefully stitched, the embroidery thread gliding through with each careful motion of your needle.

you had learned from a few noble ladies: it’s tradition for warriors to receive tokens of fortune from their beloveds —most commonly, a handkerchief embroidered with care to carry into battle as a reminder that someone’s waiting for them to return.

before you, the clash of steel rings out as two men spar. you glance up just in time to see phainon nimbly dodge a particularly heavy swing, a grin tugging at his lips. “feeling a little aggressive today, aren’t we?”

mydei doesn’t respond. he simply readjusts his grip on his sword, his expression unreadable.

(if you had to put money on why mydei was more aggressive than usual, you’d wager it had something to do with that stunt phainon pulled a few days ago that had left the former in such a foul mood.)

you return to your stitching, pretending not to notice the way your husband’s eyes flicker toward you between exchanges. unknowingly, a small smile tugs at your lips as you press the needle through the cloth once more.

rumors had circulated for years that prince mydeimos had never once accepted a handkerchief from anyone. not from the ladies who fawned over him at court, not from the admirers who sighed at the sight of his swordsmanship, not even from those with the highest of pedigrees.

it was said that no handkerchief had ever found its way into his hands, let alone remained in his possession. you weren’t sure why; perhaps he found them frivolous, or maybe he had no interest in sentimental keepsakes when he relied on skill alone to survive.

…which didn’t exactly bode well for the one currently in your hands.

so as you carefully stitch your embroidery, you don’t hold out much hope that he’ll accept yours either.

still, it wouldn’t do for the beloved wife of mydeimos to be the only one who hadn’t even offered her husband a handkerchief. whether he accepted it or not was secondary —your duty was to at least play the part expected of you.

as the sparring match winds down, mydei steps off to the side, catching his breath. you discreetly watch as him roll his shoulders, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow.

you arch a brow, biting back a laugh as he leans against the edge of the bench. “poor thing,” you say, amused. “what did you do to deserve it?”

phainon grins. “absolutely nothing, milady.”

you shake your head, obviously unconvinced —but then, just like that, his playful pout melts into a coprophagous grin that spells nothing but trouble.

oh no.

“if he wants to be mean,” he muses, tilting his head, “then maybe i should give him a reason for it.”

you frown. “phainon—”

he says, far too casually, “i think i’ve got an idea.”

he leans in slightly, a wolfish grin on his face. “just play along, alright?”

“huh?”

"here, let me show you something." before you can react, phainon takes your hand, pulling you up from your seat with ease. a moment later, a wooden practice sword is tossed into your grasp.

you barely have time to protest before he’s already behind you, his hands resting lightly over yours as he adjusts your grip.

"see?" his voice is low, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath near your ear. "you hold it like this, and—"

“that’s enough.”

both you and phainon turn to see mydei standing a few feet away. he doesn’t look outwardly furious, but there’s the tension in his shoulders says enough.

phainon merely raises an eyebrow. “oh? something wrong, your highness?”

the air thickens and you can practically feel the sparks flying. sensing the storm that’s about to break, you quickly slip out of phainon’s grasp and rush toward mydei, practically throwing yourself into his arms.

“mydei!” you call, mustering the sweetest voice you can manage, hoping to calm him down (before phainon gets his ass kicked again). “y-you must be exhausted after all that training today… why don’t we head back and get some rest?”

a warm hand brushes against your temple, fingers gently threading through your hair as they tuck it behind your ear.

even though you were the one who threw yourself at mydei, you find yourself frozen, heart hammering at the unexpected tenderness in his touch.

his gaze is so unbearably soft.

after a moment, mydei exhales and nods before leading you away.

you steal a glance back at phainon—who only winks and flashes you a thumbs-up.

(mydei lets out a quiet sigh of relief, watching as you do everything in your power to avoid meeting his eyes. if he had stayed any longer and if phainon had caught sight of the faint flush dusting his cheeks —he’d never hear the end of it.)

ACT V: HOW TO EARN HIS DEVOTION

the sun hangs high above kremnos, casting a golden blaze over the arena as the city wakes to the sound of distant drums and the clang of steel. colorful banners bearing the insignias of noble houses flutter from towering spires, while anticipation clings thick to the air.

all of kremnos knows what day it is. the long-awaited gladiatorial tournament has finally arrived.

from the highest nobles draped in silk to the lowest commoners pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the stands, all eyes are drawn to the bloodstained sand at the heart of the arena.

the rules are simple, brutal, unforgiving: fight until your opponent yields, or until they can no longer stand. and of course, there's no word for “mercy” in the kremnoan language… as mydei would say it.

the air in the holding chambers, hidden beneath the grand coliseum, is heavy with the scent of iron and sweat. you step inside with your small offering in hand: the handkerchief you embroidered, each stitch woven with thoughts of him.

and today, you see you’re not alone. the corridor is packed with people, mostly noblewomen, some nervous sweethearts, all fluttering around their chosen champions, many bearing the same tradition in their palms.

you catch sight of more than a few stretching their handkerchiefs out to mydei, vying for even a small glance. a small crowd trails him like petals in a storm, calling his name with saccharine lilts, each desperate to be noticed.

with the way he’s being swarmed, you resign yourself with a small sigh, clutching your own handkerchief, fingers curling gently around the cloth you spent the last few evenings stitching.

nevermind. maybe you’ll give it to phainon instead. he always appreciates the gesture, and at the very least, you’d get a smile out of him.

so your eyes scan the crowd instead, searching for—

only to freeze when you look up and see someone else already standing in front of you.

you blink, momentarily startled.

warmth spills into your chest, it’s strange. he never accepts handkerchiefs from anyone. not a single soul has ever earned that privilege. but today, in front of all these people, he’s taken yours without a second thought.

it’s a light gesture, but it says enough coming from the kremnoan prince.

and if he’s going to make such a bold move, you might as well tease him a little.

you tilt your head, a mischievous smile playing at your lips. “that’s sir phainon’s, you know.”

he stills for a moment, a flash of annoyance crossing his face before he furrows his brows in an almost adorable pout.

“then he’ll just have to go without,” he mutters.

you’ve never seen him look quite like this before —caught off guard and... flustered?

“... and i wanted one today.”

“well, since you’ve gone through all that trouble,” you say with a grin, “i suppose i’ll let you keep it.”

as you study him, a thought crosses your mind. you raise an eyebrow, “are you nervous about the tournament?”

his eyes flick to yours, “there is no word for ‘fear’ in the kremnoan language,” he replies, his voice low and confident.

it’s the kind of thing only mydeimos would say. and yet, something about the resolve in his eyes makes your heart skip a beat.

you manage a soft smile. “then bring back the victor’s crown for me, will you?”

honestly it's more of a vow than a request, you’d be content just seeing him return in one piece. but he takes it seriously anyway.

“if it’s for you,”

his expression softens for just a moment, and without missing a beat, he nods, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“i’d do anything.”

ACT VI: HOW TO BE VICTORIOUS

from your seat among the nobles, your gaze searches for him. the threads of your dress pinched between trembling fingers, creased from how often you’ve clutched it.

ever since you’ve come to kremnos, you’ve grown used to the sound of battle, but today every strike echoes a little louder in your ears.

your heart clenches every time mydei stumbles or blood splashes across the sand. even knowing how strong he is, how capable, there’s a twist of worry that doesn’t loosen its grip.

the kind you only feel when the person you care about is the one walking straight into danger.

you’d heard stories of what the tournament demands, but seeing it for yourself… it’s surreal.

the crowd cheers for violence.

warriors enter the arena one by one, facing off not only against each other, but against beasts dragged from the darkest corners of the empire —corrupted titankins, two-headed hounds, massive golems wreathed in flame; just to name a few.

and each time, the gates crash open with a deafening clang, releasing something more vicious than the last. still, he doesn’t falter. when a snarling beast lunges for his throat, he drives his sword deep into its ribs without a second thought.

the nobles cheer and holler around you, drunk on spectacle. but your eyes don’t leave him, not for a moment.

because while the crowd may be here for blood, all you want…

is to be the first thing mydei sees when it’s over.

the last of the other competitors lie in heaps of blood and sand, either devoured by the beasts or incapacitated by the prince. there’s no one left to challenge him except the creature before him.

the towering beast staggers toward him; your pulse spikes, hands gripping the edge of your seat as you hold your breath. every step it takes sends tremors through the arena floor, snarls echoing off stone as it bears down on him with a murderous roar.

the beast lunges, jaws snapping wide, but mydei meets it with unyielding resolve. his sword arcs through the air, a flash of silver against the blood-soaked dusk. the beast jerks, a guttural screech tearing from its throat as it rears back.

for a heartbeat, you can't tell who’s fallen.

then, through the settling haze, you see mydei standing, blood splattered across his armor, chest heaving with exertion. the beast lets out a final screech —and then crumples to the sand in a thunderous collapse.

for a heartbeat, there’s silence. and then the crowd erupts into a deafening cheer.

“mydei!” you cry out, your heart racing as you push through the sea of people to get closer.

he lifts his gaze, and it’s you he finds.

the victor’s crown, gleaming beneath the sun, is placed into his hands. and he raises it high above his head for all to see.

a roar erupts from the coliseum, the crowd surging to its feet as the name mydeimos echoes from every corner, chanted with unrelenting fervor.

and without hesitation, he strides toward you, his face softening as he approaches.

with a tenderness that belies his warrior's demeanor, he leans down and presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

"yours," mydei whispers. he lifts the victor’s crown in both hands, and with all the devotion of a man offering his heart, places it gently atop your head.

you reach up to his bloodied face, your hand trembling slightly as the warmth of his skin seeps into your fingers. your palm comes to rest against his cheek.

“you came back to me,” you murmur.

he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for the briefest moment —like he’s been waiting for this, aching for it.

“i always will.”

you rise onto your toes, closing the distance between you.

at the end of the day, all mydei seeks is not victory or glory, but the soft sound of his name on the lips of his beloved, wrapped in an embrace that makes him forget the harshness of the battlefield.

EPILOGUE: HOW TO WIN HIM OVER

the question that once haunted your thoughts —how could i ever win his heart? —feels like a distant memory now, an answer long since found.

mydei looks at you with a softness in his eyes that you’ve come to know as a rare gift. his hand, calloused from battles fought and won, reaches for yours, his fingers brushing against yours before entwining it.

“by the way, i’m actually… immortal. my injuries heal up after a while.”

you blink at him in confusion, and he chuckles softly, the sound warm and fond.

“wait, then that time when you—” you pause, recalling the night you carefully wrapped up his injury.

he grins, a small, playful glint in his eyes. ”i just like the way you worry over me.”

the admission leaves a flutter in your chest as his thumb gently strokes the back of your hand.

you huff, pretending to be upset, though your heart races at the softness in his words. “you mean to say all that time i was worried sick over you for nothing?”

he tilts his head, feigning innocence. “it wasn’t for no reason,” he says, clearly trying not to smile. “i liked it. still do.”

you narrow your eyes, lips tugging into a pout. “well, you could’ve told me sooner! now i feel ridiculous.”

with a soft chuckle, mydei’s fingers brush through your hair in a gentle, almost apologetic gesture. he ruffles it lightly, his touch surprisingly tender. “you’re adorable when you’re upset,” he murmurs, his voice holding a sweetness that makes your heart skip a beat.

you can’t help but soften, the playful anger fading as his hand lingers for a moment longer. he pulls you a little closer, his forehead gently resting against yours. “don’t be mad. i’ll let you fuss over me for as long as you want, as long as you’re by my side.”

“you better mean that! i’m holding you to it.”

he hums, the sound low and content as he presses a kiss to your temple. “i do,” he whispers. “if there’s one thing i’ll always be sure of, it’s you.”

you think back to every hesitation, every guarded glance, the walls he built high around his heart. and now, that same heart rests in your hands.

“looks like i managed to win you over after all,” you tease softly.

the way he looks at you says more than words ever could —as if you’re the only war he’s ever been glad to lose.

his fingers stay curled around yours; his heart laid bare with the quiet, breathtaking certainty that he is yours, as much as you are his.

"i love you, [name]."

and if this is victory, it’s the sweetest one yet.

thank you for reading!! reblogs are appreciated <3

MASTERLIST

#re: fics 🌕#finally got to reading this #my class starts in a couple hours and idk if ill be ablt to focus properly SOLEY BECAUSE OF THIS FIC #Ren screw you /affectionate #also. you encapsulated the song 'can we make this work' so beautifully into this fic #←listened to that the entire time #UGH REN HOW DARE YOU #HAS LYSOL SEEN THIS YET. LYSOL HI YOU'D LOVE THIS #ren im giving you forehead kisses because this was insane #it was gave very much manwha vibes and if i could id draw the entirety of this fic #well done rennie *claps hands like seal*#the wait was very much worth it #we dreamed of fics like this

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jungkoode · 10 hours ago

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𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 20

˗ˏˋ DIY bracelets ˎˊ˗

"You were not expecting to really enjoy the MoMA exhibition, but Jungkook looks so interested and in his element that his energy is contagious. Even with a IUD in your uterus staging mutiny, and him trying to evade your questions throguh a DIY bracelet shop."

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⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 10,4k

content: working hours at B&N, books, jk being goofy as usual, subway touches (what was that?), jk's genuine interest in photography, uterus pain, kids asking questions (lmao), jk being bff w boundaries as usual, soft conversations, avoiding certain topics, and making friendship bracelets (ew gay???) (p.s. i'm literally queer, shush it.)

✧ author's note ✧

*descends from the sky on a sparkly cloud of serotonin and unresolved sexual tension* GREETINGS, MY LITTLE PSYCHOTIC DAFFODILS. *ducks the knife thrown at my head* RUDE. *throws it back, it lands in someone’s thigh, probably Jungkook’s*

Okay okay okay okay. *deep breath.*

Hello, my beloved kikizens. If you’re reading this… I’m most likely abroad, roaming the earth like the girlboss nomad I pretend to be on Instagram, while in reality I’m crying over the outline of chapter 23 in the Notes app and eating overpriced airport pastries. Yes. I wrote this ahead of time. Yes. I am the most responsible irresponsible person you’ve ever met. Time traveling author note from Past!Kiki, sending love and ibuprofen to Future!You. Let’s hope the plane didn’t crash because, if so, Fuck Me Up Jungkook is now your responsibility. Please keep him fed and slightly emotionally constipated, just as I left him.

NOW. LET'S TALK. This chapter. THIS CHAPTER. We are entering the land of slow burn intimacy and micro-shifts in character dynamics that make me froth at the mouth. I need to scream about it. I am screaming about it. Nix at Barnes & Noble? A concept. Her choosing a retail job because she wants to save someone the way books saved her??? Yeah okay I'm totally fine, I'm just on the floor sobbing about it in a public bathroom.

AND JUNGKOOK. THAT BASTARD. Being respectful?? Giving her space while still being present?? Letting her lead and following her cues like a man who understands autonomy and emotional nuance??? Jail. Absolute jail. He’s so annoying and so HOT about it. I love writing him because he’s cocky and feral and dumb, but also deeply perceptive and compassionate when it counts. Like okay yes he's a little insufferable, but also, he's the kind of man who listens when you talk about your reproductive health without flinching and I think that's worth something.

Also. Let’s talk about the bracelets. Phoenix and Rogue. Fire-coded losers who pretend they don’t care while making color-coded matching jewelry??? WHO SAID YOU COULD BE CUTE. WHO SAID.

Anyway. This chapter is the beginning of a shift. A very soft shift. We’re not in love yet. We’re not even close. We are in that horrible, confusing, liminal space where friendship might be possible eventually but everyone’s still too scared and too stupid to say it out loud. They’re not friends yet. But they’re getting there. We’re watching in real time as they learn each other’s pressure points—what to push, when to pull back. It’s very ugh my chest hurts but also my heart is fluttering kind of vibe. Which is my favorite thing to write. Obviously.

Now. To talk about me, because I love attention: I’ve only been posting for a few months and I’m already overrun with WIPs like some kind of literary hoarder. It’s a problem. I start stories, then my ADHD bitchass brain says “new shiny idea???” and next thing I know I’m drowning in three AUs, an enemies-to-lovers high school AU I wrote at 3AM, and a secret smutty one-shot I can’t stop thinking about. It’s a whole ecosystem of chaos. But I do want to write them all. I do. I just also want to nap. And read. And rot.

So yeah. I think about y’all waiting for updates more than you know. I stress about it. I chew on it like emotional gum. My Spirk fic hasn’t updated in two months and it haunts me in my sleep. But I’m trying to accept that writing is better done when it feels good, not when I’m spiraling in guilt. So. If I ever start something and it takes me ages to finish, just know I do want to get there. I just move at the speed of depression and distraction.

AND A GENTLE REMINDER: this is a slow burn. A SLOW slow burn. Not the kind where they kiss in chapter 5 and you pretend it’s slow because they didn’t bang yet. No. I mean they will not start catching actual feelings for a while. There will be distractions. Other people, love interests. Awkwardness. Denial. You will watch them flounder. You will scream at your phone. You will think “surely they must realize it now,” and I will look you in the eyes and say, “no. no they do not.” Because the point is the journey. The point is the becoming. Not the kissing. (Okay fine also the kissing. But later.)

We are 20 chapters in, and I am being so serious when I say we are maybe… 20% into the full story. If that. I want to go all the way. From strangers to roommates to fuckbuddies to friends to best friends to oh my god it was you all along. I want to write every beat. Every change. Every stupid, messy, human moment. And yes. We will suffer. You, me, Nix, Jungkook, Yeji, Taehyung, everyone.

So I'd say sorry, but let's be honest, if you’re here right now—chapter 20, still with me—I know what kind of sick little freak you are. Masochist. You're not fooling anyone.

And I adore you for it. Thank you for choosing violence with me. Thank you for loving these two idiots. Thank you for reading. I mean it. So much.

Okay. Enough rambling. Go read. Go cry. Go scream. Tell your friends. Tattoo “Phoenix x Rogue” on your ass if you feel so inclined.

Mwah.

(Shameless reminder to support me on Ko-fi if you like my unhinged writing mess).

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Books have always been your lifeline in a world that feels like it's trying to drown you.

You've loved them for as long as you can remember, though you can't pinpoint the exact moment they became your refuge. It wasn't a dramatic epiphany or a life-changing event. Just a gradual realization that between the pages of a book, you could breathe easier.

Kafka speaks to the part of you that feels constantly out of step with the world (though you'd never admit that to Taehyung—his smug "I told you so" would be unbearable).

Murakami paints surreal landscapes that make your own reality feel a little less suffocating.

And now Donna Tartt, because you're tired of Jimin's scandalized gasps every time you confess to not having read her yet.

You weren't the stereotypical bookworm growing up. No thick glasses perched on your nose, no disdainful sniffs at the mention of pop culture. You didn't turn your nose up at Harry Styles concerts or roll your eyes at school dances.

But even as you navigated the treacherous waters of adolescence—first periods and friendship fallouts, the constant drama of simply existing as a teenager—books were always there.

A constant, even if sometimes pushed to the background.

They became your armor when the weight of expectations threatened to crush you. When disappointment hung heavy in the air, threatening to send you away in a chokehold, you'd retreat into worlds made of paper and ink.

It was easier to face fictional monsters than the very real ones lurking in parent-teacher conferences and college application deadlines.

Now, standing amidst the shelves of Barnes & Noble, surrounded by the comforting smell of new books and possibility, you can't help but feel a sense of belonging. Like you've come full circle. From the little girl who used to hide under her covers with a flashlight, devouring stories long past bedtime, to the woman who's made words her life's work.

It's not always easy.

Sometimes the words on the page blur together, your mind too full of real-world worries to lose yourself in fiction.

But even then, the weight of a book in your hands is grounding.

A reminder that there are always other worlds to explore, other lives to live, if only for a few hundred pages.

Maybe that's why you're here, arranging displays and recommending titles to strangers.

Because somewhere out there is another person drowning in expectations, desperate for a lifeline.

And maybe, just maybe, you can be the one to hand them the right book at the right moment—help them with their very own small act of rebellion against a world that sometimes feels too heavy to bear.

Mark hovers nearby as you arrange a new display of bestsellers, lanky frame, loose shirt and baggy pants. He's the one who picked up your application when you and Yeji came in last week—the one with the kind eyes and the nervous habit of clutching his hands together every five seconds.

Blonde, blue-eyed. You’d dare say he’s not bad-looking. For a man.

"So basically," he explains, voice pitched low like he's sharing state secrets instead of retail procedures, "most days you'll either be on register, floor assistance, or shelving. Today you're just shadowing me on the floor."

Floor assistance, as it turns out, is mostly wandering around looking approachable (but not too approachable) and occasionally directing lost souls to the bathroom or the manga section. You're also expected to straighten displays, check for misplaced books, and maintain what Mark calls "the Barnes & Noble aesthetic."

"Which means?" you ask, adjusting a copy of the latest Sally Rooney that's slightly out of alignment with its siblings.

"You know," he shrugs, hands doing that awkward hovering thing again, "like... cozy but sophisticated. Inviting but not cluttered."

You nod like this makes perfect sense, though privately you think it sounds like the kind of bullshit corporate memo someone got paid way too much to write.

"What about recommendations?" you ask. "Do we have any input on displays or—"

"Oh, totally!" His face brightens. "We each get to curate an employee picks shelf. You can start working on yours next week."

That, at least, sounds promising.

Already your mind is cataloging possibilities—perhaps a mix of classics and contemporary, maybe something unexpected thrown in. Definitely not the usual suspects everyone claims to have read but hasn't.

And just like that, the morning quickly blurs into afternoon.

Your tasks are the same all day: shelving, straightening, and following Mark around as he points out the minutiae of bookselling. It's mindless work, but not unpleasant. There's something soothing about putting things in order, about knowing exactly where everything belongs.

By the time your lunch break rolls around, you've settled into a comfortable groove. The break room is empty except for you and your sad turkey sandwich, the ancient TV in the corner playing a rerun of The Office. One where Jim is pulling some elaborate prank on Dwight. You find yourself smiling despite the mediocrity of your lunch.

The afternoon passes in much the same way—quiet, uneventful, almost peaceful. You help an elderly woman find the latest Louise Penny mystery. You alphabetize a section of poetry that looks like it's been hit by a tornado. You dust shelves that probably haven't seen a feather duster since Obama was president.

And then, suddenly, it's 5 PM.

You glance at your phone, mildly surprised that eight hours have passed without a single customer meltdown or retail horror story. No one has asked to speak to your manager. No one has tried to return a clearly read book with coffee stains on page 47. No one has even approached you with one of those vague "I'm looking for a book with a blue cover about a thing that happens" requests.

In fact, you've barely interacted with customers at all. It wasn't your turn on register, and most browsers seemed content to wander without assistance.

It's been... nice.

Quiet.

The kind of job where you can disappear into your own thoughts for stretches at a time.

You could get used to this, you think, clocking out and grabbing your bag from the locker.

Maybe it won't be the soul-crushing retail experience Yeji warned you about. Maybe you've lucked into the unicorn of part-time jobs—one that pays the bills without completely draining your will to live.

Or maybe it's just the first-day honeymoon period, and next week you'll be dealing with entitled parents who think the children's section is a free daycare.

Either way, as you push through the employee exit into the early evening air, you feel a strange sense of… accomplishment?

Surely, it's not saving lives or changing the world, but you can’t deny it’s satisfying; a day spent surrounded by books, putting things in order, creating small pockets of calm in a chaotic world.

And now, apparently (because God forbid the universe lets you forget) you have plans.

With Jungkook, of all people.

The thought should make you anxious.

It doesn’t.

You check your phone and see his text:

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚊? 𝚊𝚖 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎

You scan the street and spot him leaning against a lamppost, scrolling through his phone, looking unfairly good in a simple black t-shirt and jeans. Your roommate. Your sometimes-hookup. Your... friend?

The word still feels strange, but maybe it's time to try it on for size.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚒'𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚊𝚜 1𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚙𝚙𝚕

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚘 𝚒'𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚠𝚒𝚗

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚠𝚘𝚠 𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚊𝚛 𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚝𝚠

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝 𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚛 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚒'𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚛𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 🙄

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚌

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛?

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚟

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚑𝚝𝚘

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚒 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞 𝚋𝚝𝚠 𝚒𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒'𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒'𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚗𝚘 𝚞 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚖𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚞 𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚝𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚢 𝚊𝚏

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚢

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚑𝚝𝚘

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚒 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞 𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒'𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚘𝚔 𝚋𝚢𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞 𝚒𝚗 𝟹𝟸𝟷

You spot him leaning against the lamppost, scrolling on his phone like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders relaxed, black t-shirt fitting just right—not too tight, not too loose. It’s casual. Effortless.

And yeah, you’ve seen him in casual before—sweats, pajamas, even that stupid hoodie he refuses to throw out—but this is different. This is casual street Jungkook in the wild, outside the apartment.

Casual street Jungkook who’s here with you to do something normal and non-sexual and… friendly.

He looks good. But then again, you already knew that. There’s a reason you fuck him despite his infuriating personality.

Even when he says things that make you want to strangle him with his own belt.

He catches sight of you approaching and grins, that stupid lopsided grin that’s all teeth and confidence.

“Hey,” he says, voice light like this is just another day.

You don’t respond. Don’t even look up from your phone as your thumb swipes through apps in search of Maps.

“We have a twenty-minute ride from Union Square to the MoMA,” you say flatly. “The exhibit starts in thirty-five, so let’s go.”

“Sure,” he says easily, pushing off the lamppost with a lazy shrug. “What line?”

“N, Q, R—whichever comes first.” You finally glance up at him as you say it, but only briefly. Just long enough to catch the slight raise of his eyebrows before he nods.

“Okay.”

And then you’re walking side by side toward the subway entrance like this is normal. Like this isn’t the first time you’ve agreed to spend time together without sex as the unspoken endgame.

The stairs down to the subway are crowded—typical for a weekday evening—and you both swipe your cards at the turnstile without a word. There’s a guy pissing in one corner of the station (because of course there is), and Jungkook widens his eyes in a grimace like he’s trying to wipe away the sight of it. You don’t comment, just keep moving toward the platform like nothing happened.

It shouldn’t feel awkward. It’s never been awkward with him before—not even when things got messy or complicated or downright stupid between you two.

But now?

Now it feels like there’s this invisible weight hanging between you, pressing down on every step you take together.

Maybe it’s because he brought up that whole “trying to be friends” thing this morning—friends who have expectations, and expectations lead to disappointment, and disappointment leads to losing control.

Or maybe it’s because now that he said it out loud—now that he put friendship on the table—you can’t stop overthinking every little thing about this outing.

What does he expect from you? Does he want small talk? Does he want silence? Is this supposed to feel casual or meaningful or something else entirely?

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye as you both stop near the edge of the platform. He’s standing close but not too close—hands still in his pockets, gaze fixed on some ad plastered across the opposite wall. He doesn’t look uncomfortable or tense or anything remotely resembling how you feel right now.

Which makes sense because Jungkook never overthinks anything. He just does whatever feels right in the moment and deals with the consequences later (if at all).

It’s one of the things that drives you crazy about him—and maybe one of the things you secretly envy.

The train isn’t here yet, so now what? Do you say something? Ask him about his day? Pretend this is normal and fine and not at all weird for you?

“So…” Your voice comes out hesitant—too hesitant—and you immediately hate yourself for it.

Nice going, stupid bitch.

He glances at you but doesn’t say anything right away, waiting for you to finish whatever thought you’re trying (and failing) to articulate.

“What did… what did you do?” You clear your throat awkwardly, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as if that’ll somehow make this less painful for both of you. “Until… y’know… five?”

His lips twitch like he’s fighting back a smirk—like he knows exactly how much effort it took for you to ask such a simple question—and for some reason that makes you want to shove his head against the next train.

“Not much,” he says finally, his tone casual but not dismissive. “Watched some YouTube tutorials. Tried making sourdough again.”

You blink at him. “Sourdough?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, like baking bread is just a totally normal thing for someone like him to do in their free time. “Didn’t come out great though.”

“Oh.”

You don’t know what else to say to that—to him—so instead you just nod and glance down at your phone again like there’s something urgent demanding your attention.

But then, as if destiny decided (for once) to make things easier for you, the train arrives with its usual screech of brakes and rush of stale air, saving you from having to come up with any more awkward small talk on the platform.

So you step onto the train together—side by side but not touching—and you can’t help but wonder if this whole ‘trying to be friends’ thing is going to be harder than either of you realized.

Inside Jungkook moves instinctively to the metal bar overhead, reaching up to steady himself as the train lurches forward. You follow suit, your fingers wrapping around the same bar just a few inches away from his.

It’s fine. It’s normal. People share subway bars all the time. Nothing weird about it.

Except your hand shifts slightly as the train rounds a corner, and suddenly your pinky brushes against his. Just barely—a fleeting touch—but it’s enough to make you freeze for half a second.

And…

You don’t look at him.

You refuse to look at him.

Because if you do, you’ll see that stupid smirk he always gets when he knows he’s gotten under your skin, and you’re not sure you can handle that right now.

But then his hand shifts too—like, on purpose?—and his pinky brushes yours again.

Softer this time.

Lingering.

Your stomach twists in a way that feels equal parts annoying and… something else you don’t want to name. You glance up at him despite yourself, ready to snap something sarcastic or dismissive or whatever it takes to make this moment feel less charged than it suddenly does.

But he’s not smirking. He’s just… looking at you. Calmly. Quietly. Like this is nothing more than two people sharing a subway bar in a crowded train.

And maybe it is nothing. Maybe you’re just overthinking it because that’s what you do—because every little thing with him feels like it carries more weight than it should.

Still, when his fingers shift again—this time curling slightly so the side of his hand presses against yours—you don’t pull away.

You don’t say anything either, just let your fingers relax against the bar as the train rattles onward.

It’s small. Subtle. Barely even noticeable in the grand scheme of things.

But somehow, in the cramped chaos of the subway car—with strangers pressed against you on all sides—it feels like the quietest moment you’ve had all day.

You don’t look at him again—not directly—but out of the corner of your eye, you catch the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. Not cocky or teasing or anything remotely resembling his usual expressions.

Just soft.

And for some reason, that makes your throat tighten all over again.

You never expected to find Jungkook beautiful.

He stands in front of a massive black and white photograph with his head tilted slightly and dark brown eyes narrowed in concentration.

The lightning inside the space makes everything feel way more thought-provoking than it actually is. All you notice, really, is how it deepens the line of his jaw, the slight furrow between his eyebrows. His lips, and how they move silently, like he's having some private conversation with the image before him.

Stupid, handsome motherfucker. Why does he exist in your space?

You've seen him naked. You've seen him laughing so hard he nearly falls off the couch. You've seen him half-asleep and grumpy at 6 AM.

But you've never seen him like this—completely absorbed, genuinely focused on something that isn't getting laid or annoying the shit out of you.

"The composition is fucking incredible," he says without looking at you, gesturing at the photograph. "See how they've used negative space to draw your eye to the subject? And the depth of field is so deliberate—keeps you just slightly off-balance."

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden technical analysis. Since when does Jungkook know smart words?

"You actually know about photography?" It comes out more surprised than you intended.

He turns to you then, one eyebrow raised. "Film major, Nix. Kind of comes with the territory."

"Yeah, but—" You stop yourself, not sure how to articulate that you assumed his interest in film was mostly about looking cool and impressing girls.

"But what?"

"Nothing," you mutter, moving closer to the photograph. "Just didn't realize you paid attention in class."

He snorts. "I maintain my GPA through pure charm and good looks alone. No actual knowledge required."

You roll your eyes, but there's no real annoyance behind it. "Seriously though, you seem like you actually know what you're talking about. It's... weird."

"Weird that I'm not a complete idiot?" He steps back from the photograph, hands sliding into his pockets. "Gee, thanks."

"That's not what I meant."

He shrugs, already moving toward the next piece—a series of distorted portraits that seem to melt into one another.

"I just like this stuff. Always have."

You follow him, curiosity getting the better of you.

"Since when?"

"Since forever," he says, stopping in front of the portraits. "My mom was into photography. Had this old Pentax she used to carry everywhere. Taught me how to develop film in our bathroom when I was like, eight."

His voice always turns weirdly soft when his mom is involved. It makes you pause.

This is the most he's ever shared about his family, you realize.

You're not sure whether to press further or let it go.

Before you can decide, he continues, "These portraits are using multiple exposure. See how the faces blend together? It's like—when you overlay two negatives, you get this ghost effect. The new digital stuff makes it easier, but there's something about doing it on actual film that hits different."

His enthusiasm is... surprising. And weirdly contagious. You find yourself leaning in closer to see what he's pointing out, actually interested in the technical explanation.

"The photographer probably used a really slow shutter speed too," he adds, gesturing at the blurred edges of the subjects' features. "Makes movement look like this—sort of ethereal, you know?"

You don't know, not really, but you nod anyway.

Because his voice picks up speed when he talks about this, his hands do slightly more animated movements as he explains, and there’s genuine passion coloring his words and it’s…

It's... different. Seeing him care about something so much.

"What?" he asks suddenly, catching you staring at him.

You hadn't realized you were. Heat creeps up your neck, and you look away quickly.

"Nothing."

"Nah, you were looking at me weird."

"Just..." You shrug, aiming for casual. "You're a huge nerd, that's all."

He blinks at you, then barks out a laugh. "Wow. I share my vast knowledge and expertise, and that's what I get?"

"Vast knowledge? Your head barely fits in the room as it is."

"That's it," he declares, turning away dramatically. "I'm not explaining anything else. Figure it out yourself, philistine."

You swat at his arm, fighting a smile. "Oh come on, I was joking. Keep nerding out. It's..." Cute? Interesting? Surprisingly not annoying? "...Educational."

He gives you a suspicious look but seems mollified. "Fine. But only because I'm generous with my brilliance."

You snort, following him to the next piece. "So generous."

And it's strange, this feeling—this easy back-and-forth that doesn't have the usual sharp edges.

For a moment, it almost feels like you could be friends. Real friends, not just roommates who occasionally fuck and mostly argue.

The thought is so unexpected that it—

Pain.

Sharp and sudden, like someone stabbing a hot poker into your lower abdomen. Your breath catches, body instinctively curling in on itself.

Your hand flies to your stomach as another wave hits, this one even more intense than the first.

It's the IUD again—has to be. But this is worse than before. Much worse.

You stop walking, one hand gripping the nearby wall for support as you try to breathe through it.

Just breathe. It'll pass. It has to.

It doesn't.

The third wave nearly brings you to your knees, a cold sweat breaking out across your forehead.

Jungkook makes it several steps before realizing you're no longer beside him. He turns back, eyes falling on your hunched form, and his expression shifts instantly from relaxed to concerned.

"Yo, what's wrong?" He's back at your side in three quick strides, voice pitched low but urgent.

You shake your head, not trusting yourself to speak yet. Just need a minute. Just need to breathe.

"Phoenix?" His hand hovers near your elbow, not quite touching. "Hey, talk to me. What's happening?"

"It's—" Another stab of pain cuts you off, and you bite down hard on your lip to keep from making a sound. "It's nothing. Just—cramps."

His frown deepens, eyes scanning your face.

"Bullshit. You look like you're about to pass out."

"I'm fine," you insist. "Just give me a second."

The lie tastes bitter on your tongue, but the alternative is worse.

Admitting weakness? Letting him see you crumble?

Absolutely fucking not.

Your uterus twists again—sadistic little organ—and you clench your jaw so hard you're surprised your teeth don't crack.

Breathe. Just breathe. You've handled worse.

(Have you, though?)

He's hovering now, that frown cutting deeper between his eyebrows, and you hate it.

Hate how his eyes flick over your face, cataloging symptoms.

Hate how his hand lifts halfway toward you before dropping back to his side, like he's afraid to touch you without permission.

"Ibuprofen," you manage, the word strained but determined. "I just need some ibuprofen."

"Nix, you seriously look like you're about to pass out—"

"Ibuprofen," you cut him off, sharper this time. "Seriously. I'll be okay. Just need. Ibuprofen."

You're not going home. Not happening.

You just got this fucking copper IUD on Wednesday—of course it's being a bitch. Three days of cramping is normal, right? Has to be.

And this is your first real attempt at being normal humans together, plus it's his birthday and Yoongi's expecting you to keep him out until eight. Your goddamn uterus is not ruining this.

A particularly vicious cramp rips through you, and you have to bite down on your lip to keep from making a sound. Jungkook notices, because of course he does. His eyes narrow, jaw working like he's physically biting back whatever argument he wants to make.

Finally, he sighs—loud, frustrated, dramatic in that way only he can be.

"Okay."

The surrender in his voice shouldn't feel like a victory, but it does. Even as another cramp threatens to fold you in half.

"Okay," he repeats, softer. "Let me see if I can get you one. Just—wait here, alright?"

He wraps his fingers around your elbow, not gripping, just guiding, and you let him because walking feels like a monumental task right now. .

Focus. One foot, then the other.

There's a cushioned bench a few feet away. A kid sits at one end, maybe seven or eight, swinging his legs and staring at the floor with the bored expression of someone dragged to a museum against his will.

Jungkook walks you toward it, his hand steady on your arm.

"Hello," he says to the boy, voice gentler than you've ever heard from him. "Sorry, my friend over here is in pain and really needs to sit down."

The kid looks up—first at Jungkook, then at you—eyes widening slightly. He doesn't say anything, just scoots over, fingers drifting to his mouth as he continues to stare.

"Thanks, buddy," Jungkook says, helping you sit.

You sink onto the bench, the relief immediate but not enough. It still feels like someone's playing Operation with your insides, fishing out organs with a pair of rusty pliers.

Jungkook lingers for a second, hesitant.

"You sure you'll be okay if I—"

"Go," you grit out, not trusting yourself to say more.

He gives you one last look—concerned, frustrated, something else you can't name—before turning and striding away with purpose, disappearing around a corner.

And then it's just you, the kid, and the agony twisting through your abdomen.

Great. Fantastic. You can't even make it through one normal human interaction without your body staging a fucking rebellion.

Every time you try to—what? Be a decent person? Spend time with someone who isn't Yeji? The universe laughs in your face.

The kid is still staring at you, blue eyes huge in his small face. You force what you hope is a reassuring smile but suspect looks more like a grimace.

"Your face is becoming white," he says matter-of-factly.

"Thanks," you mutter. "I'm aware."

"Like a ghost," he adds helpfully. "Are you gonna throw up?"

Jesus Christ. This is your life now. Being assessed by a tiny human while your reproductive system wages war against the rest of your organs.

"No," you say, though you're not entirely sure that's true. "Just need some medicine."

"My mom says medicine is for when you're really sick," he informs you, kicking his heels against the bench. "Are you really sick?"

Another twist of pain, and you have to close your eyes for a second.

"Something like that."

"Is that man your boyfriend?"

God, children and their questions. No filter, just an endless stream of curiosity with no regard for social niceties.

You should lie.

Should say yes, it would be simpler than explaining the complicated mess that is you and Jungkook.

"No," you say instead. "Just a... friend."

The word still feels strange. Foreign. Like you're saying it in a language you barely speak.

"Oh." The kid looks disappointed. "He looks like a superhero."

Despite everything—the pain, the frustration, the growing concern that the gyno didn't warn you about this level of copper IUD hell—you almost laugh.

Because Jungkook? Oh he would fucking love that. His ego is already the size of Manhattan; the last thing he needs is child-based validation of his supposed heroism.

"More like a supervillain," you mutter.

The boy's eyes widen further. "Really?"

"No, not really. Just a regular person who's..." You pause, not sure how to finish that sentence.

Annoying? Complicated? Stupidly attractive even when he's being insufferable?

"...helping me out."

You press your palm harder against your abdomen, hoping the pressure will somehow counteract the pain. But truthfully, it doesn't. If anything, it's getting worse, spreading from your core outward until your lower back aches and your thighs feel weak.

This can't be normal.

Well, maybe it is.

You've never had an IUD before—what the hell do you know?

Clearly should've read beyond the first page of that pamphlet they gave you, but you were too busy trying not to think about the actual insertion part.

"I have lots of friends," the kid announces proudly. "But none of them are girls."

He wrinkles his nose like this is the most disgusting concept imaginable.

Despite everything—the pain, the frustration, the knowledge that this day is slowly derailing—you almost smile.

"Girls aren't so bad."

He shrugs, unconvinced. "They like stupid stuff."

"So do boys."

"Nuh-uh. Boys like cool things. Like dinosaurs."

"Girls can like dinosaurs too."

He considers this, head tilted.

"I guess. My sister doesn't though. She just likes her stupid boyfriend." The contempt in his voice is impressive for someone whose feet don't touch the floor.

You're saved from further insights into his sister's love life by Jungkook's return. He's walking toward you with a small paper cup in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, his expression still caught between concern and that strange new softness.

"Got you covered," he says, dropping into a crouch in front of you. "They had a first aid station. Ibuprofen and water."

You take the pills and water with hands that shake slightly, downing them quickly.

"Thanks."

He sits beside you on the bench, close but not touching—some sort of distance that feels both considerate and maddening.

You realize now Jungkook is not one to push boundaries. Not when they’re firm, not when you’ve made them clear. Like when you told him this thing between you two stayed between you two and he just accepted it.

"Should take about twenty minutes to kick in," he says, voice low and even.

You nod, focusing on your breathing.

In and out. Slow and steady. Just get through this. You've handled worse.

(Have you, though? Because right now it feels like your insides are trying to claw their way out.)

"We can go home," he offers, so subsided it's almost comical coming from him. "If you want."

"No." The word comes out sharper than intended, and you soften it with, "No, I'm fine. Just need a minute."

He doesn't argue, just nods like he expected this answer.

Of course he did.

He knows you're stubborn, knows you hate showing weakness, knows you'll suffer through just about anything to avoid admitting you can't handle it.

The silence stretches between you, but it's not uncomfortable. Not exactly. It's... waiting. Patient. And you note how his knee bounces slightly, the only sign of restless energy in his otherwise still form.

"Thanks," you say again, quieter this time.

He glances at you, surprise flitting across his features.

"For what?"

"For not..." You gesture vaguely, searching for the right words. "Making it a thing."

His lips twitch, almost a smile but not quite.

"It's your body, Nix. Your call."

Something warm and unexpected unfurls in your chest at that—at the simple acknowledgment of your autonomy, your right to decide how to handle your own pain.

He could push. Could insist on taking you home, on calling a doctor, on making decisions for you "for your own good."

It's what most people would do, have always done, their concern overriding your independence.

But he doesn't.

Just sits beside you, a quiet presence in the middle of this mess, respecting your boundaries even as his knee keeps bouncing with what you suspect is concern he's trying not to voice.

It's... nice. Weird, but nice.

The kid on the bench has gone quiet, watching both of you with curious eyes. His mother appears suddenly, a harried-looking woman with a museum map clutched in one hand.

"Aiden, there you are! I told you not to wander off." She gives you and Jungkook an apologetic smile. "Sorry if he bothered you."

"He's fine," Jungkook says, easy and casual. "Just keeping us company."

Aiden slides off the bench, taking his mother's outstretched hand.

“They're friends," he informs her solemnly. "But not boyfriend and girlfriend."

His mother looks mortified. "Aiden!"

"It's okay," you manage, fighting back a laugh that would probably hurt like hell. "He's just observant."

Aiden's mother drags him away, his sneakers squeaking against the polished floor as he waves one last time.

And then it's just the two of you, sitting in silence on a bench in the middle of the MoMA like you belong there. Like this is normal.

All the while, the pain persists, still twisting through your abdomen.

Jungkook hums quietly—something soft and melodic that takes you a moment to recognize.

John Mayer. Of course it's fucking John Mayer.

Your gaze drifts to the floor, tracing the patterns in the polished concrete as another thought forms, heavy and insistent.

Should you tell him? About the IUD?

He's worried. You can see it in his eyes, the way his fingers tap restlessly against his thigh, the occasional glance he throws your way when he thinks you're not looking.

But he's not pushing. Not demanding explanations or insisting on taking you home.

Because that's not what he does.

He suggests, offers, hints... but never forces. Never demands.

Just accepts whatever you're willing to give, even when it's clear he wants more.

This morning he talked about being friends. About sharing things. About being more than just roommates who occasionally fuck and mostly argue.

Maybe this could be a first step. A tiny gesture toward whatever it is he's proposing.

But also...

Also what if you tell him and he smirks? Makes some stupid joke about how you wanted him raw that badly?

You know how quickly he covers discomfort with humor, how reliably he turns to sexual innuendo when a moment gets too real or too heavy.

And this moment is nothing if not heavy.

But overthinking it is getting you nowhere, and the silence is stretching too long, becoming its own kind of weight.

So you take a breath, summon what little courage the pain hasn't eaten away, and speak.

"I got an IUD." The words come out soft, hushed, almost hoping he won't hear them. "Wednesday."

His head tilts toward you, and you brace yourself. Wait for the snort, the smirk, the inevitable sexual commentary that will make you regret this tiny moment of trust.

But it never comes.

He just sighs softly, a small shrug lifting his shoulders.

"That's good."

Your eyes drift to him, confusion replacing the defensive tension you were building, because what does he mean?

He meets your gaze, then looks back at the photograph on the wall.

“I mean, it's good you're taking care of yourself. Your sexual health." Another shrug, this one smaller. "That's good, Nix."

Something in your chest loosens—a knot you didn't realize you were holding tight.

It's... not what you expected. Not from him.

Not from anyone, really.

"Yeah, well." You shift on the bench, wincing as the movement sends a dull throb through your lower abdomen. "Not feeling particularly great about it at the moment."

His lips quirk, not quite a smile.

"Pain that bad?"

"Like someone's playing Operation with my insides, but they're losing."

A soft laugh escapes him. "Fucking brutal."

"Pretty much."

Another stretch of silence, but this one feels different. Lighter, somehow. The pain is still there, but it's muted now, less all-consuming.

"Copper or hormonal?" he asks, voice casual like he's asking about the weather, not your reproductive choices.

You blink at him, genuinely surprised.

"You know the difference?"

"I do actually pay attention in health class, Phoenix. Plus, you know. Been with people who've had them."

"Copper," you answer, focusing on the question instead of whatever that feeling was. "I had a feeling hormones would mess with me."

He nods like this makes perfect sense. "Those are the ones that hurt more at first, right? Take longer to settle?"

Again, that surprise. "Yeah. How do you know that?"

"My ex." He shifts slightly on the bench, angling more toward you without actually moving closer. "She had one. Copper. Cramped like hell the first few months."

"Months?" The word comes out more alarmed than you intended.

His eyes widen slightly. "Not like, continuously. Just periodically. Mostly when she got her period. It got better though. Less intense over time."

"Great," you mutter. "Something to look forward to."

"Sorry." He winces. "Not helping, am I?"

"Not really, no."

"Do you..." He hesitates, eyes scanning your face like he's checking for warning signs. "Do you regret getting it?"

The question catches you off guard. Not because it's invasive—it's actually pretty reasonable given the context—but because of how genuinely he asks it. Like he really wants to know what you think. Not to judge, just to understand.

"No," you say after a moment. "No, I don't regret it. I wanted it. Chose it. This—This is just the shitty part. It'll pass."

"And this is something you want? Long-term?"

You nod, a little less certain than before but still sure enough.

"Yeah. I like not having to worry about it. Worth some pain now."

"Make sense. That's... smart." He tilts his head, that thoughtful look you rarely see crossing his features. "Planning ahead."

"One of us has to," you say without thinking.

His eyebrows shoot up. "Ouch. Direct hit, Nix."

"Sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Nah, it's fair." He cuts you off with a small laugh. "I'm not exactly Mr. Responsibility."

The self-awareness surprises you.

"You're not that bad."

"I’m not?”

“Okay I take it back.”

He chuckles.

The pain stabs again, sharper this time, and you can't quite hide the wince. His expression shifts immediately.

"Need to move around? Sometimes that helps."

You consider it. Sitting here isn't doing much except letting you focus on how much it hurts.

“Maybe."

"Think the ibuprofen's kicking in at all?"

His eyes scan your face, and you wonder what he sees there. Probably not the composed, controlled person you're trying to project.

"A little. It's not as bad as before."

"That's something." He stands, offering a hand but not insisting when you ignore it and push yourself up on your own. "We could head to the next gallery? Or go back to the one with that series you liked—the urban decay stuff."

The fact that he noticed which photographs caught your interest earlier shouldn't feel significant. It's just basic observation. Nothing special.

But it does. Feel significant, that is.

"Let's try the next one," you say, taking a tentative step. The pain doesn't immediately floor you, which is an improvement. "Slowly, though."

"No rush." He falls into step beside you, hands shoved in his pockets in that casual way he has, like he's completely at ease no matter where he is.

You nod, trying not to think about the surprise dinner. Trying even harder not to think about the stupid Mayer vinyl you bought him and the fact that all his film bros will be there.

"Thanks," you say after a few steps. "For not being weird about the IUD thing."

He glances at you, something almost like surprise flickering across his features before settling into a small smile.

“Nothing to be weird about. It's your body, Nix. Your choice."

"Yeah, but." You struggle to articulate what you mean. "Most guys would make some gross joke or get all squirmy talking about it."

"I'm not most guys."

"Okay pick me boy."

“And here we go again.” He snorts.

“Hey, you’re the one who said that generic ass shit.”

"Uh-uh, so," he says, deliberately casual as you round the corner into the next gallery space. "How do you feel about Mayer?"

You groan, shoving him lightly.

"I knew it. I fucking knew you were humming that shit on purpose."

He laughs, the sound warm and surprisingly genuine.

"Gravity is a classic! You can hate on the man all you want, but you can't deny the music."

"Watch me."

And just like that, you're arguing about John Mayer in the middle of the MoMA, the pain still there but somehow less important than this stupid debate about whether "Your Body Is A Wonderland" is the worst song ever written or just mostly terrible.

It's strange. Unexpected. Almost... nice

Maybe this friend thing isn't completely impossible after all.

New York smells different right before sunset.

The city air mellows somehow. Still dirty, still chaotic, but softer now. Like the golden hour light filtering through the buildings is actually changing the molecular structure of everything it touches.

Or maybe that's just the ibuprofen finally kicking in and making life worth living again. Hard to say.

Your phone pings as you walk beside Jungkook, the busy street full of that weird liminal energy between work day and evening. People rushing home, people headed out, everyone caught in that transitional space of not-quite-done and not-quite-started.

It's Yoongi, his message simple and direct:

𝐘𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬🎧: 𝙷𝚘𝚠’𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐? 𝚂𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔?

You glance at Jungkook, who's completely absorbed in his own phone, thumbs tapping absently against the screen.

Focused. Unaware.

Perfect.

You send back a quick thumbs up emoji, ignoring the follow-up questions Yoongi's already typing. The less you engage, the less likely you are to give something away.

6:30 PM.

Just over an hour until you need to steer Jungkook to the ramen place for his surprise. An hour to fill without either dying from secret uterine rebellion or accidentally revealing the plan.

You slide your phone back into your pocket and lean slightly to see what's so captivating on Jungkook's screen.

Not that you care. Just curious. Normal curious, not weird curious.

Instagram?

He's editing a photo—one of the abstract architectural shots he took at the museum when you weren't paying attention.

It's actually... pretty good.

The photo highlights the sharp angles of the stairwell, light cutting through the space in a way that transforms something mundane into something almost ethereal.

"You have a photography Instagram?"

He startles, immediately angling the phone away from you with the guilty reflex of someone caught looking at porn in public.

"Yeah, but it's nothing important. Just, you know. Silly stuff."

That's... suspicious. Jungkook doesn't do self-deprecation, not about things he's clearly good at.

He's the first person to brag about his skills, his looks, his whatever. The fact that he's downplaying this is weird.

"What silly stuff?" You raise an eyebrow, trying to peer around his shoulder at the now-hidden screen. "Show me."

"No, seriously, it's no big deal." He actually puts his phone in his pocket, which is basically equivalent to locking it in a vault given how attached he usually is to the thing. "Just a hobby."

"Since when are you shy about anything?" You nudge his arm with your elbow, oddly intrigued by this sudden reluctance. "Come on, I’ll show you mine, you show me yours."

"Not everything has to be an innuendo, Phoenix."

"That wasn't—" You stop yourself, because okay, that did sound suggestive. "Come on, I let you drag me through an entire photography exhibition. The least you could do is let me see your supposed 'silly' photography Instagram."

He's not looking at you now, eyes fixed somewhere to the left, scanning the street like he's searching for an escape route.

Then his face changes, relief washing over his features as he spots something across the way.

"Hey, wanna check that out?"

He points toward a small storefront wedged between a vintage clothing shop and a bubble tea place. The sign reads 'String Theory: DIY Jewelry & Crafts' in quirky hand-painted letters.

"A bracelet shop?" You follow his gaze, genuinely confused by the abrupt change of subject. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, why not?" He's already moving toward the crosswalk, clearly eager to leave the Instagram conversation behind. "Could be fun."

"Since when do you care about DIY bracelets?"

He shrugs, the movement a little too casual to be genuine. "Since right now. Come on, Nix. Live a little."

You narrow your eyes, suspicious of this sudden interest in arts and crafts, but follow him anyway.

Because in all honesty… The distraction isn't unwelcome—you've still got an hour to kill, and arguing about his secret Instagram account wasn't exactly on your agenda for the day.

Plus, whatever he's hiding must be good if he's willing to make friendship bracelets to avoid talking about it.

You approach the shop, and it is small but bright, walls lined with colorful spools of thread, beads in every imaginable shape and size, and an assortment of charms that range from the typical (hearts, stars, moons) to the bizarre (tiny plastic dinosaurs, miniature food items, and what appears to be a collection of famous dictators' faces).

A twenty-something with purple hair and more piercings than you can count greets you from behind the counter.

"Welcome to String Theory! Let me know if you need help finding anything."

Jungkook nods in acknowledgement, already wandering toward a display of leather cords and metal clasps. You follow, still puzzled by this whole detour.

"So this is what we're doing now? Making friendship bracelets?" You pick up a spool of neon green thread, turning it over in your fingers. "Is this your way of making our friendship official? Should we be getting cards and flowers too?"

He snorts, examining a tray of silver charms with unexpected interest.

"If anyone's getting flowers in this scenario, it's me. I'm high maintenance."

"Yeah, no shit."

He glances at you, that familiar half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“We don't have to stay if you don't want to. Just thought it might be..." He trails off, shrugging again in that way he does when he's trying to seem indifferent.

"What? Entertaining? A good way to avoid showing me your Instagram?"

"Both." He picks up a small wolf charm, turning it over in his fingers. "But mostly I thought it might be fun. You know, do something with our hands that isn't..."

He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

"And there's the innuendo. I was wondering how long you could go without making it weird."

"About thirty seconds, apparently." He sets the charm down, moving on to a collection of colored stones. "So, you want to make something or not?"

You consider it.

On one hand, making bracelets seems like a throwback to summer camp or middle school sleepovers—not exactly your usual Saturday night activity.

On the other hand, you've got time to kill, and it's oddly... refreshing to see Jungkook interested in something so innocuous.

Plus, you're still curious about that Instagram account, and maybe if you play along with this diversion, he'll eventually let his guard down enough to show you.

"Fine." You grab a small plastic basket from a stack near the entrance. "But I'm not making anything with your name on it, so don't get any ideas."

"Wouldn't dream of it." His smile widens into something more genuine. "Though I bet you'd rock a ‘Kuko 4-Ever' bracelet."

"I'd rather die, thanks."

You move along the wall, selecting threads in deep blues and purples because they're pretty, not because they remind you of the way Jungkook's hair sometimes looks in certain light. That would be stupid.

"So," you say casually, examining a tray of small metallic beads, "are you going to tell me about this secret Instagram account or what?"

He sighs, the sound more resigned than annoyed. "It's not secret. It's just... separate."

"Separate from what?"

"From me. From Jungkook. It's just a creative outlet, okay? Nothing special."

"But good enough that you don't want to show me."

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and there's something unexpectedly vulnerable in his expression.

"It's not that I don't want to show you. It's just... people get weird about it."

"Weird how?"

"They either think it's pretentious or they make too big a deal out of it." He moves to another display, this one filled with various charms. "It's easier to just keep it separate."

You follow him, curiosity piqued even further.

Jungkook, who walks around the apartment half-naked without a second thought, who leaves his dirty laundry in the most inconvenient places possible, who has absolutely no qualms about sharing the explicit details of his sex life—this same Jungkook is suddenly shy about his photography?

"I won't make it weird," you offer, surprising yourself with the sincerity in your voice. "Promise."

He looks skeptical. "You make everything weird, Nix. It's your special talent."

"Fuck off." You snatch a small charm from the tray without really looking at it—something circular with delicate metalwork. "I can appreciate art without being weird about it."

"It's not really art. Just photos."

"Of what?"

He hesitates, fingers tracing the edge of a tray.

"Mostly urban stuff. Architecture. Shadows. Light. Some nature." A shrug. "Just things I find interesting."

"That actually sounds cool."

He glances at you like he's checking for signs of mockery, then seems to decide you're being genuine.

"Yeah, well. Maybe I'll show you. Someday."

It's not a yes, but it's not a hard no either.

You'll take it.

"Cool." You move to the register, where the purple-haired employee is arranging a display of finished samples. "So how do we actually do this bracelet thing? I haven't made one since I was like, twelve."

"You think I have?" Jungkook laughs, setting his basket beside yours on the counter. "I'm flying blind here too."

The employee—Ash, according to their name tag—smiles.

“That's what I'm here for. What kind of bracelet are you thinking? We've got traditional friendship styles, leather wraps, beaded, charm..."

"Whatever's easiest," you say at the same time Jungkook says, "The coolest one."

Ash's smile widens. "How about a leather cord with beads? Simple but looks great."

"Sounds good," Jungkook agrees, emptying his basket on the counter. "Can we work on them here?"

"Absolutely. Let me set you up at the table in the back."

As you follow Ash toward a small workshop area in the rear of the store, your phone buzzes again. You check it discreetly.

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢. 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚢 𝟾. 𝚑𝚘𝚋𝚒’𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜.

You glance at the time.

6:45 PM.

Just over an hour left of... this. This strange, not entirely unpleasant detour into something that feels almost like friendship.

You slip your phone away before Jungkook can see, ignoring the small voice in the back of your mind that wonders what other secrets he might be keeping, and why you suddenly care so much about finding them out.

Ash sets you up at a small wooden table pressed right against the front window.

"So, what are we making?" Jungkook asks, already rummaging through his selection of beads like a kid sorting Halloween candy.

You don't answer immediately, an idea taking shape as you run your fingers over the threads and beads scattered across the table. Your eyes catch on the small containers of alphabet beads near the edge of the table, then drift to the vibrant collection of orange, red, and yellow beads in various shapes and finishes.

Perfect.

You pull the alphabet containers closer, fishing out specific letters: P, H, O, E, N, I, X. Setting them in a neat line in front of you, you reach for more: R, O, G, U, E.

Jungkook watches, brows drawing closer together as he pieces together what you're doing.

When recognition hits, he laughs—short and surprised.

"Okay, seriously? You're making Phoenix and Rogue bracelets now?"

You shrug, reaching for the orange, red, and yellow beads, arranging them between the letters.

"What? Hell yeah. We already branded each other, might as well make it something to remember each other by."

"You think I want to walk around with a bracelet that says 'Rogue' on my wrist?"

He looks genuinely baffled, like you've suggested he tattoo your face on his ass.

"I don't care what you do with it." You roll your eyes, already threading through the first bead. "I'm making mine."

He snorts, but instead of arguing further, he actually helps you sort through the letter beads, pushing the ones you need closer. Then, to your surprise, he reaches for the same fiery-colored beads you've been using.

"What?" he says, catching your look. "If we're doing this ridiculous twin bracelet thing, they might as well match."

"I thought you'd go for all black or something."

He shrugs, picking out a particularly vibrant red bead.

"Rogues can be fiery too. Besides," he adds with a half-smile, "these are my colors."

"Your colors?"

"Yeah." He lays out a pattern—red, orange, yellow, just like yours. "Warm tones. Bold. Kind of obnoxious if you use too many at once."

"Sounds like someone I know," you mutter, and he chuckles.

Your fingers work almost automatically, threading beads onto the leather cord. You're not being symbolic on purpose. It just looks nice.

When you glance up, Jungkook is staring at his own pile of beads, expression oddly distant.

He's rolling a small sun charm between his fingers, back and forth, like he's trying to make a decision.

"What?" you ask, because his silence feels weird.

He shrugs, the motion feeling slightly too forced on him.

"Nothing. Just..." He sets the charm down, picks up a red bead instead. "I actually had one of these. A bracelet. When I was a kid."

This feels like something—a small piece of himself he's offering without being pushed.

So you keep your tone light when you ask.

"Yeah? What kind?"

"Leather, like this." He picks up one of the cords, wrapping it around his wrist to measure before cutting it. "With these bright beads my mom found at some market. Reds and oranges, kind of like these. I wore it until it literally fell apart."

"How old were you?"

"I don't know. Ten? Eleven?" He shrugs again. "Young enough that it was still cool, not lame."

"And now?"

His eyes flick up to yours, then away. "Now what?"

"Is it lame now?"

His expression wavers, tightening around the mouth.

"Nah, it's whatever." He starts threading red and orange beads onto his cord, precise and quick. "Just not something guys usually wear, you know? Unless they're trying to be edgy or something."

"Since when do you care about what's 'usually' done?"

He laughs, but it sounds different than his normal laugh—a little hollow, a little forced.

"Fair point."

You work in silence for a few minutes, with some accompanying sounds; like the soft click of beads and the occasional muttered curse when you drop one.

A yellow bead rolls across the table toward Jungkook, who catches it easily.

"Thanks," you mutter as he hands it back.

"No problem." He pauses, looking at the half-finished bracelet in his hands. "I lied, by the way."

"About what?"

"My mom didn't find the beads." He keeps his eyes on his work, not looking at you. "I did. She just helped me put it together because I was too small to handle the clasps."

Something about the way he says it makes your chest tighten—like this isn't just a random childhood memory but something… soft.

Something he doesn't share often.

"That's sweet," you say, matching his tone. "You don't talk about your mom much."

He tenses, and you inwardly curse yourself.

"Not much to say."

That's a lie if you've ever heard one, but you don't push. Whatever this is—this small opening, it feels fragile. Like pressing too hard would make him shut down completely.

"Mine would've hated this place," you offer instead. "Too messy. Too handmade. Not enough structure."

His lips twitch, almost a smile.

"Mine would've loved it. She was always into this crafty shit. Had a whole room full of art supplies back when..." He trails off, shakes his head. "Anyway. How's yours coming?"

The abrupt subject change is obvious, but you let it slide.

"Almost done. Just need the clasp."

You hold up your creation for inspection. It's nothing fancy—just a simple leather cord with 'PHOENIX' spelled out in silver letter beads, filled with the fiery colored ones you picked.

But it looks kind of cool, in a childish, summer-camp sort of way.

Jungkook leans forward to look, his expression warming.

"Not bad, Nix. Very on-brand."

"Let me see yours."

He hesitates, then holds out his own bracelet. It's just like yours to match, with 'ROGUE' spelled out in metal letter beads. But he’s added a small sun charm that catches the light when he moves.

"Shit," you say, genuinely impressed. "Yours is way better than mine."

He shrugs, but you can tell he's pleased by the compliment.

“I have an eye for design. Part of my many talents."

"And so humble, too."

"Humility is overrated." He sets his bracelet down, reaching for the clasps Ash left for you. "Here, let me help you finish yours."

His fingers brush against yours as he takes your bracelet, the touch brief but somehow startling.

You watch as he attaches the clasp with surprising dexterity, tattooed fingers moving deftly, and it’s kind of attractive, really.

How good he is with his hands when he wants to be.

"There," he says, holding it out to you. "All set."

“Wait,” you announce, searching through the charms box.

You swear you had seen a rain charm earlier, and you had briefly snickered at it. But now that he’s wearing the sun charm it feels oddly… like yours needs to have the rain one, just to contrary him.

So you pick it up, add it to your bracelet.

And then you smile at him, show him.

He snorts.

You turn it in your hand. It feels solid, real. A physical manifestation of the nickname he gave you—the one that used to annoy you but now feels almost like a strange term of endearment.

Ash then approaches your table, a small fabric-lined box in her hands.

"All finished? Those look great!"

You both nod, holding up your creations for inspection.

"Phoenix and Rogue," she reads, smiling. "And they match! The fire colors work perfectly for both."

"Yeah," Jungkook says, and you're surprised by the hint of pride in his voice. "Kind of the point."

"Perfect timing, then," Ash says, setting the box on the table. "We're actually starting a new community art project. Would you be interested in contributing your bracelets?"

You frown, confused.

"Contributing how?"

"We're collecting handmade bracelets from customers to create a wall installation," she explains, gesturing toward a corner of the shop where several bracelets are already displayed on a corkboard. "It's part of our five-year anniversary celebration. Everyone who contributes gets a polaroid of their bracelet and a discount on their next visit."

"Oh." You look down at your bracelet, feeling an unexpected reluctance to part with it.

Which is stupid, because what were you going to do with it anyway?

Wear it?

That would be weird.

"You don't have to," Ash adds quickly, picking up on your hesitation. "It's totally optional."

"No, it's cool," Jungkook says, already placing his bracelet in the box. "I like the idea."

You glance at him, surprised again.

"You do?"

"Yeah. Creating something that stays here, becomes part of the place." He shrugs. "Better than it ending up in a drawer somewhere, right?"

There's something about the way he says it—like he's not just talking about the bracelet anymore—that makes you pause.

But then he's looking at you expectantly, waiting for your decision, and you place your bracelet in the box beside his, the matching colors side by side.

"For the record," you say as Ash takes a polaroid of your creations side by side, "I would've worn mine."

Jungkook's smile is slow and surprisingly gentle.

“Yeah?"

"Maybe not in public," you clarify quickly. "But yeah."

"Me too," he admits quietly, and it feels like he's sharing another secret—small but somehow significant. "Don't tell anyone, though. Ruins my image."

"What image? The one where you pretend to be cool but actually know an alarming amount about John Mayer's discography?"

"Exactly that one." He grins, the most genuine expression you've seen from him all day. "It's carefully curated."

Ash returns with your polaroid and receipt, both bracelets now part of the store's growing collection.

"Come back anytime to see them. They'll be here as long as we are."

"Thanks," Jungkook says, taking the polaroid and tucking it carefully into his wallet.

As you step back out onto the sidewalk, the city bathed in the deepening gold of late afternoon, you feel strangely light despite the lingering pain in your abdomen.

You reach for your phone to check the time, only to find your pocket empty.

"Shit," you mutter, patting your other pockets frantically. "My phone."

Jungkook stops mid-stretch.

"You lose it?"

"Must have left it in the shop." You're already turning back toward the door. "Wait here, I'll be quick."

"Want me to—"

"No, it's fine," you say, perhaps too quickly. "Just give me a second."

The bell chimes as you push back into the store, Ash looking up from behind the counter, eyebrows raised in question.

"Forgot my phone," you explain, gesturing vaguely toward the table where you were sitting.

"No problem. Take your time."

You move quickly to the table, eyes already scanning for your missing device.

Three minutes later, you're back outside, phone safely in hand. Jungkook's leaning against a lamppost, scrolling through something on his own phone.

"Got it?" he asks without looking up.

"Yeah."

You slip it into your pocket without checking the time.

"Ready?"

He pushes off the lamppost.

"Lead the way."

You start walking toward the subway entrance, mentally calculating the time. It must be around 7:20 now. Perfect timing to get to the restaurant by 8.

"Hungry?" you ask, as casually as you can manage.

Jungkook stretches again, arms reaching skyward in a motion that draws your eyes despite yourself.

"Starving. What did you have in mind?"

"I know a place," you say, already angling toward the stairs. "Trust me."

And the weird thing is, from the way he falls into step beside you without question, it seems like he actually does.

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toyama-division · 3 months ago

Note

The sun had gone down, and darkness had settled over the division of Toyama, leaving the city lights to glow in the night sky. Yano Ietsuna was sitting in one of the many apartments in the city, chilling around when the doorbell rang.

Yano raised his head in confusion but stood up and hurried over to the door and peered inside the peephole to see who was on the other side, his eyes widened and he quickly opened the door to reveal Shizuoka’s Sakura Kito herself, dressed in something far more casual than her normal suit her crimson hair even out of its trademark ponytail. Standing behind her were a couple of her men holding gifts in their arms. The Yakuza Boss blinked at how fast Yano had opened the door especially since she just finished knocking a second ago but she cleared her throat and addressed the birthday man.

“Happy Birthday Yano.”

“Sakura?”

“Mind if I come in?” Sakura asked her voice surprisingly soft as if not wanting to frighten Yano.

“Uhhh…sure?” Yano stuttered moving aside to let Sakura enter his apartment although his eyes were still firmly set on the men behind her something the red-haired woman quickly noticed.

“Leave the gifts in the living room,” Sakura commanded waving her hand and without missing a beat they dropped the gifts in said room. “Now leave and remember what I said.”

Yano watched as the yakuza subordinates bowed to their boss and to his shock turned to give him a short bow before exiting the apartment softly closing the door behind them. Leaving only the two of them alone. Taking a seat on the sofa Sakura motioned for Yano to sit next to her which he did without hesitation. Picking up the smallest of the gifts Sakura gently handed it over to the glass blower.

“Sorry for coming on short notice…but it’s your birthday and I just wanted to gift you something.” Sakura smiled as she tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear and watched as Yano opened the gift.

The first gift revealed to be…

…A glass lamp with a golden galaxy trapped inside.

The second gift was a…

…a painting of Van Gogh’s starry night but with what appears to be an octopus hanging off the side of the frame.

The final and certainly biggest gift by far given that it came in a crate of all things was a…

…A chandelier? In the shape of an octopus?

“I was wracking my head for a gift for you when I saw that thing hanging in a store in Shizuoka. I figured you might appreciate the artistry behind it. Plus I figured it would be funny to see you be so confused by it.” Sakura explained the amusement clear to hear in her voice. “It’ll look nice somewhere probably not in your apartment but eh you’ll figure that out later.”

Then before Yano could say anything in return Sakura grabbed him by the face forcing him to look her in the eye. Wide blue met mischievous silver as the yakuza boss pulled the glassblower in for a deep kiss before pulling back.

“Now Yano you can’t really believe that’s all I got you right? I have one more gift for you. One to last all night if you want.” Sakura hummed her voice laced with sultry amusement. “I’m sure you could figure out what it is.”

“Come on in…” Yano stuttered as he let the yakuza boss into his apartment with the suspicious men trailing in behind her. It wasn’t often Sakura had her subordinates enter his space and thankfully, Sakura noticed his weariness and dismissed them. At least, not without catching his attention with the words ‘remember what I said’ which set him on edge once more. His voice wouldn’t cooperate with him however, when he saw the subordinates bow at both of them and exit the small apartment quickly.

Staring at the door closing behind them, Yano finally went to follow Sakura and sat beside her to look over the array of gifts she had brought with her. It was a lot this time around, a total of three boxes sitting in his living room.

Sakura’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts and into a new one as he found himself face to face with a rare smile from the yakuza boss. In his thoughts, Yano considered her warm behavior… Cute. Just for a second before he mentally started to scream and strangle the thought back into the deepest corners of his brain.

Putting aside his lovesick thoughts, Yano was surprised that Sakura had actually put thought into his gifts. He actually loved the glass lamp and found the octopus imagery somewhat sentimental.

Of course, Yano didn’t have a chance to articulate his thoughts about his gifts before said woman had grasped his face and pulled him towards her own. Bewildered, the artist is then thrown into a flabbergasted state as Sakura then kisses Yano. Deeper even, pulling a small whimper from the man before Sakura moves away and hums out her offer.

“Now Yano you can’t really believe that’s all I got you right? I have one more gift for you. One to last all night if you want. I’m sure you could figure out what it is.”

“Is that what you meant?” Yano mumbles, still somewhat in a daze.

“What? What do you mean?”

“W-When you told your men to ‘remember’ uhm…” Worried he already fucked up, he starts to ramble. “That was to make sure they wouldn’t bother you, right? I was just curious. I don’t wanna pry cuz I know you’ve been busy and I’ve been busy too, so it’s been a little bit and I’m just a little lightheaded from all the blood rushing to my-”

Rolling her eyes, Sakura pulls the increasingly flustered Yano back into another kiss causing said man to melt into her embrace again. Pulling from him, she can’t help but chuckle at his smitten expression.

“Just shut up, idiot.”

Yano happily nods, eager to hold his tongue. Last thing he wants is to ruin his night. No bickering, no rambling, no… Love confessions. Just a moment to have some fun with the yakuza boss he has a weird, almost romantic relationship with. There's no way there's anything more to this situation, they just got close because they have the same friends and kinks! Not that they're interconnected!

Yano's thoughts were starting to spin and without thinking about anything other than wanting his intrusive thoughts to just stop, he blurts out, “Actually, you think you can kill me with your thighs?”

Took a few days- Thank you! I was so tempted to write smut but I don't know if I have the strength-

#hypmic #hypnosis mic #hypnosis microphone #hypmic oc #hypnosis mic oc #hypnosis microphone oc #toyama division #eco boon #yano ietsuna #happy birthday yano 2025 #shizuoka division #sakura kito #ask #love writing me an emotionally constipated man #just make him stop breathing so he can just shut the fuck up lol

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chr0n1c-ag0ny · 2 years ago

Text

Kunidazai reunion sparking them finally, actually, truly getting together (cause they're idiots who have essentially been and old married couple for years and were the last to notice)? I think yes.

kunikida offering his apartment to Dazai, as his partners was in no shape to be lived in, after all the time that had passed with no upkeep and the time it spent in police custody, being milled through for any potential evidence. there was no way he could let him go back to it, not now, not tonight. Kunikida needs him close tonight.

Dazai takes him up on his offer. he doesn't want to be alone. he won't admit it, but he can't be alone, he doesn't know what it would do to him, what he would do to himself if he was left unattended. so he gratefully, while making jabs and cracking jokes at his partner, follows him home.

their night proceeds as normal, as it had for years of Dazai crashing with him. Kunikida cooks while Dazai sits up on his counter, rambling on and on about anything he can think of. Kunikida never realized how much he missed Dazai's voice until the relief of not cooking in silence hit him.

when they eat Dazai drags his partner to sit on the couch, even though Kunikida hates eating on the couch, knowing he would make an exception for him, just for tonight. they sit too close to just be friends, coworkers, partners even. their arms touch, their knees lean into one another.

when Dazai's finished with his dinner he lays a head in Kunikida's lap, turning on the TV, flipping through all of his partners recorded media until he finds the show they had been watch together, every episode that aired since he was arrested is recorded and unwatched. with blurry eyes he hits play. Kunikida's hand is in his hair and it doesn't leave.

they don't talk, they don't have to, they've talked enough. for now they just want to sit and feel each other's touch and hear each other's breathing. it's all they need.

its nearly 3 in the morning when Dazai finally starts to doze, he'd curled up into a ball, halfway in Kunikida's lap at that point, holding onto one of his partner's hands. Kunikida knows he should get them both to bed, he should offer Dazai the room and take the couch, that he should have the man some space after all he'd been through. but he aches at the thought of leaving his side, at being separated again.

but he doesn't even have to say anything, should have known he never had to, Dazai's always been sharp as a tack, his intuition, almost terrifyingly, even sharper.

His partner turned lazily in his arms, looking up at him with tired but knowing eyes. let's go to bed, they say. you don't have to go, you can stay, they assure. please don't go, they beg.

Kunikida breathes a long, heavy, sigh of relief.

"ok," he answers, before finally getting up after hours laid up on the couch, watching as Dazai continues to doze.

his heart aches with feverish heat. he'd missed him so much he had begun to go mad, had gone mad really, and now his partner was back, he was back and alive and mostly well, and now he was so relieved it ached in its own right.

he went about making up his bed for two, for Dazai, knowing he needed enough pillows and blankets for half a dozen people, but kept stopping to look over the back of the couch to make sure he was still there, still with him, that he hadn't been taken away again. by the time he's done he's probably crossed his apartment two to three dozen times, from his room to the couch again and again, before he's finally decided the room was good enough, there were enough blankets for Dazai to cover himself with and pillows to hide in.

when he goes to Dazai this time around, he kneels in front of him, carding a hand through his hair, tracing a thumb over his brow, to his nose, and then his cheek. his partner's eyes flutter open, a smile graces his lips.

"come on," he whispers, worried too loud a voice would shatter the delicate air of safety and comfort around them, "time for bed."

Dazai hums, getting up with a stretch and a yawn, much like a cat, before gingerly hopping off the couch and into Kunikida's arms, a false smile and air of cheekiness to him, hiding the ache Kunikida knew all too well resided in his partner's heart as much as it did his own, if not more. he holds him for a moment, savoring the feeling of him in his arms, before taking his hand and leading him to their room.

Dazai knows the drill. he goes to the other man's dresser and picks out a pair of his own sweatpants, ones he kept here for nights like these, and as per usual, one of Kunikida's shirts, gliding across the room, out into the hall, and into the bathroom.

Kunikida crawls into bed, feeling like he's been hit by a bus by the days events, and ends up half asleep by the time he feels Dazai crawling into bed next to him.

he expects to see bandages peeking from the borrowed nightshirt, to watch Dazai shield himself from the world, from his partner's touch, with a swarm of blankets, for Dazai to lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for him to fall asleep first.

but tonight's different, so different.

Dazai's skin is bare where the shirt doesn't cover, his scars on display, each and every one of them, the burns, the cuts, the bullet wounds, the ones Kunikida has never one been able to decipher the story of. they're all bared to him, with no visible hesitation on Dazai's end.

when his partner climbs into bed he neglects the pile of blankets laid out for him, the pillows too. instead he lifts the comforter that's draped over the entirety of the bed, Kunikida included, sliding beneath it like it's natural to him, like he'd done it every night for months, years even.

he looks at Kunikida for a moment, silently asking for permission, which Kunikida cannot give fast enough, and then Dazai's in his arms, his own wrapped around his neck, nothing between them but the clothes on their backs.

Dazai pulls away, just a bit, Kunikida almost cries out, almost pulls him back in, but knows better. he lets dazai go, but he never leaves. he's moved just far back enough so they could both look each other in the face.

"I missed you," he spoke softly, his hands shifting to hold the blonde's face.

"I missed you too,"

there's a moment of silence.

"I love you." the words are hesitant, skittish even, like he's unsure of how Kunikida would take it.

"I love you too," he replies without a second thought. he loves his partner, he loves him, more than he knows what to do with, so much it drives him mad and makes him ache.

Dazai nods. he's thinking, Kunikida can see it on his face, his mind is going a million miles a second. worry flashes on Dazai's face, and Kunikida panics, goes to pull away, goes to give Dazai space, even if his own skin burns at the thought of parting with Dazai's.

but Dazai doesn't let him, he clings to him, "Don't go, please don't go, please," he begs.

his voice is desperate, so Kunikida doesn't. he watches his partners face twist and turn, watches as fear spreads across his brow and tears gather in his eyes, and he doesn't know what to do because this has never happened.

but than Dazai leans in, slowly, tugging Kunikida closer so they can meet in the middle. Kunikida feels his partners lips on his. he kisses him back. he can't decide if that was a foolish decision or not. It's soft, softer than either of them knew they were capable of, it's gentle and earnest and good.

Dazai stops after a moment, lingers in Kunikida's space before looking him in the eye once more, he doesn't speak, they don't need to. Dazai looks at him, tears running down his face, but he's smiling, he's ok. his thumbs wipe away tears Kunikida hadn't realized he'd shed. they're ok.

"I love you," Dazai mutter's again, speaking again before the other man can answer "Kunikida?"

"yes, Dazai?"

"don't go."

"I won't."

"promise?"

"I promise." its a foolish thing to say, but Dazai needs to hear it, hell, he needs to hear it, "I'm not going anywhere, so long as you promise me the same."

he hesitates, his eyes avoid Kunikida's for a moment, before returning from their shared gaze, "I'll try, I promise, I'll really try this time"

Kunikida nods, slowly moving to kiss Dazai's forehead, the brunette leans into it.

"I know you will," he whispers into Dazai's skin, "and I'll always be here when it's too hard to manage on your own."

there's silence again, but it doesn't feel wrong or heavy, its soft and warm and it feels right.

"I love you," Kunikida finally returns.

there's more silence, Dazai just looks at him, just watches, fingers playing with Kunikida's hair and drifting over his face until something clicks into place in the other man's mind, something nobody but Dazai could ever understand.

he leans in once more to kiss his cheek before he settles against Kunikida's chest, letting out a pleased huff as he curls himself into a ball, "goodnight," he muttered, almost instantly going still with sleep.

"goodnight," Kunikida replied, knowing Dazai wasn't going to hear him, pressing his own goodnight kiss to the top of Dazai's head before burying his face in the other man's hair (Dazai doesn't smell like his shampoo anymore. it makes something in him cringe. he tries and fails to ignore it).

it takes Kunikida a while to fall asleep, he's too busy running the night over and over and over again in his mind. he holds Dazai close and lets his fingers trace over scars, feeling over his too-thin frame, feeling each bone beneath his skin. there's so many thoughts rushing through his mind, to many fears, worries, anxieties, what ifs. what if I hurt him? what if I break him? what if I ruin this?

his thoughts are only stopped when Dazai gently nudges his head into his jaw, hands pulling Kunikida's off of him, holding them gently in his own (he should have known sleep wouldn't come that easy to Dazai).

he takes a deep breath, steadying himself and his mind, his partner's hands squeeze his gently, good, they seem to say, and sleep finally starts to pull at him once more.

he lets it happen, let's his eyes close and his mind go blank, knowing Dazai is safe, he's safe in his arms, he won't be taken away again. he sleeps knowing Dazai loves him, that he kissed him, that tomorrow they'll wake up like this, and maybe, just fucking maybe they can finally have this one happy ending.

#I love when two emotionally constipated men find ways to be indirectly vulnerable and soft with one another. it matters so much to me.#they don't know how to talk about it or what they mean to one another or what they need from the other but they make it work #but after so long of dancing around each other only to be ripped apart for so long something just gives way and for once its in their favor #I hc that Dazai can be quite graceful in a ghostly and/or feline sort of way when he wants to be. he hops to his toes instead of standing-#glides instead of walking. stares into your soul with these big old eyes instead of just look. so thats just sprinkled in here.#on another note. these men are idiots. I said getting together but for christ sake they've been together for years they just never noticed.#I cringed at their stupidity multiple times while writing this.#dazai is scared of loving kunikida. he's scared his love will damn the man he loves. he's scared he'll leave too #but he can only run from his feelings so long #kunikida is scared to love dazai. he's scared he will find a way to break him. that he won't be careful enough. that he'll screw it all up.#they're so fucking messy and I love them your honor #I have so much to say about them #kunikida bsd #kunikida doppo #bsd kunikida #dazai osamu #bsd dazai #dazai bsd #kunikidazai #kunidazai #if you see typo's no you don't

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teabutmakeitazure · 8 days ago

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love waking up and seeing emails from ao3 about some poor reader losing their mind in the comments

#''wtf this changed me forever'' im happy to hear that #i honestly wanna write more emotionally unstable and constipated man in love #zuri rambles

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caotictimmy · 6 months ago

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I ATE THE WHOLE DAISUKE DATING HC AND I MUST SAY ALL THE BRAINROT THAT HAS BEEN STEWING IN MY MIND!!!

I think he's such a golden retriever bf 😭 like both ways— sfw and nsfw. HES SO DOWN BAD FOR YOU, he loves you so much and fjdkkd if his partner also has physical contact as a primary love language, he would die for headpats. Like genuinely, give this guy headpats be when you two are cuddling or when you are both in an intimate moment. You could reward him with a little patpat on the head when Swansea is not looking, and he would lean in to your touch a little bit before reminding himself, he needs to learn!! he needs to make you proud

NOW NSFW-WISEE.....

Praise kink goes so hard on him is insane

He could be eating you out with sparkles in his eyes, almost like asking if he's doing a good job, and if you do express it, tell him he's such a good boy, how good you are feeling because of HIM, he's going to go harder on you out of pure happiness—hes doing a good job!! you're like this because of his work and that amazes him

i could write more but my mind is a mess and im so sleepy wnwnkd.

🐁 out!!!

🐁 anon I love your thinking please don’t spontaneously combust. BUT IM SO GLAD THE HIM LIKING HIS HAIR/HEAD TOUCHED IS CATCHING ON OMG….

Sfw headcanons/thoughts

- Now that I’m thinking of it. I should have known he’d like head pats. LIKE I ALREADY GOT THE GOLDEN RETRIEVER BF VIBE FROM HIM.

- But he definitely loves getting head pats or his hair ruffled! Specifically he really likes it after/is doing something good. Like normal head pats are fine but. Knowing your giving him them because he did something good?!?!

- You guys have definitely gotten called weirdos by Swansea, cause you patted Daisuke’s head. Swansea wont say anything cause this man is emotionally constipated 💔. But he’s glad Daisuke has someone who Daisuke can be his true weird self.

- If your hand is somewhere close to his head, and he wants head pats. Daisuke will head butt his head against your hand to show he wants you to either play with his hair, pat his head, scratch his scalp, etc ect.

- I think like the first time he head butt your hand for attention was when y’all were cuddling. You had your hand by his head. And you weren’t taking hid obvious hints! (Slightly nudging at you). So well he just thunked his head against your hand. Ever since then he keeps doing that when he wants you to play with his hair

NSFW - DO NOT READ IF YOUR A MINOR OR UNCOMFORTABLE WITH NSFW (mostly AFAB some Gn )

- Omg please pull his hair. PLEASE. He loves it so much. Like holy moly. If you pull his hair while he’s deep inside. HES COMING IMMEDIATELY! Like pull just right and omg. It’s like a switch in his brain. And that man is going HARDER AND FASTER. Like I hope to burnt curly Anya can lend you a wheel chair.

- Omg just imagine Daisuke pulling his hair back during sex. OMG MY GYATTTT. Guys I see the light and it’s Daisuke pulling his hair back.

-(AFAB) I just thought of something. GYAHH IMAGINE SEEING DAISUKE TIES HIS HAIR BACK TO EAT YOU OUT(might need to make this into a FIC).I’m Actually foaming at the mouth. Guys wait let me cook.

“wait!”. Daisuke said. Before rolling a hair tie he had on his wrist for working on machines. Biting it as he collects his hair. Tying it up in a ponytail. Before pushing his sleeves up. Daisuke Looks back at You with a smile. “Now I’m ready” he say cheekily.

- Guys someone please draw Daisuke with a sexy man ponytail please I’ll be in debt with you. PLEASE HE’LL LOOK SO HOT JUST TRUST MY VISON!!!!

-(AFAB) Omg and grip his hair while he’s eating you out. Like omg if you’re pulling at his hair moaning. He’s gonna feel so good about himself knowing he’s pleasing you. Also if you ever shoved his face in your cunt while he’s eating you out. You gave yourself a death wish. CAUSE THIS MAN WILL NOT STOP UNTIL YOU HAVE TO PULL HIS HEAD AWAY.

You couldn’t take it anymore. It’s like he couldn’t stop. The pleasure was getting to much. You gripped his hair. Feeling him moan in you. You pull his head back, letting out that breath you didn’t know you were holding in. You could hear him catching his breath before hearing him let out a sad noise. You looked down seeing Daisuke giving you these sad puppy dog eyes. “Did I do something wrong.” He asked, genuinely concerned.

“No no! Just needed-“. You huffed, “need..need a moment.” You said dazed. He paused for a moment. The glimmer in his eyes back with a vengeance. He starts to grin. “Did I..” He started. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, cleaning your slick off around his mouth. “Did I do good?” He asked. Daisuke happily looking up at you waiting for your response. His grin got wider as he felt your hand rub against his head.

Authors note: GYAHH I LOVED THIS REQUEST SMMMM. Like, reblogd, and especially comments are appreciated! This was so fun writing thud.

#mouthwash smut #mouthwashing smut #mouthwash x reader #daisuke mouthwashing #daisuke x reader #daisuke smut #mouthwash game #mouthwashing game #mouthwash #mouthwashing #mouthwashing x reader

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delirious-donna · 2 months ago

Text

While You Were Sleeping [Blue Lock]

an: it’s been a hot minute since I did a multi character drabble, but here we are in 2025 and I love too many Blue Lock characters just to write about one at a time 🤭

premise: a good night’s sleep is not always a given, so how do they react when their sleep is interrupted?

featuring: Barou Shouei, Itoshi Sae, Nagi Seishiro, Oliver Aiku & Tokimitsu Aoshi

warnings: female reader, pet names (baby, darling, honey, sweetie, woman (it’s affectionate I swear)), lots of fluff, hurt/comfort, a lil angst, not full NSFW but suggestive in places, mentions of nightmares, fear of infidelity, confused feelings, Sae being emotionally constipated, lots of cuteness (I hope 🥹)

Shouei grunted.

His brow scrunched as the sleep he had been luxuriating in began to recede. No matter how desperately he grasped at it, the threads slipped through his fingers until—thump!

An intense pain against his shin woke him.

The room was pitch black with no noise from passing traffic but there was a whimpering coming from the right of his body. Blinking, he twisted onto his side and the irritation that had been building in his chest dissipated almost immediately.

Your face greeted him.

A face he loved, cherished and adored above all others, but it was twisted into a grimace. He watched as your lips wobbled though your eyes were screwed tightly shut. Even with the limited light source he could make out the sheen of sweat covering your skin, and he reached out a hand to cup your cheek only to be kicked once more.

“Fuck! Christ… I’m meant to be the striker in this relationship,” he muttered vehemently from beneath his breath, palm furiously rubbing at the spot you had brutally attacked.

When you curled tighter into a ball, damn near trembling, he couldn’t stand it any longer.

Shouei reached out for you once more. “Baby… wake up.”

Your body relaxed into his touch, cheek nuzzling his rough palm like it was a comfort to be sought out. The corner of his lips quirked at the adorable display, but he wouldn’t be satisfied until he knew what was causing you such distress.

“C’mon, come back to me,” he coaxed and finally adding a please when you seemed intent on refusing to rouse for him.

“Shou’—wassamatter?”

Goddammit, that shouldn’t make his heart flutter.

The sleep laced confused tone of your voice tugged at his heartstrings until the man known as the villain of the pitch was practically twittering like a love sick songbird.

“—thought you might tell me. You’ve been kicking the shit outta me for the past ten minutes. What’s going on?” he asked, softening his tone when your face flushed.

You burrowed into the pillow, fingers pulling the covers up to your chin and he had to fight to pull them back again. “Don’t go getting shy on me, woman.”

Huffing and puffing, you bit your lip but relented.

“It’s silly,” you whispered, only to be met with one sleek black eyebrow raised in coercion. He wasn’t going to let this go. “… was dreaming that some girls were hitting on you after a match,” you admitted grumpily, pouting out your bottom lip.

Barou snorted. It was just like you to be having a bad dream where your reaction was to fight back. That was his girl. His precious treasure.

Without warning he wrapped you up with his thickly muscled arms, drawing you into the centre of his chest where his heart thundered like a drum.

“No girl would dare. Not when you’ve got that kinda kick on you,” he teased with a gruff chuckle.

All you could do was cling to him; fingers digging into the meat of his back and shoulders like he was an anchor you needed to keep you sane. Your eyes shut slowly, soothed by the rumbling laughter in his throat. You trusted him implicitly so why did tears prick your eyes?

“Y’know I’d never entertain that shit, yeah? Got the only girl worth a damn right here in my arms, in my bed, in my… heart.”

You hiccuped, smiling into his skin and drinking in the cedarwood scent of his soap. Your fingers combed through the luscious length of his hair, humming contentedly as your heart lightened.

“It’s a big game tomorrow; the King needs his sleep. Cuddle me and keep me from assaulting those dumb girls in my dreams again.”

Shouei was more than happy to oblige.

Sae was not accustomed to being unable to accomplish something once he set his mind to it.

He was driven, self-motivated—perhaps not always for the right reasons—but he worked diligently to improve himself in all aspects that he considered important.

So why then did he find himself wide awake and silently seething?

From his seated position in the bed, he glanced down at your sleeping form. Your face relaxed, eyes fluttering as dreams no doubt coloured behind your lids, and your lips… so soft and perfectly kissable. He would blame you, but he couldn’t.

You might be the reason he was unable to find rest, but it was his lack of ability to form suitable words that irked him endlessly.

Three little words and they were lodged in his throat like an anvil in some stupid Saturday morning cartoon. You knew. He knew that you knew. Except it wasn’t the same as actually saying it, was it?

A tic worked in his jaw and as if sensing his ire, you grumbled and stretched. Cute little hands sought him out, eyes still closed but brow now knitted together when you felt for him and discerned that he was not lying down as he should be.

“Sae?”

“Hm.”

You blinked, rubbing at your eyes and shuffling closer until your head was lying in his lap. “It’s late, you should sleep.”

He agreed—wholeheartedly.

Sae looked upon you and felt the words rush through his brain at an alarming rate. Words that he couldn’t possibly voice, not yet, maybe not ever if he feared the worst.

Vulnerable was not an emotion he was used to, yet it beat against his brain. Licking across his suddenly parched lips, he mustered the ghost of a smile. It only resulted in your worried little mewl.

“It’s okay, I’m just thinking. Go back to sleep,” he said matter-of-factly.

His eyes cooled when you refused, choosing to continue the conversation he didn’t wish to engage with right now. “About what?”

A rogue thought of him grabbing you by the shoulders until your face was nose to nose with him struck across his temples like lightning. His every thought was centered on you, how could you not know?

At training.

In the shower.

When you were cuddled into his side and happily yapping about your day.

When you were chanting his name like a personal prayer, face twisted into bliss.

When he should be sleeping.

“It… it doesn’t matter. It can wait ‘til the morning.” Sae gave you no room to argue, scooting down the bed and drawing you beneath his arm. “Sleep.”

You yawned. Pretty eyes blinking up at him with that adorable little smile that only wrapped him further around your pinky finger.

“‘m gonna hold you to that, Sae.”

He made a noise in his throat and closed his eyes, mentally kicking himself for not having the strength to be completely honest with you.

Maybe tomorrow… he thought. Gods, he hoped.

Seishiro liked his sleep. Everyone knew that, and they also knew that once he was asleep it was almost impossible to wake him until he was good and ready.

That was why it was so odd that he found himself staring at the alarm clock on his bedside cabinet as it flashed a neon 3am message at him. For a moment, he simply blinked at the glow, wondering if he did it enough times that it would eventually make sense or he’d fall over again, but it was no use.

Did he need to pee? Was he thirsty? Too hot? Too cold? Need an extra pillow?

The answer to each was no, and that only made his brow furrow deeper in confusion. He moved to turn over, expecting to find your sleeping form by his side so he could drag you backwards into the embrace of his body, but he stopped short.

His fingers met only cold sheets where you should be and his heart lurched. It was three in the morning, why weren’t you in bed? And if you weren’t in bed where the hell were you?

Only now did he realise that your absence had been the catalyst to his waking. Like a comfort blanket, Nagi had long known that he slept best when he was touching some part of you and it wasn’t like you seemed to mind either. An arm over your waist. A leg between yours. His palm anchored at your chest.

Sleepily, hands rubbing at his fatigued eyes, he made his way from the bedroom to search for you. It didn’t take him long when the soft glow from beneath the living room door beckoned him forward, and he found you huddled in a blanket on the couch.

“Whatchu doing up?” he asked blearily, ignoring the little jump you gave at his sudden appearance.

“Oh—‘shiro. What are you doing up?”

Nagi frowned, rounding the couch and settling by your side until his head rested on your shoulder. “I asked you first.”

Your fingers raked through the pure snow of his hair, humming at how to word it so he wouldn’t worry but ultimately deciding on honesty.

“Nightmare,” you admitted with a subtle shrug.

“And you didn’t wake me?”

Silly man… he was like a rock once he was out. Plus, why would you want to worry him with a silly nightmare that now you were awake you could reason out it was total nonsense?

“You sleep deep, pookie… and it was silly nonsense.”

Seishiro puffed loudly through his nose, clearly unamused. His chin came to rest on your shoulder, hand raised to turn your head to fix you with those pretty, drowsy eyes. “It’s not silly or nonsense if it bothered you enough that you had to get up. Next time you have permission to dump a glass of water on me.”

Your laughter came out like a bark, and even he couldn’t keep the smile from his face.

“I’m serious, sweetie. It’s my job to make sure you’re happy and I refuse to be caught slacking cause I’m fast asleep,” he scolded, but mostly to himself.

His arms wound around your body, lifting you so you were cradled on his lap with your head on his shoulder this time. “Wanna talk about it or do you want me to tell you exactly how I would defeat all those nightmare monsters?”

“Oh ho, this I’ve got to hear. Go on gamer boy, tell me how you’d slay my nightmares.”

And he did, until you were both laughing and yawning, and tired enough to fall asleep entwined on the couch.

For as many nights as you had spent in Oliver’s bed, it still didn’t quite feel like you belonged. Despite your best efforts, something always kept you on guard and tonight was no different, except it was… and you couldn’t put your finger on it.

Sure, things weren’t serious between you two, but the past few encounters had led you to believe that he was being even more cagey than normal.

Your gaze wandered to the dozing profile beside you, eyes lingering on the scruff along his jaw and the pretty hair that fell in that perfectly ruffled way against the pillow.

Why were you here?

The question refused to leave you alone.

When had Aiku ever invited you over and you hadn’t ended up fucking like animals? It wasn’t like you had reached out to him, oh no, you knew better than to have your hand bitten in situationships like these. He set the terms, and you were happy to follow until you got bored… or at least that had been the case with other lovers in the past.

It felt odd to be lying here in nothing but one of his match shirts and for there not to be an ache between your thighs. You weren’t exactly complaining. The movie had been one you had been meaning to watch for months, and the conversation had been easy and full of laughter, but what did it mean?

You weren’t going to lie here awake all night.

“Uhh… Aiku?” You tapped his shoulder as gently as possible, not that he even moved an inch. For a moment you simply listened to his breathing which was even and deep. Damn heavy sleeper.

Clearing your throat, you half yelled. “We need to talk.” Four words that would strike fear into the hearts of men worldwide, and it seemed that Oliver was no exception.

His alluring heterochromatic eyes blinked wide, and you smothered your laughter behind a palm. “Did you…?” He started, but you hushed him just as quickly.

You snuggled down the bed so that you were face to face, his warm breath caressing your throat and you hated how badly you wanted to kiss away that suspicious look on his stupidly handsome face.

It was impossible to resist the temptation to touch him completely, so you let your hand wander until it traced the width of his bottom lip and tickled the patch of scruff just below. You canted your head as much as the pillow would allow and blew out a breath—it was now or never.

“Why am I here?”

Aiku scrunched up his face as if you had asked the most stupid question possible. It warmed your skin, your free hand twisting into the sheets to stop yourself from visibly squirming.

He chuffed after a long moment. “The fuck you think? I like your company… that so bad?”

Oh. Well…

“Look, Aiku—this has strictly been a physical thing until tonight. You can forgive me for being a little miffed,” you huffed petulantly, mainly to cover your embarrassment.

The smug smile that stretched across his plush lips was one you were either gonna smack sideways or kiss stupid. Right now it was a 50/50 split on which way it would go.

He stretched, sleepily, lazy and all sleek strength. Goddamn him.

“Is that the problem? You didn’t get off so now you can’t sleep. Y’know I can fix that real quick, darlin’” he purred, a strong thigh forcing its way between your legs until you yipped and fixed him with a stern scowl.

“Don’t—ah—don’t deflect, Oliver!”

Throwing his hands up in surrender, Aiku flopped backwards and just as quickly he anchored those strong hands at your waist and hauled on top of him. He chuckled when you gasped and smacked at the wall of his chest.

“Hey! Alright alright…” he conceded, schooling his features into sincerity.

In the blink of two mismatched eyes your stomach dropped into your toes. His fingers traced the curve of your shoulder, collarbone, jaw. There was something different behind the teasing and you didn’t want to admit it.

“Can we… not always fuck? I like having you around, and I might sleep better when you’re here.” The last part was a near whispered admission, and it had you folding forward to drape yourself across his chest, if only to hide your face.

Your head fit perfectly beneath his chin whilst his fingers worked soothing patterns along your spine, wrinkling the shirt on your body.

“Yeah. I think we can do that.”

Panic was what woke him. The familiar thrill of terror that shot through his heart and filled his veins with adrenaline.

Sweat dripped from his hairline whilst he looked around wildly for the source of the panic. Frowning, Tokimitsu scanned the dark bedroom one more time and found nothing out of place, so why did it feel like his heart was going to beat out of his chest?

A wail akin to the noise of a wounded animal sounded next to him and his skin prickled with goosebumps. This was what he had shaken him awake with an almighty start; he knew it.

Where his girlfriend should be, his eyes landed on a twisted lump of sheets and tangled hair. It sounded like the quivering mass was crying and without hesitation, he leapt into action.

On his knees, the mattress dipped as he worked to free you from the sheets that were coiled around your arms and legs like snakes. He couldn’t quite fathom how you had ended up like this and why the cold of having no blanket at all hadn’t woken him earlier, but it hardly mattered.

Finally, your hot, flustered face appeared with your eyes squeezed shut and tears streaking your cheeks.

“Honey, wake up. It’s okay, I’m here, I’m here. Hey… hey,” he babbled, grasping at your shoulders whilst still trying to be as gentle as possible.

“Ao-shi!” You gulped through tears, blinking away the remnants of sleep that tried valiantly to claw you back under its control.

He could die from heartbreak at how you clung to him, at how you launched yourself upright and into his arms. Your head tucked down to your chest beneath his chin, body trembling and wet with cold sweat. The t-shirt you had borrowed earlier that night bagged on your body, but it was slick and sticking to your skin in places.

Tokimitsu was the one who was used to feeling scared, nervous, anxious… but right now the tables were flipped and how he wished he could take those emotions from you and carry the burden. At least he was used to it.

“It’s alright, just breathe for me,” he coaxed gently, rubbing your back in circular patterns. Aoshi kissed the crown of your head over and over, giving you a chance to control your breathing and regulate yourself whilst he grounded himself with the familiar scent of you.

After a moment or two, your fingers loosened from where they were dug into his biceps. He knew there would be little crescent moon indentations, but he didn’t care, he’d wear them as badges of honour.

You sniffled, bleary eyed and embarrassed. “… ‘m sorry, Aoshi. Bad dream. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Aoshi cupped your face in both hands and brought your face up gently to the same level as his own, thumbs wiping over the watery tracks on your soft, perfect cheeks. His smile was gentle, reassuring, everything he saw in you when you were the one comforting him.

“Don’t be silly and never apologise for feeling scared or worried. Isn’t that what you tell me?”

You nodded once, still a little shaken from images that no longer formed full pictures but were now only snippets of the fear that had gripped you.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” you whispered, grateful that he let you lean forward and rest your forehead against his shoulder. The citrusy scent of his favourite bodywash tickled your nose and coaxed a smile upon your lips.

“I love you.”

Tokimitsu flushed scarlet. It wasn’t the first time you had proclaimed your love and he returned it eagerly and sincerely, but it still took him by surprise to hear it and to know he had been so lucky.

He laughed, nervous and adorable. “Isn’t that usually my line?”

“Maybe… but not tonight.”

#delirious writes #barou shouei #itoshi sae #nagi seishiro #oliver aiku #tokimitsu aoshi #barou x reader #sae x reader #nagi x reader #oliver aiku x reader #tokimitsu x reader #blue lock fluff #blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #bllk fluff

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kxsagi · 3 days ago

Note

me thinking about how sae canonically doesnt even know rins beefing with him

which gave me this funny idea. could u write about sae not realising he had a fight with reader and continues like normal while shes get upset that hes acting so nonchalant even tho theyre 'fighting'

“𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐛𝐨𝐬𝐬”

a/n: nonchalant! sae x petty! reader is everything i need

(art credits go to ciao3030 on X)

you’ve been giving sae the silent treatment all day. and not just your regular “i’m annoyed but still love you” silent treatment. this one is serious. crossed arms. eyes averted. a dramatic sigh every time he breathes too close.

he, on the other hand?

completely unaffected.

no, worse – unaware.

he sits on the couch next to you like you didn’t just tell him last night that he never listens, that he’s too cold, that he’s emotionally constipated (okay, maybe you didn’t say that part out loud, but it was heavily implied through your angry pacing).

"you want some of this?" he asks, casually holding out a spoon of pudding in your direction.

you glare at him.

he blinks. “… what?”

you turn away, arms crossing even tighter, eyes narrowed like you’re living in a telenovela.

he stares at your back for a beat, then shrugs. "more for me, then."

the audacity.

this man is supposed to be groveling. begging. kissing the ground you walk on. not spooning mouthfuls of convenience store custard into his mouth like he didn’t emotionally betray you by forgetting your half-anniversary-slash-date-night-slash-unspoken-love-language-appreciation-day.

"i can't believe you," you mutter under your breath, barely loud enough for him to hear.

but he does.

he glances at you. “what’d i do now?”

you whip around. “now?!”

he pauses mid-bite. “… was there a ‘then’?”

“we’re literally fighting, sae!”

he furrows his brow like you just told him the sky is green. “… since when?”

“since yesterday! you forgot our date, and you didn’t even apologize!”

sae stares at you. blank. processing. buffering.

"oh. that was yesterday?"

you blink. “yes.”

“ah.” he pauses, then says, “well, we’re home now, aren’t we? so technically, we still spent the night together.”

you gape. “sae.”

“what?”

“you’re the worst,” you snap, scooting away from him on the couch.

he watches your dramatic shuffle, unimpressed. then leans over and places the pudding on your side table like it’s a peace offering.

“okay,” he says, “you’re mad. got it. do you still want the pudding?”

you hesitate. it’s your favorite flavor. the betrayal in your heart says no. but the traitor in your stomach says yes.

he raises an eyebrow like he knows he’s won. “that’s what i thought.”

“… i’m still mad at you.”

“sure,” he says, lounging back and scrolling through his phone, one hand lazily reaching over to rest on your thigh. “just be mad over here where it’s warm.”

and somehow, against all logic and reason, you let him.

(but you take the pudding too, for moral balance.)

BONUS 𐙚

the next morning, you wake up wrapped in sae’s arms like last night’s fight never happened. which is extra annoying because you were supposed to be mad. like deeply, emotionally, mad.

but instead, you’re spooned.

like a loser.

and worse, he’s still asleep. all peaceful and warm and exhaling into your neck like he didn’t sleep through a relationship emergency.

you scoot out of bed dramatically. like you’re in a movie. loud shuffle, purposeful sigh, maybe a sniffle for extra flair.

he doesn’t even flinch.

so fine. if he still won’t acknowledge the fight, then you’ll get your revenge the only way you know how: petty girlfriend tactics.

you spend the morning being just slightly annoying.

leave the toothpaste cap off.

move the remote and pretend you don’t know where it went.

turn the AC one degree colder so he gets the chills while showering.

say “nothing” when he asks if you’re okay and sigh like you’ve been wronged by the universe.

he endures it all. unbothered. a little amused, even.

but when you give him decaf coffee by mistake-on-purpose, he pauses mid-sip, squints at the mug, then squints at you.

“this isn’t my usual.”

you look at him with your sweetest, most innocent smile. “oh? i must’ve mixed them up.”

he sets the mug down. “you’re sabotaging me.”

“me?” you gasp, fake offended. “why would i do that to my loving, caring, totally apologetic boyfriend?”

he stares. and finally, finally, lets out a tiny sigh of defeat.

“… okay. sorry.”

you blink. “… what?”

he runs a hand through his hair like this is physically painful. “i forgot our date. i should’ve apologized yesterday. i didn’t realize you were that upset.”

you raise an eyebrow. “that upset?”

“that you’d feed me decaf,” he clarifies, unamused.

you try not to smile. “and?”

“and i’ll make it up to you,” he mutters, already regretting it.

you hum. “hm, i’ll consider forgiving you if you take me out. somewhere fancy. with dessert.”

sae side-eyes you. “you just wanted pudding yesterday.”

“that was yesterday. today i want cake.”

he leans back on the kitchen counter, arms crossed, clearly weighing how much he likes you vs. how much he hates spending money on overpriced food.

eventually, he nods.

“fine. i’ll take you. just stop acting like a disney villain.”

you smirk. “no promises.”

he rolls his eyes, but when he turns around, he’s already pulling out his wallet.

because even if he doesn’t always get you, he gets that you’re worth the effort.

even if it comes with mood swings and decaf betrayal.

#blue lock #blue lock x reader #bllk #bllk x reader #sae itoshi #itoshi sae #itoshi sae x reader #sae itoshi x reader #nonchalant final boss

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minorlyatfault · 13 days ago

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YOU'RE MY CULT LEADER, I'M YOUR DISCIPLE ! m. grayson x writer!reader

✷ CATEGORY : HEADCANONS !

✷ headcanons of mark grayson dating a hopelessly romantic writer !

✷ TAGS: idiots in love. emotional intimacy. writer!reader. supportive bf!mark. mark is down so bad. mark doesn’t know jane austen but he tries. reader is dramatic & poetic & he loves it. inspired by every slowburn fic ever(they're already dating it doesn't make sense). some angst in between the fluff. mutual pining (but they’re already dating??). lowkey insecure mark. found family vibes. ooc if you squint (but in a good, soft way). “he’s a golden retriever, she’s a stormcloud” dynamic. mark thinks emotional foreplay is hot now. notebook snooping (loving, respectful kind). longing. so much longing. one (1) badly written love letter that makes you sob(in this work). reader writes like they’re in a period drama. mark suffers. reader is a jane austen fanatic. mark tries to match reader's freak.

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 NOTES !

001. me & my cousin did NOT get any sleep because we yapped ab this alllllllll night💔 i mean, we don't rlly sleep. but still.

002. LITERARY WRITER READER BECAUSE MY COUSIN ORDERED ME A PRIDE & PREJUDICE BOOK😋😋 i love her. she's literally an angel(demon, but she's an angel for now)

003. im still practicing my format💔💔

004. idk how warnings work.

005. may the gods give me a man like him

006. sighhhhh SIGHHHHHH

the first time he hears you talk about jane austen, he nods as if he knows her. he does not.

"right, yeah. pride &…patience?"

"you mean pride & prejudice?"

"that's what i said."

he doesn't understand it at first, but he enjoys how you just,,,,, come alive when discussing it. he'd hear you ramble on about 19th-century slow burns for hours, even if he's still puzzled as to why darcy was being such a weirdo for the first half of the book.(forgive him)

you write. a lot. & mark is super supportive, even when your characters are brooding, emotionally constipated men.

"know this guy in your story sounds a lot like me, huh?"

you blink at him.

"he's a tortured soul who suppresses his feelings & vanishes for days."

"precisely."

"…i'll let it pass."

he lowkey enjoys that you're expressing your emotions about him through words. it makes him feel significant. immortalized, even.

when you read to him, he just gazes at you like you hung the moon & stars.

you're lying on his chest, reading your favorite lines to him, voice low & expressive, completely absorbed▰& mark just melts.

he spaces out sometimes, not because he's bored, but because your voice is so calming. it's radiating "you're the only peace i know" vibes.

he'll suddenly be like,

"sorry▰can you repeat that last bit? i was just…thinking about how much i love you."

fucking gods, you wanna jump on him.

he catches you muttering lines you're working on under your breath & genuinely thinks it’s hot.

like you’re just pacing around, whispering works like:

“he could not bear to look at her. her silence was a blade.”

& mark’s just standing there, fully forgetting whatever he was gonna say.

“babe, that was… insanely attractive.”

you roll your eyes.

“it’s a line about heartbreak.”

“........yeah. say it again.”

you leave notebooks wherever you go. he occasionally reads them. not to snoop in your life▰but because he misses you when you are not there.

he would never read your innermost,,,, writing without asking, but if there is a poem half-written on the couch? he's opening it up, reading your doodled metaphors with a smile.

once he read a line that had,

"his touch is lightning, brief but unforgettable."

he immediately texted you:

"was that about me be honest"

he gets lowkey jealous when you write super duper romantic, poetic love interests▰but he tries to be them too.

mark after reading your chapter:

"would it help your creative process if i, i don't know, leaned against a doorframe all brooding-like?"

"mark."

"no seriously, i can work on my tortured backstory if you want."

kiss.

he doesn't actually understand period dramas but he watches them in spite of that because they put you in a good mood.

he'll be there looking all grumpy like:

"why is everyone just… staring at each other for five minutes?"

& you're all swoony-eyed like:

"because feelings, mark."

he gets far too invested. screams when the characters eventually touch fingers.

"she TOUCHED HIS HAND. THAT'S LIKE▰EQUIVALENT TO THIRD BASE IN THE 1800s, RIGHT? RIGHT???"

he is utterly & completely fascinated with the way your mind works.

you launch into rants about yearning & longing, about tragedy & poetry & why the right comma can shatter someone's heart▰& he is in heaven. literally.

he doesn't always have a comeback, but he'll hold your face & tell you:

"you're like…genius. like, genius-genius.

make out with him this instant.

he adores kissing you in the middle of a rant.

you're pacing, all worked up over how your character is being emotionally stupid, & he just grabs you in the middle of a sentence like:

"okay, yeah, i get it▰but also i need to kiss you now."

it gets you flustered. he likes that even better.

when you're stuck & upset, he takes you tea, snacks, & kisses your forehead like:

"you've got this, genius."

occasionally you do have to be left alone with your own thoughts, & he knows that. but there are times that he will just snuggle up alongside you quietly while you get things done. head on your leg, fingers drawing lazy circles on your skin, no need for words.

you once wrote in your stories of a kiss as

"the kind that ruins a person for anyone else."

mark had read that passage.

now whenever he kisses you, it's with the very purpose of confirming that line true.

mark has read pride & prejudice now. yes. for you.

& he disliked darcy initially.

"dude is literally the human version of a traffic jam."

but towards the end?? he was like:

"okay wait. that confession letter?? FIRE."

you catch him reciting it just to impress you.

"'you must allow me to tell you how ardently i admire & love you.'"

"markus▰"

"was it good? i rehearsed it in front of the mirror."

you write so sensually. ,,,, no smut, but the sort of tension that has people SCREAMING.

mark reads one of your stories & is just like,

"they didn't even kiss but i feel like i need a cold shower. how??"

you smile.

"that's the power of emotional foreplay."

he dies. just flatlines. legit. dies.

immediately tries to match that energy when he kisses you next▰slow, drawn-out, like a poem in motion.

mark is painfully WEEAAAKKK for when you're writing & you pull your hair up, squinting at your laptop, murmuring lines to yourself.

he’s supposed to be getting ready for,,, his,, well. invincible job.

but instead, he’s watching you like you’re the final girl in a love story.

if you so much as hum, he’s like:

“babe. you can’t do that. i’m gonna kiss you & then i’ll be late again.”

occasionally he gets the feeling that he doesn't belong in your world▰like your head is full of sonnets & he's just…a kid with super strength & bad luck.

he doesn't say it a lot.

but one evening, after patrol, when he's bloody & exhausted & you're cleaning his face, he says,

"do you ever think… you were meant to fall in love with someone better? like, you know... better written?"

you stare him straight in the eyes & tell him,

"no. you're my favorite plot twist."

he did NOT tear up. totally. he fucking wailed.

your writing is how you make sense of things. you don't always explain to mark what's wrong. you write it. & he learns to read between your lines.

he catches a sentence in your notebook:

"she kept pretending she wasn't waiting for him, but her hands wouldn't stop shaking."

he gently closes it, walks over, & holds you in his arms.

"i'm here now," he whispers.

you sob. he allows you.

mark attempts to write you a love letter once & it's…terrible. but so mark that it makes you sob.

it begins with:

"dear the smartest, prettiest person who somehow likes me"

& finishes with

"i don't know how to write pretty like you do but just imagine i said something like… your eyes are poetry or whatever. because they are."

you fold it up & keep it in your journal like a pinned flower.

he has this habit where he'll repeat lines you wrote back to you in the most unexpected times.

like,,, you're flossing.

he sneaks up behind you, arms wrapped around your waist, whispers in your neck:

"'her smile was the kind of thing you don't survive unchanged.'"

you stiffen. spew out toothpaste.

"mark that is PRIVATE—"

he simply smirks.

"it's literally about me, babe."

when you fight, he doesn't yell or shout. he goes quiet. & you begin to write letters to him because it's the only way you know how to say it.

you leave them under his door.

he reads them with shaking fingers.

responds on the same sheet, sloppy writing over your tidy handwriting:

"i'm sorry. i'm trying. don't give up on me."

you never do.

he once caught you crying while writing & freaked HARD.( heh... hard./j)

"babe?? are you okay?? who do i punch??"

"it's just…my main character lost her person."

he's so glad it's make-believe he laughs. then gets huffy.

"wait, that's ME, right? i'm her person. i'm always gonna be her person. well, I'M THE INSPIRATION."

the first time he told you "i love you," it wasn't dramatic. you were reading him a new chapter. your voice cracked a little.

he simply looked at you & said,

"i love you, you know. like, every version of you. even the sad ones."

you didn't say anything in return.

but you had written it out that evening:

he said it as though he'd been in love with all the words i'd ever put down.

he died. again. he has died multiple times. you're the cause.

#୨ৎ. kayvi's works !#mark grayson x you #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson x y/n #invincible mark grayson #mark grayson invincible #mark grayson #invincible x reader #invincible series #invincible show #invincible #invincible x you #invincible x y/n #x reader #ᰔ . . . invincible !

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yosuk-e · 22 days ago

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situationships; ft. haikyuu boys - akaashi keiji

a/n: since i got asked for a part two, here's an akaashi one as requested by anon :) this lowkey got me thinking like. what the hell would a situationship with akaashi look like? also i do know that my oikawa one was a little more... tension-ey?? but i honestly couldn't imagine slapping that onto akaashi lol. he would be very sweet, just a little emotionally constipated.

cw: i think this ones also a bit ooc lol... uni!akaashi.

akaashi

he's a bit of an enigma, honestly. it's like he pops out of the shadows some times, and you see him on campus every now and then, but not often enough to get a clear look at his face and certainly not often enough to come up to him and say hi.

the one time you do see him though, it's in the library. quietly studying away on his own and jotting something down. and my god you think, he's pretty. do you approach him? do you not? you've had too many shitty experiences with the men in this uni, and pretty, nerdy boys were never an exception.

but you try your luck. because he notices you staring at him and oh shit, what do you do????? try your best to gather yourself and look composed because this total hottie just caught you staring. fuck. of course, you pick the most complicated option: going over there and asserting dominance. (haha)

"um... akaashi, right?" you sure were making a fool of yourself. what if he thought you were really creepy? who stares for that long? what if-

"mhm. you?" well that caught you off guard. and wait. why is his voice so smooth? why is that little hum so soothing? you could've sworn something has possessed you in that moment because you don't even know this man!! "ah..yn. yn's the name." you respond nervously. he definitely thought you were creepy now.

"mm. okay." he got up, suddenly. you were sure he'd start running by now. you didn't miss the way his expression hasn't changed a tad bit. so relaxed and confident. "don't be nervous. i don't bite."

huh? did he just read your mind?

"i've gotta run, sorry. i'll see you 'round though, okay?" akaashi shines you a little smile (emphasis on little. the only reason you even caught that is cuz you were DEEPLY analyzing his facial features), and you melt internally, because a) what the fuck just happened, and b) what the fuck just happened. you motion to wave, but he's already turned to rush his way out of the crowded, dark library. you can't even tell if he was just trying to be nice, or tried to make his escape right on time and succeeded.

until you turn back around to the table he was working on and see a little coffee stained piece of paper with a number written down in the neatest handwriting, labelled, 'any love letters? ;) all jokes. text me.'

maybe he really was no exception to the pretty, nerdy boy you were acquainted with all too well, but you certainly weren't going to pass up a chance.

a/n: ummm hi chat. i hope you liked this!! i wasn't exactly sure what to write for this one but i doooo think it's soooort of something akaashi would do. i haven't elaborated on what happened after but i do think i actually want to expand on it another day. also i'm so sorry for the late upload!! i'm currently mid-exam season and trying to balance everything at the same time but i'll be uploading more soon!

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu #hq #hq x reader #haikyu x reader #haikyuu!!#akaashi keiji #akaashi x reader #haikyuu akaashi #hq akaashi #akaashi x you #—irene’s works

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ahundredtimesover · 1 year ago

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I Want You to Stay (04) | JJK

Pairing: Jungkook x (f.) Reader

Genre/Tags: boss!JK x assistant!reader; idiot strangers to lovers; slow slow burn; k-drama feels; angst, drama, fluff, smut

Chapter (Series) Warnings: foul/explicit language; alcohol consumption & passing out, unhealthy coping mechanisms; family drama; minor injuries; power dynamics (JK starts off as a jerk); work-related anxiety, feelings of helplessness, insecurities; childhood traumatic experiences, nightmares; sexual harassment, prior incidence of domestic violence (PLS PLS BE CAREFUL WHEN READING); arts and business/property devt talk that’s probably inaccurate; commitment issues & emotionally constipated characters; cold and detached JK; explicit sexual content (specific warnings stated per chapter) (18+)

Chapter Word count: 11.4k

Series Masterlist

Status: Ongoing

Series summary: Working for Jungkook isn’t the same as working for Hoseok. For starters, Jungkook doesn’t smile, he doesn’t appreciate you, and he gives you too much work. It doesn’t help that he’s incredibly handsome and has women at his beck and call. But as the tension grows, it becomes impossible to resist him. You’ve dedicated yourself to your job for 8 years so when you finally decide to put yourself first, he asks you to reconsider. And while you know that leaving is difficult, you learn that when it comes to Jungkook, staying is always so much harder.

Playlist 🎶: on the way home

A/N: Hiii I'm getting slower with editing and writing so please bear with me moving forward! Also pls remember, this is a slow burn haha. But anyway, been loving your replies (I see you) and messages, thank you. I hope you enjoy this one!

And as always, my biggest thanks to @wonwoonlight 🥰

PS. If I can’t tag you, pls fix your settings!

The events of last weekend remain in your mind, as you approach Jungkook’s apartment the next Monday and feel like your heart will leap out of your chest.

You remind yourself that he wasn’t angry at you; he’d even tried to apologize and didn’t make a fuss when you left the restaurant last Saturday. But still, the whole incident would make anyone feel agitated, and you know his capacity to feel and express that. He was inconvenienced and put on the spot, after all.

You enter, and shortly after, Jungkook exits the gym then greets you with a nod when he sees you. He looks more tired than anything. He doesn’t have a hint of frustration in his eyes, and you could only hope that he’d forgotten about what happened or, like how he is when it comes to personal matters, he’d chosen not to acknowledge it.

You bow in return, sneaking a glance as he walks towards his bedroom, with your throat drying up when he removes his shirt, briefly gracing you with a view of his glistening toned back right before disappearing inside. You wait half a minute before you follow him to prepare his clothes, giving yourself time to breathe before you have to face him again. You return to the kitchen and prepare his breakfast, looking up when you hear him walk in.

You approach him to do an act that’s become a routine for you, and for him as well, as he stands straight and unmoving while you tighten his tie and make sure he looks fine. Even when your fingers only graze his clothed chest, the memory from last Saturday becomes vivid, as you recall wiping his wine-soaked top, feeling the taut body underneath.

You shake your head at the thought, realizing that there are more things about that night that you should not acknowledge at all, including the heat you felt at seeing him in the washroom, a little exposed and definitely sweaty. There was that tension and the dropping of formalities that felt too foreign and quite disorienting. You don’t know him as anything other than the ‘Mr. Jeon’ you assist; seeing him as just ‘Jungkook’ was different. But you suppose that that’s the man you help everyday, and you wonder how much of himself he leaves behind in the office and how much of him now is just… him.

As you go about your routine during breakfast, you’re reminded that for Jungkook, there doesn’t seem to be a difference. How he is at work is the same as how he is elsewhere - serious, quiet, and detached. Except maybe when he’s with those women he meets at clubs, though. Perhaps the thrill and pleasure inject a bit of emotion and passion in him. You wouldn’t know, but at least it’s a way for him to take a break from the responsibilities he carries.

You scold yourself internally again. You’re not supposed to be curious; you’re not supposed to care. So you shake all of them away and remind yourself of who you are and your own distance that you should observe.

You get to your senses and proceed accordingly. You go about as usual in the morning with his meetings, and then he shuts his office so he could focus in the afternoon. You see his furrowed brows from the window, as he works on what seems to be the Arts Center again, given his requests for financial and marketing reports of the company's non-residential projects from the last five years.

You’re busy with organizing his Singapore trip and coordinating with the CEO’s office about the upcoming Appointment Dinner to formally introduce the new appointees, when he exits his room and looks through the folders lined on the shelf behind you.

“Where are the portfolios of our collaboration projects from 2017?” He asks.

“They’re in the archive room,” you answer, standing up to head there.

But he does it first, beating you to the corner area just off the hallway to the left. Your steps are obviously not at pace with his, and he’s tiptoeing to reach for a large folder by the time you get there. He’s able to retrieve it, laying it on the ledge as he goes through some pages.

“I could’ve gotten that,” you say softly, and Jungkook turns to you and wishes he hadn’t, as your pout makes his insides melt.

There’s something about your disappointment that you didn’t get to help him that makes his heart race a little, and while he knows it has everything to do with you thinking that he’d think you’re not doing your job properly, he still likes to keep the thought that you’d wanted to help him in the first place.

“It was heavy,” he explains.

“I’ve carried and pulled and pushed things way heavier than that folder,” you scoff.

“Really?” Jungkook cocks an eyebrow, trying not to show amusement on his face. “My cousin let you do all those things, huh?”

You frown at his attempt to catch you slipping. “I do many things in the background during events, Mr. Jeon, things that get everything functioning properly while Mr. Jung engages with the guests.”

Jungkook can only imagine how much work you put into getting those events hosted by the VP’s office running. Perhaps retrieving heavy folders is no big deal for you. But still, he doesn’t want to come across as a jerk for making you do something he can do on his own. He already was, he reminds himself, and you also definitely think he is; he doesn’t want to add to that any more, not after everything that’s happened.

So he just nods. “It’s a simple task I can do.”

Jungkook looks at the labeled boxes and folders. He’s got materials and design points to finalize by tonight. There are some more past projects he wants to go through to take inspiration from, and he finds another one he wants to look at, underestimating its weight, which is why he jerks in surprise when he feels how heavy it really is.

You’re there on cue, as if you knew it was gonna be too much. And if he’d asked you, you probably would’ve told him so.

You’re standing much closer to him, your fingers grazing against his as you hold onto the folder. It’s almost familiar, only because you stood this close to him that night at the restaurant, too - when you cleaned him up, and then when you handed him his clothes in the washroom. You actually stand this close to him everyday when you fix his tie. Perhaps after all that, it’s only dawning on you just how little space between you two there are sometimes, and you’re suddenly hyper aware - of the distance, of his scent, of the way he’s looking back at you when you turn to look at him.

“It was heavy,” he admits.

And for some reason, you laugh. Maybe it’s the slightly embarrassed look on his face or it’s just your defense mechanism when you feel tense but you let out an amused sound, with it fading as the time goes by and you realize you’re actually laughing at your boss.

“Making fun of me, Ms. Cho?”

“I… I’m sorry, Mr. Jeon,” you stammer, stepping away.

You’re about to mentally curse yourself until you see his slight smirk, and the thought of him making fun at you by scaring you like that makes you feel better. He may have some sense of humor after all.

Still, you bow in apology, and there’s a moment when you meet his eyes, with something not anger or frustration in them, that you both linger, as if there are things both of you feel that need to be said; you just don’t know what they are.

“Did the dry cleaners get to remove the wine stains?” You manage to get some words out, turning away now as you bring up last Saturday night.

“Uh, yeah,” he responds. There’s a pause before he continues. “Did… did you get home okay?”

You’re too stunned to be able to answer right away but you eventually do. “Uh, yeah. Jimin, Soomin, and I just bought food and then went to my apartment. And you?”

“I did,” he nods.

“Did… did Hajoon bother you again after we left?”

“No. Well, he just kept giving me the death stare but he didn’t do anything else,” he says.

“I really don’t know what got him so worked up,” you sigh, feeling bolder at having to share this much. “He’s not usually confrontational and he knows I hate it. That shouldn’t have happened.”

“People have their reasons for getting angry. They’re not always valid, though, and definitely not always warranted,” Jungkook replies, briefly looking away. “Whatever it is, at least he didn’t throw a punch.”

“Oh, if he did, that is it for me,” you chuckle, feeling unfamiliar with being able to talk to Jungkook so casually like this. “Goodbye, job; goodbye, Seoul. I will probably just work as a librarian somewhere.”

Jungkook wants to say he wouldn’t accept your resignation for that reason, that he doesn’t want you to go anywhere, actually. But that’s too much and probably inappropriate to say given the circumstances. So he just hums and turns back to the folder and looks through them.

“I’ll need these back in my room,” he says, carrying one while you take the other.

You appreciate the topic change, knowing you won’t know how to handle more if the conversation deepens. You both walk back quietly, as it dawns on you that the casual nature you both talked to each other is a little disorienting.

You’re not used to him sounding concerned.

He’s not used to you being honest and open.

Perhaps seeing a different side of him isn’t all that bad, you think.

Jungkook wants to believe it’s your way of forgiving him, too, even if he hasn’t actually apologized for anything.

The minute it takes to return to your respective desks ends, and Jungkook is back to focusing on his designs while you get back to making reservations. You peek inside his room every once in a while to check if he’s okay, if there’s anything else he needs, if there’s anything you can do for him.

The frustrated look on his face isn’t new, but the fact that it isn’t directed at you, is. So is the worried feeling you have for him. You’re a mix of emotions from everything that’s happened this past month, so you can’t deny that the way he’s been acting towards you has left you confused, maybe even doubtful. You have to be cautious, you think, and not fall into a comfortable dynamic with him so easily.

The next day, he’s back to being serious once again, as you sit to his right in the restaurant that will be catering the upcoming VP event. Jungkook decided for both of you to have the food tasting for lunch, and so a spread has been prepared for him to make the final decision on the menu.

You’d like to think that you’ve developed quite a sophisticated palate, all thanks to the numerous events that Hoseok asked you to organize in your three years working under him. With this upcoming dinner party a sort of introduction of Jungkook and the project to the art world, he wants to make sure that he serves only the best to the guests, which is why he carefully tastes each dish, trying to determine the best combination that’s both delicious and creative.

You give your comments, some of which he acknowledges, and you feel like you’re both making headway in terms of the menu, as well as with his disposition for the day, given that he’s looking more comfortable and relaxed than he was half an hour ago.

That is, until he sips his wine for the first time, and clears his throat.

“I believe I specifically said that lunch today is a work matter, Ms. Cho,” he says sternly. “You’re on the clock and this isn’t a break.”

“Y—yes, Mr. Jeon,” you answer, curious as to the reason for his statement.

“Then why is your boyfriend waiting outside the restaurant, trying to catch your attention?”

“What?” You exclaim, turning around and spotting Hajoon standing by the lamppost, his sullen eyes getting a bit of light in them once they meet yours. “I… I don’t know,” you respond. “I haven’t spoken to him since Saturday.”

“How did he know you’re here, then?”

“His restaurant is just up the street,” you sigh. “He must’ve seen me when he was walking there. This area is his usual route. Please just ignore him.”

“I can’t when he’s in my peripheral vision. He’s still the man who got in my face the other night. He clearly wants to speak to you and I don’t think he’ll go away,” Jungkook reasons.

You look at him, waiting for his instructions.

Jungkook doesn’t like that Hajoon is there and he also doesn’t want you to speak with him during work hours, especially if it’s going to affect you for the rest of the day. But the man seems desperate and persistent; he really doesn’t seem like he’ll just let this moment of seeing you pass.

“You have five minutes,” Jungkook says.

You don’t exactly want to go out there; there’s a reason why you haven’t returned Hajoon’s texts or calls these past days. But you can imagine that it’s a worse look for him to be staying around; a distraction during this work matter that you know Jungkook would not appreciate one bit. So you stand up and tell him that you’ll be back shortly.

Jungkook returns to the dish in front of him, noting that the Japanese mushroom risotto is a good addition to the set menu. The event his office is planning includes a sit down dinner and then an offering of canapés and champagne while guests walk around the venue to see the presentation of the Arts Center in large boards and on screens. It will be a good way for him to socialize - something he’s incredibly nervous about because it’s not his strongest suit, nor is it something he enjoys, unlike his cousin. The primary goal, though, is to introduce the project. Jungkook needs important people on board so they can be involved in the launch and the succeeding special activities.

He tries to think about that night and how he wants to design the place. He tries to think of other things, too, like the music and decor, even if he’d said that’s for both of you to plan next week. He’s even thinking of a follow up already, even if his management support team is in charge of that and would be dependent on how this first one is gonna go.

Jungkook tries to think of anything, really, just so he won’t constantly be glancing at you in his periphery, as you talk to the man from the other night and possibly make up. You did leave him at the restaurant last Saturday; you also did clarify that you’re not together. You just said you haven’t spoken since then, so it’s safe to say that both of you aren’t in good terms.

Jungkook can only assume, though. He doesn’t know the story, nor would he ever; he reminds himself he shouldn’t be thinking about it in the first place. He was never one to be privy to his staff’s personal lives; he spent most of his time with Lucas but didn’t know more than his family's composition. Jungkook doesn’t even recall knowing if Lucas had a partner, or if his then-assistant even mentioned it.

But clearly, Hoseok knows more about you than Jungkook would’ve expected. Perhaps it’s just how his cousin is, or maybe the time spent together just created that environment where it’s natural or normal. Maybe it’s the culture that his father encouraged; his old man is quite close with Mr. Ri - his former chauffeur and bodyguard - and Mrs. Myung - his executive assistant, after all.

But it’s not what Jungkook is used to; it’s not how he spent his few years in the Singapore office because like always, all he did was work and party. His mentor in graduate school also advised him that professional lines are ones he shouldn’t cross. Though Jungkook never really knew what exactly those were, he just dared not get close to anyone or be remotely interested at all, and that never caused him any problem. He’s always been safe where he was, guarded and unbothered.

But ever since you walked through those doors at Hoseok’s office that first Friday, Jungkook has been finding himself skirting near the boundaries far too often, and it’s only been a month. It began with making sure you’re eating well and that you’re safe on the way to work; he convinces himself that’s human decency, although he never really bothered much before.

And between wanting you to get proper rest before your trip to your hometown, to seeing you with that man from last weekend and being so bothered by it that it caused a scene, Jungkook’s internal alarm bells are ringing, telling him that he’s getting too interested, too close. It doesn’t help that he finds you attractive, something he doesn’t have control over. What he does have a say in is how he responds to it, and that has been incredibly tough, especially given the weekend he’s had.

He’d spent the rest of it trying to keep his mind off you - the way you looked in that outfit, the way your touch sent shivers down his spine, the way you’d looked at him worriedly… And when you walked out of that restaurant, he wondered what you were thinking, how you were feeling, how you’d be spending the rest of the night, and if you were gonna be home okay. He hasn’t really stopped since.

Even now, as he stays in his seat and tightly grips his glass of wine at the scene unfolding outside.

You’re standing with your arms crossed - setting the boundaries, and perhaps signaling your detachment, though he can’t see your face. The man, on the other hand, seems emotional, the tinge of sadness evident on his face. But there’s a mix of frustration and anger, too, as his arms flail around. He points at you, then at himself. His voice seems raised; Jungkook swears he can see the veins from the man’s neck popping out while you… you’ve got your head turned to the side, your body not eliciting much of the emotion the way the man’s is.

Jungkook stops himself from making an excuse for you to come back inside, just so he can pull you away from a conversation that you don’t seem to be wanting to have. But he knows it’s not his place, and the man might make a scene again if Jungkook decides to step in. You know how to stand up for yourself; you’d done it to him, he reminds himself. You’ll do what you need to do, whatever it is.

The man heaves, as whatever monologue he was giving ends. He reaches out to you, perhaps making a final plea, but you step back, widening the distance. It’s what prompts him to bow his head and turn around, leaving you by the lamppost on your own.

Jungkook sighs in relief now and he waits for you to return, but he’s surprised when you stay rooted in your spot, your arms wrapping around yourself despite the heat outside. He worries when you enter, your head bowed down and unable to look at him.

He wants to ask how you are, but he’s unsure if he’s ready for your answer, knowing that there isn’t much he can do anyway. So he goes with what he knows - detachment.

“I’ve chosen the last two dishes,” he says. “They’re serving the desserts soon.”

You turn to him immediately, your misty eyes painted with worry meeting his own.

“I didn’t think I was away that long,” you state, worried about the time you left your boss waiting while dealing with a personal matter that for the first time made you wish you were stuck with Jungkook instead. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jeon.”

He didn’t expect you to look so upset. He’s terrible at comforting people, but even if he wasn’t, he doesn’t know if he’d manage to comfort you. So he just shrugs and says that they were straightforward dishes.

You both try the desserts then the canapés, exchanging thoughts about all the options before shortlisting your chosen dishes. By the time the food tasting is over, you’re stuffed and set for the rest of the day.

You try not to look at Jungkook. You don’t know if he’d seen how your conversation went with Hajoon, but if he had, he could probably tell what was going on even if he couldn’t hear anything.

He’s had his moments, but you’ve never seen Hajoon look that upset and emotional, and you stood there, afraid to face all his feelings that you didn’t know what to do with, all those words that you didn’t know how to take. You’re usually one who’s able to let negative things said to you just go over your head, but something about what he’d said today hit you; you know it’ll take you until tomorrow to get over them.

But you try to get through the rest of the day the way you usually do - going through reports, organizing schedules, finalizing tomorrow’s presentation, and then working on the revised interdepartmental guidelines that Jungkook tasked you to do.

There are draft letters you send to him, thinking that you’ll work on some administrative matters while he reviews them, but you’re surprised when he calls for you 10 minutes later, saying the letters are approved and you can send them in the morning. You’re left wondering, given that anything you submit to him usually goes through intense scrutiny. Perhaps you’re not used to this easy pass, but you try not to overthink it, given the day you’ve had.

“You can go home, Ms. Cho,” he says as he types away.

It’s 5:30 PM. Usually this time, he’s still handing you things to review or instructing you on what else to do.

He seems to pick up on your silence, as without looking at you, he clarifies. “I don’t need you to do things you can do tomorrow. We’ll have meetings all day so I understand if you want to stay behind but you don’t have to.”

He doesn’t seem like he’ll be finishing soon, and you’re really not in the best mood so you nod and bid him goodbye.

The conversation with Hajoon stays in your mind all night and lasts until the next day. You’re in Jungkook’s penthouse the next morning, preparing his breakfast while he takes a shower.

With your phone snug under your neck, you relay to Soomin what happened yesterday. She was too busy last night for a call and she’s been bugging you since you got in the car - that you continue to ride as per your boss’ instructions - so you finally picked up, knowing how long it usually takes for Jungkook to finish.

“It started with him apologizing, then wondering why I haven’t been picking up his calls, then justifying his actions from last Saturday as him, standing up for me,” you narrate. “Obviously, I didn’t take those too kindly. But he said he wanted to be with me, like, have an actual relationship. And I said I didn’t want to then he just… he kinda just said everything he’s been keeping in.”

“Which is what?” Soomin asks.

“That I’m selfish, that I don’t think about what my actions may mean to others, which is silly since I was clear from the start about what I wanted from him,” you sigh. “He said that I act independent but that’s just a front, that deep down I’m a lonely woman who’ll probably push away every person who’s shown me they care until I have no one left and that’s why I’ll be alone forever, which he says is a deep fear that I have because I apparently told him that when I was drunk. And even after all that, he said he still cares about me, that he wants to try to be something for real this time, that if I just let him, he’ll love me right and make me happy and I just backed away, like, why would you—”

The clearing of the throat cuts you off, and you nearly drop the expensive plate due to panic once you look up and see Jungkook standing by the kitchen.

“I’m so sorry for taking a personal call, Mr. Jeon,” you say immediately, putting away your phone. “It won’t happen again.”

You bow your head down in apology, which is why you don’t see the way Jungkook’s eyes soften as he looks at you. Words like that hurt, and he can’t imagine what it must’ve felt like for you hearing them. Still, you went about yesterday with your accomplished tasks and completed deliverables like it didn’t happen, displaying a kind of strength that he could only hope to have.

“Yesterday was a tough, I suppose,” he states, choosing to ignore your apology.

“It was a normal one,” you brush off, walking towards him to fix his tie, not meeting his gaze.

Jungkook doesn’t reply, knowing you don’t want to acknowledge that he’d overheard your conversation, which he didn’t mean to walk in on. It did bother him, too; he suddenly wishes he’d fought back if that man was just going to speak to you that way.

There’s a sadness in your eyes that he tries not to mind and which you try to trivialize. Perhaps the man matters that much to you for you to be feeling this bad; Jungkook doesn’t really know what to do with that thought. So he tries to brush it off, too, telling you instead to be ready for today’s meeting with his father.

You ask if he’s checked the presentation you worked on, as you added things from the last time. He nods and says he only added minimal details that he came up with last night, and you check to find that he indeed just made minute changes, another thing that you’re thankful for yet wary of, especially given how critical he was about your work in the beginning.

You continue with your morning routine of debriefing about yesterday’s meetings, then you finalize the Arts Center event’s menu in the car. When you arrive at the office, you wait patiently as he goes through some reports that you’ve checked, then he reviews some memos that he asked you to work on.

The last one finishes faster than you expected. It seems now that his comments are what you look for, only because it reminds you that he hasn’t changed; somehow that seems like a better thought to have than him suddenly being lenient or lowering his standards for you for some unknown reason. He’s definitely witnessed some of your low moments; you don’t want to think those have anything to do with how he’s been lately.

The meeting with the management support team ends before lunch time, and you work on the minutes and the other things Jungkook had asked of you during the time that he meets with Yoongi in his office. That takes another half hour, and by the time they’re done, you’re done with your tasks, too, so you send those documents to Jungkook for checking in the afternoon.

Another one off the list, you think to yourself. At this point, you’re just going over all your deliverables with a focused mindset and waiting for the day’s end so you can spend time for yourself, just on the couch watching variety shows and movies until the weekend comes when you can do that for longer hours.

Having your friends over or traveling to Daegu are the only other things you look forward to. You used to look forward to spending the night at Hajoon’s, too; you could at least feel something pleasurable - the closest you could get to any form of intimacy that didn’t require you to bare yourself other than your body. But that’s a thing of the past now - there’s that amazing life-changing toy that Soomin got you last Sunday that’s got you thinking that you’ll be fine being alone for the rest of your life.

“Long day, huh?”

You look up and see Yoongi, his curious eyes scanning your desk full of papers, folders, and half-eaten biscuits.

“It has been,” you sigh.

“I see. It’s also only just 12 noon,” he points out.

“What a shocking revelation, Min Yoongi,” you grunt. “I don’t need to be reminded that I have another six hours here.”

“Hmm, just like me. So, what are you looking forward to when you clock out?”

“My leftover stir-fry for dinner that I’m going to add beef to,” you respond. “And The Zone. I missed it last Monday.”

“You and your variety shows,” he chuckles.

“What other reason do I have to laugh, hmm?”

“I’d say me, but you don’t find me funny.”

“You aren’t, sorry,” you smile, your first of the day, and Yoongi smiles back, knowing you haven’t been doing it the past few weeks.

“So–”

“Ms. Cho,” Jungkook’s voice cuts Yoongi off, as your boss stands by his open door with curious eyes that flit from you to the man in front of you. He recovers though, as he instructs, “the minutes are fine. Send it to the team now so they can work on their tasks.”

“You’ve read it?” You speak too soon, realizing a second too late that the words didn’t stay in your head. Your widened eyes don’t help you though, as Jungkook scowls at you.

“Are you asking me if I’ve read the file that I just approved and instructed you to disseminate?”

Yoongi purses his lips to hold off a laugh, and you glare at him because his teasing isn’t really what you need right now.

“I meant, uh, you’ve reviewed it already, sir? I… thought… you were going to prepare for the lunch meeting instead,” you reason, which isn’t even a lie.

“I have. Father hasn’t called me up so I just reviewed the minutes while waiting.”

You look at the file and see that nothing has been added. “And? That’s it?”

“Ms. Cho, are you questioning my ability to review?” He asks, his eyebrows furrowed as he starts to look displeased, although they seem harmless compared to his frustrated expressions from the past.

“No, Mr. Jeon, I apologize,” you say. “I was wondering if you didn’t have anything more to add, that’s all.”

“There’s none,” he clarifies. “Just send it to the team and uh… get ready for the meeting.”

He glances at Yoongi before closing the door.

“Questioning your boss’ ability to review now, huh?” Yoongi teases.

“Shut up. He’s just been weird,” you pout.

“That’s new. How so?”

“He hasn’t been an asshole for a few days.”

“Well, that’s quite the standard but I get you, I guess,” Yoongi hums. “In what way has he been out of character?”

“He just… hasn’t been pointing things out and correcting my submissions or asking a lot of questions about the reports I review,” you say. “Or just… you know, he hasn’t been him. He makes Mr. Ri pick me up every morning, he doesn’t email on the weekend, I get to leave on time, I get to eat properly…”

“In short, he’s been a decent boss recently?”

“I guess… I mean, it’s been two weeks since my mishap. He’s been quite tolerable these past few days. Maybe he hit his head and some loose screws tightened. Maybe he had a bad dream and the ghost of the future me visited him. Maybe he had a change of heart… though that’s highly unlikely. Maybe he–”

“Realized he hasn’t been good to you and doesn’t want you to go through the horror of another Mrs. Byun,” Yoongi interjects.

Your curious eyes prompt him to continue. “We had a meeting the other day and I saw a folder on his desk with her name on it. Formal complaints are only available in physical copies; other personnel files are stored in the server, so the only documents he’d have of her are the ones of her investigation. And he’d only be interested in that because of you. Those include your written statements.”

“As do you yours,” you point out.

“Yes, he’d totally be interested in how his design lead witnessed a manager’s abuse of power three years ago,” Yoongi sarcastically says.

You sigh to yourself. You’ve never told Jungkook about your experience with Mrs. Byun, but you wouldn’t be surprised if Hoseok or even Yoongi has mentioned it to him. It’s an experience you don’t like to think about; you were a young woman who had everything to prove, who had a lot to lose, and conceding to someone taking advantage of you seemed like the only way to survive. Not once did you put your foot down, and not once did you stand up for yourself. You experienced all those then went home to an empty house and found comfort in your own warmth and your own breathing.

You don’t want that experience to determine how others would treat you after. Hoseok was all things gentle and warm and you know that whatever you went through wouldn’t have determined how he treated you.

But Jungkook… Jungkook is different. This isn’t his default state. This isn’t how he normally is. This isn’t how you started. The last thing you want is for him to feel pity for all that you went through - in the past and recently - and then treat you differently because of it. He’s been less critical, less judgmental, and less doubtful of your capabilities. You only wish it isn’t for anything that he’d read or seen you experience.

“I doubt it,” you shake your head. “A man that perpetually displeased doesn’t just decide one day that he’d give the bare minimum of decency to his assistant.”

“Look, ___. Jungkook is a lot of things. He has a lot of feelings that he doesn’t want to deal with, and a lot of emotions he doesn’t know how to express,” Yoongi tries to explain. “I wouldn’t be friends with him if I didn’t believe there’s an ounce of goodness in him. And there is. Maybe him showing it just isn't good timing. He’s terrible at that, too. In fact, he’s terrible at a lot of things, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t try. It doesn’t mean he isn’t capable of kindness.”

“Kindness,” you huff. That’s quite a reach, but Yoongi’s always been a good judge of character. You do want to believe what he says about Jungkook; it’s just not an easy switch to flip. “I’m just trying not to care much at this point,” you sigh. “I come to work, focus on my tasks, do whatever I’m asked, go back home, rinse and repeat.”

“Is it satisfying, though?”

“When was work ever satisfying, Yoongi?” You laugh bitterly.

“Well, I could at least recall seeing you enjoy organizing those events for Hoseok and even joining him in some,” Yoongi points out. “I… I saw you smile a lot. There was a bit of satisfaction there, yeah?”

“Somehow, I guess. But I just had to make do. Hoseok was great, but this is also my job, really the only thing going for me.”

“What are you working towards, then?”

“I don’t really know. Maybe at 30 I should know but I really don’t.”

“Then why are you still here?” He asks, softly, desperately. “Why do you stay?”

“And find out who I am outside of all this?” You wonder out loud. “What if I don’t like her? What if she isn’t good?”

“Then this place hasn’t been good for you if you doubt who you are outside of what you’ve done here,” Yoongi says. “You’re just 30; there’s a whole world out there where you can learn who you are and be someone you actually like. I don’t know what’s stopping you.”

A lot of things, you think to yourself. But when you find comfort in discomfort, when you find security in chaos, and when you find companionship in loneliness, it’s not that easy to leave all this behind, even if deep down, you know it’s what you have to do.

“I don’t know, too,” you lie. “Maybe I’ll find a good enough reason one day and that would be it; I’ll be out of here and then I can find out if I like myself outside of everything I know.”

“I think you would.”

I did, Yoongi thinks to himself. He knows you’d laugh and agree; he’s moved on from you and things can’t be any better than how your friendship is right now, but he also knows you’re not the best at feelings, a similarity he realizes you have with the person you supposedly dislike.

“I won’t know until then, I guess. So I just gotta bear with who I am now,” you say.

There’s so much of you that Yoongi doesn’t know. It’s why he wanted to, why he asked you out for coffee and why he felt a bit of a heartbreak when you turned him down. But there are parts of you that he does know, that you let him see, and sometimes he finds himself wishing you’d find someone you’d feel safe enough with to share everything else you keep to yourself.

He keeps these things to himself, too. He’s learned that the only way to keep you close is to keep his distance; you’ll reach out if you need to, even if it’s something you rarely do. But what’s important is that he’ll be there just in case; what matters is you know that there’s a hand available when you need it.

So he just nods and takes your word for it. You’ll find yourself somehow, in whatever way you will. And you’ll find a reason to leave, whenever that is. He could only hope it’s a decision you’d make on your own, one that you won’t regret, and one that’ll lead you to find whatever it is that you’re looking for.

“So what, they want to put a stop to the Arts Center? They’re not the ones working hard for it. And quite frankly, I don’t need their help in any way to make it happen.”

Jungkook shakes his head in disbelief, anger manifesting in the way he clenches his jaw and groans repeatedly. It’s a sight you’re familiar with by now, and for the first time, you feel for him. It feels as if with this project, he doesn’t seem to have anyone on his side, aside from Hoseok, who’s been encouraging and helpful in many ways.

“They don’t want to stop it, son,” CEO Jeon says. “They’re merely questioning some of your decisions about the prices you’ve set out.”

“In short, they’re undermining me,” Jungkook groans. “This is my project. We’ve done the necessary research. If they read the report, they’d know. But clearly, they just want reasons to doubt all this, to doubt me.”

“It’s just the first project of its kind,” his father reasons. “The arts institution from 2017 was a collaboration and it wasn’t this big. The Arts Center just isn’t the usual commercial establishment that the VP office undertakes. The Board just wants to be clear about the profits because it’s not as straightforward as the others. They want to know how the property will earn.”

“Exhibition entrance tickets, bookings, rent,” Jungkook replies. “What’s not straightforward about that? Might as well say they don’t understand or even value arts and culture because that makes money, and if done right and respectfully, it can make a lot of money. I know what I’m doing.”

“It’s not like I didn’t make those points, son. It’s your first big project. I think they just—”

“Don’t believe I can manage it on my own.”

“They don’t think you can make the necessary connections on your own,” CEO Jeon finally says. “We all know how important that is. They doubt you’d be able to forge good relationships with professionals in an industry we don’t really have strong connections to. And with a project this big, it’s the company’s resources and reputation on the line.”

There’s silence in the room, as Jungkook seems to process the core issue that the Board has with him. You can tell it’s affecting him so much, as the anger in his eyes slowly turns into resignation.

It’s no secret that Jungkook’s way of engaging with others leaves a lot to be desired. From what you can see, he’s used to thinking more, envisioning, planning - the concepts and designs are amazing in his head and there are others tasked to sell that idea, to make it connect with people, to express why it matters, and to make sure it earns. That’s what Hoseok is good at; Jungkook never seemed like the type who enjoys that aspect of the work.

“You should’ve thought about my outstanding interpersonal skills before appointing me as Vice President, then,” he says bitterly. “Clearly that’s what the Board and everyone else value more than anything.”

“Hey, Kook. We know you’re good for this role,” Hoseok comforts. “And we believe in your project, we really do. Just focus on that. Make sure you’re constantly adjusting and refining the plans, and remind the Board that your ideas are even better when they’ve come to life. You’ve done it with your other projects before. Eventually you’ll be able to show them that you’re more than capable of forging relationships, too. That’ll come naturally. But in the meantime, you just have to give them something to make them believe it’ll be good for the company and our image in the long-run. Make them envision it.”

“I have,” Jungkook argues. “And I’ll keep doing that. I just need father to be on my side. I just need him to back me up, to trust me and every single one of my decisions.”

You’ve never heard desperation in Jungkook’s voice until today and you’re surprised with how much it’s affecting you, not just because you know how much effort he’s put into conceptualizing the place but because you’ve come to believe in it, too.

“Ms. Cho.”

CEO Jeon’s voice pulls you away from Jungkook, and you turn to the older man and ask if there’s anything he needs.

“Your thoughts,” he responds. “What would the Arts Center mean for the company? Do you think it will yield profits?”

They’re not questions that are new to you. Hoseok would often ask you these things about the smaller projects that go through him. CEO Jeon has asked you the same things in informal situations before, not so much to gain new insight - although he claims that your thoughts are interesting to him - but to gauge your belief in the project. He has a good read on people; you’ve observed him ask questions and pick apart not what they said but how they said it. You suppose that’s what he’s doing now, too.

“You’ve mentioned a few times that you want to expand the company’s market, Mr. Jeon,” you start. “And if I remember correctly, the Board agreed. Efforts to cater to expats and the middle class have been successful, but perhaps another type of expansion is in engaging the field of the arts and culture and its creators and consumers. More people from all walks of life and all over the world are gaining interest in Korean art and culture in all forms and the company has the resources to create a space for it. Like what the Vice President said, there’s an opportunity to earn from it while, of course, respecting it.”

You see CEO Jeon and Hoseok nod, a sight you’ve seen before as well. But Jungkook looks at you with curiosity, with a look of anticipation, as if he’s hanging onto every word you’re saying.

“The Arts Center was conceptualized and designed to be a hub for all things creative,” you continue. “Making general admission free makes the arts accessible to people, and once that appreciation grows, they’ll pay to see it, to experience it. Just go to any online forum and you’ll see that the public wants to experience art, not just observe it. They’d travel for it. The Center has spaces for that. I think that’s the ultimate goal - for anyone to be immersed in it. And that can happen through art pieces in a gallery or in a garden, through books, music, or spoken poetry, or even a photoshoot. Patrons can book rooms for private events, they can buy from the gift shop, they can do art themselves. It’s like a canvas and they can take part in creating meaning for the space. That’s what we’re selling. And that’s something people are willing to buy.”

“I see your point, Ms. Cho,” CEO Jeon says, nodding satisfyingly at you. “And it’s a good one.”

“It’s what Mr. Jeon has been saying all this time,” you counter. “It’s easy to understand and to buy into the idea… if only the Board would listen to him. If only they’d open their mind to what he envisions.”

“Well, that’s one way to get through to them, then,” Hoseok voices out. “Invite them to the arts event, treat them like creators and consumers, not as Board members.”

“That’s a good idea,” CEO Jeon says. “Maybe then they can see how you engage with the guests, which I hope you’re working on. And while you’re at it, work on your relationship with them, too. That means initiating conversations, seeking them out… It's part of the job, son. The Board are our stakeholders, too, you know this.”

“Aren’t some of them based in Japan and Singapore?” You wonder aloud, hinting at another suggestion that you want would come from Jungkook himself, given his scheduled plans to fly there.

“Yeah. Maybe I can meet them the next time I go,” he says, picking up on your thoughts.

Jungkook isn’t really fond of engaging with them. He always just left the socializing part to his uncle who used to head the Southeast Asian office. When Jungkook would be in Seoul, he let his father, Hoseok, and Ji-woo deal with them, with nothing but an acknowledgment on his end. He tends to stay at the bar on his own just to drown out the sounds. Yoongi sometimes joins him but most times, Jungkook finds himself alone even during such events; being with a lot of people is tiring, lonesome, isolating. With this new role, he’s started to accept that he has to do more. It doesn’t mean he’ll enjoy it though.

“I’ll have that arranged for you,” you tell him.

“Well then, that’s one way to revamp your image,” the older man smiles. “You just have to keep that up moving forward. That’s why Ms. Cho is there. She’s used to these events and these engagements with them. You’ll be fine.”

You give a reassuring smile to Jungkook - a genuine one, as you see it’s what he needs, given all that you learned from today’s meeting. He merely nods, and you think that should be enough of an acknowledgment from his end.

Hoseok wraps it up, going through a few policy-related items and then reminding the other men about upcoming social gatherings that they all need to attend. He asks to briefly speak with Jungkook, whom he pulls aside, while the elder Mr. Jeon approaches you.

“Thank you for standing by Jungkook, Ms. Cho, especially since I haven’t been able to show my support the way I want to,” he says. “I know it hasn’t been easy.”

“It hasn’t, but he made me believe in his vision for the Center,” you respond. “I’m starting to see what he sees. And it’s quite beautiful.”

Jungkook overhears the exchange, as he zoned out on Hoseok once he heard his father address you.

It’s something that his cousin picks up, as he repeats what he just said, totally unbothered by it.

Hoseok, of all people, knows how important it is that you have Jungkook’s back. He also knows how difficult that must be for you, given how the man has been towards you all these weeks.

But you’re unwavering. You’re able to withstand the challenges, and while Hoseok knows that you do have a tendency to also allow yourself to suffer through it, he also knows you’ve learned, and you’ll stand your ground if you need to; he’ll back you up, and he can only hope you know that.

You all exit the private room of the restaurant and head back to the office across the street. It’s 4PM by the time you return to your desk, given that Jungkook called for a meeting with the management support team after what transpired during lunch.

You immediately work on the minutes and action points, finishing two hours later and then deciding that you’ll work on your next deliverable tomorrow.

Jungkook exits his room, informing you that he’ll be leaving for an early dinner with Hoseok at a nearby restaurant, and that Mr. Ri can drop you off at your place. You’ve contested the service that was offered to you, and you and Jungkook settled on a compromise that you can go home on your own except for late nights.

“Mr. Ri will just be waiting for me anyway. No harm in driving you home tonight,” Jungkook says, knowing you were about to turn down the offer.

“Okay, sir,” you reply.

You do last minute things and pack up immediately to go home, taking this chance to get proper rest because you know the last two days of the week are going to be tiring.

The next day, Jungkook does conference calls and closed-door meetings, leaving you to do summary reports and other administrative backlogs that have your eyebrows scrunched the entire day. If it wasn’t for Do-hyun reminding you about lunch that you promised to have with her, you would’ve totally forgotten.

You’re in the zone as you go through the afternoon - two meetings straight that have Jungkook rubbing his temples constantly and you doing the same. But you pop in some aspirin and ginseng jelly next to his cup of tea, feeling satisfied when he takes them.

You go home on time, not wanting to be offered a ride for a consecutive night, and you get proper rest to face the final day of the week.

It’s all going well, as you find a rhythm early on as you work on your deliverables while Jungkook remains focused on his own tasks. You’re the one who reminds him now to eat his lunch, and seeing the blueprints sprawled on his desk, you offer to buy him one yourself.

He nods in appreciation as you state his usual order for confirmation, and you eat your sandwich while waiting for his curry rice bowl in the food hall. You get back to your tasks, thankful for the unusually quiet and uneventful Friday.

You see now how hyper focused Jungkook could get. He’s got his blinds closed but you can tell that he’s immersed in his designs and proposals and plans. He’s not allowing calls or visitors, and he only rings you to ask for coffee, which you’ve given him four times so far. Towards the end of the day, you’re the one who asks to go in, informing him that the Board meeting has been moved to a week earlier than scheduled; it’s two Fridays from now, which means his team has to finalize everything soon.

It’s his first one since becoming Vice President, and given how he used to question you, you’re surprised when he asks your proposed timeline to prepare for the meeting.

“Manager Lee is already consolidating all the departmental reports,” you respond. “You can instruct him to finalize the VP report with all those by Wednesday; the presentation can be due on Friday so you can go through all of them. We can submit the report for CEO review the Monday after that and then you can prepare for your run through until the meeting.”

“Sounds good,” he replies. “I’ll send them an email with the instructions shortly.”

“Noted, sir,” you say. “I’ve also submitted the minutes of the past two days’ meetings as well as the policy guidelines you asked for.”

“Oh, right,” he says, taking his iPad. “I’ve looked through them. The minutes are good; you can disseminate them accordingly. I’ve highlighted the parts for the condensed version you’ll send to the CEO and the President. I also have minimal corrections and remarks on the policy guidelines and I’ve edited them directly on the file. Just proofread again and then affix my signature once you’ve finished.”

“Y—you’re done?” You ask. You hope he doesn’t pick up the shock in your voice.

“Yes, and I’ve read them. Thoroughly,” he answers.

You smile in embarrassment after the other day.

“Does that bother you?” He follows up.

“N-no, sir,” you say, knowing he’s waiting for an answer. “I guess I was expecting you to take longer because, you know, more comments. And you’ve been busy all day, too.”

“More comments… Is that what you’re expecting?”

“Sort of,” you admit. “I mean… you made a lot of them before.”

You pout in reflex as you realize how you sound. You’re basically pointing out how critical he used to be, and if you’re being honest, you do wish he still was. At least that tells you that he’s still the same, that no knowledge of your past experience with your former boss has made him change his disposition towards you.

Jungkook sees your pout, and he crosses his arms and legs to keep himself from doing something as stupid as wiping it off you. It’s a little disarming for him, if he’s being honest.

“I didn’t mean that in a bad way,” you clarify.

Liar, you think to yourself.

“Well, if I used to do it a lot and I still do that after a month in, wouldn’t it reflect poorly on you and me if you still haven’t learned from all that?” He asks.

You think about it and eventually nod. He does have a point.

“You’ve adapted. I’d be worried if you continued to do things the way you used to,” he adds.

You nod again, taking in all his words. Much as you appreciate them, there’s another thought still bugging you.

“May I be honest, Mr. Jeon?” You ask, your heart beating fast now as he looks at you curiously.

He nods anyway and asks you to continue.

“I don’t think you’d lower your standards or anything when it comes to my work,” you start. “So I don’t want to believe that you pity me just because you know what I experienced in the past.”

He looks at you questioningly, as if to ask what you’re talking about.

“I spotted Mrs. Byun’s files on your table,” you lie. “I assume you’ve read about how she treated me. And I… I don’t want to be pitied, Mr. Jeon. If it’s that, please don’t. Please don’t let it affect how you’d treat me. It wasn’t even that bad—”

“It was,” he interjects. “This company doesn’t tolerate people who abuse their power. I only knew about your case because I’m thorough with my work. And that includes looking into my staff and their past. I did it for everyone,” he lies as well.

Hoseok and Yoongi had mentioned something about a past experience and Jungkook did dig deep. It was so he could help you professionally, he convinced himself.

“You should also know that I don’t make compromises when it comes to the quality of work of my staff and that means I don’t pity people if they fail to meet my standards. But I suppose you think that I do because of how I was in the beginning,” he continues, surprising you. “I admit I was being too critical. And I don’t have an excuse, just that I absolutely hate change. I’m not good at managing it and I reacted in a way that I’m used to, which is not a good way at all. I know now that I was not fair to you.”

The apology doesn’t come, but you know that the admission means enough already. It’s definitely taken a huge burden off of you. You didn’t dream up all those incidents and it wasn’t entirely on you. That itself gives you relief.

“My father and cousin were right. You’re a fast learner. You pick up on the comments, work on them immediately, and adjust accordingly. It’s a good trait to have, Ms. Cho.”

“I appreciate that, Mr. Jeon.”

“May I be honest, too?” He asks, surprising you again.

You nod, anticipating what he’d say, knowing he’s never been this quiet nor looked this nervous in all these weeks you’ve known him.

“What you said to my father about the Arts Center the other day, I appreciate that, too,” he says. “I guess you could’ve said something general or basic but you didn’t.”

“Your father wouldn’t have minded what I said,” you reply. “What mattered was how I said it. I guess as the person who’s privy to a lot of things about the project, he sincerely wanted to know what I thought about it, if I genuinely believed in it.”

“Well, it was a good way to convince him. And it seemed like he believed you.”

“I’m not a good actor, Mr. Jeon,” you chuckle. “He believed it because I meant it. And he saw that I was on your side. As I should. I still meant it, though.”

“That’s… encouraging,” he huffs. “At least one person is.”

“I’m sure he does, too.”

“It’s ironic that people like Mr. Ri think that my father and I are so alike, yet we don’t see eye to eye most of the time.”

“It’s because you are alike. You both think you’re right all the time,” you joke, teetering on the edge and sighing in relief when he laughs, a sound you don’t think you’ve ever heard.

“You make a good point,” he smiles a tiny bit, something you also don’t think you’ve ever seen him do. “But I’m still adjusting to working directly with him, and in a bigger role, too. We'll probably butt heads a lot.”

“You will. I already know it. In fact, I can already see it,” you laugh again.

It’s a moment you share with him that you didn’t imagine you ever would. He’s being honest about his concerns and you’re giving comfort in the way you know how and neither of you seems to mind.

“I’m… I’m gonna need your help, Ms. Cho,” he says so softly, his eyes turning away from you. “I’m gonna need your assistance. Not just in seeing the Arts Center through but in everything - navigating this role, dealing with my father, dealing with people. I… I know what I’m good at. So I don’t really focus on the things I don’t do well in but this position forces me to confront those and I… I’ll need help.”

For someone who doesn’t seem to like being vulnerable in front of others, seeing this side of Jungkook makes you sympathetic. The soft tone of his voice, the lack of eye contact, the crossed arms… they’re familiar because it’s how you are, and you know it’s difficult to be this honest with another person, especially when it’s about what you need.

More than wanting to help him because it’s your job, you find yourself wanting to see him succeed, too, to see him manage it all. That way, when you do eventually leave the company and search whatever it is you’re looking for, you can rest easy knowing that he’ll be okay, that the team will be okay, that the Arts Center will be all that he imagined it to be.

“I’m here, Mr. Jeon,” you assure him. “I’ll do my best to provide you with the assistance you need.”

“Thank you,” he mutters, and you don’t think you’ve ever heard him say those words with such sincerity to you, too.

You bow in acknowledgement and head out, leaving Jungkook in a haze, as he realizes that in your presence, he’d done what he's been trying to avoid ever since you walked in his life - be honest. He’d told you his concerns, his needs, and it seems that his honesty is something you appreciated as well. There was that acceptance that he wouldn’t have expected from you, not because you aren’t the type to give it but because he hasn’t given you a reason to. But you gave it regardless; you let him feel that it was okay.

It’s another half hour before he’s packing up to head home. It’s been a tiring week and he just wants to have a long bath, watch sports, and drink a cold beer over grilled meat. He’ll probably get some work done but maybe he’ll drive to some resort out of town, have a good workout, get in a sauna, and have a massage. He’ll have a nice meal with his friends and then go to a club. Or maybe he’ll just stay in. There’s something about being honest that makes him want to keep to himself for a while. He’ll start with that tonight, as he turns down Taehyung’s invite to another one of his client’s party.

Jungkook walks out and sees your desk empty, but he does hear your voice coming from the management support team’s room, telling them about your weekend plans as well.

“I’m going to the film festival in Incheon,” you say. “And probably just stay at a hostel.”

“Are you going by yourself?” Do-hyun asks.

“Uh, yeah,” you reply.

Hajoon was supposed to go with you. He invited himself, actually, and you should’ve read into the fact that he’d wanted to experience your interests with you. You hadn’t minded, and that’s clearly out of the picture now.

“I usually go to them by myself,” you add.

“Well, if you decide you want to invite one of us or hang out, you can always let us know,” Chin-sun teases, knowing you probably won’t.

“Let’s wait until we’re not too tired and busy, okay?” You chuckle. “That way, we can afford to do whatever we want on the weekends.”

“Yup, that’ll probably never happen,” Do-hyun pouts. “When are we not tired and busy? It’s probably worse this time because we don’t get to laugh and joke around like we used to. Are we even getting a holiday? Will we have an out-of-town team building? Or dinners and karaoke like how Mr. Jung used to treat us to?”

“The team-building is budgeted so yes, we’ll have it,” you tell them. “And dinners? I can maybe suggest that to Mr. Jeon. And come on, no one’s stopping you from laughing or joking around. You can still do all that.”

“Yeah, but sometimes I feel like I’m not allowed to because it might seem like I’m not serious about my job because our boss is too serious and it doesn’t seem right,” Do-hyun whines.

And for the first time, you feel genuinely bad for how they think about Jungkook. You don’t blame them though, but the man you saw earlier who broke into a small smile is definitely capable of laughter; you just don’t know how to elicit it from him again.

“He’s just been under a lot of pressure, but he doesn’t prohibit you from finding joy in anything,” you say. “Just… give him some time, okay? He’ll come around. Let’s just focus on our work and then focus on ourselves when the weekend comes. So all of you, pack up now and go home to your families and your pets. We’ve got a long few weeks ahead.”

Jungkook hears a collective okay then heads out right away, the initial thought of saying goodbye to the team having dissipated. He can’t blame them for voicing out their frustrations over the change in how they’re being managed. Hoseok was loved. He built a competent team whose spirit Jungkook is afraid he’s now breaking. But he’s not like his cousin, and he doesn’t know how to reach out to them in a way that’s genuine. He let the pressure get to him too much early on and while he’s not the type to forge connections with his staff, he’s seeing now how important it is for him as Vice President to do that.

But it’s too much to think about for today. He’ll let this affect him a little bit and then figure things out. Based on what he heard though, he’s not on his own. You were on his side again, even when you thought he wasn’t around. There’s something about the way you stand up to him and stand by him that’s refreshing. There’s honesty there, too, and he’s learning that it’s what he needs.

He makes it to the elevator but then holds the door once he hears rapid footsteps. You mutter your thanks as you enter, and he feels the tension build as you’re together after the exchange earlier. He hasn’t gotten over that yet, so he’s unsure how to talk with you.

It seems like so are you, as you drum your fingers on the strap of your bag and focus on the door while you both wait to make it to the ground floor. Jungkook is tempted to offer you a ride with him but he decides against it. Even then, he slows his steps so he could walk alongside you, as you both head out the main doors.

“Get some rest, Mr. Jeon,” you finally say. “And have a good weekend.”

You look at him with sincerity in your eyes, your smile soft and assuring, something he’s never seen you direct at him before. It’s even different from earlier. There’s more understanding, he thinks. Perhaps there’s care.

“You, too, Ms. Cho,” he replies before entering the car. “Get home safely.”

You bow to him and wave at Mr. Ri before walking down the pathway to the street that leads towards the bus stop.

Jungkook lets himself be comfortable in the seat while he forces the image of your smile out of his head. The sun has set and it’s Seoul at its busiest on another hot Friday evening. There are more cars than usual and so movement is slow, but that’s how he sees you - walking down the sidewalk in the midst of all these people. And there you are, somehow looking at peace. There’s an air of isolation that surrounds you, but you don’t look lonely. Just… alone. There’s still that warmth in your eyes and your smile that he finds himself wanting to see more of.

This is when he realizes he might be in trouble. There’s a line he shouldn’t cross, but there’s this desire to get to know you, to know your thoughts and your feelings and your words. He reminds himself that he needs you, in a way that an authority figure needs support and assistance. He needs you to be focused and capable, and he needs to be the same.

With his attraction that he can’t get over, he knows that the only way to make sure that he keeps things professional is to keep his distance - not just physically, but more so emotionally. You’ll definitely be spending more time together and he needs to constantly remind himself of who you are and who he is. That much as he feels safe and honest with you, he can’t go any further; he can’t let you get any closer. He doesn’t know how he’ll do it, but that’s one other thing he’ll figure out.

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silkscream · 1 year ago

Text

once bitten, twice shy

megumi fushiguro x reader

ੈ✩ wc: 3.1k (i cannot write anything under 2k to save my life)

ੈ✩ tags: emotionally constipated megumi, tsundere basically, friends to lovers, a lil angst, not actually unrequited love, pining, alcohol, typical yuuji nobara antics

ੈ✩ a/n: this is not xmas themed despite the title BUT it does end up taking place on satoru's birthday for plot reasons. megumi fushiguro your intimacy issues bewitch me mind body and soul.....

megumi does not know what to do with his feelings.

he’s never been the type to be particularly in touch with them — he didn’t remember his parents enough to blame them for whatever avoidant attachment he’d accustomed himself to. or maybe, that was the exact cause of said attachment style. gojo taking him in when he was a child didn’t help either — the man also refused to be very vulnerable around him, merely acting as a benefactor and a nuisance at best.

and while he was closest to tsumiki, he’d still built up a wall around himself that she couldn’t get through, and she knew it. she couldn’t break through it in his pre-teen years, and certainly not his teenage years when he was taking out his aggression on his classmates. he would ignore her soothing words and resent her kindness. perhaps he’d taken after toji in that way. constantly fending for himself for the sake of survival. always convinced that he was doomed to be alone.

and then there was you.

he’d met you first at jujutsu tech before any of the other students could. after sparring with maki, he’d been dismissed to shoko’s office. he’d opened the door that september day and was immediately met with your wide eyes, your searing cursed energy. gojo had found another stray.

shoko had made him your first experiment and you excelled. his injuries were healed within minutes. if anything, he felt better than he had in months — after battling insomnia and panic attacks, he felt… calm. like his brain was cleansed and that he had nothing to stress about. (until the next time gojo had gotten on his nerves.)

your introduction to his class was nothing extravagant despite gojo’s theatrics. megumi couldn’t help but keep his eyes on you after that — during practice battles, lectures, or lunch. he was always hyperaware of your presence. he blamed it on your cursed energy.

he hates how enthusiastic yuuji is about you, how yuuji tells him about how he manages to get you alone even though you often keep to yourself, and how he thinks you’re so fucking pretty, and that you’d agreed to watch the human earthworm movies with him. (megumi had refused when yuuji asked.)

he stews in that anger quietly because he’d rather die than let anyone know. nobara knows better, of course. she teases him about it and brings up jealousy.

why should megumi ever be jealous of yuuji? the boy was a freak accident in human form, with no inherent technique. who fucking cares that he can make you laugh without any effort?

it doesn’t matter. it doesn’t. because you have no direct effect on megumi and you don’t distract him during school. he doesn’t cling onto the memory of your hands on his skin. he doesn’t wish for the feeling again. of course not.

he tells this to yuuji and nobara, too. there’s one day where nobara goes too far — she teases him about setting up a date, that you rave about him, that he’s definitely your type. megumi doesn’t believe a word of it, especially because you’re probably more comfortable with yuuji. he doesn’t care to date because it would hold him back. he’s too focused on his training, on being the best, because he’s determined to follow in gojo’s shadow even if he won’t admit it. he could be the second strongest. he could be the most reliable.

it comes out in all the wrong ways. he’s more irritable than usual, so he yells at nobara instead of seething in hushed tones. he rants about how he does’t need someone by his side, certainly not you, whose only benefit is to heal superficial injuries and not much else. how your combat skills are poor, how easily you get beat when you spar on the field. how compared to him, you’re weak, so you’re of no use.

unfortunately, you hear him. every thought on his mind that tumbles out of his stupid mouth, his tone spewing wrath. you know that megumi is a moody person, but you’d never think him to be mean.

you pretend you’re just passing by, but from the faces nobara and yuuji are making, megumi already senses your presence. the color drains from his face, cobalt eyes wide.

“i’m — i’m sorry, i didn’t mean —“

“it’s okay, fushiguro,” you say softly. even after that shitshow, you’re still fucking smiling. it puts a sinking feeling in megumi’s stomach.

“ah, i got an extra pack of mochi and thought you guys would like it.”

you hand over a small bag and megumi takes it wordlessly.

“that’s so sweet,” yuuji beams, attempting to deflect. “hey, i was just looking for you. do you happen to have those jujutsu history notes? kugisaki spilled a soda on mine.”

“you knocked it over!” nobara protests.

“you put it on top of my stuff!”

you take your notebook out of your bag and hand it to yuuji graciously, avoiding megumi’s gaze and making up an excuse to see all of them later.

apparently, “later” means a week after. megumi sees you in class, and while he attempts to walk you to the dining hall or invite you to hang out, you bolt out the door before catching anyone’s attention. he has to find out how you are from fucking yuuji, who somehow gets to see you around the dorms every other day.

“i think she just likes to keep to herself, s’all,” yuuji says. he can sense megumi’s anxiety just from being in the same room as him.

“but you see her all the time.”

“she’s been tutoring me a little. and we just like the same movies and stuff.”

yuuji shrugs casually. his nonchalance makes megumi’s blood boil, because of course he’s the one who gets to occupy all of your time. of course you’re probably most comfortable with him. he knows he shouldn’t be seething at the thought of you two together — it isn’t his right. but his jealousy is starting to get the best of him lately.

“are you guys together?” he blurts out.

“no?” yuuji furrows his brows. “if anything, i feel like nobara might be trying to make a move since she’s way nicer to her than she is to us. except i’m pretty sure she and maki have been going out lately.”

“maki?”

“dude, keep up!”

and when yuuji accuses of megumi having a crush again, the same way nobara did all those weeks ago before he made a fucking fool of himself, megumi shuts it down with a grimace and a blush. he’s merely concerned about your wellbeing is what it is. that’s what he’s able to muster up to yuuji, of course, who absolutely isn’t buying it based on his shit-eating grin.

it’s annoying, especially because yuuji can make you feel more comfortable, comfortable enough to hang with the whole trio, and the pink-haired bastard has to meddle like a little troll. bumping the two of you into each other like you’re in middle school. somehow, it worsens everything. not your dynamic, but megumi’s self-consciousness.

he was already so extremely aware of you, but now he’s convinced that some angel above has tied the red string between you both extra tight. megumi looks for you in every crowd, awaits your arrival every day in the classroom and at lunch, and it’s starting to feel pathetic — the lightness in his chest whenever you’re even so much as ten feet away. his heart even beats faster at the anticipation of your text in the group chat, for fuck’s sake.

and then there’s gojo’s birthday party, a surprise orchestrated by the four of you, despite megumi’s reluctance. you’re particularly more radiant than usual. maybe it’s the lighting. maybe it’s the dress you have on.

despite the amount of shots he’s been forced to take in the past hour (three), megumi is still sober enough to feel anxious around you. though, he thinks he might be drunk enough to be lost in your image, fixating on your collarbone and the way your hair falls in your face as you laugh at one of gojo’s stupid jokes. it’s when the two of you lock eyes that megumi feels out of it, because you smile at him. you fucking smile.

if the warmth of the liquor wasn’t currently raising heated blood to his head, he’d deny the sparks that came from the mere sight of your smile, but he was hopeless. you’re mesmerizing. dizzying. he doesn’t know what to do with his face, not when his cheeks are flushing red and his motor skills are slowing down. fuck, maybe he was a lightweight like gojo after all.

he’s clearly out of touch with reality, because the moment fades as soon as it comes. perhaps it wasn’t a moment at all. he watches you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, your mouth moving slowly as you mingle with other classmates. he’s fucking fixated on your mouth — your lipstick tonight is a blush red with a shiny gloss reflecting light. megumi has only dreamed of what your lips would taste like once or twice. no more than that. he swears on it.

there’s brief eye contact between the two of you again for half a second. there’s a coy smile on your face as always before you slip out the back door of the house.

there are so many bottles around the place that no one will notice megumi taking an entire bottle of champagne for himself. he scowls at the taste, of sickeningly sweet pears — courtesy of gojo, probably. his head swims and thinks of you.

his momentary peace is rudely interrupted by the sound of nobara’s voice in his ear, asking for you.

“ijichi’s setting up karaoke!”

“there is no way in hell that i’m—”

“i don’t care what you do, emo, but i need her to do a duet!”

megumi heaves a sigh, making his way to the backyard where he finds you sitting on a tree stump. even with the dim fairy lights, he probably would’ve missed you if not for the cherried end of your cigarette.

“fushiguro-kun,” you nod at him.

“megumi,” he rasps. “just… megumi is fine.”

“oh, i get special privileges now? how come?”

there’s no mirth in your tone. you’re teasing him. he doesn’t answer your question.

(the mere act of you teasing him becomes an intimacy in itself — he had never thought that you would be comfortable enough to talk to him in jest. you’d maintained your distance from him fairly well.)

“didn’t know you smoked.”

“only when i drink,” you shrug. “ieiri-san doesn’t make much of an effort to hide her cigarettes, either. don’t tell on me, though.”

“wouldn’t dream of it.”

he doesn’t know where to look. luckily, you’re not looking at him, so he can settle his gaze on your mouth nursing the cigarette. plump. glossy under the moonlight.

megumi is not used to wanting. he had never asked gojo for anything during his adolescence, and refused any gesture of kindness from anyone. he was convinced since childhood that there was no point in desire because disappointment would be on the other end of it either way.

he’d like to be a monk about it. he could control himself and focus on his studies. never spare you a glance again that isn’t platonic. and then a cool december wind blows past the two of you, and he smells your amber perfume.

and when he turns his head, you’re looking at him, eyes bright.

“so… not enjoying the party?”

“i’m not really one for parties.”

“me neither,” you shrug. “that’s why i like to do my little ritual of escaping.”

“we have that in common.”

you hum, a noncommittal noise. you take another drag of your cigarette, which disintegrates slowly.

“what a pair, the two of us.”

megumi can’t pick up any sarcasm from your voice, though he assumes it. it makes his stomach drop even though the statement is harmless. the two of you. together. it makes endless futures bloom in his mind. maybe it’s the prosecco, but it almost makes him want to vomit. to think that he was even good enough to be beside you in your future.

you curse quietly when you pull your phone out of your jacket pocket to check the time, realizing it’s dead. megumi gives you a once-over. the jacket you’re wearing is all too familiar. like him, you’re not one to wear very many colors. but this jacket is bright red, varsity style, and oversized on you.

“is that itadori’s jacket?” megumi stammers.

“oh, yeah. i didn’t realize how cold it would be tonight.”

“oh.”

“why?” you give him a curious smile.

“nothing,” he coughs. “are… you two…”

you laugh and it’s like a song to him.

“i think he might be my best friend, s’all. why? you jealous?”

he looks at you again, head-on, your eyes still bright. brighter than fluorescents. there’s something in your irises that is meant to provoke him, but he’s dispensed of his usual cautious nature after he takes another gulp from the bottle.

“more than you can imagine,” he huffs.

“sorry?”

“’m not repeating that.”

“what, you’re not saying you’re like, into me, are you?” you exasperate.

megumi remains silent, cheeks flushed. he thinks that if his head could heat up any more, he’d end up with a migraine.

you breathe the tiniest gasp. if it wasn’t for how close megumi was to you, he wouldn’t have noticed.

“i kind of thought you hated me, you know,” you admit.

“i could never hate you. i don’t think anyone could.”

“you don’t have to pretend,” you sigh. he didn’t notice until now that your cigarette was finished, discarded onto the dirt with your boot to crush it into ash. “i— beyond the politeness, i get it. that i’m not your type or whatever. you don’t even have to be friends with me, fushiguro-kun.”

“megumi,” he emphasizes.

“megumi.”

“i’m not pretending. i… i really fucking like you,” he slurs. “it kind of scares me how much.”

“you’re drunk.”

“i am. i know you heard me say all that shit to kugisaki and itadori, but it’s because they put me on the spot and i was nervous. i don’t know how to… deal with feelings. honestly, if i wasn’t even a little drunk right now, i’d probably have left the party with my tail in between my legs and avoided you for the next fucking week, and you don’t deserve that. you deserve… everything.”

“even you?”

when did you get so close to him? if he sauntered just a few inches in your direction, he could touch your noses together. he can smell your perfume so deeply.

“it’s the other way around,” megumi breathes. “i don’t deserve you. not anything close to you.”

“what if i want you regardless?” your voice is just above a whisper. a prayer, a hymn. a wish to be blown out.

megumi swallows the lump in his throat. he blinks at you, dark indigo luminescent. the world slows down. he may owe it to the liquor and the wine, but he assumes it’s just your presence. your scent, the softness of your hair in between his fingers, your soft breaths.

“what do you want, megumi-kun?”

he remembers something gojo said. that to be a jujutsu sorcerer, he has to be selfish. he’s not sure if that philosophy applies to the situation at hand, but he’d be damned if he let you crawl into bed tonight without knowing how he truly felt about you. so, uncharacteristically, he takes a leap forward.

he unwinds the tension in his body and presses his lips to yours. it’s soft, chaste, innocent. something like a pause. he’s afraid to touch you, but you’ve already reeled him in with arms thrown around his shoulders, fingertips touching the softness of his black hair.

you bump your nose with his, shyly, and he kisses you open-mouthed. tongue in your mouth, meshing the taste of tobacco and prickly pear. the vanilla chapstick that he’d put on before he followed you out to the backyard.

he has one hand caressing your jaw and the other on your shoulder, thumb brushing over your collarbone in a way that makes your entire body shiver. you’re embarrassed at the pool of desire in between your legs.

megumi has never let himself be full of wanting, but at the moment, his veins are surging with it. it’s like a drug to him — your warmth, your scent, the saccharine taste of your mouth. your flesh is so soft, so pliable, from the way you dip towards the cavern of his lanky body, pressed against him chest to chest. letting his hand dig into the fat of your hip. fingertips grazing the skin underneath your shirt.

maybe it’s the liquor, but he’s feeling experimental — he tucks your bottom lip in between his teeth. pulls your hair ever so slightly. you mewl into his mouth quietly and he thinks that he’s never felt anything better than this. you’re wrapped up in all of him. you can quite literally feel the heat on his cheeks and both of you realize how aroused he is, his bulge prodding your thigh.

“fuck,” he whispers into your mouth, and he pulls away. only a few inches are separating you as he takes a moment to breathe. his eyes are blown out wide, black stretching across dark blue. both of you are stunned, panting, and the tension is more palpable than ever.

a rustling of grass makes both of you jump. when he turns, he sees yuuji and nobara staring with wide eyes.

“you owe me 7,000 yen,” yuuji deadpans to nobara.

“seriously, fushiguro? i didn’t think you had it in you!”

“i always had faith in you, fushiguro!” yuuji chimes.

while you giggle, megumi growls under his breath at the new intrusions of dumb and dumber.

“i personally thought you were way out of his league,” nobara tells you.

“eat shit.” megumi seethes with arms crossed, and despite his wrath, he resembles more of an angry kitten to you than any potential threat.

“sheesh, don’t summon a shikigami on them, megumi,” you tease with a pleased grin.

“i—” he stumbles over his words in frustration, grimacing. “what do the two of you want, anyway?”

“gojo-sensei got ijichi to sing doja cat.”

“oh, i’ve gotta see this,” you snort, grabbing megumi by the hand as you begin to usher the crew back inside. his heart leaps at the feeling of your fingers intertwined with his.

despite his inhibitions, megumi’s decided that he could get used to this.

#megumi fushiguro #megumi x reader #megumi x you #megumi fushiguro x reader #megumi fushiguro x you #megumi fluff #megumi angst #megumi fic #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk smut #ree.writing

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justnatoka · 2 months ago

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Hiiii! Could you write some like basic relationship headcannons for Bo and/or Vincent? I’m curious about your interpretation of them

How they behave in a relationship

House of Wax headcanons

A/n: Thank you for asking, anon! I really like doing some relationship headcanons when I get into writing for a new fandom (did the same with The Lost Boys), because it makes me think about how I want to write these characters and their dynamics in the future. So it's basically a good base understanding of the characters and how they behave. This definitely turned out longer than I anticipated! Guess I had a lot of thoughts. I also added some for Lester as a little extra! Hope you enjoy!

Warning: obsessive and possessive behaviour

So we all know that Bo has issues, which would definitely lead to some bumps in the development of your relationship.

The whole concept of unconditional love is probably foreign for him, given his relationship with his parents as a child and the lack of proper affection he received from them. And the man also has a problem with trusting people.

So of course he has a hard time believing you at first when you say you have feelings for him. It would also take him a long time to realize what he was feeling for you.

He would get jealous when you spent time with his brothers, not completely understanding why he was so frustrated, and of course he would lash out. You had no idea why he would suddenly go into these foul moods and sulk the rest of the day. It’s enlightening for both of you when you finally figure out that he was jealous, and why exactly he was feeling that way. After that, you make it your mission to show him as much affection as he allowed to reassure him that he’s important for you and is not in any way less than his brothers in your eyes, even if he was that way in their mother’s eyes.

I cannot emphasize enough how emotionally constipated this man is. Sure, flirting and working his charm on people is one thing, but emotional vulnerability is a whole other universe.

Even after he would start to slowly open up to you, he would get scared that you would leave him. For a while he doesn’t trust you to actually stay because life was so cruel to him before.

Like one day it would feel like you’re finally getting somewhere with him, and the next he’s cold and distant again because he feels like if he lets this go any further he would just get hurt.

It’s hard work to get this man to open up to you and it would get immensely frustrating sometimes when he would close down again, but the end result is absolutely worth it.

Because I headcanon that Bo would be soft on his partner. Once you get this man to trust you and open up to you, it’s all over, he’s gone for you and he never lets you go. Of course he would still be a teasing bastard who can be mean sometimes, that’s just his nature and you love him for it. But he would never intentionally hurt you.

Given his hot headed and aggressive personality, there are times when he says stuff in the heat of the moment that he doesn’t mean and hurts your feeling without meaning to. For the most part you know how to deal with him when he gets like this, but sometimes he says something that cuts too deep.

He would always come to apologize all embarrassed. Or he would leave you small gift as an apology.

Now, he wouldn’t be soft in front of his brothers or be very obvious about it. In his words “He’s not doin’ all that sappy shit”. Rather, he would show his affection for you in little ways, and only when the two of you are alone. Like when you would patch him up after a victim gave him a hard time or in the morning after you guys just woke up. Those lingering touches, soft eyes and gentle kisses were only for you to witness.

However, even if he’s soft on you, he’s still who he is. Meaning, Bo is very obsessive and possessive when it comes to you. When he finally feels secure in your relationship he won’t get jealous when you spend time with his brothers, but he would still feel the need to make his claim over you obvious. He would leave hickeys on your neck or walk in when you were talking to one of his brothers only to pull you into his lap, his grip on your thigh hard to ignore. You would just roll your eyes good naturedly.

He also likes to show you off when there are visitors in Ambrose, introducing you as his pretty partner. But god forbid a guy stares for too long or tries anything with you. They would die a slow and painful death.

He likes to involve you in their business, mostly as distraction and keeping up the façade. He wouldn’t be against involving you in the actual killing if you show interest, but he wouldn’t push it either. Playing your part in front of the potential victims and helping the boys with traps and stuff is one thing, putting you in the line of fire is another.

He’s VERY protective. And of course it comes out of him in a violent way. Anyone looks at you longer than he likes? They’re dead. Anyone lays a finger on you? They’re dead. Someone actually dares to hurt you in any way? They’re absolutely butchered. You don’t have to like his way of dealing with things, but you learned to accept it.

His way of showing his love can also be rough. Think bruises on your skin from his grip, passionate kisses with a lot of possessiveness and lip biting, shoving you into various surfaces during your makeout sessions. Think lots of teasing and denying you what you want. But you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Bo’s wild nature in very enticing and frankly addicting. Even if his flames burn you sometimes, he always makes sure to show you how much you mean to him. He’s not a talking-about-feelings guy, he doesn’t know how to adequately articulate what he’s feeling most of the time. But he will sure as hell show you through his actions.

Vincent

Let’s start with something everyone in the fandom agrees with. You would have to make sure Vinny takes care of himself. We all know he has a tendency to get so immersed in his work he forgets everything else.

So you bring him food to the basement, convince him to take showers etc. If you’re feeling sneaky, you can also ask for his help with something to get him out of the basement every once in a while, because he simply can’t say no to you.

Just like Bo, he probably also has some obsessive and possessive tendencies, but he shows them in a less violent way.

Example #1: hovering

Whenever he’s not utterly immersed in his work, he will follow you around and hover. You’re talking to one of his brothers? He’s right behind you listening. You’re cooking in the kitchen? He’s watching over your shoulder.

It can be sweet (he just wants to spend all his time with you) or it can be overbearing (he’s literally always there, breathing down your neck). It probably depends on the situation and also your interpretation.

Example #2: tons of art he secretly or not so secretly makes of you

This is another one where it can be interpreted in two ways. It can be endearing to see that he loves you so much and is so enamored by your looks that he would want to capture every little moment with you. He would do tiny sketches of you all the time, whether you’re spending some quiet quality time together, or maybe he walks into a room you’re in and the lighting is just right and you look so beautiful in that pose that he has to secretly draw it.

Or it can be overwhelming when you discover piles upon piles of sketchbooks all filled to the brim with drawings and paintings of you. (But I know which interpretation all of you would rather choose;))

I think he likes to see you interacting with his brothers, because it means you’re comfortable with them so it’s less likely that you would leave him. It’s probably something that he would be worried about at the beginning of your relationship, even more so depending on how exactly you ended up in Ambrose. He would be anxious about how you got along with Bo especially, given his temperament. But the more time you spent with them and the closer you got with them that anxiety would slowly dissipate.

Also, he wouldn’t hesitate to protect you from Bo’s anger if something you did irritated him. He would silently stand between you and Bo, shielding you with his body or he would even drag his brother out of the room if that’s what was needed in that situation.

I think his love language would be quality time. He loves those quiet moments you spend together when he would be sculpting something small (maybe another animal figure to your growing collection) or sketching you sitting there next to him, while you read or do some art as well.

He treasures everything you make him, be it a painting, a drawing or even some small and simple wax figure he showed you how to make. Even if you’re not very good at art, he would still keep every little thing and decorate his workshop or his room with them.

Another way he shows his affection is small physical touches. He likes holding hands or have your legs in his lap when you’re hanging out and sketching, he gives you hugs from behind and rests his chin on your shoulder when you’re making breakfast, and he definitely likes snuggling in bed. Good luck trying to get up and start your day when he’s in the mood to cuddle!

When it comes to things like kissing, he’s very shy at first, but he becomes braver as your relationship develops. He’s not really big on long makeout sessions, but he likes to give you smaller kisses on your cheek and hands. When he does kiss you on the lips, I think he either prefers it gentle and sweet or slow and deep with a hint of possessiveness.

A big reason why it takes him some time to build up your relationship to kissing is obviously his mask. He likes it when you pepper small kisses on his face over the mask, but it was hard work to gain his trust enough for him to take it off in front of you. He would be incredibly anxious about what you would think of him, how your opinion of him would change once he showed you his face. So when he eventually takes it off and all he receives is love and support, he knows he will never let you go and will do everything in his power to protect you.

Just like Bo, he wouldn’t hesitate to hurt someone if they hurt you. When visitors come to Ambrose he probably insists that you stay down in the basement and don’t come up until he comes to get you. But also just in case he would leave a knife with you (he most likely carved the hilt himself just for you). I think unlike Bo, Vincent would want you to stay out of the whole killing business as much as possible.

If the situation got out of hand and you got caught in the crossfire, his one and only focus would be to keep you safe. And once he made sure that you’re okay and far enough from danger he would viciously hunt down whoever dared to lay a finger on you. They wouldn’t become part of their gallery, their body wouldn’t be in a presentable state by the time he was done with them.

Lester

He treats you like you’re the most precious thing in the world (and for him, you probably are), but he’s also a cheeky little bastard.

Loves to make suggestive jokes or complimenting you, basically anything to make you blush in embarrassment. It’s his favourite sight, your rosy cheeks, and you can bet that he will have a little self-satisfied smile on his face every time.

He’s VERY handsy. He just loves touching you any chance he gets. He has a hand on your thigh whenever and wherever you’re sitting next to him, be it his truck, the couch, even under the dining table. He also likes holding your hand, playing with your hair (if you have longer hair he definitely learns how to braid it), having his arm around your waist when you’re talking to visitors. And he’s not above getting handsy when other people are around, his touch wandering to places that make you squirm.

And the kisses. He loves kissing you. From little pecks all over your face to sweet and passionate kisses on your lips. Long makeout sessions are a must in your relationship. He could spend hours with your lips against his, teasing and tasting you while you’re in his lap in his truck on some secluded side road, his hands wandering over your sides and your curves.

So yes, his love language in definitely physical touch.

He also likes giving you gifts: wildflowers he picked in the woods, little trinkets he made you from bones, nice rocks he found.

Since he’s not as involved in his brothers’ business, it’s less likely that you end up in risky situations. Even so, there’s still the occasional asshole when you’re interacting with potential victims before showing them the directions to Ambrose. You’ve had your fair share of disgusting stares and flirting attempts. That you can manage. What you can’t tolerate however is when these assholes find out you’re with Lester and starts making comments about him. He finds it incredibly hot when you get all mouthy and talk back in defense of him.

In turn, he can’t tolerate the unwanted attention on you. That’s when he starts visibly playing with his knife, and that usually does the trick. And even if it doesn’t, he feels better knowing what happens to them after you turn them over to Bo and Vincent. He gets even more touchy after incidents like this, and you’re happy to satiate his neediness with hugs and kisses.

Even though he’s not a killer as much as his brothers and does everything in his power to stay out of it – and to also keep you out of it –, if the situation escalates and you’re in danger, you can bet he’s ready to do whatever he has to do to keep you safe. Even if he doesn’t like it, your safety and wellbeing is always his top priority.

Leave a comment on this post if you want to be added to my taglist!

#house of wax #bo sinclair x reader #vincent sinclair x reader #lester sinclair x reader #bo sinclair #vincent sinclair #lester sinclair #house of wax headcanons #slashers x reader

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an-idyllic-novelist · 3 months ago

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Vegeta with fem!reader fluffy headcanons

warnings: fem!reader, established relationship, canon divergence.

Special thanks to @actuallysaiyan for not only encouraging me to write this piece but also providing feedback on the earlier drafts. Enjoy~! :3

divider by @cafekitsune

Vegeta is not the type of person who will proudly proclaim in front of everyone that he loves you. He’s a Saiyan of few words, but his actions? They speak the truth. And his actions definitely show he cares for your wellbeing when he defends your honor. He’s more likely to do that than anything else remotely romantic.

Go easy on this emotionally constipated man, okay? He might not be as expressive as Goku or the other Z Fighters, but he is trying. He lived most of his adolescent and adulthood as a planet pirate under Frieza’s thumb, where any emotion other than obedience was a weakness until he came to Earth and met you.

As much as he is still learning about Earthling customs, it would make his ego swell like a balloon if you asked him about Planet Vegeta and their customs. He could spend hours telling tales of the distant past, such as the roles of a mated pair in the household and how they raised their young. Going off the planet for a mission for the first time? That was a rite of passage. How do Saiyans show affection? Through their tails, hence why losing it is equivalent to mutilation or severe punishment of the worst kind of crime committed by a Saiyan. Other Saiyans could even see as a betrayal.

Vegeta is not proud of the things he has done in the past. But if some higher being offered him the chance to change everything, he probably wouldn’t take it. Not just because he still believes he doesn’t deserve such an opportunity, but erasing the wrongs he committed in the name of Freiza would undoubtedly remove the possibility of ever meeting you through Bulma. He would not have the life he has now, and he will be damned to allow anyone else who was unworthy of being your mate when the Prince of All Saiyans is right here.

The urge to fight runs through his veins, but that doesn’t mean Vegeta wants to be engaged in combat all the time. Believe it or not, the Saiyan would actually like to enjoy some domesticity with you. Whether it’s shopping in the city or just doing your own thing in the same space, he will enjoy it to the fullest. If Goku comes to bug him every day to train when the two of you decide to move to the countryside for work or preference? The chances of Vegeta getting really annoyed with the clown interfering on his quality time with you are pretty high unless it’s an absolute necessary to prevent the destruction of the universe.

You want to train and become stronger? Get ready because Vegeta will not go easy on you at all. Self-defense lessons? Oh, you can definitely be sure that he is going to at least teach a few moves so you can protect yourself when he isn’t around.

Saiyans are hard-wired to be attracted to strong-willed women, so challenging Vegeta mentally or physically will definitely get his blood thrumming in excitement.

He might act annoyed or irritated when you show him affection, but don’t let it bother you too much; Vegeta craves to be loved just like everyone else, even when there are days where he feels like he isn’t worthy of you. As mentioned previously, he’s emotionally inept. But if you show him genuine affection, respect, and honesty, that he deserves to have some good in his life? You will have a loyal, reliable, and incredibly protective Saiyan standing by your side until death comes for either of you.

He may not look like it, but Vegeta remembers the important things you tell him, like certain events coming up or be aware that you might have to work late on certain days of the week.

Regardless of his experience on the battlefield as a fighter and tactician, this man cannot navigate his way through a kitchen, so please do not let him go near the stove unless he’s being supervised, or your home will go up in flames. Seriously, just don’t.

Taglist: @uninhabitedsworld-18 @strangepoppy @nasty-redrum @iimidnightx3 @zvmbieb0y @bdudette @boonsmoon @mythoswarrior-23 @jadeprouductions

#dbz fanfic #vegeta x reader #vegeta x you #dragon ball z x reader #dragon ball z #dbz headcanon #fluffy headcanons #fem!reader #an idyllic novelist #dbz vegeta #dbz x reader

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sweetheartsofpanem · 20 days ago

Text

Tension? What Tension? - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

i’m having too much fun writing about these emotionally constipated idiots

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 3.39k

series masterlist | main masterlist

Katniss is trying to drown Peeta again.

Not seriously. Just enough to make it theatrical.

He resurfaces with a gasp and a grin, water dripping from his hair as he yells, “That was a war crime, Everdeen!”

She just smirks and flicks water at him with the back of her hand. “Next time, I hold you under longer.”

You’re watching all this from the dock, leaning back on your hands. Your ankles are in the water, your face is half-melted from the heat, and your shirt’s already damp with sweat because of course it’s the most suffocating day of the entire damn summer so far.

Haymitch is stretched out beside you, shirt half-unbuttoned, sunglasses on, very obviously Not Participating.

“You gonna go in?” you ask, nudging his leg with your foot.

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Because I like being dry, honey. And also because the minute I set foot in that lake, one of those lunatics is going to try and baptize me with violence.”

You snort. “So dramatic.”

“I’m dramatic?” he says, sitting up slightly. “You’re the one who packed a towel, a snack, and an escape plan.”

“Yeah,” you say. “Because I have foresight. You, meanwhile, are going to be sweaty and miserable in five minutes and begging me for water like a sad little plant.”

Haymitch opens his mouth to argue—and then a waterlogged Peeta lunges onto the dock behind you with a war cry.

You scream. He grabs your wrist. You shriek louder.

Haymitch does nothing except sip from a bottle he definitely smuggled into your bag, “I warned you.”

Chaos. Immediate chaos.

Katniss cannonballs. Peeta’s trying to haul you into the lake. You’re clinging to Haymitch’s leg like it’s your last hope.

You’re clinging to Haymitch like he’s a damn life raft, and he’s just sitting there—laughing—while Peeta tries to pry your fingers off his leg.

“Traitor!” you shout at him, as Peeta finally hooks an arm around your waist.

“You picked your side the second you called me a sad little plant,” Haymitch says, utterly unbothered.

You try to twist away, but Peeta’s got momentum and water weight on his side. You go down like a ship in a storm—splashing into the lake with a shriek that echoes through the trees.

The water hits like a shock, cold and loud, stealing the breath from your lungs. When you come up, sputtering, hair plastered to your face, Katniss is already grinning from where she’s floating nearby.

“I didn’t even have to help this time,” she says. “Impressive, Mellark.”

Peeta bows, dramatically. “I take my work seriously.”

“You’re both monsters!” you yell, treading water furiously. “I am a delicate creature! I have rights!”

“You started this,” Haymitch calls from the dock, still lounging like he’s sunbathing royalty. “You brought chaos. Chaos came for you.”

You swim back toward the dock, slap a wave of water in his direction. “You’re not safe up there forever, old man.”

He snorts. “Try me, fish bait.”

Peeta and Katniss start splashing each other again—lighthearted but somehow already bordering on romantic duel levels of intensity. You barely have a chance to process it before Peeta swims behind her and wraps his arms around her waist. She doesn’t even pretend to fight it this time. Just leans back into his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Ugh,” you groan. “Can you two stop being in love for, like, one second?”

“You came to the lake with a couple,” Katniss says flatly, resting her head against Peeta’s shoulder.

“Technically, I came here with Haymitch, which was its own mistake,” you call.

Haymitch raises a brow. “Keep talking, honey. See what happens.”

“Oh no,” you mock gasp, “am I in trouble?”

“Neck deep,” he mutters, but you see the corner of his mouth twitch.

You kick your way back to the dock, grab onto the wood with both hands, and lean your cheek against it dramatically. Your hair drips down the side, soaking your shirt even more. “I’m gonna haunt this lake if I die from betrayal.”

Haymitch stands—finally—and peers down at you. His sunglasses slide down his nose just enough for you to see his eyes.

“You’re already haunting me,” he mutters, and your brain short-circuits on the spot.

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“I said you’re loud.”

“You did not say that!”

He steps around you casually. “That’s what I meant.”

You grab the dock edge and start climbing up, water streaming down your arms and legs. Haymitch turns just in time to see you crawling up like some kind of soggy vengeance demon. He does not look sorry.

“You’re gonna regret this,” you mutter, shoving your wet hair back from your face.

“I already do.”

“Oh, do you now?”

You lunge for him.

He yelps—actually yelps—and tries to dodge, but you’re fast when you’re fueled by righteous fury. You manage to get both hands on him and shove—not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to throw him off balance.

He stumbles.

You blink.

He blinks.

Then he grabs you by the waist and drags you down with him.

You crash into the water again with a full-body shriek. Somewhere behind you, Peeta’s cackling.

When you come up again, Haymitch is already bobbing to the surface, soaked and smirking like he’s proud of himself.

“Happy now?” he asks, brushing his hair back.

You squint. “You’re in so much trouble.”

“I’m already wet. Not like you can punish me worse.”

“Oh, I can try.”

“Please don’t,” Peeta yells. “Innocent bystanders present.”

Katniss looks at you two, then at Peeta, and rolls her eyes. “Let’s go walk the edge. Give the weirdos some space.”

Peeta nods solemnly and swims toward shore.

You and Haymitch watch them go.

Then you look at each other.

And immediately look away again.

He clears his throat. “They’re disgusting.”

You nod. “Horrible. Sickening, really.”

He says nothing for a moment, then adds, “I bet she kisses his nose when no one’s looking.”

“I bet he braids her hair with wildflowers when they’re alone.”

A long pause.

You say, quieter, “Must be nice, though.”

You don’t mean to look at him when you say it, but you do. And he’s already looking at you.

Something shifts. Just slightly.

Then—he flicks water at your face. “You gonna get all sappy on me now, honey?”

You flick water back. “Please. I’m emotionally unavailable.”

“Liar.”

“Grump.”

“You like it.”

You grin. “Maybe.”

He moves closer—just a bit. You’re still floating, still surrounded by water and sunlight and the aftershocks of laughter.

“Your hair’s a mess,” he mutters.

“Yours looks like seaweed.”

“You say that like it’s not a look.”

You open your mouth to fire back—but then, with absolutely zero warning, Haymitch steps forward and grabs you by the waist.

Your yelp is somewhere between startled and indignant as he pulls you toward him, steadying you effortlessly while you flail just slightly—just enough to prove a point.

“Hey!” you squawk, grabbing onto his shoulders more out of reflex than anything else. “What was that for?”

He’s got both hands on your waist and his grin is maddeningly smug.

“Seeing you try not to drown was making me tired.”

“I wasn’t drowning! I was floating!”

“You were flailing.”

You gasp. “I was elegantly drifting in a natural paradise, thank you very much.”

He raises an eyebrow, eyes sparkling despite the wet strands of hair stuck to his forehead. “Elegantly drifting? That what we’re calling dog-paddling now?”

You squint at him, lips twitching. “You’re lucky I’m clinging to you or I’d kick you.”

“Mm.” He glances down at your hands still hooked over his shoulders, his fingers still loose but steady around your waist. “How tragic for me.”

Your heart forgets how to beat for a second. Maybe two. It’s the water. The heat. The soft flicker of sunlight off his lashes. It’s definitely not the way his voice dipped just slightly or the fact that his thumb brushed your side like it didn’t mean anything.

You try to regain your footing, pushing gently against him to test for the bottom—and fail. Immediately. You flail again, bumping into him harder than intended, which only makes him laugh under his breath.

“See? Flailing.”

“I hate you,” you grumble.

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m sunburnt!”

“Sure, honey.”

Your brain short-circuits at the nickname. Again. Which is unfair because he says it all the time now and you should be used to it by now and—oh god, his hands are still on you.

You glance up at him through your lashes. “You know, you didn’t have to grab me.”

“Didn’t I?”

Your stomach swoops. You forget how to be a person for approximately three seconds before you clear your throat and say, with as much sass as you can muster, “Okay, sunshine. You can let go now.”

“Right,” he says. But he doesn’t. Not right away. His grip loosens slowly, hands brushing over your sides before letting go completely.

And suddenly, the water feels colder where his hands were.

You blink at him. He grins at you.

Somewhere on shore, Peeta laughs way too loudly at something Katniss says, and you both turn—only to see her perched on a tall rock, smug as ever, as Peeta beams up at her like she put the stars in the sky.

You and Haymitch exchange a look.

Totally annoyed.

Totally not longing.

“Disgusting,” Haymitch mutters.

“Unbelievable.”

“Who gave them the right?”

He hums. “Should ban it.”

“Right? Love? In this economy?”

Haymitch starts wading toward the shore first, muttering something about “getting too old for water-based shenanigans.” You follow after him, still grinning as you slog through the shallows, water clinging to your legs like it doesn’t want to let go.

The sun’s still high, but the breeze has picked up—just enough to raise goosebumps on your arms as you step onto the warm rock near the edge and plop down beside Haymitch, who’s already collapsed onto a towel like he’s auditioning for the role of Most Dramatic Reclining Man.

“Water’s nice,” you say, wringing out the end of your shirt.

“Nice,” he mutters. “Sure. Real spa treatment. Can’t wait for the mold to set in.”

You snort, grabbing your towel and flopping it over your head. It muffles the sound of Katniss yelling something at Peeta, who’s clearly just dunked her on purpose now that they’re back in the water. You peek out from under the towel, grin at the chaos.

And then you glance down.

Your breath catches just a little—but not from shock. Just from the reminder.

The scars—thick lines that stretch from the outer sides to the tops of your thighs—always stand out more when you’re cold or wet because they turn purple of all colors. It’s not painful. It’s just… obvious.

You tilt your head at them.

Then grin, all teeth and mischief.

“Hey, look,” you say, tugging your towel off your head and gesturing to your thighs with a dramatic flair. “I’m a mood ring!”

Haymitch, mid-sip from a canteen, chokes.

You shoot him a wide, unapologetic grin. “Purple means ‘cold and full of unresolved trauma.’”

He coughs into his fist, half a laugh slipping through. “Jesus, honey.”

“What? It’s seasonal color analysis for my mental state.”

He glances down, catches the faint glint of scars against your skin, then looks back up at your face—like he’s checking.

You nudge his foot with yours. “Don’t get all soft on me, sunshine.”

“Didn’t say anything.”

“You looked soft.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Maybe I’m just disgusted by your sense of humor.”

“Mm, no. I think you’re endeared.”

“You’re lucky I don’t toss you back in the lake and let you drown.”

“Admit it,” you say, smirking as you flop back onto the towel, arms spread dramatically. “You’d miss me.”

He hums again, settling back beside you, eyes flicking toward the sky. “Yeah. I would.”

You squint at the sky, pretending like your heart didn’t just trip over itself. “Careful,” you murmur. “I’m gonna start thinking you like me.”

Haymitch doesn’t look over. Just lets the sun spill across his face as he says, “Maybe I do.”

And that—that—short-circuits your entire brain.

You blink up at the clouds. “Well. That’s illegal.”

He smirks, barely. “Sue me.”

“I might.”

“Peeta’s got a lawyer name. Ask him for a referral.”

You snort, nudging your foot against his again. “You’re such a menace.”

“Says the girl comparing her trauma to a novelty item from hundreds of years ago.”

“Bet you owned a mood ring.”

He exhales through his nose. “Probably. Might’ve invented it.”

You gasp, scandalized. “So you are ancient.”

“I prefer ‘mysteriously timeless.’”

“You creak when you sit down.”

“Whiskey fixes that.”

You cackle, covering your face. “Oh my god. You would’ve been the kid trying to eat a mood ring just to see if your insides were sad.”

“Still am,” he mutters, cracking one eye open to look at you. “Except now I’ve got worse coping mechanisms and better whiskey.”

“Progress?”

“Debatable.”

You hum contentedly, fingers tracing lazy shapes into the towel beneath you. The sun warms your skin, the wind tugs gently at your damp clothes, and beside you, Haymitch lets out a sigh that sounds like something untangling in his chest.

“You really okay?” you ask, not teasing this time. Just soft.

He glances over at you—eyes serious for half a second. Then he nods. “Yeah. Kinda hard not to be when you’re yelling about knee cartilage and emotionally aware thighs.”

You grin, eyes closing. “That’s what I’m here for. Unhinged weather reports and deeply concerning jokes.”

Haymitch doesn’t say anything for a beat.

Then, quieter. “And hand-holding. Apparently.”

Your smile turns a little shy. “Well. Only on special occasions.”

He hums again. “We’ll have to make more of those, then.”

You turn your head slightly, eyes still closed, just barely nudging your shoulder against his. “Yeah. We will.”

You’re still smiling when Peeta calls out from farther down the shore, where he and Katniss are already rolling up their towels and tossing things into their bag.

“Hey! If we don’t leave soon, we’re gonna end up hiking back in the dark!”

Katniss, with all the tenderness of a brick, adds, “Which is fine for me, but Peeta’s just gonna trip on a root and dent his prosthetic again.”

“That was once,” Peeta says indignantly.

“Was it?” Haymitch asks, loudly and very unhelpfully.

You snort and stand, brushing off some damp grass stuck to your calves. “Guess we’re calling it.”

“Tragic,” Haymitch says, standing up beside you with a grunt. “Just when I was enjoying your drowned rat aesthetic.”

“You’re just mad I didn’t actually drown.”

“Oh no. That was plan B.”

You flick water at him from the end of your towel, and he swats at you like you’re an annoying bug—which only encourages you further. Katniss shakes her head but is definitely smirking as she slings her bow over one shoulder.

You all start the short hike back, the trail still warm underfoot despite the sun starting to dip. It’s golden-hour light now—soft and low, filtering through the trees in hazy streaks. Cicadas buzz in the distance, and everything smells like summer and wet earth and warm leaves.

Peeta walks ahead with Katniss, their fingers automatically tangled together like they were built that way. At one point, she mutters something under her breath and he laughs—low and bright—and leans over to kiss her cheek without missing a step.

You don’t look at Haymitch.

He doesn’t look at you.

You both do not look at each other.

But your hands are close.

Not on purpose. Definitely not. The trail is just narrow, okay? The heat still clings to your skin, and your towel keeps slipping, and maybe you’re walking a little too close, but it’s fine.

The first brush of fingers is probably accidental.

Probably.

The second one definitely isn’t.

You glance up at him from the corner of your eye.

Haymitch is looking ahead, expression neutral. His hand swings just enough to bump yours again.

“Accidental, huh?” you murmur, lips twitching.

“I’m just walking.”

“Mmhmm.”

“You’re the one with twitchy hands.”

“I’m full of feelings and poor decision-making.”

He glances down at you, eyes warm in the gold light. “You say that like it’s new.”

You grin. “It’s my whole brand.”

You don’t reach for his hand.

But you don’t move yours away, either.

The third time your fingers brush, they stay there for just a second longer than they need to.

Not quite held.

Just… hovering.

Your chest feels like someone lit a match in it.

But you keep walking, keep smiling, keep your voice even despite the fact that you’re mentally screaming at the clouds.

“I like summer,” you say vaguely, because it’s the safest thing your brain can find.

Haymitch hums. “You just like being chaotic without freezing.”

“Exactly.”

He grins. It’s quick and sharp and real, and you want to bottle it.

By the time you reach the edge of the woods, the sun is kissing the horizon and the village is bathed in soft amber light, the kind that makes everything look a little more like home.

Peeta holds low hanging branches back for everyone. Katniss pretends not to smile when he bows dramatically like some overly romantic butler. Haymitch mutters something about “idiots in love,” and your heart does a weird little thing you absolutely refuse to acknowledge.

You take a long shower the second you get home—long enough to scrub the lake water from your skin, long enough to make the dried grass and chaos feel like a memory instead of something still clinging to your arms.

The sun’s almost fully set by the time you towel off and throw on your softest oversized shirt and a pair of shorts. Your hair’s still damp, but you don’t care. You feel clean, warm, soft.

And maybe just a little bit floaty.

You pause at your front door, hand on the knob, and let yourself breathe.

In.

Out.

Then you open the door and step back into the twilight air, your legs moving on autopilot.

Haymitch’s porch creaks when you step onto it. The windows glow faintly from inside, and something in your chest settles at the sight of it—like your bones were always meant to find their way back here.

You don’t knock.

You just swing the door open with flair and yell, “Sunshine, I’m home!”

And then your brain dies.

Because Haymitch is stretched out on his couch like some kind of vintage painting come to life—shirtless, one arm thrown over the backrest, the other resting where his scar is, fingers absently tapping. His hair’s still damp, like he just showered too, and his skin is all golden in the low lamplight, the lines of his chest and stomach defined in that effortless, unfair way.

Your mouth forgets how to form words.

Your thoughts all pile up in a traffic jam behind your eyes.

Haymitch glances up at you, completely unbothered. “You announce yourself like that every time you break into my house?”

You’re still frozen in the doorway.

“I—uh. Yep. Regularly. It’s a… tradition.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “You good?”

No. No, you are not good. You are currently short-circuiting over the veins in his forearms and the way his sweatpants are sitting just low enough to trigger the spiraling part of your brain.

You clear your throat. “Fine. Totally fine. Why would I not be fine.”

His lips twitch like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “You’re staring.”

You immediately look at the ceiling, and wonder, not for the first time, how the hell a man who survives on whiskey, sarcasm, and sheer spite has the audacity to look that good shirtless.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m admiring the—uh—lightbulb.”

“It’s not even on.”

“Exactly. Very energy conscious.”

He huffs a laugh and stretches a little, which is not helping, because now his scar is in plain sight and oh no—

“Do you own shirts?” you blurt.

He lifts his hand lazily to gesture toward the arm of the couch. “Took it off. It was wet.”

“From the lake?”

“From your storm spirit ambiance, actually.”

You press your palms to your cheeks. “You are the worst.”

“Flustered already, honey?”