#me and my bestie be suffering through it together

[agentstarkid]

YOU'RE THE ONE (TO MAKE ME LOSE MY MIND) ✦ AZRIEL

✦ SUMMARY: Azriel prided himself on restraint—on silence, shadows, and secrets. But you, with your unshaken confidence and maddening obliviousness, were testing every last thread of his sanity. As chaos ensues, the Shadowsinger realizes one thing: he might be doomed.

✦ WORD COUNT: 1.2K

✦ WARNINGS: crack fic, archeron!sister (briefly mentioned), miscommunication, angsty fluff and humor (maybe??), obliviousness, azriel is stressed and about to have an aneurysm—azriel fanart by harleetattoos

✦ MAY'S RADIO: this was a fun little experiment 😅 azzie boy is a certified swiftie™ 😆 i hope this is somewhere close to what you had in mind, lili bestie! -> based on this post by @lili-of-the-wildfire 🖤

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Azriel was losing his damn mind.

He had spent centuries perfecting the art of self-control—of mastering his shadows, his emotions, his very existence. But this? This was unraveling him at the seams.

And he was at his limits.

Not the normal limit, like when Cassian got a little too rowdy or Rhysand smirked a little too much. No. This was a whole new brand of suffering.

Since the moment you were thrown into the Cauldron, he had kept his distance—watching, waiting, giving you space to adjust to your new life, to the Night Court, to him. Knowing how difficult it was for your sisters, knowing that maybe you needed time to grieve what you lost.

But you—you seemed fine.

You smiled, you laughed, you trained with Cassian and traded insults with Rhys, you asked Mor endless questions about the best places to visit in Velaris. You were fine.

Except Azriel knew that wasn’t true.

Because he felt it—the crackling in the air whenever he was near you, the way your emotions bled into his own, even when you weren’t looking at him. The bond—the one you were blissfully ignorant of—was there, thrumming between you.

And it was killing him.

Because you didn’t know.

You were testing him in ways he never thought possible.

Which was why you were currently sitting across from him at the dining table, casually eating a pastry, completely unbothered by the fact that every time you so much as breathed, the bond between you screamed at him.

“I was thinking,” you said, licking a crumb from your finger, completely unaware of the way Azriel’s eyes tracked the movement, “maybe I should go to the Winter Court for a while. Just to clear my head, see more of Prythian, you know?”

Azriel’s fork snapped in half.

You blinked at him. “You okay?”

No. No, he was not okay.

“You can’t,” he said, voice tight.

Your brows knitted together. “What do you mean, I can’t?”

“You can’t just—” He took a breath, ran a hand through his hair. “You can’t just leave. You belong here.”

You scoffed. “I belong nowhere, Azriel. That’s kind of the problem.”

He exhaled sharply. “You belong with me.”

“Excuse me?,” your expression twisted in confusion. “Why are you being so weird about this?”

Azriel exhaled sharply through his nose. He had planned to do this delicately, to ease you into it, to find the right words—

That plan was dead.

“You’re my mate.” he rasped, voice strained.

“…Okay?”

Silence.

Azriel just stared at you. His mind short-circuited so violently that his shadows actually stopped moving.

“…Okay?” he repeated, his voice an octave higher than usual.

You shifted on your seat. “Yeah? You seem really stressed about it, though.”

His eye twitched. His shadows twitched. Everything twitched.

Cauldron boil him, you had no idea what it meant.

He inhaled sharply, his wings flaring slightly. “Do you understand what that means?”

You folded your arms. “Is it, like, a fae kink? I mean, I don’t judg–” You tilted your head, raising an eyebrow. “Why do you look like you’re about to have an aneurysm?”

A FAE K—?

He had seen battle. He had been tortured. He had infiltrated enemy territory and survived things that would make even Cassian cry. But this? This was what was going to kill him.

“I—No,” he choked, rubbing his temples like he could physically press the stress out of his skull. “It’s not a kink. It’s a bond. The mating bond.”.

You hummed, swishing the tea in your cup thoughtfully. “Right. So, like… what does that mean, exactly?”

“You don’t know,” he whispered to himself. “You don’t know. No one told you.” He let out a breath that sounded like a mix between a groan and a whimper. “I’m going to kill Rhys.”

His shadows curled and twisted like they were also on the verge of a complete breakdown. “It means we’re soulmates. Destined. Bound by the Cauldron itself. You’re mine.”

You blinked. “I what?”

“You. Are. My. Mate,” he repeated, slower this time, as if you were a particularly dense trainee.

You tilted your head. “So… like an arranged marriage?”

Azriel made a sound that was somewhere between a snarl and a sob. His hands were shaking.

“No,” he gritted out. “It’s deeper than that.”

You frowned. “Like a super intense best friendship?”

“I—NO.”

You hear someone wheezing, barely holding their laughter in—then, moments later, a crash followed by a yelp.

You turned just in time to see a figure darting away, a blur of wings and siphons.

Cassian.

Azriel’s shadows had found him eavesdropping—and, judging by the way he stumbled, they had made sure he regretted it.

Azriel’s eye twitched. He’d deal with him later.

“Was that…? Is he okay?” you asked, glancing toward the door.

Azriel exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He’ll live,” he muttered, clearly deciding that his brother’s suffering was not his current priority.

Instead, he turned back to you, inhaling deeply, speaking very slowly. “The bond ties our souls together. It means you’re meant to be with me. It’s why you feel drawn to me.”

Your face scrunched in thought. “Oh.” A pause. “I do feel really attracted to you.”

Azriel’s heart stopped. His wings tensed.

Finally. Finally, you were understanding—

“I thought it was just, you know… female hysteria.”

Azriel.exe stopped working.

You gestured vaguely. “Like, I figured I just had a stupidly big crush on you. Thought maybe it was the trauma or the near-death experience. But the mating bond? That makes so much sense.” You laughed, shaking your head. “Wow, I really thought I was just—”

Azriel inhaled sharply. Fine. If words weren’t getting through to you, maybe this would.

He reached deep into himself and gave the bond a firm tug.

You gasped. A shiver shot down your spine, warmth curling in your chest like liquid sunlight. Your breath hitched, and—Cauldron damn him—you gasped, eyes going huge and then giggled.

Azriel felt his soul crack in half.

You blinked at him, eyes wide with wonder. “Wait, what was that?!” Then, catching the look on his face—his pinched expression and the slight tension in his shoulders—, you gasped again, pointing at him accusingly. “Was that you?!”

Before he could respond, you beamed, wiggling excitedly in your seat. “Oh my gods—do that again. That tickled.”

Azriel was going to pass out. Or throw himself off a balcony. Maybe both.

“I—” He pinched the bridge of his nose so hard it nearly bruised. “You—You don’t just have a crush on me. That feeling? That’s the bond. The Cauldron literally forged us for each other.”

Your smile faltered and you squinted at him. “Are you sure?”

Azriel’s grip on reality was slipping.

“Yes.”

“…Huh.” You sipped your tea. “Neat.”

Azriel’s vision blurred. He was on the verge of blacking out.

Cassian’s laughter echoed from the hallway.

Azriel snarled. “Go away, Cassian.”

More laughter. Then a whispered, “I cannot wait to tell Rhys.”

Azriel inhaled so sharply his chest ached. He turned back to you, shadows writhing. “You do understand what this means, right?”

You smiled. “Of course I do.”

Azriel exhaled in relief.

Then—

“Anyway, as I was saying—I think I’d still like to visit the Winter Court and maybe then the beaches in Summer.” You smiled dreamily. “I could get a nice tan. A little vitamin D never hurt anyone, right?”

Azriel dropped his head onto the table so hard he thought he might develop a second brain injury to match the first one you’d unknowingly given him.

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[jungkoode]

死 KKANGPAE | #16 死

† shooting range and dinner †

"When his insomnia slips out, you decide being a useful fuck buddy is part of the arrengement. Even if sleeping is not exactly what you want to do tonight."

next | index

⚔ chapter details ⚔

word count: 9,3k.

content: jeon taking a nap in j-hope’s office and hobi having none of it, verbal fights between friends, bestie plans being cancelled, shooting range practices that feel like lame excuses to touch, insomnia confessions, sleeping arrangements where both of them fail to simply sleep.

☠ author's note ☠

Y'ALL I'M SCREAMING. Look at my boy Jeon being all emotionally constipated and sleepless and GRUMPY! I cannot with him sometimes (⁠╯⁠°⁠□⁠°⁠)⁠╯⁠︵⁠ ⁠┻⁠━⁠┻

So I'm really exposing my kinks here, but the whole "let's sleep together but actually sleep" trope is just *chef's kiss* perfect. Insomnia-ridden boy who can only sleep well with you nearby? GIVE IT TO ME INTRAVENOUSLY, THANK YOU.

And J-Hope being all "I'm your friend whether you like it or not, you stubborn asshole" is everything I needed today. Their friendship is so beautifully dysfunctional I want to frame it and hang it on my wall.

Meanwhile, you guys in the comments are like "show us Jeon's POV!" and I'm over here like "fine, take his whole entire trauma-riddled brain, are you happy now?!" The answer is yes, you're all trauma vultures just like me. No shame in our game.

I had so much fun writing the shooting range scene though! That whole "let me adjust your stance" trope where they're basically just looking for an excuse to touch you? ICONIC. I will never get tired of it. Sue me.

And don't even get me started on that dinner scene. Jeon actually eating with another human being and not hating it? CHARACTER GROWTH, PEOPLE!

Sorry for leaving you hanging with the spicy bits but... actually no, I'm not sorry at all. The slow boil to explosion is the best part and I'm savoring every moment of your collective suffering (◕‿◕✿)

See you next chapter, you magnificent disaster enablers!

⚔ socials ⚔

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tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

"Again, Jeon?"

J-Hope's voice hits him as soon as he walks in, but Jungkook can't bring himself to care. His body feels heavy, mind foggy with exhaustion.

The medical ward has become too familiar lately—the sharp smell of antiseptic, the soft hum of medical equipment, the way the afternoon light filters through the blinds.

He grunts in response, already making his way to his usual spot. The stretcher's not comfortable, not really, but it's better than lying awake in his own bed.

"You can't come here every afternoon, you know. I have shit to do and your snoring is not precisely helpful."

Jungkook almost rolls his eyes. He doesn't snore—never has—but arguing takes energy he doesn't have.

"Then put some background music."

"You—"

He doesn't wait for J-Hope to finish, just rolls onto the stretcher, facing the wall. The vinyl covering is cool against his arm, and somehow it's grounding... perhaps in a way he doesn't want to examine too closely.

"Are you for real right now? This is the third day in a row you're taking a nap in my office."

"You said yourself I should nap from time to time." His voice comes out muffled, face half-pressed into the thin pillow.

"Yes, but not in my goddamn office!"

The silence that follows is heavy.

He can picture J-Hope without looking—probably pinching the bridge of his nose, that look of exasperated concern he gets whenever Jeon's being particularly difficult. He hears the medic's chair creak as he leans back.

"Look, Jungkook." The use of his real name makes something in his chest tighten. J-Hope only uses it when he's about to say something Jungkook won't like. "I don't wanna be the one saying this to you, but you need to get your shit together."

"Well I am trying to fall asleep right now." The deflection is weak and they both know it.

"That is not what I mean you dimwit." There's that familiar mix of frustration and worry in J-Hope's voice. "Believe me, I'm glad you're finally trying to get some proper rest. But this—in my office? Just why."

Jungkook quiet, hoping J-Hope will drop it. He doesn't want to think about why he keeps coming here, why his own room feels too empty, too quiet. Why he can't sleep unless he can hear someone else breathing nearby.

(He definitely doesn't want to think about how he slept better in that tent, with y—)

"Jungkook."

Not his real name again.

Something in him snaps.

"Fine. I don't fucking know, okay?" The words come out sharp, defensive. He glares at the wall like it's personally offended him. "I just seem to sleep better in company."

"In company?" He can hear J-Hope's brain working, trying to piece together this new information. "Okay, what—? Elaborate right now."

"No."

The word is final, heavy with all the things he refuses to say.

Like the nightmares that wake him up gasping. Or how silence fucking makes his skin crawl. Or how being alone with his thoughts is becoming unbearable.

About how he hasn't had a decent night's sleep since—

"Whose company, Jungkook? This isn't about little bed-hopping habits, is it?"

It's offensive, the question, really.

But all he does is stare at the wall, trying to ignore how his mind immediately conjures up images of you. Of how he actually slept through the night in that tent.

No nightmares, no cold sweats. Just... sleep.

Four fucking years of insomnia, and the solution was this s̶t̶u̶p̶i̶d̶ simple?

"No, it's not." His fingers curl into a fist against the stretcher, leather creaking under fingers—and the sound grates on his nerves, already frayed from lack of sleep. "I ain't talking about it. Drop it, Hoseok."

Using J-Hope's real name now is a low blow, but Jungkook is too tired to care. He just wants to test his theory—see if sleeping near someone, anyone, will keep the nightmares at bay. He doesn't need J-Hope playing therapist, doesn't need him picking apart why this might be working.

Because that would mean thinking about you, about that night, about how for the first time in years he actually felt—

No.

"I'm your friend, Jungkook. And as a member of the Council of Nine, I have to know if anything... or anyone is becoming a weakness."

Jeon almost laughs.

A weakness? No. This isn't about feelings. This is about finally getting some fucking sleep without having to relive—

He cuts that thought off too. Focuses on the antiseptic smell of the medical ward, the equipment, anything but the memories threatening to surface.

J-Hope's concern is misplaced. This isn't about compromising the gang or breaking rules. It's about finding a solution to a problem that's been haunting him for four years.

So if sleeping near someone help? Fucking fine. He'll take what he can get.

Even if it pisses him off that it took this long to figure it out.

"There is no fucking weakness, you got that?" His eyes feel like lead weights in his skull. "I just need some goddamn sleep. I've gotta be sharp for the mission. That's all you need to know."

He can feel J-Hope's eyes on him, searching for cracks where light would shine through.

There's none.

It's been a long time since there's none.

But the medic knows too much, has seen too much. Was there that night when everything went to shit, when V—

"And after the mission? What then? You keep coming back here for your afternoon siestas or are you gonna be sleeping with that company?"

The implication slices through without sugarcoating. There's another word hovering in the air between them, pressing down on the air like a goddamn vacuum.

Traitor.

It sits there like poison, like the taste of copper in his mouth from that night.

Jeon pushes himself up, muscles tense, anger corroding his veins. His head is pounding from lack of sleep, making everything sharper, harder to control.

"I'll deal with it when it comes. Besides, who the fuck will notice? You gonna bitch about it to the rest of the crew?"

"Watch it, Kook." The use of his nickname is a warning, one that would mean more if he wasn't so fucking tired. "I'm trying to help you, not rat you out. But if you become a liability..."

"I ain't no fucking liability."

He's on his feet now, wrath burning through the exhaustion. His fists clench until he can feel his nails biting into his palms.

The suggestion that he'd risk the gang again, that he'd let himself be compromised like that... He does not appreciate it.

It makes something dark and ugly twist in his chest.

"You think I don't know the stakes? You think I'd let myself become another Sylvia episode?"

"Surely you're more intelligent than that."

The words hit exactly where J-Hope means them to. Because yeah, everyone thought he was intelligent back then too. Look how that turned out.

Jungkook holds J-Hope's gaze, something ugly settling in his chest.

For a moment, he considers telling him about you, about this arrangement that's purely physical—no strings, no complications, just a solution to his sleepless nights.

But the words catch in his throat. Because J-Hope isn't just asking for himself, is he? He's asking for AD too. AD, who still carries Sylvia's ghost like an open wound, who took her death even harder than he did.

Who trusted her, protected her, only to watch her choose Jungkook—and then watch her die for that choice.

The guilt sits like lead in his stomach. He can't do that to AD again. Can't make him watch from the sidelines as another woman gets tangled up with Jungkook, always wondering if history's about to repeat itself.

The weight of Sylvia's death is still a chain around his neck, dragging him down every time he closes his eyes.

So he swallows the truth, lets it burn on its way down. This thing with you—he'll handle it himself. Keep it contained. Control it before it becomes something he can't take back.

His face settles into careful blankness as he meets J-Hope's searching look.

"I fucking am. I don't need your nagging."

It's not even a lie. This isn't like Sylvia. He won't let it be. You're different—safer. You know exactly what this is.

"You sure you don't?" J-Hope's voice rises. "Because from what I recall, you've been a messy piece of shit ever since she's gone."

Something dark and ugly coils in Jeon's chest. "Watch how you sling that shit at me, J-Hope."

"Keeping an eye on it, always. Seems we all gotta tiptoe with our words 'round you, huh? Drop one mention of her, and you're all about throwing punches, no thoughts, just rage. Done you a lick of good, has it?"

"Shut your mouth!"

The words rip out of him before he can stop them, raw and ragged.

Because J-Hope's right, and that's what makes it hurt so much.

Four years, and he still can't hear her name without feeling like he's drowning in it all over again.

"Pull yourself together, Jeon!" J-Hope's voice cracks with frustration. "You've been haunted by those fucking nightmares since she died, and now what? Using someone else's body to quiet them down? Jumping from one disaster straight into another and expecting me to just watch?"

Jungkook's eyes feel like they're burning. "No one's asking for your fucking two cents. Always sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

He wants J-Hope to hit him, to hate him, to stop looking at him with that mix of concern and disappointment.

So his next words are not something he's proud of. But something he feels he needs to do.

"Why don't you go find a bottle to crawl into?"

It's a low blow, and he knows it. Watches J-Hope's hand shake, sees the muscle jump in his jaw.

"Don't you fucking go there, Jeon." The warning in his voice is clear. "I see what you're doing—spiraling because you're losing control. But I'm not playing that game. I'm not V."

"Right, you're not." Jeon's laugh is hollow, bitter. "At least that bastard's honest about not giving a fuck about anyone but himself."

"Jesus fuck, Jeon. You're not the only one carrying shit, you know that?" J-Hope's laugh is all broken glass. "Is that what you want? Me to knock your teeth in? You think that'll fix whatever's going on in that fucked-up head of yours?"

"Whatever. I don't give a shit."

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that. Maybe one day you'll actually believe it. Pushing everyone away—that's about the only thing you're good at anymore."

"Don't need anyone. Do just fine on my own."

"Really?" J-Hope's voice is sarcasm. "That why you're trying to sleep in my fucking office?"

"Fucking hell, man. Just drop it and let me rest. I'm not digging into your shit, am I? Let me handle mine." His voice comes out raw, desperate, and he hates it.

"You might not see it, but some of us actually give a shit about you, you stubborn asshole." J-Hope's voice softens, and that's worse somehow. "I might share that council seat with you, but I'm also your friend—whether you like it or not. I'm worried, okay? This isn't how you deal with your demons."

Jeon closes his eyes, exhaustion settling into his bones. "Maybe it's exactly how I deal with them."

Maybe he deserves them.

He doesn't say that.

"It's a shit way of dealing with anything, Jungkook." The softness bleeds out of J-Hope's voice, and something in Jeon's chest loosens.

Anger he can handle.

Concern?

That's harder to dodge.

"Fuck, I'm not watching you spiral down that rabbit hole again. You can hate me all you want, but I won't stand here and watch you self-destruct. Not a second time."

"I get it. Like I said—not your cross to bear."

Jungkook can feel J-Hope's eyes on him, cutting through his bullshit like always.

"Fine, Kook. Hoard your secrets. But the moment it fucks with the mission, you're answering to me—and the Council."

Jeon knows that tone. It's not just a threat—it's a lifeline J-Hope's throwing him, begging him to get his shit together before everything falls apart.

The anger sits like acid in his chest, but he swallows it down.

This isn't about him and J-Hope anymore. This is about the mission. About the gang. About not letting his f̶e̶e̶l̶i̶n̶g̶s̶ weakness compromise everything like last time.

"Got it," he mutters, dropping back onto the stretcher and turning to face the wall. The stone is cold against his face, grounding in its indifference.

Behind him, J-Hope's chair scrapes against the floor as he turns back to his work. The sound is harsh, angry.

But it's okay if he's angry. Better that than worried. Better that than watching Jeon like he's a bomb about to go off.

"Fucking Sylvia," J-Hope mutters.

Then, silence drops.

For all his crankiness, J-Hope won't kick him out. Can't, maybe, because under all that anger is the same guy who dragged Jeon's drunk ass home after Sylvia, who patched him up when he picked fights he knew he'd lose.

J-Hope's right to be worried—secrets in Kkangpae have a way of turning lethal. One wrong move, one slip, and everything goes up in flames.

Again.

(But this thing with you isn't like Sylvia. It isn't. He just needs to figure out how to sleep through the night without—)

Jeon closes his eyes, lets the antiseptic smell of the medical ward fill his lungs.

Maybe if he lies here long enough, sleep will finally come.

Maybe this time, he won't dream.

𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝟻. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛.

The message glares at you from your phone screen, all business and no explanation. Typical Jeon.

𝙹𝚎𝚘𝚗?

．．．

𝘚𝘦𝘦𝘯

Great. He's seen it and can't be bothered to reply. Fantastic.

You stare at your phone, trying to will a response into existence. Nothing. Just that stupid "seen" mocking you. It's like talking to a brick wall, except the wall probably has better communication skills.

Jeon and his one-word texts. The man's got a gift for saying absolutely nothing while still managing to ruin your plans. You had a whole evening of doing absolutely nothing planned, and now? Now you're apparently going to the shooting range. Yay!

You toss your phone onto the bed; angry, petty. It bounces once, screen still lit up with Jeon's oh-so-eloquent message. His profile pic is just a blank space. Of course it is. God forbid he show an actual human emotion. Or, you know, a face.

With a sigh that could probably be heard three floors down, you drag yourself to the bathroom. For once, it's empty. Small mercies, right?

You tie your hair back into a ponytail, all business. Can't have stray hairs getting in the way when you're handling firearms. That's a safety hazard or whatever. Plus, you know Jeon would probably lecture you about it.

Mr. Safety-First-Unless-It's-About-Emotions.

The mirror shows you a face that's equal parts annoyed and resigned.

This is your life now—dropping everything because Jeon decided to grace you with a whole six words. Six! He's feeling chatty today.

You stare at your reflection, wondering for the millionth time how you ended up here. Not just in a gang, but at Jeon's beck and call. The man's like a black hole—impossible to ignore, drawing you in whether you like it or not.

(You like it. You hate that you like it.)

Time to go play with guns, apparently. Because nothing says "fun night out" like potential bullet wounds and Jeon's silent judgment.

This better be good, you think. But with Jeon? It's always a toss-up between mind-blowing and mind-numbing.

Guess you'll find out which one it is tonight.

You finish tying your hair back and grab your phone, typing out a quick message to Yunjin. Your fingers hover over the keys for a second because ugh. You were actually looking forward to dinner with her.

𝙲𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛. 𝙶𝚘𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖. 𝚁𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔?

The card reader beeps when you swipe your ID, sound echoing through the empty hallway like some ominous warning bell.

The elevator ride feels like you're being delivered to your doom, each floor passing with total indifference to your impending crisis.

Ding.

Third floor. You step out into a corridor that feels way too quiet. Your sneakers barely make any noise against the floor, which just makes your heartbeat sound louder in your ears.

You reach the shooting range and—because you're not a complete idiot—you don't just barge in. Instead, you peek through the reinforced glass window like some s̶t̶a̶l̶k̶e̶r̶ cautious person.

And fuck.

There he is, in his own little world of violence.

He's wearing his usual dark t-shirt, fabric's stretched across his shoulders in a way that's honestly unfair for every other man. His combat pants are doing that thing where they show off every muscle without being obvious about it, and his boots are planted like he owns the ground he's standing on.

He hasn't spotted you yet. He's too focused on the gun in his hands, handling it with the kind of familiarity that reminds you he does this for a living. The protective gear—ear muffs and glasses—should make him look dorky, but nope. In your brain that simply catalogs as hot.

Each shot he fires is like... well, it's like watching someone who knows what they're doing. Which, you suppose, makes sense.

The recoil doesn't even phase him—his body just absorbs it like it's nothing. Spent casings hit the floor with little metallic pings, and you find yourself weirdly fascinated by the way his fingers adjust on the grip between shots.

(You're definitely not thinking about what else those fingers can do. Absolutely not. That would be unprofessional.)

You watch him reload—movements quick and methodical—like he could do this in his sleep. Probably has, honestly. This is Jeon's comfort zone, after all.

You step inside, and it hits you again how different the air feels in here. Smelling like gunpowder and that underlying tension that always shows up when you're around him.

Jeon doesn't turn around, too focused on whatever target he's destroying. You can't help the little smirk that tugs at your lips because finally—a chance to catch Mr. Perfect off guard. He's so zeroed in on his shooting that he might actually not notice you for once.

(You should know better by now, but hope springs eternal or whatever.)

Your sneakers don't make a sound on the rubber floor as you creep closer. You're already planning it—maybe a sudden clap, or yelling his name. Something to make him jump, even just a little. The thought sends this weird thrill through you, like you're about to get away with something.

You take a deep breath, ready to execute your master plan, when—

"Don't even think about it."

Motherfucker.

He doesn't even turn around. Doesn't move a muscle. Just keeps standing there like some statue of Perfect Shooting Form, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

It's not fair how he does that—makes you feel like you're being predictable without even looking at you.

"You got radar in your head, or what?" you ask, trying to play it off like you weren't just caught being an absolute child.

Your voice comes out light, playful, which feels kind of wrong in a room designed for practicing how to kill people efficiently. But that's kind of your whole thing with Jeon, isn't it? Finding these little moments of tomfoolery in between all the violence and duty.

Sometimes you wonder if he lets you get away with it because he needs those moments too.

Jeon turns around, and as usual, there's this look in his eyes. Could be the fluorescent lights, could be him being a smug bastard.

He sets down his gun with this final-sounding click that somehow makes the room feel too quiet.

"Let's just say I've got a good sense of when someone's lurking in my blind spot."

The corner of his mouth twitches, and you're starting to think he practices that almost-smirk in the mirror.

You watch as he moves to the gun rack, all fluid movements. He picks out this pristine semi-automatic that gleams under the shitty range lights like it's showing off.

"Come on." His voice drops the playful edge. "If we're going to have your back in the field, you need to be able to hold your own. No hesitation this time."

This time.

The words bring back memories of your first shooting lesson with him—how your hands shook, how the gun felt too heavy with the weight of what it could do. You weren't ready then.

But now, with this mission hanging over your heads like a guillotine, you don't have the luxury of not being ready.

You step forward, closing the gap between you. When he hands you the gun, his fingers brush against yours, and even that tiny contact sends electricity up your arm. The metal's cold against your palm, but you grip it like you mean it. Like you're not thinking about how those same hands felt on your skin just days ago.

"Good." He nods, and something warm unfurls in your chest at his approval. "First, your stance—it's all about balance. Feet shoulder-width apart, one foot slightly ahead of the other."

You follow his instructions, hyper-aware of his eyes on you. It feels like being under a microscope, but like, a really hot microscope that you maybe want to kiss again.

You plant your feet, trying to look like you know what you're doing.

"Now, grip. Not too tight—imagine holding someone's hand. Firm, but you're not trying to crush it."

He moves closer, and suddenly the air feels thicker. His comparison makes your brain short-circuit because now all you can think about is holding hands, which leads to thinking about holding other things, which—yeah, nope.

Can't think about that. Not while you're holding a deadly weapon.

His hands come up to adjust your grip, and it should be clinical. Professional.

But there's this undercurrent of something between you, like static electricity looking for a place to ground itself. Like every little touch is loaded with meaning.

You find your rhythm with the breathing, in and out, as Jeon steps back to give you space. He's watching you with that unreadable expression of his, but his eyes are intense, like he's trying to will you into not fucking this up.

"Align the sights." His voice drops low, and fuck, it shouldn't affect you when he's teaching you how to shoot people. "Focus on the front sight—everything else is just background noise. Breathe in, breathe out, and on the exhale—that's when you squeeze the trigger."

You narrow your eyes, zeroing in on the target downrange.

It's not just a paper outline anymore—it's a test.

Another thing you need to prove you can handle in this life you've chosen.

You let out a slow breath, and with it goes some of that nervous energy that's been making your hands shake.

Right now it's just you, the gun, and this need to show Jeon—and yourself—that you're not out of your depth here. That you belong in this world of his, even if it's just at the edges.

The shot cracks through the air like a whip, and the recoil hits your palms. It's jarring but real, solid proof that you're actually doing this. That you're becoming whatever it is you need to be to survive in Kkangpae.

Jeon gives you this little nod, like yeah, okay, maybe you're not completely hopeless. But then—oh. Then his mouth does this thing, curling up at the corners into what might be the most dangerous smile you've ever seen.

"Good job."

Two. Words.

Just two fucking words, but the way he says them—all low and pleased—makes heat pool in your stomach.

It's not fair how he can do that, turn a simple phrase into something that feels like innuendo, voice wrapping around you like smoke, seeping into places it has no business being.

You're starting to think weapons training with Jeon might be hazardous to your mental health. And not for the obvious reasons.

Because the fucker is not just hot—though fuck, he absolutely is—he's something else entirely.

The way he handles a weapon, the easy confidence, how he makes everything look so effortless? It's doing things to you. Things that have nothing to do with training and everything to do with how his hands looked wrapped around that gun.

"Let's try again. This time, focus on consistency. You want to be able to replicate that shot every time."

He moves behind you, and suddenly breathing becomes severely underrated.

You try to focus on the target, but your brain's too busy cataloging every tiny detail—how his breath stirs the baby hairs at your nape, the way his chest is just shy of brushing against your back.

You take a deep breath to steady yourself, but that's a mistake because now all you can smell is him.

Pine and wood and leather.

Jeon.

The gun feels heavy in your hands as you line up another shot, and your attention is split between the target downrange and the way Jeon's presence seems to fill up all the space around you.

The shot immediately cracks through the air, perfect center mass.

You should feel proud—and you do—but mostly you're trying not to think about how close he is, how easy it would be to lean back just a little...

Because you know he's all business, laser-focused on getting you ready for the mission. Completely professional. But there are these tiny tells—the way his fingers linger when he adjusts your stance, how his eyes sometimes drift from the target to your face, staying just a second too long.

It's driving you insane.

Like there's this invisible line neither of you is willing to cross first, even though you both know exactly where this tension is heading.

You've been there before, after all. That night in his tent wasn't that long ago.

You lower the gun, trying to ignore how your hands are shaking—partly from adrenaline, mostly from something else.

The way Jeon's looking at you right now.

"Just like that. Keep it up."

You manage a nod because words? Not happening. Your throat's too dry, and honestly, you're afraid of what might come out if you open your mouth.

Another shot rings out, and you can't help wondering if Jeon feels it too. This crackling tension that makes your skin feel too tight. Or maybe you're just losing it, getting all hot and bothered over a man who's literally just teaching you how to shoot people.

"Reload. Keep your focus sharp."

He hands you a fresh magazine, and your fingers brush against his again—and honestly?

This isn't fair.

You're supposed to be learning important gang shit here, not mentally cataloging how good his hands feel.

Your brain keeps replaying every tiny touch, every moment his body was pressed against yours while "correcting your stance."

Which, by the way? Totally unnecessary.

You're pretty sure proper shooting form doesn't require his chest being that close to your back.

Focus, you tell yourself. You're here to learn how to handle a weapon, not daydream about handling... other things.

You need to prove you belong here, that you're more than just another recruit who can't keep it in their pants around the hot Chief.

(Even if said Chief is making it really hard to think straight right now.)

You grip the gun tighter, channeling all that frustrated energy into your next shot. The bang echoes through the range, and you pretend it drowns out the voice in your head that keeps suggesting alternative uses for this private training session.

The magazine clicks into place with maybe more force than necessary, but whatever. You're determined to get through this without embarrassing yourself. More shots follow, each one a desperate attempt to focus on anything except how good Jeon looks when he's in instructor mode.

(It's not working, but at least you're hitting the target.)

You're about to take another shot when something catches your eye.

Jeon looks... off.

There are shadows under his eyes that makeup can't hide, and his movements are slower than usual.

Most people wouldn't notice, but you've been trained to spot weaknesses.

"You look like shit."

The words slip out before your brain can filter them. Because you're such a professional, apparently. But now that you've started digging this hole, might as well keep going.

"When's the last time you actually slept?"

Dark eyes snap to yours, and you swear something raw flutters behind his eyelashes. Doesn't last long-as never anything really does with him. The walls come slamming back up.

"I'm fine."

His tone screams drop it; the voice in your head screams 'don't.'

Good thing you've always been good at hearing yourself first.

Besides, this isn't exclusively about him anymore.

You set the gun down, turning to face him fully. "Look, I get it—we all have our shit. But if you're walking around half-dead, that's not just your problem. That's how people end up getting killed."

He gives you a death stare, and you're pretty sure he's about to pull rank and shut this conversation down. But then he exhales, and something in his posture just... gives.

"Insomnia's an old friend." An admission that comes out rough, like he had to force the words past his defenses. "Been dealing with it for years. It doesn't affect my work."

"Bullshit." You shouldn't push, but your mouth's apparently on autopilot today. "You slept fine in the tent—"

His eyes narrow, and okay, maybe that was too far. But you're not wrong. You remember how peaceful he looked that morning, no trace of the tension that's radiating off him now.

"That was different."

His voice drops low, warning you away from this topic.

But there's something else there too—like maybe he's trying to convince himself more than you.

He doesn't deny it though.

So you nod, letting the subject drop. But you tuck that little piece of information away like a secret—Jeon sleeps better when he's not alone. When he's with you, specifically. You're not sure what to do with that knowledge yet, but it feels important somehow.

Silence falls. You turn back to the range because it's easier than trying to decode whatever's happening here.

The gun in your hands is simple, straightforward. Point, shoot, repeat. No complicated feelings or midnight revelations to deal with.

You cycle through the weapons Jeon's laid out, each one different but serving the same purpose. Pistols feel natural now, like they belong in your grip. Shotguns still kick like a mule, but you're getting better at handling them. Each shot echoes through the room, filling the space where words should be.

It becomes almost meditative after a while. Load, aim, breathe, squeeze. The routine helps quiet your mind, pushes away thoughts of Jeon and sleep and whatever's going on in that cold brain of his.

You're here to learn how to stay alive, not psychoanalyze your Chief's sleeping habits.

When you switch to the rifle, you can't help sneaking a look at him. He's lurking in the shadows like some kind of sexy gargoyle, watching your every move. Even exhausted, he's still intimidating as hell.

But there's something different about him now—like seeing him tired makes him more... real. Less Chief of Tactical Assassinations, more just Jeon.

The rifle's recoil brings you back to reality. You line up another shot, remembering everything he's taught you.

Breathe in, hold, squeeze, exhale. The bullets hit close together, forming a tight group that would definitely ruin someone's day. Jeon gives you this tiny nod that shouldn't make your stomach flip, but it does anyway.

The sun's starting to set, painting the room in long shadows. Empty casings litter the floor around your feet like tiny brass confessions. Neither of you has said much, but somehow it's not uncomfortable.

You've learned two things today: how to shoot better, and that Jeon trusts you enough to show you some of his cracks, even if he doesn't mean to.

You're not sure which lesson is more dangerous.

(Probably the second one.)

You start packing up, going through the familiar motions of cleaning and storing the weapons.

"It's getting late," you say, mostly to break the silence.

When you turn around, Jeon's standing there with his arms crossed, staring at nothing. Or maybe at something only he can see. He doesn't react to your voice, like he's been aware of every move you've made since you started cleaning up.

The lighting in here is shit, but it's not bad enough to hide how exhausted he looks. The shadows under his eyes are getting deeper, more obvious. You think about what J-Hope would say if he saw Jeon like this—probably something cranky and concerned wrapped in medical jargon.

"If it helps," you start carefully, like you're approaching a wild animal, "we can sleep together again. No bullshit—just sleep. Seems like you could use it."

For a second, his face goes completely blank. It's that perfect mask he wears when he's processing something he doesn't want to deal with.

Then—there.

His shoulders drop just a fraction, like someone's loosened a wire.

"I don't need charity."

The words come out defensive, but they're missing that sharp edge he usually uses to keep people at a distance. You recognize deflection when you hear it—you work in the Seduction Division, after all.

"It's not charity." You click the last weapon case shut, buying time to choose your next words carefully. "Consider it... part of our arrangement. We're no good to each other tense or half-awake."

The silence stretches out so long you start to wonder if you've fucked up. Maybe you pushed too far, got too personal. But then he nods, just barely, like he's trying to convince himself he's not giving in to anything.

"I'll think about it."

His voice is gruff, but there's something else there—a hint of relief, maybe. Like you've given him permission to want something he thinks he shouldn't. You pretend not to notice how his eyes linger on you as you finish packing up, like he's already made up his mind but isn't ready to admit it yet.

You glance at the clock, and shit—it's really fucking late. The castle gets quiet around this time, most people already finished with dinner or working night shifts.

Speaking of dinner... you were supposed to meet Yunjin, but someone had to drag you to impromptu target practice.

A thought hits you, and you can't help the little smile that tugs at your lips. It's probably stupid, definitely pushing your luck, but...

"By the way," you say, closing the weapons case with a satisfying click. "Since it's already so late... How about grabbing some dinner together at the cafeteria?"

Jeon looks at you like you've just suggested robbing a bank in your underwear.

There's this tiny flicker of surprise in his eyes that would be funny if it wasn't kind of sad. Like the concept of eating with someone is completely foreign to him.

"Dinner? I eat alone."

His voice is flat, but it's as though he's actually considering it, even if he'd rather die than admit it.

"I know, but it's late." You shrug, going for casual even though your heart's doing this weird skippy thing. "Few people will be there, and I had plans that got... rearranged."

You give him a pointed look because hey, this is technically his fault.

"Don't feel like eating by myself."

He stares at you for what feels like forever, face doing that blank thing he does when he's processing something unexpected. Then his mouth quirks up at the corner.

"I don't usually do dinner dates."

You actually laugh at that. "You wish.Think of it as a tactical debriefing over food. Can't strategize on an empty stomach, can we?"

His smirk gets a fraction wider—the Jeon equivalent of a full grin. It's rare to see him look actually amused, and something warm unfurls in your chest at being the cause.

"Tactical debriefing, huh? That's a new one."

"Come on, Jeon. It's just dinner." You try to sound nonchalant, like you're not weirdly invested in his answer. "Besides, you're probably starving after all that shooting."

He does that thing where he goes all still, like he's running risk assessments in his head.

Finally, he nods. "Alright, but this isn't a habit we're starting."

"Of course not, you have a reputation to maintain, thundercloud."

You can't help the smirk as you head for the door. The nickname slips out before you can catch it, but whatever. You're already in deep.

"Not like anybody would believe you anyway, sunshine." He rolls his eyes, but follows you out.

The way he says sunshine—like it's both an insult and something else—makes your stomach do a little flip. But you're not going to think about that.

This is just dinner. Just two gang members having a totally normal, professional meal together.

The walk to the cafeteria is weirdly peaceful.

Neither of you says anything, but it's not that awkward silence that makes you want to crawl out of your skin.

It's just... quiet. Your brain's still processing everything—the training, the arrangement, the fact that you're actually going to dinner with Jeon of all people.

The cafeteria's practically empty when you walk in. Just a few night owls scattered around, most of them looking like they're running on coffee and spite.

It's nice, though. No curious eyes, no whispers. Just the soft hum of the air conditioning and the distant clink of dishes.

The buffet spread looks like heaven. Your stomach reminds you that you haven't eaten since lunch, growling at the sight of steaming bulgogi and kimchi jjigae. The castle chefs don't mess around—everything looks magazine-worthy, even at this hour.

You load up your tray like you're preparing for hibernation: bulgogi because duh, japchae because the noodles here are actually insane, kimchi fried rice because comfort food is a thing, and those spicy braised potatoes that make your mouth water just looking at them.

Jeon, for his part, goes straight for the protein—galbi ribs, bibimbap loaded with meat, and bossam like he's got something to prove.

You're about to head for a table when you catch him adding even more bulgogi to his already meat-heavy tray.

"Got enough protein there?" You can't help the teasing tone. "Or are you planning to feed a small army?"

Jeon's mouth does that thing where he's trying not to smile but failing.

"I need to keep up my strength." His eyes flick to yours, dark. "Never know when I might need to pin a smartass against a wall."

The laugh that escapes you is only partly nervous. You lead the way to a corner table, far from the few other diners. It feels weirdly intimate, having dinner with someone who usually eats alone.

The food works its magic. You feel the day's tension melting away with each bite, and even Jeon looks more relaxed. That permanent frown he carries around is smoothing out as he tackles his galbi like it's his division's target.

"Holy shit, this is good," you mumble around a mouthful of noodles.

The chefs here could probably work in any five-star restaurant, but instead they're cooking for a bunch of criminals. Life's weird like that.

Jeon makes this little grunt of agreement, cheeks full like a hamster's. He swallows before speaking because apparently assassins have table manners.

"Only decent perk of this place."

You fall into comfortable silence after that, both focused on demolishing your food.

It's strange how normal this feels—just two people sharing dinner, like you don't kill people for a living, like you haven't had your hands all over each other hours ago.

"That rifle technique you used today was solid. Got good instincts."

Coming from Jeon, that's practically a love letter. You hide your smile behind another bite of food, but can't resist poking the bear.

"Well, I have a good teacher. Even if his people skills need work."

He snorts, stabbing another piece of meat with maybe more force than necessary.

"I don't coddle. You get better by doing, not talking."

"True, but positive reinforcement helps too." You gesture with your chopsticks. "I'm only human, thundercloud."

The look he gives you could melt steel. One eyebrow goes up, and there's something dangerous playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Hmmm. Almost sounds like you want to be coddled, sunshine."

The way he says it makes heat pool in your stomach. Because that wasn't about teaching at all, was it?

You laugh to cover the way your breath catches. "In your dreams, Jeon."

You ball up your napkin and throw it at him, which he catches without even looking because of coursehe does.

Show-off.

"Still," he says, ruining the moment like he's allergic to peace, "your reaction time needs work."

"I'll keep practicing." You shrug, aiming for casual. "Can't have you worrying about me in the field."

"Who said anything about worrying?" But his eyes give him away—that split-second flicker before his face goes blank again.

"Oh please." You wave your chopsticks at him. "You were watching me like a hawk in there. Probably counting my breaths or something equally anal-retentive."

He just shakes his head, suddenly very interested in his food. But you're on a roll now, feeling brave or stupid or both.

"Admit it, you care about my progress." You lean forward, grinning. "It's almost sweet."

Jeon looks up then, and oh. His gaze is intense.

"I care about not getting shot because you can't handle your weapon, sunshine."

You can't help yourself. Really, you can't. "Mhm? Thought I was getting better at handling weapons, thundercloud."

His lips twitch, just barely, but you catch it. It's fascinating, really, how you've somehow stumbled into this easy back-and-forth with him. How beneath all his sharp edges and your sass, there's this... thing.

This rhythm that shouldn't work but does.

Dinner's winding down, and you notice something different about Jeon. The tension he usually carries—the one that makes him look like he's ready to snap someone's neck at any moment—has eased up. Even his face looks softer, less murder-y than usual.

"This was... not terrible," he says, like admitting it physically pains him. His eyes meet yours across the table. "The food, the company... both exceeded my low expectations."

"Oh my god." You press a hand to your chest, going for maximum drama. "Was that a compliment? Should I call J-Hope? Are you feeling okay?"

He snorts, and there's this little uptick at the corner of his mouth that you're starting to recognize as his version of a smile.

"Yeah, yeah. Don't get used to it."

"Too late." You stand up, gathering your plates. "I expect this level of praise at every meal now. Maybe we can work up to actual sentences by next week."

"Don't push your luck, sunshine." But he's still got that almost-smile as he gets up too.

"I mean, you already admitted you don't hate my company. That's practically a love confession by your standards."

Jeon shakes his head, but there's something soft in his eyes.

"You're really something else, you know that?"

"So I've been told."

You drop off your dishes, and both head for the elevator, falling into comfortable silence.

You reach for the elevator buttons, aiming for the fourth floor where your room is. But Jeon's arm suddenly appears in your peripheral vision, his chest almost brushing your back as he leans forward. There's this tiny pause—blink and you'd miss it—before he hits the button for the fifth floor instead.

You turn your head just enough to catch his eye, raising an eyebrow. No words needed.

You both know what this is: him taking you up on that offer to help him sleep. Simple as that. Like picking up takeout or scheduling target practice.

The elevator starts moving, and holy shit why is it so slow? The silence should be awkward, but it's not.

Maybe because you both know exactly what this is. No bullshit, no complications. Just sleep. Like you said in the training room—you're no good to each other half-dead from exhaustion.

It's probably stupid, spending the night with your Chief. But you've already crossed that line in his tent, and honestly? If sleeping next to you helps with his insomnia, then whatever.

You're already fuck buddies—might as well be helpful ones.

The doors finally open to the fifth floor, and Jeon steps back. He's giving you space, making it clear this is your call. Which is... weirdly considerate, actually. You step out because why not? This isn't some dramatic decision. It's practical. Logical, even.

The walk to his room feels longer than it should. Your feet are dragging because yeah, you're fucking tired. Today's been a whole thing—training, dinner, and now this weird arrangement that somehow makes perfect sense.

Jeon stops at his door, giving you one last look. Checking if you're sure, probably. You nod because duh. This isn't complicated. You're both adults who sometimes fuck and apparently now sometimes sleep (just sleep) together.

The door clicks shut behind you, and you get your first look at Jeon's private space.

So this is where the Chief of Tactical Assassinations sleeps. You can't help but snoop—it's basically in your job description as a member of Seduction Division.

The room is... exactly what you'd expect from Jeon, honestly. It's like someone took his personality and turned it into interior design.

Everything's black, white, or gray, like he's allergic to color. It matches his whole aesthetic—the guy who sees the world in shades of gray, making calls about who lives and who dies. Maybe the monochrome thing is some kind of metaphor. Or maybe he just really likes black.

There's this massive king-sized bed against one wall, all black sheets and dark gray duvet. The bed's made diligently, but you can see the slight wrinkles that mean he's actually slept in it. Unlike some people who just have fancy beds for show.

Next to it is this super minimal nightstand with just a lamp and—oh. An ashtray. Right. His stress-smoking habit.

The furniture could be from one of those fancy minimalist catalogs. Everything's black wood, clean lines, no fuss. There's a dresser that probably holds his endless supply of black t-shirts, a desk that looks barely used, and a chair that seems more decorative than functional.

What really gets you is how empty it is. No photos, no personal stuff, nothing that says "someone actually lives here."

It's like a really expensive prison cell or one of those model rooms in furniture stores.

You spot a door that has to lead to a private bathroom, and fuck, that's not fair. You're sharing a bathroom with like five other girls while Mr. Chief here gets his own shower? The perks of rank, you guess.

The floor's spotless—like, you could probably eat off it. Not a speck of dust anywhere. The whole place is as buttoned-up as Jeon himself, like maybe if he keeps everything perfectly ordered, the rest of his life will fall into line too.

"Well, it's very... you," you say, because what else can you say about a room that looks like it was decorated by a very organized ghost?

"I don't need anything else." He shrugs.

You hover by the bathroom door, suddenly feeling weirdly out of place. Being in Jeon's private space is... different. Not bad different, just different. Like seeing your teacher at the grocery store, except your teacher is a hot assassin you occasionally fuck.

"Hey," you start, trying to sound casual, "mind if I grab a quick shower first? I always wash up before bed, especially after training." You scrunch your nose. "Pretty sure I don't smell like a spring meadow right now."

Jeon's eyebrow does that thing—that infuriating arch that makes you want to either kiss him or kick him.

"What, you saying I stink, sunshine?"

"We both worked up a sweat today, cloud." You roll your eyes, but you're fighting a smile. "No judgment, just stating facts."

He jerks his head toward the bathroom door. "Go ahead. Towels and shit are in there."

You can't help yourself—really, you can't. As you pass him, you throw out: "Maybe take a page from my book and grab one yourself after. You know, freshen up a bit."

The snort he lets out is almost a laugh. "Watch yourself. I don't take orders in my own quarters."

But his eyes are doing that thing where they get all dark and playful, and you know that look.

Intimately.

"Just a suggestion between... friends."

You draw out the last word, letting it hang there like bait. Because that's what you are now, right? Friends who sometimes sleep together. And sometimes fuck. But tonight's just for sleeping.

(Sure it is.)

"So pushy." His smirk should be illegal. "What, you wanna shower together now? Could've just asked, sunshine."

You roll your eyes because it's easier than admitting how tempting that sounds. "You wish, thundercloud. I can handle washing myself just fine."

You head for the bathroom, but pause at the door because apparently, you hate yourself.

Glancing back over your shoulder, you add: "But you know... my back is kind of hard to reach..."

"Nice try." His voice has dropped lower, rougher. "But we said only sleeping tonight. Go get cleaned up. I'll be here when you're done."

The way he says it—like a promise and a threat wrapped in one—makes you seriously reconsider this whole "just sleeping" thing.

The bathroom is exactly what you expected—black and white everything, minimalist as fuck. It's like the room outside but with more tiles and chrome.

You turn the shower on hot enough to steam up the mirrors and step under the spray, letting it pound against your shoulders.

The water pressure is amazing. Of course it is—Chief privileges and all that. Your shared bathroom on the fourth floor can barely manage a decent drizzle, but this? This is heaven.

You take your sweet time, enjoying the luxury of a private shower where no one's going to bang on the door telling you to hurry up.

When you finally emerge, wrapped in one of Jeon's obscenely fluffy black towels (seriously, where does he get these?), steam billows out behind you like you're making some dramatic entrance. Your hair's twisted up in another towel, water still dripping down your neck.

You feel Jeon's eyes on you before you see him. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, and the weight of his stare makes your skin prickle.

His face is doing that careful blank thing, but his eyes? They're giving him away.

"Shower's free," you say, aiming for casual even though the tension in the room is thick enough to choke on. "You know, if you want it."

He just makes this low humming sound that absolutely does not make heat pool in your stomach.

Instead of moving, he just... looks at you.

His eyes track down your body, slow and deliberate, like he's memorizing every inch.

Like he's thinking about what's under that towel.

You refuse to squirm under his gaze. Two can play this game.

"Like what you see?" You cock an eyebrow, channeling your inner seductress (which is technically your job, so).

His mouth curves into that dangerous almost-smirk. "Maybe I'm just waiting to see if you'll drop that towel."

"You wish."

You turn your back on him (which is definitely not just an excuse to give him a better view) and head for his dresser.

The drawers are organized because of course they are. You find his t-shirts, all neatly folded like some department store display.

"I'm borrowing this," you announce, grabbing a shirt that looks big enough to work as a dress. You glance over your shoulder, catching his eyes again. "Unless you'd prefer me naked?"

His smirk grows, and fuck, that should be illegal.

"Be my guest."

The invitation in his voice makes your skin feel too tight, but you're not giving in that easy. This is a game of chicken now, and you're not about to lose.

Even if losing sounds really, really tempting right now.

You unwind the towel from your hair and toss it at Jeon, aiming for his face but hitting his chest instead.

"Just sleeping, remember? Go shower."

The towel slides down his front, and you catch this tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth—like he wants to smile but his reputation won't let him.

He stands up in that way he does, all fluid grace and barely contained power. Without a word, he heads for the bathroom. The door clicks shut, and soon you hear water running.

You grab his brush (because of course he has one, Mr. Perfect Hair) and start working through your damp hair.

It's weirdly domestic, sitting here in Jeon's room, wearing his shirt, using his stuff. The brush is probably expensive—it glides through your hair like it's made of silk or something.

Speaking of his shirt... You pull it on, and fuck. It smells like him—pine, wood, and smoke.

The fabric drowns you, hanging off one shoulder, falling to mid-thigh. There's something stupidly thrilling about wearing his clothes, like you're getting away with something.

Once your hair's somewhat tamed, you twist it up into a bun. The mirror catches your eye—one of those full-length ones that probably cost more than your monthly salary. You can't help checking yourself out, tugging the shirt down a bit because apparently, you still have modesty or whatever.

That's when you see him in the reflection.

Oh.

Jeon's fresh out of the shower, water still beading on his chest, towel riding low on his hips like it's trying to start something. He's got another towel in his hands, drying his hair as he sits on the bed, but his eyes?

His eyes are locked on your ass like it's his favorite meal.

The mirror gives you a perfect view of his face, and holy shit. The way he's looking at you—it's not subtle. At all. His gaze is heavy, hungry, like he's thinking about all the ways this "just sleeping" arrangement could go very, very wrong.

(Or very, very right, depending on your perspective.)

The temperature in the room spikes, and it's definitely not from the shower steam. You can practically feel the heat of his stare through the mirror.

So much for keeping things platonic tonight. A smirk tugs at your lips as an idea forms. Because if Jeon wants to play this game?

Well, two can definitely play.

You reach up to your bun, pretending to mess with the hair tie.

Oops—it "accidentally" slips through your fingers, falling to the floor with a silent grace that would make your Seduction Division trainers proud.

"Oh no," you say, channeling your best innocent voice. The one that fools absolutely no one but works anyway. "How clumsy of me."

You turn your back to Jeon, and fuck, you can practically feel his eyes burning into you.

Bending down—slowly, because you're nothing if not thorough—you give him a view that you know from experience he can't resist. The borrowed shirt rides up just enough to be interesting.

You take your sweet time "looking" for the hair tie, even though you can see it right there. Your fingers trail across the floor like you're putting on a show, which... yeah, you absolutely are.

When you finally grab it, you throw a look over your shoulder.

Jackpot.

Dark, obscure eyes pin you in place. Absolutely hungry. You'd bet good money that towel isn't hiding much anymore.

"See something you like?" Your voice comes out honey-sweet, but there's nothing innocent about the way you're looking at him.

Before he can compose himself enough to answer, you straighten up and sashay over to the bed. The sway in your hips isn't natural, but who cares about natural when it makes Jeon's breath catch like that?

You slip under the sheets, turning away from him because you're evil like that. The mattress dips as he lies down next to you, and you have to bite back a smile.

"We should get some rest." You keep your voice light, casual, like dismissing every inch of space between you. "Long day tomorrow."

He makes this grunt that could mean anything, but you know him well enough by now to recognize the sound of him wrestling with his self-control.

You can picture his face—brow furrowed, jaw clenched, probably glaring at the ceiling like he wants to shadowbox with it.

You wait, barely breathing.

Maybe you read this wrong.

Maybe he's actually planning to be good tonight.

Maybe he really does just want to sleep.

That's fine. Totally fine. This was his idea anyway, right? Just sleeping.

You're about to give up, admit defeat, when the mattress shifts.

Jeon rolls toward you, and suddenly his chest is pressed against your back, all heat and hard muscle. You fight back a shiver as his hand finds your hip, his thumb drawing lazy circles that make your skin buzz. His breath fans hot against your neck, and fuck, this is so much better than sleeping.

"I need to ease some tension, sunshine."

His voice is pure sin, rough and low right by your ear.

Heat pools in your stomach as you roll onto your back, meeting his gaze. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling you closer, and you can feel how much he wants this.

"Oh?" You hold his stare, watching his control slip. "I thought you'd never ask."

You're definitely not getting much sleep tonight.

But hey, that was kind of the point, wasn't it?

goal: 450 notes

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© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[kxsagi]

slept through 12 of my 30 timers but the other 28 timers woke me from my coma-like slumber

I have come, with a Request 😋 Ahem.

Blue lock boys with a Reader who they're really publicly even close with, and not just friends kind of close, but so close that everyone automatically assumes they're dating, and the blue lock boys don't deny it because they are like head over heels.

But in truth, while they do all the couple stuff with reader and even live with her, reader is completely oblivious and calls it normal best friend stuff and the blue lock boys are absolutely frustrated. preferably with sae, rin, kaiser, otoya and whoever else you want (•⩊•)

“𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐦”

a/n: this concept is so juicy omg i am here for it 🤤

also sleeping through your timers is so real i fear

ft. itoshi sae, itoshi rin, kaiser michael, otoya eita, bachira meguru, mikage reo, isagi yoichi, nagi seishiro, shidou ryusei, ness alexis, karasu tabito

itoshi sae

“we’re just best friends” you say, as sae spoons you on the couch like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

he’s been in love with you for years, but the second you moved in together and started calling it “platonically sharing rent,” he realized god was testing him. 

cooks you breakfast every morning. lets you eat off his plate. lets you steal his clothes. still gets annoyed when you call him your “best bro.” 

one time you kissed his cheek in public as a joke. it trended in spain with the headline “sae itoshi’s mysterious lover.” 

he didn’t deny it. 

“what do you mean we’re not dating?” he finally asks one night, deadpan, while you’re brushing your teeth. 

“wait, you thought we were?” 

he has never known heartbreak until this moment. 

and yet he still brings you a blanket and tucks you in after. 

he’s in too deep. 

itoshi rin

touch-starved menace who lets you touch him because it’s you. 

he doesn’t do this with anyone else. no one gets to poke his cheek. no one gets to play with his hair while he’s gaming. no one gets to walk around in his clothes except you. 

he has confessed 3 times. you thought all 3 were jokes. 

“rin, i love you,” you once said while drunk and clinging to his arm. 

he nearly passed out on the spot. 

when you said the same thing to your cat 2 seconds later, he nearly passed away. 

he can’t even get mad at you. he just sulks for days. 

his entire team thinks you're dating. he gets called “whipped” on a weekly basis. 

refuses to correct anyone. actually glares at them harder if they imply otherwise. 

he will keep living in this delusion until you finally realize the truth and kiss him for real. 

kaiser michael

he literally introduces you as his girlfriend. and you just go with it. 

“oh that’s just kaiser being dramatic 😄” – girl. be serious. 

buys you matching necklaces and has his arm around you 90% of the time. you’re practically in his lap in every photo. 

fangirls ship you. he absolutely has a folder of fan edits of “[yourshipname]” on his phone. 

he flirts with you constantly. you flirt back. neither of you break character. 

you once called him your “platonic soulmate” and he nearly choked on his own spit. 

“you think soulmates are platonic now? you’re gonna kill me.” 

makes up fake anniversaries just to celebrate them with you. 

“happy 6-months-since-you-moved-in day.” 

“thanks, roomie 🥰” 

he screams into his pillow every night. 

otoya eita

biggest fake boyfriend energy ever. if he’s not dating you, then what IS he doing? 

you sleep in the same bed. you call him “babe” when you're joking. his hand is always on your waist. and you still insist you’re just besties. 

he’s so down bad it’s physically painful. 

once introduced you to someone as his “partner” and you were like “awww you mean like crime partners 🤭” 

he cried. 

flirts with you shamelessly. you think it’s all jokes. it’s not. he’s suffering. 

everyone is convinced you’re in love. otoya included. 

but when he finally tries to kiss you during a movie night and you pause to ask “wait are we doing couple stuff or friend stuff rn?” 

he literally malfunctions. 

“i’m gonna die alone.” 

still cuddles you to sleep tho. he’s not gonna pass that up. 

bachira meguru

he’s your best friend! your little monster boy! your cuddle buddy! your ENTIRE BOYFRIEND WHO YOU SOMEHOW HAVEN’T NOTICED IS IN LOVE WITH YOU. 

everyone around you assumes you're dating. he draws you into his selfies, brings you to press events, and kisses your forehead like it's second nature. 

and you? you just giggle and say “haha he’s just silly like that!” 

he’s not silly. he’s desperate. 

literally introduces you to his mom as “the one.” 

still doesn’t correct you when you say “we’re just roommates lol.” 

he’s a patient man. he will wait. 

but one day he absolutely grabs your face and is like, “just to be clear. if i kiss you right now… are we still ‘just friends’ orrrr…?” 

pray for him. 

mikage reo

treats you like royalty. buys you flowers. gets you jewelry. lets you use his black card. 

“my best friend deserves the world <3” 

SIR. 

sometimes you joke like “lol you treat me better than any boyfriend ever has!” and he’s like “good. because i’m better than any boyfriend.” 

he said what he said. 

his dad thinks you’re engaged to his son. 

honestly you act married. he picks you up from work. he brings you coffee. you share a bed in hotels. 

still you call it “normal roommate behavior” like you're not literally couple-coded in every single way. 

one day he just looks at you and goes, “you know you’re in love with me, right?” 

“what? no i’m not! i just like your face and your money and your company and your laugh and –” 

oh. 

isagi yoichi

this man is the most boyfriend-coded best friend to ever exist. 

he makes you snacks, helps you study, ties your shoelaces, and sleeps with his head on your lap. 

“aw thanks yoichi! you’re like the perfect bestie!” 

he dies a little inside every time. 

you share a blanket when you watch movies. he always lets you pick the show. he even paints your nails once during a rainy day. 

he’s one emotional breakdown away from fully confessing. 

but every time he tries, you say stuff like “we’re such a power duo omg, can’t believe we’re not dating lol!!” 

he laughs. nervously. 

he’s literally praying you realize it on your own. 

until then, he’ll just keep living the boyfriend life in silent agony. 

nagi seishiro

doesn’t understand how you don’t already know he’s in love with you. 

you sleep in the same bed. you share showers (not at the same time but STILL). he lets you feed him. 

you call it “roommate bonding.” 

he calls it “slow torture.” 

“you’re comfy,” he mumbles while clinging to you like a human pillow. 

“awww, besties for life 🫶” 

his soul leaves his body. 

he doesn’t want to put in effort to confess, but he will if you keep playing dumb. 

“hey. if i kissed you, would that be annoying?” 

you: “uh… no?” 

“cool.” 

and then he does it. 

that’s his version of a love letter. 

shidou ryusei

the most feral “not-boyfriend” ever. 

he’s not subtle. he wants to bite you, kiss you, claim you. 

and yet… you think he’s just “really passionate about friendship.” 

“you’re so weirdly loyal to me it’s cute.” 

loyal? LOYAL? he’s planning your WEDDING. 

lets you wear his chains. lets you ride on his back. lets you slap his abs and call him your “emotional support psychopath.” 

and still you won’t date him. 

“babe. we live together. we sleep together. you’ve literally shaved my jaw for me. what do i gotta do to make you realize?” 

you blink. “huh? realize what??” 

“i’m gonna eat drywall.” 

ness alexis

poor boy’s heart explodes every time you say “roomie bestie 💕” in public. 

he is in love with you in seventeen different languages. 

cooks for you, folds your laundry, sends you good morning texts from the other room. 

kaiser makes fun of him relentlessly. 

“isn’t she your girlfriend?” 

“i-i wish 😭” 

you once kissed his cheek and called it “friend appreciation.” 

he almost fainted. 

tried to write a love letter. ended up crying into it because he didn’t know how to start it without sounding desperate. 

“what’s the german word for ‘i think my best friend is my soulmate and it hurts’?” 

lives for the day you finally realize and hug him a little longer than usual. 

karasu tabito

king of fake chill. acts unbothered. is actually dying inside. 

he calls you “babe” for fun. you call him “bestie bae.” it’s a sick game. 

he flirts. constantly. you think he’s just being a clown. 

you’ll sit on his lap, steal his fries, and call it “classic friend behavior.” 

“girl. we slow-danced in the living room at 2 AM last night. what part of this is FRIEND behavior??” 

“bonding 😇” 

he wants to scream. 

his mom literally thinks you’re dating. she sends you gifts. he lets her. 

karasu tries to play it cool, but the moment you show any sign of returning his feelings, he’s ready with a full slideshow called “why we should date immediately (with charts).” 

your obliviousness is his villain origin story. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[oh-no-its-bird]

"They were roomates" obkkrn au where obito and Rin are an established couple who live together. And bc reasons, Kakashi needs a place to stay for a while. So obviously, yk, Kakashi comes to stay with his besties as he looks for a new apartment

What follows is a comedy of errors as Rin and Obito proceed to be absoloute fucking freaks about Kakashi. They are throwing themselves at him in increasingly desperate, concerning, and honestly at times kind of creepy tactics.

Kakashi makes them dinner as thanks and Rin makes a joke about how he should stay forever and be their housewife and Obito laughs just a little bit too hard (under the table he's clutching at his thighs so hard they're gonna bruise)

Kakashi's clothes begin to go mysteriously missing and Obito starts not to subtly suggest he just borrows his instead :))) as Rin is going "oh Kakashi you're soooo forgetful, it really makes me worry about you, you know... Maybe you just need someone to take care of you, there's no shame in that! Teehee <3"

Kakashi gets sick and Rin very seriously considers giving him fake medicine so he can stay sick (and under her care) longer

Kakashi complains ab how expensive housing is and how he can't afford any of this shit on his salary, and Obito "jokes" a little too enthusiastically that he should just quit his job and find a hot sugar daddy. Or something. Wouldn't that be funny. Right Kakashi? Right? Right? Hey, you know Obito himself is pretty wealthy ahahahaha—

Kakashi remains completley oblivious.

Genma comes over for dinner one day, and at that point things have escalated so much that several of the weird comments and behaviors on Obito and Rin's side are the new "normal." So Genma just sits there through, what is from his perspective, the weirdest and most uncomfortably charged dinner of his fucking LIFE.

When he leaves, Genma just puts a hand on Kakashi's shoulder and tells him good fucking luck. Kakashi remains confused.

Uhhh endgame Genma tells Kakashi to open his fucking eyes bc Obito and Rin want him BAD. And after the initial disbelief, Kakashi begins to test the waters of leaning into/indulging in Obito and Rin's newest freak behavior and seeing what they do

And just Kakashi subtly fucking with them both by playing into whatever the fuck is happening in their heads, just to see what happens. He's thriving actually

Anyways I'm coming to learn that my favorite obkkrn dynamic is just.

Obito 🤝 Rin -> being freaks about Kakashi together

To be fair tho: it's REALLY funny. And also makes total sense.

Because ofc Nohara "Obito apologist even in death" Rin, and Uchiha "Rin was a perfect angel who I will put on a pedestal till my dying day and destroy the world in the name of creating a new world she could have been happy in" Obito would make eachother INFINITELY worse!!

Obito is incapable of seeing his own or Rin's possible wrongs, and Rin literally was on Obito's side even through the genocide, Kakashi stalking, child murder, detailed plans to take over the world, etc. There is no way in hell these two could actually ground eachother, sorry. In my eyes they would only make eachothers freak factors infinitely worse.

Every time either one of them gains even a SHRED of self-awareness, the other is right there to comfort them and insist that "nooo ur soooo normal, I promise <33" and "its ok if you're a little bit of a (stalker, murderer, obsessed with Kakashi) freak... it's not ur fault u have ptsd..."

Rin and Obito both suffer from the Kakashi Illness(tm) but it presents itself in different ways and they feed into eachothers fixation on the guy in the worst (best) ways

[wendichester]

hey!! could i request a dean x reader where she's noticed a change in dean after his suffering with the mark of cain? maybe hes just really distant and not himself/very aggressive and just down right mean? she confronts him and he breaks down and she gives him the comfort hes been needing? they could be really close besties or dating its up to you, just had an idea from a tiktok and you write so well <3 love u girl

⋆˚࿔ the mark,

summary. dean's been off since he got the mark of cain. but you're always there for him.

pairing. dean winchester x best friend!reader

wordcount. 771

notes. thanks for the request love! it's always great to see you in my inbox ehe

Dean’s been different. You’ve noticed it in the way he carries himself—shoulders tense, jaw clenched, eyes dark and distant. He’s always been rough around the edges, but this is something else. This is sharp, jagged, like a blade that’s been worn down to its breaking point.

You’ve tried to ignore it, tried to tell yourself it’s just the stress of hunting, the weight of the world on his shoulders. But tonight, it’s impossible to pretend.

You’re in the bunker’s kitchen, leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee that’s long gone cold. Dean’s at the table, his back to you, hunched over a bottle of whiskey. He hasn’t said a word since he walked in, and the silence is heavy, suffocating.

“Dean,” you say, your voice soft but firm.

He doesn’t respond. Just takes another swig from the bottle, his movements sharp, almost angry.

You set your mug down and walk over to him, your footsteps echoing in the quiet. When you reach the table, you place a hand on his shoulder, and he flinches like you’ve burned him.

“Don’t,” he snaps, shrugging you off.

You don’t back down. You can’t. Not when he’s like this, not when you can see the cracks in him, the way he’s falling apart and trying so hard to hide it.

“Talk to me,” you say, your voice steady even though your heart is racing.

Dean laughs, but it’s bitter, hollow. “What do you want me to say, huh? That I’m fine? That everything’s great? Would that make you feel better?”

His words sting, but you don’t let it show. You know this isn’t him. This is the Mark, the darkness that’s been eating away at him, twisting him into something he doesn’t even recognize.

“I want you to be honest,” you say, sitting down across from him. “I want you to tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.”

Dean looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a moment, you see it—the pain, the fear, the guilt. It’s all there, raw and unfiltered, and it takes your breath away.

“You don’t want to know,” he says, his voice low, almost a growl.

“Try me.”

He shakes his head, his hands gripping the edge of the table like he’s afraid he’ll fall apart if he lets go. “You don’t get it. You can’t. This thing… it’s inside me, and I can’t—I can’t control it. I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

His voice breaks on the last word, and it’s like a dam bursting. He slams his fist down on the table, the sound echoing through the room, and then he’s standing, pacing, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to pull himself together.

“I’m a monster,” he says, and the words are so quiet, so broken, that they barely reach you.

“You’re not,” you say, standing up and stepping into his path.

He tries to push past you, but you grab his arm, your grip firm but gentle. “Dean, listen to me. You’re not a monster. You’re you. And yeah, you’ve got this thing inside you, but it doesn’t define you. It doesn’t change who you are.”

He shakes his head, his eyes wet with tears he won’t let fall. “You don’t know what I’ve done. What I’ve wanted to do. I’m dangerous, and I—”

“Stop,” you say, cutting him off. “Just stop. You’re not dangerous to me. You’re my best friend, Dean. You’re the guy who’s always had my back, no matter what. You’re the guy who makes me laugh when I feel like crying. You’re the guy who’s saved my life more times than I can count. That’s who you are. Not this… this thing you’re so afraid of.”

For a moment, he just stares at you, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. And then, like a puppet with its strings cut, he collapses into you, his head resting on your shoulder, his arms wrapping around you like you’re the only thing keeping him upright.

You hold him tight, your hands rubbing soothing circles on his back, and you don’t say anything. You don’t need to. He just needs this—this moment, this comfort, this reminder that he’s not alone.

“I’m scared,” he whispers, his voice muffled against your shoulder.

“I know,” you say, your own voice thick with emotion. “But you don’t have to be. Not with me.”

He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t need to. The way he clings to you, the way his breathing slowly evens out, tells you everything you need to know.

You’ll get through this. Together.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

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[natalchartnurtures]

So tell me Taylor, Who am I gonna take to be my ~Lover~?

Want a sneak peak into who YOU'RE gonna take to be your significant-long-term partner?

(pile 1 to 3- left to right)

~~~~~~~~~~~

Pile 1:

Can I go where you go? Can we always be this close forever and ever? And ah, take me out, and take me home You're my, my, my, my Lover..

Let me say this. You're opening card is the ten of cups, right of the bat.. there's this beautiful love I feel between the two of you. Their presence in your life would either happen as a consequence of you resolving some of your deep subconscious beliefs that kept you limited in terms of love or.. some of you beautiful folks I feel your person will help prove your limiting beliefs around love wrong. This part of your relationship may feel a lil scary and intense but your love for them will end up helping you all the way through.

Oh wow.. I'm getting that you and your person will take on life together, almost with this feeling of being comrades. Especially during your more difficult and uncertain times, your relationship with them will only get stronger. Its giving Bestie energy ✨️ Don't we love that around here? Hehe

They really help you calm down if you're prone to anxiety and/or overthinking. Their energy has a really calming effect on you. Which is probably one of your favorite things about them 😊

I'm getting a strong message of this person being radically different from your previous partners. Maybe you are used to partners who are possessive, lack emotional intelligence and always gave you a reason to worry but I feel your person is a FAR cry from this kinda energy which will surprise you at first I'm ngl 😅 but once you get on board with the newness they bring, you'll have a beautiful relationship with them :')

"Equal give and take" I hear. Aw.

I feel like before you did the inner work with your subconscious mind, you attracted partners that weren't all that healthy but I see that as soon as you put away your wounds and old unhelpful beliefs that you might have picked up from childhood, that may have kept your energy stagnant, to rest they will show up into your life. You won't be able to miss it!

Side note: Ya'll reeeeeally remind me of Zendaya and Tom Holland. I kept having visions of them in my mind while I was channeling for your pile.. Isn't that something 👀

That was your reading, pile 1. Hope you enjoyed it!

Love and light, sweet souls ✨️

~~~~~~~~~~~~

pile 2:

And there's a dazzling haze, a mysterious way about you dear Have I known you 20 seconds or 20 years?

Ooh.. I feel your person being highly intelligent and just really smart overall. They seem quite deep to me.. their energy is direct and doesn't really play around. They definitely come off strong to you when you first meet them. They don't seem to enjoy small talk or socializing "just for fun" they seem to take their social life really seriously which is why they might keep to themselves mostly having a very TIGHT group they let themselves mingle with.

I have to say this.. your person has developed an incredible relationship with their mind. A quite healthy one after years of suffering mental agony they have figured out how to master their own mind and as a result they seem quite mature and come off quite stable. They're giving off a strong regal vibe, like, they have a lot of self respect and/or a lot of people seem to respect your person. Your person strikes me like the kind that not everybody necessarily likes but somebody who is respected and revered (in some cases) nonetheless. Wow. Strong vibes. They could be quite an intense person too ngl. They might like to dip their toes into psychology or simply put, the Scorpionic arts or.. just be interested in the occult from time to time 👀

They may not believe in love before they meet you tbh.

They like to believe in what they have evidence for and seems like before meeting you they simply hadn't find evidence of real love.. aw, that's low-key so cute!

Your person comes off quite practical and earthy. They may move in a very strategic way, keeping their plans (and their life in general) mostly to themselves.. which is giving PRIVATE energy. They seem hella private 👀 haha

So you know they're gonna keep your relationship to themselves like it's a scared, precious thing that they gotta safeguard :')

Meeting you will POSITIVELY flip their world upside down. If there's one thing they don't understand, its love and romance. When you walk into their life, being your cute ass self, they won't know what to do with themselves and despite them being successful in their lives prior to meeting you, they'd feel lost with you. You make them feel.. dumb haha. Or they perceive it that way. You might think it to be ridiculously cute lmao.

They're definitely gonna feel A BURNING passion for you right from the get go and that's how they'll know that you're their person!

That was your reading, pile 2. Hope you enjoyed it!

Love and light, sweet souls ✨️

~~~~~~~~~~~~

pile 3:

My heart's been borrowed and yours has been blue All's well that ends well to end up with you Swear to be over-dramatic and true to my lover

So.. you guy's person and you come together in an interesting way. This is immediately telling me that your person is someone you don't expect to fall in love with. Ya'll might know each other for a while (depending on each person for how long exactly) and the feelings develop overtime. For some this person might reveal their feelings on accident while being drunk one night or something along those lines lmao (very specific, so take that with a grain of salt) lol but yea it's gonna be one of those really cute friends-to-lovers type situation with you and your person or enemies-to-lovers too maybe? 👀 Some KANTHONY vibes coming through #Bridgerton <3

Haha anyway.

You won't foresee a relationship between you and your person before it happens :p

Your person.. seems to have endured a partner before you (or many partners) who didn't really care for them. This may even be a feminine friend/family member as well. They broke your person's heart in a significant way and may even have manipulated you person into staying in the relationship (be it romantic or otherwise) which they eventually stood up to. Seems like a Karmic situation too btw. This Karmic situation, really helped your person grow and evolve into the person who was truly meant for you tho 😊 yay. They've healed from this previous heartbreak and somehow this road of healing brings them to you. Ah.. The reason why this previous relationship is coming into picture is because- they probably meet you while healing from this old situation.. they'd be hard at work trying to resolve the pain the went through and their reward for doing that is.. your love. AW. STOP IT! THAT'S CUTE <3

Ya'll remind me of that song "You Belong With Me" by our queen Taylor Swift. The lyrics are playing through my head now as I channel your person's energy. You could have additional messages in that song 😊

That was your reading, pile 3. Hope you enjoyed it!

Love and light, sweet souls ✨️

~~~~~~~~~~~~

[mechncheese]

PLEASE LORE DUMP ABOUT SUNSTREAKER TO ME

LET'S SEE.. IDW SUNSTREAKER MR. TRAGEDY HIMSELF.. Wow I have a lot of saved comic panels of him going through it so let's go on a journey together. I'm definitely forgetting details so for idw Sunstreaker knowers please feel free to add on.

SPOILERS. LOTS OF IDW SPOILERS. WOW.

On Earth he was taken by humans, tortured, and basically used for his transforming tech and they made Headmasters out of him. He was forcefully partially fused (?) with his human friend through Headmaster technology.

Upon being rescued and repaired he still suffers severely from the trauma that the torture had on him. I think he feels disconnected from himself like he can't recognize himself anymore.. AT LEAST THAT'S HOW I INTERPRETED THESE PANELS.

He makes a deal with Starscream and leads the Autobots into a Decepticon trap but it was because he wanted the humans to suffer for what they did to him and y'know what. I can't blame him, I would be the same way if I had to go through that. I WANT TO ALSO MENTION THAT IRONHIDE ACCUSED MIRAGE OF BEING A TRAITOR (it was Sunstreaker) AND ABSOLUTELY BEATS THE SHIT OUT OF MIRAGE OH MY GOD. He tears apart Mirage's Autobot badge and tells him he doesn't deserve to wear it. After finding out the truth, Ironhide is really regretful about it but it's a little too late.

Let's see.. They get attacked by some Insecticon beast things that Megatron made (I THINK THEY'RE ON CYBERTRON AT THIS POINT? I do not remember but they're def not on Earth) and Sunstreaker sacrifices himself to make it up to everyone for betraying them. THAT PANEL WAS HEART WRENCHING SEEING HIM IN THE LARGE HEAP OF CORPSES

So he's presumed dead until he isn't. Ironhide finds him and rescues him but Ironhide has no recollection of what happened to him (If I recall correctly Ironhide also had a fake-out death protecting Hotrod). They're alone on Cybertron(?) everyone left, but Alpha Trion's here and helps them out before ditching them LMAO. Oh also Sunstreaker has a wheelchair now

At some point, Sunstreaker gets a pet insecticon he affectionately nicknamed Bob and the two are besties forever.

Uhh A lot of stuff happens in-between but Sunstreaker eventually ends up on the Lost Light and he took Bob with him (he's no longer in a wheelchair). In Hoist's spotlight, Sunstreaker, Perceptor, Swerve and Hoist have a not so good time. On a mission, Sunstreaker crashes the ship and Perceptor gets fucking melted to the ceiling LMAO. Swerve is bleeding out and of course, Sunstreaker is at fault for crashing in the first place and he starts losing it

BUT IT'S OK THEY LIVE AND GET OUT OF THERE BAHAHA. More stuff in-between I do want to point out that Jetfire's drone D.0.C, Thundercracker's dog Buster, and Sunstreaker's insecticon are best friends and they hang out with each other. At some point, Thundercracker babysits D.0.C, Buster, and Bob on earth IT'S SO CUTE (this was in Revolution)

THAT'S ALL I CAN REMEMBER OF SIGNIFICANCE OFF THE TOP OF MY HEAD. Oh yeah uh Combiner stuff happens with Sunstreaker, Ironhide, Prowl, Mirage, and Optimus, but that's like a whole other thing. Between Sunstreaker, Mirage, and Ironhide, they're chill with each other now.

Also please look at D.0.C and Buster cuddling Jetfire with Thundercracker in the background, thank you for coming to my bot talk

[rotthepoet]

Flowers for You (M.R x Reader)

Note; My IRL bestie asked me to write something like this, and this was the moment I realized I indoctrinated her into my new life lmao 

Warnings; FLUFF, YEARNING, HEAD OVER HEELS MATTHEO

Mattheo hated spring. This time of year was always so awfully colorful. It was always unbearably hot or unbearably cold. His nose ran with allergies, and no matter what he took, he couldn't help the insufferable sneezes from pollen in the breeze. He couldn’t walk outside for a break without having petals from the blooming trees out in the courtyard. He truly despised the season. Until he met you.

Oh such a lovely creature, a smile as warm as the new sun, eyes as colorful as the new flora blooming in the forbidden forest. You walked with the grace of a breeze and he, like a leaf, floated after you in your wake. Your sunlight smile, how it melted his frozen over heart. You were ethereal, his eyes never drifting far from your floating form.

Despite the sniffles he knew he was doomed to suffer through, Mattheo sat out in the grass with you. You showed him how to intricately weave flower stems together into crowns, even if he wasn’t good at it. In fact, he was so bad at it that you opted to take his fallen flowers and wrap them into a bouquet. You pluck a flower and slip one white daisy behind his ear, patting his cheek as you pull away.

“It brings out your eyes.”

Your words were bird songs in the sunrise. 

Or maybe he was just irrevocably whipped. 

Of course, Mattheo would never remove the flower now. It would need to rot off of his body before he would even consider tossing it away. Maybe he should put a charm on it so it never wilts. Or perhaps he could encase it in resin to hang on his wall. He couldn’t think of a time he had been given flowers, that tended to be a girl gift, but this… this changes everything.

Mattheo couldn’t be bothered with the stares he received in the hallways, Potter(surrounded by his gang, naturally) made a snide comment about it, but it floated right in one ear and out the other. It wasn’t until Blaise looked up from the textbook he was skimming through, perturbed by a ludicrously joyus Riddle(The Riddles had a knack for angst, seeing one beaming surely meant the world was ending.), that Mattheo finally stopped in his tracks.

“The hell are you wearing, Mate?”

It wasn’t that Zabini was disgusted by the flower adornment, but that he was genuinely curious of his friend's new stylistic choices. 

Mattheo couldn’t even wipe the smile across his cheeks away, his mind permanently circling and circling around the wonderful idea that is you. 

Mattheo hated the spring. The grass was seemingly 12x itchier in the life filled month, each blade of evergreen housing a different bug-enemy. The water was still too cold to swim in, but it was too hot outside to enjoy anything. Care of Magical Creatures class had become exponentially more annoying, girls are cooing over the new arrival of baby animals, pulling cuddly creatures into their laps, their giggles ringing incessantly in his ears. Not you, oh no, he could pinpoint your laughter in the world's loudest room. He always found his eyes drawn to your smile, your heaving chest as you catch your breath. Mattheo hated spring. He hated the color, the weather, the allergies, the trees, the grass, the bugs, the water, the baby animals. He hated it all, but oh how you loved the spring, and oh how he loved you.

[storygremlin]

Okay, for very real I need everyone acting like Colin didn’t “suffer enough” or whatever to take a breath and like…I dunno, rethink how u treat ur friends or something.

Like, Penelope’s feelings being hurt about the comment he made at the end of S2 is so real, but also her forgiving him as soon as he genuinely apologizes and follows through on being a solid friend is what friendship is??? Have none of you ever been accused by random people you only kinda know about being into ur close friends just bc ur opposite genders and then doing that panicky defense thing where you laugh really loud and go “what r u even saying dude? Hahaha that’s ridiculous they’re my bestie we are The Most Platonic (tm)” just to get them to leave u alone?

Does Colin overcompensate? Yes. Is it understandable, especially given the information we have about Penelope’s feelings, that she feels hurt and made fun of? Also yes. But very obviously, he wasn’t trying to make fun of her because he didn’t know how she felt. Very obviously, he loves talking to her and spending time with her. Very obviously, he values her opinion of him. He just didn’t want other people implying things about their friendship, specifically because it’s so important to him. If it wasn’t important to him, he wouldn’t have kept writing her even when she wasn’t writing him back. He wouldn’t have followed her out of that ball and tried to figure out what was wrong. He wouldn’t have sought her out in her garden, listened to her explanation, and offered his help despite the risk to their reputations. And he wouldn’t have quickly forgiven her snooping in his private journal and smiled so bashfully when she complimented his writing.

And when he realizes he’s in love with her he gives her the choice. He risks being so deeply vulnerable, kneels in front of her, and says, “I need you, I crave you, this is torture but I want it cause it’s you, do you want me?” And he’s fully ready to back off when he thinks she’s rejecting him. That’s respect.

Friends to lovers isn’t friends to lovers if they’re punishing each other over mistakes or lack of communication.

Friends to lovers is only good when there’s inherent love and trust and a desire to understand, support, and forgive each other pulling people together. Not despite themselves. If you want love despite themselves watch S2. Friends to lovers is love because. Because they’ll talk things out. Because they’ll try to encourage and forgive. Because they’ll do whatever is necessary to keep it good. Its love because of themselves. Because they value and love each other enough to keep trying.

That’s friendship bitch. And I love theirs.

[spop-romanticizes-abuse]

since it's pride month, i want to highlight my favorite underrated/underappreciated queer characters and ships! (part 1/???)

(feel free to add more!)

Lake - Infinity Train (non-canon)

it's not canon but you cannot tell me that Lake isn't an allegory for trans/nb people. her arc is so beautiful and her character resonates with me so much!

i have to admit, i actually kinda hated her in the beginning because of how aggressive and rude she was, but she actually gets good character development and you can also understand why she was the way she was, being a good representation of a minority who is constantly suffering because of the social norms she’s forced into. also i don’t ship her with jesse but i do like the idea of them in a qpr or just being platonic besties.

(i use she/her pronouns for Lake because that's what they use in the series, but also because not all non-binary people use they/them, and it's kinda weird to see people insist on using they/them for Lake just because she's nb-coded. she has never shown an aversion to bring referred to with she/her pronouns.)

Le Chevre x El Topo - Carmen Sandiego (canon)

they are side characters who don't play a huge role in the narrative but they are a really cute couple and have been confirmed to be canon! even without the confirmation, it’s clear that they were written to be a romantic couple.

mild spoiler: after the series ends, they stop being antagonists and instead put up a food truck together! it’s the cutest thing, i swear

Ryan x Min-gi - Infinity Train (non-canon)

my OTP through and through! i say non-canon but the romance is so heavily implied, you cannot ignore it.

they're a good example of childhood friends who had a complicated relationship where both individuals did something wrong, but in the end, they grow as people and manage to mend their relationship together.

Moomin x Snufkin - Moominvalley (canon)

i have only read one of the books and watched a few clips of these two characters but from that alone, it's clear that they were written as lovers (and the author is queer too!)

they are a beautiful portrayal of long-distance relationship where both individuals have different needs in life, but still want to be with each other regardless.

Terrestrius / Terry - The Dragon Prince (canon)

Terry is canonically transmasc and they actually manage to explain this in the series, without making it sound too forced or expository. he's such a sweetheart too, and his relationship with Claudia is actually really sweet, despite the fact that she's one of the villains.

Carmen x Julia - Carmen Sandiego (non-canon)

again, i say non-canon but it is heavily implied that they have feelings for each other, especially in the extra interactive episode, where Carmen leaves a bouquet of red roses for Julia, and Julia is shown to blush when receiving them.

Amaya x Janai - The Dragon Prince (canon)

what’s that? it’s actually possible to write an enemies to lovers romance that is healthy and not extremely abusive?

Amaya and Janai have such a good relationship in S5 (and Amaya is also a great disabled representation!) Janai actually learns sign language to communicate with Amaya, and there are no unnecessary miscommunication plots or drama, they’re just a really loving wlw couple.

Benson x Troy - Kipo and the Age of Wonderbeasts (canon)

when i say we need more mlm ships in animated media!! i’m so glad us sapphics are getting a lot of representation but it’s time cartoons started including more queer men.

benson and troy are just a really sweet couple with a good relationship that doesn’t have a ton of pining or unnecessary angst. while i love complex and tragic queer relationships, i also think that it’s good to show teenagers just being teenagers sometimes.

this opinion seems to be scarce in the queer community, which really annoys me tbh.

Raine x Eda - The Owl House (canon)

i cannot believe that given the popularity of TOH, Raeda is still such an overlooked ship. this might be an unpopular opinion but Raeda is better written and has more chemistry than Lumity and Huntlow.

just within the span of Raine's introductory episode, they managed to establish a clearly romantic past between these two characters, and also an interesting dynamic. and even though they didn't have much screentime, they still turned out to be the best ship in the series. (again, just my opinion, don't come at me)

i think it's so important to show older queer people in media, just as it is important to show younger queer characters. it helps establish the fact that queerness has always existed and isn't some newfound trend that social media invented. not to mention, raeda is one of the very few canon ships that include a non-binary character.

[darklydeliciousdesires]

A Storm of Stars - Chapter Twelve.

I think this might be the chapter you've been waiting for, besties!

Note: One small scene within the chapter has been taken directly from HOTD, as you will notice, so obviously not credited to me!

Summary: The Targaryen twin stars. Two sides of the same coin. Aemond and Aemella Targaryen, second children of King Viserys I and his queen, Alicent Hightower, had spent their entire lives almost as one, the lines blurring where one twin ended and the other began. What started as an inseparable sibling bond eventually bloomed into a deep, limitless love.

A day would come, though, when their love story - famed for generations to come - would be tested by the one who sought to tear them apart. When the storm of stars descended, nobody who had wronged them would come away unscathed. 

Words - 3,809

Tag list - In the comments. Please DM to be added.

Warnings - 18+ content throughout. Incest, mentions of child loss through miscarriage. Minors DNI.

Previous Chapters - One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven

Duty. It was a word Aemella understood well, one which had led to her spending long periods of time at her elder brother’s bedside, watching over him as he continued to sleep. It wasn’t a true sleep though, she supposed, when he was yet to regain his consciousness at all after the battle at Rook’s Rest. 

“Your duty and loyalty to the king in his time of need are truly an unmatched kindness, your grace,” Grand Maester Orwyle spoke, tending to the king while the princess reagent sat quietly reading to him, holding his hand. “Some in your position might not be quite so charitable, considering your recent troubles.” 

That was exactly the facade she was hoping for. “He is my brother, Grand Maester. My kin. I cannot turn my back on him now. He needs the love of his family as well as the grace of the gods to see him through his ordeal.”  

“And you read to him, too,” he spoke, nodding to the book in her lap. “A very touching gesture.” 

“I am told that it can help, that those who suffer this elongated sleep can hear the words.” Taking her beeswax from her pocket, she spread a little slick to her lips, pressing them together. “He always enjoyed this story, when he was an infant.” 

Orwyle paused, nodding. “You are correct, your grace. I personally believe he can hear every word. The king is likely grateful to you for your devotion.”  

Gratitude? Her petulant brat of a brother wouldn’t know the meaning of the word, not even if it jumped up and bit him upon his pompous little arse.  

Remaining at his side for a further time, she then continued with her day, spending time with Gileda in the gardens, experiencing a little gratitude of her own in that her injuries were now almost all healed. She had missed the simple luxury of being able to walk more than a few feet without her back or side burning in pain.  

“Right, then,” she asserted, standing from her crouched position before the large cluster of newly planted rose bushes, the exquisite orange blooms of her fledgling Ochre Fox Roses bursting with colour and fragrance. “I do believe we are finished in our outside toils. We should head back to our workroom and continue. I need to harvest a little Moonthorne.” 

Gileda inclined her head, her smile playful. “Someone is indeed feeling more spirited, your grace.” 

A knowing smile curled her lips, Aemella linking her arm through Gileda’s as they set off along the path. “Even if I was not, I would entertain passions regardless. Aemond is much like a stud horse denied his dalliances with mares if he goes too long without. He gets antsy, becomes ill-tempered.” 

“Your grace!” she cried with mirth, her chuckles tinkling through the air. “How you amuse me so, even if at times I feel I might know a little too much regarding the prince reagent.”  

Aemella gave her a gentle nudge, her smile broadening. “Trust me, in the grand scheme of things, you still know little. As my friend, you know just enough.”  

The sun cast a warm glow over the garden as the two women walked together, their laughter mingling with the gentle rustle of leaves. Aemella's spirits were lifted, the weight of her recent predicament lightened by Gileda's companionship. After all she had suffered, the simple pleasures of home had never felt more welcoming. 

The remainder of her afternoon was spent in the workroom, focusing on her blends, alone for much of it with Gileda returning to her quarters, suffering from her moonsblood pains, Aemella kindly insisting she go and rest. 

Resting, however, was most definitely not on the princess reagent’s mind. 

“Mella?” Aemond called, returning to their quarters after a day of duty, governing with the kind of order expected from the crown. Taking off the baldric holding his sword around his hips, then his boots and socks, he felt better for the cool stone soothing his tired feet.  

The position was demanding, but he was taking to it like a duck to water, very much enjoying in this new role at the head of the realm. “Where are you, my sweet wife?” 

She appeared then, with not a stitch of clothing covering her sublime curves, Aemond’s eye widening as he paused in his stride. “Feeling better, are we?” 

“We are,” she confirmed, sauntering over to him, smoothing her hands down his chest. “But this does not mean I don’t desire to spend a little more time in bed.” 

The clear connotations were not lost on him, Aemond feeling his desire charge like a tethered bull vying for its escape. Reaching for her waist, he lifted her, Aemella clinging on around him, a breathy sigh leaving her mouth as his lips bathed her nipple in a warm, wet suck. “I had better do something about that then, hadn’t I?”  

Leaning to him, her mouth clasped his in a soft kiss that gained heat rapidly, all fire and honey as carried her to the bed, ready to enjoy every last inch of her newly healed body. While the hunger in him swirled with a certain wildness, he tethered it, their combined effort rendering him naked atop her, kissing with simmering passion. 

Apart from a few tentative touches here and there, and of course her pleasuring him with her mouth a few days prior, this was the first time they had been intimate since her return. Moonbeams of desire streaked through her as she felt his hands and mouth charter paths of divine warmth over her body, tongue fluttering at her nipples, the sharp close of teeth upon each pebbled bud making her jolt.  

“I missed you so much,” she sighed, pulling his face back to hers, kissing him longingly.  

“As I did you, precious one.” Their lips met again before he slid from her grasp, pressing kisses all over her skin, careful touches stroking her everywhere, glad to finally see the bruises that had marked her fading to violet and yellow. Oh, how the Red Kraken would suffer for it, but it would not come from him.  

As his mouth descended, she tangled her fingers in the spun silver of his tresses, thighs widening with unabashed keenness, eager to feel his mouth upon her... 

“Ahhh! Oh, and that I certainly missed.” she purred, his tongue teasing over the petals of her sex, toying with her just a smidgen before it dipped between, granting her the firm contact she so craved. Her back arched, his hands travelling that elegant bend, pressing the flat of his tongue against her, long, slow licks making her quiver, Aemond watching her intently.  

Circling, he eventually reached her pearl, the soft flicker from the tip of his tongue sending a blaze to shoot up her spine, her soft moans and hands flexing within his hair making his cock harden more.  

“I still regard this as a thing of greater beauty than any fine art,” he spoke, pausing to suck upon her pink, “the sight of my beloved enjoying my mouth.”  

Art was exactly what he lavished upon her, the colours of her pleasure bleeding into one another as he reached to tease swirling strokes over her breasts, rolling her nipples, a harder pinch making her whine in ecstasy as his tongue continued to lay hot, firm licks.  

Ebullience skittered over her bones, her thighs brushing the sides of his face until his hands moved to spread them once more, tongue driving against her bud a little harder, pausing to suck with a rich, hungry groan. He’d barely begun and already the culmination was upon her, winding tight like a summer storm. While she wailed, his lips tightened as he felt it beginning to snap through her, knowing exactly what she needed. 

Her release shot through her every nerve, a lone comet streaking through a vast, dark sky, still shaking with the heat of it as she felt herself turned on her side, Aemond moving to lie behind her. Slowly, he spread her wide around his cock, hooking his arm beneath her knee to hold her leg elevated, pressing kisses full of gently burning desire across her shoulder. 

Their bodies slid together harmoniously as he filled and emptied her steadily, Aemella turning her head, their mouths meeting in a kiss with all the heat of dragon fire. Little shocks began to skitter through her core as he filled her right to her very summit, his hand reaching to begin rubbing pure sparks of ecstasy upon her bud.  

She barely had time to settle into the rolling rhythm of it, finding herself turned once again, this time onto her front. Kneeling either side of her thighs, he drove into her with hard, unrelenting thrusts, frenzied within her for a few moments. Slowing again, his body lowered to blanket hers, the feel of his lips branding a path that followed the teasing stroke of his fingers making the back of her neck tingle. 

His chosen position offered the kind of exquisite tightness that made his heart begin to rapidly hammer in his chest, like a caged bird attempting freedom, his cock throbbing as he gripped her waist, moaning a deep, barbarous rumble. The narrow, slick heat of her consumed him as he began to quicken, still holding back a little for the sake of not wanting to hurt her.   

The thrill of it glimmered to her very marrow, his hands smoothing up her body, trailing her arms and clutching her wrists, pinning her there, sinking into her heat hard and deep. She knew exactly what this display was borne of; he was making her his again after the shattering pain of almost losing her to another. That loss might have been against her will, but Aemella understood the way a man worked. Or rather, she understood how her brother worked, and what was his, he would claim. 

Besides, she always did enjoy when her beloved husband’s softer edge gave way to something a little more ferocious. 

“Please, Aemond. Harder!” she cried out, her words negating any remaining traces of restraint, giving him the go ahead to begin driving into her with brutal force. She made the kind of noise he’d expect from a wild animal in heat, a sound that did not cease the further uncontained he became, his fingers leaving pink crescents at her wrists.   

For her, it was absolute heaven, being taken with such ferocity, her fingers clutching the pillows, foggy as he dragged her insides at speed, groaning incessantly. 

He needed to do everything he could to drive her to the same undoing as his own body raced towards, not wanting to arrive without her, needing to feel the gratification of her milking his orgasm from him. His arms slid beneath her, pulling her up to her knees before him, keen upward thrusts pounded into the soaking wet of her cunt as his hand dropped to rub at her pearl until she cried out shrilly.  

Her body trembled, bucking against each surging wave of her release, feeling his cock twitch as he filled her with spend. She was left a mess in the wake of it, like a forest torn apart by wildfire, collapsing on the bed with a contented hum. He moved to her side, pulling her into a hug, enjoying the feeling of her burrowing against him, kissing the column of his throat. 

“Ahh,” she lamented, looking past him to the small bottle placed upon the bedside table. “I blended some moonthorne oil, but did not get a chance to use it upon you.” 

His eyes followed hers to the bottle in question, gazing back at her with a very lascivious smirk. “Who is to say we are finished? Especially if you are proposing to bewitch me with a little man’s ruin.” 

“Mmm.” she hummed, turning him onto his back, kisses peppering his chest whilst her hand reached towards the table. They enjoyed themselves into exhaustion, dozing for a while in one another’s arms before they were disturbed by the servant's bringing supper to them. 

Once they had eaten, they settled in bed, both partaking of another favourite shared activity and reading the same book by candlelight until they felt their eyes growing heavy. Sleeping curled around one another, it was a long, deep sleep of nourishment they both sorely needed after such elongated sexual enjoyment, yet for one, it was not to last.  

A short time before dawn, haunting dreams plagued Aemond’s mind, his stillness in sleep becoming fitful until like a bolt, he shot up with a gasp. 

“Aemond?” Sitting up behind him, her hand smoothed down his back, feeling his chest heaving, his muscles tight. “Bad dreams, darling love?” 

“The worst,” he admitted on a sigh. “I was back within the dungeons again, and you were still gone.”  

Shifting behind him, she moved her legs either side of his hips, pulling him down into her embrace as she lay back. Her hands stroked at his hair, soothing him gently, feeling him begin to calm. “It must have unimaginable down there. Dreams are only dreams though, husband. They cannot bring us harm.” 

He sighed, his arms sliding around her waist, feeling the comforting warmth of the covers as she pulled them back over their bodies, resting his head to her breast. “If Aegon survives, he will continue his attempt to bring havoc unto us. This I know, love.” 

“I think he has much greater things to be concerned with at present. After all, he is yet to wake,” she attempted to placate him with, although she would have been speaking in untruths if she’d claimed not to have feared the same. 

“He is weakened and defeated, he will seek to redress some sort of balance, one which the very darkness of his nature dictates will be us he comes after once more.”  

Aemond, alas, was not to be fully calmed over his fears. Often, in the dark of night, what one kept well hidden under the calmness of the light would be flushed out with the shadows. As she held him tightly, stroking his head, being her usual pillar of support, Aemella reasoned that it would be much more conducive to his wellbeing if, for once, he didn’t have to fear their brother’s cruelty. If, in fact, nobody had to fear it. 

She held him all night, neither getting much more in the way of plentiful rest, the morning light bringing with it the news many had been eagerly awaiting. The king had awoken, his condition still serious, but stable, as Grand Maester Orwyle relievedly informed the council. 

Of course, as soon as the meeting drew to a close, Aemond visited with his brother. Entering the king’s quarters, he witnessed the sight of his dressings being changed, Aegon in obvious agony from the many burns that blighted his tattered body. He felt a certain dark pleasure rush through his veins at that, thinking it fitting that after putting him through so much emotional anguish, he now be the one to suffer the duress of blinding agony. 

“What do you remember?” he asked after approaching the bed, the delight in his suffering dancing in his eye. 

Aegon wheezed and whimpered, his pain nothing short of horrific. “Nothing.” 

The prince reagent was not entirely convinced. “You challenged Meleys. It was foolish.” 

“I remember... nothing,” Aegon repeated, the press of his brother’s hand grasping his upon his chest almost more than he could bear.  

Leaning to him, Aemond placed a kiss upon his head. “I will keep a meticulous order in your absence, your grace.” A cunning smile spread his lips. “Tis’ much more comfortable than being confined to a dungeon, now that I am returned to my quarters. With my beautiful wife at my side.” 

The king’s eyes rounded, taken aback by the information presented. 

“I will send her,” Aemond then whispered, “she will no doubt wish to give you her best.”  

With the arrival of Orwyle, Aemond left the room, instructing him to make sure the king rested comfortably through his long recovery. Aegon had little time for his mind to whirl over the whys and wherefores of his sister’s return, a milk of the poppy-induced sleep sending him into the rest he sorely needed in order to heal. Upon his awaking later that afternoon, though, her eyes were the first thing he saw. 

“Aemella, I...” 

Immediately, she rose from her chair. “Shhh, brother. Do not unsettle yourself. We have all waited with bated breath for you to awake and return to us.”  

Gasping in pain, his mouth floundered, for he recognised the look in her eye. Aemella never did blink when rage swirled within her like a decimating tempest, one which in this instance was pointed squarely at him.  

“Your sister has been a true beacon of devotion, your grace,” Orwyle spoke, tinkering with medicines at the other side of the bed. “She has sat with you day after day, reading to you, praying for your recovery.” 

She smiled, her eyes never leaving him. “Tis’ true, my king. I have indeed waited patiently for this moment.” She then turned to Orwyle. “If I could be left alone with my brother, Grand Maester. I would like to give him my happy news in privacy.”  

Nodding, he understood her wishes. “I will await your call, your grace.”  

Aegon watched him walk away, pleading with his eyes for the Maester to say. The growing heat of fear swirled with his crippling pain, looking back to his sister as his chest rattled. “Happy... happy news?” he rasped, Aemella reaching for his hand. 

“Yes, brother. You are to be an uncle, for I am with child. Aemond’s child, in case you wondered.” Seating herself upon the side of his bed, she continued. “Not that Dalton Greyjoy didn’t attempt to rape me, for he did. I suppose such treatment of women is something you both have in common. Nay, I was unknowingly already in my expectancy at the time you had the High Septon annul my marriage, which as you can imagine now makes said annulment void.” 

Every word that came from her mouth was steeped in quiet, yet deadly contempt, her nostrils flaring, Aegon’s heart hammering like a war drum. “Forgive me, dear sister.”  

Chuckling, she reached into her pocket, taking out her beeswax balm, slicking her lower lip with it before leaning forward to press a firm, lingering kiss upon his mouth.  

“No.”

On impulse for feeling the scented wax against his own lips, he licked them, watching her then wipe her mouth upon the sleeve of her dress, taking a small vial from her pocket. She could feel it immediately, her jaw beginning to tighten, knowing the muscles of her throat and chest would follow, tipping the finely ground, dried petals onto her tongue.  

Instantly, the deadly tension relaxed. Her eyes, though? They bore all the cold, lethal intent of the deadliest assassin; the one whose victim never saw them creeping through the shadows toward them until it was too late.  

For the king, there was no merciful antidoted respite, his jaw soon feeling tight, his throat constricting, his breaths coming shallower as she leaned over him again. 

“To think, all of the times you suspected Aemond of intentions to usurp your throne, when in truth, it was always me you should have viewed with caution.” Her words, delivered on a viper’s hiss, chilled Aegon to his tattered, broken bones, the tightness spreading down to his lungs as his eyes widened in horror. “I was never above fratricide, your grace. Know that for my husband, I will do anything to protect him. Anything. Beware the Sunset Rose.”  

He had no idea what those final, chilling words meant, but he knew, oh how he realised as his time rapidly ticked to an end, that Aemond was never the one he should have feared. Aegon truly had no idea until that moment, just what a powerful adversary he’d had all along in his own sister.  

“I would bid you a restful sleep, Aegon, but the words would be empty,” she spoke, her stare boring into him as his chest rattled, breath now stilled, floundering in desperation. “For every ounce of suffering you have inflicted upon us, upon my husband his entire life, I hope the seven hells keep you tormented. As you deserve to be.”  

Watching intently, the light began to fade in his eyes, Aemella pocketing the empty vial and turning, pressing her fingers into her eyes until they watered, giving the appearance of tears. “Grand Maester! Come at once! My brother, he cannot breathe!” 

The doors flew open, Aemella amping up her hysteria. “He cannot breathe, he cannot breathe! Help him, please, I beg of you. Help him!” 

“Come, your grace,” Ser Rickard spoke, his hands gently grasping her arms, pulling her away from the bedside. “Let the Maester work.”  

The room descended into chaos, more healers running to the king’s aid, Aemella screaming from the doorway. For her performance to be accepted as nothing but genuine, she poured into it every ounce of fear and pain she’d experienced being parted from her twin, her body trembling as Ser Rickard wrapped a comforting arm around her.  

With his efforts all in vain, Orwyle shook his head, sharing looks of grave sadness with the rest of his team as he sighed, turning to Aemella. 

“I did all I could, your grace. The king is now at his final rest.” 

“No, no!” she screamed, collapsing to her knees in seeming grief.  

“Gods above us.” Ser Rickard spoke, dutifully taking to his knee, bowing his last before his fallen king.  

The news of his death tore through the castle, Alicent arriving at a run, pausing in the doorway to bring Aemella back to her feet and hold her in a tight embrace before tearfully, she approached the body of her first born. 

“We can be comforted to know at least he was with his dear sister when he began to pass, dowager queen.” Orwyle spoke, hoping his words might be a balm to the distressed woman before him as she wept.  

Still crying, but inside bursting with triumph, her every fibre uncoiling with relief, Aemella stood and spectated the scene, feeling two hands rest to her shoulders. Turning, she sank into her husband’s embrace, crying against his neck. 

“What happened, my love?”  

Emerging, she gasped, her tears cascading as she looked up at him. “He... he... stopped breathing. Then he was gone.” Her performance was faultless... to anyone but her twin.  

The way she smiled at him through those tears would have chilled him to his bones, had Aemond not known what she’d done was - as she always had and would - to protect him. 

A/N - Now, did you enjoy what you just read? Please remember, this is not Instagram. Clicking that heart does little, but a comment? Your author will be rewarded. A comment and reblog? Your author is throwing roses at your feet! It takes less time to do this than it did for you to read the chapter, too. Please, be kind and help support the fandom! :) 

Next Chapter

[th0rnback]

pspspspspsps thornback !!!! you write parental royai perfectly in everything even when you haven't tagged them as a couple - do you have any royai moments in your from snippets? sorry for being greedy i need them to breathe. feed me cuteness even with their son

Blergh! As a gen/parental only writer I tend to think my romantic moments I write be icky or lame... hence the hit and miss tag of slapping Roy and Riza together in a tag unless I got that burst of confidence or need to makesure their link is obvious. Uhhh... lemme see. Royai moments, Royai moments that got scrapped in Full of Mettle... I got so many snippets, bud. Errrrrr.... (first come, first serve, you can have this one) but it could easily be platonic. Which is... if you're not writing soft moments and if love isn't built on suicide pacts and war crimes being besties, then are you even lovin' right??? Don't hate, just appreciate the quickly edited scraps, with FoM! Ed bearing witness to how semi-healthy relationships work. ⬇️❤️‍🩹📻🎶 ⬇️

It felt like a sharp, hot blade had been shoved into Edward’s left thigh.

The feeling tore through his sleep and had him snapping upright with a strangled gasp, his brain instantly recognizing the sudden unforgiving pain as cramp. Instinctively, mismatched hands flew to his left leg—one warm and calloused, the other cold metal—grasping at the throbbing muscle just above his automail port. The boy doubled over with a hiss, grinding the heel of his hand into the tight knot of pain beneath the red and black checkered pajama shorts that had somehow slipped into his limited possessions.

The twinges weren’t unusual. Hell, they were practically expected given his rushed automail rehabilitation. Daily stretches helped but – sometimes – the searing burn of lugging around extra weight still happened without being prompted by weather changes. Regardless, with teeth clenched and rocking slightly, he hissed out a curse and heard a long-suffering huff from the bottom of the bed.

Even in the dim light that spilled from the partially open bedroom door,  the source of that tired sound stirred, and Black Hayate’s soulful eyes gleamed. Ed was still waiting for the moment that the dog would soon be fed up of disturbed sleep, just like he expected with Riza. So far, neither Hayate or his owner showed signs of being exasperated with Ed’s nocturnal struggles of cramps, night terrors, sleep mutterings.

It was still natural to force a smile and grunt out an apology. “S-Sorry.’’

Black Hayate shifted, creeping closer and nudging gently at Ed’s back in sleepy solidarity, cold nose pressing against the strip of skin exposed by his frayed t-shirt. The sensation was both absurd and grounding, and despite the pain, Ed let out a snort, scooting away from the whiskery snout to avoid the ticklish sensation.

With a stifled groan, Edward slid off the bed, his automail knee briefly rattling as he staggered upright. He knew what needed to be done: walk it off.

Riza’s apartment was all wooden flooring and wainscoting, though.  Edward hated how even if he put socks on his feet, the uneven clunking would be heard regardless of how careful his steps would be. It needed to be done and, with a groan, he slid off the bed, his automail knee briefly rattling as he staggered upright.

He was already calculating how many laps around the couch it’d take the loosen the damn thing up when he noticed it. The light. Riza had realized quickly how Edward was selective of tightly closed doors and his temporary bedroom was already ajar. Like always, the door was cracked open, but the light spilling through was brighter than it should’ve been given the late hour.

Edward nudged it wider with his shoulder, one hand still clamped on his spasming thigh. The soft creak was drowned out by low voices and the muted hum of a radio. The living room was awash in golden lamplight and, after a few blinks of adjustment, tired eyes zeroed in on Roy and Riza.

They were exactly as he’d last seen them—just as he’d drifted off to the sound of Roy’s low, fond chuckle and the feel of Riza’s gentle hands tucking the blanket around him. Still caught in the remnants of uniform: weapons stored away, boots neatly placed at the entry. Roy’s white shirt was half-untucked, sleeves rolled casually to his elbows, his blue jacket draped over the armchair like an afterthought. Riza mirrored him—black t-shirt creased and hair loosened from its usual tight hold.

Papers littered the far dining table, a half-organized chaos that was long overdue. Reports and approvals that Edward knew, simply due to being a spectator to their hushed conversations on the drive back from Eastern Command, that Riza had insisted Roy finish lest he fall further behind. Apparently, serial killer case or not, the Colonel still had his typical workload to complete…

And yet, despite the hour and the weight of all they carried, something about them looked...softer.

Lighter might have been a better word. The furrow in Roy’s brow wasn’t quite as deep and the stiffness forged by duty in Riza’s shoulders had eased. There was weariness in their postures, sure. But it looked more like relaxation and shared fatigue of two people who trusted eachother implicitly than something sharp and brittle.—but less of the sharp, brittle kind, and more the shared fatigue of two people simply weathering life together.

It made the constant pressure behind Edward’s ribcage ease, just a little.

The same couldn’t be said for the muscle in his thigh. It continued to burn, his mismatched toes scrunching and teeth clenching. However, the sight before him was a welcome distraction. It felt like he was learning something new about the Flame Alchemist and Amestris’ prized Hawk’s Eye each day.

Like the fact they must celebrate completed paperwork with a slow dance.

Because that was what it looked like as Ed eyed them swaying in the middle of the room, movements unhurried, their feet matching the rhythm of the tune whispering from the radio. Their bodies were close but not wrapped up and intimidating with each other like Edward had caught glimpses of in smokey bars or dank alleyways when being Kimblee’s shadow. No, this was nothing like the confusing adult-only things he caught glimpses of and vaguely understood that made him feel like he needed to flee.

This was friendly; slow and sweet. There was nothing that made his hackles rise with unease. Roy and Riza moved in simple steps as they talked, taking the moment to do whatever this was because timing and peace was kind enough to allow them a moment to breathe.

Nonetheless, Edward stared like he was trying to figure them out or wait for something amiss, brows scrunching and –

“You’ve got three days before the requisitions paperwork hits command,” Riza said softly, her cheek near Roy’s shoulder, voice tired but focused. “If it lapses again, they’ll cut the discretionary budget.’’

Roy chuckled, his voice smooth and low as ever. “You’ve got bigger things to worry about than paperwork, dear Lieutenant.”

Riza pulled back slightly to give Roy a unamused dry look.  “And that would be?’’

“Like fixing your left two feet,’’ Roy explained with a smirk. “Because if that memo about General Meyers’ compulsory charity event is real—and it is—then I’m afraid you’ll have to dance at it.”

Riza let out a low, exasperated groan. “Feel free to send me off onto an assignment or, better yet, court-martial me.’’

That made the Colonel let loose a delighted laugh—sharp, sudden, and surprisingly unguarded. Edward was half a shuffle back into his bedroom to not disturb whatever this was when russet eyes clocked him mid-slow turn. He froze, ears growing hot, feeling like he had disturbed something precious, only to find himself on the receiving end of a gentle smile and soft greeting.

“What’s got you up at this hour, Edward?’’

“Uh… sorry…’’ Edward fumbled, one hand still gripping his thigh. He wasn’t sure where to look—his feet, the fire, the shadows in the corners of the room, anywhere but—

Roy.

Edward was distracted by the way the man’s broad shoulders seemed to bristle, albeit for a moment. Clearly, Roy was either a self-conscious dancer or was briefly surprised by his unexpected presence. Yet, before unease could twist about too deeply into Edward’s gut, Roy turned his head, posture loosening as his gaze settled over Ed’s shoulder. There was no reprimand there, just that enigmatic look that made Ed squirm.

It didn’t matter how long he’d known them. It didn’t matter how safe he felt here. Reading Roy Mustang was still like trying to map constellations during a thunderstorm with only one eye. Dark eyes eyes flitted over Ed from top to toe, x-raying him and zeroing in one how he was clearly favoring his biological leg.

Nerves prickling, Edward remained stock-still. By default and warped sense of self-preservation, Ed presumed he had pissed Roy and his unit off more often than not. Almost daily, Riza kept soothing Ed while he cursed his crippling, social-emotional agnosia of sorts that was limited to decent people. Fuery and the others had reassured him that the grumpier Roy looked the harder he was thinking. Maes had also said similar things, but doubt and self-consciousness niggled at Ed the longer he stood there and –

“C’mere, kid,” Roy said finally, waving him closer. “Quit trying to disappear into the shadows. Knowing our luck, you’d fall down a crack and get lost forever.”

It was such a stupid joke. But the teasing made something in Ed’s chest pop, and then vanish—the anxiety dissolved by the familiarity of it all. He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He hobbled forward with a wince that immediately made the pair break apart, the placid mood shifting with each clunk of his metal foot against gleaming wooden floor.

Roy looked that shade of irritated that Ed was starting to recognize was actually concern. Thin-lipped and frowny. Body tense and big hands still yet fingers stretching.

Unlike Riza – always ten steps ahead of the Colonel – in stating the obvious.

“Cramp?” she asked, already kneeling beside him, brow furrowed in concern. Her hands were warm—one gently resting atop his where he’d clamped it over scar-tissue. “Here?”

“S’kay,’’ Ed mumbled. “Just gotta walk it off, y’know?’’

Unconvinced, Riza pursed her lips. She always gave him a few beats to amend his weak lies or a moment to find his voice. It was nice. Even if, this time, Roy chimed in with a quip.

“What a coincidence,’’ the Colonel said smoothly. “That’s what we were stretching our limbs to avoid after all that paperwork.”

“With slow dancin’?” Ed shot him a look, equal parts incredulous and amused.

Roy gave a casual sniff, scratching at the back of his neck, studying the ceiling. “It was more of a… joint Tai Chi type of exercise. Popular in Xing. Promotes balance and flexibility.”

“Even I can tell that’s a big fat lie,” Ed said, deadpan.

Roy’s flat expression cracked just enough for a smirk to peek through.

“Ignore him, Edward,” Riza said fondly, standing as she gave Ed’s hand a light squeeze. “Yes, we were practicing our footwork. Now, do you want an ice pack or hot water bottle? I’d offer some medication but I know you—”

“No medication,” Ed cut in quickly with a scowl.

“I thought as much.” She sighed heavily, smoothing her palm over his hair like she always did. The gesture made him feel... small in a good way. Not belittled, just cared for. “I’ll get you something to drink and a hot water bottle.”

Edward’s stomach tumbled pleasantly. He tried not to think about it too deeply. Before he could stammer out a thank you, Roy spoke up. It wasn’t said to Ed, but to Riza instead, in a way that carried something he couldn’t pinpoint:

“I’ve got him.”

And then suddenly, Ed’s hands were being taken in Roy’s own—bigger, rougher, calloused palms curling around his with no regard for pinchy metal joints. Ed blinked at being accepted without flinch or fuss, a trend he was getting used to, his hind brain buzzing peacefully at the tactile action. The Flame Alchemist didn’t miss a beat and gave a gentle tug, just enough to pull Ed a step forward. Edward blinked up at him, uncertain, until he felt confused, as Roy tugged him forward a step. The Colonel’s socked foot nudged his bare feet, positioning them slightly.

Then came the swaying. Small, slow movements. Nothing too intricate. No spins, no dips. Just that same rhythm Ed had watched a moment ago, now reduced and reshaped to something with the purpose the stretch out his thigh in a playful manner.

It should’ve been awkward.

It wasn’t. Edward didn’t think he had ever danced before. Maybe he did. Maybe he had once stood atop the larger feet of a father he couldn’t remember, or got swept up in the arms of his mother as the wireless played. If he had, he didn’t know. All he did know was that the crackly melody on the radio and hands that made his own feel tiny in comparison was what he’d think of when someone uttered the word dance.

Instead, something about this — the absurdity, the quiet care, the barely-there music that Riza was still humming to from the kitchen —made amusement bubble up inside him. It was soothing, And, better yet, each sway or extended sideways lean or slow pivot helped loosen the tightness in his thigh just a little more.

“Easy does it,” Roy murmured, glancing down. “Let’s see if you have two left feet like my Lieutenant.”

From the kitchen, Riza’s voice rang out, dry but warm: “I heard that.”

Roy didn’t reply. He merely grinned wide enough that his eyes crinkled in the corners. When a chuckle slipped free, it was low, rumbling, and infectious.

Ed couldn’t help but laugh softly too.

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 19

˗ˏˋ redefining stances ˎˊ˗

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

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 15k

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

✧ author's note ✧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kiki out.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Home.

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

And then it's gone.

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

Those pancake mornings? They always came with conditions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Guilt.

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

You do, apparently.

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

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

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

So entitled. So privileged.

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

Never had to. 

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

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

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

Not over fucking pancakes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The guilt surges again, stronger. 

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

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

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

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

The kind who smells pancakes and wants to cry.

Not because you miss home.

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

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

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

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

The numbers glare back at you, accusatory.

8:00

8:00

8:00

Panic bubbles out of you.

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

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

Nothing is right.

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

This isn't your room.

This is Jungkook's room.

Jungkook's bed.

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

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

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

And then—

Jesus Christ.

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

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

What the actual fuck is wrong with you?

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

So what was it?

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

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

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

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

Including yourself.

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

But it’s no use.

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

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

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

Maybe you could actually be friends.

Real friends.

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

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

Fucking is one thing. Dating is another.

Being friends? That’s a whole different monster.

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

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

But you?

You don’t date. You detonate.

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

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

He’s not dating material.

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

So that’s where he stays. Logically.

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

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

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

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

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

You're not sure it's enough time.

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

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

Pain slices through you, vicious and unexpected.

"Fuck—" 

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

The IUD. Has to be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something soft and warm brushes against your ankle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The thought makes you snort softly. 

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

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

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

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

Completely, infuriatingly normal. Like last night changed nothing.

Maybe it didn't. For him. 

Maybe it didn’t. For you.

Or maybe it did. 

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

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

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

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

Or trying to. 

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

Gang Baby, NLE Choppa.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You make an incredulous sound. 

“What the fuck are you making, anyway?"

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

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

"What? Gotta maintain these gains." 

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

You swat at him, connecting with his bicep. 

Firm. Solid. Warm. 

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

"God, you're so fucking stupid."

"Stupid hot, maybe."

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

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

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

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

Exactly how you like it.

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

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

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

You purse your lips, hesitating. 

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

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

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

Your jaw actually drops. "Excuse me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like maybe you could do it a hundred times more.

Dangerous thought. Very dangerous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seriously? We're doing this now?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. Absolutely not.

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

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

And there it is. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

He scoffs. "Progress."

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

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

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

"Not what you were saying last night."

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

Stupid napkin. Stupid Jungkook.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's not what I meant—"

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

"I didn't say—"

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

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

Except now it feels anything but.

"You're twisting what I said."

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

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

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

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why are people asking about me?"

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

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

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

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

Can't or won't. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You, honestly, feel tired.

Bone-deep tired. 

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

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

He blinks, clearly not expecting the shift. 

After a moment, his shoulders drop a fraction.

"I’m listening.”

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

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

"Shut up." 

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

Crisis averted. Boundaries preserved. 

For now.

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

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

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

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

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

"If that's what you call it."

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

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

This is safe.

Under control.

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

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

"God, you're insufferable."

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

"Stockholm syndrome, obviously."

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

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

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

"They're edible."

"They're incredible and you know it."

"They're protein powder with extra steps."

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

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

"Says the girl who eats chips at midnight."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And the customers at Barnes & Noble do?"

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

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

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

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

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

Like you're actual roommates having an actual conversation. 

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

"I should probably start getting ready."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Okay."

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

Casual. 

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

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

"Huh?"

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

Your eyes drift back to his. Meet and hold.

"I said okay."

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

"Okay... what?"

"Sucking your dick." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You look up at him through your lashes. 

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

A shaky exhale escapes him, warm against your face.

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

"I'm not fooling around."

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

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

It doesn't.

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

His fucking Sonic pajama pants.

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

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

Your hands come to rest on his thighs. 

Strong. Solid. Warm. 

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

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

It's not.

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

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

"So why didn't you ask me?"

He doesn't answer. Can't, maybe. 

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

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

"Have you thought about it at all?"

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

Your eyes snap up to his.

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

"Yeah?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus. 

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

When did Jungkook get so... articulate?

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

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

"How l'd sound?”

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

Oh.

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

"Like this?" you ask, squeezing gently.

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

Not pulling. Not yet. Just holding.

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

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

"Sucking?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Seriously?”

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

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

The picture of nonchalance. 

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

Your eyes narrow. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet... you can’t look away. 

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

Be so fucking for real right now.

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

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

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

You hate him for it.

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

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

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

And still, he says nothing.

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

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

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

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

You start to stand up—because honestly? 

Fuck this. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your jaw tightens as embarrassment flares hot in your chest. 

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

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

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

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

Why does it feel like losing? Like humiliation?

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

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

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

“…Yus,” you mumble under your breath.

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

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

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

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

Out loud.

And it stops you cold.

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

“What?” You demand sharply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Spit.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“Spit on it.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then your eyes flick down, then back up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hisses.

Literally just from your breath.

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

Your eyes cut up automatically.

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

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

You don’t let the moment stretch too long.

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

Let spit fall from your lips.

Slow and steady.

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

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

Big. Wide. Intentional.

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

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

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

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

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

It definitely is.

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

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

But you are. And you do. 

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

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

And his head tips back instantly.

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

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

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

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

Kind of gratifying. Not gonna lie.

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

“Yeah,” he breathes. “That’s—”

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

“That’s good, but… here.”

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

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

The tatted one.

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

And okay, that’s kind of hot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t know.

But you clock it. Catalog it. 

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

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

Like both.

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

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

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

You hold back a grin. Barely.

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

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

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

Validation.

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

But he’s not looking at you.

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

And then—

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

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

Then comes the sound.

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

Rough at the edges, low, weirdly conflicted.

His head dips again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which, apparently, he really fucking is.

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

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

His voice drops again.

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

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

That spot.

That frenulum, or whatever the technical term is. 

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

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

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

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

So. You try.

You mimic the motion exactly. 

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

“Fuck.”

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

You do it again. And again.

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

He melts.

That’s the only word for it. 

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

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

Your smirk barely hides itself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He chokes a breath.

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

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

Like just existing through this is work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then—

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

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

“Your mouth.”

You freeze.

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

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

Your mouth.

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

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

And the expression there?

Jesus. He looks like he’s praying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you swear to god—something inside him glitches.

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

Fragile and desperate. 

Faint little flutter.

But it’s real.

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

As if the universe itself groaned.

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

His hand lifts again, slow.

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

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

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

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

You blink. 

That phrasing. 

Suckle.

What the fuck is he, a medieval warlord?

Still.

Your pulse stutters.

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

Something he’s replayed in his head with specificity.

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

Your brows twitch up just slightly, but you nod.

Because yeah. Okay. That you can do.

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

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

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

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

His reaction is immediate.

Lips part. Chest jerks up half an inch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Jungkook? 

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

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

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

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

You mimic it again. Just to see.

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

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

Then—

“Look at me.”

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

But you don’t.

You kind of… ignore him. 

Not on purpose, really. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stare.

Then scoff. Loud. Disbelieving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. Your mouth opens. Then closes again.

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

“Oh.” 

You blink once before pursing your lips thoughtfully again. 

“…Okay.”

Because okay indeed. You know what he means.

You hate that you know what he means.

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

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

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

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

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

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

So that’s what you give him.

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

And then, your hand moves faster.

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

And he’s feeling it.

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

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

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

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

And you don’t stop.

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

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

Wrecked.

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

Then he groans.

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

“Oh my—fffuckkkk—”

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

“Fuckin’—god, Nix—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He does.

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

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

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

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

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

You keep going.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hold it there, just like he asked.

And he groans.

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

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

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

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

Fast. 

Rough. 

Desperate. 

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

“Yeah—ahhh—shit—ah—ah—fuck—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have the prettiest fucking eyes, Nix.”

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

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

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

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

But you did it. You excelled at it. 

And Jungkook liked it. 

That’s what matters. 

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

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

“Fuck…” he mutters. “Fucking hell.” 

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

“That was fucking amazing.”  

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

“That easy, huh?”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

New territory you’re not sure how to navigate.

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

When was the last time you thanked Jungkook for anything?

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

Not the banter either, you do that too. 

The almost-friendly moment afterward.

It felt… nice. Easy, even. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure, Nix.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like friends.

The word still feels foreign, uncomfortable. 

But not entirely wrong.

goal: 500 notes.

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[augustus-rok]

Nebula AU

Maybe I'll write a fic for this, maybe i won't, but here are the basics. Also if this inspires you to write something chuck me a tag cause I wanna see it.

Set during older/later high school rather than freshman year for Danny. However the portal accident still happened at the canon time.

Ghosts are more or less invisible with out tools or certain contamination levels. This also applies to general noise they make, they have to focus extra to be heard by humans. Typically yelling only equates to a whisper when right next to someone if you're a ghost.

As Danny doesn't become a hero immediately and gets to settle into himself first, his ghost form reflects more his track towards being an astronaut. Aesthetic more along the lines of solar flares and start dust. When ghost do actually come through the portal with intent to do harm he gets a helmet and thick gloves and has a sort of jacket layer over top. I imagine that his ghost form suffers from something like what's described in this post, and the helmet and glove and jacket are learned extra thing.

Story stuff. So it turns out when the ONLY ghost to wander through the portal other than little glowing blobs that only hover, is the antithesis of your theories you have to go back to the drawing board. So the Fenton's (kept out of the loop for a couple of months) and GIW are very much good guys and BETTER Scientists. And the militaristic mind set is swiftly put down when all of the subjects (the one) book it at the slightest hint of aggression.

Now Valarie, nicknamed Red Huntress during her internship, interns/volunteers with the GIW as a field watch/interviewer for Nebula. Which is the code name given to a Danny who never introduces himself and as such gets named by vote like a new firetruck by the community.

Hey BTW this is a portal Danny AU in my head.

The basement portal? That is a direct route to his lair, which is an astronomer's dream wrapped in a, you guessed it, nebula. The Wastes (or the area the Fenton Portal spawns in in canon) inhabitants spend a good few months flipping out at the arrival of what looks like a god or something. It's a decidedly "do not fuck with that" thought process.

Danny eventual.y introduces himself and makes friends without the protect the town from day one aspect. They all tussle a bit but the other ghosts go "hey it's a baby" and give him a proper lay of the land.

Cut to 21/2 years later after the Portal Accident, and Vlad decides to be a bastard and go after the adopted mascot.

Now the scientists have all learned that fighting= play/bonding. So they are all wildly caught off guard by the very sudden warpath through the city park.

Vlad doesn't put together Halfa Danny in this AU until well after there's been conflict. And after he managed to expose the active portal to ghosts outside of the immediate area of the portal that are perfectly willing to break into Danny's lair and some have figured out the horror aspect described here: FIC I RECOMMEND

So back to that fight. Ghosts are QUIET, especially Danny who even with the tech, radio/coms that make other ghost audible, has to be boosted to be heard by even other ghosts. (I imagine lots of sign language in this au) So this darling little sky watching ghost screams, a terrified child's noise, as this ghost that looks like a Vampire and a hoard of vultures(?) actively assault the poor thing? God the humans, the humans are scared. Everyone could hear that out side of the coms, and everyone saw it. They got good at televising the ghosts.

Sam and Tucker, decidedly only civilians are terrified for their friend. They know what play fighting looks like, they've been to the lair. Valarie who catches on fast thanks to being the intern bestie to Nebula and maybe future girlfriend to Daniel "Hot space nerd in row 4 of homeroom" Fenton, is forced as fights, proper devastating ones, continue happening to keep her friends away. Especially the first time. Most importantly that first fight.

REMEMBER Danny's portal, not the one in the basement. Well he stretches, upper body desperately crawling away from his lower half trapped by the vultures, keening all the way. Still scarily audible. Then from the gap made of flaring stardust and molten plasma that is the active void that consumes the area his stomach would have been was he human- Comes a raging adult ghost. More than one possibly.

I especially like the idea of Skulker and his missle launcher showing up, being the third ever recorded humanoid ghost, and absolutely steamrolling Plasimus who is not a Halfa as in halfway point like Danny is so loved by the Waste ghosts for being. But rather just half a ghost, a human with a funky little boon.

Now as Skulker has the time of his afterlife chasing Vlad and the Vultures, lets have say Lunch Lady slip out of Danny's portal, maybe one of the more teenagery ghosts too.

Anyways, instant fussing. Danny relaxes enough to stop being a portal to hell and the humans are very careful in approaching them all. What with the older ghost's yelling at the aggressors to leave the baby alone. Skulker is dramatic, and likes embarrassing the whelp.

After this point things beginning to resemble canon more, only the humans have a natural non-guessing gauge of hostility for the ghosts in town.

They figure out pretty fast that the physical portal and Nebula portal only let through friendlies. (Not entirely true but they don't know that.) And the threats, well lets just say Nebula is never caught off guard in his own territory again. He becomes ruthless.

Meanwhile, Danny Fenton has friends both dead and alive helping him fight a guerrilla war against madmen. He sits in class undisturbed even as he tracks the startbursts he knows are his friends protecting him and everyone else untill he's free. He huddles in the attic crawlspace filling out data sheets and pin boards as his girlfriend and best friends scour government documents.

Nebula sits in the portal, toxic light cascading like water around him, watching his parents and GIW agents work in the FentonWorks lab.

He always gives good greetings to those who offer, and when asked he whispers secrets of the universe he's learned from the source over the radio.

The scientists for get to ask for his sources, but when they do they are always both awed and terrified of the sources.

Things go well. And things as always progress.

Link to Doodle I did that actually drove me writing all this.

[paperbackribs]

Eddie's Proposal

Prompt Day 28 – Proposal | Rating: T | CW: None | Tags: Eddie and Chrissy are besties, pre-steddie, buckingham, no Upside Down AU | WC: 877  For the @steddieholidaydrabbles

💘💅💘💅💘

“I have a proposal for you,” Eddie says.

Chrissy looks up from filing her nails, splayed across his bed with head and hands hanging off the edge, “I thought we established you don’t swing that way, babe.”

Folding his legs under him, Eddie sits cross-legged on the navy carpet by her side. David Bowie plays softly in the background because he’s not a barbarian and he’d do anything for this girl; plus, Steve loves Dancing in the Street and who is Eddie to not develop an appreciation in the gorgeous face of all that enthusiasm?

He tuts at her, “But you do about the other half of the time, so I have a proposal for you.”

“Eddie, dear, darling of my heart, you should have brought a ring. Maybe a big cheesy placard with hearts painted all over it.” She focuses on a particularly rough edge, squinting at it. “Diamond princess cut, please and thank you, sweetheart.”

Eddie scoffs even as he rubs his sweaty palms over his knees. The album fades into Cat People and Bowie roars that he’s been putting out fire with gasoline. He wonders if the lyrics are why he feels so hot suddenly. “No, not for me. For Steve.”

Chrissy’s smile is immediate and bright, “Thank God. Yes, do it. Ask him out, for sure.” Her long blonde hair shakes around her face as she laughs, a beautiful tinkling sound that spears through his heart. Eddie grips his knee; this is what he wants, he reminds himself.

“I think you’ll have to do it, he’s too shy,” Eddie says around the copper in his mouth.

Chrissy snorts, shooting him a wry look, “Steve Harrington? Shy? He struts around in barely there short shorts whenever we come over for his pool. The man doesn’t have a shy bone in his body.”

“There’s a bone somewhere,” Eddie mutters to himself, thinking of the heart palpitations he’s suffered from an affectionate, touchy-feely Steve by the poolside. Louder he says, “But you know it’s different for emotional stuff. He’s been hurt before and I think he’s gun shy.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t track,” she rebuts, frowning as she accidentally chips a piece of baby blue polish off. “He’s been very clear that he wants to move on. And with who.”

Eddie feels the blood drain from his face, dropping below the heart that has fallen out of his chest with a splat. “He’s asked you out already.” As he watches Chrissy’s face move through a series of complicated expressions, Eddie tells his heart to get itself under control: this is good, this was the goal all along.

“Eddie,” Chrissy begins, throwing aside her file to prop herself above him on her elbows, he tilts his head up to meet her suspicious gaze. “Are you asking me to date Steve? Not someone else?”

“Definitely not someone else,” Eddie answers quickly. “He should have the best and you’re the best, you two would be… the best together,” he finishes lamely albeit sincerely.

Eddie immediately knows that his crush on Steve has been ill-hidden when her wide blue eyes fill with pity. What he doesn’t expect is for amusement to swiftly replace it. “You’re an idiot,” she says affectionately.

Eddie straightens, he doesn’t expect her to cede ground to Steve because well, look at the gorgeous, sweet fucker, but she doesn’t need to rub his nose in it. “I know,” he sighs, “And I shouldn’t have let myself develop feelings for him, but at the very least I would be happy if he were happy.”

He moves up, kneeling like a knight under his queen, taking her hand in earnest, “You two are the best people in my life, and I just know you’d be good for each other.”

“Eddie…” She moves her free hand up to his head and instead of the gentle stroke he had expected she takes a chunk of his hair and yanks it, hard. “Ow, motherfucker!” He jerks back, staring at her incredulously.

“Eddie Munson, who does Steve spend all his time with?” She demands exasperatedly.

“Me,” he shakes his sore head, “That’s how I know you two would fit.”

“Yeah, well, Robin might knee-cap you for suggesting it.”

“Robin? You and…” Eddie tilts his head, the only way he can keep the world in focus as it tips over. “Yes, me and Robs,” Chrissy rolls her eyes, “And I think she would knee-cap me if I tried to hit on Steve when he clearly wants you.”

The world is still tilting, he thinks as he wordlessly points to himself. Chrissy nods, smirking. “Apparently, she’s not that far off of doing the same to Steve, if only to put him out of his misery.”

“Because he wants… me?” Eddie whispers because reverent things should be treated delicately. Chrissy patiently nods, allowing him time to reconcile the hope ballooning inside him against the sudden drumming of impatience.

Eddie drops her hand, scrambling up. “Sorry princess, I have to see a man about a proposal,” he calls out as he runs out of the room.

Chrissy shakes her head, grabbing her file and flopping back onto the pillows on his bed. “I’m surrounded by idiots,” she mutters, thinking about how Robin’s going to lose it when she tells her about this later.

[luckycrystal]

unexpected love || jamal musiala x reader ft friends micheal olise

Summary:

Reader is friends with Micheal Olise who is best friends with Jamal Musiala. Jamal gets on the wrong foot of y/n and they start to argue, until one day when she is in trouble with others he defends her. That's when they discover their feelings for each other.

Disclaimer: I don't own the image, I got it from Pinterest.

Micheal and Y/n were the best of friends. She was one of his closest friends, one that he let into his guided circle that only a few family members and teammates were allowed into. They had similar personalities, both often being quiet and hating social media and small talk, preferring to go straight to the point.

It was far better than people pleasers that he often encountered in his career, y/n had gradually become a safe space where he could air his ideas without the feeling that his every word would be posted or overanalyzed. She also found a good listener and a loyal friend in him.

"Are you going to come with me?" That's why she was not surprised he invited her to team event.

"What about Lamine Jamal?" Y/n raised an eyebrow.

He adjusted the way he laid on her bed, "First of," He raised a hand. "Lamine Yamal, that's a completely different footballers. The person you want to ask is Jamal musiala, he's a player so can't bring him".

"I don't know" Y/n shakes her head. "I have a fashion show this week, the models still have to try on the dresses to make sure everything is perfect. I have to check on the set and see it's fine. Also, t is not really my scene is it?".

"Neither is mine" Micheal makes a pout. "But could you really see your best friend suffering alone in the wild with no one to talk to or have at a date?" He has watery eyes.

"You are a menace" Y/n tells him as she chuckles. "If only your Bayern or national team saw you now". She says as she arranged a new rack of clothes, "Fine I'll go."

**

Micheal had picked her up and taken her to the restaurant the team event was going to be held. It was a quiet and nice place, no cameras, paparazzi or press taking photos, she noticed already that he had already released a sigh of relief.

"Hey" he turns to her. "I think I left my phone in the car". His expression is that of a startled cat, she laughs and nods, telling him she'd be fine and that he could go ahead and get it.

It takes her only two seconds of surveying the area before she finds him looking at her, Jamal Musiala. Y/n thinks she gets his name right this time, and after watching several of their interviews together before now she could recognise him from miles away.

"what are you doing here?" Jamal says as soon as he is close enough to get.

"attending the event" she tells him in all seriousness. "aren't you?".

"yeah," then takes a look at her. "but this is meant for teammates, no press".

Musiala is already looking around. "You're going to get into loads of trouble if someone sees you" he points at the bathroom, "If you go in through there, there's an exit which you can sneak out through".

While he's speaking another figure appears beside him. "Bambi?" Then looks over at Y/n. "Who is this?".

Musiala looks panicked that Y/m has to bite the insides of her cheek not to laugh. "My date, phonzy".

You smile at him. "If she's your date, then what about me?" Michael asks as he appears by her side.

"both of you have the same date?" Phonzy asked confused.

He quickly gets distracted by someone else and ventures into the crowd.

"why didn't you say anything?" Jamal now looks upset. "I was ready to have your back but you made me look...foolish".

Y/n did not take it seriously, laughing. "Sorry but you looked so anxious I didn't know whether to cut you off or say nothing".

"Jamal, this is my friend Y/n" Micheal introduced. "I see you both have met, my two besties in one place".

Jamal shrugs. "I guess" before docking to meet the others.

Micheal and y/n take their seats, beside Jamal who keeps sneaking looks at Y/n all night for some reason. At one point, their eyes meet for a prolonged period of time that a joke made by Muller escaped their years, they were that engrossed.

By the time it was time to go, Harry had decided to drop them home. Michael, Y/n and Jamal had occupied the back seats while Kimmich and th rest were at front.

"where are you going to?" Jamal suddenly asked Olise.

"y/n house" Olise says casually which makes him have a double take.

"is there a problem?" Y/n raised an eyebrow noticing his looks.

"never said it was" musiala says. "now your reaching".

"you did not have to say what you thought, your face spoke for you" y/n insist. "it was a mix of something between shock and something else I can't put my hand on, why don't you think he could like me that way?".

Jamal laughs, though his face reddens deeper. "Now, why would I think he could- he doesn't- you two are just friends".

"but we're both very attractive people" she says, "it could happen".

"yeah, you are attractive but he doesn't see you that way". He argues.

Y/n tries not to let her heart flutter at the thought that Jamal saw her attractive, she and Micheal got home safely. But before then she'd already fought on 12 more topics that were completely unrelated with Jamal, it was funny because the other members in the car kept trying to tear them apart with each refusing to be defeated.

She was making her daily evening tea, when suddenly there were eyes on her. "What?".

"Jamal musiala" Micheal says with no further addition.

She turns around to see him staring into her soul deeply. "If this was a horror show, I'd already be out that door" she said while faking chills. "Your look is intense".

"you only ever used to bicker with me when we first met" he tells her. "in my knowledge of you, you wouldn't normally talk to anyone unless you were comfortable with them".

"so?" Y/n asked.

"you've fought or flirted with Jamal since you met him and this is only one day".

She stopped. "I- yes, but that's only because he was being annoying and everything, and besides aren't you supposed to be sleeping by now? with you having training and all?".

He nodded and was going to the guest bedroom when suddenly he froze. "You'd tell me if you had feelings for him right?".

She gulped. "Yes, but not sure if it'll ever get to that".

**

The next time they met, was when she went to the stadium to watch a Bayern match. She opted not to stay at the family area, not wanting to bring attention to herself. The match was against a visibly week team, so she was sure they'd win.

And they did.

The first goal was in the 15th minute by Harry Kane and assisted by Kimmich, the next was at the 22nd minute assisted by Olise to Jamal, then finally at the 35th minute Micheal finally scored. The first half of the game was fairly easy as the team was left with defending those goals, which they did with Jamal even netting his second goal of the night, loud screams throughout the stadium as the fans excitedly chanted.

Michael went to her and handed his shirt. "Hold it, I'll be right back" He said as y/n held onto the shirt. Y/n felt a piercing gaze at her back only to turn and find Jamal staring at Olise shirt with a strange look, while he was holding he's out.

Jamal made eye contact with her and then at the shirt she was holding in her hand, both sceptical looks. She rolled her eyes and extended her hand, they both looked at each other in shock and even greater shock when he dropped the shirt in her hands and turned to work away.

'Had he meant to give me his shirt?' She asked herself, still uncertain if it was only because she stretched her hands out.

**

One time after training, Micheal and her were eating out at a restaurant which was strange for them because they'd always prefer eating in doors and away from crowds but they were just too hungry to go home. That'd when Jamal saw them.

"Hey" He shook hands with Michael and then turned to Y/n and stood there stunned, she also did not know whether to bring her hand out or not, so they just nodded at each other.

"You too are very close huh?" Jamal said while taking his seat. "Having lunch together, exchanging shirts, watching matches and being each others dates...".

That's when Y/n became aware she was wearing Micheal's shirt. "Oh, these" She waved. "He borrows my jackets all the time too, it's something we friends do".

"not all friends" He said while picking her fries to eat. "would you wear my shirt?".

"no, why would I?" Y/n says still eyeing the fries that he was stealing from her, she squats his hands away. "and neither would I steal your fries".

Jamal smiles, bringing his hands back to fries. "Not even a little?" He said taking three in his hands and shoving it down his throat, Y/n rolls her eyes at him but shifts her plate closer so he could have access.

"are you two flirting right now?" Micheal asked which startled them both.

"bro" Jamal even said with a fake offensive tone. "you can't sneak in on me like that".

Micheal puts his hand on his heart. "This is my lunch which you snuck into, it's actually you who is at fault" he says snapping his hand from where he's now trying to steal his own drink. "why don't you just order?".

Y/n laughs. "You two are so childish".

Jamal looks stunned. "So you do laugh" he says. "I thought your only expression was that thing you do" he makes the worse upset/angry looking face, which makes Y/n laughs the more.

"I have a testing b*tch face" She tells him, while laughing. "I don't look like that, also it's not like me to let people in easily so I might look guarded at times".

Jamal stops to access her. "Oh...".

**

This time when Y/n met Jamal, they were alone. Micheal was actually supposed to join them but he cancelled last minute, and so they were left alone to pick out an outfit that she would wear for an upcoming dinner party to celebrate the opening of one of her friends new store.

To her surprise, Jamal did not look upset that they would be spending more time together or that he would have to help her, only a bit nervous. But she did not know why that might be the case.

The first dress she saw was a red gown, that flowed to the ground. She shook her head, she didn't like having to carry anything when she should be having fun. The second dress was slightly shorter but they didn't have it in blue, so she refused.

"I don't get it" Jamal groaned. "It's just a dress or no? Pick anyone,don't you design clothes? Choose one from your collection.".

Y/n startled. "You know about...that?".

Which in turn makes him startle. "Yeah, who doesn't?" He says as he avoids eye contact. "But my points still stands".

"Not many people, the other players at Bayern didn't" Y/n raises an eyebrow. "Micheal didn't when we first met, and it's not like I'm that well known so the only way you'd know is if you googled me".

He looks at the ground, the ceiling , everywhere she was not, which made her laugh. "You look like a kid caught stealing candy, so much guilt. I'm not accusing you of anything just making conversation".

"I don't look like that" Jamal defended.

"you must definitely do" She insisted.

The rest of the afternoon was filled with Y/n teasing him, dress shopping long forgotten as watching Jamal be in misery or his cheeks becoming pink, was now the order of the day. Only when it was getting late did they go to the cashier.

"I don't want to wear something from my brand because I don't want to look prideful or too into myself" She tells him. "I just want to celebrate my friend and let her have her moment".

He nods in understanding. Y/n finally picks a short white dress with ribbons on the front, and a cute heart at the back.

After that day, their bickering was more profound. But it wasn't out of anger, just a friendly one, he also collected her number and they exchanged pictures of their day and would even talk to each other when Michael was calling him. They were in a comfortable start of their friendship.

When Micheal had brought her as a plus one again, Jamal had offered she'd seat with him while he went to talk to the others. She accepted when a random guy she hadn't seen before, and she was sure it wasn't a footballer, suddenly appeared in front of her and started conversation.

"want to go out for a while?" He suddenly asked despite not hearing a word from her since he sat there. She had just been nodding, and keeping to herself while monitoring when Micheal would be back.

"no thank you" She pushed him aside.

"promise it would be fun" He tells her, grabbing hold of her hand.

"the lady said no" A familiar voice came to her side. Jamal, she confirmed when she looked up. "let her go".

"what are you, her boyfriend?" the man insisted refusing to let go.

"yeah, so what if I am?" He stated. "And I'm about to become a very very angry one if you don't let her hand go".

The man contemplated his situation, then slowly let her hand go, it already had red marks on it, and when Jamal saw it he tried to jump on said man only for Y/n to hold him back, this further made the man to run quicker and out of the place.

"thanks" She said.

"How's your hand?" He said grabbing it and rubbing over the red mark. It was the first time they had held hands, Y/n could not stop her heart from fluttering at the sudden contact of their skin.

"your heart..its beating fast" Jamal said making eye contact with her, her eyes went to her pulse and back to him, then she immediately took her hands away like she was being burnt and rushed outside.

She didn't know what she was even running from. Maybe she needed air, or maybe it was getting hlt inside. All she knew was that if she had not left, she would have ended up doing something she'd regret, something like kissing Jamal musiala.

"are you alright?" His voice suddenly startled her. "You didn't look well so I came to check on you".

"I'm fine" Y/n insists.

"did I do something wrong?"

"no"

"them why did you run?"

"because I-"

Jamal took a step forward. "Because?".

"I-"

"You?".

Jamal sighed. "I'll say it for you, you got uncomfortable right? Because you know that I have feelings for you, I don't know how you found out but you did and now you don't want to be near me".

Y/n shook her head, unaware of the things he was telling her. "Your feelings?".

"I like you, Y/n" He says. "Very much, but I couldn't say it because of Micheal, I was not sure if you two were together or not-"

"we aren't" Y/n says. "we aren't together".

"really? You are so alike then, you even share clothes and have each other as dates" He diverted his heart. "then I thought you hated or disliked me for some reason for some time, that you just tolerated me" He says.

Y/n steps forward crowding his space. "I also thought you just tolerated me," She says. "I ran away because if I didn't, I'd have kissed you and I didn't want to make things awkward after that".

They stand and stare at each other. "Would you kiss me now?"

Y/n smiles and nods. He takes another step closer, closing the gap and kisses her, it was just for a moment or so but they both separate looking pleased with themselves.

"what do we tell Micheal?" Jamal asked as they walk back in.

"I knew it!" He says looking at the both of them. "I knew you liked him".

Y/n rolls her eyes. "Fine, you and your little speculations were right".

Jamal turns around and gives her another kiss. "I can't believe you like me".

"neither can I"

THE END