#me and my bestie be suffering through it together

[killerplink]

MENACE

Pairing: Jason Todd x Female Reader

Plot: You're loopy on anesthesia, full of dramatic declarations and clingy affection, and Jason's just trying (and failing) not to laugh through it all.

Words: 5,7k

CW: medical mention (minor), anesthesia shenanigans, reader is unhinged post-op, Jason is suffering (lovingly) and enabling nonsense, fluff, chaos, and clinginess ahead

Jason's leaning against the wall, arms crossed, booted foot propped against it, waiting for you to wake up. The hospital room is quiet except for the faint beeping of machines, and he's been here for the past hour, scrolling through his phone, glancing at you every few seconds. You'd just finished a minor surgery—nothing serious—but they'd put you under general anesthesia.

The nurse had warned him earlier, smirking like she knew a secret. "She might be a little... loopy when she wakes up."

Jason had grinned. "Yeah? Can't wait."

Now, seeing you stir, he straightens. His arms uncross, phone slipping into his jacket pocket. Your nose scrunches adorably, lashes fluttering, and he feels his heart melt. Soft. Warm. Fuck, you always do this to him.

Then, your eyes crack open, hazy and unfocused. You blink at the ceiling, slow and confused before your gaze shifts toward him. Squint. Head tilt. Brow furrow.

"Who... who the fuck are you?"

Your voice comes out raspy, accusatory, like he just insulted your entire bloodline.

Jason blinks. "Uh—"

"Stay back, asshole!" you slur, flailing your arm in his general direction, though it moves more like a limp noodle. You look so fucking ridiculous and adorable that he's already smiling. "My man—he's gonna beat your ass if you try any funny shit."

Jason loses it. He presses the heel of his hand to his mouth, shoulders shaking with laughter. "Doll," he manages, "I am your man. It's me, Jason."

Your eyes widen like he just dropped some wild conspiracy theory. Like he just told you aliens exist. "Nuh-uh," you shake your head, which only makes you dizzy. You grimace, blinking slowly. "Nope. My man's way hotter."

He chokes on a laugh. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah," you huff, trying to cross your arms. One arm folds across your chest; the other flops uselessly to the side. "He's got these arms, you know? Big. Like... huge. Probably can lift a car. Or me. Definitely me. And—and his back? Broad. Biteable—"

Jason's grinning ear to ear, having the absolute time of his life. "Biteable, huh?"

"Yeah," you nod emphatically, wobbling. "And his hands... oh my God—" you pause, eyes going comically wide. Then you lean in, voice dropping to a stage whisper that's definitely not quiet, "Wait. You're kinda hot too."

He snorts. "Thanks, doll. Appreciate it."

You glance around like you're telling a state secret. "Don't tell my man I said that, though. He's crazy possessive. Like, one time? A guy winked at me and Jay was ready to commit murder. I kinda liked it, though."

Jason raises a brow, amused. "Sounds intense."

"It was so hot, bestie, God."

He wheezes. Bestie. You called him fucking bestie. He's biting his lip to keep it together, but it's a losing battle.

"Yeah," he nods, lips twitching.

Then—oh God—you gasp, dramatically clutching at the blanket. "Wait." Your eyes narrow. "Did you say your name's Jason?"

Your jaw drops. "Holy shit. Are you... Jason? Like... my Jay?"

"Been tryin' to tell you that for the past five minutes, baby."

You stare at him, processing, blinking real slow, brain cell working overtime. "No fucking way."

Jason's grinning like a damn fool. "Yeah, way."

You mumble, eyes raking over him, "Damn, I scored." Like you just won the lottery. "How the fuck did I pull you? Look at you. You're like... a Greek god. Or—or one of those guys in romance novels. With the abs and the smolder." Your gaze drops pointedly to his chest. "Do you have abs? Wait—of course you do."

Jason chuckles, sitting on the edge of the bed. His hand reaches out, brushing hair back from your face. Gentle. "You're somethin' else, doll."

Your voice goes all soft, eyes big and hopeful. "You think I'm pretty?"

His expression shifts, still amused, but warmer. Softer. "Gorgeous."

You gasp like he just handed you the moon. "No, you."

Jason laughs, shaking his head. "Thank you, baby."

"Wait—" you squint, suspicious again. "How do I know you're not lying, huh? What if you're just pretending to be my boyfriend to steal my organs?"

Jason tilts his head. "Doll, you just had surgery. If I wanted your organs, I'd be late to the party."

Your gasp is scandalized. "Oh my God, you're funny too?"

He's wheezing now, hand covering his face. "Guess so."

You beam at him. "I love youuu."

Jason's heart skips, just for a second, soft and unguarded. He lets out a breathy laugh, leaning in to kiss your temple. "Love you too, pretty girl."

"Wait—" you pause, eyes narrowing as suspicion creeps back in. He watches you, already bracing himself. You tilt your head, lips pursed in deep, dramatic thought. "Do you have a dick?"

He freezes. His hand, halfway through smoothing back his hair, just stops. Blinks once. "Uh... yeah?"

"Big one?" Your voice is loud—way too loud for a hospital room—and you look at him like you're interrogating a suspect.

He lets out a laugh, scrubbing both hands over his face, dragging them down like this can't possibly be happening right now. "Jesus Christ—yeah, baby. Big one."

You nod sagely, like you just solved a great mystery. "Knew it," you lift your chin, all proud and smug. "Knew I had good taste."

Jason's still laughing when the nurse walks in, holding a clipboard and looking completely unfazed. Probably seen worse, but then you point at him, arm swaying like you're aiming at a moving target.

"That's my man," you announce proudly, eyes wide, volume cranked up to eleven. "He's got abs and a huge dick. Just thought you should know."

Jason damn near doubles over. He slaps a hand to his knee like an old man trying not to wheeze in public and shakes his head, face flushed with a grin that just won't quit.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, under his breath but not low enough.

The nurse, bless her heart, doesn't even flinch, just adjusts her glasses and gives Jason a slow, knowing look over the rims like, Good luck with that, buddy.

He meets her eyes with a long suffering sigh. "You have no idea."

Eventually—finally—they give the green light to go. Jason grabs your clothes from the chair beside your bed, holding them up like, Okay, how do we make this happen without you fallin' off the planet. You, meanwhile, are giggling like you just heard the funniest joke in the universe.

He tries to help you slip into them between your giggles and half hearted attempts to convince him you can totally dress yourself, which... no, you can't. Your limbs are floppy, coordination nonexistent, and at one point you try to put your jacket on like pants.

"I got it," you insist, swatting at his hands. "I can dress myself. I'm a grown woman."

"You literally just tried to put your jacket on like pants," he deadpans, not even fazed anymore.

"I was experimenting," you huff, as if you're inventing a new fashion trend.

Jason shakes his head, lips twitching, and carefully helps you into your clothes, guiding your limbs like you're made of overcooked spaghetti. Every few seconds, you lean on him, touch his face, giggle like you're seeing him for the first time. It's cute. A little dangerous. Mostly cute.

By the time you're dressed—barely—Jason has to scoop you up like you're nothing, one arm under your legs, the other behind your back. You're already melting into him, fingers curling into the collar of his jacket.

"I can walk," you protest faintly, though you're nuzzling into his neck like you've already decided this is your new permanent home.

"Sure you can," he says, carrying you like it's second nature, voice laced with amusement. "And I'm Batman."

You squint. "No you're not. You're too hot."

He snorts and keeps walking. When you reach the exit, he sets you down gently, one arm still wrapped around your waist just in case. You sway a little but grin at him, eyes bright as you beam up at him like he hung the stars.

"Wait—wait—" you stop dead in your tracks, pointing at him like you just had the most groundbreaking realization. "You're telling me I get to go home with you? The hot guy with the abs and the massive dick?"

Jason snickers, biting his lip to keep from losing it again. "Yup."

You light up like Christmas morning. "Best day ever."

In the car, you're curled up in the passenger seat like a sleepy cat, legs tucked underneath you, head lolled to the side against the window. Your eyes are drooping, breaths slow and even, but somehow—somehow—your mouth just won't shut up.

"Hey... hey, Jason?" Your voice is soft but persistent, slurred like you've had a few too many drinks.

Jason glances over, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on your thigh. "Yeah, doll?"

You blink at him, slow as molasses, then mumble with complete sincerity, "I wanna bite your abs."

Jason laughs, head tilting back slightly as he shakes his head. "Maybe when you're not high off your ass."

You pout like he just told you Santa isn't real. "You're so mean. But like... hot mean."

He snorts. "Hot mean? The fuck does that even mean?"

You nod, very serious. "Yeah. Like... the morally grey love interest in books. The one who kills people but also gives good cuddles."

"I'm flattered, baby."

"I have great taste," you add, smug.

"Yeah, you do," he mutters under his breath, grin tugging at his lips as he navigates the streets back home.

By the time he pulls into the driveway, you're half asleep, face smushed against the window, leaving a foggy patch of drool that you will not be happy about later. Jason parks, turns off the engine, and gently taps your thigh.

"C'mon, pretty girl. We're home."

You make a noise—something between a groan and a whine—but let him help you out of the car. His arm wraps securely around your waist, guiding you toward the front door as you shuffle along like a sleepy baby deer, legs wobbly, coordination completely gone.

Then you gasp, loud and dramatic, eyes going huge as you step inside. "No fucking way."

Jason raises a brow, kicking off his boots. "What now?"

"We live here?"

You fling your arms out to gesture at the living room, nearly tripping over your own feet. Jason catches you without missing a beat, steadying you with one hand on your hip.

"Have for over two years, baby," he says, amused.

"Shut. Up," you gasp, smacking his chest—which, of course, does absolutely nothing because the man is built like a brick wall. He just grins, letting you flail. "This place is like... like a Pinterest board! Look at that couch!"

Jason snickers. "Well, you picked it."

Your jaw drops. "No, I didn't."

"You did," he insists, guiding you forward, but you plant your feet, refusing to move as you stare at the couch like it's the Mona Lisa.

"Wow," you breathe, nodding solemnly. "I really have excellent taste."

Jason chuckles, steering you toward the couch, but you stop dead again, eyes locking on the kitchen like you just discovered Narnia.

"Oh my God, is that a fridge? In my house?"

He wheezes, squeezing his eyes shut. "Yeah, doll. Most places have those."

You tug on his hoodie, wide eyed and breathless. "Does it have snacks?"

"Loaded with 'em," he says, still laughing.

Your mouth drops open. "Holy shit."

Jason's dying. Like, actual tears forming in the corners of his eyes as he leans forward, hand on his knee, shoulders shaking. "You're somethin' else right now," he manages between laughs.

On the couch, he eases you down gently like you're made of glass, tucking a blanket around you. He's careful, patient—too patient—especially with the way you're blinking up at him with those sleepy, half lidded eyes.

But as soon as he pulls back, you reach for him, hands grabbing at his hoodie like a needy little gremlin. "Nooo," you whine, voice petulant and soft, "come snuggle me."

Jason chuckles, low and fond, shaking his head. "Jesus," he mutters, but he doesn't hesitate.

He sits beside you, big arm looping around your shoulders so you can immediately curl into his side, cheek pressed against his chest like you've found your ultimate comfort spot.

"Better?" he asks, warmth bleeding into his tone.

You nod, eyes fluttering closed for about... three seconds until they snap open with sudden realization. "Wait," you straighten up, finger jabbing at his chest. "Can I see your abs?"

Jason's head falls back as he laughs, voice rumbling beneath you. "Baby—"

"Pleaaase?" you clasp your hands together in full desperation mode, eyes wide and pleading like you're auditioning for a soap opera. "I need it. For... science."

He snorts, but his lips twitch into a smirk, utterly amused. "For science, huh?"

"Yes," you insist, nodding emphatically. "Your abs have to be like... art. Like those Greek statues. Or—or a washboard. People could do laundry on them."

"Laundry," he echoes, raising an eyebrow. "That's the analogy you're goin' with?"

"Don't judge me," you huff, poking him again. "C'mon, show me the goods, hot stuff."

He shakes his head, grinning like an idiot, but reaches for the hem of his hoodie anyway, lifting it slooowly, like he's intentionally teasing you. And there they are: those stupidly perfect abs, all taut and defined and glorious. It's like a Michelangelo sculpture just came to life in front of you.

You gasp, awed. "Oh my God."

"What," Jason teases, "never seen 'em before?"

Your jaw drops. "Not in HD like this." You gawk, eyes shamelessly glued to his stomach like it's the eighth wonder of the world. "Oh my God," you whisper. "Look at you. I could bounce a quarter off those things."

Jason laughs, so fucking amused, but then, you lean in and bite him. Hard enough to surprise him, but not enough to hurt. Mostly.

Your teeth sink into the firm line of his abs, just above his waistband, and you feel the way his muscles twitch beneath your mouth. He jerks slightly, breath catching, a half laugh, half groan tumbling out of him.

"Did you just—"

"Mmmph," you mumble against his skin, still nibbling. "Tastes like... safety and violence."

Jason loses it. Like, actually loses it. His laughter booms through the room, shoulders shaking, abs tensing beneath your mouth, which only makes you giggle harder.

"You done yet, doll?" he manages between breaths, hand rubbing soothing circles on your back despite the utter chaos you're causing.

You pull back, eyes sparkling, face the picture of innocence. "Never."

Jason just grins, shaking his head as he gathers you closer, like holding you can somehow contain the tornado of ridiculousness that you are. "You're insane," he murmurs against your hair.

"And you looove me," you sing song, smug as hell.

His arms tighten around you, voice dropping to something softer, something real. "Yeah, I do," he says quietly. "So fuckin' much."

After a while, he convinces you to head to bed, because you're getting sleepy as hell, and Jason doesn't even bother trying to make you walk. Not after you nearly face planted into the couch two minutes ago. So, like the absolute hero he is, he just scoops you up, arms solid and warm around you.

"Whoa—" you gasp, eyes wide as he lifts you effortlessly. "Oh my God, I'm flying."

"Not flying, baby," he chuckles, adjusting you in his hold. "Just me carryin' you like the princess you are."

"Damn right I am," you mumble, immediately melting into his chest. You reach up, fingers lazily threading through his hair, playing with the white streak you love so much. "Your hair is so cool, Jay," you sigh, eyes half lidded. "Like... like a sexy skunk."

Jason snorts, almost tripping from how hard he's laughing. "Sexy skunk? That's new."

"It's a compliment," you insist, rubbing your cheek against his shoulder like an affectionate cat. "Skunks are cute."

"They spray people, doll."

"So do I when I'm drunk," you quip, then gasp, as if you've just had the most brilliant idea. "You should let me braid it."

Jason glances down at you, brow raised. "Yeah? Think I'd rock pigtails?"

"You'd rock a trash bag," you yawn, completely sincere. "God, you're like... a big, warm tree," you sigh contentedly, snuggling closer, face smushed against his hoodie. "Can I climb you?"

He loses it, laughter rumbling deep in his chest. "Anytime, pretty girl," he promises, heart so fucking full he could burst.

And you? You just sigh happily. "Best boyfriend ever," you mumble, already half asleep in his arms.

Jason presses a soft kiss to your temple, grinning like an absolute sap. He tucks you in, smoothing the blanket over you with all the care in the world, but you immediately grab his hoodie, fingers curling into the fabric like a gremlin staking its claim.

"Stay," you mumble, tugging him down toward you. "Need your... your tree warmth."

Jason chuckles, soft and fond, eyes crinkling as he lets you pull him in. "Gotcha, baby," he murmurs, sliding under the covers beside you.

His arm finds its way around your waist, drawing you close until you're molded perfectly against him, face pressed to his chest. His warmth radiates through the blanket—solid, safe, home.

Your fingers drift up, tracing the strong line of his jaw, slow and aimless. "How the fuck did I get you?" you whisper, gaze hazy and adoring.

Jason's heart damn near stops. "Pretty sure I'm the lucky one," he says, voice low and sincere.

You huff, squinting at him like he's personally offended you. "Nope." Your finger pokes his cheek. "I'm lucky. You're like... like Batman but hotter," you pause, brow furrowing in deep thought. "And you don't brood as much. Except when you do. Which is also hot."

Jason laughs, that deep, rumbly sound vibrating against you. "Jesus, doll..." he presses a kiss to your temple, lips lingering. "Go to sleep."

"Make me," you challenge, voice muffled against his hoodie but brimming with mischief.

He smirks, gaze dipping to yours. "Don't tempt me."

"Too late," you sing song, grinning up at him like you own the world.

And Jason—completely gone for you—just shakes his head, smiling like a lovesick idiot. "God, I fuckin' love you," he mutters, tucking you in closer.

Your eyes flutter shut, content beyond words. "Love you too, sexy skunk," you mumble, already slipping toward sleep.

He loses it, quietly laughing into your hair. "Unbelievable," he whispers, but his arms never let go.

Jason's lying beside you, scrolling on his phone, thinking you're finally dozing off—his arm wrapped around you, your head on his chest, the slow rise and fall of his breathing lulling you both into peace—when you suddenly jolt upright, wild eyed, like you just remembered you left the oven on in a past life, and stare at him like he's the answer to every unsolved mystery.

"Show me your dick."

Jason chokes on his own breath, the phone in his hand nearly slipping right out of his grasp. He twists to stare at you like you've just set the curtains on fire. "What—"

"I can't sleep until I see it," you whine, clutching his forearm with both hands like it's a lifeline, eyes wide and imploring. Your grip is dramatic—desperate—like you'll perish without dick visuals. "It's for my mental health, Jay."

He huffs out a stunned laugh, deep and disbelieving, dragging a rough palm down his face as if that'll somehow help him process the situation. "Baby—"

"No." You sit up straighter, finger pointed like you're delivering a sermon. "I know you said it's huge. But I just... I need to see how that's supposed to fit in me."

Jason tilts his head back with a groan, but the corners of his mouth twitch upward, lips tugging into that crooked, dangerous smirk you always fall for. He's shaking his head, biting back a laugh, clearly trying to act like this is somehow a normal conversation.

"You're outta your mind, pretty girl," he mutters, voice husky with humor.

"I'm suffeeeriiing," you wail, dramatically flopping onto the bed like this is the end of your goddamn rope. Your wide eyes lock on him, shimmering with tragic sincerity. "You don't care about me."

He snorts, his big hand stroking lazily down your back in a gesture that's both comforting and amused. Then, without breaking eye contact, he leans back and shoves his sweats down in one smooth motion—no hesitation, no shame. And there it is. Thick. Veiny. Heavy looking. His dick flops against his thigh, and even soft, it looks like a weapon.

You gasp so hard you nearly inhale your own tongue, one hand flying up to slap over your mouth like you've just witnessed either a miracle or a war crime. "What the fuck."

Jason smirks, far too smug. "Happy now?"

"No." Your gaze refuses to look away, like it's hypnotizing. "How is that your soft dick? That's like... a fifth limb."

His laughter bursts out of him, low and from the chest, eyes crinkling with pure delight. "You done gawkin'?"

"I need to poke it," you blurt, because logic has left the chat.

He snorts, "Knock yourself out, doll."

So you poke it. And then, because you lack self control, you poke it again. "It's so... squishy," you marvel, brows furrowed in serious scientific inquiry. "Like a stress ball. But very intimidating."

Jason's crying laughing, wiping a tear. "Glad my dick's got layers."

Your hand flies to his bicep, clutching it like you've just remembered something deeply troubling. You stare up at him, scandalized. "Wait... have you seen me naked?"

He grins, eyes sparkling. "Plenty."

"My boobs?" you press, scandal turning to morbid curiosity.

"Yeah, baby." His voice dips, fond and teasing.

You pout, lips sticking out in the most tragically adorable way. "You like them?"

Jason's grin softens at the edges. He brushes a loose strand of hair from your face with a knuckle, his touch slow, warm, and far too gentle considering your current topic. "Love 'em. Perfect tits."

"What about my pussy?" you ask, zero filter, zero shame.

He smirks, voice dropping to that dangerous, low register. "Fuckin' gorgeous."

Your breath catches, but not because of the compliment. Your eyes drop, and that's when you notice it. His dick. Getting hard.

Your eyes widen in horror. "Wait—why's it growing?"

Jason doesn't even try to hide his smug grin. He leans back on his elbows, relaxed and shameless, cock thickening by the second between his thighs. "Natural reaction, baby."

"No—stay down!" you wave at it like it's a misbehaving dog, hand flapping. "I didn't consent to this!"

Jason doubles over with laughter, clutching his stomach as he wheezes. "It doesn't listen, sweetheart."

And it just... keeps getting bigger. Slow and steady, like it's proud of itself. Like it has ambitions.

You gape in real-time horror, voice pitching up an octave with every word. "How is it bigger? That's—that's a literal weapon."

Jason throws you a look that's equal parts amused and smug, lips curved in a wicked grin. "What can I say? You're pokin' me, talkin' about your pussy... kinda hard to stay calm over here."

You narrow your eyes at his dick like it personally betrayed you, jaw dropped in righteous disbelief. "I knew you were a menace."

He just winks, cocky and unrepentant. "Guilty as charged."

With an exhausted groan, you flop back against the bed, limbs sprawling dramatically. One arm slings over your eyes like you're in mourning. "I can't believe I've taken that. Multiple times."

You lie there in stunned silence for a beat, like you've just relived every toe curling, pelvis shattering experience in vivid HD and need a moment to grieve.

Jason leans over, resting one elbow beside your head, and presses a warm, teasing kiss to your cheek. "And you love it."

"My insides probably don't," you wail, throwing your other arm out like you're grieving your own pelvic floor.

He just laughs, the kind that rumbles from his chest, shaking both of you as he wraps an arm around you, pulling you close. "Go to sleep, doll."

"Not with your monster dick out," you grumble, peeking from under your arm like it's personally offended you.

Jason smirks, unhurried as he pulls his sweats back up, not breaking eye contact. "Better?"

"No," you pout, your lip sticking out like a spoiled brat. "Now I'm just thinking about it."

Your tone is downright accusatory, like he's the villain in a Shakespearean tragedy and you're the betrayed heroine.

Jason just grins, looking far too satisfied with himself. "Can't win with you."

"Nope," you agree, completely unrepentant.

You roll over, facing him, bright eyed and grinning despite the anesthesia haze, like you've just remembered the most pressing question of your life. "Hey."

Jason grins back, warm and so gone for you. "Hey, doll."

Without missing a beat, you poke his chest, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Be honest, what's my pussy feel like?"

He blinks, visibly short circuiting, because what the fuck. "What—"

"My pussy," you repeat, completely unfazed, grinning like you just asked about the weather. "When you're fucking me, what's it feel like? Like, warm? Squishy? Like a marshmallow?"

Jason drags a hand down his face, a groan escaping him, somewhere between exasperated and thoroughly entertained. "Jesus, baby—"

"No, I need to know!" you insist, dead serious, like you're interviewing him for a documentary.

"You're unbelievable."

"Tell meeee," you whine, tugging at his hoodie like an impatient child demanding candy. "Is it like... a heated blanket? Or, like—like warm apple pie?"

That does it. Jason laughs so hard he has to sit up, hand over his face, his whole body shaking. "I'm not comparin' your pussy to pie, baby."

"Oh my God," you gasp, scandalized. "Do you like it?"

"Baby—" he starts, helpless, but you're on a roll.

"Wait," you pause, eyes narrowing. "Have you ever fucked my ass?"

Jason chokes, visibly malfunctioning. "What—no! You'd definitely remember that, baby."

You squint, suspicious. "Are you sure?"

Jason grins, "Pretty damn sure."

"Would you?" you press, wide eyed, like you're discussing weekend plans. "Fuck my ass, I mean."

Jason scrubs both hands down his face, wheezing like you're trying to kill him. "Jesus Christ—"

"I mean," you continue with a shrug, gesturing vaguely behind you, "it's just there, you know? Like, a spare hole."

Jason's crying, wheezing so hard he can't breathe. "You did not just call it a spare hole—"

"I did," you shrug, unapologetic. "Deal with it."

There's a beat, but then you perk up, eyes thoughtful. "Wait—do you like my boobs more or my ass?"

Jason grins, recovering. "Both. Best of both worlds."

"Pick one," you demand, pouting.

Jason chuckles, already knowing this is a trap. "Ass."

You gasp, hand over your heart. "Traitor!"

He's still laughing when he pulls you into his arms, holding you tight against his chest and pressing a kiss to your hair. "I love your tits, baby, but your ass is perfect."

"I can't believe I'm competing with my own ass," you grumble, but you're smiling, head resting on his chest.

Jason just smirks, "Your ass wins every time."

"Wait... have you ever jacked off thinking about me?"

He laughs, his chest rumbling, head tilting back for a second before he looks at you with that boyish grin. "Obviously."

Your eyes widen. "When? Details!"

He smirks, lips quirking up like he's thoroughly enjoying this, and honestly? He is. "One time you wore those little shorts—couldn't help myself."

You beam, triumphant. "I knew those shorts were slutty."

You slap his chest, totally pleased with yourself, while Jason just grins and shakes his head, looking at you like you're the most beautiful disaster he's ever seen.

Then he leans in and presses a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips warm and lingering."You're somethin' else, baby."

You sigh dramatically. "You love it."

He grins, voice low and fond. "Damn right I do."

There's a beat of silence, only for your eyes to suddenly narrow like you've just remembered something crucial. "Wait—what's my pussy feel like?"

Jason laughs, a full bodied sound that makes his shoulders shake. "Still on that, huh?"

"Yes," you insist, grabbing a fistful of his hoodie like this is a life or death situation. "I really need to know."

His grin turns downright wolfish as he leans in close, his voice dropping to a rough, teasing murmur. "Like heaven, baby—warm, tight, perfect."

You melt instantly, a dreamy sigh escaping you as your head tips back. "Ugh, I'm amazing."

Jason just laughs again, utterly charmed, brushing his knuckles against your cheek. "You really are."

Your brows furrow hard, the kind of serious concentration usually reserved for nuclear codes or advanced calculus. Honestly, you look like you're about to solve world hunger or invent clean energy. All while laying half draped over your man, high on leftover anesthesia and horny on main.

You pause dramatically, blinking slow like your brain is buffering.

"Do you ever just... slide in," you begin, voice low and reverent like you're narrating a nature documentary, "and think, damn, I'm the luckiest bastard alive?"

Jason huffs out a laugh, his eyes darkening immediately, a slow burning heat building as he leans a little closer. "Every fuckin' time, doll."

His voice is rough, quiet, like the confession costs him something. But his gaze? Pure devotion. Hungry and sweet all at once.

You hum, nodding slowly, absorbing that like it's gospel. But then your eyes flare again, round and shining, and your mouth opens like you've just uncovered another secret of the universe.

"Wait—have you ever..." you trail off, blinking slowly. "Like... fucked me so good I cried?"

Jason's grin turns filthy, the kind of slow, wolfish smile that's got intentions. "Yeah, baby. More than once."

Your jaw drops. You gasp like you're scandalized by your own body. "No. Way."

"Way," he deadpans, but there's so much warmth tucked behind the tease, his thumb stroking idly at your hip where his hand rests. He looks at you like you're the best part of his day. Like you're it. Because you are.

You stare into the void for a moment, nodding solemnly, the weight of your own greatness sinking in. "God," you mutter, clearly awed, "I'm such a slut for you."

Jason bursts out laughing, loud and sudden, and has to wipe a hand down his face like he's physically overwhelmed by you. "Not complainin'," he gets out between chuckles, shaking his head like you've absolutely wrecked him. Because you have.

You look so proud of yourself it's almost criminal. But of course, you're not done. You're on a mission now. Your gaze sharpens again, locking onto him with laser focus. "Wait—have you ever thought about bending me over the kitchen counter?"

Jason's laughter tapers off like a record scratching to a stop. His smile shifts, darker, filthier, his eyes gleaming with that sharp edge of want that never quite leaves him when you're around, "Every damn day."

You nod like you've just confirmed a long held theory. Full smug. "I knew it."

You finally—finally—snuggle closer to him, cheek pressed against his chest, arms tucked between you like you're absorbing his warmth. Jason's still grinning like an idiot, phone in hand because yeah, he recorded all of that. No way in hell is he ever letting you live it down.

But when you shift, sighing happily, he chuckles and finally puts his phone away, ending the recording. His fingers card through your hair, slow and soothing. There's a beat of comfortable silence. Then—

"Jay?"

Your voice is muffled by his hoodie, soft and sleepy, and it damn near melts him.

"Yeah, baby?" he murmurs, gaze dropping to you.

You tilt your head up, puppy eyes in full force, lips in a sleepy pout. "Promise not to leave me?"

Jason's heart fucking stalls. He looks at you—really looks at you—tousled hair, heavy lids, clinging to him like he's your whole world, your expression all soft and hopeful and a little scared. And maybe it's the drugs talking, but the way you say it? It hits him right in the chest.

His first instinct is to tease—you make it so easy—but something about the way your voice shakes, even just a little, stops him cold.

"I'll have to think about it," he says anyway, because he's him, and he gives you a crooked grin.

You shrug, unbothered. "I think that's fair..." you yawn, voice hazy and soft. "I mean, you're so big and strong and hot, and I'm just... here."

Jason laughs under his breath, but then you frown, a little crease forming between your brows. There's this tiny hitch in your voice that makes him pause. You seem so genuinely upset, and yeah, you're high as a kite, but the sadness is real enough that it tugs at something deep in his chest.

"Hey," he whispers, already moving. With zero effort, he pulls you on top of him, your body melting against his as you nuzzle closer. "I was just kiddin', baby." His hands find your back and stay there, warm and steady. "I'm not leavin' you. Ever. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever, alright? I'm right here. You're stuck with me."

You melt into him instantly, like his words alone are enough to anchor you. Your nose nudges the crook of his neck and you breathe him in like he's home. "Okay..."

Your breath is warm against his skin, and Jason closes his eyes, holding you tighter. Like if he loves you hard enough, the fear will never touch you again. There's a long pause, and he thinks you're asleep, until—

"Jay?"

He lets out a breath, lips brushing the crown of your head. "Yeah, doll?"

You shift slightly, still draped over him like a sleepy cat, and murmur, "Can we eat cheese for dinner?"

Jason goes still for a second, shoulders twitching from the effort not to burst out laughing. His hand doesn't stop moving on your back, steady and gentle, but his mouth curls into the fondest smile. He bites his cheek. Hard. He doesn't want to shake you while you're so relaxed, so peaceful.

"Yeah, baby," he manages, his chest trembling with restrained laughter. "Whatever you want."

"Mmm..." you mumble, words slurring with exhaustion. "I love cheese... I think I love you too, but cheese... God."

That's it—Jason loses it, quietly wheezing into the quiet of the room. His chest shakes beneath you, but he keeps his movements gentle, one hand splayed on your back, the other tangling in your hair.

"You're somethin' else," he whispers, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt.

You don't reply. You've already drifted off, breaths evening out, your body completely relaxed against his. Jason just lies there, staring at the ceiling, his heart full to bursting. You're ridiculous. Beautiful. Small. Chaotic. Feral. And somehow the softest, sweetest thing he's ever held in his life. And damn if he isn't so fucking gone for you.

[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 🖤

< back to general masterlist

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.

< back to general masterlist

[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

[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.

next | index

⋆｡°✩ taglist✩°｡⋆

@cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @jimineepaboya @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @jkrailme @rpwprpwprpwprw @mar-lo-pap @jeontae @whothefuckisthishoe @mikrokookiex @minniejim

© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[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

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @taurus0queenie33 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @krabog ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @lyarr24 ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas ⋆ @blackmarketfruitrollups ⋆ @impala67rollingthroughtown ⋆ @rulesareshadesofgrey ⋆ @nervoussystems ⋆ @daryls-luvrr ⋆ @sunnyteume ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @angelblqde ⋆ @mostlymarvelgirl ⋆ @whisperingdaze ⋆ @funkenniffler ⋆ @bossyblondie ⋆ @lieutenantchaos ⋆ @iluvnewtie ⋆ @dyhsversion ⋆ @lovewolfspirit ⋆ @kayleighwinchester ⋆ @s0urw00lf ⋆ @cursednevermore ⋆ @img14 ⋆ @onelonelybitch ⋆ @americanvenom13 ⋆ @iluvdeanwinchester ⋆ @idk6505 ⋆ @devilslittlehelper ⋆ @cloverleaf20 ⋆ @giggles1026 ⋆ @idontwannabehere7 ⋆ @beakaleak32 ⋆ @ocelotlist51 ⋆ @lelapine ⋆ @pwin098 ⋆ @lacysretribution ⋆ @globetrotter28 ⋆ @aerinu ⋆ @i-love-gvf ⋆ @bejeweledinterludes ( continues in the comments )

[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.

[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.

[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

[tanoraqui]

Dungeon Meshi Liveblog: Endgame...

I have no real notes on the 'escape from the dungeon' sequence, other than that it IS going to be fun to have an epic 'galloping away from total urban collapse/tidal wave' sequence in the anime.

.

This is technically accurate-ish but also totally not, nobody but Laios (and we the reader) knows what happened in that final confrontation, and I wonder if he'll tell them? He has no reason not to, other than it being...deeply Weird(TM) in the way that only Laios really is.

.

Namari expresses many feelings, including love, through violence, and I respect and appreciate that.

.

I tagged this before, but: future royal advisors lmaoooo. (I know Shuro has his own princedom to rule, but not yet, okay, and even once he inherits, lbr every time he visits Melini for diplomatic reasons, Laios is going to be like, "Shuro!! :D Come to dinner! Do you have any ideas about [infrastructure taxes/crop rotation/vigilante assassinations/etc issue of the day]?")

(Note 2: I also know his name is "Toshiro" but the characters haven't stopped using the mispronunciation, so I'm going with what's dominant in the story.)

.

He Suffers for this friendship :)

.

CHILCHUCK IS BEING MEAN TO HIS FRIENDS AGAIN! NATURE IS HEALING!!

.

THEY'RE BESTIES YOUR HONOR!!

Fun fact: this specifically, screenshot at 4:46am, was the point at which the combination of visibly lightening sky, mortifying threat of my roommates waking up early and seeing me still up, and the fact an eager Shuro/Laios hug signalled that clearly everything was going to be basically happy from here on out, all combined to make me finally close my laptop and get ready for bed...whereupon I read the rest of the comic in bed, because I REALLY needed to see Falin safely rezzed, for my own peace of mind.

.

Hell yeah time to eat! our! girl!!!

And btw, shoutout to Laios for, indeed, eating the Winged Lion. King shit. (/Yaad voice) (ah shit, is someone going to have to break it to Yaad and all the other villagers that their "prophecy" was a demon's manipulations? Or has Yaad picked that up by now while traveling with Izutsumi?)

.

Kabru: You know what you were doing, right?

Laios: 8|

Kabru: Never mind, don't answer that, so I can sleep at night ever again. Actually, never answer that, especially in front of any sort of press and/or foreign nationals.

.

I really like how the orcs aren't offering Laios kingship so much as sanctuary. The underground here is theirs, because nobody else ever wanted it, just like nobody ever wanted them. If Laios is going to be arrested by elves if he stays above ground, and Pattadol and Flamela with their oh-so-polite and flattering invitations trying to do, then he's an orc in all but name and form, and he's welcome among them for the rest of his life.

.

Laios: I need you to help me eat my sister!

The rest of the party, as one: We know this sounds insane and we're sorry about that.

.

HIGHLIGHTS OF THIS PANEL:

Marcille resignedly headlocking Izutsumi so she doesn't maul anyone in response to being swarmed

Shuro, under duress, defaulting to strangling Laios (again)

Laios rolling his eyes because he's so accustomed to and tired of everyone reacting overdramatically to his perfectly reasonable requests

Kabru just rubbing his temple. He has a headache. He's so tired that he's not even trying to talk anyone down from anything.

Chilchuck closing one eye like maybe if he pretends to be asleep he doesn't need to be involved in this.

Holm nervously saying that he can't because he keeps gnomesher (gnome kosher)

.

[happy sigh] politics!

I just love love love the 'all the random disparate allies you made along the way rally together at the end for an epic battle to defeat the big bad" - except the big bad is already defeated. USUALLY the way that works is:

Core hero party faces pre-plot climax interparty conflict, then resolves it

Rally disparate allies made throughout the journey to fight the Big Bad (note: allies may rally themselves; still counts)

Fight Big Bad first as a group, then winnow/isolate down to core party, then down to single Main Protagonist who faces and defeats the Big Bad in a character foil-heavy, extremely thematic final confrontation

Everyone lives happily ever after, the end!

In Dungeon Meshi, however, it was:

Disparate allies made throughout the journey rally together to...help the core hero party deal with their pre-climactic interparty conflict! (Marcille's monster army - which does still come down to the core party, of course)

Core party, then isolated to single Main Protagonist (Laios) faces and defeats the Big Bad in a character foil-heavy, extremely thematic final confrontation

Rally disparate allies to accomplish what Laios explicitly says was the TRUE goal all along: reviving Falin! (Via eating as a group because that's live! understanding! connection! life!!)

Everyone lives happily with continuous hunger, because that's what it means to live ever after, the end!

I JUST THINK IT'S NEAT

.

It is sooo notable, though by this point unsurprising, that the elves' chief consideration of the consequences of all of this is that "things" (magic, international politics, etc) may end up "harder to keep under control."

My personal theory/headcanon-until-proven-otherwise is that mana levels above-ground will simply never fully subside to their dungeon-era levels again, and dungeon mana levels will be correspondingly lower - it'll all even out, basically, though underground will still have generally higher levels. This means:

there will be more monsters on the surface, especially large ones

magic will be easier for all races (though limits on how much they can hold at once will remain)

"dark" ancient magic, which (I headcanon) is particularly defined by an assumption that there is a Shit Ton of mana to draw on, will become easier and thus more common...which is okay because "need huge power source to draw on" is no longer the first step on a slippery slope to "let dungeon demon consume the world."

corollary: Marcille is going to live her best damn life studying and innovating with the above

.

This micro-interaction is so sweet. Kabru isn't even talking to Laios, but he's still keeping him in mind, and he so casually says "my friend."

.

TO LIVE IS TO WANT!!! CONTINUOUSLY! YOU JUST GO ON!

.

It's so great and interesting how much the Canaries care about Mithrun! It'd be so easy for him to just be their royally-imposed boss, or their weird mascot that they have to take care of, and both of these things are part of the dynamic. But they also all care about him as a person! Fleki was smothering him like a doll a minute ago, but the instant there's real hope for his life, she's jumping on it breathlessly! They're all suggesting hobbies he could take up, and standing around rapt and breathless waiting to see if Kabru's speech works to get him back on his feet!

There's definitely parallels to be made with Laios here, in terms of adventurin party rolling their eyes affectionately at their leader and saying, "yeah, we WOULD follow this total freak into hell. That's our day job, actually. #onlysomeregrets".

.

Mithrun... /single tear

I just wanna see this panel in color SO BAD, though. The green grass, the pale brown earth and the paler birch trees, and the semi-translucent ice fracturing the dark red dragon meat, with Mithrun's pooling green cloak and these 2 guys standing amids all of it... It's going to be so striking.

.

I've decided that the one (1) headcanon I'm holding in total defiance of explicit canon is that TO ME, Yaad was the original concept art where's she's a fairy princess in aesthetic, the perfect princess-in-the-tower for a brave knight to rescue and so earn the right to kingship of the land.

She still ends up possessing her grandfather's body, to be clear, and having this and every other conversation. It just intensifies the "I survived 1,000 years of being a ghost by focussing all my hope on THIS TROPE and you are going to play it out!!" Sure, marriage isn't an option anymore but that's fine, that wasn't the most important part! If Laios doesn't know how to govern, then she (in her grandfather's body) will teach him! Or else!!!

TLDR Yaad's gender is Princess and I will not be taking counterargument unless it's very compelling.

.

Lol @ how 1 of these guys is the actual, legally appointed ruler of the island and 1 is the top local crime boss, and everyone, even Laios, know they're on equal footing (at best - the Island lord is not a competent man.)

.

Kabru of Utaya, PR Professional :)

.

This really is a fun little chapter, with Izutsumi's struggle to figure out what to do next mirroring Laios's. She's wandering freely, insisting on her own freedom - and nobody is arguing with her! Everyone takes it for granted, so much that she feels a little unwanted! While every conversation she walks into involves responsibilities to others.

.

Holy shit, forbidden civvies!Chilchuck. He has his sleeves rolled up and collar open and everything, sluttily baring his collarbone and a hint of chest hair... He's even implicitly about to get his forearms blood-splattered, while doing a domestic chore and explaining the importance of responsibility to his teen(?) adopted catdaughter. If he still looked like the 50yo tallman with 5 o'clock shadow that he equivalently is, he'd be the hottest sexyman on tumblr right here.

.

Even though it has vegetables! Because it's made with love and life!!

[thelunarsystemwrites]

200 259 followers DTIYS!!

Finally after FAR too long debating, I finally drew up a DTIYS!! It was originally supposed to be for 200 followers, but uh... a little late!

Before I get into any rules or anything, I just- I gotta thank some people. People like my Twin, and platonic spouse aren't on Tumblr, BUT!

@tobi-draws a best friend and, honestly family to me. You might not have any idea how much your writing has helped me get through life, but it has. Any time you've updated is a good time for me! you're incredibly talented and I am honored to be your friend!! Ily!! /fam!

And of course Argos!! @childofthest4rzz my sib!! Sis? (I'll ask later??) My bestie in every RP and literally like the brightest person ever, ilysm to the sun and back!

And, my mum here @inka-boi congratulations on 269+ followers!!! I wish I had entered your DTIYS, but I'm so happy so many other people did, you deserve it!!

And @dtdrawz you are, very very cool. Very awesome, I like it, we vibing. Literally I look up to your art, it actually was the reason I drew this specifically! 😎

@absurdumsid AHGHGHGHH YOUR ART- I am super duper glad we got to work on UTMV agereverse farm sans together, and I am INCREDIBLY grateful I got to talk to you about my experiences as a system, thank you!

@pepsifvcker23 hey you! You're awesome! I'm literally so happy we're friends!! Your writing is NOM! /pos!

@pixieperson19 <- we love Angst. We thrive off it. We enjoy it together. 🥰 /p

@zombiestar1934 RAAAAHH!! >:3 /vvpos

THERE'S SO MANY PEOPLE I DIDN'T MENTION I'M SORRY, THE LIST WOULD BE SO LONG- @jazzy-jazzz @screwnames-ihatenames @annabel184 @denieatsart @italic-doing-random-shit @largefound @ant1quarian @the-second-reason @n1ght-sh4d3 @fell-is-suffering @kiyo-void @iatetheglue @inkcat1987 @axinfinity @fruityfroggyfelon AND LITERALLY ALL MY MOOTS YOU ARE ALL SO SPECTACULAR!!!

*Deep breath*

With that put of the way! Rules!

Tag me!

You may change the pose, but he must be sleeping.

The crown has to stay the same.

You may add your own touches if you wish, as long as the vibe is the same. This includes adding accessories.

The lighting is not important and doesn't have to be included.

You may add other facądetale characters if you wish.

Have fun with it!

Prizes are uh, I am going to TRY and provide them! Keep in mind, as of right now I have no decided deadline! I'll make a post later on going into more depth about prizes, and the deadline! (It's gonna be atleast a few months)

Once again... thank you all. I've struggled a lot, I still do. But to all my followers, thank you. I never thought I get this far, it's Lunartastic! Everyone I'm sending good vibes your way!! Have a wonderful time, and thank you!

[caesariawritesstuff]

According to Plan

Summary: Edward and Jonathan attempt to get David Payne fired when they think he's getting too close to you. A sequel to my other fic, Payne & Suffering.

Word Count: 6.6k

Content Warning: Angst, jealousy, possessive behavior. Spoilers for the end of Arc I of Cat & Mouse.

A/N: In honor of my dearest friend and fandom bestie's birthday, @synocence requested a sequel to my other fic! I really hope you enjoy, friend, and have a wonderful birthday!

There were many things in his life that Edward did not like.

And one of them was standing right in front of him at this very moment: the man named David Payne, who had been assigned to be his new handler at the GCPD. It’d been two weeks since Payne joined the GCPD, and he was certainly living up to the nickname that Edward had pegged for David that very first day: a pain in his ass.

And oh, that’s exactly what David had become.

Now, Edward would say he wasn’t a stickler for the rules. In fact, he rather enjoyed breaking them when it was to his own benefit, when others weren’t a part of his own game, which was a different matter entirely – but Edward was determined not to let David bother him, not to let the man get under his skin.

Even though that was exactly what he was doing now.

Edward frowned, signing in at David’s desk as he was required to do every morning upon his arrival into the GCPD, as if punching in with a timecard. David was busy hunched over his desk, scribbling away at a stack of papers; his brows were furrowed, a look of frustration written across his face that Edward couldn’t help but notice. The sign-in sheet David had printed for him was resting across the edge of the desk, and Edward scribbled in his name at the bottom. Two more sign-ins and outs and he’d need to flip the page over.

“Good morning, Mr. Nigma,” Payne greeted without looking up at him.

“Good morning,” Edward muttered, barely sparing Payne a glance. As he finished signing in, he looked back up and around at the department bullpen: it was busy today, with officers and detectives mulling about. You were already heading to your desk and taking off your jacket, draping it across the back of your chair.

Edward’s heart ballooned in his chest as he took note of the way you moved, the way you walked, how you carried yourself and settled into your seat for the workday. His heart leapt into his throat, as it always did when he watched you, but he finally pulled his eyes away and headed into the Cybercrimes Division office. As he flicked on the light and began booting up the computers and monitors for the day, he couldn’t help the stirring of annoyance bundling deep within his gut. Ever since he learned about your past relationship with David Payne, he couldn’t help the jealousy rumbling deep within his bones. Edward wasn’t an idiot. He knew you weren’t a virgin – far from it, in fact – but still, having your ex-paramour here, and acting as his handler, bothered Edward more than he cared to admit to you. Especially when he watched David saunter over to your desk like he was doing now, with a cup of coffee—

Coffee?

Oh, absolutely not. Edward’s eyes immediately narrowed into slits as he watched David approach your desk, coffee in hand, as he set it down in front of you, a soft mist steaming from the mug’s opening. Rage rushed through Edward’s veins, and he clenched his teeth, grinding them together so hard they might as well shattered to dust.

Absolutely not.

Coffee was his thing with you. Not David Payne!!!

With a furious huff, Edward tore off his jacket and draped it across his chair haphazardly, instead of with the careful precision he always took, and headed back out of his office and over to your desk just in time to hear a snippet of conversation.

“David, you really didn’t have to go through the trouble of getting me coffee,” you were saying, looking between David and the mug with wide, concerned eyes.

David waved his hand nonchalantly. “I thought you’d like the pick me up. You always were a coffee fiend, princess.”

Princess. There was that nickname for you David seemed so content to use. A nickname which made the hairs on Edward’s body stand straight on end with a prickling heat. Just before you could open your mouth, you noticed him standing there and swiveled in your chair to face him, forcing a smile onto your face, but it was one of your fake smiles, the kind Edward knew meant you were trying to hide your real feelings.

“Something wrong here?” Edward asked, his tone like ice.

“Actually,” David said, looking between you and Edward, before his gaze slid to you once more. But he shut his mouth and shifted, before saying, “No. No problem here.”

And then he turned on his heels and walked back towards his desk. Edward smirked, triumph and satisfaction racing through his bloodstream. Take that, Payne, he thought. Getting David to back down was one thing, and it was clear who the winner was here.

“So,” Edward said, his gaze sliding to you. “Coffee, hm?”

“David’s just being nice,” you mumbled, but looked down at the mug, wrapping your fingers around the handle. You brought it to your lips and sipped slowly.

Edward’s smirk quickly vanished when he realized you were, in fact, not dumping out David’s coffee into the break room sink and forgetting about it entirely. The triumph in his chest fizzled to cold ash, deflating his heart like a popped balloon as it sank to his empty gut.

“Too nice,” Edward murmured.

You shot him a look. “He’s fine, Edward.”

Edward knew that look well: you were telling him to back off. To not be jealous. But he couldn’t help himself. He did not like someone else encroaching on you, trying to stake a claim over you, marking you as their own – not when you were his and his alone. Even if he was sharing you with Crane, you were still his only. And Edward would not let anyone take you from him, as long as he lived on this damn Earth.

“Just…be careful, all right?” Edward asked.

You nodded, but Edward frowned, turned on his heels, and headed back into his office to get to work for the day. But as he soon discovered, he found he couldn’t focus. His gaze continued to stray to you, and to Payne, wondering just when the man would come over and invade your personal space again. He wasn’t normally so distracted, but he was finding it harder and harder to concentrate with each passing minute. Not only that, but Edward couldn’t help but compare himself to the man – his achievements, his medals, his accomplishments. Could David Payne calculate pi to the trillionth digit? Could he build a robot army from scratch, engineering, designing and programming them all himself? No, Edward did not think he could, and that was why he had the upper hand against Payne and always would.

At least, so he thought.

It was around lunch time when Edward made his way out of his office, ready to join you in the break room, when he discovered you weren’t at your desk. Edward frowned, looking back and forth, wondering just where you could’ve gone. He made his way to the break room next, but he peeked inside and found it empty, besides two officers eating a very smelly lunch that reeked of tuna casserole. Turning away, Edward frowned, trying to find out where you might’ve gone. You’d never mentioned you were leaving to go check out a case. So where were you now? Worry bundled in his belly, and he hurried through the bullpen, checking around each corridor and nook and cranny that he could find for any sign of you, but he saw nothing. His brows furrowed, and he returned to his office, quickly pulling up the GCPD security cameras. A dozen screens appeared before him, and he searched each one, desperately wondering where you’d gone – when he finally spotted you: you were down on the lower level, where the firing range was.

But you weren’t alone. Because David Payne was with you.

Edward’s eyes narrowed into slits, his heart beating heavy against his chest. Heat prickled along his skin as he shook his head and forced himself back to his feet. You’d never mentioned going with David to the firing range – and he wasn’t going to let you stay there alone any longer with him. Edward hurried back through the bullpen, took the elevator down, and made his way to the lower level, stepping out onto the floor. The firing range was divided into two sections: the armory, where other officers were busy cleaning and putting together guns, and the firing range itself, where he could hear the echoing pop pop of guns being shot against a backdrop. But you and David were standing nearby, around one corner where Edward had seen you on the monitors. As he approached, words hanging on his tongue, he paused as he caught snippets of the conversation the two of you were having.

“I’d really like to take you out to dinner,” David was saying.

“David…” you said, quietly.

Edward paused, the breath catching in his throat. He stood there, hands curling into fists, as he listened for your next response – your rejection, anything.

“I have a boyfriend,” you finally said. “And Edward – he wouldn’t like it if he found out I was down here talking to you about dinner.”

David scoffed. “You really let him control you, don’t you?”

You sighed. “He’s not controlling me, David. He’s—”

“Then what is it? He hovers around you constantly. I can’t even bring you a damn cup of coffee without him coming to see what’s wrong, for Christ’s sake,” David said, his voice growing exasperated and breathless. “And now you’re worried about being caught with me.”

“Well, yes. You dragged me down here so he wouldn’t hear us.”

“Because I know he’s going to hover,” David replied.

Hover? Is that what Edward did? Was he guilty of hovering? No, of course he wasn’t. He was simply worried for your wellbeing, for making sure you were being safe and protected. There was nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong with Edward keeping an eye out for you.

Was there?

“Please,” David said. “I just…dinner. As friends. That’s all I’m asking.”

Say no, detective, Edward thought, desperately.

But another word slipped from your lips instead.

“All right,” you said. “Dinner. As friends.”

“Thank you,” he replied.

Edward’s heart deflated, popped like a balloon. He immediately turned on his heels and stormed back through the armory, taking the elevator, but instead of heading upstairs, he took it down two floors to forensics. His heart hammered in his ribcage, each beat driving him mad, as anger churned hot like a wildfire in his belly. How dare David ask you to dinner. How dare David even try to butt his way into your relationship with him. David was nothing but a nuisance, a bug that needed squashing – something to be destroyed and ruined. The man couldn’t be as perfect as everyone thought he was, could he?

The doors opened, and Edward stormed down the dimly lit hall into the morgue, where he quickly found Jonathan working at his desk, surrounded by vials and beakers and chemicals, all with an acrid smell that filled Edward’s nose. As he quickly noticed, Dr. Collins wasn’t in the room, which Edward was grateful for – which meant he didn’t need to hold back.

“He asked her to dinner. Dinner! With him!” Edward cried, throwing his hands into the air in frustration. “In secret! Can you believe that?”

“Are we speaking of David Payne, or some other tiring imbecile?” Jonathan sighed.

“Payne. That – that idiotic brute,” Edward hissed through his teeth. He was trembling, hands shaking at his sides, fingers tucked into a white-knuckled grip.

“And I assume she said yes?” Jonathan asked.

“Yes. She said yes. Why would she say yes?” Edward asked, exasperated. He didn’t understand why you would say yes to David – why you would bother. Why you would want to pay the man any attention at all. Wasn’t Edward good enough for you? Was he not paying you enough attention? Was the sex not good enough? Was David offering you something more, some need that Edward was failing to meet? His mind was spinning with a thousand questions, picking apart each one, trying to find some semblance of an answer for your behavior.

“You know the simple answer is to ask her,” Jonathan said. He finally perked up from his desk of chemicals and swirled around in his chair to face Edward. His eyes were narrowed into slits, the thin scars on his face reflecting white in the light.

“But I—” Edward opened his mouth. Shut it. Jonathan was right. The simple thing to do was ask you – but there was another solution, too. He turned away, bristling, as he rubbed a hand across his jaw in consideration as a new plan began to form in his mind.

“I know that look, Edward,” Jonathan said. “What are you thinking?”

Edward turned back to him and smirked. “I have the perfect plan, Crane.”

“And what’s that, Edward?” Jonathan raised his brows, smirking.

“We’re going to get Payne fired.”

______

Edward was a believer that everyone had secrets. Everyone. Small or big, it didn’t matter what, but everyone had them in some capacity. And a man like David Payne – a man who grew up in Gotham – had to have a few secrets of his own. It didn’t matter how illustrious his career was, or how many medals he’d received – he was too perfect. So perfect, in fact, that he had to be hiding something – and Edward was determined to find it.

Edward soon found himself looking into Payne’s past. Deeper than the surface level stuff. He looked into Payne’s family history, his heritage, his school transcripts. He found old social media of Payne when he was younger, but even in high school, it seemed Payne was a rockstar: not only was he captain of the football team, the debate team, and volunteered his time at a local animal shelter in high school, but he got a free ride to Gotham University on a football scholarship, where he majored in Criminal Justice, before joining the police academy. By all accounts, all transcripts and records of David from his teachers and peers were flying colors: he was a remarkable student, well-mannered and well-liked. There was absolutely nothing Edward could find about David’s history in Gotham that sent alarm bells off on his head.

Later, when he returned to the forensics lab to find Jonathan, Edward slumped into the nearby seat and leaned back, letting out an exasperated sigh.

“The man is perfect,” Edward muttered.

“No man is perfect,” Jonathan said, shooting him a look. “Every man has a weakness of his own. Something to exploit and bend to your will. Payne will be no different if you look hard enough.”

“I have been looking,” Edward sighed, cupping his hands over his eyes to block out the blinding white lights overhead. And dammit, he’d been looking hard. But maybe…maybe the truth was that David really was perfect. Maybe there was nothing wrong with him at all.

“Have you looked into his time in Metropolis?” Jonathan asked.

That made Edward perk up. He’d been so focused on David’s history in Gotham that his missing years in Metropolis had slipped Edward’s mind. He’d been so determined to find something in David’s younger years, that the most obvious thing was escaping him now.

“Not yet,” Edward said, because he didn’t want Crane to know he hadn’t looked into it.

But Jonathan only shot him a look that said he didn’t quite believe him. The way his eyes bore holes into Edward’s skin made his own skin crawl. At least Jonathan didn’t look as scary as he did when he had that God-forsaken mask grafted onto his face.

“All men have secrets,” Jonathan said. “Don’t let him fool you, Edward.”

Edward nodded, letting Jonathan’s words sink in. David might claim he didn’t have any skeletons in his closet, but Edward wasn’t inclined to believe him. There had to be something he was missing – something David was hiding. But what was it? No man was as self-righteous and self-sacrificing as a man like David Payne seemed to be.

“I’m not easily fooled, Crane,” Edward mumbled, looking away from Jonathan’s piercing stare that could drill holes right into his skin.

“Well, you’re certainly letting him make a fool out of you,” Jonathan replied.

That made Edward’s stomach roll with anger, churning like a tidal wave. “And he’s not making a fool out of you, too, Crane?”

Jonathan blinked once. Twice. Lifted his chin slightly as his eyes narrowed into slits, before he said, “David Payne’s intentions with our little pet does not go unnoticed to my eyes, Edward. But unlike you, I’m not so easily riled up by the competition.”

Edward lifted his chin in return. “That sounds like a challenge, Crane. How about this: the first one of us to find something on Payne that can get him fired, gets, oh…a whole week with our little mouse? No sharing.”

A sparkle filled Jonathan’s eyes then, and his lips curved upwards into a smile. “Very well then, Edward. If you insist on a silly game, I’ll indulge you for now.”

Edward grinned. Oh, he had no intention of losing this one, not at all.

______

It was later that day when Edward returned to his office and soon began digging further into Payne’s past, only this time he focused his efforts on the MCPD – the Metropolis City Police Department. A cursory search only concluded that, as he’d discovered before, Payne was well-liked amongst his fellow officers and had a laundry list of five-star recommendations from his superiors. Edward supposed the only skeleton in Payne’s closet he could find at this moment of time was that he slept with a student (you) at the academy when he shouldn’t have, but it’d been so many years ago now and he no longer worked for the academy, that Edward doubted anything would come of it if he unveiled the truth to Cash.

No, he had to dig deeper.

It was a good thing Edward was good at finding people’s dirty little secrets.

And so, Edward dove deeper. Against, perhaps unsanctioned methods, he found himself hacking into the MCPD’s database, pulling up Payne’s old file and reading through it with care. There was an extensive backlog of Payne’s activities before leaving the department, but nothing that stood out or raised any alarm bells in Edward’s mind.

There was absolutely nothing.

“Dammit,” he muttered, curling his hands atop his fists in frustration. There had to be something – something Edward could use. But what was it? But the longer time passed, the more Edward was beginning to believe he just might not find anything at all.

?

There were three things Jonathan Crane was absolutely sure of: one, all men had secrets; two, there were no innocent men, and three, David Payne was keeping skeletons in his closet. Jonathan knew enough about human psychology to know that everyone – no matter how squeaky clean their record – that people always had something to hide. Some kind of moral failing or secret that they locked tightly away for no one else to find.

But find it, he would.

Jonathan was not the competitive sort, but if it meant getting to have you all to himself for one week and not having Edward breathing down his neck, he’d gladly win this little competition he and Edward had arranged.

As he left the GCPD, claiming to stay behind to do some paperwork, Jonathan waited until Payne was preparing to leave as well. As he’d come to learn, Payne stayed later than his assigned shift, often into the wee hours of the evening. That was fine with Jonathan – he had plenty of work to do, anyways, and time ticked by quickly. But as soon as he saw Payne getting ready to leave, Jonathan followed him out of the precinct. You and Edward had already left for the evening, which was good; he wanted the moment to look into Payne himself. He was certain a man like Payne would let his guard down when he believed he wasn’t being followed.

And follow him, Jonathan did.

Payne got into his car and took it out of the precinct. Jonathan called a cab, instructing the driver to remain on Payne’s tail, to which the driver only shot him a look and puffed a waft of smoke into his face from the cigarette in his hand. Jonathan waved it away, frowning deeply, the stench of nicotine filling his nose. Jonathan offered the man a thick wad of cash if he followed Payne, and as he suspected, the driver was quickly inclined to agree without question.

Typical, Jonathan thought. People were so easy to read.

Payne took his car through Gotham, weaving in and out of traffic, careful, yet with the controlled precision of a practiced driver. Jonathan’s gaze remained peeled on him, the cab careful not to be too close or too far (as if the man had done this before), before Payne pulled over to a small business downtown in Otisburg. A club named The Moonshine, with blinding white lights overhead, sparkling in hues of yellow and pearlescent, the symbol of a moon their logo, hanging above the tiled sidewalk. Payne parked out front, got out, and headed inside.

“Don’t wait for me,” Jonathan said to the driver and got out of the car. He slammed the door behind him, tucking his brown coat tighter around himself, and shoved his hands into his pockets as he followed Payne inside. The cab peeled away, tires roaring against the pavement.

Jonathan made his way into the club and looked around. It seemed Payne hadn’t noticed him. His head was held high as Payne made his way through the central lobby of the club, filled with a relaxing jazz music that Jonathan quite enjoyed. The club had dark blue walls with paintings of the moon and stars sprawled across, and black leather booths scattered about. The scent of wine and perfume and tobacco filled Jonathan’s nose, but he kept his eyes glued to Payne as he made his way to one singular booth in the back corner of the room and sat down beside another man, one with dark hair and beady eyes like a sharks.

Oh? Jonathan wondered, quickly finding an empty seat to take where he could keep an eye on Payne. True, Jonathan didn’t know the ins and outs of Payne’s personal life, but he found himself curious as to what the man was doing here and who he was meeting with. The more Jonathan could learn, the better. He had every intention of weeding out the competition.

Besides, any time he got alone with you was worth it.

A waitress came by, and Jonathan ordered a simple glass of Pinot Noir. From here, and with the sound of the music, he couldn’t hear the conversation Payne and the other man were saying. But what he did notice was how close they were sitting, the low conversation it appeared they were having. Jonathan’s eyes narrowed as he stared, curiosity swirling in his stomach. He leaned back slightly in his seat, eyes focused as he watched for a long time, long enough for his wine to arrive and for him to down half the glass with slow, careful sips. By the time he finished his glass, he noticed Payne and the man exchange a few words – before the man suddenly reached into his pocket and pulled something out: a wadded up brown paper bag, and he slid it Payne’s way. Payne grabbed the bag and opened it, glancing inside, before looking back up and nodding, a smirk twitching at the edge of his lips. And then he stuffed the bag into his coat pocket, before shaking the man’s hand and standing, heading out of the club.

Jonathan watched him go as his mind swirled with questions. There was plenty that could be in a brown paper bag that size: money, drugs, perhaps? Certainly it wasn’t big enough to conceal a gun, but it was big enough to conceal numerous other things – things that, clearly, Payne did not want anyone to see. Jonathan’s eyes narrowed as he grabbed his wine stem and sipped the rest, downing it in one swallow, even though it burned on the way down. He didn’t mind the burn, didn’t mind the taste of alcohol on his tongue. He didn’t drink often, but when he did, he preferred the good stuff, top shelf.

Licking his lips, Jonathan got up and headed out of the club. He couldn’t be sure what the man had given Payne, but he certainly had a feeling that the man was hiding something from everyone – including you. And Jonathan was determined to find out what it was.

?

Edward had spent all night diving into Payne’s bank accounts. He’d stayed up until the wee hours of the morning, looking into everything he could find, including the transactional history of the MCPD – but what he soon discovered was something he hadn’t expected: a series of unauthorized transfers into an offshore bank account owned by Payne himself. The money was taken from the MCPD and deposited into Payne’s account, and there was quite a hefty amount of money involved – numerous funds in large amounts sent to the account itself. From what Edward could tell, the transfers seemed to be hidden deep within the MCPD – buried away from anyone who gave a simple glance. But for someone like Edward, who knew how to dig deep, it wasn’t hard to find. But he couldn’t help but wonder what the money was from or who it was for – but he was determined to figure out why David Payne was getting it at all.

Frowning, he rubbed at his tired, exhausted eyes. He’d been up for hours, and he was regretting it; he’d been getting far too comfortable developing a normal “sleep schedule”, and his body was growing too used to it. The printer roared to life beside him, as he printed off all of the documents he’d so far discovered. As he waited patiently for the stack to finish, he leaned back in his seat and sighed. He hoped this wasn’t a wild goose chase and would be worth it. Seeing Payne get fired, winning a challenge against Crane, and having you all to himself for a week, well…that was certainly something he was looking forward to.

All he’d need to do know was present the evidence to Cash – these shady deposits into an offshore account – and then Payne could be fired on suspicion of taking internal bribery. Yes, that’s exactly what it had to be. Why else would these transfers be hidden?

A knock on the door suddenly got his attention, and he looked up to find Mack standing there, leaning slightly into his office. He raised his brows and asked, “Hey, Nigma. I need you for something, mind giving me a hand?”

Edward glanced at the stack of papers continuing to print, but nodded, and said, “Very well. What do you need, Detective Rollins?”

And he followed him out of the office, leaving the stack to continue printing.

______

It was sometime later when Edward finished helping consult on a case for Mack when he returned to his office to find the stack of papers still where he’d left them. Frowning, he took a quick look over at them before thumbing them, curiosity lingering in his belly. It still wasn’t enough – but he’d need something more secure, more proof. Perhaps he could get Payne to fall for a trap – something to prove he was taking bribery and taking money under the table. If he had a history of this at the MCPD, he’d have to have a history of it here in the GCPD now, too. If only Edward had an opening…and that was when the idea struck him.

He slid back into his seat, fingers flying across the keyboard, as he quickly made a false program in the GCPD’s serves and set it up to be sent to Payne’s email. It would only take a few moments, just a basic question: Looking for an officer who knows the benefits of discreet. Anyone know any blues up for the job? Got myself in a situation.

The email would be sent to Payne and Payne only. No one else would get it, and if Payne responded, Edward would know almost immediately. But he’d made sure to hide the email amongst layers of encryption, so Payne wouldn’t be able to tell who it came from. If Payne responded, taking up the offer to do some dirty work, Edward knew he’d have him then. Edward smirked; oh, yes, his plan was bound to go smoothly indeed.

And as he suspected, Payne responded within minutes: I can handle it. Time and place?

Edward’s smirk returned, and he shot off a meeting location and time. This was perfect – he was going to nail Payne for this! All he had to do now was show it to the Commissioner, that Payne was willing to take bribes for anything. Once he met with Payne and proved it, it’d be over, and he’d win.

Oh, yes. It was all going to go according to plan.

Later that night, Edward told you he was staying late to do some work and waited until you left for the night. When he was certain you were gone, he headed down to the basement level to find Crane still working, hunched over his desk, scribbling on a pad of paper.

“Care to join me in seeing Payne make a fool of himself?” Edward asked.

Jonathan perked his head up and turned around. “I take it you have a plan.”

“A plan which is much greater than whatever you were doing,” he said. “And what exactly have you been doing, Jonathan?”

“I followed Payne to a club last night,” Jonathan replied. “Someone gave him something in a brown paper bag. Drugs? Money? Either way, the man is not up to anything good.”

“Then come see for yourself what happens when I catch him red-handed,” Edward said.

Jonathan smirked.

Together, Edward and Jonathan made their way out of the GCPD and headed to the Stacked Deck, a small bar. The cab dropped them off out front, and the both of them headed inside – but neither of them saw Payne anywhere. Sharing a glance with each other, they slid into one of the booths in the back, keeping their heads down and eyes open for any sign of Payne.

Except, when the door opened, it wasn’t Payne who walked in at all.

Because it was you.

“Oh shit,” Edward muttered, heat crawling up his throat.

Almost immediately, your gaze seemed to narrow in right at them – hardening when you found both of them sitting in the back, and you frowned, storming over. Edward knew the look on your face: you were mad. More than mad.

“Ah, detective,” Edward said, forcing a fake smile onto his face.

“Cut the crap,” you muttered. “Sorry, am I not the one you wanted to see? Or were you hoping David would show up instead?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Edward said in a sickeningly sweet voice.

You shot him a look, before reaching into your purse and slamming several emails down on the table in between them – the stack of files Edward had been printing earlier. Edward blinked, heat continuing to crawl up his throat as he stared long and hard at that.

“Care to tell me what you were doing digging into David’s bank accounts?” you demanded, your brows furrowing, lips pursing into a thin line.

“We believe he’s not who he says he is, pet,” Jonathan said, his voice cool and collected. “As Edward has proven, he has accepted the invitation to—”

“To catch you two being idiots?” you muttered. “He showed me the email. I know it was you who sent it, Edward. And don’t play dumb, because you’re too smart for that.”

Edward blinked. “How did you know?”

You raised your brows, your head tilting slightly to the side. “Because I heard you and Jonathan talking yesterday. I came down to surprise you both and heard you talking. Did you two really think you were going to get away with this?”

“Oh.” Edward’s gaze slid to Jonathan, who was staring at you long and hard, as if he was trying to recall when you might’ve been listening in.

But finally, Jonathan leaned back and smirked, lips twitching upwards. “Well, well, it seems you’ve played us both, pet. I’m surprised by you.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not exactly thrilled by this, you know,” you said.

“But he asked you to dinner,” Edward muttered, as if that would somehow make this better, as if it was a good enough reason for his behavior.

“So that gives you free reign to get him fired?” you asked.

“Well, I…” Edward didn’t know what to say.

“Well, for starters, we’re going back to the GCPD and you’re both telling Cash everything. And then apologizing to David. Are we clear?” you asked.

Edward groaned, throwing his head back like he was a small child. He felt Jonathan’s glare on his skin, burning holes into him, drilling all the way down into his soul.

“But how do you explain all of this?” Edward asked, gesturing to the stack.

“Cash will explain all of it to you when we get back to the precinct,” you muttered, before spinning on your heels and heading out of the bar without another word.

Edward sighed, looking back at Jonathan, but the two of them followed you out of the bar. Together, the three of you returned to the precinct, and you led the way into Cash’s office – where David Payne was already waiting.

“Well, well,” Cash said, smirking. “My two trouble makers are here. Care to tell me what’s been going on?”

“Why, yes, if David here explains first,” Edward muttered.

David looked between everyone, before shaking his head and laughing. “The offshore bank account payments were from an undercover operation,” he said. “I was working on an under-the-radar case. The head of the precinct didn’t want the funds to be known in case someone went digging into the MCPD bank accounts. You can call him if you want and ask. Cash has the file about the operation right here.”

In response, Cash slid a case file closer to Edward across the desk.

Edward frowned, snatching it up – and sure enough, David was right: he’d once been involved in an undercover operation, taking down a series of gangs within Metropolis. As a result, the funds he was given to continue his undercover case had been placed in an offshore account, out of the view of most prying eyes.

“Then how do you explain what that man gave you in the bar?” Jonathan asked.

David threw his head back and laughed. “He’s an old friend of mine. We met up for a drink. He said if we ever met up again, he’d owe me this.” From his seat, he pulled out the brown paper bag and handed it over to Jonathan.

Jonathan shot him a curious look, before opening the bag and peering inside. Edward raised a brow, leaning over slightly to attempt to glimpse a better look, before Jonathan turned the bag towards him fully – but as soon as Edward looked inside, his insides deflated.

Because staring at him was a pair of google eyes attached to glasses to a large, fake bulbous nose. The kind of googly eyes that bounced out and wiggled with movements. Edward blinked once. Twice. A third time. Tried very hard to wrap his head around the ridiculousness staring at him in the face. This was the bag Jonathan thought that was so suspicious? He raised his hand, his gaze sliding to him, narrowing into slits, but Jonathan only looked just as perplexed.

“I lost a bet a few years ago,” David said by way of explanation. “He said if I ever returned to Gotham, I’d have to wear that the next time I volunteer at the hospital. I volunteer and read to the children there who are sick. The kids will get a kick out of it.”

Of course David Payne volunteered at the hospital and read to the children. What else didn’t the man do that was so spectacular and made him the golden boy of the precinct? Edward frowned, grinding his teeth together, as he looked around the room, before his gaze finally landed on Cash’s smug smirk, the self-satisfied smile across his lips. Heat crawled up Edward’s throat and he turned to you next, but all he saw was the fire burning in your eyes. Your arms were crossed, your brows furrowed, looking less than pleased with him.

Shit, Edward thought. This was not good.

“Well?” Cash asked, leaning back in his seat. “I think you two owe Payne an apology. What were you even hoping to achieve?”

“Well, we, I—” Edward stumbled over his words. How was he supposed to explain what his master plan was? A master plan that had spectacularly failed.

Payne smirked at him, crossing his arms over his chest. “I told you: I have no skeletons in my closet, Nigma. Dig all you want, but you won’t find anything. Maybe that I got a C on a math test in high school, but that’s about it.”

Edward’s frown deepened as embarrassment flooded all throughout his bloodstream. It ignited like a wildfire in his veins, and he clenched his fists together, the brown paper bag balling in his hands. He grinded his teeth together and felt his cheeks burn with deep crimson. Jonathan looked back at him, but Edward swore he saw the same redness crawling up his throat, too.

“Actually,” Cash said, pulling back Edward’s attention. “I want to thank you for bringing David’s brave heroics to my attention. I think I’m gonna offer you a promotion, David. You’ve earned it.”

“What.” The word slipped out of Edward’s mouth.

What?!?

No – this was the complete opposite of what Edward wanted. Payne was supposed to get fired, supposed to be packing his desk up right about now and be on his way out of here. Not this! Anger churned in his belly, and he watched the way you smirked at the new development.

“Now, you two get out of my office while I discuss David’s promotion with him,” Cash said. “And don’t let me find you pulling this kind of BS again.”

Like a dog with its tail tucked between his legs, Edward turned around on his heels and headed out of the office, Jonathan close on his heels. But when Edward looked back, he found you following, shutting the door behind yourself. As soon as the door was shut, you turned to both of them, an enraged look crossing your face.

“You two have a lot of nerve trying to get David fired,” you hissed. “I can’t believe you would do this – that you would try to get him fired!”

“Detective, I—” Edward started.

“No,” you snapped, shaking your head. “I don’t want to hear it. You two are both on my shit list right now. And I’m not speaking to either of you.”

With a huff, you sauntered past them and headed through the department, a swish to your hips that Edward figured was very purposeful, and you disappeared around the corner, out of view. Edward’s skin heated to the millionth degree, embarrassment and shame burning him from the inside out, and he looked back at Jonathan.

“Well,” Jonathan said. “That did not go as planned.”

“No,” Edward muttered. “No it did not.”

Absolutely nothing had gone according to plan, and Edward knew he was going to feel the full brunt of your anger for the next few weeks to come.