#never really being alone in their twin sufferings

[dw-flagler]

Case 70 Dallon Sisters

This is a really fun one!

Let's assume that Case 70s are way more common, because canonically only twins can be case 70s and only in really specific circumstances, and the dallon sisters aren't blood-related at all, let alone twins. In fact, amy not looking like the rest of the family is a fairly major detail. So let's assume you only need the "they both trigger at the same time while touching eachother" part, not the "and also they're twin siblings" part.

A lot of this depends on when they trigger. The longer we go without them triggering, the weirder and harder this gets.

I think the best option we have here is that Victoria doesn't trigger at the basketball game, she actually triggers during amy's trigger event. Basically simultaneous, like the capricorn twins. That's how they trigger while touching each-other.

Their dynamic would be kind of weird. The capricorn brothers are supposed to hate eachother and their status as case 70s is supposed to WILDLY exacerbate that, but (at least at this point) the dallon sisters just get along. Obviously, not as well as they got on in canon (minus the wretching), they'd fight each-other way more than they did canonically (pre-wretching), but I can't see either of the sisters actually going super far like the capricorn brothers did.

Honestly, as far as I'm seeing, it's actually almost kind of a net positive for amy's mental health as opposed to canon. She wouldn't have the same kind of pressure placed on her as she does in canon, both because I don't think she'd be a healer (and thus would not be suffering from healing burnout) and wouldn't really have a similar pressure from her insane capacity for harm. This version of amy wouldn't feel like she was constantly holding herself back from killing hundreds of people, since she has a different power.

Also it would be harder for her to specifically develop romantic feelings towards victoria? I mean, they would never fight as badly as the capricorn brothers, but being a case 70 means by necessity they'd be stepping on each-others' toes and fighting eachother more often, creating a lot more resentment than the canon dallon sisters. I mean, think about it. You can get along with somebody really well until you're stuck with them. And in this scenario amy and victoria are very literally stuck with each other.

That being said if amy did develop romantic feelings towards victoria it would be way more creepy and awkward. Though it's pretty awkward no matter what.

It would absolutely fuck over new wave though. Like the vast majority of case 70s we see in canon hide the fact that they're case 70s, at least to the general public (cause there's basically no way to spin it)--Capricorn (the only canon case 70 we really see anything about) wasn't hiding it, but they weren't telling anybody outright either. But. New Wave doesn't--can't, even--have secret identities, so there's no way to feasibly hide this.

I imagine--okay, you know the worm fanfic swallowtail? So in Swallowtail New Wave is a pretty big deal in brockton. So they have their own webpage, with these very sanitized character profiles for all the members. I'm imagining something like carol writing the new wave web page and having to find some way to spin "two of my daughters are trapped together for eternity" into a harmless family friendly thing. You can't! you can't do that! It just doesn't work.

But what would actually be their powers? Now that's hard. Usually, when I do these, something will, you know, like, pop out as a cool thing. But there's really nothing that springs to mind for this! So let's do this step by step and hopefully something will grab me.

So, first, Amy. Amy's trigger event here would be basically completely identical to the one in canon. Amy sees her sister bleeding out and triggers from not wanting her sister to die (and leave amy alone). more or less i'm not an amy expert.

Second, Victoria. She's got a different trigger from canon. So, in this AU i'm coming up with, victoria doesn't trigger at the basketball game, but the basketball game still happens. And it affects her as a person. so the idea, I guess, is that victoria's trigger here is more like a drawn out version of her trigger event at the basketball game. Same trauma, but instead of her being like "i've never achieved anything" it's her being like "i'm going to die without achieving anything" so it's the same trigger but slightly different.

Okay, so, basically, my idea is that the Dallon Sisters share a body between each other, which they can swap between in a manner similar to the capricorn brothers. However, unlike the capricorn brothers (where the brothers swap places by having the brother who's fronting will himself to swap places), the dallon sisters would swap by the sister who's not fronting willing herself to swap places. I like the idea because it would be just as awkward but in a different way.

I'm not sure if the dallon sisters should be able to communicate without swapping out, so like victoria's fronting but she can hear amy. I suppose I'm open to either option, or maybe some third thing. Get in the comments!

But anyway, each dallon sister, when fronting, has a different changer ability. My second* idea is that the dallon sisters look like angels. But different kinds of angels. BIG DISCLAIMER: I have never read the bible in my life so I only know this from google. It's likely not totally accurate!

I'm thinking that Victoria's changer form takes cues from the idea of a Powers angel. According to this wiki I read, they're the most fight-y type. Here's a picture of one:

Now, perhaps interestingly, I actually don't think victoria would look much like this. I think it's kind of boring actually. There's one that's more accurate to what I think she'd look like, which is this:

but this is actually a Virtues angel, so a completely different type. I just like the less greek/roman-inspired armor and the big wings.

My idea for victoria's changer form would be human-esque, but not quite so much Just A Normal Guy With Wings like the pictures. My idea is that she'd more be stained glass taking the appearance of an angel. Still able to speak and move normally, and it would be very finely detailed stained glass, but very distinctly she's not made out of meat.

So basically, visually, my idea is a mix of these two images. The form and ridiculously large wings of the second, but a kim kitsuragi Big Circle Behind Head style halo and big red shield of the first. No sword.

I like the idea of her shield working almost identically to her canon forcefield, but directed. So, it basically stops any attack but immediately pops out of existence afterward. She also has a second forcefield which is completely invisible and about an inch above her skin that acts like a video game energy shield. It has, say, 100 hit points, and it can take 99 damage and recharge to 100 hit points in like 10 seconds, but if it takes 100 damage it completely shatters and regrows which takes way longer, like, 30 seconds or something. The forcefield is completely invisible but her halo is a visual indicator of how well it's working. If her halo has a bunch of cracks, her at like 10%, and if her halo shatters like glass, the forcefield is also broken. Oh and also the shield disappears. So like she can never have the shield if the halo isn't there.

One thing I really like is the idea that her entire angel form looks kind of immaterial, but her shield and halo are extra immaterial. If we take the stained glass idea, then the shield and halo are still-see-through tinted glass.

I also like the idea of her being able to fly but it very clearly not being because she has wings. Like, she just kind of floats. And she can't fly if the halo shatters. Basically, like all her abilities depend on the halo being there.

Meanwhile, Amy is a Thrones angel. Those are the Biblically Accurate Angels that everybody goes hog wild for. Here's a picture of one:

So these are both angels, but a thrones angel is the creepy one that looks monstrous and the potestates one looks like A Guy With Wings. Now, most depictions of thrones angels have the wheel thingies absolutely covered in eyes, but this one doesn't.

I like the idea of amy's form being similar to this, but way more stuff going on. Way more wings, which seem to sprout nonsensically from every gap in the wheel thingies, and hands, arms, and tendrils which also appear nonsensically, either from gaps in the wheel thingies or off the wings They also just sort of float near her person, seeming like they sprouted from something. The halos are actual physical objects, being, like, wrapped around the wings and arms.

Basically, the second you see amy's changer form (and you're not like "what the fuck is this") you immediately wonder how everything doesn't get horribly tangled.

For her abilities in this form, amy of course has a very passive ability that she just sort of. has dozens of arms and tendrils and stuff which are very long and sprout from anything, even appearing from nowhere and just kind of floating around. She can spawn or delete them at will, but there's a minimum amount of, like, 14 or something. Otherwise, she's got an extremely similar forcefield to canon victoria, but it takes more to pop and regenerates quicker. Each spawned arm is either part of the one forcefield, or has its own individual forcefield, if it's free floating. They still have to be in a pretty short radius though

the idea is that victoria is really strong against one target but weak against groups, but amy is strong against groups but weak against one target.

One idea i thought was kind of neat is that the longer victoria stays in her changer form, the more arms and wings she seems to grow, meaning that she has to either revert to human or swap to amy to stop it. Sort of a gradual change.

Oh, and each sister has a different thinker ability when they're not in control. So, like, when victoria's fronting, amy can see 360 around her and when amy's fronting victoria has a combat thinker power of some kind. I dunno i'd have to workshop it.

Whereas the vera brothers' powers incentivize swapping out often and quickly, but swapping out being hard, the dallon sisters' powers are the opposite, incentivizing staying as one sister but swapping out being really easy.

I don't really know why angel popped out at me, the dallons are only catholic coded. Angel themed capes is also a really tough market since, you know. The Simurgh.

As a composite cape, I do like the idea of them being named something like Seraph to lean into it. Which you'll note neither of them are based on an Seraph at all and it doesn't actually make sense. But branding calls.

[wackus-bonkus-maximus]

YES the first four is me. Believe me when i say the sentitwins telepathy concept changed the trajectory of my life like i was IMMEDIATELY obsessed with the idea. Im glad you liked my lil doodles, im going to read what you are writing over and over im so exited!! Heres a bonus, might draw more

ahhh well i'm so glad you liked my twin telepathy idea! and even gladder it inspired these amazing little comics lol i'm like lowkey obsessed with them 😂 like, you just get these boys! "hope he dies soon" "i can just kill him" "NO" jklsadffkl;sdf you nailed their personalities and their dynamic i'm GIDDY

the senti-twin telepathy idea hit me while i was writing the ladybug/peacock fusion scene in What Makes a Monster! i realized it was a very real possibility that the peacock holder could telepathically communicate with a senti that's already been created by another holder, as shown in "feast." and since adrien and felix are sentis, well, that would include them also!

AND LOOK HOW MUCH FUN IT IS. THE POSSIBILITIES FOR SENTI-TWIN SHENANIGANS ARE ENDLESS!!! 🦚🪶🦚🪶🦚🪶🦚🪶🦚🪶

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 19

˗ˏˋ redefining stances ˎˊ˗

"You have always put people in different categories: friends, dating and fucking. And the idea of someone redefining that makes your chest twist inwardly, because that's just not how it works. Never has."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 15k

content: parental expectations, inner monologue, anxiety attacks, body reactions, redefining terms (friendship), fights, communicating (kind of...), subtle propositions, blowjob, handjob, embarrassment and insecurity / self-doubt (f), guiding (m), orgasm, cumming on face, hanging out plans.

✧ author's note ✧

WHEEEEEEW. okay. hi. hello. greetings. blessings upon your crops.

So first of all, I must humbly report that the new goal system (Tumblr and Wattpad having to align like twin stars) is working beautifully. It gave me a luxurious (dare I say scandalous) nine-day window to edit, tweak, breathe, and cry. And I only did one of those things on the floor (take a wild guess). I’m keeping it for now, besties. Let’s see if it continues to save me from myself.

Now. This chapter. Yeah. She’s 15k. And I would say “I don’t know how that happened,” but I would be lying through my teeth. Ask Koopsy. The BJ scene alone was 3k at one point. And then I had time. And we all know what happens when I have time. I rewrote it. And suddenly it’s eight. I regret nothing. It’s unhinged but like… in a deliciously purposeful way.

I especially loved dragging some vulnerability out of our girl—Y/N’s still that stubborn “keep it all inside or die” kind of girlie, but you’ll see her starting to leak, emotionally. And the way Jungkook isn’t being mocking when she cracks a little? When she masks her insecurity and he just sees her? HELLO. I giggled. I kicked my feet. I twirled my hair.

Also?? This chapter really digs into how fundamentally opposite they are when it comes to emotional frameworks. Like, Y/N hears “friendship” and sees expectations, accountability, people expecting her to care back. Hard pass. Meanwhile Jungkook is like “let’s label this so we can safely not fall.” LMAO. It’s giving defensive strategies 101. It’s giving textbook avoidant-anxious overlap. It’s giving both of you need therapy immediately and maybe a hug.

BUT. You’ll also see a little growth. A spark. A whisper of a maybe. She doesn’t fully shut down. She doesn’t say “no.” She’s simmering. And as someone with trauma? That simmer is progress. That’s real. That’s human. That’s our girl doing her best with a backpack full of emotional grenades.

Anyway. This is your 4x VERY slow emotional slow burn reminder. If you’re here hoping they’ll acknowledge feelings soon—first of all, who are you? Second of all, no. Third of all, this is not a customer service inbox. You don’t get to file complaints. You get to suffer. That’s the deal.

Enjoy the chapter, scream in my inbox, or join the crying circle on Tumblr where the rest of Kiki Nation gathers to chant “girl what the hell” in unison.

Welcome if you're new. Godspeed if you’ve been here.

Kiki out.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Pancakes smell like rain and roses and a home you can't go back to.

The smell is soft at first, curling around the edges of your consciousness as you blink against the morning light filtering through the blinds. Warm and familiar, it drags you back—not to this kitchen, not to this apartment, but somewhere far away. Somewhere softer. Somewhere safer.

Pancakes always smelled like home. Like rainy mornings where the sky was a patchwork of grays and blues, stitched together by streaks of silver rain that blurred the world outside the window. Mom would hum as she worked, her voice low and steady, blending with the sound of batter hitting the pan and the hiss of butter melting into golden pools.

She never measured anything—not really. Just a spoonful here, a dash there, warm milk poured straight from the carton into the bowl without hesitation. She’d laugh when Dad complained about her ‘eyeball method,’ but he never said no to her pancakes. Not once.

The kitchen always smelled alive on those mornings—like butter and sugar and coffee mingling in the air, weaving through the faint floral scent of the potted roses Mom kept near the window. She swore they dulled the smell of food, but they never did. The pancakes always won, their buttery sweetness overpowering everything else until it felt like you could taste them just by breathing.

You loved those mornings. Loved how they made the house feel lived in for once—like more than just walls and furniture and people passing each other on their way to somewhere else. On rainy days, it felt like home. Like something worth staying for.

Maybe that’s why pancakes were your favorite. Not because of how they tasted (though they were always perfect—soft and fluffy with just enough sweetness to make you grin through a mouthful), but because of what they meant. Because they were more than breakfast; they were a memory stitched together with rain and roses and laughter that echoed long after the plates were cleared.

You close your eyes now, letting the smell wash over you like a wave, pulling you under until all you can think about is that kitchen—the one with the chipped tiles and mismatched chairs where Mom would stand with batter-stained hands and Dad would sip his coffee too loudly just to annoy her.

And for a moment—for one fleeting second—you’re there again.

Home.

The problem with perfect memories is they're usually lies.

And then it's gone.

The mirage of home evaporates like morning dew on grass, leaving behind the acrid aftertaste of something that never really existed. Not like that. Not with the softness your mind painted over the jagged edges.

Those pancake mornings? They always came with conditions.

‘Straight A's this semester, honey? Pancakes on Sunday!’

‘Piano recital went well? Let's celebrate with breakfast tomorrow.’

‘SAT prep finished early? I'll make your favorite in the morning.’

Always a reward. Always a transaction. No matter how much vanilla extract Mom added to the batter, you could still taste the expectation underneath—bitter and metallic, like pennies on your tongue.

Makes sense why you can't enjoy things without earning them first. Why everything has to be deserved.

The scent wafting through the apartment shifts now. No longer just butter and sugar and rain-soaked roses, but something sharper. Something that stings the back of your throat and makes your stomach twist.

Guilt.

Because who the fuck resents pancakes? Who looks at a mother standing over a hot stove, humming while she makes your favorite breakfast, and thinks: this isn't enough?

You do, apparently.

You who had everything—the nice house, the private school, the parents who ‘just wanted what was best.’ The ungrateful daughter who still squirmed under their touch, who counted down the days until college like a prisoner marking time.

You don't have the right to feel trapped by love. You know that.

People would kill for what you had. For parents who showed up. For a home without holes in the walls. For pancakes on Sunday mornings.

So entitled. So privileged.

The voice in your head sounds like Mom when she's disappointed—soft and somehow, sharp at its core. She never raised her voice. 

Never had to. 

Just that quiet, ‘I expected better from you,’ that cut deeper than any scream.

Your teeth grind together, jaw clenching so hard it aches. 

There's a pressure building behind your eyes, hot and insistent, but you refuse to let it out. 

Not over fucking pancakes.

Not over the way Dad would look at your report card before he looked at you. 

Not over the way Mom rescheduled your life without asking, because ‘Yale doesn't accept students who waste time on sketching.’

Not over the way they both pretended your opinion was valued while systematically stripping away every choice that mattered.

‘We're just guiding you. We're just helping. We're just doing what parents are supposed to do.’

The smell of pancakes is suffocating now. Cloying. Sweet in a way that coats your tongue and makes you want to scrape it off.

And still, there's that whisper, that insidious little thought that's been following you since you left: Maybe if you'd been better—more grateful, more deserving—it wouldn't have felt like a cage.

Because that's the real fucked-up part, isn't it? You miss them. Miss the security of those Sunday mornings. Miss knowing exactly what was expected, even as you chafed against it.

Miss feeling like someone cared enough to map out your entire life, even if they never bothered asking which direction you wanted to go.

The guilt surges again, stronger. 

What kind of monster resents safety? What kind of daughter hates being loved?

The kind who runs away to New York and still wakes up in the middle of the night, heart racing, thinking she's late for a lesson she never wanted to take.

The kind who changed her major three times before settling on English, just because it was the one subject Dad thought was ‘impractical.’

The kind who buys her own groceries and pays her own rent and still can't shake the feeling that she's doing everything wrong. That somewhere, someone is keeping score, and you're failing.

The kind who smells pancakes and wants to cry.

Not because you miss home.

But because part of you is afraid it's following you here, to the one place that was supposed to be yours. Just yours. With no expectations attached.

The smell is coming from the kitchen. Someone is making pancakes in your kitchen.

And you don't know whether to smile or scream.

Your fingers clutch your phone, because the pressure building in your chest has to be channeled somewhere. 

The numbers glare back at you, accusatory.

8:00

8:00

8:00

Panic bubbles out of you.

Late. You're late. You're always fucking late. Dad's voice in your head, that disappointed sigh. ‘Time management reflects character, dear.’

You bolt upright, heart hammering against your ribs, and then—

Nothing is right.

The sheets aren't yours. Too dark, too soft. The wall is wrong—black, with one accent wall in deep red that you've definitely never painted. There's a carpet beneath your feet when you swing your legs over the edge. Your water bottle isn't where it should be. Your clothes aren't where you left them, you’re naked.

This isn't your room.

This is Jungkook's room.

Jungkook's bed.

And suddenly last night comes rushing back in fragments that make your skin heat up.

Not the usual—not the snarky comments across the kitchen table or the silent treatment when you're pissed at each other. Not the avoidance of the last four days where you both pretended the other didn't exist.

No, last night was... talking. Just talking. Both of you just... existing in the same space without trying to burn it down.

And then—

Jesus Christ.

You press your palms against your eyes, but that doesn't stop the memory. Him between your thighs, making those sounds like he was the one getting pleasure from it. The way he looked up at you, eyes almost black in the low light. How he touched himself while tasting you, like he couldn't help it.

And then after, when you both should've retreated to separate corners to lick your wounds and rebuild your walls—you didn't. You fucking climbed into his bed. Told him to stay. Like it was nothing. Like it was normal.

What the actual fuck is wrong with you?

You can't even blame alcohol. Two glasses of wine over the entire evening doesn't equal drunk. Doesn't equal stupid decisions. Doesn't equal... whatever the hell last night was.

So what was it?

You drag your hands down your face, feeling the heat in your cheeks. 

Are you really that easy to disarm? One decent conversation, one night where he's not being a complete ass, and suddenly you're sleeping in his bed like some kind of...

Like what? Not a girlfriend. Not a friend with benefits, because friends actually like each other. 

Just... a girl who got confused. Who let her guard down. Who maybe wanted, just for a night, to not fight everything and everyone.

Including yourself.

You grab one of Jungkook’s discarded black T-shirts (oversized ones, because he thinks he’s cool or something) and some clean boxers to entertain your thoughts. 

But it’s no use.

Your fingers dig into your scalp, tugging at your hair. You want to bang your head against the wall until these thoughts scatter, but then you remember—again—that it's not your wall. It's his. This entire space belongs to him, and you're the intruder here.

Except he didn't say no, did he? When you suggested, he didn't really hesitate. Much. Just huffed, carried you and then plopped right next to you. Like maybe he wanted it too.

And for one brief, stupid moment last night, curled up in sheets that still smelled like him, you thought… maybe this could work.

Maybe you could actually be friends.

Real friends.

The kind who talk about shit that matters. Who know things about each other that have nothing to do with sex or power plays. The kind who don’t pretend silence is neutrality and eye contact is war.

But friends means caring. And caring while fucking is a road that leads straight to complication city, population: you, crying on the bathroom floor at 3 AM wondering why you weren't enough.

Fucking is one thing. Dating is another.

Being friends? That’s a whole different monster.

And you’re not naïve enough to believe people can safely be all three at once—not without bleeding somewhere.

Sure, people who date usually start as friends. And yes, most people who date also fuck.

But you?

You don’t date. You detonate.

And Jungkook? He’s got matchsticks for fingers and a mouth that knows exactly where your fault lines are.

So, no. He doesn’t get to be all three. Doesn’t get to orbit your life from multiple angles. Doesn’t get to slip into your day like heat and leave like regret.

He’s not dating material.

But he is fuckable. Dangerously, addictively, ruin-your-life fuckable.

So that’s where he stays. Logically.

You check your phone again. Still 8:00 AM. But it’s Saturday, which means—

Your new job. Barnes & Noble. 10:00 AM.

The panic recedes, leaving behind a hollow sort of relief. 

You're not late. You have time. Two whole hours to figure out how to look Jungkook in the eye without thinking about his mouth between your legs or the way his voice sounded when he talked about his ex or how he looked when he seemed actually, genuinely concerned.

Two hours to rebuild all those walls that somehow, without you noticing, started to crumble.

You're not sure it's enough time.

The heel of your palms dig into your eyes as you let out a sigh that feels like it's been trapped in your chest for days. 

Fucking pancakes. The whole place reeks of them, sweet and buttery and—

Pain slices through you, vicious and unexpected.

"Fuck—" 

Your body curls in on itself automatically, a reflex you can't control. It feels like someone's taken a rusty knife to your insides and decided to twist. Your hand flies to your lower abdomen, pressing against it like that'll somehow help. Like you can hold yourself together through sheer force of will.

The IUD. Has to be.

It's been nagging at you for days now. Little pinpricks, the occasional twinge that made you wince but was easy enough to ignore. 

But this? This is something else entirely. This is your body throwing a full-scale revolt.

You sink back onto Jungkook's bed, chest doubling over toward your knees. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. Just like Mom taught you, back when panic attacks would hit in the middle of the night before big tests. Back when your chest would get tight and the world would spin and everything felt like too much.

‘In through your nose. Hold for four. Out through your mouth.’

‘Good girl. That's my good, brave girl.’

The memory of her voice is so clear it's almost like she's here, sitting next to you on this bed that isn't yours, in this room that smells like someone else. Guiding you through the pain like she always did. Always so calm. Always so sure.

Even when you hated her methods, you never doubted she knew what she was doing.

The pain ebbs, receding like a tide that's bound to come back. It leaves you empty and oddly fragile, staring at the dark gray carpet between your bare feet. The urge to slide back under Jungkook's covers is almost overwhelming. To just hide there until the world feels less overwhelming.

Something soft and warm brushes against your ankle.

Griffin looks up at you with those unblinking amber eyes, his tail a question mark behind him. He makes that little chirping sound that's not quite a meow, more like he's asking if you're okay in the only language he knows.

"Hey, buddy," you murmur, reaching down to scratch under his chin where he likes it best.

He leans into your touch, purring loudly enough that you can feel the vibration through your fingertips. 

Such a simple thing. Touch and response. Need and fulfillment. No conditions, no expectations. Just connection.

It makes your throat feel tight in a way that has nothing to do with pain.

Griffin bumps his head against your palm, demanding more attention. Typical. Exactly like his owner—always taking more than he's given.

The thought makes you snort softly. 

You stand, slower this time, wary of another attack from your rebellious reproductive system—yet nothing happens. Small mercies.

When you open Jungkook's door, the smell of pancakes hits you like a wall. Rich and sweet and somehow wrong. Not like home. Not quite. Different ingredients, different hands.

And there he is. In a fucking Sonic the Hedgehog T-shirt and matching pajama pants. Hair a mess, like he styled it with a fork and an air fryer. Flipping pancakes like he’s got his life together.

Standing in the kitchen with his back to you, shoulders moving slightly in time to whatever's playing through those expensive headphones. Completely in his own world. Completely unaware that you've been having an internal crisis in his bed for the past twenty minutes.

Completely, infuriatingly normal. Like last night changed nothing.

Maybe it didn't. For him. 

Maybe it didn’t. For you.

Or maybe it did. 

You sigh, dragging yourself toward the kitchen because someone needs to make sure he doesn't burn the whole fucking place down. The security deposit is half yours, after all.

Jungkook doesn’t show any sort of acknowledgement, headphones clamped over his ears, head bobbing so violently you're genuinely concerned it might detach from his neck. 

Like his brain doesn't have enough problems already without the potential concussion.

Now that you're closer, you can actually hear him—not just humming, but full-on rapping? along. 

Or trying to. 

The tinny leak from his headphones gives you just enough to recognize that god-awful song that's been all over TikTok lately. 

Gang Baby, NLE Choppa.

Of course that's what this idiot listens to while making breakfast.

He spots you in his periphery and doesn't miss a beat, turning just enough to start mouthing the lyrics directly at you. His eyebrows do this ridiculous waggle when he gets to the part about let me B-A-N-G and let me fuck some.

You curl your lip in disgust, which only makes him snort and rap more enthusiastically.

"Real classy, Rogue. Nothing says 'good morning' like misogynistic garbage at—" you check your phone, "—8:12 AM." 

He pulls one side of his headphones away from his ear. 

"Sorry, what? Couldn't hear you over this absolute banger."

"I said," you position yourself next to him at the counter, peering at whatever he's mixing in that bowl, "you have the musical taste of a horny fourteen-year-old who just discovered his dad's Playboy collection."

"Hey, don't hate. NLE Choppa is a lyrical genius."

"Oh yeah? What's next on your sophisticated playlist? 'Me So Horny'? Maybe some 'My Neck, My Back'? Real breakfast ambiance."

"Those are classics," he grins, completely unashamed. "But I reserve those for special occasions. Seduction purposes only."

"Has that ever actually worked on anyone with more than two brain cells?"

"You tell me, Nix." His voice drops half an octave, eyes flicking down to your lips for just a second before he turns back to his bowl. 

You make an incredulous sound. 

“What the fuck are you making, anyway?"

"Protein pancakes, babyyyy!" He drags out the word, lifting the spatula like it's a trophy.

Your face must show exactly how you feel about that because he laughs.

"What? Gotta maintain these gains." 

The fucking idiot actually flexes then, one arm curling up while he continues to stir with the other.

You swat at him, connecting with his bicep. 

Firm. Solid. Warm. 

You pull your hand back like you've been burned.

"God, you're so fucking stupid."

"Stupid hot, maybe."

You ignore that, moving toward the coffee maker. The one thing in this apartment worth waking up for.

"Ah ah," he tsks, reaching behind him. "Already made you some."

You pause, watching as he passes a mug over to you. 

Your mug. The dark blue one with the chip on the handle that somehow ended up being yours even though you can't remember buying it. Steam curls from it, carrying the rich scent of coffee—strong, with just a hint of hazelnut. 

Exactly how you like it.

You bite the inside of your cheek, wrapping your fingers around the warm ceramic. 

“Thanks," you mutter, the word almost painful to push out.

"So," he says, pouring batter onto the griddle, "you're eating some pancakes, aren't you?"

You purse your lips, hesitating. 

On one hand, protein pancakes sound like something a gym bro invented to justify eating dessert for breakfast. 

On the other, your stomach reminds you it's been empty since those chips you inhaled around midnight.

"Come on," he pushes, "you need protein to maintain that ass, Nix."

Your jaw actually drops. "Excuse me?"

"What?" He grins, ducking his head when you swat at him again. "I'm just saying, would be a pity to throw that to waste. You've got an amazing—"

"Ughhhhh, okay! I got it!" You cut him off before he can finish. "I don’t wanna hear it at this hour. I'll eat your stupid pancakes, my god."

He looks far too pleased with himself, flipping a perfectly golden pancake like he thinks he’s an actual chef or something. 

"They're not stupid, they're nutritionally optimized."

"Is that what your protein powder labels call them? The ones with the half-naked bodybuilders flexing on the front?"

"Hey, don't judge my fitness journey."

"Oh, I'm judging everything about you, Rook. It’s my whole brand.”

He just chuckles, sliding the first pancake onto a plate and pouring more batter. The domesticity of it all is somehow ridiculous.

It feels too normal. Too easy. Like you've done this a hundred times before.

Like maybe you could do it a hundred times more.

Dangerous thought. Very dangerous.

You take a long sip of coffee, letting the bitter heat scald away whatever the hell that feeling was.

Jungkook slides a plate toward you, two perfectly golden pancakes stacked and steaming. 

And honestly; they actually smell... decent. Not like the protein chalk you expected.

"Bon appétit," he says with a ridiculous flourish of his hand. "Try not to fall in love."

"With you or the pancakes?" You grab a fork from the drawer, sitting on one stool and poking at your breakfast suspiciously.

"The pancakes.” He says with a smirk, joining you in the adjacent stool. “I’m too much for you to handle.”

You roll your eyes, taking a reluctant bite. Fuck. They're good. Like, actually good. Not gritty or chalky or tasting vaguely of chemicals like most protein-enhanced food.

His smug grin tells you your face has already betrayed you.

"Don't," you warn, pointing your fork at him.

"Don't what?" He leans forward, one elbow propped on the table. "Don't mention how your eyes just rolled back in your head? Or don't point out that I'm right about something, and that's clearly causing you physical pain?"

"Don't be insufferable before 9 AM." You take another bite, speaking around it. "I haven't had enough coffee to deal with you at full throttle."

"What about last night? You seemed pretty happy dealing with me at full throttle then."

"Seriously? We're doing this now?"

"Doing what?" He stabs his own pancakes with his utensil. "Having breakfast? Talking? Being... you know, normal?"

"Normal. Is that what we're doing?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, last night was..." He shrugs, taking a bite of pancake. "Nice. You know? We actually talked. Didn't try to kill each other. Maybe we could do that more."

Oh god. This is exactly what you were afraid of. This weird, awkward morning-after attempt to redefine things. 

He's going to want to put a label on it now, isn't he? 

Turn your convenient arrangement into something messy with expectations and feelings and other terrifying shit.

Friends. Or friends with benefits or whatever stupid idea he’s about to come up with. 

No. Absolutely not.

"We talked," you say carefully. "We also fucked. Let's not make it weird."

"How is it weird to suggest we could be, I don't know, actual friends?"

And there it is. 

"Friends." You stab at your pancake with more force than necessary. "Right. Because that's what people who've seen each other naked are. Friends."

"I mean, yeah? Friends who fuck. It's a whole thing. People do it all the time."

You look up at him, fork frozen halfway to your mouth. 

“And how's that worked out for you in the past, Rogue? These fuck-buddy friendships of yours—all solid, drama-free arrangements, were they?"

His eyebrows furrow. "I'm not suggesting we start braiding each other's hair and sharing deep dark secrets. Just saying maybe we don't have to pretend we hate each other 24/7."

"I don't hate you," you say automatically, then immediately regret it.

He scoffs. "Progress."

"Don't get excited. I don't like you, either."

"Sure you do." He grins around a mouthful of pancake. "You like parts of me, at least."

"Your modesty, definitely. That's my favorite part."

"Not what you were saying last night."

You throw a napkin at him. It flutters pathetically halfway across the space between you. 

Stupid napkin. Stupid Jungkook.

“Can we just—can we just eat? Without dissecting our relationship status?"

"What's there to dissect? We live together. We fuck sometimes. We talk sometimes. We don't hate each other. Seems pretty straightforward to me."

"Nothing's ever straightforward. Sex is one thing. Friendship is another. Put them together, and it's a disaster waiting to happen."

"Why? What's the issue? You really think if we start being decent to each other, suddenly the whole arrangement falls apart?"

"No, I think if we start being 'decent' to each other, suddenly there are expectations. Suddenly I'm supposed to care if you're having a bad day, or listen to your problems, or worry about your feelings when we're fucking."

"Wow. The horror." He rolls his eyes. "God forbid you acknowledge I'm a human being and not just a convenient dick."

"That's not what I meant—"

"Then what did you mean? Because from where I'm standing, it sounds like you think I'm too fucking stupid to understand boundaries. Like I'll immediately start writing your name in hearts or some shit just because we've upgraded from roommates to friends."

"I didn't say—"

"I don't want to date you, Nix. I don't want to be your boyfriend. I just thought it might be nice to not act like we're in some cold war every time we're in the same room. But if that's too much emotional labor for you, fine. We can go back to pretending the other doesn't exist unless we're naked."

The sting of his words surprises you. Why do you even care? This is what you want—no messy emotions, no expectations. Just the convenience of living together and occasionally hooking up. Clean. Simple.

Except now it feels anything but.

"You're twisting what I said."

"Am I? So you're not freaking out about the terrifying prospect of actually being friends with the guy you've been sleeping with?"

"I am not freaking out." You are absolutely freaking out. "I just think it's... cleaner. If we keep things the way they are."

"Cleaner." He snorts. "Right. God forbid anything in your life gets messy."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you've got your shit locked down so tight you're about to snap in half." He stands up, grabbing his mug of coffee. "You think I don't see it? How hard you try to control everything? How fucking terrified you are of anything that doesn't fit into your perfectly organized boxes?"

Your grip on the fork tightens. "Oh, please. Tell me more about myself, Rook. You've known me for what, one month? Clearly you're an expert."

"I may not know shit, but I see enough. I see you'd rather cut someone out completely than risk them having any kind of power over you.”

"Fuck you," you spit, but it comes out weaker than you intended. 

Because he's not wrong, and that's the worst part.

"Yeah, we've established that part works great." He drops his plate on the sink and it clatters noisily. “Look, forget it. You want to keep pretending we're strangers who occasionally fuck? Fine. Works for me. Less work anyway."

"That's not what I said." You stand up. "I just don't see why we need to redefine everything. Why can't we just... let it be what it is?"

"Because I don't even know what the fuck it is! Am I your roommate? Your fuck buddy? That guy you hate but tolerate because the rent is cheaper split three ways? What the hell am I supposed to tell people when they ask about you?"

"Why are people asking about me?"

"Jesus Christ." He throws his hands up. "That's what you focus on? Not the point, Phoenix."

"Then what is the point? Spell it out for me, since I'm clearly too stupid to get it."

"The point is, I talk to you more than I talk to most of my actual friends. I see you every day. I know how you take your coffee and what you look like when you come. So excuse the fuck out of me for thinking maybe, just maybe, we could drop the whole 'we're just roommates who tolerate each other' act and admit we might actually be friends."

You stare at him, chest tight with something you can't name. 

Can't or won't. 

This is exactly what you've been avoiding—this messy, complicated conversation that blurs all the neat lines you've drawn.

"I don't do friends with benefits," you finally say, voice quiet, your plate joining his. "It never works. Someone always ends up hurt."

"Who said anything about hurt? It's not that deep, Nix. We're not in a fucking rom-com."

"No, we're in real life, where things get complicated and messy and people have expectations they don't even realize until they're disappointed."

"The only expectation I have right now is for you to stop overthinking everything for five seconds."

"I'm not overthinking. I'm being realistic."

"You're being paranoid. And kind of insulting, if I'm honest. Like I'm some lovesick puppy who can't handle a casual arrangement."

“I’m paranoid? That’s rich coming from you, Ro. Real fucking rich."

His eyes narrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're a fucking hypocrite." The words tumble out, hot and fast. "You want to talk about being friends? About opening up? That's hilarious coming from the guy who deflects every personal question with some stupid joke."

"I don't—"

"You absolutely do. Every time." You step closer, jabbing a finger in his direction. "Ask about your financial situation? Oh, it's fine, just selling a kidney next week, ha ha. Ask about your ex? Turn it into some bullshit story about how she 'graded' you after sex, like it's all a big fucking joke."

His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. "That's different."

"How? How is it different? You want me to be all open and friendly, but all you do is deflect and crack jokes.”

"I didn’t say anything about being all open and—”

"Then what are you saying?" You throw your hands up, frustration making your voice rise. "Because it sounds like you want all the benefits of friendship without any of the actual vulnerability. You want me to be your friend when it's convenient, but god forbid I ask about anything that matters."

"What do you want to know, Nix? What deep dark secret are you dying to hear? How I'm drowning in debt because my ex fucked up my credit? How I can barely make rent some months? How I wake up in the middle of the night panicking about money? Is that friendly enough for you?"

The sudden honesty knocks the wind out of you. Your mouth opens, closes, opens again like a fish gasping on land.

"That's what I thought." He tilts his head, motion clearly angry. "You don't actually want to know that shit. You just want to point out that I don't share it to win an argument."

You both stand there, breathing hard, like you’re studying each other.

But then Griffin rubs against your ankle, completely oblivious to the emotional warfare happening above his head and you…

You, honestly, feel tired.

Bone-deep tired. 

It's too early for this much... whatever this is.

"Look," you sigh, the fight draining out of you. "Maybe we're both right, in our own way. And maybe we're both being assholes."

He blinks, clearly not expecting the shift. 

After a moment, his shoulders drop a fraction.

"I’m listening.”

"Last night wasn't terrible," you say, choosing your words carefully. "Talking. Whatever. Maybe we don't need to define everything right now?"

"Revolutionary concept." His voice has lost its edge, that familiar sardonic tone creeping back in. "Not immediately labeling every interaction. Who would've thought?"

"Shut up." 

You pick up your coffee mug again, taking a sip to hide the relief washing over you. 

Crisis averted. Boundaries preserved. 

For now.

"So what are you saying?" he asks, leaning back against the counter. "We just... see where things go?"

"I'm saying maybe we don't have to be strictly roommates or strictly friends. Maybe we can just... exist in the same space sometimes without trying to kill each other. And if it turns out we don't hate it..."

"We can revisit the friend thing?" He raises an eyebrow.

"Maybe." You shrug, aiming for casual. "If you manage not to be completely insufferable."

"Tall order." He's almost smiling now. "I'll have to suppress all my natural charm."

"If that's what you call it."

You roll your eyes, relieved to be back on solid ground. 

This you can handle—the banter, the back-and-forth, the careful dance around anything too real. 

This is safe.

Under control.

"Just eat your protein pancakes, Rogue. Don't you have gains to maintain or whatever?"

"Can't skip arm day," he agrees, flexing dramatically. "These biceps don't maintain themselves."

"God, you're insufferable."

"Yet here you are, eating my pancakes, drinking coffee I made you." He gestures at your mug with his own. "Almost like you tolerate me."

"Stockholm syndrome, obviously."

"Obviously." He hums thoughtfully for a moment. "So, we're good?"

"We're..." you search for the right word, "...fine. For now. Let's just take it a day at a time, okay? No pressure, no expectations."

"I can do that." He nods, looking almost relieved himself. "One day at a time. Starting with today, where you admit my pancakes are fucking amazing."

"They're edible."

"They're incredible and you know it."

"They're protein powder with extra steps."

"They're a culinary masterpiece that your taste buds aren't sophisticated enough to fully appreciate."

"My taste buds are perfectly sophisticated, thank you very much."

"Says the girl who eats chips at midnight."

"At least I don't drink protein shakes for dessert like some kind of psychopath."

"Don't knock it 'til you try it. My midnight chocolate protein shake would change your life."

You make a gagging sound. "I'll pass, thanks."

"Your loss." He shrugs, then glances at the clock. "Don't you have to be at work at 10?"

"Yeah, but it's only—" you check your phone, "—8:30. Plenty of time."

"If you say so." He moves towards the space between the entryway and the couch. "First day, right? Gonna sell some books to the masses?"

"That's generally what happens at a bookstore, yes."

"Well, don't let your sparkling personality scare away the customers."

"I have excellent customer service skills, I'll have you know. I can fake being nice for hours at a time."

“You sure ‘bout that? Haven’t seen you be nice for more than thirty seconds."

"That's because you don't deserve my niceness."

"And the customers at Barnes & Noble do?"

"They're paying for it. You just get the real me."

"Lucky me," he snorts. "So, you nervous? First day and all?"

"It's a retail job, Rogue, not brain surgery. I think I can handle scanning books and saying 'have a nice day' without a panic attack."

"Just asking." He takes a sip from his mug. "Making conversation. Like normal people do."

"Yeah, well." You shift, suddenly uncomfortable with how... normal this feels. 

Like you're actual roommates having an actual conversation. 

Like maybe this friend thing isn't so impossible after all. 

"I should probably start getting ready."

"Right, sure." He nods, glancing at his room. "Wouldn't want you to be late for your first day of shaping young minds through literature."

"It's Barnes & Noble, not the Library of Alexandria."

"Still. Books. Knowledge. Power. You know."

“Has anyone ever told you that you talk a lot of shit for someone who reads, like, one book a year?"

"Hey, I read." He looks genuinely offended. "I just finished that one about the guy who—"

"If you say 'Rich Dad, Poor Dad,' I'm going to throw this mug at your head."

"I was going to say 'The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck,' actually."

"Of course you were." You can't help the laugh that escapes. "How original. Let me guess, you also have 'The 48 Laws of Power' on your nightstand?"

"Whatever, man." He shakes his head, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Suck my dick."

The words come out light, amused—a casual dismissal that’s not angry or bitter, just a throwaway line, the kind of thing he'd say to Yoongi or any of his friends when they're giving him shit.

But something about it—the vulgarity or maybe the signature shitty and playful challenge in his eyes—makes you reckless.

"Okay."

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes sliding to the side as the word slips out. 

Casual. 

Like you just agreed to pass the salt, not... that.

Jungkook stops dead in his tracks. His body goes rigid, one foot already pointed toward his bedroom. He turns his head slightly, just enough for you to catch his profile.

"Huh?"

You cross your arms, teeth worrying the inside of your cheek. A shrug lifts your shoulders—noncommittal, like this isn't making your heart hammer against your ribs.

Your eyes drift back to his. Meet and hold.

"I said okay."

He turns fully now, coffee mug dangling forgotten from his fingers. 

"Okay... what?"

"Sucking your dick." 

You watch his throat bobble, the muscles in his neck working as he swallows. Like he’s processing what you just said. Like you just suggested something completely alien, something that requires a full system reboot. 

And okay, fine, maybe it wasn’t the most casual thing to drop into conversation. But still. 

You arch an eyebrow, scowling at him because why is he overthinking this? Does he not want you to do it? Don’t all guys want to get sucked off? Isn’t that, like, a universal truth or something? What’s with the hesitation?

The longer he stands there, frozen and dumbfounded, the hotter your frustration burns. It’s not like you even want to do this (okay, you do, but that’s not the point). 

The point is he’s always the first one to be like “bet” whenever you throw out some reckless suggestion. 

Pushy without being pushy—he knows boundaries, sure, but he’s still the guy who’ll smirk and say “you won’t” just to see if you will. 

And now? The one time you actually offer something? He’s looking at you like you’re speaking Simlish.

You move toward him, until you're face to face. 

His mug wobbles in his grip, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

You look up at him through your lashes. 

"I said I can suck your dick if that's what you want."

A shaky exhale escapes him, warm against your face.

"Nix..." His voice has dropped an octave, rough around the edges. "Don't fool around. That's not nice."

"I'm not fooling around."

Slowly—so slowly it feels like time has stretched into something thick and syrupy—you sink down to your knees.

The kitchen tile is hard, and really, it should be uncomfortable. Should snap you out of whatever madness has possessed you.

It doesn't.

Jungkook bites down on his lower lip, the sharp edges of his teeth digging into the flesh like he's physically holding back a curse. You can see the evidence of his interest already straining against his pajama pants.

His fucking Sonic pajama pants.

Because of course. Of course this would happen while he's wearing cartoon hedgehogs. Of course this

moment—where you're on your knees in front of him, heart pounding, breath shallow—would come with this absurd detail that makes it real in a way that's almost uncomfortable.

Your hands come to rest on his thighs. 

Strong. Solid. Warm. 

"I mean, we've been hooking up for a month now. Almost." Your voice sounds different to your own ears. Lower. A little breathless. "You've eaten me out multiple times, but... I haven't sucked your dick. Not even once."

Your eyes drop deliberately to the bulge straining against ridiculous cartoon fabric. It should be funny. 

It's not.

"Is it because you didn't want me to?"

He shakes his head. Fast. Emphatic. A jerky motion that tells you everything you need to know.

"So why didn't you ask me?"

He doesn't answer. Can't, maybe. 

His throat works again, adam's apple bobbing. His pupils are blown wide, dark and hungry as he stares down at you.

Your fingers play with the waistband, slowly—so fucking slowly—pulling it down just enough to reveal his hip bones and the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath the elastic.

"Have you thought about it at all?"

"Yes." The word comes out strangled, like it fought its way past whatever restraint he's trying to maintain.

Your eyes snap up to his.

He curses when your eyes lock onto his again—the control you have, even down on your knees.

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah." He exhales, surrender in the sound. "Yes, I've thought about your beautiful plump lips wrapped around my cock, Nix. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Heat blooms in your cheeks, spreading down your neck, across your chest. 

You hadn't expected him to be so... explicit. So honest.

"Maybe." Your thumbs brush against the skin just above his waistband. "What else have you thought about?"

His mug clatters onto the counter beside him, abandoned and his now-free hand comes to your face, thumb brushing against your bottom lip. 

"Thought about how you'd look," he murmurs, voice pitched low enough that you have to strain to hear it. "On your knees. Just like this. Those big eyes looking up at me while you take me in your mouth.”

Jesus. 

Your body responds instantly, a rush of heat between your thighs that makes you press them together unconsciously.

When did Jungkook get so... articulate?

His thumb presses slightly against your lip, just enough to part them. "Thought about how warm your mouth would be.

How good it would feel. How you'd sound."

"How l'd sound?”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, confidence returning as he watches your reaction. "The little noises you'd make. The way you'd moan around my cock when I pull your hair."

Oh.

Your hand moves higher, finding the hard length of him through his pajamas. He hisses through his teeth when you palm him, fingers wrapping around his shape.

"Like this?" you ask, squeezing gently.

His hand moves to your hair, fingers tangling in the strands at the back of your head. 

Not pulling. Not yet. Just holding.

"Getting there." His voice is strained now, tight with need.

"But in my head, there's a lot less talking and a lot more—"

"Sucking?"

His laugh is half groan. "Yeah, Nix. A lot more sucking."

"Hmmm" you murmur. "Where's all that big talk from earlier?"

"Temporarily relocated," he manages. "Blood flow issues."

That startles a laugh out of you, breaking the tension for just a moment. Trust Jungkook to crack a joke while you're literally about to have his dick in your mouth.

Your hands pause, giving his bulge another soft squeeze before—

“Wait—couch.” He grabs your wrist, stopping your motions. “Let’s do this properly.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah? Better for your neck and knees and all that. Let’s go.”

You roll your eyes but follow as he then drops onto the couch, sprawling like he owns the place—which, technically, he does, but still. His left elbow hooks over the cushion rest lazily, and his knuckles come up to rest against his cheek as he leans into it. 

The picture of nonchalance. 

Except for the way his hips shift slightly, rolling upward in a small, deliberate motion as he spreads his legs wider.

Your eyes narrow. 

That little buck of his hips? The way his thighs stretch out as if to frame you? It’s not subtle. 

Neither is the look he’s giving you now—those half-lidded bedroom eyes that always seem to appear when he’s horny. His lips curve into something smug, and god he’s so obvious it’s almost embarrassing. Like one of those guys in bad romance novels who lounges around shirtless, flexing for no reason except to remind everyone they have abs.

“So?” His voice is low, dragging out the single syllable like a challenge.

You cross your arms tighter over your chest, glaring at him because—what? Is this supposed to be seductive? Is this his idea of foreplay? 

“You’re already making me regret this, you know that?”

He snorts, the sound sharp and amused as he tilts his head slightly. “I don’t know why I doubt that.”

Your only response is a scoff—short and derisive—as you step closer. The floor feels uneven beneath your feet, though you know it isn’t. It’s just your nerves playing tricks on you. 

Because this is real now. This is happening. You’re about to suck cock. Rogue’s cock.

You want this. You do. You’ve been curious about this for longer than you’d care to admit—curious about him, about what he likes and how he reacts and whether he’ll look as smug when he’s falling apart under your mouth. 

But still… You haven’t exactly done this much before.

David—the forgettable high school boyfriend who thought foreplay was optional—had pretty much stuck his dick in you and called it a day. He didn’t even know girls could orgasm until you brought it up once during an argument (and even then, he seemed skeptical). 

Your life hasn't been that tragic since then, thankfully.

A few hookups here and there have shown you that men aren't a total lost cause after all—some of them even know what they're doing! But sucking dick?

That's... different. It's not something you've done often enough to feel confident about it.

Sure, you know the basics—you've read enough spicy books and fanfics to have a decent idea of what works (English majors don't judge; they research). 

But knowing what works in general isn't the same as knowing what Jungkook likes. 

And this is his cock you’re talking about—his stupidly perfect body and his stupidly perfect everything else.

And now here you are, kneeling between Jungkook’s thighs while he looks down at you with that stupid smirk of his.

You glance up at him expectantly, hoping for some kind of cue or instruction or… anything really. Like he always does, talk shit with that big mouth of his. Dirty talk or whatever. 

But all he does is blink at you for a moment before he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his Sonic pajama pants and starts pulling them down.

His cock springs free, standing there like it owns the place. 

And okay, yeah, you’ve seen it before—plenty of times, actually. 

You’ve had it inside you, for fuck’s sake. 

But this? This is different. This is up close and personal, inches from your face, glossy and flushed and looking way too proud of itself.

Beautiful isn’t the right word. It’s a cock. A literal penis. 

There’s nothing beautiful about it—it’s just a piece of meat, veiny and slightly curved and standing at attention like it’s waiting for applause or something. 

And yet... you can’t look away. 

Why is it so glossy? Is that normal? Does he always look like this when he’s hard? You don’t know why your brain is spiraling into a full-blown analysis of his dick right now, but here you are, mentally beefing with it like it personally insulted you.

Be so fucking for real right now.

And again—there he is. Silent. Watching. Not saying a single goddamn word.

Which is weird because usually, Jungkook doesn’t shut up during sex. He’s all about the dirty talk—filthy little comments that let you know exactly what he likes, what he wants, what he’s thinking. 

But now? Nothing. Just this expectant silence that makes your skin prickle with self-consciousness.

You hate him for it.

Your hand wraps around him before you can overthink it anymore. Because okay, fine—you might not be an expert at this, but you’re not completely clueless either. You’ve sucked cock before (not a lot, but enough to know the basics), and you know how jerking off works. 

So that’s what you do: start slow, your hand moving down his length in a steady stroke.

He hisses softly at the contact, his hips shifting slightly against the couch cushion. When you glance up at him from beneath your lashes, he’s already looking down at you—his lips parted just enough to catch your attention as his tongue darts out to wet them.

And still, he says nothing.

“What?” You grunt the word out before you can stop yourself, frustration bubbling up in your chest.

“Nothing,” he says quickly, too quickly—like he wasn’t expecting you to call him out.

You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously, but his face gives nothing away.

“Okay,” you mutter under your breath, pulling back slightly as doubt creeps in around the edges of your confidence. “I’m doing everything wrong. Forget it.”

You start to stand up—because honestly? 

Fuck this. 

Fuck him and his smug silence and his stupid perfect dick that’s making you second-guess yourself when you were perfectly fine five minutes ago.

But before you can fully retreat, his hand shoots out to grab yours—not rough or demanding, just firm enough to stop you in your tracks.

“Hey,” he says softly, his voice low and almost... gentle? “Hey, no. Don’t do that.”

You stare at him for a moment, then look away because suddenly eye contact feels like too much.

There’s a beat of silence before he swallows audibly, like he’s pondering what to say. 

“Do you want me to…” He hesitates for half a second before continuing, his tone careful but curious. “Verbally tell you what I like?”

You purse your lips tightly, the edges pressing together in a way that’s almost painful. 

Because somehow, saying yes to that—admitting you need him to tell you what to do—feels like losing. And you don’t want to lose. Not here. Not to him. Not when he’s sprawled out like some kind of smug king on the stupid couch, looking at you like he’s waiting for you to figure out how to solve a puzzle he already knows the answer to.

He doesn’t push, though. His hand stays on yours, warm and steady, as you let him pull you gently back down. 

Your knees hit the floor again, and the carpet feels rough against your skin, grounding you in the moment even as your brain screams at you to get it together.

“Okay,” he says after a beat, his voice soft but probing. “What’s up?”

Your eyes snap to his, narrowing slightly at the question. “That’s what I should be asking you.”

He raises an eyebrow at that, clearly unimpressed with your deflection. 

“C’mon. Usually you’re so mouthy. You literally made me beg yesterday just to eat you out. I don’t get this sudden prude thing you’re pulling.”

Damn him. Damn him and his ability to read you so well it feels like he’s got a script for your every thought and reaction.

“I’m not acting prude,” you snap defensively.

“Really?” His lips twitch upward. “Because you’re staring at my cock like you’re mad at it.”

Your jaw tightens as embarrassment flares hot in your chest. 

“I’m not mad at it,” you mutter through gritted teeth.

“Then what’s the problem?” He tilts his head slightly, genuinely curious now. “Tell me.”

You blink at him, caught off guard by how simple he makes it sound—like voicing whatever’s swirling in your head is the easiest thing in the world. Like it’s not tied up in knots of insecurity and doubt and whatever else is making your throat feel tight right now.

Because he’s right. You could just tell him. That would solve everything, wouldn’t it? But somehow, the thought of saying it out loud—of admitting that maybe you’re not as confident about this as you’d like to be—feels like stepping off a cliff without knowing if there’s anything to catch you at the bottom.

Why does it feel like losing? Like humiliation?

His brow furrows slightly when you don’t respond right away, and then he asks—carefully, hesitantly—

“Okay… have you done this before? A blowjob?”

The question makes your stomach flip for reasons you can’t quite explain. Your eyes drop to the floor as heat creeps up your neck and into your face. 

“…Yus,” you mumble under your breath.

“Yus?” He repeats incredulously, leaning forward slightly like he didn’t hear you right.

“Yes,” you say louder this time, still staring at the carpet like it holds all the answers to life’s mysteries.

“But not often,” he guesses—and fuck him for being right again.

Your head snaps up at that, ready to fire off some kind of retort about how that’s none of his business or how he should shut up because clearly he’s not an expert on everything either—but then he laughs.

Out loud.

And it stops you cold.

Because it’s not mean or mocking or anything close to what you expected—it’s just… laughter. Light and genuine and almost disbelieving in a way that makes something inside you loosen just a little bit.

“What?” You demand sharply.

“Oh my god,” he says between chuckles. “Phoenix—is that what this is about? Why didn’t you just tell me?”

You glare at him because what else are you supposed to do? Admit he’s right? Again? Absolutely not.

He notices anyway—of course he does—and his grin softens into something closer to understanding as he leans back against the couch cushions.

“Bro,” he says lightly, shaking his head like this is all so obvious now. “It’s totally chill.”

You scoff quietly, looking off to the side because meeting his eyes feels impossible right now.

“I mean it, you want to try, right? You want to experience it or whatever? Nothing wrong with that.” He pauses for half a second before adding with a small smile: “Let me help you, aight?”

You don’t say yes. Of course you don’t. You never say yes.

You run your tongue across your upper lip instead, slow and lazy like you’re tasting the tension, and shrug—shoulders stiff like maybe it costs you something to agree. 

Which, okay. It kind of does. Dignity’s already dangling by a thread.

But he reads it. Of course he does. Like you’re a fucking cartoon strip and he’s already memorized every panel. 

He just grins—guffaws, really, because apparently this is hilarious to him—and tilts his chin toward his cock like that’s normal. Like this is a fucking TED Talk on Applied Dick Science.

“Spit.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“Spit on it.” 

Like it’s nothing. Like you’re asking him if he wants oat milk in his coffee and not literally hocking a loogie onto his dick.

Your face does something between a grimace and a snort. “What are you, a porn algorithm?”

“Relax. It’s not a kink thing. Just helps with… y’know. Glide.” A shrug. So casual. “Friction’s not your friend, Nix.”

You squint at him. “So now you’re a physics professor.”

“Professor of good head,” he says under his breath, eyes twinkling like he thinks that’s clever.

You exhale slowly through your nose. Not quite a sigh. Just enough to say fine, sure, without actually giving him anything. 

Then your eyes flick down, then back up.

And maybe you don’t mean to hold eye contact for as long as you do, but whatever. Your gaze locks on his, and his mouth hitches slightly at the corner.

One of those small, lazy smirks that says he’s watching everything you do. Which he is.

You drop your eyes again. Shift forward. Palms to thighs. Inhale once through your nose, just to clear whatever mental fog is still clinging.

Then you lower your face toward him, mouth hovering just above the head of his cock.

And okay. It’s a little intense up close like this.

Flushed dark pink at the tip, that little bead of precum catching the light. Skin taut where it stretches up and around the curve. 

And yeah, it’s pretty? Like, stupid pretty. Which only pisses you off more because it’s a dick. You shouldn’t be thinking aesthetic right now. You should be—

He hisses.

Literally just from your breath.

Like, your breath grazes the head and he inhales sharp through his teeth, a low sound punching out of his chest that he probably didn’t mean to make.

Your eyes cut up automatically.

And you absolutely, one hundred percent bite back a smirk. Can feel it twitch at the edge of your mouth, creeping in before you catch it.

He doesn’t say anything, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his face. A slight arch of his brow, a ghost of a grin that says ‘don’t get cocky’, which is rich coming from him.

You don’t let the moment stretch too long.

You glance down once more, tilt your chin forward, and—

Let spit fall from your lips.

Slow and steady.

A warm trail that splatters right onto his cockhead with a soft, wet noise you pretend not to react to. The drool stretches in a thin line as it drops, catching and sticking in places before sliding down the shaft, slick and messy in a way that feels weirdly intimate and way too graphic for how not romantic this is supposed to be.

You hear him exhale again—less sharp this time, more like a breath he didn’t know he was holding—and when you glance back up, your eyes meet his.

Big. Wide. Intentional.

Because yeah, you’ve read enough porn. You know this trick. Know the effect eye contact has. 

Especially from down here. Especially when your lips are half an inch from his dick and your saliva’s still glistening on it.

And okay. Fine. Maybe it’s a little performative. 

But he does it, too. Every goddamn time he’s between your legs, he’s watching you like it’s a sport. 

So maybe it’s not just for you. Maybe it’s projection.

It definitely is.

Because the second your spit hits his cock and your eyes stay locked on his, Jungkook makes this—noise.

Not a grunt. Not a moan. Just this tiny sound, like a choked-up breath dragged out of his throat against his will. The kind of sound you’d miss if you weren’t listening for it. 

But you are. And you do. 

Your fingers wrap around him without thinking. Automatic, almost. Like your hand just knows what to do now. It’s not a tight grip, not at first—just enough to feel the weight of him, hot and heavy and fucking ridiculous in your palm.

You give him one slow pull. A test run. Casual. Clinical.

And his head tips back instantly.

“Ahh—god, yeah,” he groans, voice pitched low and raw like it just escaped him.

You blink. Stare. Something tightens low in your stomach, unexpected.

But before you can fully process the way that noise slithered into your spine and curled up there like it pays rent, he’s looking down again. Immediately. Because apparently the view of your hand jerking him off is not something he’s willing to miss.

His gaze drops to the contact like it’s life or death, pupils blown and mouth slightly parted. He looks wrecked already, and you’ve barely done anything.

Kind of gratifying. Not gonna lie.

So you keep moving. Slow. Measured. A couple more strokes, just to test what rhythm feels natural. Your hand adjusts automatically, finding that friction-slicked spot between too loose and too tight. Thumb brushes the underside near the head, not on purpose, but—

“Yeah,” he breathes. “That’s—”

Pauses. Swallows. Licks his lips like he’s trying not to rush it. 

“That’s good, but… here.”

His voice is soft now, like he’s trying not to scare you off. Like if he speaks too loud you might slap his dick and walk out. 

And then his hand’s there. His actual hand.

The tatted one.

It swallows yours whole like it’s got a god complex. His fingers are longer, rougher, his palm calloused from guitar strings or camera work or something equally shitty—and it lands on top of yours like this is how. Like he can’t not touch. Like the need to guide is stronger than the need to just sit there and enjoy.

And okay, that’s kind of hot.

He doesn’t even do it weird. No pervy whisper, no ‘lemme show you, baby.’

Just—grips your hand, adjusts the angle, and starts moving it the way he would. His pace. His pressure. His exact rhythm.

He’s demonstrating. Demonstrating. The way he does it.

Which—Jesus. Okay. That’s a thing you’re watching now.

You track everything. How he drags you up to the head and tugs just a bit harder when you get there. Not painful, just… firmer. Intentional. Then down again—not all the way, not to the base. Just past halfway. Controlled. Like there’s a limit he doesn’t cross.

You assume it’s a sensitivity thing or maybe it just doesn’t feel good that far down. Maybe it’s one of those ‘my dick isn’t a joystick’ scenarios. 

You don’t know.

But you clock it. Catalog it. 

Mental note: no base. No excessive tug. Got it.

He lets go of your hand after a few strokes, slowly, and leans back just an inch—enough to say ‘your turn’. Still watching, though. Like a perv. Like a mentor.

Like both.

You copy what he showed you. Try to mimic the pressure, the pace, the not-too-tight but not-too-flimsy grip. Try to keep the motion smooth even though your brain’s busy yelling ‘are we seriously learning how he jerks off right now? is this real life?’

Apparently yes. It is. And it’s working.

Because he makes this sound. This little hhuhh in the back of his throat, barely audible but very much real. Not exaggerated. Just… a reaction.

You hold back a grin. Barely.

Pride hits low and hot in your chest like you just got an A on a test you forgot to study for. 

Not because he said something—but because he didn’t. 

That little exhale? That shift in his hips? That subtle fuck, yeah cue without words?

Validation.

Your eyes flick up. You want to see it. Read him.

But he’s not looking at you.

Still staring at your hand. Brows drawn, mouth slack.   

And then—

His front teeth catch his bottom lip. Plush, pink, a little too soft for how filthy he is, and he bites. Not hard. Just enough for it to dimple inward and make something flicker behind his lashes. 

The kind of flicker that screams overthinking, like maybe the feeling’s a little too good, and he’s trying to ground himself with pain or pressure or… whatever the fuck goes on in his chaos brain when he’s like this.

Then comes the sound.

Somewhere between a hiss and a grunt, like his body can’t decide if it wants to breathe through it or fuck into it. 

Rough at the edges, low, weirdly conflicted.

His head dips again.

“Also,” he breathes out, voice crackly and uneven now, “do… do this. Look.”

His hand comes up before you can ask what this is.

Big, again. His palm wraps around yours like he’s your goddamn training wheels. Not even pretending it’s not a tutorial anymore. 

His fingers press lightly into your skin, adjusting your grip—less on the full stroke now and more—

“There,” he mutters, repositioning your thumb, sliding it higher. 

Right to that spot beneath the crown. Soft little groove. Just barely noticeable unless you’re paying attention.

Which, apparently, he really fucking is.

“You feel that?” he says, voice dipping. “Right under. The… fuckin’—yeah, that. That’s the spot.”

You nod a little, but your eyes don’t leave your hand, now with your thumb angled like a pressure point. Like you’re disarming a bomb with one finger.

His voice drops again.

“Okay, now when you stroke—” his hand moves yours with his, slow and controlled, “—pull up like that, and when you hit the top, tighter there—yeah, squeeze just a little—and your thumb… drag it with you.”

He does it again. Once. Then twice. Demonstrating like this is a team sport and you’re in pre-game drills.

That spot.

That frenulum, or whatever the technical term is. 

Doesn’t matter. What matters is how his breath stutters when you pass over it, how his mouth goes a little slack while he watches.

“That’s the shit, Nix,” he says, almost like it’s to himself. Like he’s taking mental notes on his own cock. “That right there.”

Then he lets go again. Fingers slip away from yours, slow. 

And he licks his lips as he leans back into the couch, arm flopping over the top cushion like he’s trying to play it cool again, even though he’s still watching you like a fucking hawk.

So. You try.

You mimic the motion exactly. 

Same rhythm. Same pressure. Same thumb glide up the underside, and—

“Fuck.”

That one’s not breathy. Not soft. Full-bodied groan. Low and honest, punched out of his chest like his lungs just gave up the ghost for a second.

You do it again. And again.

Thumb dragging against that spot every time you pull up. Your grip tightening near the crown, loosening at the glide down.

He melts.

That’s the only word for it. 

His whole body sinks into the cushions like gravity just tripled. Thighs open wider, neck drops back over the edge of the couch, mouth hanging open now like he’s past the point of pretending he’s unaffected.

“Fuck, yeah—that is…” he pants, lips parted, eyes fluttering before he forces them open again, zeroing in on your hand like it’s holy. “That’s fucking perfect, Nix. Jesus Christ, you’ve got magic fingers or some shit.”

Your smirk barely hides itself.

He’s a talker. You knew that. But this? This is next level.

“Fuckin’ knew you’d be good with your hands,” he groans, eyes flicking from your fingers to your face and back down again, tongue dragging across his bottom lip like he’s trying not to say more but can’t help himself. “Just like that, just like that—shit, that’s so fucking good—”

Your thumb twitches tighter without thinking, and his hips flinch.

And it’s so fucking dumb, the way your stomach flips at the reaction. Like you’re the one being touched. Like you got your nerve endings scraped raw by one tiny squeeze.

But there it is—his hips flinching, a twitch so fast you might’ve missed it if you weren’t laser-focused on every damn micro-expression crawling across his face. 

His mouth opens for half a second like he’s gonna say something, maybe crack a joke, maybe tell you to go harder—but then—

He chokes a breath.

Like it gets stuck somewhere between his ribs and throat, all tangled up in want.

It is shaky, and it hitches like it costs him something to let it out. 

Like just existing through this is work.

And you see it—the way his pupils expand even more, ink bleeding into every millimeter of brown. 

He’s not blinking. He’s not moving, not really. Just chest rising and falling way too slow, like he’s afraid any sudden motion might snap this thread thin tension.

You lick your lips before you can stop yourself. Because he’s staring. Still. At your hand, yeah, but also your face now. 

Like watching you react is part of the pleasure. Like your mouth is more interesting than porn.

And okay. Maybe you’re a little into that.

Maybe that’s why your hand tightens again. Just a little. Not even on purpose this time, more like instinct. Your thumb swipes over that spot again, light and smooth and mean, and his chest fucking jerks.

Then—

A noise. Escapes him. Not a groan. Not a moan either. It’s like a stuttered-out puff of sound that crackles in his throat on its way up, all gritty and broken, like it got caught in static.

And right after that, so soft you almost miss it, he says:

“Your mouth.”

You freeze.

Your pulse jumps like you’ve been caught doing something wrong. Even though you haven’t. Not really. Just… hand stuff. Just skin and muscle and spit and heat.

But his voice? It’s not filthy when he says it. It’s awestruck. Like he’s seeing a fucking shooting star. Like it’s something to be whispered.

Your mouth.

It echoes weird in your head. Bounces off all your internal walls.

You blink up at him, eyes dragging from the handjob, and you look at his face.

And the expression there?

Jesus. He looks like he’s praying.

Not to God. Not even to you. To the feeling. To the moment. To the idea of your mouth on him.

And for some reason, your voice is already moving before your brain can catch it. “What do you want from my mouth?”

You don’t say it cute. Don’t coo. You’re not flirting. You’re daring. Like if he says something you don’t like, you’ll bite down instead of suck.

He blinks. Laughs, almost. Not like it’s funny—more like it surprised him. The way you said it. Like you slapped him with your voice.

Then, low and kind of incredulous: “What do you think I want, Nix?”

And he grins when he says it. Real slow. Not smug. Not sleazy. Just… real. Like that’s the stupidest question you’ve ever asked and he’s giving you a minute to catch up. To get there on your own. Like maybe you’re the dumb one for asking when the answer’s right there, hard and twitching and shiny in your grip.

You glance up through your lashes because fuck it, might as well lean into the trope while you’re down here. Might as well make it mean something.

And you swear to god—something inside him glitches.

Like his whole respiratory system shorts out. You hear it, barely—a tiny gulp, some micro sound buried deep in his throat like a trapped hummingbird. 

Fragile and desperate. 

Faint little flutter.

But it’s real.

Like a ‘fuck’ slips out of the space around you. Not even from his mouth. Just—exists.

As if the universe itself groaned.

And you know he felt it too because he looks at you like you just made the sun blink.

His hand lifts again, slow.

Fingers curl gently around your face, brushing the hair out of your eyes—not rough, not fast. Just… precise. Like he needs to see you. Like eye contact is currency and he’s suddenly flat broke.

You don’t move. Just let him. Let his thumb skim your cheek. Let his gaze drag over your face like it’s got weight behind it. Like you’re something he doesn’t want to blink away from.

And then—his voice. Low. Warm. Calm in that way that feels like it’s trying to keep a leash on something unhinged underneath.

“Suckle the crown a bit while you keep your hand moving. Up and down. Not fast, just… keep rhythm.”

You blink. 

That phrasing. 

Suckle.

What the fuck is he, a medieval warlord?

Still.

Your pulse stutters.

Because he says it like he’s thought about this. Like it’s not just a ‘hey, mouth on cock now’ moment, but something he’s imagined. 

Something he’s replayed in his head with specificity.

“Focus on the tip. You don’t gotta go all in yet. Just use your tongue. Like… tease the slit a little. Then suck around it. Not too hard. Gentle. Like you’re figuring it out.”

Your brows twitch up just slightly, but you nod.

Because yeah. Okay. That you can do.

And your hand’s still on him—hasn’t left. Just slick and steady, lazy little drags up and down his shaft with your thumb gliding right under the head like he showed you.

You shift forward. Let your lips ghost over the tip. Let him feel your breath first. Not teasing, not on purpose. Just… checking the temperature.

You feel the tension ripple through his thigh when you finally close your lips over him—soft, just the crown. Mouth warm and wet as it envelops the head, not too much suction yet. Just heat.

And then—yeah. You suckle. Gentle at first. Not a full draw, more of a tug.

His reaction is immediate.

Lips part. Chest jerks up half an inch.

One of those sounds again. Low. Raspy. A curse swallowed before it could hit air.

Your hand doesn’t stop. You keep it moving—slow pumps that glide down, then back up, thumb still catching that spot he likes every time you reach the top.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, voice low and rough around the edges. “That’s it. That’s—fuck—that’s the perfect pressure. Mmhm. Yeah.” 

His words come in stilted bursts, like they’re being dragged out of him against his will. 

“Keep… keep moving your hand while—ughhnn—keep sucking the tip.”

You do as he says because what else are you supposed to do? You’re not about to stop now—not when he’s making noises like that, not when his cock twitches every time your tongue flicks over the slit. 

But there’s this nagging thought in the back of your mind, this tiny voice that won’t shut up: 

Why isn’t he telling you to take the whole thing already?  

Isn’t that what most guys want? The whole deep-throat porn star routine? You’ve read enough smut (done it a couple times too) to know how this is supposed to go—or at least how it usually does. 

But Jungkook? 

He seems… content. Like he’s not in any rush to shove himself down your throat.  

Maybe he doesn’t want to rush it? Or maybe he’s just weird like that?  

Your eyes flick down to your hand. Analyze the movement. The rhythm. The way your fingers wrap around him, snug and slick, dragging up and down with just enough pressure to make him twitch but not enough to push him over. 

You remember how he did it. The angle. The squeeze. The way his thumb skimmed that spot under the head like it was a fucking button.

You mimic it again. Just to see.

And that’s when he exhales. Soft. Controlled. Like he’s trying not to let it out but can’t help himself. 

The sound drips from his lips like water hitting a rooftop—quiet, but sharp. A little hiss of breath that makes your thighs clench.

Then—

“Look at me.”

It’s not a command. Not barked. Just… said. Low and even. Like he’s asking for something simple. Like it’s no big deal.

But you don’t.

You kind of… ignore him. 

Not on purpose, really. 

It’s just—you’re embarrassed now, okay? 

You don’t want to look up and see his smug face while you’ve got his tip in your mouth like some idiot who doesn’t know what she’s doing. So you keep your eyes trained downward, focusing on the task at hand (and mouth).  

“Nix,” he says again, more pointed this time. “C’mon. Eyes up.”  

You want to bite him for that tone alone—like he’s daring you or something—but reluctantly, you glance up through your lashes. More of a glare than anything else because fuck him for making demands right now.  

He huffs out a laugh at your expression, shaking his head slightly like you’re hopeless or something equally annoying. 

“No, not like that. Like… big. Wide.” He pauses for half a second before adding with a grin: “Make your eyes pop.”  

You pull off his cock with an audible pop of its own because what the actual fuck is he talking about now? 

Your brows knit together as you scowl up at him, and he looks back at you with those stupid boba eyes of his—round and inquisitive like he doesn’t realize how ridiculous he sounds right now.

“Make them pop?” you echo, incredulous. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

He looks at you. Blinks once. Then shrugs, like he’s just now realizing how stupid he sounds.

“I don’t know, man. Just—make ‘em all wide and cute.”

You stare.

Then scoff. Loud. Disbelieving.

“You want me to look dumb and innocent while I suck your cock? That’s what you’re into?”

His eyes widen. “No—Jesus, no. Not like that.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Seriously? Because you sound like a creep.”

He groans. “God, you’re always so fucking blabbermouthed.”

“And you’re always so fucking vague,” you shoot back.

He glares at you. “I don’t mean, like—virgin vibes, okay? I mean that look you get. When you’re being a little shit. When you’re pushing buttons and pretending you’re not. That’s what I like.”

You blink. Your mouth opens. Then closes again.

He leans forward slightly, voice dropping. “I want you to suck my fucking cock like it’s all you want, while pretending you’re not sucking my soul through it. That’s what I’m talking about. Not some weird creepy thing.”

“Oh.” 

You blink once before pursing your lips thoughtfully again. 

“…Okay.”

Because okay indeed. You know what he means.

You hate that you know what he means.

He rolls his eyes, but his cock hasn’t softened. If anything, it’s thicker now. Heavier. The head flushed a deeper pink, veins more prominent. Like he gets off on arguing with you. Like this whole back-and-forth is foreplay.

And maybe it is. He’s already said twice he likes it when you’re mouthy.

Is this what he wants? You pretending you don’t know what you’re doing while you absolutely do?

You take a deep breath before shifting forward again—this time making a conscious effort to widen your eyes as much as possible while looking up at him through your lashes.

Big and round and innocent or whatever. Like you have no idea what effect this is having on him—even though the way his breath catches in his throat tells you exactly what kind of power you hold right now.

And yeah… maybe this is what he wants: you, pretending not to know exactly what you're doing while totally knowing anyway.

So that’s what you give him.

Wide eyes locked on his face as your lips part once more—and then slowly close around the head of his cock again.

And then, your hand moves faster.

Not sloppy. Not rushed. Just—more. More pressure, more rhythm, more confidence. Like your body’s finally synced up with his. Like you’ve figured out the exact tempo that makes him twitch and grunt and grip the couch like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

And he’s feeling it.

Hard (okay that was kinda funny, don’t deny it). 

You can tell by the way his thighs tense under your palms, muscles flexing every time your fist glides down his shaft and back up again. By the way his abs jump when your thumb flicks under the head. By the way he’s breathing now—through his teeth, through his throat, like he’s trying not to make noise but losing the battle.

You keep your mouth soft around the tip. Suction just enough to make it wet and warm and tight. Tongue moving in slow, deliberate waves underneath—right there, under the crown, where he’s taught you he’s most sensitive. 

And it’s funny, because you can feel it. The way he jerks every time your tongue drags across that spot, the way his cock pulses in your mouth like it’s trying to say yes, that, again, more.

And you don’t stop.

You keep eye contact, too. Big, wide, innocent. Like you’re not doing anything special. Like you’re just here, hanging out, casually ruining his life with your mouth.

He looks down at you, and his face is—fuck.

Wrecked.

Brows scrunched, mouth half open, eyes glassy like he’s buffering. Like his brain’s trying to load the next thought but keeps getting stuck on your lips.

Then he groans.

Low and guttural and sharp, like it got dragged out of his chest with a hook.

“Oh my—fffuckkkk—”

His voice breaks halfway through the word, like his throat just gave up. His hand shoots out, grabbing the back of the couch, knuckles white.

“Fuckin’—god, Nix—”

You swirl your tongue again, slow and mean, and he whines.  Actually whines. Like a kicked puppy. 

“I’m gonna—” he pants, hips twitching up into your fist, “—I’m gonna bust a fat nut, I swear to god—”

You snort around him. Can’t help it. The phrase is so fucking stupid, so him, and so hot in the dumbest possible way.

He hears it. Groans again. Throws his head back against the couch cushion and drags a hand down his face like he’s trying to physically hold himself together.

“Don’t laugh at me, you little—fuck, that tongue—”

You do it again. That wave motion. Just to be a menace. Just to see if he’ll break.

He does.

"Y-you have no idea," he pants, Adam's apple bobbing frantically as he swallows between words. "No fucking clue what you do to me when you—hnngh—when you stare up at me with those goddamn eyes while my cock's in your mouth."

His voice is all over the place now. Cracked. Desperate. Like he's trying to keep it together but you're not giving him a single inch of relief.

"Angel," he breathes, and okay, that’s a first (but at least it’s not ‘baby’, ew?) "You're gonna make me cum so hard. So fucking hard I might black out."

Your tongue flicks again—right against that sensitive bundle—and his whole body jerks like you've touched a live wire.

"Christ,” he hisses through clenched teeth. "I can't—I can't even—"

You keep going.

Hand stroking faster. Tongue teasing. Mouth suctioning just the tip, just the crown, just enough to make him lose his mind.

"Nix," he warns, voice strained and desperate. "I'm right there. Right fucking there. You're about to make me—"

His cock pulses against your tongue, the tip growing impossibly harder, slick and hot and heavy in your mouth as his whole body gets visibly ready to detonate. 

“Nix,” he pants, voice raw and desperate. “Nix, I’m—I can’t—fuck, I’m gonna—”

His breath catches. Swallowed back like it’s too big to spit out. His whole chest stutters with it, like the air’s too thick to pull in, like the pressure’s building faster than he can handle.

“Y’tongue,” he gasps, barely coherent, hips twitching up into your fist. “Stick—god, god god—stick it out f’me. Stick that pretty tongue out f’me, Nix. C’mon—”

You don’t hesitate. You just do it. Mouth popping off the head with a wet little tsk, tongue sliding out slow and flat, glistening with spit and still tinged with the taste of him. 

You hold it there, just like he asked.

And he groans.

“Look at—” he starts, but you’re already there. 

Already staring up at him with those same wide, round eyes he asked for. 

Tongue out, lips parted, face tilted up like you’re waiting for it.

He jerks forward, one hand flying to his cock, wrapping around himself and taking over. 

Fast. 

Rough. 

Desperate. 

Like he’s been holding back too long and now he’s got seconds left before he combusts.

“Yeah—ahhh—shit—ah—ah—fuck—”

And then—he breaks. Makes these little grunting, bitten-off noises—like he’s trying to hold them in but can’t. Like every spasm punches another sound out of him. Cums. Hard.

Hot, thick ropes strip across your face—cheeks, lips, chin. 

Some of it hits your tongue, sticky and salty and obscene. 

It drips down your jaw, slides over your skin in messy, wet streaks, and he’s still going. Still twitching. Still jerking himself through it like he’s trying to drain every last drop.

“Oh my god—” he chokes out, voice cracking. “Oh my fucking god—”

His head tips back, eyes blown wide and mouth slack with disbelief.

“You have the prettiest fucking eyes, Nix.”

And he sounds so, so wrecked while he says it, that you can’t help but believe him.

Like it’s the filthiest thing he’s ever said. Or maybe the most honest. 

You don’t know why your chest twists into knots. 

You don’t know why his eyes, hazed, dizzy, looking down at you is suddenly one of your favorite views. 

But you did it. You excelled at it. 

And Jungkook liked it. 

That’s what matters. 

He gives his cock a few lazy strokes, working the last drops out like he’s wringing water from a sponge, chest rising and falling in slow, heavy breaths.

Your eyes catch on the faint sheen of sweat on his collarbone and the way his lips are parted just enough for his tongue to dart out to wet them.  

“Fuck…” he mutters. “Fucking hell.” 

Another breath, deeper this time, like he’s trying to find his footing again. 

“That was fucking amazing.”  

You smile—small, sly, the kind of smile that doesn’t need to try too hard. 

“That easy, huh?”  

He snorts, running a hand through his hair, pushing it back from where it’s fallen into his eyes. 

“When you’ve got a mouth like yours? Yeah.”  

The compliment shouldn’t make your cheeks warm. It’s just Jungkook being Jungkook, all cockiness and shameless flirting. But still, you feel a flutter of… something. 

Pride, maybe. Or just the lingering high of having him completely at your mercy.

You push yourself up from your knees slowly, legs stiff from being on the tile for too long. There’s a moment where you think he might reach out to steady you—his hand twitches like it’s considering it—but he doesn’t. Just watches as you stand and brush your hands down your thighs like that’ll somehow make this whole thing feel less messy.  

“Gonna clean this mess up,” you say, already turning toward the bathroom before he can respond.  

“Want me to help?” His voice follows you—soft but not hesitant. Like it’s just something he’d offer anyone without thinking twice about it.  

You pause mid-step, glancing over your shoulder at him. 

He’s still seated on the couch, pants and boxers shoved down his hips, shirt rumpled and sticking to his skin in places. He looks ridiculous and hot at the same time—like someone who just got thoroughly wrecked but hasn’t quite figured out how to pull himself back together yet.

And for some reason—maybe because he asked so easily—you feel your throat tighten awkwardly.

“Uh…” You hesitate, fingers brushing against the edge of the doorway as you try to find the right words. “No. No, I’m fine.”  

He doesn’t say anything at first—just purses his lips slightly and nods like he’s accepting your answer even if he doesn’t entirely believe it.  

It should be awkward, but it’s… not. Not entirely. Just unfamiliar. 

New territory you’re not sure how to navigate.

“…But thank you,” you add quickly before darting into the bathroom like a coward.

When was the last time you thanked Jungkook for anything?

You lean against the door for a moment, eyes closed, trying to process what just happened. Not just the blowjob—that part’s easy enough to compartmentalize—but the rest of it. 

Not the banter either, you do that too. 

The almost-friendly moment afterward.

It felt… nice. Easy, even. 

Like maybe being friends with Jungkook wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

Maybe that’s why you step out after cleaning your face, instead of hiding in your room like you normally would. 

Maybe that’s why your eyes search for his as you enter the living room.

He’s already sprawled out like nothing happened. One arm stretched across the back cushions, legs spread wide in that annoying way men always seem to take up space. He’s even cracked one of the floor-to-ceiling windows open, letting in a cool breeze that’s slowly clearing out the lingering scent of sex.

Griffin’s curled against his side, purring loudly as Jungkook absently scratches under his chin. The cat gives you a lazy blink when you appear, like he knows exactly what you’ve been doing and is judging you for it.

You clear your throat, crossing your arms over your chest. Your eyes drift to the TV—some car restoration show you don’t recognize playing—before finding their way back to him.

“So,” you start, the word hanging awkwardly in the air between you. “Do you have plans this afternoon?”

He looks up, one eyebrow quirked in mild surprise. “After you get off work, you mean?”

“Yeah.” You shift your weight, suddenly feeling awkward. “I’m done at five.”

Why is this awkward? You just had his dick in your mouth, for fuck’s sake. Asking about his schedule shouldn’t feel more intimate than that. 

“No plans.” His fingers continue their gentle scratching behind Griffin’s ears, the cat purring so loudly you can hear it from where you’re standing. “Why? You offering something better than my thrilling agenda of watching YouTube guitar tutorials and ordering takeout?”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. “There’s this new exhibit at the MoMA I’ve been wanting to check out. Photography thing.” 

You shrug like it doesn’t matter either way. Like you’re not actually inviting him to do something that doesn’t involve getting naked. 

“Thought maybe you’d be into it. Being a film major and all.”

“Phoenix wants to hang out with me? Voluntarily? Without the promise of orgasms? I’m shocked.”

“Forget it,” you mutter, already turning toward your room. “It was just a thought.”

“Hey, no—wait.” He sits up straighter, disturbing Griffin who gives an annoyed meow. “I’m in. The photography exhibit sounds cool.”

You pause, glancing back at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He nods, and for once, there’s no teasing edge to his voice. “I’ll meet you after work? We could grab dinner after, if you want.”

“Sure.” You try to sound casual, like this isn’t the first time you’ve made actual plans together. “There’s this place in the East Village I’ve been wanting to try. Nothing fancy, just… food.”

“Food is good. I’m a fan of food.” He grins.

“Great. I’ll text you when I’m done.” You head toward your room, needing to get ready for work. 

“Sure, Nix.”

As you close your bedroom door, you can’t help but wonder what the hell you’re doing. This feels suspiciously like the friendship you’ve been so adamantly avoiding. 

But maybe—just maybe—it wouldn’t be the end of the world to actually enjoy his company with your clothes on for once.

Besides, you need to keep him occupied until eight. Yoongi had been very specific about the timing when he texted you this morning about Jungkook’s surprise birthday dinner.

Keep him out until 8. Taehyung and Hobi are setting up. Don’t mention ramen.

And yet, he hasn’t even spoken about his birthday to you. 

What kind of person doesn’t mention their own birthday? 

The same kind who makes protein pancakes and pretends everything’s fine when it’s clearly not, probably.

You check your phone. 9:15. Plenty of time to get ready for work and figure out how to navigate this strange new territory where you and Jungkook do normal people things together. 

Like friends.

The word still feels foreign, uncomfortable. 

But not entirely wrong.

goal: 500 notes.

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⋆｡°✩ taglist✩°｡⋆

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[nicksolemnlyswears]

COMFORT ME, STAY WITH ME

(HAELENA’S TURN)

STAY WITH US

pairing: helaena targaryen x targaryen! reader, aegon targaryen x targaryen! reader

word count: ~3k

warnings: spoilers for s2e2 of HoTD, mentions of murder and death of a child, light cursing, angsty helaena, one single mention of sex. dont @ me if you find a haelena instead of a helaena. targaryen names are much too complicated for my brain

a/n: thank you guys for all the love on aegon's oneshot. i was bouncing on the walls when i saw how much love it received and that some people agree with me in terms of alicent being a shit mom. that being said you dont really have to read the first part to read this. it works as a stand alone although it is a continuation.

although the inspiration to write these oneshots was the death of a child i love how soft and comforting they've come out. it's about sympathizing and giving these characters the love they deserve.

helaena deserves so much love even more than aegon. she's an innocent in all of this trapped in the midst of war. hell even rhaenyra agrees and scolded daemon for his misdoings.

im thinking of writing one last part where it is all three of them together: reader, aegon and helaena. i'm leaning towards smut but i never know what my brain will come up with. if you’d rather have some more domestic fluffy stuff let me know and that can be arranged!

enjoy!

Your fingers close around your skirts as you fly up the stairs to Helaena's bed chambers. One of her maids leads the way. The young girl sought you out as you readied for bed, rambling about how Queen Helaena was in distress. Without further question, you slipped on your robe and followed her.

The Queen has not been well since the night her child was brutally taken from her. She continues to live day by day in constant suffering as her mind has a difficult time coming to terms with that night's events.

As it happens, saying Helaena is 'not well' is an understatement.

She might've been 'not well' after the fact, but the funeral proceedings broke the last thread of sense she was holding onto. If anyone is to blame, it is the Dowager Queen who forced her to attend and Otto Hightower who was the 'mastermind' behind it all.

It was torture to hear the people of Kings Landing shouting for her, screaming vile words about Rhaenyra, and offering condolences about a subject they barely knew a thing about.

Most had never seen the young Prince; his cold body and the gold thread around his neck were their first glimpses of him. They gasped and awed at her child as if he were a spectacle while she had no choice but to sit and watch with composure.

It is only natural she would fall apart under the pressure of such ill-conceived plans. Her overthinking mind couldn't handle it any longer when the carriage got stuck. Her thoughts coming up with the most of wicked scenarios. She had to run.

Then, there is Jaehaera, who continues to ask for her twin brother. The poor girl has never spent a day apart from him since they were conceived. It is difficult for Helaena to hear Jaehaera constantly ask where he is and when he will return. It's a never ending reminder of her loss.

Besides, how is she to explain death to a child when Helaena herself has not accepted it.

The newly assigned guard sworn to protect the Queen opens the door for you as soon as you round the corner. His anticipation worries you to no end, and you fear what lies past those doors.

Maids surround Helaena, attempting to comfort her. She screams at them to let her be, but they persist. The maids mean well. Helaena is clearly distressed, yet they don't seem to realize it's because of their overbearing presence.

The young Queen swats them away. Her fingers thread through her messy hair as she seeks an escape, and sobs rake through her slender body until she collapses on her knees. Her lips move in unreadable murmurs in between each yell.

Helaena barely appears like herself. Dark purple circles line her under eyes, and her hair is unbrushed and knotted. Her signature plump cheeks have hollowed out, indicating that she has lost weight.

"Please," Helaena cries to no one in particular, recoiling from their touch.

You barrel through the maids and kneel on the floor at an arms length from Helaena. "'Laena?" you softly call to get her to look at you, knowing that if you even attempt to touch her, she will shy away.

At the recognition of your voice, Helaena's face whips up. She falls into your arms, hiding from the other females in the room. The tears that stain her face wet your robe as you hold her close. She tucks her face into your neck, hiccuping from emotion.

"Leave us," you command with a stern gaze that borders on anger.

The maids move to leave the room, but only after notifying you that the Queen has barely eaten or bathed in days. Once the door closes shut, you coax Helaena from your arms.

"What is wrong, 'Laena?" You ask softly, cradling her face to brush away her tears. The sight of her red and blotchy face breaks your heart. She must've been like this for a long time.

"It is my fault," she hiccups as new tears follow the path of the others. Helaena hangs her head in despair. She should've fought harder to keep her son alive. There must've been something else she could've done.

"Look at me," you say sternly, forcing her to look at you. It is when her eyes meet yours that you continue, "This is not your fault."

"I was the one to point my finger," she argues while her fists clench and unclench around the fabric of her dress when a new wave of emotion takes over.

Helaena is an overly emotional person. She feels things deep in her chest. She wishes she could control it, but the more she holds it in, the nastier it gets when it gets out of her control. Her body freezes and pleads for her to run and hide.

"Helaena, this was going to happen whether you pointed your finger or not. If you hadn't done what you did, you and Jaehaera would be dead as well."

It's blunt and a bit cruel, but Helaena must understand that she had no other choice. The only way this could've been stopped was if she had been assigned a sworn protector, but the council underestimated their enemy and Ser Criston Cole was too busy getting his cock wet to do anything about it.

"I told them to spare him and kill me instead," Helaena confesses with a weep.

She lets herself go on your shoulder as you wrap your arms around her shaking shoulders. You kiss the top of her head to console her guilty conscience. Helaena did not deserve to be a victim of Daemon's terrible idea. She might just be the most innocent of Targaryens.

"I know, Helaena, you were so brave. You're a wonderful mother. This is not your fault, and nobody blames you. You did what you had to do. Jaehaera is alive and well because of you."

It's hard for Helaena to stop thinking in such a way once she starts. The thoughts cause her to imagine things that aren't really there and doubt her reality. She feels like the staff's glances are not of worry but of resentment for letting those men kill her boy. Aegon's absence makes it all the worse.

"Aegon will not look at me, much less speak to me," she whimpers, wrapping her arms around your waist.

A tear slides down your cheek. You will never compare your sadness to theirs, but seeing them hurt in such a way pains you. Their marriage was arranged, yes, but Aegon and Helaena hold deep affection for each other. They simply have a difficult time showing it.

In this instance, there is no one who understands them better than each other. It is tragic but this should bring them closer together not tear them apart.

"Aegon is grieving. He can barely stand to look at himself because he feels like he failed his family, 'Laena. I promise you he will come around."

Helaena nods with her head on your shoulder. She is not convinced, but your words soothe her for the time being. Tears continuously slide down her face, and there is nothing you can do about it. You much prefer she cries it all out than hold it in.

"Come," you tell her, holding her hand and guiding her to the bath the maids had prepared before they left. "Let's get you ready for bed.”

You keep her close to you, reassuring Helaena you're there to stay as long as she needs. You help her untie the strings of her dress, and as you hang it over the back of a chair, she slips out of her smallclothes.

She accepts your hand to step into the bath. The water has now cooled, but she doesn't complain. It is the least of her worries. Helaena sits in the tub with her arms around her knees and silently cries.

Your goal tonight is to get her to rest. You can tell she hasn't slept in a long time, which will make her feel better.

Settling on the wooden stool next to the bath, you lather soap into the sponge and ask for her arm. Helaena complies, and you gently swipe the sponge across her skin. The maids were thorough as the smell of a calming oils invades your senses. They sincerely wanted to help their Queen.

Scrubbing down her arm, you note her nailbeds, which are red and raw. You're gentle with the soap when you reach her hand to prevent it from burning. Once you rinse it out, you bring her hand up to your lips, kissing her fingertips much like your mother would do when you got hurt.

Her crying calms when she catches onto your gesture, watching you in awe.

It is easy to note how she's thinned out as you continue to bathe her. Her skin presses against her ribs, showcasing each indent, and the bony prominences of her shoulders are much more palpable. It worries you to no end. Everyone has different coping mechanisms, but this is by far the unhealthiest one.

In the morrow, you will make it your goal to get her to eat. For a start, you will ask the kitchens to bake her favorite dessert. There has never been a moment where Helaena has refused a berry tart.

"Tilt your head back for me, love," you whisper, grabbing the pitcher of clean water from the table. Brushing Helaena's hair back, you pour the water, being careful not to get it in her eyes.

As she tilts her head back, she keeps her watchful eyes on you. She is in one of the most intimate positions, yet her lilac eyes reveal the most vulnerable parts of herself. You offer Helaena a comforting smile. Moving on from this tragic accident will be difficult, but we have to start somewhere.

When you lather her hair with soap and massage her scalp, she closes her eyes with a shudder. In turn, her shoulders relax, and goosebumps appear across her skin. A quiet moan slipping past her bitten lips.

Moving on to her face, Helaena watches you closely as you grab a rag to wash her face. You're so careful and tender with her. She has not made mention of it, but your touch feels pleasant against her skin.

You dab her neck next, looking over the wound that was cast upon her. You wish for it not to scar. Helaena needs no more reminders of that night.

After finishing the bath, you help her stand and dry off. Then, you follow her to the bed, where her nightgown lies discarded. With your assistance, she quickly slips it on. Helaena is quiet as she dresses; no more tears well up in her eyes.

"Let's brush your hair," you whisper soothingly.

Delicately, you glide the brush through her silver strands. You tackle the knots methodically to prevent pulling on her hair. A couple of drops of rose oil help greatly with the task as the bristles move smoothly across the long length of her hair.

Helaena sighs softly, and, through the mirror, you can see her eyes are closed. The poor thing must be exhausted.

"How are you feeling?" You ask her, tying the plait you weaved and wrapping your arms around her shoulders. You prop your head upon hers, cuddling her into you.

"Better, I suppose," she nods gratefully, grasping your hand hanging loosely across her chest. "I am tired," she admits.

"Let's get you to bed then."

Before you can slip away, Helaena protests and holds your wrist. "No, please." You're taken aback by the desperation in her voice. Why is she refusing to rest when her body begs for it?

"Helaena, when was the last time you slept?"

Helaena appears guilty. She swallows the knot on her throat, preparing to answer. "Not since that night. The nightmares do not allow me respite."

You sit beside her on the bench, keeping a firm grasp on her hand. "Do you wish to speak about them? It might help."

Her voice is barely above a whisper. "It's always the same. They return when the nights darkest and take Jaehaera."

Helaena is terrified. Many of her dreams have become reality, and this is one she would not be able to bear witness to. The things they do in her dreams are unforgivable. She cannot lose her daughter to those monsters.

Silence takes upon the room. Helaena cannot survive in a sleep deprived state, there must be something you can do. "What if we bring her here? She can sleep with you. That way, you will know she's safe."

Helaena ponders your suggestion, her eyes drifting away. "Will you stay?" Although a question the way Helaena's voice cracks, it's more of a plead.

"Is that what you wish, my Queen?" You ask, caressing her cheek so she returns to you from that faraway place in her mind.

She's quick to nod and squeeze your hand in gratitude. "Please," she whispers, leaning into your touch.

"Anything for you."

Helaena accompanies you to Jaehaera's new chambers. The King saw it fit Jaehaera did not reside in the room where her twin brother was murdered. A wise choice.

If your memory serves you well, Jace used to inhabit the space once upon a time.

Helaena almost runs to her daughter's cot, ensuring she's alive and well. You sympathize with her, it's natural to worry about your child if another was stolen from your life.

"Mama," Jaehaera yawns when Helaena picks her up.

"You're sleeping with mummy tonight, yeah?" Helaena whispers, cradling the back of her head and kissing the crown of her head.

Jaehaera, too tired to reason or even question it, nods and nestles into the crook of Haelena's neck. The sight is eerily similar to that fateful night.

The guard posted to protect Jaehaera escorts you to the Queen's chambers, standing on the opposite side of Helaena's white cloak guard.

Once inside, you slip off your robe and join her and Jaehaera on the bed. The girl is safely nestled between you both, pale lashes fluttering shut.

Helaena reaches for your hand to ensure you do not leave, and you lace your fingers with hers. "Sleep, 'Laena. I'll keep you safe," you promise her.

All it takes for Helaena to sleep is a lullaby your mother used to sing to you. It was of great tales of the people of Old Valyria. It was your favorite growing up, and now it is Helaena's.

By the song's end, Helaena's breaths even out and she succumbs to slumber. Although her face reflects her tiredness, the resemblance between Helaena and Jaehaera is stark.

When your eyes begin to close, eager to follow Helaena and Jaehaera to the land of dreams, the door creaks open. Startled, you sit up on the bed to search for an intruder, ready to scream if need be.

Aegon stands by the door, his chest heaving and his face pale. His hair is in disarray, and his eyes are wild with worry. "Where is Jaehaera?" he asks.

"She's right here," you respond, lowering the sheets and moving your body to reveal her resting upon Helaena's chest.

Aegon sighs in relief, and after a moment of hesitation, he timidly steps closer to the bed, observing the scene in front of him. He has taken to visiting his daughter's chambers throughout the night. He doesn't trust the guards, even if he is the one who assigned them. Aegon needs to see with his own eyes that his remaining child is alive and not endangered.

He had been frightened when the guard who was supposed to be posted by her door was gone, and worse, so was his daughter. Before he could scream, a maid walked in and, upon questioning, told him Jaehaera was in the Queen's chambers with her mother and the Princess.

You lay back against the headboard and observe him. He sits on the edge of the bed, reaching over you to brush a strand of hair away from his wife's face. Then, his hand lowers as his fingertip traces the slope of his daughter's nose.

"You should talk to her."

Helaena's words are clear as day in your mind. After witnessing Aegon in the same position, you reckon it would be good if they spoke to one another.

"I wouldn't know what to say," Aegon responds with a shake of his head.

"Yes, you do," you insist, resting your hand upon his, which lays on the bed. He glances questioningly at you, silently asking you to explain.

Your voice is light and soft. The last thing you want is to wake Helaena, although your instincts tell you it is doubtful. "Nobody understands what you're going through better than Helaena. She lost a child as well and feels just as hopeless as you do. Talk to her and tell her the words you would've liked to hear."

"It is that easy?" He asks in disbelief with a scoff. He looks at you for guidance. You've helped him more than anyone in the council or his own mother.

"Yes," you chuckle, and he joins you, if only for a moment. "Would you like me to go so you can stay?" You wouldn't want to intrude in a moment that can unite a family yet again.

Aegon shakes his head and urges you to stay abed. "It is alright. I will soon talk with 'Laena."

For a brief moment, Aegon presses his forehead against yours to show his appreciation. He stands with a press of his lips to your forehead and one more glance at his family. "Thank you for everything. I hope one day I can repay you for all your kindness."

"There's no need."

He does not speak but shares a glance that says a thousand words. Aegon closes the door behind him and turns to the guards standing by it.

Their backs visibly straighten when he addresses them. "Under no circumstance are you to leave your post. Your goal is to protect the Queen and the Princesses."

After all, his heart and soul are in that room.

STAY WITH US

came out a little longer than aegon but there was much to do with lovely helaena. queen helaena is a big reason as to why i hate alicent so much. alicent has let her down time and time again. how can she fucking ask helaena not to say anything about her and cole? fuck, alicent, she's not even thinking about that.

did you enjoy this one shot? please don’t forget to like or comment (i accept keyboard smashes, emojis, words of encouragement, praise, virtual hugs and alicent and cole slander) and if you want more of it feel free to let me know!

[lovelykhaleesiii]

Aegon is the best big brother to his sweet sister, who is in third trimester of pregnancy; not only does he help her relieve the feeling of her heavy breasts by sucking on her tits greedily like a babe, he sometimes helps the aching feeling between her legs by sticking his cock, tongue or fingers in her cunny

Such a good brother, especially when she’s not even his wife

Blood of my Blood.

PAIRING: Older!Brother!Aegon ii Targaryen x Little!Sister!Fem!Reader

WORDS: 1,715.

WARNINGS: incest to the max, implied affair [Aegon is the father of the child], age gap [reader is of mature/consensual age], lactation kink, pregnancy kink, slight reference to breeding kink, p in v sexual intercourse, possessive!Aegon, swearing.

A/N - now I NEVER write brother x sister tropes even in the ASOIAF universe just because it’s not really my cup of tea, but this ask sparked something very very feral in me. I might make a neice x uncle version of this or a Daddy Aeg x daughter!reader version.

credit to the owners of the images.

Curse the Gods who afflicted the journey of motherhood, for it could be such a gruelling thing... Heading into the final few moons of your first pregnancy, you had never felt such intense discomfort in your life. Your beloved mother, Queen Alicent, had informed you of such grievances, although with little empathy for her pregnancies had been quite embracing and facile. Your eldest sister, Helaena, having already given birth to a set of twins, now in the early stages of her current pregnancy with your elder brother, Aemond, could somewhat console you, becoming an anchor of support.

It was Aegon, your eldest of the siblings, that you seemed most attached to, for it was Aegon that granted you bliss in your pregnancy, more so than your absent husband, some delinquent lord of the Vale. You had argued your way with your mother, and batted your eyes to your father, begging you to stay in King's Landing, in familiar territory with the finest maesters at hand. More so, it was Aegon who had plotted with you this essential plan.

"Do you truly think that the maesters of the Vale and that imbecile you call husband will keep you safe and satisfied, dear sister? Not in the least... But I can."

Aegon's temptress of a tongue was convincing alone, although it had been his merciful gestures of chivalry that kept you sane and grounded. Easing your aches and pains of expecting, Aegon became your sole beacon of ease, like the formidable arms of a warrior and you, the damsel he heroically carries.

"Do they ache again, sweet sister?"

The softness in his husky, drowsy voice breaking the silence of the chamber, woke you whole from your half-hearted daze. You had both succumbed to slumber [often Aegon insisted that you remain closely by his side, even in bed] what felt like hours long ago, and yet through the ginger firelight, by the open window, night remained swallowing the sky.

"Mhmm-" You uneasily stir: weakly trying to muster enough strength to sit yourself upright: however, with the sheer, bulging mass of your grown belly you visibly struggled until Aegon's efforts of pulling you effortlessly upright ended your dilemma.

"Want me to help, princess?"

His calloused, thick hands began to rub small, soothing circles against your lower back, knowing the babe inside exerted much pressure on your lower spine: its weight growing more rigid with each passing month.

"You've helped me enough, Aegon. I mustn't ask more from you... If this state is any indication of me being a mother, consider me a terrible one," You defeatedly utter, one hand stretched from behind supporting your upright position, whilst the other softly caressed at the protruding temple of your clothed belly.

"Don't speak like that, Y/N, dearest. This is your first babe, you must understand your body is adjusting. Hel suffered a great deal with the twins also, and now, look at her... You are going to be a beautiful mother, indeed. I have no doubt...C'me here."

Lightly tapping at your exposed thigh, your night gown had been pulled up just below your way with all the commotion and movement. Obeying, Aegon summoned you onto his lap, shirtless he had entered the bed, however before you could even gather motion to straddle yourself atop: he'd managed to tear away his undergarments, leaving his exposed girth, reddened at the tip with excitement. Modestly covering himself with the sheer, ivory linen.

"Right now?" Your snappy tone vicious, however Aegon remained unfazed.

"Well, little sister, if I'm being quite frank it seems you've been dreaming quite vividly... Do you not hear the moans and pleas that escape your lips in sleep, crying out for me, begging... Want your elder to sate you, is it? Was that babe growing inside of you not enough, you wish me to spoil you some more, hmm?"

"A-Aeg- We shouldn't..." You meekly whimper, a surge of heat coursing through your face, certain your cheeks had grown scarlet with shame.

"All you had to do was ask."

His dark voice a low growl, like some concealed predator eager to ambush. Aegon's motions remained in contrast, tender and cautious, easing your delicate and sensitive frame over his wide, gelatinous thighs. A scorching sensational painfully heightened sent lightning bolts in waves throughout the entirety of your body, shuddering with excitement as your aching cunt eased itself over his pulsating cock. It had been a while since you had been intimate with Aegon like this, prior to the pregnancy in fact: the changes your body had undergone since were bracing and raw.

Feeling the tensity beneath and the heat as you began to bob ever so slowly and sensually over Aegon's tense, fat cock: feeling its hard tip hitting at your cervix [you had hoped rather than the babe]. Your tight walls overstretched, desperate to adjust to his girthy width, you swore to yourself it had never felt this stimulating ever before: every primal sense in your body, every fibre of your being resisting the urge to collapse into a faint against Aegon's soft chest, gripping onto the bare, pale skin of his broad shoulders for dear life.

"That's it, rūs [baby], doing so-so well. It hurts I know, but Daddy's gonna make you feel so much better. Keep going, princess."

Head rolling back in admiration, you felt the intensity from between your inner thighs beginning to lessen, a wetness pooling between, coating the friction to ease the motions. Your hands release their strong hold over him, as your eyes began to wonder over his body, you had immediately noticed the raw, reddened marks lashed across his ivory skin. To avoid any more damage, you guide your relaxed hands up towards Aegon's short strands.

Tugging and playfully pulling at the loose, platinum locks, whilst Aegon's face remained buried, eagerly lapping at your petal-like skin on the base of your neck. One strong arm snaked around your back, gripping you firmly by the neck providing some lumbar support, whilst the other strategically untied the knots of lace at the front of your night gown, exposing your voluptuously full tits. Hardened nipples raw and perky, even as Aegon teasingly flicked at your tit with this thumb, a grimace forming across his handsome face you felt against your skin: kneading the swollen, plump flesh with his palm, you instinctively squirmed and moaned with such debility.

"Seven Hells, you are so fucking full, dārilaros [princess]. This babe is going to be so spoiled. Such a good Mumma, already eager with milk for the bub... Could feed the an entire realm, Mumma."

"J-Just you A-Aeg. Only you get to taste this sweet m-milk before the babe. T-Tell me how good I taste," Stuttering whimpers mottled between mouthful of moans echoed between the dense walls of Aegon's royal chambers. His fat cock still buried and plunging itself deeply inside of you, penetrating against your already tainted and filled womb, Aegon's hand cupped at your breast from beneath. Lifting your tit upwards, latching his mouth tightly against its curvature peak.

"Mhmm- Keep going big boy... M-Making me feel s-so good, A-Aeg. H-Have your full."

The imminent relief your occupied tit began to succumb to, felt like a blissful dream. You felt your breath could finally release, not hitched against your throat from the sheer agony of feeling it was about to burst. The milk you intently sensed, lusciously pouring into Aegon's ravenous mouth, his plump, moist lips suckling at your skin, totally encompassing the nipple in its entirety. His teeth lightly gnawed at your flesh, however, it was a pleasant sensation nonetheless.

"So w-warm and fresh- Gonna f-fill me up so fucking much. P-Poor princess... The weight of these, the copious a-amount- I-I'm greedy for you. Sh-Should've fucked you earlier in your womanhood... Drenching your w-womb of my seed, till we fill the keep i-if need be. M-Mother would rather enjoy it."

Aegon, famished like a destitute of the realm, bathed his taste-buds of your milk from one breast and onto the other: regaining his breath between each as he felt inclined to credit your production. Descending his face down once more, he spared no further second wasting away, as he continued to fervently feed, like a man starved of pure water.

"Th-The el-eldest you may b-be, such a b-big baby y-you are. S-So needy for me, huh? A-Always needing t-to take me, m-make me yours. Every bit of me... Is devout t-to you, A-Aegon."

As if your breathless, sensual words had struck a chord in him, a man gone mad with a fever. His hold on you had tightened, his mouth suckled deeper, tugging at the flesh of your bosom, whilst his cock felt it had grown a size more inside of you. The wet mess coating between your inner thighs now glazed all over Aegon's plump lap, expressed no denial of his power over you, the purpose he gave to you. In theory and practice, you felt your body collapsing into a bliss, a shudder of ecstasy waved through your feeble body as you screamed for Aegon, a gush of your wetness coating all over his stiff cock buried inside. Only to be met with Aegon's mutual appreciation of your vulnerability and submission towards him.

"That's it, baby. Such a beautiful woman... Gevives [beauty]. You honour me with this holy act. You privilege me to your womb, your body and your life... Skorkydoso kostagon nyke mirre deny ao mirros? [How can I ever deny you anything?]."

Easing yourself off of Aegon, your limp, frail body tiresome and relieved of such exploits endured. Aegon knew better than to leave you to your own strength, as absent as it was: carrying you over towards your empty side of the bed, still laying you closely against his natural warmth.

"Continue to serve me, brother. And I shall pay it back 100 times over... And besides, if it had not been for your mischief many moons ago, I would not be in such a state. Although, I wouldn't have it any other way, Aegon... I love you."

"Avy jorrāelan [I love you], my dearest, sweet little sister. Continue as you are and I might have to fuck another babe in you once more to teach you a lesson or two."

general taglist [bold means I could NOT tag you] - @succnfuccubus @fan-goddess @malfoytargaryen @bibli0thecary @m1ndbrand @connorsui @elegantsplendour @sylasthegrim @arcielee @s-we-e-t-t-ea @sahvlren @aemondtargaryensrider @watercolorskyy @hypnos-daughter-certified @urmomsgirlfriend1 @backyardfolklore @snowprincesa1 @zaldritzosrose

Aegon ii taglist [bold means I could NOT tag you] - @who-told-you-this-was-butter @f4ll-for-you @jawline-of-steel @daughter-of-the-stars11 @bucknastysbabe @callsignwidow

credit for divider - @/saradika-graphics

[astrologydray]

How each sign acts after a breakup💔💔😭😭

Aries — “I’m fine. NEXT.”

Breakup Mode: Impulsive rebounder. Might post thirst traps 10 mins later.

Vibe: Rage gym sessions, blocking you without warning, pretending they never loved you (but secretly did).

Catchphrase: “I don’t chase, I replace.”

Taurus — “I’m not okay… but I’ll act like I am until I actually am.”

Breakup Mode: Stays in bed, eats comfort food, replays convos for weeks.

Vibe: Extremely loyal even post-breakup. Won’t let go fast, but once they do? It’s DONE forever.

Catchphrase: “You lost something solid.”

Gemini — “Anyway… what’s your friend’s @?”

Breakup Mode: Laughs through the pain, avoids emotions, posts cryptic tweets.

Vibe: Flirty on the TL, partying with a new circle, emotionally detached—until 3AM hits.

Catchphrase: “I moved on. Emotionally? Eh…”

Cancer — “I just wanted to be loved…”

Breakup Mode: Cries for 48 hours straight or longer, clings to memories, emotional breakdowns to music.

Vibe: Emotional rollercoaster, might text you and block you within 5 minutes.

Catchphrase: “Did you ever really love me?”

Leo — “You’ll miss this glow.”

Breakup Mode: Dramatic AF. Deletes all your pics, then posts fire selfies to remind you what you lost.

Vibe: Public healing with private pain. Will use their heartbreak to fuel a glow-up.

Catchphrase: “Now I’m the main character again.”

Virgo — “I analyzed every part of that breakup and yep, it was your fault.”

Breakup Mode: Overthinks EVERYTHING. Makes lists of red flags. Mentally edits you out of their life.

Vibe: Cold exterior, hurting inside. Lowkey stalks your socials anonymously.

Catchphrase: “I should’ve left first.”

Libra — “I hate being single… but I look good doing it.”

Breakup Mode: Hops into a new situationship, avoids feeling anything real.

Vibe: Flirty, smiley, but secretly spiraling when alone. Will miss the aesthetic of love.

Catchphrase: “Let’s just be friends…” (but not really)

Scorpio — “You broke my heart? I’ll haunt your life.”

Breakup Mode: Deletes you, blocks you, curses you in their journal. Might spy from a burner.

Vibe: Deeply wounded but won’t show it. Revenge glow-up and coming.

Catchphrase: “You’ll regret this. Forever.”

Sagittarius — “Breakup? Nah, I’m on a flight to Bali.”

Breakup Mode: Laughs, travels, distracts. Acts unfazed—but that pain hits randomly at 2AM.

Vibe: Fun, detached, but avoids true healing for a while.

Catchphrase: “On to the next adventure!”

Capricorn — “This is just a temporary setback in my life plan.”

Breakup Mode: Cold and focused. Buries pain under work and glow-ups.

Vibe: Doesn’t show emotion. Hopes you see them thriving and regret it.

Catchphrase: “I have bigger goals than heartbreak.”

Aquarius — “Did we even date?”

Breakup Mode: Emotionally numb. Avoids talking about it. Quietly spiraling in their head.

Vibe: Posts deep quotes, acts like it’s fine, detaches HARD.

Catchphrase: “I’ve transcended feelings.”

Pisces — “This is my heartbreak era. Let me suffer in peace.”

Breakup Mode: Cries to playlists, romanticizes the pain, writes poetry. Might hit you up months later.

Vibe: Feels everything deeply but still holds hope. Escapes into fantasy.

Catchphrase: “We were twin flames though…”

[signanothername]

I will ask about the reaper picture! It seems to me that perhaps Reaper is trying to pull Nightmare into "hell" or something akin to suffering like karma for the suffering he's caused but Dream through sheer force of will is letting his brother be "happy" and comforted hence the water while keeping Reaper at bay.

It's interesting because now Dreamis the both guardian of emotions and his brother.

Ah I also assume this is after Nightmare turns into a tree.

Context

Eeeeee i love your asks

Think of it this way, reaper isn’t on any particular side, he’s here to do his job and leave, not even Nightmare, the guardian of negativity, is exempt from having his soul reaped

Reaper personally slightly dislikes Nightmare, but he doesn’t let his personal feelings interfere with his job, he’s not taking Nightmare away specifically to make him suffer, but he sure as hell wishes he’d suffer

Reaper’s job takes a toll on him, he doesn’t like to take souls away, especially when they’re obviously people who had their whole lives ahead of them, but in Nightmare’s case, he feels nothing for him, no pity, no mercy, this is the man who made him go through so many souls to reap, and it was only a matter of time before his was reaped too, reaper heared Nightmare’s life clock ticking down for so long, he knew how Nightmare would end, he just never had the heart to tell Dream about it, nor was it his job to, he preferred to keep away from the twins’ business

Reaper is very much neutral

At the same time, despite his slight dislike to Nightmare, he wouldn’t exactly do everything in his power to make Nightmare suffer in his last moments, but he definitely didn’t provide any comfort either, hence “you deserve no song”, that might seem like a metaphorical statement, but it’s very much literal

Reaper always sings to the souls he’s about to reap, to provide them comfort in their last moments, to lessen their distress and fear, to make them not feel any pain or discomfort, but he doesn’t sing to Nightmare, he doesn’t do anything to make Nightmare’s fear and distress any worse, but he doesn’t do anything to make it any better either

Dream is the one that provides that comfort hence “yet your sibling sings for you”, this statement is also quite literal, Dream sings to Nightmare their favorite lullaby as children in his last moments, to provide his sibling comfort, Nightmare sang it with him before his body completely crumbled, Dream still continued to sing it alone after

Dream knows reaper will come for his brother, but he simply won’t let it happen, he definitely fights Reaper off by keeping him away and shielding his soul, Dream’s shield can never be broken into by force, the only way someone could break it, is if negativity was used against it, which isn’t really in the realm of possibility at this point

Reaper understands Dream’s stance, he’d do the same for his brother too, he could never imagine how painful it is for Dream to have to hold onto his sibling’s soul, to have to be the reason that soul is in his hand in the first place, Reaper admires Dream’s emotional strength, despite all the misery, pain, and suffering he goes through, he never let it break him, it might have clouded his mind, but it never broke him down

Dream knows Reaper is just doing his job, he knows Reaper wouldn’t make his twin suffer, but he simply can’t let it happen, and he uses the fact that negativity could cease to exist if Nightmare’s soul fully perished in his attempt to save his brother’s soul from being reaped, Dream’s first instinct isn’t even the balance anymore, it’s not even in his thoughts, the only thought in his mind at that point is to protect Nightmare, protect your helpless twin, make it up for him for never protecting him before

Of course, Dream’s thoughts are a bit ridiculous, Dream himself needed protection as a child, but Dream still blames himself for the Apple incident, so he thinks that he needed to protect Nightmare back then, and now he won’t let anyone hurt his twin anymore, he couldn’t protect him back then, but he’ll be dead before he lets him get hurt again right now

Dream will fight literal and figurative Death before he lets anyone hurt his twin anymore

[mommyslittlebird]

(Based off an actual incident involving my own dog shortly after I started fostering him) Wanda getting upset over something and crying and puppy determined to make the feel better crawling on top growling anytime someone even Wanda tries to get them off Wanda until she stops crying.

Wanda had been through a lot in her life. From being raised in a war torn country to losing her twin brother, she had suffered a lot of trauma, leaving her with frequent flashbacks and panic attacks.

And you could sense them better than she could sometimes.

You were a service hybrid, technically, but that never stopped you from taking your duty as Wanda’s helper very seriously. You were always on the lookout for the signs, sensing the spikes in her heart rate and the erratic way she breathed.

Most of the time, you caught it before it happened, informing your mama it was time to get to a safe place. But that wasn’t always possible.

This was one of those times where it wasn’t.

You were in a grocery store with Wanda, sitting in the car and chewing on a rubber toy when the fire alarm started going off. The lights started to flash. A deafening siren blared in your ears. It only went off for about a minute before it stopped, and a voice came over the loud speaker.

“Attention shoppers, we apologize for the alarm. We’re having some electrical issues at the moment, but we’d like to assure you there is no fire or need to evacuate. Thank you and happy shopping!”

You looked to Wanda, ready to laugh about the situation, only to find her frozen, heart pounding, breath shallow.

“Mama?” You asked, worried. You crawled out of the cart, putting your front paws on her stomach and helping her ease down to the floor. You knew what was happening.

You slid yourself under her shaking arms, putting your whole body weight against her to apply gentle pressure. “It’s okay, mama. You’re gonna be okay. You’re safe. I’m gonna keep you safe.”

But her panic was only beginning. Even as you curled up against her, her breath started to quicken and she started to gasp for air. You simply stayed put, lightly licking her jaw. “It’s okay, mama. You’re doing a good job. Just take some deep breaths.”

You were so focused on Wanda, trying to imitate deep breathes, that you didn’t even notice the woman who grabbed Wanda’s shoulder until she was crying and trying to push her away. “No! No! Please get off me! Please!”

When the lady didn’t budge, you growled, forcing her backwards. “Hey! Get away from her! That’s my mama! You’re scaring her!”

When she finally backed away, you noticed that Wanda’s panic attack had garnered a small crowd. You circled Wanda, forcing people backwards. “Go away! Everyone go away! Leave my mama alone! You’re scaring her!”

As soon as you disbanded the crowd, you grabbed a bag of frozen corn from a nearby freezer, carrying it back to Wanda and crawling into her lap once again. You pressed the cold back gently against her head.

She wrapped her arms around you, pulling you tight and close. “Come here, baby. You’re a good puppy. The best puppy anyone could ask for,” she said, still sobbing. She wrapped your leash tight around her hand so there was almost no slack left. “Do you think you could help mama find her way out of the store?”

You nodded dutifully, helping her to her feet. You left the cart, grabbing only her bag before gently tugging her to the exit. You even managed to find her car in the stores big parking lot, carefully dodging people and cars as you guided her to safety.

She climbed in the back seat, lying down with you clambering in behind her. You continued to lay on her chest, resting your head against her beating heart and licking away her tears.

“You really are the best and bravest puppy in the world. Do you know that?” She giggled through her tears. “You protected your mama and stayed calm even when I was panicked. You helped me get out of the store. You even remember where we parked the car, smart little thing.” She ruffled your hair affectionately.

You continued to lick the salty tears from her face. “I love you, mama. I’m gonna protect you forever and ever.”

She giggled. “I love you too, baby. I’m sure you will.”

[damiansgoodgirll]

Hey boo I love your stories so much and so while we wait for Don’t break my heart part 6 I was wondering if you could write something similar but with reader picking Finn side at first because she gets easily manipulated and so she believed him that he would have helped her but then she realised how sad and lonely she feels and Rhea and Damian bring her back with them and help her heal as they were both worried about her, and of course they weren’t mad she chose finn at first! Make it a little angst if you can❤️ I absolutely love your angst

love this request!

the judgment day x reader (platonic) / terror twins x reader (platonic)

likes, comments are reblogs are always welcomed!

‼️angst, finn being a manipulator, sadness, mention of anxiety and depression‼️

dolly’s choice

you still remember the day when finn, rhea and damian asked you to join them in the group. you didn’t exactly know why. you had nothing that could bring something to team, at least, that was your opinion.

you were a face, you were kind and sweet, a little bit naive, so why did the judgment day pick you?

they said they needed someone like you to get more fans and you believed them. but as you bonded with the group, they all took a liking in you. rhea said that she liked your personality, she saw you as a little sister. damian and finn both took you under their protective wings, the taught you new moves, showed you how to improve on the ring.

and in years, you felt like you had real friends again.

you were a solitaire. never had many friends, and when you started wrestling, it felt like you didn’t have much time to spend with the two friends you had left.

you told them about your past, about yourself. how you suffered from depression once you joined the company, how alone you felt and how you struggle with panic and anxiety attacks.

never once they judged you, they always helped you when you felt low and always made you feel like you were really part of their family too.

so you couldn’t understand why dom and finn turned on the group at summerslam.

dom said that it was because he couldn’t handle being controlled by rhea anymore and finn had the same reasons, just with damian. so the group you once knew as a big family, broke up.

and you were left in the middle.

you didn’t want to pick a side because you cared both for rhea and damian as much as you cared for finn and dom.

so you took the week right after summerslam off. you needed time to think. you didn’t want to choose between the only friends and family you ever had.

rhea and damian understood what you were feeling and never once they pressure you to join them. they care about you and they knew that the group was really important for you too. on the contrary, finn and dom kept calling you, asking you if you were alright, if you needed anything.

when you returned to raw, finn caught you before rhea and damian had the chance to speak with you.

“hey doll” his nickname for you always made you blush. referring to the doll he won for you at the fair one year ago, that became your nickname amongst the group, but it had more meaning only if finn used it.

“hi…” your voice a little softer. you hadn’t spoken with the team since summerslam happened, so, today it was your first time seeing them all after the events.

“do you have a couple of minutes before getting ready for your match? i would like to have a chat with you…” he smiled softly, knowing you and knowing exactly what tone to use with you.

you were hesitant at first, but you couldn’t say no to him “uhm…sure” so you took him into your changing room as you both sat down on the black leather couch, waiting for him to speak.

“first of all, i want to say how sorry i am for everything that happened a couple of weeks ago. but the group wasn’t working anymore and i know you may have not noticed this because we all care about you and we don’t have anything against you but…it wasn’t working anymore between me and damian and it wasn’t wasn’t working between dom and rhea…” he apologised first, knowing that you loved sincere people “the worst thing is that we didn’t think what this could lead to you… because i know you suffered from this…i saw it in your eyes when you left the stadium after summerslam” he took a deep breath “and i’ll never forgive myself for hurting you doll…that was never my intention”

“i appreciate your honesty” you smiled at him “but you wanted to ask me something if i’m not wrong?”

he took everything in himself to not lie to you, because he really cared about you, but right now all that was on his mind was revenge, and his idea of using you to get revenge on damian and rhea sounded more appealing to him “you’re right doll… there’s something that i wanted to ask you”

“go on”

“this new group is missing an important piece and that piece is you. me, dom, liv, jd and carlito…it feels like the group isn’t compete yet” he took your hands into his bigger ones “i know you’ve always struggled with making friends and i assure you that we would be so happy if you joined us… you already know the rest of the group and you know how much we love you…you and liv would be good friends, she’s such a sweetheart, she’s always kind and caring and she would be such an amazing tag team partner for you…and in all honesty, i miss you…i can’t stand to see you hate on me, i would hate myself too…you’re too important for me doll” and you believed him.

the way his voice sounded, full of emotion and honesty. the way he let a few tears fall. and the way he played the “friends card” so well, hitting you in your weakest spot.

it was enough for him to convince you to join them.

you will never forget the faces of damian and rhea when they first saw you with the group. they weren’t mad. they could never be mad at you. they were worried and a little disappointed. they wondered what finn had might said to you to convince you. what kind of sick mind tricks he had to use on you.

“that was amazing” dom laughed, kissing liv’s head, referring to the show that just aired. they completely destroyed rhea and dom, making you feel uncomfortable and guilty as you didn’t want to cause them any harm.

“yup” finn laughed “and i’ll never forget the faces they had when they saw y/n with us, right doll?” his arm took you closer to him, as if he wanted to hug you.

you faked a laugh, feeling uncomfortable and helpless.

“you’re the last piece we needed for our revenge on them” liv added, making the group agreeing with her.

wait - revenge?

finn never said anything about revenge. what was this coming from?

“next week it’s gonna be and you against rhea” liv said, making the group smirk.

“what?” you were confused knowing that you didn’t have any booking for next week.

“i’m gonna go against rhea next week and you’ll come out to help me” she laughed.

“she’s gonna be so heartbroken when she’ll see you with liv” dominik smirked, kissing liv one more time before moving somewhere else quieter with her.

“finn what are they talking about?” you asked him, not understanding what was going on.

“doll…” he sighed “you are a part of this group now and as a group we act together…”

“yeah, not against rhea and damian…you never said anything about going against them…you never mentioned me going against rhea” you didn’t want to cry in front of him, you were trying your best to keep your feelings inside.

he realised he hurt you, he knew he played with your feelings just because having you on his side was going to benefit him “you know that liv can’t win against rhea all by herself…she needs a little push”

you left them room before he could finish his speech.

tears were rolling down your cheeks. you wanted to leave the arena and find some quiet place to cry.

rhea and damian saw you in the distance. they couldn’t see your face really well but they saw you walking fast, trying to figure where to hide.

you found a good spot to hide. you sat on the emergency stairs and let all of those sobs you tried to keep down, out. you couldn’t believe you were so stupid to believe that finn really cared about you. you should have realised it sooner that the only reason he wanted you in the group was because he wanted to use you to get revenge on the pairs and not because he really wanted you in the group.

your cries broke rhea and damian’s heart.

they followed you, wanting to make sure you were okay and when they saw that you were not, they couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened to make you react like that.

you heard someone sitting next to you on the stairs but your eyes were still closed and your hands were still covering your face.

rhea’s arm moved to circle you, making you lay your head on her shoulder “sweetheart…what’s going on?”

when you heard rhea’s voice your eyes immediately opened up. you were met with the terror twins worried expressions.

“i’m so fucking stupid…” you whispered.

“hey, none of that…” damian’s hard voice said “absolutely not”

“but it’s the truth damian…i was so stupid to believe finn’s words and i’m so sorry for everything that happened tonight, i know you guys hate me now and”

“we don’t hate you y/n” rhea’s voice confessed “we could never hate you…we care about you too much…we were so worried when we saw you crying”

“finn said that i was the missing piece, he said that the team wasn’t complete without me and i believed him…he said how liv and i would be great friends, how he cared for me…only for him to say how happy he was when he saw you being disappointed that i picked him instead of you…”

“finn manipulated you y/n” damian said “he played mind games with you and none of what happened tonight was your fault, believe me…”

“but”

“no buts…damian is right…i was so worried when i saw you with them…i would have preferred you choosing by yourself, i would have preferred you going against us because it was your own choice and not someone else’s decision…doll” that nickname in rhea’s tone sounded kinder and more genuine now “it’s your life and it’s your choice to make…”

“i…i don’t want them…i, i can’t go against you next week rhea…they wanted me to distract you so liv could win against you but i can’t…” you cared too much for the duo to turn your back on them.

“then don’t do it…you don’t have to side with us…you could just be neutral…and we will always care about you, no matter what” damian gently wiped your tears away.

“i want to team with you if you still want me…”

rhea and damian both smiled, saying yes.

“we can’t be twins though…we are three now” you said, a little disappointed, knowing that you might have ruined it for them ad the fans.

“nope, not twins, family” rhea smirked, her eyes meeting damian’s “the terror family”

“la familia del terror” damian whispered in spanish “i like how it sounds” making you chuckle.

that night they took you back to the hotel, both planning how to get their revenge on liv and especially finn for even thinking of messing with you.

in the end, you were happy you got to make your own choice.

[thehivemindsys]

Eddie Gluskin Headcanons because I cannot stop thinking about him and im bored

Happy holidays, I usually just am not happy during this time of year so I’m pushing down my emotions and writing angst. Enjoy. Tw: Self harm, CSA, rape, misogyny, violence, typical outlast stuff.

-Eddie hates bathing and has to be physically restrained if the doctors wish to get him clean. This is mainly due to his CSA, as Eddie was attacked a lot while he was in the shower-but it is also due to him feeling uncomfortable with being nude for long periods of time.

-Eddie hates dogs. His family had a dog that was specifically trained to bite him if he commanded it to. Eddie doesn’t own any pets, really, and believes that cats are too “feminine” for him.

-During his initial murder spree, Eddie killed around 34 people-men and women, who he all gave the definition of “bride” to. He was found not guilty by reason of insanity, and was sent to Mount Massive Asylum. For a time, he actually had a proper psychologist before he was eventually signed up for the Walrider program after he attacked the wrong guard.

-Eddie has diagnosed Schizophrenia, BPD, psychosis, and could possibly qualify for a DID diagnosis.

-Eddie could possibly qualify for DID because he has a few seperate personality states: a younger version of himself, trapped within his childhood, “The Groom,” the dominant personality states, and a version of himself that is haunted by his trauma, and rather prefers to be alone. Though it is unclear if this is DID or just due to his BPD (he does dissociate from reality quite often, though).

-Eddie’s favorite movie growing up was Sleeping Beauty, and often quotes it to the best of his memory. He believes that Prince Phillip is the perfect depiction of a devoted husband, and Aurora is the most beautiful woman in the world.

-Sketching and tailoring are his favorite hobbies. He most often draws women in goregous dresses, and has a very traditional Disney-like style to his artwork.

-Eddie believes that it is the 1950s and is incapable of perceiving the current year as it is. He writes things like computers, camcorders, and cellphones off as “advanced space-age technology.” Don’t ever ask him to operate a computer because he would have absolutely no idea how to do it.

-If Eddie could comprehend the concept of a trans person, he would for sure be a supporter-due to his psychosis and delusions, however, he couldn’t comprehend it even if he tried. He can’t even comprehend that he may be gay.

-Eddie may have targeted women before the asylum, but once he was incarcerated, he practically exclusively targeted men-even when there was a female presence in the asylum, he didn’t attack them nearly as much as he did the men.

-Eddie is actually a pretty damn good chef. He has to be, considering his only qualification for a good “wife” is that “she” has to be alive and breathing. (Even then…)

-Eddie has a love for salted caramels.

-Eddie has a hard time keeping his anger in check, and rarely keeps his hands to himself. He was transferred to an isolation cell after he groped a guard, and he was never really allowed out of maximum security afterwards. This, plus other forms of inhumane treatment at the hands of Murkoff, eventually led to his mental health getting worse and his transfer to the Walrider program once it was deemed that he was “too far gone.”

-Eddie may be a charasmatic, boisterous man but deep down, he is suffering from crippling lonliness and deep seated insecurities that will likely never fully go away.

-Eddie did self harm before he was transferred to Mount Massive.

-Eddie’s best friend in the asylum is Frank Manera canonically, but he does have a rather good relationship with many of the Variants, including The Twins and Chris Walker. He and Frank used to have cells right next to one another, and communicated through a hole in the wall.

[strawberrybuni]

I MISS YOU MORE THAN ANYTHING

Pairings(separate): Satoru x reader, Suguru x reader, Kento x reader, Toji x reader, Choso x reader Summary: You had a bad accident that gave you amnesia, and you no longer remember him, and he just can't seem to move on Word Count: 4.1k CW: a LOT of angst, hurt no comfort :( A/N: I'd rather jump into a volcano than make choso cry tbh

GOJO SATORU

Satoru was someone who never bothered with dating. After all, he was such a busy man, he didn't really have time to even think about all that, yet he somehow managed to find time for you. The two of you were damn near inseparable, twin flames if you will.

You were a talented sorcerer, a grade 1 and always improving. He always took so much pride in your growth and how you strived to continue to get stronger alongside him. You two used to spend as much time together as possible, but now he's grateful if you even respond to one of his texts.

About a year ago, you two were on a mission, and a curse user caught you off guard, getting you bad with an attack. You had suffered some pretty intense injuries, it was a miracle you were even still alive. However, your injuries came with a permanent scar, amnesia.

Your memories were completely shot, either in bits and pieces, or just completely gone from your head altogether. Unfortunately for him, he was completely wiped from your brain. Even worse? Your attitude towards him took a complete 180. The fire of once being his twin flame now completely put out with zero chance of it being relit. He wasn't sure if you not remembering various events of your life altered your personality and the way you thought, but you practically hated him now.

Any time he tries to speak to you, he's met with glares, eye rolls, and half assed responses. It didn't stop him from talking to you, though. He would rather you be rude to him than never talk to him again.

Satoru is a man who never spoke on how things affected him or how they made him feel. No one knew how he reread your old text messages over and over again, or how he cries sometimes over the loss of you. No one knew how he lost countless hours of sleep just looking over your vids and pics that you two had taken when you were still together.

No one knew how he was dying on the inside.

“You gonna stay up here moping all day, or try talking to them?” He was suddenly snapped out of his thoughts as Shoko came to stand beside him.

He had been in his usual spot watching you from above as you trained with the students. He had been lost in thought, fantasizing about how the training would’ve been going if things were as they used to be. 

“Nah, I already bothered them today. Maybe I will later though.” He responded with his usual grin, but she saw right through his facade.

They stood there in silence, just watching, the faint sound of laughter filling the air. To Satoru, it almost felt like the universe was laughing at him. First he loses his one and only best friend, and now he's being forced to lose his one true love. Love really is the worst curse of them all, huh?

“You can talk to me, you know,” Shoko finally spoke after a few moments, not wanting to see her friend suffering alone. “It's fine, there's nothing to talk about anyways.”

“But there is Satoru. You might think you have everyone fooled and thinking that you’re unbothered by what happened, but not me. You don't.. have to go through all this alone.”

He mulled over her words for a few moments before shrugging slightly, deciding to be somewhat honest. “I guess I just.. don't find any point in talking about it. They don't love me anymore, and that's that. All I can do is accept it and go forward. If I push too much, they'll end up hating me more than they already do.”

He didn't want to accept it, though. God what he’d give to have you by his side once again. There aren't any lengths he wouldn't go to just to have you remember him. To call him Toru again. To love him again.

“Well that's surprisingly mature of you.” she teased with a sympathetic smile, causing him to pout. “Heyyy! I can be mature!”

She laughed at his whine, then smiled softly as she rubbed his back. “Just know we're all worried about you, okay? If you ever need anything, I’m a text away.”

He nodded with a smile, not bothering to say anything as he watched her leave. His smile slowly faded once she was out of sight, his attention being on you once again. He brought a finger up to pull his blindfold down around his neck as he watched you, letting out a shaky sigh.

“I really do miss you, sweetheart.”

GETO SUGURU

You were out and about with your friends, having a good day out in the nice weather. You had since recovered from the accident you were in, the same accident that gave you a nasty case of amnesia. You had lost a decent portion of your memories. Fortunately, you remembered most of your friends and they’ve all bee a great help in helping you readjust.

“So uh.. how’s it been between you and Suguru?” One of them asks out of the blue. Suguru, your boyfriend before your accident 6ish months ago who was no longer playing that role in your life. “I mean, there’s nothing really going on, we talk sometimes if that’s what you’re asking”

“Well I was just wondering because he’s kind of sort of..” Your friend trailed off, motioning discreetly in a direction to which your eyes followed. Your eyes made contact with his as you found him to be leaning against a wall not far from where you and your friends are, a frown instantly gracing your lips. “Give me a moment."

You got up, incredibly upset as you made your way over him. You had felt a lot of sympathy towards him given the circumstances. You couldn’t even imagine what it would be like for your lover to suddenly no longer remember you. So, you agreed to try and make a relationship work, but after a few months, you found you just aren't into him anymore. No matter what you did, you just couldn't find that love for him again. So, you broke it off and offered to just be friends, not for him to borderline stalk you.

“What the fuck Suguru? Why are you here?” You ask, since this isn’t exactly the first time he’s appeared ‘randomly’ where you happen to be. “I just happened to be in the area.”

“Bullshit. That’s your excuse every time I catch you lurking. I know I said we could be friends, but this is the opposite of how friends should act.”

Suguru frowned at your words. He hated when you referred to him as just some friend. He didn’t want to be your friend, he wanted his title as your boyfriend back. Yes he agreed to being friends, but that was only so he could continue to try and recapture your heart.

“Well apologies Y/N, I actually was in the area I just.. was curious about what you were up to and followed for a bit.”

“Do you not realize how weird that is? What if I’m on a date, then what?” His frown deepened at your response. “You’re already going on dates?”

“Oh my god I can’t keep having the same conversation with you.”

Time and time again, he would insert himself into your personal affairs as if he was still your boyfriend. He’d get pushy for answers, needing to know what you’re doing. He just misses when you’d give him those silly little updates on what’s going on throughout your day. All of your selfies, your audio messages. God he misses it all. He didn’t mean to act like a creep, but he couldn’t help himself.

“What I do in MY dating life is MY business. We are not a thing anymore Suguru, get that through your head.”

“How do you expect me to do that, huh? How do you expect me to be okay with watching you go out with some other dude, to let him know you like I knew you. For him to attempt to love you the way I loved you. You’re being unfair, no?"

“Honestly I'm being really fair. I have done nothing but try to make things work because you seemed like genuinely a nice guy. Unfortunately, it didn’t play out how we hoped it would. I set my boundaries in us just being friends and you’re the one continuing to push my boundaries again and again. So no Suguru, you’re the one being unfair.”

You were right, and he knew that, but he just can’t go on without you, and doing this almost made him feel apart.

“Look Suguru, because I’m so generous, I’ll give you one last fucking chance. Push my boundaries again and I’m blocking you. Got it?” You asked, to which he nodded. “Got it.”

He watched you return to your friends, hands in his pockets as he left. He had no intentions of stopping, he just was going to be smarter and sneakier about things. You’ll love him again one day, he has to keep believing that for the sake of his sanity. He just has to.

NANAMI KENTO

Your feet dragged against the carpeted floor as you made your way down the hallway to Kento’s apartment. It felt like it went on forever as the feeling of dread bubbled up in your chest at what you were about to do.

Bringing your hand up, you gently knock a few times, anxiously awaiting for him to open the door.

“Ah, Y/N, I didn’t expect to see you. It’s a pleasant surprise, I was actually in the midst of cooking if you’d like to come in.” Kento’s face was kind, eyes almost pleading for you to accept his offer. He missed you in ways you could never even begin to imagine, which is why it was making it so hard for you to go through with this.

“Thank you, but that's okay. I just um.. I came to return this to you.” You held out your hand, your engagement ring resting in your palm.

Kento felt his mouth run dry.

“What? Why.. why are you..” He tried to find the words to speak, his mind unable to comprehend what you're doing, thoughts going a mile a minute.

“I'm sorry Nanami, I really really am. I’ve been trying to find those feelings again, to feel what I felt before the accident, to remember you. I just.. it’s been months now and I just can't go on with this engagement, because at this rate I don’t know if I’ll ever feel that love for you again. I’m.. I'm sorry.”

You truly felt remorseful, he seemed like such a wonderful man, you can understand why you fell for him in the first place. But for some reason, you just weren't in love with him anymore. The love you once felt for him was long gone.

Ever since your accident, the two of you tried everything to get you to remember. Hell, he’d be fine with you falling in love with him all over again. He doesn't care, just as long as you two are together. 

You’re the love of his life, you’re the oxygen he breathes. Irreplaceable. No one could ever compare to you in his eyes, he just can't live without you. Your wedding was supposed to be in a few months, and what was supposed to be the happiest day of his life was slowly slipping through his fingers, and there was nothing he could do about it.

“No, no no, wait please Y/N. Can't we just try a little longer? I don't mean to be pushy but I feel like we were really getting somewhere and–” Please don't do this. “But we weren't, I was just forcing it because I didn't want to hurt you–”

“I just don't understand why we can't keep trying, we had so many plans together Y/N. Marriage, kids, a house in Malaysia.”

“And that sounds lovely but Nanami–”

“Stop calling me that.” The air around you two fell awkwardly silent. “Call me Ken.. please.. like you always have.” His voice was broken, defeated. He's dealt with so much loss in his life, he couldn't bear to lose you too.

His days have become so devoid of the color you once brought to his life. Before you, he was simply going through the motions of life because that's what he had to do. Now that he’s had you, he doesn't know what to do with himself anymore. He doesn’t want to go back to how it was before you.

“I’m sorry I just..” He sighed, a hand coming up to rub his face. He didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, he really didn't, but god he was so desperate to try and get you to change your mind. “You’re everything to me. Without you I just.. I'm a shell of a man. Things aren't the same without you by my side. Please can't we just keep trying for a little longer? We could have a breakthrough.”

You listened to his ramble, but you weren't budging. You didn't think it was healthy for him to keep holding onto something that just was no longer written in the stars.

“I can't anymore Kento, I don’t.. I don't want to do this anymore, I'm sorry. I think continuing to try is a lost cause, and only it's filling you with false hope.” He remained silent at your words, nodding in reluctant acceptance, knowing pushing the envelope wouldn't end in his favor.

“Alright.. may I request one last thing from you, before you go?” He asks, fighting back his tears and emotions. “Please, stay for dinner. Cooking for you was something that always bought me joy and.. I'd like to at least sit and eat with you one last time.”

You thought for a few moments before nodding, it was the least you could do. You'd give him this one last thing before you leave for good. 

Originally, Kento wasn't going to go back to sorcerer work, since he didn't want to risk his life and leave you alone, but after you had left and he thought it over again, he decided he would accept Gojo’s request for his assistance.

He had decided on his plan. Once this final mission in Shibuya is all said and done, he'd leave for Malaysia, and maybe, just maybe finally have a better life for himself there.

What could possibly go wrong?

FUSHIGURO TOJI

Love was something Toji never thought he'd ever try again. He had no interest in commitment in the slightest. If it wasn't just a quick fuck or a dynamic that benefitted him in some way, he truly just couldn’t give a damn.

That was, until you appeared in his life. 

What started out as just a friends with benefits type relationship, it slowly morphed into the both of you desiring more from each other.

You both understood each other. You were both from tragic backgrounds and dark pasts, and you two accepted good with the bad from one another. You two were so happy and in love.

Until the accident.

You were a curse user like him, and went on missions the same way he did. However, one really bad impact to the head had you in the hospital for a good few months. You were in a coma, and everyday he prayed that you would wake up. Although, now he kind of wishes that you did.

When you had awoken, you had lost various memories, including him. You didn't remember meeting him, all the moments you two shared, when he finally started telling you he loved you, none of it. And it killed him, not that he’d ever say it aloud.

When he told you how he was your boyfriend, while yes you found him to be very attractive, you just didn't feel the same about him anymore. You were always a closed off guarded individual due to your trauma. Yet for some reason back then, you allowed him into your heart. This time, however, you had zero interest in that.

Toji felt so many things. He was angry, confused, and heartbroken. How could you not remember all the times you two shared? Why did you not even want to try? Why didn't you care?

All the self improvement you helped him with all went down the drain. He just didn't care about anything or anyone anymore. Losing his first wife was hard, it destroyed him. Now he's losing you, except you're not even actually gone. You're right there, before his eyes, and has to watch you continue to live your life without him. 

“Shiu! That stupid mission was a– oh, um, hi Toji.” You awkwardly greeted him as you entered the office, not expecting to see him during your visit to Shiu. The tension in the room grew thick as Shiu cleared his throat. “I'm uh, gonna go smoke this. I'll be right back.” That bastard.

An awkward silence hung in the air before Toji decided to break it. “So, you seein’ anyone?

“I don't really think that's–”

“It's just a harmless question, doll.” His tone is borderline condescending, you let it slide though. “I was, not anymore though.”

Toji bit back a laugh at that. He liked to believe that deep down in your subconscious, you needed him just the way you always have, and that you’d never find another person who’d make you feel as he did.

“Yeah? And why's that?” He pressed, wanting any indication that his theory had any basis in reality. “Why does even that matter? It’s none of your business.”

You shot him down. Any time you two bumped into each other, he always pulled this. He'd get far too nosy about your dating life and you were tired of it. You understand that you two were in love before and that it's hard for him, but he needed to let it go. You weren’t interested and that was that.

“Ya know, if you ever want–”

“No.”

Toji frowned, irritation bubbling his chest from your immediate rejection. “I wasn't looking for a relationship doll, just a good fuck. You really think I wanna be bothered with you again? I barely wanted to even when we were together.” He spoke harshly, none of his words even being true.

He hated himself for the way he was treating you, but he just couldn't stop himself. Hurt people hurt people, after all.

“Just tell Shiu to call me. I'm leaving.” Before he could say anything, you were already out the door, refusing to take his attitude any longer.

Whatever, he was fine before without you anyway. He'll continue to tell himself that doesn't need you until he finally tricks his mind into believing it's true.

CHOSO

Loud knocks at your door awoke you from your sleep, having fallen asleep by mistake on the couch. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you reached for your phone to check the time. 

Nearly 2AM.

“Y/N?? A-Are you in there? Please I-I just wanna talk.” A once all too familiar voice sounded from the other side of the door, and you knew it was him. 

Choso, the man who apparently was your boyfriend before your accident.

A sigh left your lips, you already knew what this was about. You had blocked him on everything because you believed this would be beneficial to him. You felt this would help him move on, because that's simply what he was going to have to do. Yet he just wouldn't.

You reluctantly made your way to the door, taking a deep breath before opening it. He looked like a mess. His eyes were bloodshot, red and puffy from what you could only assume was from hours of crying. His stripe on his nose was dripping, as if his emotions were pouring from it. He truly looked pitiful.

“Choso..” You felt awful, you really did. You didn't mean to cause this man so much pain and turmoil, but you weren't going to fake being in love with him. That wouldn't make the situation any better.

“W-Why? Y-You– you blocked me? Why?” He stuttered out, once dried tears slowly beginning to wet his face once again as he started to cry, his breaths coming out shaky and broken.

You let him inside, worried about him having an anxiety attack and nosy neighbors being in your business.

“Choso I'm really going to need you to breathe–” The second the door is shut, he’s pulling you in for a tight hug, his body shaking as small cries leave him. “Choso–”

“I-I’m sorry, I-I’m sorry. I just need t-to touch you” You suppose you could give him this. “Okay but you're squeezing me too tight, you're going to hurt me if you don't loosen up.”

You two stood like that for a few moments. You offered comfort to the best of your ability, rubbing his back soothingly. You knew you needed to calm him down as much as possible for the news you were going to break to him. 

“I think.. we should sit and talk.” Your soft voice broke the silence. You gently removed yourself from his tight hold, guiding him to sit on the couch.

“I.. blocked you because I felt it’s for the best” You turned your head away from him, the sad puppy dog look in his eyes making you feel far too guilty. “I know before my accident we were together and in love but.. I need you to understand that I no longer feel that way. I don't remember you anymore–”

“B-But that doesn't mean you c-can’t remember one day, right? R-Right??” That was something you didn't have an answer for.

“I don’t–”

“B-But you remember everyone else, w-why not me? Why don't you r-remember me?” He begged for an answer, shaky hands coming to hold yours, squeezing them tight. “T-There has to be s-something we can do right? Maybe Shoko could d-do something, anything. We just need to–”

“Choso, please just stop.” You felt a pang in your heart as his shoulders slumped, but you had to throw the cold water in his face. “There is nothing that can be done. I'm sorry, I am. I wish for your sake that I could wake up with all my memories of you back but I just can't. I'm just.. not interested in you in that way anymore.” You slowly pulled your hands from his, resting yours in your lap as you continued. This really sucked. 

“I thought maybe we could be friends, and over time either my memories would return or I'd develop feelings for you again but.. I just don't feel that way towards you. And you're so.. clingy. The way you are is unhealthy Choso. You have to move on.”

His eyes went wide at your words, his world shattering before him as he rapidly shook his head. “No. No no no I-I don't want to do that. I can't do that p-please.”

“You're going to have to. I know I was your first love, but I promise you'll find someone else who will–”

“I-I don't want anyone else I-I want you. I don’t want to e-ever even think about m-my life without you p-please, I’ll do a-anything Y/N please.”

He was becoming hysterical again and you're far too exhausted to be able to properly calm him down. Besides, he'd just do what he's been doing for the last two months. He'll cry and cry until you feel guilty enough to change your mind. Not this time. 

“I'm sorry Choso, but I need you to leave. It’s over” You stood up from the couch, wanting to be done with this conversation. Giving him the cold shoulder was something you didn't necessarily want to do, but he was leaving you with no choice at this point.

As you approached your door to let him out,  you heard a thud from behind you followed by a hand grasping your ankle to prevent you from going any further. The sight before you as turned your head to look only worsened how you felt. 

He was on his knees, his head down, grasping your ankle in a final desperate plea. “P-Please… d-don’t do this to me..” 

It was your turn for your shoulders to slump, but your mind was already made as you whispered “Please, don't make me call Yuji..”

You felt his grip loosen at your words, before completely releasing your ankle. He slowly rose to his feet, his eyes trained on the floor, knowing if he looks at you, he’ll completely crumble and he wouldn’t be able to leave. He doesn’t say another word as he leaves, knowing there’s nothing he could say that would change your mind.

“Goodbye.. Choso.” You said for the last time before closing the door.

[yandere-sins]

Hello, about your miya twin series, who would be the most dangerous and scary twin to deal with? Who would physically punish their darling if she misbehaved? What would a punishment scenario for both of them be like?

Good questions!

From a mental standpoint, I'd say Atsumu is the scarier twin.

He is somewhat laid-back, which would make you think he really isn't that bad, but in what he does, he is unpredictable. You'd think all he really wants is to hang out with his darling, watch movies, share snacks, cuddle, and fool around, but his mood regularly just... snaps. And suddenly, he is violently horny or in the mood to throw you around like a ragdoll. You learn to see the small signs like him grabbing you a little too tight or his eyes just turning ever so slightly darker as you two have a stare-off. But in the end, you can never be too sure when he either has enough of you or wants you more than ever. Atsumu leaves almost all the bruises on your body, is careless enough that you might break a bone if you resist him, and gives you trauma for days that will make you want to avoid him. But you shouldn't. Never deny him what he wants, or you'll suffer even more.

So Osamu is the more dangerous twin.

Osamu has his rules. His routine and how he wants things to be done. Much like his brother, he's not shy about putting you in your place. Still, while Atsumu is physical, Osamu is much more psychological in his abuse. He'll take your food from you if he feels like you don't appreciate it enough. He'll waterboard you in the bathtub if you dare to lock him out. He decides if you get to sleep on the bed between them or if you earned yourself a cold night on the floor. He gives you medicine. He gets you the essentials you need. If he says no clothes, then none of them will let you wear anything for however long Osamu decides. You might fear Atsumu's outbursts, but unless you are in good graces with Osamu, you fear upsetting him at all times and getting punished out of the blue—and most of the time, it's not even your fault. Osamu also gets mad at Atsumu (more than the other way around), and you are taking the fall for it.

Both of them might reason with the other if it benefits them, but you'll never be able to play them against each other. Unless you crave punishment, that is. However, who is the scarier and who is the more dangerous twin might also change daily. You are never safe ;)

Atsumu's punishments are more that he forces you to do something you don't want to do, like humor him once he gets home. He'll force you into a kiss if you don't come up to him and peck him on the cheek and, likewise, will cage you under him on the couch if you refuse to cuddle and watch a movie with him. He's not above forcing himself on you if you refuse his advances, and he doesn't really take care of you unless you are being extra nice to him. He'll cook if Osamu is out, but only if you tell him sweetly that you're hungry and let him coo over you and rub your belly. And then all he pulls from the cupboards is cup ramen.

Strangely enough, Osamu does the same, just differently and on a bigger scale than Atsumu's. Oh, so you don't want to welcome him? Well, no food for you. It's in the fridge, but if you go and get it, he'll put you through hell. Atsumu kept you from coming to him? Too bad. He's asking you to come and warm yourself up because it's cold, but you ignore him? No warm clothes are for you; look how you'll survive the night. It's bathtime, but you locked yourself into the bath alone? Someone doesn't want the privacy of a door or to be in the bathroom alone ever again.

For both, it's about making your life inconvenient unless you do exactly what they want. Which can be, as mentioned before, difficult because they change their minds like they change underwear. But being affectionate and inviting is always the right thing to do; it just really sucks when they'll eagerly take you up on any of your offers, rarely refusing even if you change your mind fast.

Hope that answered your questions! Thanks for asking!! I love the two of them so much ♥♥♥

[paintedkinzy-88]

I have a 12AM idea that I’ll never do anything with but I want everyone to suffer with me.

When Splinter got the Rise boys, he assumed their ages based on their size: Raph was oldest, then Donnie, then Leo, and then Mikey. And April was their big sister. They’ve lived by this standard, it has always been true, no one has questioned it, and everyone ultimately likes their role!

Ya got big, protective, teddy bear older brother; book smart, chaotic, but also very protective older twin; street smart, also chaotic, gremlin child, gay younger twin; and the emotionally smart, empathetic, impressionable, heart of the group youngest.

Then Mikey befriends/reverse-adopts Draxum. Who looks at them like they are stupid when he hears this family dynamic... And proceeds to absolutely shatter their world. ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

Leo hatched first, by a significant amount of time, making him the oldest, then Raph, then Donnie, and Mikey stays the youngest. Like so many other TMNT iterations. Rise!Splinter just got it wrong.

Cutting so this isn’t super long on my page:

Now Raph is struck with this realization that he may be the biggest brother, but he is not the big brother. And that’s been like. His thing. Protecting his younger bros, always being there for his younger bros, keeping this damn family in line, laying down punishments and lectures and the such when need to or when Splinter isn’t there. But that’s no longer his responsibility. That was never his responsibility. But he doesn’t want to give that up! He doesn’t think he CAN tone that down and be more carefree (more than he already is I mean, bro is still a kid).

Donnie has been shot down from his title of big brother and oldest twin. He is now one of the youngest. He may not be as commanding as Raph, but he was sure as shit the second in command a lot of the time. Aside from his chaotic, semi-lethal tendencies, Raph could usually trust him to keep himself and the others in line when it really matters. Heck, Donnie was probably the one Raph took to the surface the most to get supplies once he hit a less shy age, because Donnie wouldn’t wonder off like the others. But now, what he has known as truth is not accurate at all. He’s more shaken by the fact they’ve all been wrong for their entire lives, and that he’s the younger twin (no, he’s not even a twin at all, why does that freak him out so much), so he doesn’t really fear any relationship between them changing.

Leo has the most dramatic change though… He’s one of the goofballs! Both a younger brother and a middle child, thriving in the childish chaos and vague invisibility as he’s able to generally be silly and not face consequences. He doesn’t have those expectations on him, nor does he want it like Raph does! But now, he’s been shoved to the top. Is he supposed to be like Raph now? Does he have to take total control? Be more responsible, more genuinely confident, more practical? The thought alone is stressing him tf out. He was already questioning his role on the team, he doesn’t need to feel like he’s REALLY been doing less than he should have been!

Meanwhile, Mikey’s watching his family fall apart and bicker and stress themselves out.

Ultimately, they decide it doesn’t fuckin matter. They are comfortable in their family roles, and that doesn’t need to change. The whole situation may have brought some concerns to light (namely: Raph’s stress, Leo’s insecurity and invisibility, Donnie’s need to fix everything to support them all, and Mikey’s overwhelming emotional empathy) but that’s probably for the better!

Still, that bombshell definitely screwed up the family for a good few weeks while they figured themselves out all over again.

[cartoonsinthemorning]

You got me reading Combat Baby, Come Back, and now all I can think about is time-dilation stangst. Ford telling Stan all about his adventures in the portal and Stan being secretly jealous that Ford got to do all the travelling and exploring that they had dreamed about all on his own, and now he’s 30s years older and Stan’s thinking that it’s so unfair that he even grew old without him, and that they’ll never get to sail the world together now (they do, they do, but getting to that point is a journey in and of itself)

I don't know how I got you to read it, but I'm very glad you did! First, because it's a masterpiece, a delicacy that every Stancester should go read, enjoy, and praise the author for writing. Second, because you come back here and you shoot me in the heart with this?? This angst that breaks my heart too? Thanks, I love it. But my brain needs some comfort, too, so what I'm enjoying to imagine if a fluff spin on this scenario: 30s Stan pouting and openly grumbling about the unfairness of it all- and Ford being distracted, not fully absorbing the angst, because GOD this Stan looks SO cute, and, in his eyes, so young. Ford would have this blissed, contemplative smile on his face, because his travels also involved danger and suffering, and it was essentially a banishment- so Stan's frustrations comes across as the whining of a spoiled kid, to him. From Ford's point of view, not growing old together is indeed unfair- to himself, rather. He's the one that got older, while his own twin is still young, with so much time ahead of himself, and without the scars that the multiverse can, and definitely would, impart travelers. And, if at this point of the story, Ford's resentment already melted away, then said outburst from Stan would come across as sweet, if not a bit selfish, but surely not infuriating. Charming, really. Meanwhile, if Stan caught Ford smiling at him like that, he'd find it smug and condescending and aggravating, lmao. But again, even if he threw something at his brother, Ford would just dodge it and find the temper tantrum quite adorable. If Ford proposed, in attempt to appease Stan, they may do that now- the may sail the world together, have their adventures, grow older together- even if, well, at a different rate. If Stan doesn't mind spending his thirties alone at sea with his much older, "insufferably smug", twin, of course- But he wouldn't even end the sentence because Stan would be hugging him so hard, squeezing all the air out of him.

[thelunarfairy]

Do you think Tsukasa and Amane will get a happy ending? What's your thoughts?

Uhh that's a tough question, unless Aidairo created a miraculous possibility, maybe yes. Although the odds are opposite, you asked specifically about the twins, so there is a possibility (as far as we've seen so far), but if you must know, 90% chance of it being a bittersweet ending.

I'm basing this on the other Aidairo stories that followed this pattern.

The possibility I have in mind about "happy ending", would be if the reason Amane got sick was because of the entity. If that was the case, then there is a chance.

If the entity disappeared, Amane wouldn't get sick, Tsukasa would never have to sacrifice himself, he wouldn't come back "different", they would just be themselves living a normal life, happy ending for the twins, but Amane won't be together with Nene, because of the age difference.

If Amane got sick as a child with no connection to the entity, he was really just born that way, then it would be a bad/bittersweet ending. There are only two possibilities, either Tsukasa would sacrifice himself (if the entity exists) or Amane would die and Tsukasa would be left alone.

The third possibility, which I don't really consider, is that they find a cure for Amane, it's a possibility, but it would be too obvious and would raise a lot of questions.

The two will have a "happy" ending if they are together.

A bittersweet ending if they are together but in a harmful way.

A bad ending if one or both of them suffer eternally, or die, without becoming ghosts, just stop existing.

These are possibilities based on all the information we have so far.

[mxlti-lover]

Missing Touch {L.P.}

Summary: You never wanted the boys finding out about you suffering with severe anxiety, but one night when Luke finds you having an attack alone in your room, it’s the hardest thing he’s had to deal with when it comes to touch.

Warnings: Mentions of anxiety, a couple swear words.

Word Count: 744

You have known the boys for a month now.

It took you a while to process the fact you were seeing 3 ghosts and your twin sister, Julie, was now forming a band with them.

You also couldn’t figure out how only you and Julie could see the boys; especially considering you didn’t really have a reasoning on how you could help the boys out. Julie was always the musician out of the both of you.

You weren’t complaining though. After getting to know the boys and slowly getting closer to them, you were happy to have them in your life. Especially Luke.

When you first met them, it seemed as though you and Luke clicked right away; a spark as some would say. He was the first person to go to when you had a problem you didn’t really want to tell anyone close to you about. And he was always coming to you about any band troubles.

The only thing the boys didn’t really know about you yet is how badly you suffered from anxiety. It’s not that you didn’t not want to tell them, you just didn’t want them worrying about you.

That all changed thought when Luke appeared one day while you were having an attack.

• ~ • ~ •

You knew exactly what had triggered your anxiety attack. The math test handed back to you this morning with the F that mocked back at you. You failed. You couldn’t believe it as you always have straight A’s, a 4.0 GPA and even on the honor roll a few times. AP Algebra has been the one subject that’s been nipping you in the ass. You were trying to hide it from your dad - deleting any emails sent to him right away - along with trying to hide it from your aunt Victoria. Though you knew the school probably talked to her about it already.

The attack came on fast as the feeling of stress soon consumed you, making you feel even more overwhelmed. You closed your eyes as you tried to focus on your breathing, but your chest only tightened on you more and the air escaped from your lungs quickly.

You hadn’t even noticed when Luke popped into your room, excited to tell you about a gig Julie and the phantoms had coming up this weekend.

But as soon as he saw you, the excitement quickly washed away and worry soon etched across his face.

He quickly rushed over to you instinctively, but when he went right through you, he realized the one thing he wanted to do, he couldn’t.

Sadness washed over him as he attempted one more time to pull you to him, knowing it would fail miserably.

He sat down as close to you as possible as he watched you.

“I don’t know what’s going on bug, but I know you’re strong enough to fight through it. Just focus on my voice and please don’t give up on those deep breaths.” He spoke softly catching your attention.

You look up at him as you let out a small gasp as he startled you. You shake your head as you didn’t want him to have to see you like this.

“Please…go.” You spoke out the best you could, another small gasp escaping past your lips.

“I’m not leaving Y/N. You shouldn’t be alone like this.” Luke says moving his hand to place on top of yours, ignoring the fact it didn’t actually touch you.

“I-I’m fine…please. just go.” You mumbled as you looked away from him, moving your knees to be tucked close to your chest.

“You can argue with me all you want, but there’s no way in hell I’m leaving you bug.” Luke spoke to you in a gentle tone and you couldn’t argue with him that just him being there made your stress slowly wash away.

You didn’t want him seeing you like this, but there wasn’t much you couldn’t do about it. It’s not like you could push him out of your room or something.

Luke watched as you struggled to catch your breath, tears trickling down your cheeks. He hated how he couldn’t hold you. That’s all he wanted to do. Hug you and whisper nonsense into your ear until you were okay again.

But he couldn’t. Missing touch was the hardest thing Luke had to come to terms with as a ghost.

…the one thing he missed the most.

•~•~•~

Note: I haven’t wrote a fanfic in a long time, so please be nice.🙃