#the way there’s no growth at all. embarrassing

[absdollievu]

Ruin me gently

bully!abby x fem!reader

Warnings: slight nsfw towards the end, public-ish sex

You hated Abby Anderson before you even knew what the word “hate” really meant. It started in kindergarten — she knocked over your juice box and called you a crybaby when you dared to tell the teacher. Her laugh was loud and mean and got under your skin like splinters.

That was the first time you swore vengeance. The first of many.

Every year, like clockwork, Abby made it her goddamn mission to ruin you.

In middle school, she got a growth spurt. You didn’t. Suddenly, she was towering over everyone — all muscle and swagger. She shoved you into lockers just for fun. Flicked your ears in class. You’d be mid-sentence, and she’d interrupt with some loud, stupid joke that made the rest of the room laugh. But it was never funny to you. Not once.

And high school? High school was worse.

You remember the locker room incident with surgical precision — a trauma branded into your teenage brain. You came back from the shower, and your clothes were gone. Completely gone. All that was left were your underwear, dangling from Abby’s stupidly strong fingers as she paraded them around like some kind of trophy.

“Look at this!” she had laughed, loud enough to echo. “The legendary cherished chonies — guarded like the holy grail.”

You wanted to die. No — you wanted her to die. And if you’d been even a little taller, a little stronger, maybe you would’ve launched yourself at her right then and there. But she was always bigger. Always stronger.

So you waited. Bided your time. And whenever the universe handed you a sliver of opportunity — when she tripped, or slipped, or even just dropped her guard — you hit back. Once, you managed to deck her right in the jaw during sparring. Your knuckles throbbed for days, but the memory of her surprise? Worth it.

She laughed then, too — blood in her teeth.

“You’re so fucking feral,” she said, almost impressed.

God, you hated her.

You hated the way she called you “runt” with that smug grin. Hated the way her biceps flexed when she pulled herself up onto fences. Hated that you noticed.

And you especially hated that part of you was obsessed. Not in a like way — fuck no. It was in your bones, how badly you wanted to wipe that smirk off her face. How you dreamed of pinning her, embarrassing her the way she did to you.

But it was impossible.

She was nearly five times your size, and she knew it. Weaponized it.

⸻

You hated Abby Anderson like it was your religion.

And it wasn’t just the shoving or the stolen clothes. It was how she never let up — how even when you were minding your business, she’d just appear. Like a goddamn curse.

“Hey, shortstack,” she’d greet you with a smirk, nudging your shoulder with hers hard enough to knock you off balance. “Grow an inch yet?”

You’d roll your eyes, jaw clenched. “Die mad about it.”

That was the thing: you didn’t run. Not once. Even when she got in your face, even when she pinned you against lockers with that smug, infuriating smile — you never backed down.

You didn’t want to give her the satisfaction.

But then something… shifted.

It started small. Instead of just shoving you, she’d lean in close — close enough that her breath ghosted your ear.

“New shampoo?” she’d ask, mock-sweet. “Smells like strawberries and desperation.”

You grit your teeth and shoved her back, but she didn’t push harder. She just laughed, low in her throat, and walked off like she hadn’t just short-circuited your whole nervous system.

Then came the nicknames. Not just “runt” or “loser,” but new ones. Weirder ones.

“Sweetheart.”

“Bite-size.”

“Princess.”

The worst part? She only used them when no one else was around. Like they were private. Like she was claiming something.

And you—God, you wanted to scream. You didn’t like it. You didn’t like the way your stomach twisted or how heat crept up your neck. You especially didn’t like the way her eyes lingered on your mouth when you talked, like she wasn’t even listening to the words — just waiting for an excuse to say something filthy.

She was toying with you. She had to be.

So you started fighting back — not just with fists or words, but with venom dipped in sugar. Quiet digs, whispered jabs that made her raise a brow.

“Wow,” you’d say, eyes flicking down her arms. “All that muscle and still couldn’t open a pickle jar yesterday. Impressive.”

And she’d grin. Not angry — not even annoyed. Just… entertained. Like you were her favorite little game.

Sometimes you’d find her staring at you across the yard, arms crossed, head tilted. Not menacing. Just watching. Assessing.

The next time she shoved you, she didn’t slam you into anything. She just pressed you up against the wall, one hand flat beside your head, eyes dark and unreadable.

“You’ve got a mouth on you lately,” she said, voice quiet.

You scowled. “Must’ve learned it from you.”

Her smile widened. “That right?”

You didn’t answer. Wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

But when she leaned in — too close, again — you didn’t move. Not an inch.

And that silence between you? That was new. Electric. Heavy with something unsaid.

Something shifting.

And you hated it.

You hated how it made your heart race. You hated how your body stopped recognizing the difference between rage and want.

But most of all?

You hated that you couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d do if you finally shoved her back.

And meant it.

⸻

The locker room’s quiet — steam clinging to the air, the harsh hum of overhead lights the only noise. You towel off your hair, muscles sore, mind already halfway out the door.

You hear the door creak open.

You don’t have to look. You know that sound. Heavy boots, confident stride.

Abby.

You roll your eyes and mutter under your breath, just loud enough for your own satisfaction, “Here comes fun sunshine.”

You think you got away with it — until her voice slices through the stillness, sharp and amused.

“What was that?”

Your hand pauses mid-dry. You don’t look up. Don’t give her the fucking satisfaction. Just keep rubbing the towel through your hair like she’s not there, like her presence doesn’t light every nerve in your body on fire.

Silence.

Then the scuff of her boots moving closer.

You see her shadow shift, her voice lower, soaked in challenge. “Say it again,” she says, tongue poking into the corner of her cheek, eyes locked on you like she’s already got you pinned. “I fucking dare you.”

You finally look up. Her arms are crossed, her body close — too close — heat radiating off her like a furnace. That smirk’s plastered on her face like it was born there.

You raise a brow, unimpressed. “Didn’t think you were hard of hearing.”

That’s all it takes.

She steps into your space, slow and deliberate, backing you up until your spine hits cold metal. Her hand slams against the locker next to your head — not touching you, but caging you in like prey, and making you flinch. Her body crowds yours, chest nearly brushing against your towel-wrapped skin.

You don’t breathe.

Her eyes search yours, flicking down to your mouth for just a second too long.

The smirk never leaves.

“You’ve got a lot of attitude for someone who shakes when I breathe on ‘em,” she murmurs, voice low and full of something that makes your skin prickle.

“I’m not scared of you,” your breath hitched

She leans in, lips inches from yours, the air charged and suffocating.

“No,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re not. That’s what makes this fun.”

Your heart is a jackhammer. Your fists clenched so tight your nails dig into your palms. Every instinct screams to push her, hit her, kiss her — and fuck, it’s all blending together now, tangled beyond recognition.

Her hand slides just slightly down the locker, fingertips brushing your side, making your breath hitch.

And then—

The door slams open.

Laughter echoes down the row of lockers. Someone shouting a joke, oblivious. Casual. Normal.

Abby freezes. Her hand drops.

She steps back like nothing happened — like she wasn’t just about to ruin you against cold metal — and flashes you a look over her shoulder. Not regret. Not even apology.

Just that same smug glint.

Her voice is casual, cocky. “Later, sweetheart.”

And then she’s gone.

You’re left standing there, towel slipping a little lower, skin flushed, chest heaving, fists still clenched — pulse roaring like a war drum.

Fuck.

You hate her.

You hate her so fucking much.

⸻

It’s quiet.

The kind of quiet you like — not the silence of tension, but the calm hum of pages turning, low whispers, footsteps muffled by carpet. You’re curled into the corner of a table near the back of the library, thick book in hand, attention fixed. Peace. Finally.

Then the door opens.

And of course it’s her.

You don’t even need to look up. You can feel her — the shift in air pressure, the smug gravitational pull of her presence.

You don’t react. Don’t flinch. Maybe if you ignore her, she’ll go away.

Spoiler: she doesn’t.

Abby stalks straight past all the empty tables in the library and drops into the seat right across from you.

You lift your eyes just enough to glare at her over the rim of your book.

She’s slouched in the chair like she owns it — broad arms crossed, a slight tilt to her head like she’s bored. But her eyes? They’re locked on you, gleaming with trouble.

“Didn’t peg you for the reading type,” she murmurs.

You don’t bite. Just flip the page.

She grins wider. “What’s that about? Another teen fantasy about a sad boy with a tragic past?”

You sigh, slow and deep. “It’s about forensics.”

“Oh, sexy.” She says with her cocky tone that you absolutely fucking hated.

You finally lower the book. “Do you just wander around looking for people to annoy or is this a special service just for me?”

Her grin only deepens, dimples threatening to make her look charming — which is unfair, because nothing about her should be allowed to look soft.

“I only give this much attention to people I like.”

You scoff.

Then she’s up, and for a second, you think she’s leaving — until she rounds the table and drops into the seat next to you, thigh brushing yours.

Too close.

You shift, but there’s nowhere to go. Her heat is right there, all-consuming, and she leans in like she’s reading over your shoulder.

“What’s this part mean?” she asks, pointing at a diagram.

You stare at her. “You seriously care?”

“Nope,” she says, popping the p — and she grins again. “But you do. That’s interesting.”

You freeze.

That… wasn’t a dig. It wasn’t a joke.

You glance at her. She’s watching you — but not in that cocky, cruel way. She’s genuinely looking. Curious. Focused. And worse — close. Her breath brushes your cheek when she exhales.

“You’re smart,” she says quietly. “Kinda hot.”

You blink, pulse stuttering.

Then her hand is on your thigh, casual, like it’s always belonged there. Heavy and warm and intentional. You’re not even sure how it got there, or when you let her get this close.

“I could be nice to you, y’know,” she murmurs, lips dangerously close to your ear. “If you asked.”

You hate the shiver that runs down your spine.

“I’m not asking,” you whisper.

She hums low in her throat — a sound that vibrates through you. “No. You like it better when I take it.” You say with instant regret.

Her hand slides higher, slow, testing the waters. Her fingers graze bare skin above your knee, slipping under your shorts, just a tease. You suck in a breath and she smiles, lazy and full of hunger.

Your hand catches hers, stopping it. But you don’t pull away.

She leans in, voice like honey and heat. “What? Library’s too sacred for you?”

Her thigh presses against yours. Her lips ghost over the shell of your ear.

And fuck it — your restraint breaks.

You grab her shirt, drag her in, and your mouths collide in a kiss that’s messy and angry and needy. Her tongue slides against yours, claiming, demanding, and you meet her just as fiercely, biting her lip hard enough to draw a sound out of her throat that goes straight to your core.

Her hand’s between your thighs now, moving with confident precision, knuckles dragging along the seam of your shorts. You gasp into her mouth, and she swallows it like she’s starving. Starting the fast circles on your clothed cunt.

And then—

Footsteps.

Voices.

She pulls away instantly, lips red, pupils blown, hand retreating.

She exhales, glancing toward the aisle. Then back at you.

“Guess we’ll finish this somewhere else,” she murmurs.

And with one last smirk, she gets up and walks away.

You pause

What the fuck just happened

And most importantly

Why the fuck did you enjoy it.

⸻

a/n: OH MY GOD, kinda cringed halfway through this but I hope you guys enjoyed💕💕 part 2??

[glitch-but-ya]

THE HEART OF A CHILD.

CW: Angst, use of alcohol, mention of blood, descriptions of rot and decay. spoilers for his myth. SUMMARY: A Caleb drabble; the aftermath of one's hurtful words. WORD COUNT: 1,233 words. A/N: A lazily written (and decorated) work written for the sake of not ‘loosing my hand’ in writing as I struggle with exams.

On the day of the explosion, Caleb had died. A string of bitter, blazing liquid burned down his throat. An unfamiliar taste—something he attempted wholeheartedly to rid his body of.

But that night, boundaries had been broken. Both of the body and of the words you spoke to him earlier that night. “My Caleb is dead.” you had blurted out in a fit of fury.

Another glass of alcohol surged past his lips. The liquid spread through his body, and like tendrils of irrepressible growth, it coiled around his mind and restricted his logical thinking.

Even then, your face emerged in his mind. Puffy, tear-stricken eyes staring up at him with horror.

Another gale of tears rushed forth, threatening to collapse the dam he’d worked tirelessly to build. Caleb choked back a sob. His shoulders slumped, and his head landed on the hard marble of his kitchen counter with a dull thud.

Tears flowed gracefully from the corners of his sealed eyes. His lips quivered—a form of restraint. His fingers tightened around the glass.

And he poured himself another.

With great hesitation, the rim of the glass inched towards his lips. The first drop of liquid spilled onto his lower lip. And in moments, the entire glass had emptied into his heart.

Caleb’s mouth opened. A hand shot out to cover it as he began to gag. He wouldn’t let himself crumble. He swallowed back the bile.

He’d sworn to be your protector—your sole pillar of support. No matter how many times you shattered him, ripped him apart, or set his corpse ablaze, he would stand strong and proud and pull you into his arms afterwards. All the while, he ensured not a single drop of the blood you’d drenched him in stained your perfect form.

But even then, it was Caleb’s first time on this world. An inexperienced soul attempted to bear the burden of everything. A child forced to carry his world.

Could the universe not have been any kinder to him?

He rose to his feet abruptly, and as he stood, his body swayed. The pillar you’d always seen stand upright without a hitch swayed. It was a state far too embarrassing for the Farspace Fleet’s colonel to be in—and one he’d never let you witness.

Because it was your first time on Earth as well, and even if you’d lived a thousand lives before, you remembered only one. If Caleb wasn’t there to guide you through the way, who would volunteer in his stead?

He’d rather drop dead than watch you succumb to the darkness that was out to get you.

When Caleb had died in your arms in his last life, for the first time, he had prayed to a god he wasn’t sure existed. And to them, he beseeched that if he were to be reunited with you in his next life, you would pull him into your arms all over again—and that time, neither of you would ever have to flee from a corporation’s unrelenting greed.

He must have committed a horrendous act in his past life, Caleb mused, to have been granted only half his original request and bestowed grievances of the same extent once more.

Again, you had to flee. But he promised you he wouldn’t.

And so, Caleb forsook his future. Without a second thought, he donned the heavy cap of the colonel and abided by the adversaries’ wills. And initially, he’d also forsaken his chances of a future with you.

He froze his radiant heart and welcomed the ill-intended researchers with his skull pried open, allowing them to plant the chip that would alter him forever—deform him into the man you so passionately loathed.

Someone who wasn’t your Caleb. A man so foreign, it frightened even himself.

With a lifeless firearm clutched in his hands, he doomed lives like his own. People like him—humans who had loved and bled like he did.

But for you, he endured.

And a lot more than he would’ve liked to admit, Caleb was rotting inside.

A foul stench had emerged from where his heart would be. And when his eyes landed upon you once more, he feared the possibility that you’d smell it as well.

You’d notice the mould growing from his peeling skin, and you’d be repulsed at how his bones withered inside. You’d run away, and just like that, he would have lost you once more.

But as you’d sat atop the hardness of the interrogation room’s metal chair, you’d looked up at him with nothing but adoration and glimpses of a bond that once was.

You were seeing him. You were truly looking at him, acknowledging the flaws and still finding it in your heart to love him.

And Caleb swears, at that moment, he’d fallen for you again.

But what is fate if not a deity of trickery? Although he tried to mask the stench of his decaying heart, inevitably, you noticed.

And when you did, your eyes flared. The light in them dimmed, and fear replaced where love once stood. “My Caleb is dead.”

Caleb dragged himself off to the bedroom which was yours just moments ago. He settled into the sheets and buried himself deeper within the remnants of your scent. His heart throbbed violently in his chest.

Much to Caleb’s dismay, the scent of alcohol began to overwhelm your own, and with a whine, he brought the sheets closer to himself.

What was he without you? Mere pulses of light. A lifeless robot bending to a corporation’s will.

Tears stained the fabric that was once wrapped around you.

Beyond the colonel’s mask lay a heart so vulnerable it would shatter at the weakest of pressures.

Imprisoned within his ribs was the heart of a child—pure and bruised. Because in truth, Caleb had never truly grown up.

He was merely a boy who yearned for a life shrouded by the sun’s brightest beams.

Ever since he was a child, Caleb envisioned a future with you.

He would soar the skies with you in his embrace, landing in a home you shared. The two of you would bicker endlessly over everything—what to eat, what to watch. And it would end with the two of you collapsing into each other’s arms and bursting into a fit of giggles.

You would drag him into stores, cafés, arcades, and malls. And in turn, he would take you to witness the sunrise from above the clouds.

If exhaustion weighed your limbs, he would carry you on his back through the darkness of the night. If you fell ill, he would pamper you with his love. He would shield you from the cackles of thunder and hold your quivering form in his arms. And when the storm passed, he would lull you into a tranquil slumber.

In every step of the way, he would be there, and so would you.

Caleb’s love was only akin to that of a child. Even after having bloomed before his time, his heart retained its juvenile gleam.

And bearing the immaturity and naïveté of a child, he envisioned a future where you’d never leave his side.

Amid mirth and joy, in times of hardship and sorrow, and in times of death and illness, neither of you would find your home cold.

In Caleb’s youthful heart, the two of you would remain children for a hundred years and onwards.

[1million]

anon i saw ur msg thank u for letting me know 😭😭 that’s actually fucking crazy

[brionysea]

I have been reminded that s3 is one big sigh. my disappointment is immeasurable and my day is ruined

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

Do you ever listen to someone speak and marvel at how smooth, free-flowing, and free of pauses it is?

Because I sure do. I can’t do that.

Maybe that’s why I feel like most people’s speech is insincere even when it isn’t… because it sounds like how I would recite or read a script. That explains why I view people who aren’t native English speakers, have a heavy accent, and take long pauses to think of the words they need to say as being more trustworthy… because my cadence is similar to theirs; and we both stumble over words.

[teenagefeeling]

i think people need to get less comfortable assuming what's going on inside other people's heads

[nobodysystem]

scared of the dark.

[katsu28]

through the years

pairing: lando norris x fewtrell!reader

summary: a few glimpses into lando's journey of being in love with his best friend's sister. (5.9k) see request here!

a/n: r is three years older than max and lando. this has been a work in progress for months and was truly so so fun to write <3

sixteen

Lando’s tucking his helmet back into its protective case when he hears someone say your name.

He straightens up like he’s been electrocuted, nearly hitting his head on the shelf above him at how fast he looks up. If he had ears like a dog, they’d be perked. 

His eyes land on you chatting with someone he doesn’t recognize, and his heart skips a beat in his chest.

See, Lando has a massive crush on you, probably since before he knew what a crush was. All he knows is that you’re a few years older, his best friend’s sister, and the most perfect person he’s ever known. He’s pretty sure he’d fallen in love with you the moment he met you at one of Max’s and his races. 

But at only sixteen (nearly seventeen) years old, did he even know what love felt like?

Not really, but if Lando was being completely honest, he imagines it was the same feeling he got whenever he climbed into a kart—thrilling, exciting, a little bit of fear that he might puke. 

He hasn’t seen you in a while though. You’ve been off at university for a year now, somewhere far off, but Max had said something (read: complained) about you being home for summer break.

Lando thinks he might be more happy about it than your own brother is. 

“Hey!” Lando calls, raising a hand in greeting. You lift your sunglasses at the sound of another voice, squinting in the bright sunlight to see who’s shouting at you now. When your eyes land on him, you smile, waving back. Lando grins, one that only grows bigger as you start to make your way over to him. 

“Looked good out there today, Lan. You’re getting pretty quick on the straights,” You say on approach.

He’s had a little bit of a growth spurt this past year, so he’s no longer craning his neck to look at you, but you’ve still got quite a bit of height on him as you reach out to ruffle his hair playfully. 

“Thanks! Have you, erm, have you been here the whole time?” Lando’s voice cracks at the end of his sentence, mortifying him, but luckily you don’t seem to notice. You’re too occupied looking around the track for something, or someone. 

“Nah, I just got here, like twenty minutes ago? Mum told me to give Max a lift home.” You shrug. Lando fights the urge to let out a relieved sigh. Thank god you weren’t here to see him nearly spin out into the gravel on the last corner. That would’ve been embarrassing. “Have you seen him, by the way? I need to wring his neck.” 

A surprised honk of laughter splutters from Lando’s mouth. “What did he do now?” 

“Little shit broke one of mum’s good dinner plates and blamed it on me! S’why I’m here playing chauffeur,” You sigh, shaking your head. “Grounded during summer holidays, can you believe it? I’m basically Max’s personal shuttle, so it looks like you’re going to be seeing quite a bit of me for a while. Nightmare, innit?” 

“Not really. It’d be nice to see you around more again.” 

“You’re sweet, Lan. The punishment might be worth it to see your cute face all the time.” You wink at him, pinching his cheek gently. 

He knows you don’t mean it in the way he wants you to mean it. You still see him as just your little brother’s best friend, still a kid. But he’s older now, more mature. His voice is starting to drop, and he’s going places in his racing career by this point. He wonders if you know he’s joining McLaren’s Young Driver Programme next year. He wonders if you’d be impressed by it. 

“Hang on. I’ve got to take this, it’s my mum. Probably demanding I stop off at the shops on the way home,” You sigh, holding up your buzzing phone. “Do me a favor, be a darling and go find my idiot brother, would you?” You answered the call before he could nod, walking a ways away to talk to your mum. 

Lando remains rooted in place, watching you pace back and forth. 

“What’re you looking at?” Max pops up next to him out of the blue, bumping his shoulder rather roughly. It doesn’t phase him though, because he’s used to Max’s antics at this point. 

Instead, he sighs. “D’you think she’d ever like me?” 

“Who?” 

Lando nods his head in your direction, looking rather wistful. Max follows his friend’s line of sight until his gaze lands on you, on the phone, looking less than pleased. 

“Are you fucking with me? Please tell me you’re fucking with me,” He asks, wrinkling his nose at Lando. Even though you’re three years older than him, Max was wildly overprotective over you. Lando shakes his head. He is most definitely serious. “Mate, that’s my sister.” 

“Yeah, I know.” 

“That’s disgusting.” 

Lando scoffs, giving Max a shove. “You’re disgusting.” 

“So you’re telling me that every time you’ve asked me where she’s been, what she’s been up to, it’s ‘cause you fancy her?” 

“Maybe. Yeah. I think she’s amazing.” 

“I’m gonna throw up. I’m actually going to throw up, oh my god.” 

“Don’t be dramatic.” Lando rolls his eyes, picking up his things. 

“You’re hot for my sister, how am I being dramatic? I think I’m being quite calm about this.” 

“It’s nothing, really. She probably won't ever see me as anything but a little kid.” 

“Oh, you never know. You’re getting bigger, mate. Stacking on the height, packing on the muscle.” He fakes two punches to Lando’s torso, grunting overdramatically when Lando pushes him away with another roll of his eyes. “Soon enough you won’t be able to keep the ladies off you, ya stud.” 

“Thanks? You do know we’re still talking about your sister, right?” 

“Oh. Right. Yeah, still gross.” 

“Oi, Max. Let’s go or mum’ll have my head if we don’t get home by dinner,” You grumble, reappearing behind Max and shoving him upside the head. Your gaze softens when it turns on Lando. “Bye, Lan. See you soon.”

Lando manages to get out a goodbye without his voice cracking again, thank god. He wants to go in for a hug, because part of him thinks it might lift your spirits, but knows Max would never let him hear the end of it. So he just settles for a slightly awkward wave before you turn on your heel and head for the car. 

Max rolls his eyes. Then he smiles deviously, pointing at your retreating figure with one hand and Lando with the other, before smashing them both together, all while making overexaggerated kissy noises. He seems to have forgotten his previous disgust quite easily. 

“Fuck off!” Lando hisses, flipping off his friend. 

“I’ll leave you behind, Maximillian!” You warn, not even turning around to threaten your brother. Max rolls his eyes again, but doesn't hesitate in hurrying after you so you won't leave him stranded at the track. 

Lando manages to catch your eye once as you’re pulling out of the car park and he waves again, trying but probably failing to stifle the goofy grin spreading across his face at the wave you gave him back. 

God, he’s so down bad for you. 

That year, however, the months went on, Lando found himself noticing that you came home less and less often, and not even for school breaks the following year. Max wouldn’t talk about it, but it was obvious it was somewhat of a sore subject, so Lando never pushed.

He’d always wondered what happened, but soon enough, his life became far too hectic to sit around thinking about all the what if’s and the why not’s. All he could do was hope you were doing okay. 

-------

twenty

It’s hard to believe Max is turning twenty-one.

So will Lando, later in the year, but for now he remains a very youthful looking twenty years old. 

Max invites a handful of people to a quiet dinner, nothing too flashy, nothing too fancy. Just a nice dinner with close friends and good food. His birthday sits right between race weeks, so Lando is fortunate enough to be able to carve out an evening for his best friend. 

Now he’s sitting at the end of a long table, sipping a lemon sparkling water as the first few of their friends start to trickle in. He’d arrived unfashionably early under the guise of offering to help Max iron out last minute details, set up, things like that.

In reality, the reason why he’d turned up so early was you. 

Lando doesn’t know if Max invited you, and if he did, he doesn’t know if you’d actually come. But on the off chance that you do choose to make an appearance, Lando wants to be the first one to see you. 

Naturally, he spots you the second you walk in, and he’s instantly transported back to when he was an awkward teenager, pathetically pining over his best friend’s sister with absolutely no shot.

Hell, he’s still pining over you. He thought whatever feelings he had for you would’ve faded over the years, but one look at you and everything comes rushing back. 

He thought he’d prepared himself for this, for seeing you again, but one thing that rises above all the other thoughts flooding his brain is that he’s not over you. Not by a long shot. 

He watches you make your way over to your brother and hug him. You lean in close to say something into his ear, and suddenly you’re both looking directly at him.

Lando startles, nearly spilling his drink, but he manages to compose himself quickly. That swoopy feeling he used to get whenever you made your way over to him is back in full swing again. He scrambles to his feet. 

“Hey, Lan!” You greet him keenly, wrapping him in a warm hug. Your perfume washes over him as you do, and he fights the urge to sigh happily. You still wear the same one you always did. He remembers because he’d more or less conditioned himself to associate the nice scent with you. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” 

Lando chuckles breathlessly, praying you’re not able to feel how fast his heart is beating through his shirt. “Too long.” 

You pull away, holding him at arms’ length, studying him with bright eyes. “You’re taller than me now.” 

“I’d hope so. M’not sixteen anymore.” 

“No, you’re not. You look good though, ” You say. You look like you mean it truthfully. 

“How’ve you been?”

“Been better, but I’m…getting by, all things considered.” You shrug, sliding into the chair next to him.

Both of you swing sideways to face each other at the same time, knees knocking into each other as you do. You share an apologetic smile. Your hand blankets his where it rests on the table, squeezing a few times as your eyes light up with excitement. 

You aren’t aware of just how much that one little move affects Lando. 

“But what about you, McLaren’s newest Formula One driver? That’s so amazing. Seriously. I’m proud of you.”  

He’s heard the compliment loads during his rookie year, but hearing it come from you makes his cheeks flush pink. He can feel the comfort of your words spreading from his face into his chest, tendrils of warmth wrapping around his rib cage. You’re proud of him, and it feels like he’s just won the world championship. 

“Thank you,” He squeaks. 

“I always knew you’d do great things.” 

“You’ve been keeping up with my career?” 

“‘Course I have,” You say warmly, nodding like it’s obvious. “It’s not everyday you can say you’ve known one of the up and coming talents of Formula 1 since you were kids.” 

“We’ve come a long way since then, haven’t we?” 

“You, yeah. Me…well, let’s just say I’m still trying to figure things out.” 

“You’re doing the best you can, aren’t you? Shouldn’t that be all that matters?” 

“I suppose you’re right. Thank you, Lan. I needed to hear that.” 

Silence stretches between the two of you, and Lando feels the need to break it. 

“Y’know, I didn't know if you’d come. Since…y’know, whatever’s been going on all this time.” He doesn’t mean to prod, doesn’t mean it as anything other than him drawing a huge blank about why you haven’t been around. 

Your expression still grows somber, brows creasing ever so slightly. “Max hasn’t told you anything?” 

“Seemed like a sore subject, so I never pushed.” 

“You must have a lot of questions then.” You murmur, tracing an idle finger over the pristine white table cloth. “About why I’ve been basically nonexistent for years.” 

“I don't need to know. You’re here now, that's all that matters.” 

“Y’know, you’ve always been so thoughtful, Lando. When we were all kids and Max was being…well, Max, you were always looking out for me, even though you didn’t have to.” 

“I cared about you. Still do.” 

It’s true. Lando cares about you in more ways than one, in more ways than just your little brother’s best friend should, but it isn’t something that he can help. You’ve still got him wrapped around your finger without even knowing it. 

“So sweet.” You smile, squeezing his hand appreciatively, and Lando feels like he’s just been shown a new purpose. He wants to be the one to make you smile like this all the time, something he’s known in his heart for years. “So, tell me more about you. What’s it like in the big leagues?” 

You wind up spending all night glued to each other’s side, filling one another in on what’s been going on in your lives since the last time you saw each other. Granted, it’s a bit more of him doing most of the talking with you on the listening end, but he gets the sense you’d rather have it that way. 

He’ll gladly talk for hours if it meant you looking at him with the pride in your eyes you’ve had the whole night. 

Eventually, the party rolls to an end, as all good nights unfortunately do. Lando wants to stay here, stay with you, but he can’t. He’s got an early morning and a day full of training tomorrow, so he’ll settle for walking you to your car after you’ve both said goodbye to Max. 

You’ve got your arm looped through his as you make your way out of the restaurant with the rest of the dinner guests. 

“This one’s me.” You jut your chin at the car coming up. If Lando isn’t mistaken, you almost sound kind of sad, but maybe he’s just looking too much into things because he doesn't want to leave. You leave his side, putting a little bit of distance between the two of you. “Thank you for keeping me company all night, Lando. It was really nice to see you again.” 

“Likewise. I’ve…” He trails off into an airy chuckle, shoulders creeping towards his shoulders instinctively. For a moment, he wonders if he should even say anything. “I’ve missed you.” 

“I missed you too,” You say softly, giving him a small smile. Lando feels his chest tighten at the sincerity in your tone. Then you step forward and wrap your arms around his neck in a hug and suddenly he’s just about ready to melt as his arms slide around you to return the embrace. 

He isn’t expecting your lips against his cheek, or the way they linger a little longer than to be expected before you step away again. Heat blooms where you kiss him, zipping through his veins like the thrill of pushing the highest speed down the home straight towards the checkered flag. 

“Don’t forget about me when you get to be a big hot shot in the racing world,” You say, only slightly teasing. 

“Don’t think I could.” 

He watches you get into your car and drive away, hands in his pockets, wishing he was brave enough to tell you how he feels about you. Some other time, maybe. One day he’ll muster up the confidence to say something. 

-------

twenty four

No matter how many times Lando comes home to race at Silverstone, the feeling never goes away.

A mix of joy, pride, the unmistakable vice-like grip of anxiety. Lando is excited, no doubt, but all he wants to do is make his home crowd proud. His family is here, his friends are here. Everyone is counting on him to do something amazing.

He’s got a hundred things to do before he has to head down to the garage to gear up, a methodical mental checklist to get through in not a lot of time.

Buzzing with nervous energy, he paces the top level of the motorhome, amping himself up while also trying to calm himself down. He’s barely managed to eat anything all day, as evident by the basically untouched chicken wrap sitting on the table next to him. 

Sure, he’s raced at Silverstone before, but this is the first year he actually has a shot at winning the whole thing. The car has proved to be a speed demon, and he’s been killing it this season, but neither of those help his nerves. 

It makes his stomach twist more than anything. It’s one thing to not win because he doesn't have the facilities to do it, it's entirely worse to know he can win and still let everyone down. 

“Well, if it isn’t little Lando Norris.” 

He freezes at the unexpected voice. Your voice.

His mind flashes back to the last time he saw you, at Max’s birthday party. How you talked all night, and kissed him on the cheek before you parted ways. 

It’s been three years since then, and you’ve stayed in close touch with each other, but you haven’t seen each other in person since that night. It isn’t either of your faults—life got in the way and neither of yours lined up. Nonetheless, he’s grown closer to you these past few years than he ever has, which definitely doesn’t help the massive crush he still has on you. 

Part of him thinks he really needs to move on—he’s been in love with you for so many years he doesn’t even remember the exact number, but his feelings remain the same. Any relationship he’s tried to have, just to see if he could ever love someone else, has never lasted.

Lando thinks he might be stuck on you his whole life, if the entirety of his teenage years and first few of his young adult years have been any indication. 

He’s very prone to wanting things he can’t have, it seems. 

Lando gives his head a shake because it couldn’t be you. You couldn’t be here, because last he heard from Max, you were somewhere out of the country on a work trip and wouldn’t be able to make it to Silverstone for the race. It’s a bummer for sure, but Lando knows you would've come if you could. Max told him you sounded downright upset about it on your check in call earlier in the week to break the news. 

He turns slowly, hesitantly. Hopefully. His fingers tighten on the water bottle he’s got clutched in his hands. 

There you are, looking back at him like something straight out of his dreams. 

You’re older now, as he is too, but there’s something different about you. About how you hold yourself. Like you've finally settled into the person you were meant to be. It isn’t something he could’ve clocked in on through texts and grainy video calls, but he sees it now, clear as day. 

“Hi.” 

“You’re here,” He breathes, disbelieving. He isn’t able to stop himself from rushing forward, bringing you into a very tight, very excited hug that lifts you off your feet.

You let out a surprised noise at his enthusiasm, barely managing to hook an arm over around his shoulders so you wouldn’t go flailing as he spins you around.

He puts you down soon after, still beaming as he takes you in. “How are you here? I thought—Max said you were on a work trip!” 

“I asked him to keep it a secret,” You chuckle, spreading a palm across his chest to steady yourself. “Wanted to surprise you for your home race. Hope that’s okay?” 

“More than okay! It’s so good to see you again,” He insists, folding you into another, albeit much quicker hug. He holds you at arm's length right after. “You look really good.” 

“I feel good,” You say sincerely. “Think I’m finally getting the hang of this whole life thing.” 

“That’s amazing. I’m proud of you for pushing through, sticking it out,” Lando murmurs, just as genuine. There’s nothing better than seeing you finally find a good place, happy with where you are and what you’re doing. It’s all he’s ever wanted for you. 

“Thank you. But oh my god, look at you!” You exclaim, taking his face in your hands. You pinch his cheeks the same way you used to do, but the way you’re looking at him feels much different than before.

There’s something that isn’t quite the same, like something about what you think of him has changed. The thought burrows its way deeper into his brain when one hand slides down to his chest for a few beats.

“You’ve grown up quite a bit again, haven’t you?” 

He laughs, a little high pitched and a little breathless. “Yeah well, you know what they say about second puberty.” 

“Still got the same cute laugh though.” You smile at him brightly, and it's like the sun has just poked its way through the dreary British fog for the first time in ages. His heart does an involuntary tap dance against his ribcage. “Right, well, I’ll leave you to it then. Sorry if I, like, disturbed your pre-race rituals or anything, I just wanted to pop in and say hi before things get crazy.” 

“No, no, I’m glad you did. I think I needed to see a familiar face. Between you and me, I’m kinda freaking out.” 

“Oh, Lan,” You sigh, squeezing his hand. “You’re gonna do great.”

“Hope so.” 

“You will,” You insist firmly. “Don’t think about the people, don’t think about the crowd. Just trust your gut, and drive like hell.” 

Lando didn’t know it before, but your words are exactly the thing he needs right now. He sighs deeply, letting his shoulders relax just the slightest bit. 

“Anyways, I better go. Max is probably wondering where I’ve wandered off to.” 

He clears his throat, giving his head a little shake. “Yeah, I should—I probably need to get going as well.” 

“Good luck, be safe, all that. I’ll be the loudest one cheering you on.” 

Lando hears himself call out your name when you’re a few steps away from the door. You turn back to him, and he knows this is the moment. He’s about to do something he’s never had the balls to do before, never in the nine years he’s been in love with you. Only today, right here, he’s never felt more sure of himself. 

He’s trusting his gut. 

“Would you wanna grab a drink tonight? Dinner too, if you’re up for it?” 

“Yeah, ‘course! I’ll text my brother, see if he’s free.” 

“No,” He blurts. You arch a surprised brow at his sudden outburst. “Sorry, I just—I meant like, maybe just the two of us.” 

You’re quiet for a few moments, and it feels like the longest couple seconds of his life. But then you nod, breaking into a big grin. “I’d really like that.”

Lando doesn’t want to get his hopes up in fear of possibly jinxing it, but it feels like maybe, just maybe, he might have a chance with you. After all these years, he’s no longer just a little kid to you, no longer just your little brother’s best friend.

The thought of that pumps him up better than a race in front of his home crowd ever could.

-------

twenty five

He’s done it. 

Lando's just won in Abu Dhabi, gotten his fourth win of his career—his fourth win of the season. McLaren has just won the constructor’s championship for the first time in twenty six years, and Lando’s been an instrumental part in making it happen. 

The moment he steps out onto the front of the car, hears the crowd cheering for him, he can barely even believe it. It doesn’t feel real at all. 

He wants to find you. He knows you’re here somewhere, probably with his family in the garage. He also knows he doesn’t have the time to find you, not until after he’s taken care of his post race duties. 

Lando doesn't see you until he returns to the pit lane in front of the McLaren garage.

The whole team is gathered there, chattering excitedly amongst themselves. He can feel the energy buzzing through the atmosphere, the pure excitement and joy of a long awaited championship not only for everyone here, but the whole team of papaya back at the factory too. 

This is their time as much as it is his, if not even more. They’re the reason he’s able to live this dream every single day, and for that, he’ll never be able to say enough thank yous. 

Instead, he’ll work even harder next season, keep pushing and honing his craft until he’s able to truly show his gratitude towards them. 

But for now, he’ll celebrate. After a long, grueling (but fulfilling) season, he’s earned that. 

He breaks into a jog towards the huddle, breaking into a face-splitting grin as he jumps into the team celebrations happily. Person after person clap him on the back on his way to his place beside the giant papaya sign, even after the team photo is taken and he gets doused by champagne from all sides. 

Lando feels like a million bucks. This feeling has been a long time coming, a long time needed. If he could bottle it up and save it forever, he would. 

There’s only one thing that could make this moment even better. 

He turns to the crowd behind the barriers, searching, searching, searching for his loved ones until— 

There you are, standing with his family just as he’d thought you’d be, cheering so hard he thinks you might even be crying. 

Man, are you a sight for sore eyes. You’ve both been busy the past few weeks, him with this triple header and you with your job. You’d barely made it to this race, but he’s happy you’re here. Even happier you were here to see him win. 

He makes his way towards you all, doling out hugs to everyone, not able to wipe the smile from his face as he chats with each of them. 

His parents, his sister, and finally…you. 

You’re beaming just as big as he is when he stops in front of you, flinging your arms around his neck in the tightest hug. He lets out a sigh of content, lifting you off your feet a bit in a hug just as tight, burying his face into the crook of your neck as he does so. 

“Hi, baby,” He breathes, running his hands down from your shoulders to your forearms as soon as he puts you down again. “What’d you think?” 

“What do I think?” You exclaim, taking his face in your hands. “I think you did amazing! I think I’ve cried, like, four times already since the race ended, honestly.” 

He laughs, wrapping his fingers around your wrists. “I made you cry?” 

“Yeah, you made me cry, you muppet! I’m so fucking proud of you,” You tell him, sounding nothing but truly sincere. There’s tears in your eyes again, happy tears for him, and he feels a surge of adoration bloom in his chest. “Congratulations, Lan. You’re destined for so much greatness, I know it.” 

He’s sweaty, sticky, and doused in champagne, but he still feels on top of the world at the joy in your eyes.

“I love you,” He blurts. He couldn’t have stopped the words spilling from his mouth even if he tried. 

Maybe it’s the adrenaline, maybe it’s knowing there’s no better time than the present, but it’s out there now. The past five months you’ve been dating have been absolutely mint, but Lando doesn’t think he could’ve gone another moment without telling you. 

You let out a watery sort of chuckle, sliding a hand into the hair at the nape of his neck and bringing him in for a kiss.

You’ve kissed before—a lot, actually—but this one feels different. Better. The giant secret that he’s been holding in from you for years and years is finally out, and it’s like a weight lifted off his chest. 

“I love you too, Lan,” You murmur, words pressed against his lips like they're something reserved only for him. “God, I love you.” 

There goes his heart right then, the last piece of his heart that he’d saved for the day he wasn’t sure would ever come. The last piece of his heart that belonged to him now belongs to you, and in this moment, you’ve got all of it. 

All of Lando’s heart is now yours. 

Lando didn’t think this day could get any better, but now there’s this. The woman of his dreams, the one he’s been in love with since you were both kids, finally loves him back.

He’s not sure what heaven is like, but Lando imagines it might be something like this.

Here, under the Abu Dhabi sky, he’s gotten the championship, he’s finally gotten his girl. To him, there’s nothing better than it. 

follow @katsu-library to be notified when i post a new fic :)

[sealmisuyu]

Seventeen and their baby💭

─┈ ۫  ˖  ⊹ ୨sealmisuyu◛ ˚₊🍈 ֹ ׅ ɞ more content under the cut!

You were convinced that being an idol was supposed to be cool.

You were also convinced that being the youngest in a company full of older idols should not mean you were treated like a lost puppy at all times.

But Seventeen had other plans.

The first time you met Seventeen, you were starstruck. The second time you were ambushed.

"She’s so small" Seungkwan announced, staring at you like you were a rare animal at the zoo.

"I’m literally a normal height" you deadpanned, but it didn’t matter because Mingyu had already picked you up off the ground like a sack of rice.

"HAVE YOU BEEN EATING WELL?"

"PUT ME DOWN THE FUCK—"

And from that day on, the teasing never stopped. You were practically a baby to them, and they took their big brother roles seriously.

"Did you drink water today?"

You blinked up at Minghao, who had materialized out of nowhere with a bottle of water in hand.

"Uh… yeah?"

He squinted. "Drink again."

You sighed but took a sip anyway, because you knew better than to argue with him.

And it wasn’t just that.

When you tried ordering coffee, Joshua intercepted with a horrified gasp. "You’re too young for that!"

"Josh, I’m literally an adult"

"You’ll stunt your growth!"

"I’M ALREADY GROWN?!"

Dino nodded solemnly. "This is how they treat me, too. There’s no escape"

Unfortunately you learned that the hard way.

One time, you tripped during a music show rehearsal, and before you even hit the ground, Joshua had already caught you, Jeonghan was checking your knees, and Hoshi was yelling at the floor.

"WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT TO HER?!"

(Hoshi please it’s just a floor)

And don’t even think about dating.

"Who are you texting?" Woozi asked casually, glancing at your phone.

"No one."

"You smiled."

"I was looking at a meme!"

But it was too late.

"WHO IS IT?"

"DO YOU HAVE A CRUSH?"

"IS IT SOMEONE WE KNOW?"

The way they interrogated you, you’d think you were committing a crime.

"Guys, I don’t even like anyone!" you huffed.

"Good" Vernon nodded"Boys are scary"

"…Aren't you a boy?"

"Exactly."

If you posted a selfie, they flooded the comments with embarrassing uncle energy.

"Our baby is so cute!!!" – Hoshi

"Why is she posing like that?" – Woozi

"POCKET SIZED" – DK

If you did a weevers live, they showed up in the chat like overbearing parents.

"Did you eat?" – Seungcheol

"Why are you still awake??" – Jeonghan

"She’s not even reading our comments, betrayal." – Jun

It wasn’t just words. They really did treat you like a younger sibling in every way. If you were lost in a music show building, you called Mingyu. If you were stressed about choreography, you messaged soonyoung for tips. If a sunbae was being intimidating, Wonwoo would just... stand next to you silently until they backed off.

And whenever you had a comeback, they made sure to cheer the loudest.

"She’s so tiny!" Dino cooed when he watched your latest stage.

"That’s crazy" Vernon muttered. "She’s literally our age gap in physical form"

You rolled your eyes at them but couldn’t help the smile creeping up your face.

They acted like you couldn’t even breathe without their supervision, but you kind of… loved it? They never let you feel alone in the industry, always making sure you had people to lean on.

So, after your first music show, when you turned your head instinctively to find your members, your eyes instead landed on them— Seventeen, screaming their heads off in the crowd like proud dads at a school play.

And when you cried after winning your first award, they didn’t tease, didn’t joke.

They just hugged you one by one, whispering, "We’re so proud of you little one"

And suddenly you realized.

They weren’t just your sunbaes.

They were family.

[resident-gay-bitch]

Post upside down Steddie become kinda friends, they hang around eachother a lot because they both like to hang around the freshmen (they’re both anxiously attached to the kids and need to keep them safe 24/7)

Steve kinda thinks Eddie’s cute and dorky but doesn’t really give it much more thought because it’s pointless and Eddie is trying to get over his pointless crush on Steve because even though he’s actually not an awful person anymore he’s still Steve Harrington and that’s embarrassing for Eddie

Until one afternoon Eddie starts giving Lucas shit because he wants to play a oneshot with the kids but the weather is nice so Steve asked him to shoot some hoops and Eddie can’t believe Lucas would — again — choose stupid sport over D&D - goes on his whole laundry baskets spiel

And Steve just Doesn’t wanna hear it.

“Hey man, I get it alright, jocks fucking bullied you in school, sure you can have a problem with that but You’re a fucking bully foo Eddie. You talk about prejudice against those different to you, how about you hating anyone that’s not a fucking freak? You can’t just hate someone cause they like playin ball. Grow up man, get over yourself. You think it’s impressive that I changed since highschool? The day that You change and get some compassion will be the day that pigs fucking fly! Come on Lucas, let’s get out of here”

And Eddie just… he just… he falls in love immediately. He’s never had someone brave enough to talk to him like that before (besides Wayne and Hopper), can’t believe Steve has a big enough heart that he’d go off at Eddie like that, not to mention he’s even hotter when he’s mad and that anger is directed right at Eddie. And so he begins to Pineeeeeeeeeee. And he also thinks about what Steve said to him, talks to Wayne about it, realises that Steve’s actually right and starts to make a change.

After that day, Steve’s crush Dissapears. He can’t believe he ever was attracted to an asshole like that, someone that spent his whole life being made fun of for his interests going out of his way to make fun of someone else for his interests. Steve just doesn’t like that at all.

And so, the slowburn of Eddie growing and making himself a better person and genuinely making those changes in his life, and trying his best to play it cool around Steve, and Steve begging to see those changes in Eddie’s growth and begging to fall in love with him too.

And once they’re together, because Steve is a big believer in second chances so long as you prove you deserve one, Eddie admits that Steve was the first person to ever really stand up to him without fear, and that he really respects Steve for it, and so Steve will always tell Eddie when he’s in the wrong and Eddie really appreciates it and makes that change. And Eddie does the same for Steve too.

They just make eachother better because they believe in being better. They believe in kindness and forgiveness and compassion.

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 19

˗ˏˋ redefining stances ˎˊ˗

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

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 15k

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

✧ author's note ✧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kiki out.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Home.

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

And then it's gone.

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

Those pancake mornings? They always came with conditions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Guilt.

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

You do, apparently.

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

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

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

So entitled. So privileged.

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

Never had to. 

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

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

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

Not over fucking pancakes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The guilt surges again, stronger. 

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

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

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

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

The kind who smells pancakes and wants to cry.

Not because you miss home.

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

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

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

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

The numbers glare back at you, accusatory.

8:00

8:00

8:00

Panic bubbles out of you.

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

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

Nothing is right.

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

This isn't your room.

This is Jungkook's room.

Jungkook's bed.

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

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

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

And then—

Jesus Christ.

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

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

What the actual fuck is wrong with you?

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

So what was it?

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

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

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

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

Including yourself.

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

But it’s no use.

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

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

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

Maybe you could actually be friends.

Real friends.

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

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

Fucking is one thing. Dating is another.

Being friends? That’s a whole different monster.

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

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

But you?

You don’t date. You detonate.

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

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

He’s not dating material.

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

So that’s where he stays. Logically.

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

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

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

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

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

You're not sure it's enough time.

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

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

Pain slices through you, vicious and unexpected.

"Fuck—" 

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

The IUD. Has to be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something soft and warm brushes against your ankle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The thought makes you snort softly. 

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

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

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

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

Completely, infuriatingly normal. Like last night changed nothing.

Maybe it didn't. For him. 

Maybe it didn’t. For you.

Or maybe it did. 

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

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

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

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

Or trying to. 

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

Gang Baby, NLE Choppa.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You make an incredulous sound. 

“What the fuck are you making, anyway?"

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

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

"What? Gotta maintain these gains." 

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

You swat at him, connecting with his bicep. 

Firm. Solid. Warm. 

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

"God, you're so fucking stupid."

"Stupid hot, maybe."

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

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

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

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

Exactly how you like it.

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

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

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

You purse your lips, hesitating. 

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

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

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

Your jaw actually drops. "Excuse me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like maybe you could do it a hundred times more.

Dangerous thought. Very dangerous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seriously? We're doing this now?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. Absolutely not.

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

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

And there it is. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

He scoffs. "Progress."

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

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

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

"Not what you were saying last night."

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

Stupid napkin. Stupid Jungkook.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's not what I meant—"

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

"I didn't say—"

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

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

Except now it feels anything but.

"You're twisting what I said."

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

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

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

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why are people asking about me?"

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

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

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

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

Can't or won't. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You, honestly, feel tired.

Bone-deep tired. 

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

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

He blinks, clearly not expecting the shift. 

After a moment, his shoulders drop a fraction.

"I’m listening.”

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

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

"Shut up." 

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

Crisis averted. Boundaries preserved. 

For now.

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

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

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

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

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

"If that's what you call it."

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

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

This is safe.

Under control.

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

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

"God, you're insufferable."

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

"Stockholm syndrome, obviously."

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

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

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

"They're edible."

"They're incredible and you know it."

"They're protein powder with extra steps."

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

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

"Says the girl who eats chips at midnight."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And the customers at Barnes & Noble do?"

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

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

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

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

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

Like you're actual roommates having an actual conversation. 

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

"I should probably start getting ready."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Okay."

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

Casual. 

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

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

"Huh?"

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

Your eyes drift back to his. Meet and hold.

"I said okay."

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

"Okay... what?"

"Sucking your dick." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You look up at him through your lashes. 

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

A shaky exhale escapes him, warm against your face.

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

"I'm not fooling around."

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

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

It doesn't.

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

His fucking Sonic pajama pants.

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

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

Your hands come to rest on his thighs. 

Strong. Solid. Warm. 

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

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

It's not.

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

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

"So why didn't you ask me?"

He doesn't answer. Can't, maybe. 

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

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

"Have you thought about it at all?"

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

Your eyes snap up to his.

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

"Yeah?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus. 

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

When did Jungkook get so... articulate?

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

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

"How l'd sound?”

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

Oh.

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

"Like this?" you ask, squeezing gently.

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

Not pulling. Not yet. Just holding.

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

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

"Sucking?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Seriously?”

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

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

The picture of nonchalance. 

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

Your eyes narrow. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet... you can’t look away. 

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

Be so fucking for real right now.

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

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

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

You hate him for it.

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

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

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

And still, he says nothing.

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

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

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

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

You start to stand up—because honestly? 

Fuck this. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your jaw tightens as embarrassment flares hot in your chest. 

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

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

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

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

Why does it feel like losing? Like humiliation?

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

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

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

“…Yus,” you mumble under your breath.

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

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

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

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

Out loud.

And it stops you cold.

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

“What?” You demand sharply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Spit.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“Spit on it.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then your eyes flick down, then back up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hisses.

Literally just from your breath.

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

Your eyes cut up automatically.

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

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

You don’t let the moment stretch too long.

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

Let spit fall from your lips.

Slow and steady.

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

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

Big. Wide. Intentional.

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

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

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

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

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

It definitely is.

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

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

But you are. And you do. 

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

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

And his head tips back instantly.

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

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

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

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

Kind of gratifying. Not gonna lie.

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

“Yeah,” he breathes. “That’s—”

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

“That’s good, but… here.”

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

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

The tatted one.

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

And okay, that’s kind of hot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t know.

But you clock it. Catalog it. 

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

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

Like both.

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

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

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

You hold back a grin. Barely.

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

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

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

Validation.

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

But he’s not looking at you.

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

And then—

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

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

Then comes the sound.

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

Rough at the edges, low, weirdly conflicted.

His head dips again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which, apparently, he really fucking is.

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

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

His voice drops again.

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

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

That spot.

That frenulum, or whatever the technical term is. 

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

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

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

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

So. You try.

You mimic the motion exactly. 

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

“Fuck.”

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

You do it again. And again.

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

He melts.

That’s the only word for it. 

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

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

Your smirk barely hides itself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He chokes a breath.

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

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

Like just existing through this is work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then—

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

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

“Your mouth.”

You freeze.

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

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

Your mouth.

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

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

And the expression there?

Jesus. He looks like he’s praying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you swear to god—something inside him glitches.

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

Fragile and desperate. 

Faint little flutter.

But it’s real.

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

As if the universe itself groaned.

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

His hand lifts again, slow.

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

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

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

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

You blink. 

That phrasing. 

Suckle.

What the fuck is he, a medieval warlord?

Still.

Your pulse stutters.

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

Something he’s replayed in his head with specificity.

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

Your brows twitch up just slightly, but you nod.

Because yeah. Okay. That you can do.

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

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

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

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

His reaction is immediate.

Lips part. Chest jerks up half an inch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Jungkook? 

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

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

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

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

You mimic it again. Just to see.

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

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

Then—

“Look at me.”

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

But you don’t.

You kind of… ignore him. 

Not on purpose, really. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stare.

Then scoff. Loud. Disbelieving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. Your mouth opens. Then closes again.

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

“Oh.” 

You blink once before pursing your lips thoughtfully again. 

“…Okay.”

Because okay indeed. You know what he means.

You hate that you know what he means.

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

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

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

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

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

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

So that’s what you give him.

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

And then, your hand moves faster.

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

And he’s feeling it.

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

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

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

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

And you don’t stop.

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

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

Wrecked.

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

Then he groans.

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

“Oh my—fffuckkkk—”

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

“Fuckin’—god, Nix—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He does.

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

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

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

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

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

You keep going.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hold it there, just like he asked.

And he groans.

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

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

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

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

Fast. 

Rough. 

Desperate. 

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

“Yeah—ahhh—shit—ah—ah—fuck—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have the prettiest fucking eyes, Nix.”

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

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

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

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

But you did it. You excelled at it. 

And Jungkook liked it. 

That’s what matters. 

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

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

“Fuck…” he mutters. “Fucking hell.” 

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

“That was fucking amazing.”  

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

“That easy, huh?”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

New territory you’re not sure how to navigate.

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

When was the last time you thanked Jungkook for anything?

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

Not the banter either, you do that too. 

The almost-friendly moment afterward.

It felt… nice. Easy, even. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure, Nix.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like friends.

The word still feels foreign, uncomfortable. 

But not entirely wrong.

goal: 500 notes.

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[letoasai]

Will work for food ~ Part 4 (1/2)

Part 3 -- Master List

Danny’s hubris was coming back to bite him. It had been so funny when Nightwing–Dick–had invited him to the next family dinner. The next family dinner that happened to be Thanksgiving. Danny hadn’t had a Thanksgiving in a long, long time. He’d been delighted to accept. 

He’d nearly trilled in amusement at the way Tim flushed, kicking Dick under the table in a small attempt to get him to stop talking but the invitation had already been given. 

Danny could practically taste Dick’s glee and Tim’s embarrassment. Emotions weren’t as good as regular food but they were hard to ignore when they grew to a certain level. 

Tim had awkwardly agreed that Danny should come to dinner and Danny accepted, telling Tim to just summon him the usual way. 

It was almost unfair for him to have so much quiet knowledge surrounding their conversations, but it came in handy for the normally closed off vigilantes. Tim knew his family was a lot, and was afraid of overwhelming Danny. Their time together would have to be shared now, but Danny didn’t think that was necessarily true. Tim didn’t want to put Danny on the spot, which was kind.

Tim had always been kind. He didn’t summon Danny for favors or deals but because he could and because he cared. The emotion was so straight forward and genuine that Danny knew he was being rather selfish with it. It had been so long since he had someone new, and living, in his life. 

He lived a long life, and he would just live longer. As a halfa, and a powerful one at that, his life tap danced a precarious line. His living half would always mirror his dead half, and it had taken him some years to work out that his Phantom form could change based on his perception of himself. 

He’d spent so long thinking he might never age, that he’d stayed small for years. Barely looking older than fourteen as he’d headed for his twentieth birthday. It was then he discovered that with enough practice he could alter his Phantom hazmat suit. It was redesigned, changing as he had. He’d mentally grown over the years, his title of King only adding to his development. 

When he changed his ghostly appearance, he realized he could age to match how he felt. He could finally look like the young adult he was. That had had side effects on his living half. The growth spurts had been nearly painful, but within six months he’d change from a young teen to a young adult. 

It had been exciting, but excruciating enough that he hadn’t wanted to change his appearance so abruptly again. Changes would be slower next time, but he was unsure if he could go backwards in his living appearance.

All the same, at least he looked more like an adult. He could live as much as he was able. 

His identity reveal with his parents hadn’t exactly gone badly, but it hadn’t gone well either. Jack and Maddie had tried to accept him, but they simply couldn’t. They couldn’t look at him, and while he didn’t end up on their laboratory table, they simply pretended he didn’t exist. It hurt at the time, but he still had his sister. He had Sam and Tucker and Ellie and Val. 

Danny had moved out and for several years had pretended to be normal. It had been nice, until it had gotten boring. Danny split his time between the living and the dead, taking his role as king more seriously in the Infinite Realm over time. It got harder for him to return as his friends aged and he stayed the same. Ellie understood better how he felt, but her wanderlust kept her moving. 

He checked in often over the years, but he’d still be both delighted, and devastated the day Jazz strolled into his lair with a smile and a hello. She looked younger than she’d been in decades and Danny had clung to her and sobbed. She was here! Safe! It was wonderful. She was dead. Jazz had been old and had left behind children and grandchildren. That didn't make it easier on either of them, but they had each other.

Tucker had been next and he was torn between just hanging out in the Infinite Realm or being reincarnated again. For ages, he and Danny had just hung out and caught up, right back to being the best of friends. 

Val had followed some years later, but she had been preparing for this more than the rest of them. Her ghostly form had returned to her the Red Huntress moniker and she couldn’t be more thrilled. She wasted no time traveling with Ellie. 

Sam was the one Danny hadn’t yet been reunited with in the Infinite Realm. She was pushing a hundred, and had become the reigning ‘grandma Ida’ figure in the lives of her grandchildren and great grandchildren. Danny envied her for that. She was so supportive when their parents hadn’t been for them. 

Danny drifted off in his thoughts as he pondered his next dinner date. He was excited for a home cooked meal, but he was quietly thrilled to spend more time with Tim. He’d been neglecting a part of himself since Jazz had died and it showed. His sister was terribly excited he’d made a new friend after so long. 

When he felt the pull of a summons, Danny listened carefully, relieved to hear Tim’s voice. He’d been getting anxious just waiting around and the day had finally come. He pulled himself from the portal, turning from Phantom to Danny and tugging nervously at his sweater. He didn’t really have many nice or formal human clothes since everything in the Infinite Realm was often done in his royal regalia. 

He’d tried to look nice though. Dora had braided his hair for him in some intricate pattern and his normal NASA hoodie had been traded out for a new black hoodie gifted to him by Sam. It was over top a navy blue sweater. He probably didn’t need both but he liked to have the option of a hood. 

He wore his nicer pair of jeans and sneakers too. Honestly, if he was going to be spending time in a living dimension again, he was going to need to go shopping. 

Danny opted to appear just outside the structure he was summoned from. It felt more polite somehow to knock on the manor’s door. Sam would have loved this place. 

It only took seconds but Tim pulled the door open swiftly, he was nearly out of breath but he smiled bashfully when he greeted Danny. 

“Hey Danny.” 

“Hey,” Danny said with an awkward smile. “Thought i’d..uh, politely knock?” He shoved his hands in his pockets. He somewhat noticed that his normal clothes weren't hanging off him the way they had been. At least he’d been putting on a little weight having lunches with Tim.

Tim returned his smile and gestured for him to come in. “And it was thoughtful.” 

Tim looked nice, the way he always did. His button down looked brand new and someone had obviously ironed his pants and he didn’t wear shoes, just dark socks. It was the kind of casual touch that proved he lived there. 

“I’m sorry.” Danny muttered, voice his usual low cadence. He didn’t like using his aura or ‘kingly voice’ around people when he didn’t have to. He had nothing to prove. “I know it’s a holiday but i don’t really have much in the way of living human clothes anymore.” 

“Hey. No.” Tim said immediately, head whipping around to look at Danny again. “Absolutely no one in this house is worried about that. If you are, i have an entire closet you can pick through to find something else but it’s not necessary. The only thing we requested was you. You look great.” 

Danny rubbed his arm and despite his unease, smiled. It was almost funny the way Tim tracked the movement with his eyes. His feelings on the matter were genuine. Danny’s attire didn’t matter to him. “If you’re sure. I didn’t want to come off as ungrateful when you’ve invited me into your home.” 

“Impossible.” Tim said, stepping further inside with Danny beside him. “I assure you, once the pictures have been taken, everyone will be throwing the dress clothes to the side.” 

“Pictures?” 

“Master Timothy.” An older man was approaching from the dining room. “I trust you haven’t been rude to our guest.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Alfred.” Tim smiled, entering into some kind of familiar song and dance. “He usually likes to keep his outer jacket so i didn’t ask to take it to hang up for him." 

It made Danny smile when he’d connected the pieces. He’d heard a few stories about Alfred over the last few months. Most of them from Tim himself but Dick had happily told a couple. The man took his job very seriously. It almost reminded him of Fright Knight. 

“Um..” Danny mumbled, sounding like he didn’t know where to start. Did he introduce himself? He’d gotten better at these kinds of things when ghosts were involved. The living almost baffled him now. 

Tim took over. “Danny his is Alfred, technically he’s the butler and caretaker of Wayne Manor, but his real job is caretaker and grandfather to every brat that lives here who doesn’t deserve him.” 

That had the corners of Danny’s lips tipping up even as Alfred quirked a brow at the rather bold comment. 

“Alfred, this is my friend Danny. This will be his first Thanksgiving in many years.” 

Alfred offered a polite bow, a bend at his waist that looked beautifully formal. “We’re so pleased you could join us, Your Majesty.” 

“Oh no. Danny. Danny’s fine.” He didn’t miss the way Tim raised a brow, but Danny wasn’t surprised. It might have been the first time Tim had seen Danny anything close to flustered. “The Majesty thing is kind of stuffy and this is your home that i was invited into.” 

“If you insist, Master Daniel. I hope you have come hungry.” 

Danny knew his smile was weak. “Starving. Tim and Dick both promised this would be the meal of my life. Unlife?” He shook his head and cleared his throat. “And if you don’t mind, i have a little trauma with the name Daniel. I’d really prefer Danny or Phantom if you’d rather.” 

Tim’s eyes narrowed briefly and Danny knew he was already organizing dozens of questions. Now however, wasn’t the time to ask them. That didn’t mean he wasn’t making several mental notes. 

Alfred also also caught the quiver in his tone and didn’t press the matter if the shift in his emotions were anything to go off of. “Master Danny is it.” Alfred continued seamlessly, voice pleasant. “We’re truly happy to have you. I have been asking about your attendance at dinner for some time.” 

Tim sighed loudly, a touch more dramatic than usual but Danny was happy to see Tim someplace he could be so informal. “Okay, that was my bad. I was having fun going out with you and any dinner here you attended would suddenly be a family dinner.” 

“Everyone is curious?” Danny assumed. 

“Incredibly.” 

“Now Master Timothy, it is impolite to keep your guest hovering around the door. Dinner is nearly ready.” Alfred said. “Please be the proper host.” 

“Yes, Alfred.” 

Danny fiddled with the sleeve of his hoodie briefly. “I’d…offer to help but i’m a disaster in the kitchen. At least i was. I’m also afraid of reanimating food during the cooking process so i think i’ll stay well out of the way.” 

Alfred looked faintly surprised but he focused on the first part of the sentence. “It was still very kind of you to offer. I have everything well in hand.” 

Tim turned to look at Danny. “I know you’ve explained this to me before, but it’s crazy that you had to fight your food.” Saying that Danny had ‘explained’ that was over stating things, and they both knew it. Danny had said the only foods he didn’t like were the ones that bit back and Tim had taken him at his word. 

“It can be a problem.” Danny mused. He’d always been useless in the kitchen but after he’d moved out of his parents home, it became a chore he didn’t care for. His ectoplasm was so strong and it was bound to affect his environment over time. “You know, that might be why i stopped bothering to eat for a while. It’s not instantaneous or anything but long term exposure around me would reanimate whatever’s in the fridge.”

“Well, that’s one mystery solved.” Tim said, linking his arms with Danny’s to lead him to one of the more casual livingrooms at Alfred’s insistence. 

“Maybe?” Danny offered, distracted by looking around the manor. It was like a blast to his past only more. It was greater than the house Sam had grown up in, and far more tasteful than anything Vlad had. 

It was downright artistic. He’d seen enough ghostly lairs to see old mixing in with modern. The Wayne manor was stunning. 

The manor was equal parts old glamour and modern relic that was lovingly cared for by the occupants that lived there. The brilliant chandeliers and the beautifully carved staircase were more than simply eye-catching. The artwork was actually pleasing.

“You okay?” Tim asked quietly, biting at his lip worriedly. He was anxious as if afraid something about the manor had upset him. His phone was in his hand and Danny could tell he was texting one handed. Tucker could do similar feats. 

“I’m fine. I was looking at the pictures.” He nodded his head to where many framed photographs were displayed.  

“We’re glad you liked them!” Dick all but materialized by their sides and Danny couldn’t help but laugh. He was so light on his feet. “Tim took those!” 

Danny’s brows shot up in surprise. “Really?” 

Dick hummed his affirmative. “Yep, he’s a for real photographer.” 

Tim’s ears went pink. “It’s just a hobby.” 

Danny wandered closer to one of the frames, pulling Tim along with him by their linked arms. He smiled at the aerial view of Gotham. It was beautiful. “You have a lot of talent.” 

“Uh, yes. Thanks.” Tim muttered, throwing a scowl at his older brother who grinned, completely unrepentant. Not for the first time, Danny was reminded of Ellie whenever Dick was around. He cared so deeply, but that didn’t stop him from being a mischievous little imp. 

“I’d love to see more.” Danny said. “After dinner maybe?”

There was a light to Tim’s eyes at the notion. Danny wondered if it was less a hobby and something a little closer to a living obsession. Those were probably good to nurture. “If you want. Bruce has hung up a bunch of them but i have, you know, a portfolio.” 

“I’d love to see.” Danny repeated quietly. 

Dick glanced between them, his own mirth so obvious that Danny didn’t need empathy to feel it. “C’mon you two. It won’t be long before dinner’s ready and we still need to take the customary pictures.” 

“Pictures?” Danny repeated, realizing that Tim hadn’t answered him before. 

Tim nodded and gestured for Danny to follow him and Dick. “Thanksgiving is technically in two days, but we’ll be out patrolling then so we celebrate early.” 

“Our family’s kind of well known though.” Dick offered. 

Danny snorted. “The joys of a double life.” 

“Exactly.” Tim said. “We’ll take pictures tonight and each of us will post a couple on the right day to give ourselves alibi’s. It’s fairly simple.” 

Danny would have loved to have had the luxury back in the day. It was hard living with some of your biggest critics. “How much of your family will be coming?” 

“Most of it.” Dick said. 

“Probably.” Tim echoed, still looking a little worried about how the evening would go. Danny had seen many of Tim’s siblings and met a few of them. He wasn’t really worried, but was charmed that Tim was. 

Tim wanted the dinner to go seamlessly. Danny hoped he could help that along without his Fenton luck getting in the way.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

maidenless board game club headcanons

Time to bully Azul and Idia :)) I often picture their club meetings being just them shit talking the other person and calling them rizzless…

Any and all mentions of the reader are meant to be gender neutral; gendered terms may still appear in these headcanons, but never in reference to the reader.

Curiouser and Curiouser...

Azul likes to think he’s suave and could bag “anyone he set his mind to.” Eh, why hasn’t he tried to woo anyone then? For him, he states it’s a matter of pride!! He would never be emotionally vulnerable to just anyone, you know. A-And besides, he’s focusing on his business and personal growth right now, he doesn’t have the time to toy with hearts! (Or so Azul insists.)

The reality is, he has never kissed anyone outside of his family. Just soft pecks on the cheeks in greeting, mainly to his mother and grandma. Azul would never admit this out loud though, he thinks it detracts from his “cool” persona.

The thing about Azul is that he overthinks EVERYTHING. He’ll sit there and map out every possible thing that could happen on a date and how he will prepare to handle them. This includes what to say and when he should smile when speaking… He’s charming, yes, and starts off with a strong first impression—but he also tends to come off as too rehearsed or humble bragging about his accomplishments.

Azul’s desperate for a S/O not because he wants one per se, but because he wants validation that he is, in fact, attractive and desirable. After all, he made such an effort to change himself and to come off as confident, intelligent, and capable. He would like to bask in the reassurance that his efforts were worth it, because now he can “have” whoever he wants.

Aaand therein lies another problem. Azul is still stuck in the mindset that relationships are transactional. You do a favor for him? Well, he has to match it. He gives you a gift? Then he expects one back. Yet Azul keeps himself to an emotional distance, too afraid to be completely honest about his flaws.

Idia thinks the issue is Azul’s personality. When Azul demands to know what exactly his clubmate means by that. Idia just sneers and goes off on a tirade. According to him, Azul-shi may look like he’s got everything put together, but since he’s actually a greedy scumbag, no amount of expensive cologne or nice clothes can cover up a rotten core.

Sometimes he and Idia just head back to the Mostro Lounge and pour one out (non-alcoholic drinks like fruit juice) to drown their sorrows. Jade and Floyd show great interest in these sessions, but Azul is cautious about letting any truly embarrassing experiences slip out.

The twins will occasionally dare him to snag a date with whichever random person walks through the doors to the Mostro Lounge next. Azul initially took these as personal challenges and did his utmost to win these dares, but after a string of embarrassing flops he now knows better than to be baited.

Idia is scared of 3D people and prefers to stick to his anime waifus and aidorus. REAL people could never compare! They’re too flawed and unpredictable—and, worst of all, they don’t come with dialogue options and affection meters to help Idia gauge what to do/say and when the Love Flags will trigger! What’s an introverted otaku to do?

He’s the type to openly disparage happy couples and love while secretly craving the warm touch of a flesh and blood person in the depths of his soul. His ideal is a kawaii gamer who’s into all the same things he is! … Unfortunately, he’s way too shy and unconfident to ever take a stab at it!! This is his way of coping.

He goes into the chats of his favorite streamers and tosses tons of money to get his comment read and to be noticed. Idia is the type to get super parasocial with the objects of his affection (he owns all the merch, goes to the events (virtually), has had a membership since day 1, etc.), even if he scoffs at the idea when directly confronted about it.

Literally bro spends his free time moderating Discord servers and Subreddits to complain about dating. Oh, but then the INSTANT he learns a user is single he starts treating them completely differently, calling them cute and his kitten or whatever. It’s amazing how much boldness he gains from behind the safety and comfort of a screen.

He doesn’t realize the value Ortho has as a wingman. Some people are super into the idea of doting on a younger sibling or dating a guy that loves his family—but Idia never brings these up as aspects of himself. Idia often vents about dating to his little bro and then tells Ortho he’s so lucky he doesn’t have to put up with stupid complex human emotions like love. Ortho just stares at him and begs his big bro to not get catfished.

He unfortunately drives people off with his sometimes pompous attitude. He’ll challenge others’ knowledge about his favorite media and get into extended arguments with them about the subjects he’s passionate about. Only “true” fan are allowed here! If you don’t get it, Idia will mansplain to you for hours at a time over VC.

Idia’s frequently the first to instigate (verbal) fights with Azul over their appeal in the dating scene. Offended, Azul usually fires back with some remark about how Idia hasn’t even witnessed him making eye contact with a REAL living, breathing woman. “Fictional women and a ghost bride do NOT count!”

You're nice to Idia ONCE (like, you let him borrow a pencil because he forgot his for an exam) and BOOM instantly this guy is lurking in the corners, giggling creepily ("Hihihihihi...") and shyly watching you from a distance. He's way too anxious to actually try and shoot his shot, but now he's fully convinced you're into him. (Idia lives out his fantasies with you in life sim games to cope with not having you irl 💀)

[sleepymarimo]

𝕞𝕪 𝕗𝕒𝕧𝕠𝕣𝕚𝕥𝕖 𝕔𝕠𝕟𝕗𝕖𝕔𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟!

read cw! summary: after finding out that you're a virgin, the cook wants you all to himself pairing: sanji x afab!reader cw: mdni, obessive behavior, nonconsensual voyeurism, nonconsensual use of aphrodisiacs, virginity kink (reader is portrayed as more innocent), slight overstimulation, oral (fem! receiving), fingering an: listen... sanji is a dirty dirty perv in this. like. a manipulative perv. also i made this too damn long 😐 no wonder it takes me forever to upload... anyway, eat up!! wc: 2.4k for kinktober '23!

friday nights were his favorite. everyone was full and happy, drunk and carefree. the guys were busy stumbling over themselves and fighting over the last piece of food.

and the ladies?

well damn, sanji wouldn't ever miss bath night!

his eyes peek through the small window, through the haze of steam until he has a clear view of the forbidden oasis that lies inside. soapy skin and damp hair, the scent of vanilla and the sound of laughter that has his already half-hard cock twitching in his pants.

he palms himself over the fabric of his jeans before he quietly unzips his pants and grabs the base of his shaft. slow strokes and deep breaths. the perverted cook wants it to last, and he squeezes himself at the tip until a jolt runs down his spine.

his eyes dart between all the exposed skin, not questioning his morals for a second. every time was the last time, damn him...

the laughs shift into quiet whispers, the interest of the chef piqued. it doesn't stop him from sliding his hand up and down his dick, thumb circling over the tip- an exquisite torture.

nami's snicker echoes in the steam filled bathroom. he can see her shoulders shake slightly, can see robin bring a hand to her mouth to hide a smile. "just admit it!" she eggs on, splashing water in your direction.

unfortunately, your back is to him, but he can tell that your arms are crossed. "fine!" comes your voice, half embarrassed and slightly slurred from the alcohol. "i'm a virgin!"

sanji just about short circuited. hell, he was surprised that he didn't groan.

why didn't he know this sooner?

you? a virgin?

he cums hard in his hand.

the next week passes in a blur. you run rampant through his mind... usually naked and spread out, looking up at him with big puppy dog eyes as he lined up his cock with your untouched-

"sanji?"

he snaps out of his stupor, almost inhaling his cigarette whole. his eyes go wide and he offers you a kind smile, making you feel warm. the way he says your name is breathless, as if he were afraid this were a dream. "what can i do for you, mon amour? a drink? or are you hungry?"

"no, none of that." you reply, returning the smile and shaking your head. "i was wondering if i could borrow some rosemary? i've heard it helps with hair growth and i wanted to use it for my shower tonight..."

oh fuck yes, you can borrow some rosemary. take the whole spice cabinet, if you want.

he nods and hands you a good handful of said herb, a pleased blush coating his cheeks. his mind races, thinking of ways to clear his schedule for tonight.

it's a few hours later when he leans outside the bathroom door, wary of any passersby while also attuning his senses to the sound of the shower turning on. he hears you as you hum along to some random tune, your melodic voice enough to make his cock twitch. slow strokes and deep breaths.

his heart hammers in his chest as he watches the water cascade down every curve and dip on your body. even the gentle flow of the water on your tits is enough to get your nipples hard. that sensitive? fuck, what he wouldn't do to wrap his lips around them. his teeth bite into his lower lip when he sees you bring your hands to your chest, lightly rubbing over your hardened peaks. the scent of rosemary lingers in the thick air, overwhelming his senses until he swears his mouth goes dry.

the conversation you'd had with the girls really got you thinking. your thoughts traversed into unknown territory and your cheeks grew hot as you lightly twisted your sensitive nipples. heart hammering in your chest, you slide a tentative hand down your torso before retracting it.

it's almost cute how shy you were, and it makes him want to spoil you even more.

"that's it, mon amour..." he whispers to himself, an adoring smile pulling at his lips. he tightens his grip on his cock, heat pooling low in his stomach.

he thinks it's a blessing from the heavens when your soap bar slides off the holder and onto the floor. the cutest little 'oops' is all you say before bending over, giving sanji the view he needs.

his cum is hot on his hand, thick and pumping with fervor as if it were actually buried in that sweet pussy of yours.

another week of madness. he could only jerk off to you so many times and, while the sight of you never failed to get his dick hard, he'd decided that he needed to have you. to be your first, to treat you right and show you pleasure unlike anything you've ever known.

he knew you wanted it. he could tell by the way your gaze lingered on his large hands or how your thighs would squish together when he showered you with compliments.

but a shy little treat like you? you'd be tripping over your words, feeling embarrassed and not knowing how to ask. the cook couldn't have that.

surely, a little nudge or two in the right direction wouldn't be a bad thing.

that's why one night, when he knew the kitchen would be free from the meat eating captain and sake drinking swordsman, he whips up a little something special for you.

when you enter the kitchen, as he had told you to do a few hours ago, you're absolutely beaming with joy upon seeing your favorite dessert on the table. "you didn't have to do that, sanji!" taking a seat, your brows rise in curiosity as he slides a shallow bowl towards you, a velvet colored sauce swirling within. "uh, sanji? what's that?"

"mon amour, i made this dessert just for you..." he smiles, a puff of smoke floating to the ceiling. "it's a special sauce. i wanted you to be the first one to try it."

none the wiser, you dig into the dish. it's extra sweet to you, whether it was from the sauce or the warmth of sanji's smile, you don't know. he watches you lick the sauce from your lips, heart hammering in his chest.

you grin, thank him for the food and leave. then, he waits.

the chef is smart, able to be incredibly coy when he wanted to- needed to. he can be patient and stick to a plan, even as he practically vibrates with excitement while he waits for the aphrodisiac to kick in.

he chose this night because nami and robin would be on watch, leaving you alone and writhing in the girl's cabin.

after a while, he makes your favorite tea and heads to the girl's quarters under a guide of innocence. "ah, mon amour." he smiles, closing the door behind him. "i made too much tea and wanted to see if you'd like some."

oh, what a sight.

you on your bed, blankets pooled by your legs. when your eyes meet his, he can see how dilated your pupils are. a light sheen of sweat coats your form and you're twisting around in agitation. "s-sanji?" you call, voice laced with a huskiness that sent a rush of blood straight down to his cock. you sit up on the mattress, hair dishevelled.

he sets the tea aside and sits on the edge of your bed, placing a hand on your forehead. "oh mon amour, what's wrong?" his eyes briefly flicker downward, where he can see your hardened nipples poking out from your sleeping shirt.

his touch feels like heaven and you lean into it, unintentionally letting out a moan. it's embarrassing and your cheeks manage to grow even warmer. "i feel hot." you mumble, his scent flooding your senses. your thighs press together, your panties already feeling sticky and damp. "c-can you just keep... touching? me?"

your moan gets his heart racing and he shifts slightly, hiding his growing erection. "of course, mon amour."

so, he does just that. one of his hands grips into the sheets below, the other trailing from your forehead, down to your cheek and then to your shoulder where he traces light circles on the soft flesh. goosebumps rise on your skin and you take a shaky breath, too shy to verbally express how soothing his touch was.

when you look down, you see how close his hand is to your clothed chest and pert nipples. without even realizing it, you begin to lean back, rolling your shoulders and pushing out your torso. his hand doesn't move and he lets you position your body into his touch, a sight that has his heart swelling with anticipation.

you brush your nipple against his fingers and your breath hitches. it's so embarrassing, so exciting and lewd, but it quells that aching feeling deep in your cunt. "m-m'sorry." you sigh, unable to resist rocking back and forth so that you could revel in his touch.

his cheeks are so red, his smile a little shaky. "i-it's okay mon amour." he assures, bringing his free hand up to your other nipple. he starts to brush his thumb across your hardened peaks, gently pushing you back onto the mattress as he did so. "is this making you feel better?"

the contact sends jolts of pleasure straight to your core and you nod.

he pushes further, momentarily taking his hands off of you (and relishing in the sound of your whines) to push your shirt up. it's so divine. you're so divine. he continues his ministrations, rolling a swollen nipple between his fingers while he licked his lips and hovered over the other one. "i'll help you feel better." he reassures, latching his lips around your hardened bud.

the squeak you give only spurs him further. he wanted to be gentle, wanted to make this special for you, but the way you gripped onto his blond hair and held him steady against your tits... it has him licking and sucking like a man starved.

he has to shift his position a bit, nestling himself between your thighs where he can grind his hard cock against you. his words are mumbled against your saliva coated nipple. "are you feeling better, mon amour?"

you are, god knows you are, but... "i need more." you mewl, whatever sense in your head being clouded by a haze of pleasure. your hips undulate beneath his, grinding against his clothed cock. you're writhing, panting when you find the perfect spot which places the right amount of friction on your clit.

but still, it's just not enough.

his chest buzzes with affection and desire, lust and wonder, at how eager you are. he'd be evil if he denied you, so he coos sweet nothings into your ear as he slides his hands down your body. he leaves a trail of heat along your skin and you can only lift your hips when he starts to tug at the waistband of your pants and underwear.

soft palms cup your thighs, spreading them wide even as you bashfully attempt to keep them closed. "you're beautiful, mon amour." he praises, lowering himself to get a good view of what he's been dreaming of for the past few weeks. "i'll make you feel go- better. i'll make you feel better."

you're soaking, practically dripping onto the mattress below. he swears that this can't all be from that damn aphrodisiac. your pretty, untouched body must've been so damn eager- desperate to be filled.

your cunt pulses when he leans forward and licks a stripe up your folds with the flat of his tongue. he repeats the motion another couple of times before latching onto your clit and assaulting it with a series of quick, short laps. it feels like pins and needles are pricking at every nerve on your body, your hips bucking with his movements.

"d-don't stop!" you hiccup, running a hand through his scalp while the other twisted into the bedsheets.

he's trembling, panting and groaning into your clit. his movements halt for a few seconds, his posture tensing before relaxing slightly. before you could beg him to keep going, he doubles his efforts.

poor chef came in his pants... it was a bit too much for him.

one of his fingers traces the entrance of your soaking cunt before he pushes it inside, his hips rutting into nothing when he's greeted by your tight, velvet walls, untouched and ready to be shaped by his cock. you're such a sweet thing, he mumbles into your cunt, setting a slow and steady pace with his finger.

you're mewling and shaking, looking down at him and at your pleasure laden body with equal parts embarrassment and arousal. drool coats your lips, a sharp gasp coming through them as he inserts another finger and curls them up against that spongy spot that had you seeing stars. the heat that was oh so uncomfortable earlier seems to be forgotten, replaced by an unabashed pleasure that you never thought was possible. "s-san! ji!"

if he thought you were tight before, then he had another thing coming. your walls start to tense and clamp around his fingers, his cock already hardening in anticipation.

another few strokes, a curling of his fingers and a swirl of his tongue around your clit have you cumming hard.

he groans against you, lapping up all of your juices and pumping his digits into you until you were squeezing your thighs around his head and begging him to stop.

your body trembles with aftershocks of pleasure, tears dotting your lashes as you look up at him as if he were a god. it's a sight he can get used to, so long as you were his little angel. no, his goddess. he gives you a smile, leaning forward to place a kiss on your temple before telling you how good you were for him.

"sanji..." you half whine, half sigh. the haze in your eyes hadn't gone away. he made sure it wouldn't when he purposefully added a few extra servings of aphrodisiac to your special dessert earlier.

"i know, mon amour." he whispers back, unzipping his pants and releasing his now hard cock from its confines. his boxers are stained with cum, the head of his dick already leaking. "i promised i'd make you feel better."

you're only able to let out a gasp when he runs the tip of his cock along your slit, your essences mixing together in a concoction more delicious than anything he's ever made.

when he slides himself into your virgin pussy, he shudders and groans. your walls squeeze him, welcoming him, beckoning him deeper until he had no choice but to spill his load into you. your gasps and whines, the shaky hold you have on his shoulders are all engrained into his brain.

you were his now. and he was yours.

his favorite little confection.

taglist: @queen-of-elves, @who-the-hockeysticks, @sxhy-town, @13x1s

[kaznejis]

We're hanging on by a heartbeat- Erik Lehnsherr x Reader

“You’re bringing Hank, right?”  She gritted her teeth, a blush tinging her cheeks as she avoided eye contact, “Yes… not in that way though.”  “I need to borrow him.” “What-” She looked confused at first, but then something clicked; mirth creasing at her eyes and twisting her lips as she cocked her head at you, “Y/N! You want to make Erik jealous.” 

A/N: Thanks for all of the support on my fics!!! every comment, like, reblog and read is GREATLY appreciated. So, enjoy this fun little oneshot I found in my drafts. :)

Word Count: 5,250 / Read it on AO3!

“He’s gonna be there, Y/N,” Raven sighed, swirling her champagne glass as she pursed her lips at you, “Charles practically demanded that he be there despite his refusals, I think he promised him that he’d get you to speak to him.” She accompanied the last words with exaggerated air quotes. 

“Mhm,” You grumbled, fiddling with your outfit in the mirror, “And that means, you are not allowed to leave me unattended. At any point.” 

“Y/N..” 

“Nope,” Turning towards her, splayed out on a chaise in her human form; a gorgeous dress accentuating her figure and her blonde hair flowing down her back in waves; you simply shook your head, face stern as you spoke. “I’m not going down that path again, I’m done with his idiocy.” 

“But… what does that have to do with being left unattended?” A smirk curled at the corners of her lipstick stained lips. You glared right back at her. 

“Because, I can’t-” You exhaled heavily through your nose, clearing the nerves from your chest at the mere thought of speaking to him, “If I speak to him, I will just embarrass myself- he, obviously, does not feel the same way as I feel for him.” 

Raven just sighed, visibly sick of you and Erik’s antics. Behind the guise of being best friends; you and Erik had been playing an erratic, immoral game of cat and mouse, each interaction felt like a step closer to admitting your feelings for him, but then, a subsequent step back at the very same time. He was complicated, to say the least, plagued by the traumas of his past and present. Plagued by the responsibility that he wielded upon his shoulders as a powerful mutant, the expectation of moral compassion; and, the sordid reality of his beliefs. 

You supported him, wholeheartedly, every step of the way. Your own chaotic mutant gene infecting your ability to appear as a normal human being; the green at your irises and the vines that intertwine upon your fingertips only causing fear, despite your god-given purpose being to allow growth. Maybe that’s why the two of you had gotten along so well; both of your powers allow you each to manipulate the foundations of the Earth itself- the ability to shift infrastructure and take lives at the merest of thoughts, at the slightest of movements. the hypothetical extent of what you could do rendered you outcasts, even if you had no desire to inflict pain upon others, they awaited with bated breaths until you would do so. 

Whilst Erik had initially viewed his residence within the school as a prison, you had seen it as a safe haven. The lush meadows and ancient trees that adorned the acres of land called to you, allowing for days spent barefoot amongst the reeds, with only birdsong to accompany you. Erik had paid you little mind at first- having only allowed you fleeting glances at dinner, a nod of the head if he agreed with a point, a slither of a smirk when you amused him. But, soon, he let you in; allowed you into the fortress of his conscience, allowed you to peel back the layers of his anger, and understood his desires for vengeance. You had balanced him out, balanced out the choke of his dark turtlenecks with the flow of your hair; balanced out the harshness of his metal with the brush of petal stems upon your fingertips. 

As your friendship had developed naturally, your feelings had followed. Abrasive, corrosive feelings. Soon enough, Erik plagued your every waking thought; his essence identifiable within the flow of the river, within the dust upon the floorboards, within the quiet of your room upon nightfall. 

He was everywhere, and you couldn’t escape. 

You would find him at breakfast in the morning, laughing obnoxiously at Charles; his teeth glinting in the morning light. You would find him in the classrooms, teaching the children their mandatory mutant history lessons; a transfixing performance of great intelligence, his hands enunciating each and every point. You loved watching him teach, perching upon a desk at the back of his room as he interacted with the children, engaging with their conversations whilst simultaneously wielding the ability to hold the students captivated when delivering a lecture. 

But, most importantly, your favourite place to find him was beside you. He would join you at the lakeside most nights, smiling to himself as you conjured flower after flower, allowing them to flow in the wind, the two of you watching as they found a home upon the tranquil waters. It was there, in the dark and the quiet of nightfall, that you had allowed your feelings to bubble at the surface, allowed your inhibitions to loosen as you had turned to him, studied the sharp features of his side profile; he had turned to you too, an eyebrow raised as he blinked, confused. 

“I was wondering..” You began, fiddling with the petals of a flower within your hands, watching as his loose, plaid shirt fluttered in the wind beside you; a change in his wardrobe that you had inflicted, “Charles is hosting a formal dinner next weekend.” 

Erik huffed, smiling at you; though his lip curled confusedly, “I know, I am the co-head of the school; I signed off on the plan.” 

Idiot, you chastised yourself, of course he knew that. Erik had turned towards you entirely now, his head tilted in intrigue as he stared at you, “Oh- yeah, well I was wondering, if you wanted to-”

“I’m not even sure why Charles would want to host such a thing, I mean, just an opportunity for the kids to drink too much and make a mess of the house.” 

“Yeah, well-” 

“And then one of Charles’ assistants asked me to be her date for it and I-” 

You felt it, in that moment, as your heart splintered within your chest; its foundations shattering and leaving you only able to gape in its wake. Coldness entrapped your body as the remaining petals of the flower within your hand shrivelled and wilted; the once luminescent petals forming a pathetic grey upon your palm. You simply nodded, zoning out and pulling yourself away from Erik’s words as he spoke, unable to hear him any further. You needed to distance yourself, distance yourself from him, from your feelings for him. It would be for the better; allow him to pursue whats-her-face without your claws of envy sinking into his shoulder blades, dragging him away from the semblance of happiness that he deserved. 

“I-I’m sorry Erik,” You stuttered, cutting him off suddenly as his speech screeched to a halt, his eyes widening and form freezing as you halted his words, “I need to go.” You wasted no time in bolting upwards, marching towards the distant lights of the house, not sparing him a single glance backwards. 

“Wait, Y/N-” He called, his voice catching in the breeze as he stumbled into pace behind you, “I’m sorry, did I upset you or-” 

“No, Erik, it’s fine.” You turned them, your hair fluttering before your eyes in the breeze as you watched him as he came to a halt, his face stricken, mouth agape as he stared at you, “You should go with Charles assistant, I bet she’s lovely..” You turned again immediately, sighing in relief as the house grew closer.

“No Y/N, I was actually going to ask if-” 

“Erik.” You snapped, turning once again, for the final time. The levity of your voice brought him to an instant pause, shock prevalent upon his features. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, you can go with whoever you want to. You don’t owe me anything.” 

“Oh.” Erik was still, his voice low as he watched you, his brows low and his mouth downturned; he seemed, almost, disappointed. Though, his emotional disparity was not your responsibility anymore, “Well, okay, I will then.”

You nodded, a finality; a shallow smile painted itself upon your features, “Good. I look forward to meeting her.” You didn’t wait to see his reaction, making the final journey to the house before swinging open the door and rushing to your room- where you could comfortably wallow in the drawls of your own heartbreak. 

That had been over a week ago; your initial excitement for the formal had dwindled entirely leaving you staring at yourself bleakly as you fiddled with an earring, Raven had continued to watch you; eyebrows raised and mouth curling with mirth. 

“This is ridiculous, Y/N.”

“Raven! He said himself-”

“No, but,” She paused, collecting herself for a moment before leaning towards you, hands clasped upon her lap, “You haven’t seen him.” 

“Of course, I have-” 

“Okay, When was the last time you saw him?” 

You laughed, eyes tight as you refused to make eye contact with her, “I saw him at breakfast this morning.”

“Sure, when was the last time you spoke to him?” 

Pausing, you cleared your throat, she had caught you there. Your own immaturity dawned upon you as you spoke your confession, embarrassment creating a heave in your chest.  “At the lake, last week.” 

“That’s what I thought- I mean, that man is a brooding asshole on the usual day, but since he supposedly professed his feelings for someone else to you? He’s been miserable, wandering the halls like a kicked puppy; if he’s even capable of resembling that.” 

Shaking your head, you huffed, turning to take a hasty swig from your own glass of preparatory champagne, “Maybe she rejected him after all.” 

“Sure, Y/N-” 

Suddenly, as the brevity of the reality which was Erik bringing another woman to the formal, a wicked realisation dawned upon you. “I need a favour.” You blurted, turning to her abruptly. 

“Okay..’

“You’re bringing Hank, right?” 

She gritted her teeth, a blush tinging her cheeks as she avoided eye contact, “Yes… not in that way though.” 

“I need to borrow him.”

“What-” She looked confused at first, but then something clicked; mirth creasing at her eyes and twisting her lips as she cocked her head at you, “Y/N! You want to make Erik jealous.” 

You shrugged, smirking at her; though the sweat at the back of your neck and legs couldn’t be denied, “I just- want to cover my own back, he can’t think that I’m moping and sad over him and another woman-” 

“But, you are.” 

Only sparing Raven a glare as she chortled, you continued, “I just want to let him see that I have my own date, and that… it could’ve been him. To everyone else, we’ll just be going as friends, but- Erik doesn’t need to know that.” 

Before the danger of your plan could pull your mind to a halt, before it could allow your conscience to screech at its own breaks- Raven was up, crossing the span of the dressing room and pulling the door open; telling a nearby student to find and fetch Hank. The young boy nodded obediently, breaking into a sprint down the hallway. Within minutes, Hank appeared in tow; flushed and breathing heavily as he burst into the corridor, half-dressed in his suit as his tie hung loose around his neck. 

“What’s wrong? What’s going on?” Hank panted, a hand planted upon the door frame as he surveyed the room; confusion followed within his features as he surveyed the two of you safe and seated comfortably. Only then, did fear truly grace his features; the dread evident within the tightening of his fingers and grit of his teeth, “What’s…going on?” 

“Sorry, Hank, but you will now be attending the dinner with Y/N.” 

“What?” He spat, his tall frame stalking into the room as he ensured the door was securely closed before truly entering the room, “No offence, Y/N, but I don’t understand- do you want me dead?” 

“What?” You gasped in turn, rubbing a hand against your forehead as you shook your head; Raven had nodded, laughing at his fear as she silently agreed, “Why would you die?” 

The ability to do so being somehow possible, Hank’s voice sunk to a hiss, bowing towards the two of you as sweat formed visibly upon his brow, “Have you seen Erik recently? He would kill me.” 

“Exactly,” Jeering, Raven opened the decanter upon the small table between you, pouring Hank a brimming glass of champagne before refilling her own, he took the drink readily once she offered it to him, taking a gusty swallow as his skin steadily grew paler, or even, bluer. “We need to show him what he’s missing out on-” 

“No, no.” Shaking his head hastily, Hank held his hands up before him, slowly backing towards the closed-door; a supposed attempt to make a fast escape, “I am not being a pawn in your fucked up-” 

“Hank.” Raven whined, cocking her head to the side and moving to expose the skin of her leg; pouting at him endearingly- you could only fake heave at her antics. “Please, for me? Once they’ve sorted their mess out-” 

“Hey-!” 

“We can have a dance together.”

Hank froze, the frost that had covered his cheeks instantly warming with the rush of blood as he blushed, his face taking the features of a dazed fawn as he practically melted beneath Raven’s gaze. He soon recovered though, turning towards you and sighing, scratching at the base of his head, “Fine, I will enter with you and we can have a dance, that is it-” 

“Thank you, thank you.” You interrupted him with a rush of skirts and arms flinging around his neck, peppering kisses to his cheek as you squeezed him, “You are my saviour” 

“Okay, okay-” He laughed, holding you at arms length as to protect the ironed linens of his shirt, a genuine smile lining his cheeks, “I need to finish getting ready, but I’ll meet you outside the entrance at quarter past seven.” 

“Quarter past? Hank it starts at seven.” You pursed your lips in confusion as he only grinned at you, a twinkle shining in his eye. 

“Exactly.” He grinned as Raven gasped, breaking into applause beside you, bravoing Hank humorously as you pulled away from him, to which Hank bowed sarcastically, hand before his stomach like a true guardsman. “We need to ensure that he sees Y/N- so, we enter late; put on a little show.” He wiggled his hips as he spoke, grinning at you fake-enticingly; to which you could only fake-vomit, sticking a finger in your mouth and gagging exaggeratedly as Raven laughed beside you. 

Hank departed then, a wave of a hand to you and a cheesy smile at Raven; that is when the plan jumped into action. Raven surged from her lounged position instantly, moving to check you over; your outfit, your hair, the words you would procure upon entering the formal. With a kiss on the cheek and a wink, she left at exactly 6:55; the door slamming behind the trails of her gorgeous dress. 

Thus, leaving you with a harrowing twenty minutes to stew on your decisions. 

Would Erik even care? Or, would he be too occupied with his supposed date? Gazing at the beauty of her dress and the delicacy of her skin instead of your own, honoured that he could serve as her date instead of wishing he could be yours. You forced yourself to break eye contact with your own reflection; disgusted at the pathetic twist of your features as nerves flooded your guts. Taking a deep breath, you shook your head; if anything, Erik would come to the realisation that you didn’t have feelings for him anymore and this sordid affair would end- you would go back to being best friends, you would swallow the bitter taste of rejection and smile through the burning fires of jealousy as he inevitably grew closer with his date for the night. Maybe the two of you would replace each other entirely, after all. 

At exactly 7:10, you left the room; bridled with nerves as you could do nothing but stare at the same features of the room you had been preparing yourself in for hours. Breath in, breath out- the sound of your heels clicking against the empty hallway resounded upon the halls as the inhabitants of the house were located within the main hall- the sound of conversation and light acoustical music a distant mirage. 

As you walked, you surveyed the walls of the buildings you called home- the murals upon the walls and the gorgeous art-pieces that the residents had collected throughout the years lining the walls. In the rotten depths of your mind, you wondered if this would be it- if you would have to leave, unable to sleep only doors down from Erik and the woman he would soon call his lover. The thought of it made you nauseous, made your knees beg to buckle from the strain of exasperated grief. Grief of what could have been if you had just stayed quiet, content; if you could have just been comfortable within the throes of friendship. 

At the end of it all, you missed him. You missed everything about him- his inherent goods and bads. His anger and his joy; his technicolour darks and lights. You missed the sharp lines of his face, the way his hair curled without the harnessing of a pomade, the prickles of the hairs upon his forearms and the curve of amusement within his lips. 

It took everything within you to not detour to the comforts of your bed, to crawl under the covers and hide for the foreseeable- wait for the inevitable to blow over, for Erik to enter your room and laugh at your sad state, just as a friend would; with no romantic-baggage whatsoever. 

However, before your jailbreak attempt could successfully be enacted; Hank emerged from the adjoining hallway, hands in his pocket and a meagre smile upon his face, “Thought I’d meet you here before you decided to run away.” 

Nodding, you sighed; managing a grateful smile his way as he removed his hands from his pockets and offered his arm to you, to which you took it and began to walk towards the hall’s entrance, “I was just working up the courage to do that.” 

Hank laughed, the motion jostling you slightly as you stopped in front of the entrance, the door was closed; the event readily in motion behind it, “We can back out if you want, you can go in now alone and I’ll come down in a few minutes?”

Shaking your head, you tightened your grip upon his elbow; smiling tightly, your voice cracked slightly as you began to speak, the thought of facing Erik and his date alone the most terrifying imagery in that moment, “I can’t go in there alone.” 

Hank turned to you then, concerned evident within the downturn of his mouth, his hands moved to your shoulders; the weight of them comforting as he sighed, “If anything happens I- we will be there, okay?” 

Nodding, you smiled almost-tearfully up at your friend, your lips curling with emotion as he jostled you; attempting to squeeze some semblance of humour from your state. He beckoned you forward then, one hand upon the door handle and the other curling to rest upon the curve of your waste; that is how you greeted the entire room.  

Due to the old-age of the building, the door creaked almost obnoxiously, the sound ostentatious despite the constant hum of the room. Immediately, you made eye contact with Raven; snorting into her glass as she failed to hide her amusement. Then Charles, his hands hanging in mid-air as if he was performing a speech to the group before him; though his face changed during the moment of eye contact, his eyebrows instantly raising and his lips curling into a smile as he looked into your mind, then to the hand upon your waist and finally to a point across the room. 

You followed his gaze, and you could swear your heart skipped a beat as it landed. 

There, stood Erik; the object of all of your desires, and your afflictions. His demeanour differed greatly from the others in the room, his face was blank; impassive as he met your eye; his hair was neatly slicked back and he adorned a clean, striking black suit. Charming. However, his body language told a different story- the grip at which he held his glass was ironclad, his lips were tight and cheeks haggard; an exact juxtaposition to the sharp cut lines of his suit. 

But, as you searched the space beside, behind and above him; the only thing that you could notice was that he was completely alone. 

Stood at the corner of the room, in his gorgeous suit with his exhaust-tinged eyes; he was alone. Not a date, of any shape or size or form, in sight. 

Your mind only allowed a halting, record-scratch oh fuck before you were herded towards the dancefloor- Charles welcoming the ‘happy couple’ to the crowd, sheer amusement threatening to crumple his confident form as he practically tittered. Hank only rolled his eyes, grinning at you amusedly as he tugged you into the entourage that was beginning to form. You couldn’t bring yourself to smile back. Your breath was quickening, panic flooding your chest as you realised that maybe, possibly you had read this whole situation entirely wrong. As you were whisked upon the dancefloor, a drink shoved into your palm and the waltz of fast-paced conversation already hastily beginning- you used every last essence of your will to build a somewhat passable facade, to not crumple in front of the crowd, to not run towards Erik and beg for his forgiveness, for his attention. 

But, oh, you had thought far too soon. Because, after all, you had garnered his attention the moment your heels resounded throughout the shocked quiet of the room. 

As you surveyed the crowd, Hank’s arm an all-encompassing weight upon your waist- you failed to stop your eyes from passing Erik’s form. He remained in that very same spot, as if he belonged nowhere else, as if he was sculpted upon the very walls of the building. His eyes were fixed upon your form; no matter the step, position or pose you took- his eyes never faltered from you, never wandered; even when Charles came to stand beside him, amusement towards his best friend tinted the rise in his cheeks. The two of them began to converse, the topic being of considerable tension; seeing as though Charles continued to look ever-amused, whilst Erik’s eyes finally dropped from yours- his face visibly swelling in anger as he glared at his shoes. 

“-Y/N? Sorry, Y/N?” 

Shocked, you blinked, turning back towards the conversation before you; two older women stared expectantly at you, you dug your mind for any recollection as to who exactly they were- maybe some form of charitable donors? After a series of agonising seconds, to which it felt like the entire room had gone silent; each participant waiting to see what was plaguing your mind, you spoke- smile cringing as you tilted your gaze towards the air just beside the woman, “Sorry, what was-?” 

“We were asking how long you and Professor. McCoy have been together?” Obnoxiously red-lipped woman-potential-rich-donor spoke, her lips stretching grotesquely as she smiled. 

“Oh, well-” 

“We’ve been dating casually for a few months.” 

“What-” 

“Oh, that is wonderful!” The woman spoke, clapping her satin-gloved hands together and bouncing on her heels. 

“Yeah..” Smiling airily, you ensured that oxygen was correctly being executed from your lungs; that you were definitely awake, alive and breathing. 

“It’s been a whirlwind,” Hank smiled, jostling you with the hand gripping your hip, “Between me and you, things are really starting to heat up-” 

Through the excited gasps of the women you realised with abject horror that Charles and Erik were edging towards your circle; Charles leading Erik with a clutch upon his elbow, to which Erik seemed to be fighting unapologetically. 

As if firing the perfect shot, at the perfect time and place, the red-lipped woman squealed at an obscene volume just as Erik entered perfect earshot, “Oh, just imagine, Y/N McCoy. It’s perfect-”

The sound of a glass shattering splintered throughout the room, halting the conversation and what felt like the very air you were breathing. Blood instantly began pouring from Erik’s hand as the surrounding partygoers jumped back in fear, the entire room watching with wide, halted eyes as he shuck the glass from his grip.

“Erik-” Trembling, you swallowed; feeling your heart hammer within your chest as you watched him, the loosening of Hank’s hand pulling and wrenching at the pit within your stomach. You had well and truly done it this time. 

Erik seemed to ignore you, shrugging off the onlookers that attempted to come to his aid; allowing the air beside your head one last scathing glance before he departed from the crowd, from the room entirely. Wasting no time in following him, you dumped your purse and drink into Hank’s arms before breaking into a full sprint; throwing any sense of formality to the wind as you shoved through the crowd whilst simultaneously calling to his retreating back. 

“Erik, please-” You called as you finally emerged from the crowd, the main doors slamming behind you as you stopped before him. His back was turned, feet poised as if ready to retreat, though he had stopped. Droplets of blood resounded against the linoleum, a steady flow of red dribbling from the cuts upon his hands, “Erik, you need to-” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Erik’s tone was demanding, his back clenching as he resolutely refused to turn, to face you. 

“What-”

Finally, he turned; spinning on his polished heel and stalking towards you- face practically carved from stone, his gaze bleeding into yours, “Why didn’t you tell me about you and McCoy?” He practically spat Hank’s name, the name convulsing from his lips. 

Scowling, you straightened your back; standing strong as you grit your teeth at him, “Why would that have been any of your business, Erik?” 

Scoffing, he backed away; scrubbing his non-injured hand upon the stubble upon his jaw, almost in disbelief, “Of course- why would it be?” He laughed sardonically, throwing his hands in the air and shrugging his shoulders. 

“What is your problem?” 

He seemed to still, to quiet; his throat bobbling heavily as his eyes bore into you- eventually, he looked away, lip clutched beneath his teeth, “You know what, nothing-” 

“Okay,” You nodded, feigning deep thought, “Let me rephrase then, why do you care?” 

Erik blinked, almost in disbelief, “Come on Y/N- you know exactly-” 

“-Because last I heard, you had a date for this-” 

“-Who told you that?!” 

“You!” You were shouting now, chest heaving at the patchworked conversation presented before you, “You did, Erik!” 

He was truly in disbelief now, shaking his head and struggling to find the words; eventually he settled for one, insignificant word. He practically drawled it, set up a board and sketched out the word at agonising speed, “What?”

Laughing, mostly to yourself, you gestured towards him, “You told me.” At his silence, you opted to continue speaking, “At the lake, you told me you were going on a date with Charles’ assistant.”

“I never-” Erik groaned, hand moving to pinch the bridge of his nose as he sighed; visibly exhausted, “I know for a fact that I did not say that because-,” He was the one to laugh then, hacking at his chest as he forged his words, “-Because, you interrupted me, left and then haven’t looked at me since!” He seemed to check off the series of events on the fingers of his uninjured hand before waving his clenched fist in your direction, “So, I am assured in the knowledge that I did not say that, because I haven’t spoken to you in two weeks!” 

“Okay, well, I have looked at you-” 

“-No, you haven’t.” 

Slamming your mouth shut, you scowled, crossing your arms petulantly; he simply watched you, the turn of his mouth pulling in its usual smug fashion. “Y/N-” 

“Your hand is covered in blood.”

Smiling, he looked down at it, flexing his fingers before turning his gaze back towards you, “I know.” 

“So who did you come with then?” You shrugged, completely disregarding your worries regarding his hand, “Shouldn’t you be with her instead of-” 

“Y/N, you are completely missing the point… I didn’t come with anyone.” 

“Oh,” You breathed, desperately attempting to hide the relief evident within your exhale, “Why?”

“Because that night at the lake,” He exhaled through his nose; his eyes flitting in between your face and the wall as he breathed, he seemed to be trembling slightly as he conjured the words adjacent to his evidently racing thoughts, “I was going to ask if you wanted to accompany me.”

“Oh.” You repeated dumbly, utterly gobsmacked at his words. 

“But, it’s now evident that McCoy beat me to it, so-” 

“Me and Hank aren’t together.” The words left you in a rush, you knew that your wide eyes mirrored Erik’s own perfectly; shock evident within both of your features. 

“Okay-” 

“I completely jumped to conclusions and I thought you were bringing a date, so I- I didn’t want to show up alone so I borrowed Hank…for the night.” 

“You borrowed Hank.”

“...Yes.” 

Erik suddenly burst into laughter; his face morphing to accustom the sudden change in emotion as he outrightly laughed at you. You could only stand there; slightly offended, slightly relieved at the upbringing of events. 

Erik had wanted to ask you to be his date. 

Did Erik have feelings for you?

“Okay, just to be clear, you weren’t asking me to the dinner as f-” Your words were abruptly cut off as Erik suddenly broke into a stride, marching up to you before placing his hands upon your cheeks and pressing his lips to yours completely, inhaling heavily as if he wanted to ingest you, taste you. You immediately kissed back with the same fervour, intertwining your fingers with the short hair upon his head and accustoming your senses to the scent of blood that was now smeared upon your cheeks. 

Eventually, unfortunately, he pulled away; gazing down at you with hooded eyes. You watched as he bit his tongue, the motion tightening his jaw as he stared down at you, vision unguarded; almost unsure. You knew you looked like something straight out of a horror story, blood smeared upon your cheek and the bridge of your nose- you could only sigh blissfully as he ran his fingers through the mess he had created, spreading it until his finger reached your lips. 

You both stilled; breaths catching in your chests. 

After a long moment, you nodded, your eyes soon fluttering closed as he began to spread the liquid upon your lips- the copper tang of his blood immediately permeating your senses. His eyes were practically drooping now; his irises blown out in pleasure. Keeping your eyes upon his; you gauged his every movement as you sucked his finger into your mouth, effectively cleaning it and your lips of his blood.  You knew in that moment that this was forever; this connection that had been forged between your souls, intertwined at each end and tightened right in the middle. Forged entirely from his very own metal.

[boytumms]

guy with a size kink gets knocked up by a size shifter. all through his pregnancy, his baby has growth and shrinking spurts the way other babies would kick. it's disorienting and painful. one minute he'll be fine, then his baby will knock him on his ass by deciding to grow as big as a foal, then his bump disappears when the baby shrinks to the size of a peanut. he has no predictability for any of this, and it's made his pregnancy a confusing nightmare. he didn't know this would happen, the dad didn't warn him, and he had to furiously look up sizeshifter pregnancy after an embarrassing growth spurt in the grocery store his first trimester, when baby decided to make him look ready to pop and tore apart his favorite shirt. clothes have been out of the question for months now. his belly skin is so red and stretched out and agitated with the constant inflation and deflation, the baby just getting more active near the end of the pregnancy. he worries about the birth. what if his baby has a growth spurt that makes it impossible to push out? or godforbid, one while he's actively crowning?

Having the baby shift sizes while he's giving birth would be so good, it keeps growing and shrinking rapidly while he's trying to push it out, making his labor so much longer and more painful than normal.

It's constantly changing shape, stretching him wider than his body was ever meant to stretch and getting stuck when it shifts into something huge. He screams and cries, thrashing in pain as he bucks his hips wildly in an attempt to dislodge the massive head, trembling under his towering belly and begging his baby to shrink before it breaks him. When it finally does shrink, he pushes frantically, not even waiting for contractions because he desperately needs to make as much progress as he can while the baby is small enough to be pushed out.

His labor drags on for hours, constantly bouncing back between non stop pushing when it's small and feeling like its about to split him in half and getting stuck when it's too big. He never knows how long each phase will be, he could have only minutes to push and hours of torture stretching around a creature with the head the size of a watermelon, or vice versa. His labor could last days if the baby decides to shift too big too much, leaving him exhausted and barely conscious by the time he manages to get it out.

He feels it slip out with one last push and collapses back in relief, thinking he's finally done, but suddenly his tummy jumps up, swelling right back up until he's even bigger than he started. He screams in pain, watching his belly in horror as it squirms and bounces with movement. It turns out that because shape shifting babies are always changing and shifting sizes, it's nearly impossible to figure out how many there really are. What he though was one baby constantly shrinking and growing could have actually been twins, triplets, or more.

After hours and hours of giving birth to just one baby, he realizes he has to do it all over again, and without knowing how many babies he's actually carrying, he may have to push out many more after that...