#they feel like they've had the spines broken in before they've even been touched

[thebibliosphere]

It's a long-standing 'joke' in certain writing circles that you can tell when an author is self-published because the quality of the paper being used is better.

Usually, because us little self-pubs are doing everything we can to look professional and fit in. Meanwhile, trad-pub are being told by the greedy fuckers in charge paying everyone under them a pittance CEOs to pinch pennies to such a degree the paper they're printing on is damn near translucent, as Diane pointed out.

It really feels like the monopolization of publishing and printing has really sounded the death knell on quality control in a lot of instances.

I just received a copy of a book I've been very much looking forward to by a favorite author, but the quality of the book itself is... not great. Cheap paper, weak binding, even a weird illustration of the main character on the cover that I'm having trouble believing the author approved. Obviously, I don't want to leave a bad review on Amazon or GoodReads or anywhere, as I'm 100% certain the content is as excellent as her other work. But how can I best let the publisher (Baen) know I'm disappointed without threatening to never buy her books again? Because, well, if this is the only option, I'm gonna keep buying them even in my disappointment.

Well, the first thing I thought when I read this was "Wow, I'm really glad I don't have anything in print from Baen at the moment except a couple of anthologized short stories." :)

As for the rest of it, let's take it point by point.

Adding a cut here, because this will run a bit long. Caution: contains auctorial bitching and moaning, painful illustrations of cases in point, and brief advice on how to complain most effectively. (Also links to paintings of cats.)

Cheap paper: This has been an accurate complaint since well before COVID—and it's often been worse since, with supply chain issues also being involved. That said: one way publishers routinely save money on printing books, especially the bigger ones, is by going for thinner/cheaper paper. I remember one of our UK editors going on at great length and with huge annoyance—during one of those late-night convention-bar bitch sessions—over how the only way they could get some really good books published (because Upstairs insisted on reducing the per-copy production costs) was by reducing the paper quality to the point where you could nearly read through it. Sacrificing decent text size(s) also became part of this. Nobody in editorial was happy about the result: but there wasn't much they could do.

Bad bindings: Similar problem. Sewn bindings used to be a thing in paperbacks... but not any more: not for a good while, now. These days, it's all glue. Even hardcovers are showing up glued rather than sewn. Don't get me started. :/ (This is why I so treasure some of the oldest paperbacks I've acquired, which are actually sewn.)

Crap covers: I've had my share of these—though my share of some really good ones, too. And one of the endless frustrations of traditional publishing is that the writer routinely has little or even no influence over what the cover will look like... let alone how much will be spent on it, or (an often-related issue) how good the execution will be.

There are of course exceptions. If you're working at the, well, @neil-gaiman -esque level or similar in publishing, a lot more attention is going to be paid to your thoughts. You may even be able to get "cover veto" written into your contracts, so that if you disapprove, changes will get made. But without actual contractual stipulations, the writer has zero legal recourse or way to withhold approval. (And I bet even Neil has some horror stories.)

The normal workflow looks like this. After a book's purchased, its editor and the art director discuss what it's about and what the cover should look like. The art director then hires an artist and tells them what to do. After that, the artist executes their vision and gets paid. It is incredibly rare for a writer to have any significant input into this process. And as to whether or not they approve of the final result, well... the publisher mostly just shrugs and goes back to eyeing the bottom line, muttering "Who told them they get a vote?"

Now, I've been seriously lucky to occasionally be an exception in this regard. In particular, my editors at Harcourt (when Jane Yolen and Michael Stearns were editing Harcourt's Magic Carpet YA imprint) would ask me what I thought would be a good idea for the next Young Wizards cover, and I'd think about it a bit and send them back a paragraph or so about some core scene. They'd then talk to their art director, and after that send their notes and mine to Cliff Nielsen (who started doing the covers for the hardcover and mass-market paperback editions of the series in the mid-90s) or to Greg Swearingen (who was the artist on the digest-format editions). And the results, by and large, were pretty good. ...I also think affectionately of the UK artist Mick Posen, who insisted on seeing pictures of our cats before painting the covers for the Hodder editions of The Book of Night with Moon and On Her Majesty's Wizardly Service (the UK title for To Visit The Queen).

But this kind of treatment is a courtesy—not even vaguely suggested in the books' contracts, and very much the exception to the rule. And for every writer who's midlist, there are times when the luck runs out. For example: one time I wrote a book that was an AU-Earth-near-future fantasy police procedural, thematically pretty dark—dealing with issues of abuse of megacorporate power, institutionalized bigotry, and (explicitly) attempted genocide. And the cover, done by an artist who's a good friend and some of whose fabulous art hangs in our house, came out looking like this. It was... let's just say "not ideally representative."

So I was glad, when my local workflow allowed it, to recover the current, revised version of the book with something at least a little more apropos. But the original cover's not the artist's fault. He did what the art director told him... as a cover artist must do to get paid, and (ideally) to get hired again. At present, that's how the system works.

...So. You've got a badly-built and -presented book on your hands. How best to make your feelings known in some way that might make a difference down the line? (As you make it plain that you'll keep buying this author's books this way if you must.)

First of all: when (as part of my psych nursing training) we were taught how to complain most effectively, we were told that the first and most basic rule of the art is this:

Only Complain To Someone Who Can Actually Do Something About Your Problem

So I salute your desire not to waste your time taking the issue to the reviews on Amazon, or the pages of Goodreads... because they can't do anything. The odds that anyone from production at Baen is reading the comments there strike me as... well, not infinitesimally small, not being hit-by-a-meteorite-while-in-the-shopping-center-parking-lot small... but really low.

So: write to corporate.

In your place I would go online and rummage around a bit to find out who's on record as the publisher at Baen. I would then write them a letter on paper. And I would lay out the problem pretty much as you laid it out up at the top.

The tone I think I'd choose would be the more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger approach. I'd say, "I write to comment about your recently published book by [X Writer], whose work I love. I have to say, though, that I don't think the cover on [X Book] is terribly representative of the quality of the prose inside. And also, the construction and production quality of the book itself was a disappointment to me because [here spell out why].

"I'd really like to see [X. Writer's] books succeed with you, and I'd like to buy more of them without wondering whether I was going to be disappointed again. But if this is typical of how they're being produced, I'd also be concerned that the state of these books is setting up a situation in which the author's sales will be damaged, and you would stop publishing them... which would really be a shame. Whereas on the other hand, better production quality could keep previous purchasers coming back and buying, not only more books by this author, but books by others whom you publish."

This phrasing, as you'll have seen, walks a bit wide around the issue of your further purchases, while directing attention toward the bottom line... which will routinely be what the publisher's looking at from day to day. And—being, one has to hope, in possession of the wider picture as regards what's going on with their production costs—maybe they can actually do something about it.

Anyway, nothing ventured, nothing gained, yeah? It's worth a try. All you can do is hope for the best.

And finally: please know that I admire your commitment to the author: whoever she is, she's lucky to have you. It's a terrific thing to have readers who'll willing to spend the time to hunt you down, and who're willing not to judge a book by its cover. :)

[moonsandmobilityaids-inactive]

Caught Between Part 3

Pairings: Poly!marauders x disabled!reader Summary: You come back from the medical appointments, and you're a little broken. Warnings: Chronic illness, medical gaslighting, depression, ableism Series Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Remus’s arms are wrapped securely around you, his fingers tracing soft patterns along your arm as if to reassure both himself and you that this moment is real—that he's truly here with you, despite all odds. Your head rests against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat—quiet, comforting.

"Do you feel any better?" His voice is barely above a whisper, yet it cuts through the silence like a knife, sharp with concern.

"I don't know," you admit, your voice hoarse from time spent crying in frustration, fear, and grief.

Remus doesn't press for more. Instead, he pulls you closer, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back. He's always been good at understanding when words aren't enough, when what you need most is just someone to be there—to listen, to care.

The room is bathed in a soft glow from the fire crackling in the hearth, casting long shadows that dance across the stone walls. It's a stark contrast to the sterile white lights of the hospital, and while part of you welcomes the change, another part can't shake the heavy weight settling in your chest.

"I'm sorry, love." Remus’s voice trembles slightly, betraying the calm exterior he's trying so hard to maintain—for your sake, you realize. "I wish I could make this better."

Slowly, very slowly, you feel the tension in your body begin to ease. Not because the pain has lessened or because your worries have suddenly vanished—they’re still there, lurking at the edges of your consciousness—but because, for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re not alone.

Remus's presence is a quiet anchor amidst the storm raging within you, grounding you when everything else threatens to pull you under. His touch is gentle, almost reverent, as though he understands the fragility of the moment—of you—and cherishes it nonetheless.

But even as Remus's warmth seeps into your skin, chasing away the chill that had settled deep in your bones, you can't escape the heaviness that continues to cling to you—the reminders of the failed appointments, the accusations, the disbelief. They hang over you like a dark cloud, threatening to consume any sliver of hope that dares to peek through.

A soft knock on the door interrupts your quiet moment. Remus's chest rises slightly beneath you, a silent sigh escaping his lips.

"Come in," he calls out, just loud enough for the visitor to hear.

Before either of you can move, James and Sirius enter the room, their faces etched with concern. They've come straight from dinner, it seems, unable to stay away any longer.

Sirius moves to sit at the foot of the bed, leaning against one of the posts near your feet, while James takes his usual spot beside you. His hand reaches out, hovering over yours for a moment before gently resting atop it—a simple gesture, but one that speaks volumes about the worry gnawing at him.

The silence that follows is heavy, pregnant with questions neither James nor Sirius seem ready to ask. But they're there, flickering in their eyes as they study you—your drawn face, the way you lean into Remus, seeking comfort where once there was only pain.

Something shifts in the air around you, an unspoken understanding passing between the four of you. This isn't like before. Something has changed, and not for the better. The atmosphere is thick with tension, and despite the warmth radiating from the bodies around you, a chill runs down your spine.

What happened? they want to know. What did they say this time?

But the words catch in their throats, held captive by the fear of confirming what their hearts already suspect—that whatever news you received today, it has broken something inside you that may never be mended.

"Hey, sweetheart." James's voice is soft as he places a hand on your arm, his touch tentative. He looks between you and Remus, clearly torn. You've been through this before—the appointments, the letdowns—but something about your expression now tugs at him in a way that’s different from before.

James has always been confident, unflappable even in the face of danger, but there's a hint of uncertainty in his eyes as they linger on your face. It's not just disappointment etched into your features; it's deeper than that, and James, despite his usual bravado, isn't immune to the change.

"Y/N," Remus whispers, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your forehead. His fingers trace your skin lightly, a silent testament to his understanding of the fragility within you—a crack in the armour you've worked so hard to maintain. "You don't have to talk about it if you're not ready."

His words hang in the air, offering both an out and an invitation. There's no judgement here, only concern. Though Remus's arms remain steady around you, his eyes betray how closely he's watching for any sign of discomfort or distress.

Remus's gaze never leaves you, quietly taking in every minute shift in your demeanour. The room may be filled with people who care about you, but right now, he knows none of that matters if you can't find solace within yourself.

You take a deep breath, feeling Remus's steadying presence beside you. His arm remains draped around your shoulders, a constant amidst the storm brewing within your chest. You let the words tumble out, raw and unfiltered. "I'm done," you confess, your voice barely above a whisper. "I can't keep looking... not when it just ends up here every time."

"Every single one of them..." Your throat tightens around the words, forcing them out in a choked whisper. "Six doctors... all saying I’m lying." Each word feels like a punch to the gut, another layer of betrayal piling onto an already heavy heart. Every appointment has been another crushing blow, each doctor adding their own brand of dismissal to the mix.

"The worst part isn’t even being told there’s nothing wrong with me—it’s knowing that they think I’m making this up." The admission hangs in the air, a stark reminder of how badly the system has failed you. It’s not just about physical pain anymore; it’s about the emotional toll of being doubted, of having your reality invalidated by those who are supposed to help.

"Now I'm just tired." Your gaze drops to your lap, fingers idly picking at a loose thread on your blanket. "Tired of fighting for answers that never come."

"Done?" James echoes, his brow furrowing. The idea of you giving up—of anyone surrendering—is foreign to him. He's spent his life defying rules and expectations, always pushing back against the constraints of what others deem possible. "But there have to be other doctors, private specialists maybe..."

He trails off as he catches Sirius's eye, a silent exchange passing between them before Sirius nods, sitting forward.

"What about alternative methods?" Sirius suggests, his voice low but steady despite the concern clouding his eyes. His gaze is fixed on you, searching for any hint that you might consider their ideas—a flicker of hope amidst the resignation that’s settled over you.

"Or other countries," James adds, unable to quell his instinct to solve—to fix whatever is broken. But this isn't a prank gone wrong or a scrape from Quidditch; it's something far more complex, and yet he can't help but grasp at straws, desperate to rectify the situation.

Both men are problem solvers by nature, wired to act rather than sit idle, especially when someone they care about is hurting. It goes against every fibre of their being to accept defeat without exploring every available option, no matter how remote or unlikely.

They don't understand—not fully—the toll each fruitless appointment has taken on you physically and emotionally. They see the fight left unclaimed, the stones left unturned, and it baffles them why you would choose to walk away now.

Meanwhile, Remus remains silent beside you, his hand resting gently atop yours, anchoring you amidst the whirlwind of suggestions swirling around the room. He doesn’t join the chorus of voices offering solutions because he knows—perhaps better than anyone—that sometimes, the hardest battles aren't fought with wands or words but within the very fabric of one's soul.

“Enough!" Your voice cuts through their well-intentioned plans, a jagged edge of desperation slicing through the air. It's not loud or forceful but rather quiet—so quiet that it brings every other sound in the room to an abrupt halt.

"Trying again might..." Your words hitch on a sob, your throat constricting around the truth you've kept hidden away for far too long. "Might just kill me."

It's a stark admission, one that hangs heavy in the silence that follows. You're not being dramatic or seeking sympathy; this is simply your reality—a testament to how much you've endured and how little you have left to give.

"You don't understand," you continue, your voice barely more than a whisper now. "I can’t... I can’t do all of this again."

The thought alone terrifies you—the endless appointments, the invasive tests, the dismissive comments—all while battling all of your conditions, day in, day out.

"Especially if it means another round of being accused of lying, of being told my pain isn’t real."

Your confession lingers in the air, a painful echo of all the times you've been dismissed, doubted, and disbelieved. They know the facts—you've shared them often enough—but hearing the raw emotion behind your experiences makes the situation feel all the more dire.

You are living proof that even with friends by your side and resources at hand, the medical world can still fail those who need it most.

The confession shocks even Sirius, who has heard his fair share of secrets and lies. His usual quick wit is nowhere to be found as he stares at you, his expression frozen in disbelief.

"Baby..." He starts but doesn't finish, the words lodged somewhere between shock and understanding. How does one respond to such a revelation? Especially when it's about someone they care for deeply?

Sirius isn't prepared for this—for the idea of you being so broken, so worn down that another round might shatter what little strength remains. It's a concept that clashes violently with the image he holds of you: resilient, defiant, unbreakable. But everyone has limits, and yours have been tested far beyond what most could endure.

James, too, is speechless. For all his courage and quick thinking, he can't find the right words—a solution—to this problem. There are no spells or potions, no clever tactics that will make your pain disappear. The only thing left is acceptance, something James is not accustomed to offering without a fight.

But how can he argue against your truth, especially when it's etched so clearly across your face—in the lines of exhaustion, in the dullness of your eyes?

"No," James finally says, more to himself than anyone else. "This can't be happening."

His denial hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the dust motes caught in the sliver of sunlight peeking through the curtains. Even as reality settles around him, part of James still clings to hope, to the belief that there must be a way forward that doesn't involve surrendering.

But looking at you now—so small and fragile amidst the rumpled sheets—the fight drains out of him. His shoulders slump slightly, the weight of the situation pressing down on him like never before. "I'm sorry, sweetheart," he murmurs, though whether it's an apology for doubting you earlier or for failing to find a solution, he isn't sure. All he knows is the ache spreading through his chest, mirroring the sadness reflected in your eyes.

Remus pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you more firmly, as if to shield you from the weight of the room.

"Y/N needs time," Remus says, his voice soft yet carrying a quiet strength that somehow makes it through the haze surrounding your thoughts. "She's been pushed too far for too long."

His gaze shifts to James and Sirius, holding each in turn with an unspoken message: They've seen enough. They know what this is costing you—not just physically, but emotionally, mentally.

"You need to rest." The words are meant for you, but they reach everyone present. It’s not a suggestion; it’s a plea—a command almost—that speaks volumes about how deeply he understands your struggle.

James and Sirius exchange glances, their earlier tension replaced by shared concern. Each man is grappling with his own helplessness, the reality of your situation sinking in with every laboured breath you take.

"But we can't just—" James starts, only to be cut off by Remus' firm shake of his head.

"No, James," he interrupts gently, squeezing your shoulder as if to reassure both himself and you. "Not today. Not now."

And then, perhaps for the first time since they arrived, there's silence—an uneasy truce born out of necessity rather than understanding.

Remus’ hold on you tightens, protective, grounding. His heart beats steady against your ear—a silent promise that he won’t let go, that he will carry this burden with you so you don’t have to bear it alone any longer.

“You’ve done enough,” he whispers, and though the words aren’t meant for anyone else’s ears, they hang heavy in the air, echoing the sentiment etched into the lines of his face.

Neither James or Sirius want to believe that you're giving up, that you've reached a point where searching for answers has become too much to bear. It goes against everything they stand for—their innate drive to fight, to push through adversity until victory is won.

"But there's still hope," Sirius protests, his voice barely above a whisper. "We can't just... we can't stop looking."

James nods in agreement, desperation flickering in his eyes. "There must be something else—we just haven't found it yet."

But neither conviction nor stubbornness can erase the truth unfolding within these four walls. Something shifts in the atmosphere, a subtle change that signals the end of denial and the dawn of acceptance. For once, they are at a loss, their usual bravado useless against the stark reality you present.

"Enough," You repeat, and your voice cuts through the tension like a knife, quiet but firm. The single word hangs in the air, demanding attention despite its soft delivery. Their heads turn towards you, and in that moment, everything else falls away. There's only you, lying there with an uncharacteristic calmness that belies the storm raging inside you.

Your gaze meets theirs, and the depth of emotion swirling within your eyes takes them aback. They see it all—the pain, the exhaustion, the resignation—and for a heart-stopping second, they understand. This isn’t about defiance or surrender; this is about survival, about preserving whatever fragments of yourself remain amidst the chaos.

"You don't get it," you begin, each word punctuated by the effort it takes to speak. "This isn't about giving up. It's about letting go."

They want to argue, to reassure you that they'll find another way, but the words die on their lips. Because as much as it pains them to admit it, they know you're right. Sometimes, the hardest battles aren't fought on fields or in hospitals—they’re waged within the confines of one's own mind and body.

James leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. His hand lingers on your arm when he pulls back, the look in his eyes filled with both love and defeat. "Alright, sweetheart," he murmurs, barely audible over the rustle of sheets.

He doesn't say anything else, but you can see that he's trying—trying to understand, trying to let go of the need to fix everything. It's hard for him, but if it's what you need, then James will move mountains just to give you peace.

Sirius shifts from the foot of the bed, moving closer until he's within reach. He rests a hand on your leg, his face still pale from the impact of your words. The usual fire in his eyes is gone, replaced by a quiet acceptance that speaks volumes about the gravity of the situation.

"Y/N..." he starts, voice rough with unshed tears. But there are no more arguments, no more suggestions or plans forming behind those stormy grey eyes. Instead, there's only silence—a heavy weight that settles between you, anchoring Sirius to this moment, to the reality that neither of you can escape.

"Y/N," Remus murmurs, his voice low and soothing amidst the tension that hangs heavy in the room. His hand moves gently, fingers tracing unseen patterns on your arm—a silent promise that he's there, even when words fail.

He doesn't try to fill the silence with empty reassurances or well-meaning platitudes. Instead, he simply holds you closer, letting the warmth of his body seep into yours. It's an unspoken vow, one that says, 'I'm here for you,' without needing to utter a single word.

It's not much, but it's enough—for now, at least. Because while the others struggle with acceptance, Remus understands. He has always understood, even when you didn't have the strength to explain. And in this moment, as the gravity of your situation settles over them like a shroud, his presence is more comforting than any words could ever be.

[randomingoftherandomness]

Fic: I Can't Walk Away

A/N: I have no excuses for this one :> Tagging @dangermousie @kingsandbastardz

Pairing: Kim Jiyong x Jo Heon

--

"You don't have to do this."

Jo Heon merely tilts his head, the corners of his lips twitching with amusement that after all they've done together; of all the things they've done to each other, the ways they've seen each other broken, bleeding, and bruised; even after the ways Jo Heon has marked this man as his own and have his marks carved onto his skin in turn, this is the one thing that gets the tips of Kim Jiyong's ears turning a pretty pink and his cheeks flushing.

The back of Jo Heon's teeth itches for a bite.

Wringing out the hand towel in the bath water, Jo Heon adjusts himself where he is sitting at the lip of the tub. Running the cloth over the base of Jiyong's skull, he digs his thumb down into the tense muscle, minding which press has Jiyong's breath stuttering, eyes blinking a little slower and exhaling thickly, and which one has him hissing in pain.

He dips his touch to the knobs of Jiyong's spine that jut out under his skin. Here, he steals a moment of gentleness.

Following that line, he runs the hand towel down, half tracing his path through the blooms of fresh bruises against old ones, letting only the sound of their breathing in the echoing quiet of Jiyong's bathroom be the thing that marks the passing of time in here.

"Lean back."

Jiyong obediently goes. Dark eyes watching him through the fan of his lashes. Jo Heon swallows and watches the way that heavy gaze follows the movement of his Adam's apple with that of his own.

He's beautiful, Jiyong is. Even like this, all scraped and bruised up from his most recent weekend escapade. In a different life, in a softer life, Jo Heon thinks Jiyong could have been more than just a man who burns with a conviction that could one day get him killed.

He hopes that in that other life, Jiyong would have grown up loved and cosseted. He would have friends that he could hang out and do normal things on Sundays together with. He could probably have a girl that he liked enough to share a life with someday. Or perhaps it would be a guy. Jo Heon wouldn't know. Jiyong and him... Falling into this thing they have seemed like a natural progression of everything that has come before. Talking about things like that just isn't them.

A touch wraps itself around his wrist and Jo Heon is carefully brought back to the here and now where Jiyong is watching him with a split lip and a chest that is waiting for his touch.

Jo Heon leans in. Running the cloth over Jiyong's pecs, lingering over his nipples just to hear him sucking in a sharp breath. The pretty blush spreads down his neck and over his chest and Jo Heon thinks Jiyong's had about enough of sitting around in cooling bath water.

Moving away to grab the fluffy towel with the pink flowers that Jo Heon had bought as a joke last summer, but has now taken a place in the laundry rotation, he shakes it out. Reaching down, with an infinite amount of care he keeps hidden on the weekdays, he shifts to carry Jiyong out of the bath, wrapping him up once he has him all dried out.

Jiyong for his grace, takes being princess carried in the arms of his part-time lover with nothing but a tilt of his face into Jo Heon's shoulder. He'll need to change out of his wet clothes, but it's a small matter.

In the face of laying Jiyong down on his too-small bed, moving to grab the sweater and sweatpants he had laid out, Jo Heon only feels a sense of contentment to care for him.

The touch on his wrist returns. "Don't go." It's a quiet demand wrapped in a spoken plea. And with Jiyong's eyes sparkling in the warm glow of the table lamp, who was Jo Heon to deny anything he wanted of him?

"Okay," Jo Heon replies, curling his hand into Jiyong's. "Okay," He says again when Jiyong kicks the damp towel off the bed in favour of tugging Jo Heon to press onto his bath-warmed skin.

"Okay," He surrenders into the perfect press of their lips and the way Jiyong's hands feel like anchor weights where they caress and cup at his cheeks. He shifts away only to shuck off his shirt and unbuckle his pants.

Through this, Jiyong watches him with shadowed eyes that are heavy with the familiar shade of his desire. And when he's just as naked as Jiyong and crawling back to him, Jo Heon gives his idle thoughts one last run.

As Jiyong spreads his legs to hook over his sides, welcoming him into the safe harbour of his hips and the sweetness of his lips, Jo Heon thinks of that other life.

Maybe in that life, they'd never meet. They'd exist in different worlds. Two people who will remain strangers. Living and dying unknowing and uncaring of the other. Maybe that would be best.

In that life, Jo Heon hopes Jiyong smiles more.

For this one, Jo Heon will hold him tight and catch him when he falls.

[muutos]

i've never wanted anyone like this before. theodora @ cullen 👀👀👀👀👀

"NEITHER HAVE I . . . maker, it seems like so long ago." the breath of his words are soft beyond measure. framed by a smile, and the fanning sigh of relief.

the warmth of their foreheads aligned against one another combined with the supple leather of his gloves solidly gripping hips, feels like a home he'd never expected to come back to. that frankly, he'd thought he no longer deserved. breathing out another laugh.

"-- was so long ago."

HE'D LIKE TO PRETEND HE'S THE PILLAR OF STRENGTH, and the solid presence which keeps her sturdy and upright. YET HE FELT AT TIMES AKIN TO A FALLING STRUCTURE OR A BROKEN LIMB, AND SHE THE STINT. a support beam that holds up solid stone, allowing it the strength to continue doing its job. AND WHEN SHE'S THERE, SHE CUTS OUT ALL THE NOISE. his pounding skull aches less when she's with him. A QUIET CALM OF PEACE IN PROTECTING WHAT HE SO COVETS. feeling like he's now on his way to being the man which she deserves.

THEY WERE BARELY EVEN ADULTS, AT THE TIME. they had lived and grown enough for two lifetimes by the time they've reunited, and cullen himself finds he adores her no less. ONLY RESPECT BUILT AT WHAT SHE WAS ABLE TO ACCOMPLISH. although in his case it was more like a steep regression, only to have to find out who he really was. LIKELY, AS HE'S COME TO REALIZE, FOR THE FIRST TIME IN HIS LIFE.

TWIN MANES OF GOLD ARE TOUSLED, a lock of blond curls shed from lightly gelled confines and resting upon a sweat-laden forehead. HER BACK PRESSED AGAINST SPINES OF OLD BOOKS LINING THE SHELF NEXT TO HIS DESK, which are more well-kept than the quarters where he fails to rest his head every night. yet passions so too ripened the fairness of complexions with pink flushes, and darkened lips from -- maker only knows how long they've been here, kissing one another like lovelorn nobles. part of him believes it could have been hours, yet it somehow felt like no time at all. THOUGH HE REALIZES HOW LONG IT'S BEEN SINCE HE'S ALLOWED THIS. he doesn't -- well.. he had made a promise to her so long ago. the small box in his desk he'd carried with him since the circle still containing her favour, of an embroidered handkerchief. a lion, on a field of red and gold. yet regardless, he hadn't been in the right frame of mind to pursue anything of the sort. HE'D SO ADORED HER. told her he would wait for her to come back to him, yet he'd always wondered if it would ever happen. perhaps foolishly. unconvinced that he could be the man she needed until after kirkwall, and even now he doubted. BUT HE WOULD TRY. just as he's trying to atone, and to release himself from the order.

"i'm sorry." he drops his eyes, sounding entirely too earnest for his liking. NEVER HAS HE BEEN VERY GOOD AT THIS. he's - maker, he's been aching beneath the heavy layers he dons in service of his duty. LIKELY SINCE SHE FIRST TOUCHED HER LIPS TO HIS, AND HE BEGAN TO STIR. softly rutting up against her like a poorly trained mutt, whilst hoping she wouldn't notice. desperate for friction, and riding the line between whether or not he would find.. well, release too early.

his smile attempts to be reigned in as golden-brown eyes tug back upwards to meet her. "i haven't done this, since -- well, --" he laughs. "since before i met you." he looks away again, shaking his head. THERE'S A SIGH THAT EXITS HIM DESPITE HIMSELF, and he could swear he could feel the blood rush into his cheeks. for he remembers how long he's been dreaming of this moment.. lying awake and wondering what it would feel like... HOW HE WOULD MAKE IT PERFECT. and now he doesn't want to stop, just because he's wondering whether or not it would be awkward to pause in order to ascend a bloody ladder. IT WOULD NEVER BE HOW EITHER IMAGINED IT, yet, still he finds it would be perfect either way. SIMPLY BECAUSE IT IS HER.

he leans in and presses his lips against hers, which begins sweetly enough. . . but when he mouths over her once more, it turns into something hungry. moaning lowly, whilst eyes remain closed and noses grind. "but i far from regret that choice." he kisses her again, drawn and needy. fingers moving upward to gently hold her cheek, and speaking only between reverent presses of his mouth. parting dutifully for her with each. "as long as you can forgive me for --" again... "not being more romantic."

@conscrpt. nsfw dirty talk.

[light-lanterne]

This story is set in the universe of one of my main stories, The Darkest Eyes, which I post in AO3 and for which I’ll provide a link below this. You don't really need to read the story to understand this, but it could help understand some of the characterisation I've gone for. For context, this happens around a year before the start of the story, just a few months after they've defeated Vecna. The only information you need if you haven't read the main thing is that Mike was attacked and almost killed during the final battle. - - - - - - - - - - - ao3 || masterpost || support me on ko-fi!

As he looked up, Mike was greeted with the beautiful sight of the evening sky, the receding burnished gold ushering indigo and crimson hues across the firmament, its velvety surface broken only by fluffy clouds of wonders and dreams.

They moved a little. The clouds. Gusts of westerly wind kept stirring them delicately, shaping them into thin strands that closely resembled candy floss, or perhaps ivory foam atop the glistening ripples of the ocean. And he’d only been there once, to the sea, a family trip at the tender age of eight taking him across the country and into the cold waters of the East Coast in early spring, but he remembered the texture of the spume and he was willing to bet the cirrus above him felt just the same.

Fingers sinking into fuzz, disappearing amidst spectre-like froth that swirled around upon touch… He wished he could feel it.

For now, however, he’d have to make do with just observing from afar, back pressed against the grounding bark of an ancient cedar, worn-out sneakers surrounded by a tapestry of celandines breaking up the homogeneity of the meadow, their yellow petals fully unfurled to absorb even the last ray from the reckoning sun. A fresh breeze danced across the cedar’s leaves, their soft rustling accompanying the song of a nearby goldfinch as it prepared for the night, the cold raking its fingers over Mike’s skin.

His breath billowed, cheeks turning ruddy and nose pinching at the sensation of the zephyr, goosebumps covering his freckled arms as a shiver ran down his spine. He knew he should’ve worn a thicker sweater, or perhaps a coat over his current ensemble, but he’d insisted on the lightweight garments for he enjoyed the cold. The eidolon of winter, the ghost of its relentless bite… Bearable yet unpleasant, Mike had recently discovered his affinity for the numbing frost for it was a confirmation. Reassurance, even, that he was still alive.

That despite everything they’d gone through, everything they’d seen and been forced to do, they’d all made it through the end of the world.

And it was still rather fresh. A gaping wound that had not closed yet, blood oozing in a disorderly manner that no longer made any sense, waking terrors finding him in every dark corner, every shadow, every abandoned building and in the face of every neighbour he ever had. The pain in their faces… The loss they’d all been through… Everywhere he went, Mike found a reminder of the horrors that had destroyed their town and stolen away part of his soul and that of the ones he loved the most, and no matter what he did, he couldn’t stop the searing fear that sometimes took over his brain.

It was agony, to know with certainty how everything had occurred and how it had all ended, yet still being unconvinced at the fact that they were now safe, unable to retreat to the blissful peace of his childhood memories because even those had been tarnished now. Corrupted. Rewritten to be a part of the nightmare, a maelstrom of broken thoughts being everything he had left in his mind.

Henry. Vecna. One. Whoever the monster had been, he’d really enjoyed messing with Mike’s head and it was still too soon for him to accept he no longer was shackled to the kismet the Devil had chosen for him.

It was… overwhelming, sometimes. Most times. Closing his eyes still produced abominable sights he wouldn’t wish upon his worst enemy, and today was one of the days when it was harder to focus on anything beyond keeping his breath steady and avoiding the inquisitive eyes of the population of Hawkins at large. As a former member of Hellfire —the coven they’d chosen to blame for the destruction of their quiet lives—, the town had turned their back on him and it was still hard to digest that he had somehow become a personification of everything they hated.

An omen of bad luck. Their reminder of what had happened.

As if he needed more stress in his life, his days had evolved into a continuous cycle of hostility that he wasn’t sure he could endure for too long, lingering dread and trauma already making it hard to get up in the mornings, the pain on the side of his neck and up his jaw being the only thing that could constantly convince him that he was genuinely not a corpse. A husk… a shell of who he’d once been, maybe. But still very much a living being.

He hated it, how peace seemed within reach yet always eluded him like a feather floating in the air, but there was nothing he could do to change his fate. There was no enemy to defeat this time; no battle to fight. Just endless days to get through, the promise of a beautiful sunset every day being the second main reason he even went through the meaningless static mess that time had become.

As for the first main reason…

Well, that one was even better than the scenery before him. Better than the dappled light that danced in the raindrops clinging to the surrounding grass, a result from an earlier squall. Better than the silvering gibbous moon that now reigned the sea of twinkling stars. Better than the daffodils and violets that tripped through the lawn, nearby hydrangeas filling the air with their sweet jasmine-like fragrance as a sweet robin chirped its “Goodnight” to the world.

By all definitions, Mike had found himself in a painting. A canvas full of colour, harmonious strokes creating the closest thing to Eden a human could aspire to see, the closest thing to a safe place Mike had come to know in the post-apocalypse world he now existed in.

And yet, the beauty he found himself surrounded with paled in comparison to that of his companion. To that of Mike’s best friend, partner in crime, beloved.

Will Byers.

The boy who’d survived; the boy who’d saved Mike in more ways than he could even imagine.

The boy he was irrefutably in love with.

It was still weird to think like that. To allow himself to think like that. But he was done denying the truth, and the truth was that he adored Will with all of his heart. That he wanted to spend the rest of his life alongside him, go to college together, live in a shitty flat on top of a rundown convenience store and watch marathons of all their favourite films every weekend. That he wanted to sing annoying tunes as they did homework or prepared dinner, take care of the other when he fell ill, and wake Will up when their alarm clock inevitably malfunctioned and they were running late.

Mike wanted to keep Will company on the days when he felt as though he was stuck in the Upside Down again, and relish on the calming sensation of Will drawing on his arms when it was his turn to be having a bad day.

Of course, it made sense in retrospect. It was a natural progression of their relationship, the only way things could’ve ever been, and now that he had come to terms with it, Mike was eager: eager to spend as much time with Will as he could, eager to explore the possibilities he hadn’t even allowed himself to dream of, eager to slowly expand their bond to new, exciting lands which filled Mike with happiness by merely thinking about them, and eager to meet his favourite person in a new, completely different light.

It was an exciting thought. One that was slowly turning into a genuine option because they weren’t in a romantic relationship, not yet, but it was undeniable that their friendship had slowly evolved beyond the realms of the platonic and, as nerve-wracking as it was to think about the likelihood of everything going awry, Mike was willing to give it a try.

After all, all of his insecurities, their shattered lives, Eldritch beings from hellish dimensions and Death itself had all conspired to keep them away from the other and yet, somehow, despite all odds, they had always found their way back to each other. Like gravity pushing them together, a quantum pattern from which neither of them could ever escape. Mike would forever be in Will’s life and the other way around, so why should they resist their shared craving of gifting each other more of themselves? More of their fractured souls and corroded beings?

It was only logical to give in to the desire, the rest of the world be damned. They deserved it after everything they’d gone through, after all the time they had lost and the innocence they would never recover.

And they’d agreed to go slow; heal from the aches of growing up in a world that hated them for what they were, fighting a different reality that hated them for who they were. They’d only started holding hands recently, were slowly re-learning to exchange a variety of hugs with different meanings —some far more intimate than others—, and it’d only been a few days since the first time Will kissed Mike’s cheek before going home. Threading carefully like deer in a field of flowers, they were taking every precaution to not destroy what they already had as they built something new, advancing at a leisurely pace that would’ve decidedly driven Mike nuts if he were younger and less experienced.

But right now, sitting in a field on the outskirts of town, watching the sun disappear beyond the horizon as the cicadas started up their eternal song, Mike thought things were going well.

He nudged his knee against Will’s, the rip of his jeans allowing for his bare skin to brush against the coarse denim of Will’s hand-me-down pants, touch gentle as to not disrupt the illustration his friend was making and Mike wasn’t an expert in many things, but he knew Will Byers well enough to understand that the frantic turning of pages and closing of the sketchbook was probably because Will was drawing him again.

Their eyes met. Mike smirked and rose an eyebrow, Will glared at him for a moment then shook his head and chuckled. A dusting of pink coated his face, embarrassment from being caught, but his expression was that of curiosity.

Looking up from between the curtains of soft hazelnut bangs, Will rose his eyebrows and pointed at Mike, tongue darting out for a moment to wet his chapped lips because he had a big problem with staying hydrated, always too busy reimagining world around him to remember to take proper care of himself. Mike wished he could scold Will for that, but he knew he’d only be setting himself up for he was the worse offender out of the two of them.

He still rolled his eyes, though. Quick and offhandedly as to not give ammunition to Will, yet visible enough to earn himself another brief glare. Mike didn’t pay it any mind and instead pointed towards the front of them, towards the hidden sun and the ebony dome that was now the sky. A silent question, an invitation to get going because Joyce was cool and always gave Will space, but she still got rather nervous about them being out in the middle of the night and it wasn’t the greatest idea to let her get antsy. Not so much because of her anxiety, for she now had Hopper to calm her down, but because she was supposed to make dinner tonight and she already struggled to make passable food on the good days, let alone when she was nervous.

Will seemed to read his mind, lips breaking into a grin that mirrored Mike’s own.

And many things had happened in the last few years. Mike’s life was no longer simple, his preoccupations far beyond anything anyone his age should think about, the scars on his face and body evidence of fights no one should’ve ever had to endure. Getting up from bed was a challenge every single morning, pain and fear entwining to form a debilitating cocktail that kept him on edge all day, his mind slowly turning into his own worst enemy as time went by. People in Hawkins hated him for associating himself with a dead man who hadn’t even done anything wrong, and his parents despised him for failing to become the person they’d wished he’d been from the moment he was born.

However, right then, at that moment, seeing the small gap between Will’s front teeth, the peachy tinge of his round cheeks, and the star-like glow in the kaleidoscope of green, brown and golden that were his eyes, Mike knew everything would be alright.

[5sosfanfictioncatalogue]

Magic (2) Masterlist

part one

A Little Magical Assistance (ao3) - orphan_account michael/luke, implied calum/ashton G, 9k

Summary: Luke has known for a while that there is someone in the school watching over him and performing silent spells on him so he doesn’t miss the bottom stair and land on his face or lean too far over a banister only to fall and break his neck. It took him longer than it probably should to work it out, and, actually, Luke doesn’t actually realise himself until Ashton points out bluntly that you can only do a trip-fall-sprawl without actually touching the floor a few times before it’s obvious someone has their wand pointed at you, and it’s not just Peeves being abnormally friendly.

And back (ao3) - wastedheartmuke michael/luke, calum/liam, ashton/ofc G, 33k

Summary: The day Luke got his tattoo was one of his favorites, he just never thought the day will come when it'll disappear.

another human punchline (ao3) - lucashemwow luke/ashton N/R, 21k

Summary: Luke just wishes he could outrun the demons that haunt him. Ashton just wishes someone would finally see him. The crumbling mansion at the edge of the woods just might be the only safe haven they've ever had.

Babylon (ao3) - MonsterAmongCashton (IfWallsCouldMuke) calum/ashton E, 6k

Summary: “I almost pity you,” Calum whispers back calmly. “Promising me things you can’t keep just to have me.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Cally,” the nickname alone forces Calum to bite back a moan. “I’m here because of a broken promise. I do not wish to stoop that low.”

could end in burning flames or paradise (ao3) - merlypops luke/calum T, 1k

Summary: People want Luke dead but Calum would give up anything to keep him safe.

every little thing she does is magic (ao3) - merlypops michael/ashton E, 3k

Summary: Mike is trying to perform a ritual but Ash just wants to kiss her skin.

Give & Take (ao3) - Anonymous calum/ashton, ashton/oc M, 13k

Summary: Calum was unsure about a lot of things in his life. School, friendships, the like. What he didn't need, on top of all of that, was the new stresses that came with pack life, something that he had been thrown into with no warning.

And, for the cherry on top, his new alpha hated him with every fiber in his being. And Calum hadn't even done anything to the guy.

So, one could say, things were just peachy for Calum Hood.

give love a try (ao3) - orphan_account michael/luke T, 9k

Summary: Luke wakes up in his bedroom, the one he's slept in for the majority of his life, only to meet himself from 2012.

And maybe Luke from 2012 teaches Luke from 2018 a little bit about love, and maybe Luke from 2018 opens his eyes and decides to face the fact that he really can't hide his love anymore.

How To Train Your Dragon (ao3) - JetBlackSunshine T, 68k

Summary: (5sos Hogwarts AU)

Keeping a baby dragon a secret in the halls of Hogwarts isn't easy...

In which Ashton and Calum come into the care of a dragons egg whilst keeping it a secret from the rest of Hogwarts and the dark forces that are after it.

i'll misbehave if it turns you on (ao3) - horriblekids michael/calum N/R, 18k

Summary: In which Calum is less than truthful with his band and may or may not have accidentally summoned a demon while drunk. Who, coincidentally, takes on the form of the person he wants most to sleep with.

It's Just A Bunch Of Hocus Pocus (ao3) - onceuponatime michael/calum, minor luke/ashton N/R, 10k

Summary: "Ashton’s grin spreads, almost splitting his face in half and Michael starts to feel a little afraid. “I dare you to break in to the old Hood house.”

Michael scoffs, standing from Luke’s lap and popping his spine. Breaking into the old Hood house isn’t that much of a dare. All the kids from Salem do it at least once, and Michael had his turn when he was like, ten. He’s a little disappointed in Ashton; he thought he could do better than that. He’s a little embarrassed for him, too, if he thought that going into that house would phase anyone over the age of twelve. “That’s it?” Michael asks, staring at Ashton with a dead expression.

“Ah, ah,” Ashton says with a glint in his eye. “You gotta break into the Hood house, and you have to video yourself lighting the Black Flame Candle.”"

Michael brings Calum back from hell as the result of a Halloween bet

I Want to Feel Your Love Like the Weather (ao3) - not_just_dreamers michael/luke, calum/ashton T, 3k

Summary: ' “Hmmm,” The boy continued to consider, now with a small smile on his face, “I’ll try a caramel tart then, if they’re good enough to steal.”

“Good man,” Calum grinned, ringing up his total and punching something else into the till, “Alright, that’ll be 50 cents.”

The boy frowned a little, “But it says-”

“I know what it says, I wrote the price cards. But you’re cute, and you looked like you were having a bad day, and I know if I’d left Michael to it he probably would’ve given it to you for free.” '

kiss you once now I can't leave (ao3) - ardenjames michael/luke G, 4k

Summary: harry potter au: Michael and Luke have been dancing around each other for years, but maybe it will take a love potion for Michael to finally admit her feelings for the Hufflepuff (featuring an excessive number of pickup lines and bad poetry).

Silver and Gold (ao3) - orphan_account michael/calum, side luke/ashton E, 40k

Summary: Michael was convinced he was normal. Until, he realized that he was as far from normal as possible. Thrust into a world he'd been forced to forget with powers he doesn't want, Michael is forced to figure out that being the Savior isn't all its cracked up to be, especially when every creature he didn't know existed is counting on his to win a long fought war. But, with a cute , not entirely human boy and two kickass Valkyries, Michael might just be able to save the world and get the boy. (Considering people stop trying to kill him first.)

The Catch (ao3) - allsassnoclass (brightblackholes) michael/luke T, 6k

Summary: Michael Clifford, the town witch and most eligible bachelor, announces that he'll only date the person who manages to get the key from around his cat's neck. Luke Hemmings, the awkward local photographer, keeps accidentally running into the cat, even though he knows he has no chance with Michael.

The Colour Of Our Mood (ao3) - Maluminspace calum/ashton G, 7k

Summary: Ashton's tutoring the current Hogwarts golden boy in charms but ends up getting more than house points out of it.

[btscontentenjoyer]

These two are my babies, I love them so much 😭😭😭

"Instead, she flattens her dress, sighing through her red-tinted lips before she nods towards him and simply says, “Thank you.” That's what it takes???? Of course they won't believe that he's good for her and that he can take care of her when she tells them, they have to literally see her in a bad state with him beside her in order to muster some human decency. I mean, I'm glad Jungkook got at least that, but it will take a lot more effort from their part to have some kind of decent relationship with their daughter 😔😔😔

"To this alternative to whatever you feared before. A chance to erase all words and start on a blank page; a white canvas, waiting for vibrant colours instead of monochrome gloom." Yessss, I'm so excited for this new beginning for them 🥺🥺🥺

"You don’t miss the endearment; neither the way your heart skips a beat." Yuppppp same, every time he says something like this, especially when it's casual like that, my heart skips a beat.

"The shudder along your spine is delightful — relentless, he keeps your nerves alight. Perhaps he’s back to the self you knew pre-broken-hearts, playful and teasing, but the effect of his words curses through your veins hotter than ever." Playful and teasing like the old times but with so much more weight and meaning to everything sounds good 🥺🥺🥺

"The certainty of his reciprocated feelings, the fact that you’re finally on the same page, makes you rethink his tender confessions and touches differently. Makes you navigate the relationship differently." A year 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 And they're finally on the same page for real. It feels like they always have been, they just didn't know it until now 😔😔😔

"When he left his apartment in joggers and an old shirt, mane untamed and no extra clothing at hand, he probably didn’t expect to abandon his place for so long. It gives you solace that he doesn’t regret it." I'm sure he would have done so much more than that for her and not batted an eye 🥺

"There’s a momentary drop of silence before Jungkook hums, thinking as though he’s crafting a plausible excuse. Then, he says, “I didn’t wanna be away for too long.” Aaaaaaaaaw. Was he afraid he wouldn't find her there again if he took longer? Or was he worried about her being alone? Or perhaps he just wanted to cherish every single second he could get with her because he was without her for too long 🥺🥺🥺🥺

"Maybe he’s still not used to laying his secrets open. Maybe you need to practise patience, too, and stop digging like that." I feel like this will be easier for her to do now, because she can be sure now that he will always tell her the important things when he's ready.

"But then he sighs, a hand wandering to your thigh. He kneads it softly, as a reminder to himself and to you that the past isn’t transpiring right now; that you’ve finally breathed and waded through it." Every reminder of this fills my heart with joy, I swear.

"Jungkook releases air through his nose. You perceive a subtle shake of his head, as if to scold you, hear him say earnestly but gently, “Don’t worry about me. I don’t just like you.” !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Him saying things like that, hinting to something so big in this way is doing things to my heart.

"You love it when the initial nature of your relationship breaks through the mist of newfound passion; when you find the foundation of what you were, remembering how you landed here." They've always had a special connection!!!

"He shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t know anymore. Something about me leaving. And I was scared of waking you up while gone ‘cause you’d actually think I’d left.” 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 the biggest sweetheart. Because you know that she'd think that for just a few moments until she realises that he's in the bathroom but he still didn't want to cause her that pain even for a second 🥺🥺🥺

"He exhales, tilting his head, and says, “Look,” leans in, leaves a featherlight kiss against your cheek, right next to his thumb, “I mean it.” All the gentle touches add so much intimacy to these moments 🥺 Also as a physical touch girlie I very much approve!!

"Know that with the ease with which you handle your feelings for each other, you’ll strive towards a future where you won’t be haunted by dreams of being alone. Where you won’t fear his departure, and where his kisses won’t be interrupted by this cruel world." The certainty just 💕💞💕💞💕💞💕💞💕 makes me so happy.

"Your relationships, your priorities, your emotions. Your universe changed faster than the seasons." <3

"A moment stretches as you wait for Yoongi to open, allowing yourself just another spiralling thought as you imagine actually daring a meeting with Jungkook’s parents. It’s too early to think about it, isn’t it?" I need her to meet his family so bad, I know they'd all love her 🥺

"Since yesterday, you’ve created a dozen different scenarios in your head, ranging from a civil, calm conversation with his father to a full snap. Half of you wants to know his genuine thoughts on his son’s sorrows; the other half wants to rage and then bolt away." But yeah, the meeting with that particular family member should be interesting… I feel like she'd be so protective of Jungkook, I know I'd be side eyeing his dad like crazy the entire time lmaoooo.

"Gummies all out, a tiny laugh thrown in between before he says, “Ohoho. You’re here, too?” Pleaseee he's so cuteee.

"He isn’t irritated or taken aback by the younger’s boldness; in truth, he seems entertained. Arms crossed, eyes small and grin wide. He half mocks, “The young ones are charming for sure these days.” That's such a Yoongi thing to say lmaoo I love him.

"Yoongi scratches his temple, doesn't meet your eyes; possibly shy when it comes to conversations like these. But he sounds warm and gentle when he says, "I'm really glad you guys are back." 🥺🥺🥺 Me too 🥺🥺🥺

"You’re similarly timid, feeling strange. As if someone’s congratulating you on a fresh marriage. Or maybe that’s just the emotion you want, need to feel." Oooooop 😳😳😳

“What if you dropped your plans of moving into that apartment?” Yessssssss

"He interrupts, rushing before he can back down, “Move in with me. And Yoongi could take the apartment you were considering.” Aaaaaaah I'm literally smiling so wide and trying not to make a happy sound because the whole house is asleep ����🥺🥺🥺🥺

"Technically yes. But then again, no. Because he’s right — you’ve already experienced a piece of heaven, tasted the bliss of domesticity with Jeon Jungkook." 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

"He means every minute that society and norms don’t force you out of the house. At nights and in the mornings, on off days and holidays. To fall asleep next to his presence, to wake up on the same mattress, too." That sounds so good 🥺🥺🥺

"But you forget that as sensitive as Jungkook is, he’s just as understanding and gentle, too." That he is 🥺

“I don’t want to be alone. I’ve been alone all my life,” you tell him; Jungkook eyebrows furrow in empathy and worry, but you smile, “I don’t wanna be anymore.” This is all sooo 😭😭😭😭 I don't have words, just emojis lol.

"Huh? What else did he do when you were asleep? Painted a Louvre-ripe masterpiece, probably." Yuppp, basically.

"You push your hands into the pockets of the blazer, gripping the car keys inside. Bashfully, you smile. His sincerity pumps warmth through you; it’s crazy how good belonging somewhere, to someone, can actually feel." Their group is sooo cute, I'm glad we get to see them all growing closer together now.

"He nods. “I can’t wait to see him glow either. A couple weeks were a couple too long.” That's so… 🥺🥺🥺

"He stops abruptly, the tone of the last syllable not matching a sentence’s end. You wait as he smiles a little, creating a thought, “But you could be happy somewhere else, too. Happier even.” Yes she can!!!!!

"Redrafting life as you knew it and striving towards something better." It's lovely to see them doing it. What we've seen of their relationship growing and evolving has been kind of all up to fate. To see them be more deliberate and consciously building a future together is so sweet.

"You just didn’t expect the two of you to still tip-toe around each other. Seems you still have a lot of adjusting to do." They're so cuteeeee, being all shy like this.

“And turned out Namjoon invited him, and he’s kiiiinda a big shot in the art business? Like, he’s a gallery collector, he said. He’d invest in my art and acquire it and have it showcased in bigger museums for more recogni— I know!” Aaaaaaaaah that's so coooooool. He deserves all of it and more 🥺🥺🥺

“Funny,” he retorts, as bad at compliments as you; throws them back like a boomerang, “thought the same when I met you at the party last year.” They are soooo two sides of the same coin and I love them.

"One of you will be on the brink of tears soon; until now, it’s usually been you." You know, I wouldn't mind if it's him one of these days too 👀👀👀

“I’m so fucking crazy for you,” he confesses; the shiver doesn’t hesitate crawling down your spine — neither does Jungkook, peppering your neck with kisses." !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

“Ohh. And now,” he whispers, close to your ear, hand moving. Up and further up, stopping around your throat, as if he’s testing your statement. As if he could tell him anything about the state of your lungs. “Now we’re not as focused, right?” Oh my godddddd he's such a menaceeee. I love their banter during sex so much 😫😫😫😫😫 I keep rereading the dialogue and it just gets better.

"Jungkook’s movements, calculated and systematic, only spur your body on. He’s always known what he’s doing; has analysed and explored what you want. How you want it." Will forever swoon over how attentive he is!!!!!

"And then he picks up on pace. Whispers, “That’s right— we got this—” 😫😫😫😫😫😫😫😫😫

"And you, as challenge-accepting as ever, start sucking, tasting some of yourself. You wrap your hand around his, moving your head, chest still heaving from the exhaustion. Your eyes close slowly enough for him to see them roll back, a reaction to the images your brain creates." Okay but can we talk about how hot OC is too because damn 😳😳😳

"It’s a surprise that he obliges, but then again, it’s not. You always forget just how weak he is — that his heart sits right there in your palms, his body a magnet to yours." AAAAAAAAH

"Jungkook fuels your confidence with vigour each time, eloquent through scorching heat, too. Because you don’t think you’ve ever smiled this self-assured before you knew him; or been certain about your power over others." He does that for her!!!! He makes her feel like THAT!!!!!

“You’re so gorgeous,” he compliments; his hand must be heating up under your touch, “did you know? So sweet and stunning. It makes me sick.” They make me sickkkkkkk. Literally the most in love people I've ever seen. And I'm in love with them!!!!!!!! Also btw you can't have the filthiest hottest blowjob scene and then go to this after if you want me to survive Rid 😫😫😫

"He straightens his body with a sigh when he’s done, sniffling as he usually does. His eyes are hidden behind his long hair, so he lifts both his hands to brush the soaked tresses back. The muscles of his arms are mountainous and firm. Tattoos ending at his shoulder." He's too damn pretty. And cute and hot and endearing.

"Your eyes are fond when you say, “Whenever it does happen… I can already imagine all of it clearly.” Me tooooooo 🥺🥺🥺

"Strange how he means distanced from your kiss, not from your body. Strange how you miss each other while in the same room, but not melted into each other." This 😭😭😭😭😭

"Must be a hidden message. He’s not just talking about sex anymore, is he? But him and you in one bubble, separated from the world. Nothing but you, you and you." <33

"Even if in a crude sense, this is yet another definition of home. And every definition can be traced back to him." This!!!!!!!!!!!

"No matter how obscene, there’s meaning in every one of your touches; in every stroke, in every word, in every single time you lose yourself in him." That's exactly how every smut scene in this series has felt, so intimate and intentional and so much more than just sex.

"And his voice proves it; delicate and quiet, “Baby… you make my heart drop to my stomach all the time. Do I not look at you like I want a rest of my life with you?” Heeeeeeeee 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 Also the amount of times he's said baby in this… okaaaay 😳😳😳

"His hand rubs gently over your shirt, and then drops until his fingers are toying with your — his — jogger’s strings. “I’m a pro at rewatching. I’m down.” Now I wanna rewatch it with them too 🥺🥺🥺

“It’s no fun when we’re not both ready to watch it.” Lmaooooo this is so me.

"You could overthink every detail of his face. Tell him all about his everlasting elegance. Instead, you only lower your voice, soft as you say, “You look pretty even when you cry.” “Thank you,” he returns, though fingertips still work at the liquid, and you can’t help but laugh." Like that moment at the concert aaaaah, that's so adorable. Having the visuals for it in my head already makes it even more 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

"You laugh softly against his shirt, burying between his pecs; joking, “We’re perfect for each other. Dysfunctional families and whatnot.” Aaaaw but it's true, they are perfect for each other. And they know perfectly well the pain that comes with family problems, so they know how to comfort each other too 🥺

“Just.” His chest rises. Then falls. “Everything.” Everything!!! They feel everything!!!

“It’s not over yet, baby.” Please this is such a sweet moment 😭😭😭 they give each other so much hope and support 🥺🥺🥺

"No, she lingers there; you hear her breathe until she asks, “Are you bringing your man, too, by the way?” Her man!!!!!!!

"Your heart dissolves and dissipates. His voice is soft as a petal, tender like the colours on his arm. The expression he sports is unsure, like he wants to hide — waiting for your opinion." He is so adorable!!!!! And thoughtful and modest and the man of my dreams!!!!

"Amidst the delicate minutes you spend standing between the bedroom and the living room, you almost forget that there’s a world outside. It’s a little more grey than before, similar to the suit you’ll be wearing in a couple hours." Yeah, he brings the colour to her world, not the press and fame and her parents 😔😔😔

"Before you parted near the entrance, he said, “I’ll be offering a dozen thumbs up like a fool if you need me to.” 🥺🥺🥺

"You nibble your lip, but quickly disguise it as licking them damp, “It is true that I have a partner who’s an artist. He has been working his way up. In fact, I won’t be surprised if you see his name in one of those well-read magazines soon.” Yessss they will 🥺

“So, I’ve decided to renounce my right to be the company’s heir. I’m not doing this because I lack confidence but because I’ve attained confidence. I need to create my legacy separate from my family’s success. Stand on my own merits.” Aaaaah I'm so happy for her, she deserves to have something to make her own. And I'm so so proud too, I'm sure someone else is as well 🥺

"Other speakers are also scheduled to take on the stage, but you feel the weight of the room’s attention on you. Your mother is glaring, disapproving gaze scanning the room. Finding him for a second. Then gone again." Oh she must be so maddddd lmao I love that.

Rid, this chapter was sooooo 🥺🥺🥺🥺 I love how we got a smol taste of the domesticity that I'm sure we'll also get plenty of from now on. These two need to never be separated ever again. And the smut here was sooooo fun and hottt, I saw you saying you liked writing the dialogue during it and I had the best time reading it. I'm so excited for everything that's to come for these two!!!

colour me in: redraft | jjk (m)

Summary: The calm is more appreciated after a storm. Life with Jungkook proves to you that sometimes, joy can, in fact, overshadow grief. Yet, not without confronting and removing all hurdles standing in your way once and for all.

➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: fwb/f2l, fake dating; some tame angst, sooo much fluff, smut ➳ warnings: new relationshippppp, so much hugging and kissing, yoongi!! tae!!, tears, abandonment issues, talk about social anxiety (just briefly and nothing serious!), jungkook drops a big question :'), a surprise in the middle, a surprise near the end, and then a SURPRISE at the end lol, many surprises, they're so crazy for each other it's gross; explicit sexual content: okay – kook is wearing a chain.. this vibe :'), making out, showering together, shower sex, spanking, biting, oral (f. & m. receiving), fingering, mouth/face f*cking, mirrorssss, he likes her ass and tiddies, tears, choking, v brief ass stuff, rough and soft sex, dom and big cawk jk, vocal jk, multiple orgasms, they're simps; ALSO YEAH THE ENDING :') ➳ word count: 25.3k ➳ a/n: so when i said this chapter would be shorter… welp lol. but i still think it introduces the next arc really well. i kinda love the ending!! .. and the next part will be </3 :'''') as always beta'd by my lovely @missgeniality 🤍 i hope you guys like this one a lot. worked my ass off for this fr :') if you do, please do support the chapter and interact with me, too, it makes my day <3 ➳ listen to: i need u by yaeow | full collaborative playlist 🤍

SERIES MASTERPOST | TAGLIST MASTERLIST | WIPs | DC SERVER

Monday morning’s breakfast is awkward. Or at least, the very first minute of it.

The hands of your watch drift to 9 AM; you should’ve expected you wouldn’t be occupying the dining table alone. Your parents, sipping the last of their coffee, aren’t that much of a surprise after all.

You breathe a quiet breath of relief when their eyes dart towards your timid forms at the threshold, then back to the table. And a moment later, they’re pushing their chairs back across the marble floor before they clear the path to breakfast for the two of you.

Your father acknowledges you with a brief, polite nod on his way out, even flashing a similarly quick smile. Ingenuine, because his glance, fleeting when directed to you, is as disappointed as your Mom’s behind him.

Today, you understand. Somewhere in the depths of your recovering mind, you feel upset about shitfacing yourself so thoroughly, too.

You haven’t seen your mother in over two days. Jungkook’s post-showcase confessions brought you to Eun, and the next morning you barely scanned your room before you left for her place again.

Guess the momentary encounter in the hallway doesn’t quite count; you could hardly crack your eyes open. Combined with half the dozen naps you took in your locked room the very next day, you won’t exactly expect pride from her right now.

Until now, as she advances towards your body, you didn’t consider much of her side; you stayed focused on the other occurrences passing after sunset. Moments whose scent your sheets still carry.

As your mother comes to a stand, you prepare your vocal cords, breathing in to explain yourself until you realise that she isn’t looking at you at all. Her eyes are firmly glued to Jungkook’s face, devoid of enmity for once.

Instead, she flattens her dress, sighing through her red-tinted lips before she nods towards him and simply says, “Thank you.”

And that’s it. A little breathtaking, entirely new.

You’re dumbfounded when she leaves; Jungkook doesn’t manage a single word. You imagine that if you’re baffled, he’s probably rethinking her words to assure he didn’t hallucinate them.

But neither of you did. And the silence lingering for a couple more seconds proves the depth of reality; not that you’ll change your mind about leaving your place. But the hint of appreciation, shot directly at him is a pleasant first nevertheless.

Breakfast is patient but fast. The quiet atmosphere doesn’t derive from the night before or what your mother just left you with, but from the emotional fatigue slowly dropping off your shoulders.

Jungkook lets you feast in peace, a soft palm rubbing over the back of your hand every now and then to assure you’re okay. And you are. You’re getting used to these changes.

To this alternative to whatever you feared before. A chance to erase all words and start on a blank page; a white canvas, waiting for vibrant colours instead of monochrome gloom.

Yet, despite the tranquillity last night, still present in the air and in your aching limbs, you don’t understand the sincerity of all the confessions he uttered until you leave.

Because breathing in your car isn’t as suffocating as it was the last few weeks. Back when you’d navigate through the town alone, the passenger seat empty. Or when you plucked up the courage and drove to the showcase numbly.

Or when the pain pierced through your chest; when your drunk ass thought the world would  remain blue forever.

All of it is gone when you buckle up, shifting in your seat as you announce, “Okay. Let’s finally get you home.”

The engine roars for a moment, the car trembling, but you only register the knot in your throat when he says, “Feels so unfair of me. Having my girl drive me around so much.”

You don’t miss the endearment; neither the way your heart skips a beat.

Incapable of a proper reaction, you clear your throat and stutter, all at once and oddly in succession until you settle on a weak, “Why unfair?”

“Because. You do it a lot.”

You really do not. The night the museum closed and you dropped him off at your place was one of a few times; besides, he’s operated your vehicle more than enough before, too.

But you don’t contradict him, instead lightly suggest, “Well, you can drive if you want.”

You’re relieved when he joins your smile, dimples ever-so-sweet and genuine as he promises, “It’s fine. I’ll just stare at you.”

The shudder along your spine is delightful — relentless, he keeps your nerves alight. Perhaps he’s back to the self you knew pre-broken-hearts, playful and teasing, but the effect of his words curses through your veins hotter than ever.

“That’s creepy,” you still retort; you’ll gladly keep fighting this sweet, awkward battle against compliments for life, unaware how to handle them. “And it makes me nervous.”

“Sorry.”

Jungkook laughs, the back of two fingers reaching to your cheek to graze it featherlightly. Maybe he feels the heat beneath your skin, enhanced through his touch.

By now, you’ve spent a year with him — as a party fling, a class frenemy and a blue flower. But each second ticking away brings a new wave of soft, shy speechlessness. New honeymoon emotions.

The certainty of his reciprocated feelings, the fact that you’re finally on the same page, makes you rethink his tender confessions and touches differently. Makes you navigate the relationship differently.

His eyes drift back to the quiet, narrow street, surrounded by houses and blooming gardens. Probably as tired of the idyllic utopia as you, he doesn’t spare the suburban setting any more attention.

He only lets a flat hand rub against his thighs, nipping at his clothing as he says, “God, I can’t wait to get out of these damn joggers.”

Right. While not a main focus, you did find the special attire at breakfast today quite amusing.

“Did you even get to shower since picking me up?” you ask.

“Yeah. When you were napping again yesterday. Just gotta wash my hair later tonight.”

Hmm. You spent half your day knocked out; Jungkook could’ve circled the world and you wouldn’t have known.

“Oh. Good.”

The road proceeds straight, emptier near the suburbs. You allow a reckless glance before tackling busy streets; his eyes meet yours in curiosity, hair even messier than the night he met you in front of the bar.

When he left his apartment in joggers and an old shirt, mane untamed and no extra clothing at hand, he probably didn’t expect to abandon his place for so long. It gives you solace that he doesn’t regret it.

You drop the million memories of yesterday’s sunset burning into your eyes and everything that introduced it. The drunk words and the begging.

And then drop everything that followed afterwards; more pleading, more touching, more confessions that were in no way uttered through inebriate but not quite through sobriety either.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

You drop all the remembrances to focus on the moment; just to make sure that it’s real. So you ask, “Why didn’t you wash your hair there, too?”

For a moment, you see a flicker in his eyes, short-lived and quick; and his answer shoots out even more rapidly, “Just so.”

He emphasises his admission with a shrug of his shoulder, but it’s not nearly as convincing as he anticipates. Not buying a word, you push again, “C’mon.”

“I swear.”

“I’m curious now, though.”

There’s a momentary drop of silence before Jungkook hums, thinking as though he’s crafting a plausible excuse. Then, he says, “I didn’t wanna be away for too long.”

“…Why?”

“Why would I want to be?”

Ah…

Hmm. Well, maybe that’s enough for now.

Maybe he’s still not used to laying his secrets open. Maybe you need to practise patience, too, and stop digging like that.

You know that’s not all there is, but you certainly understand that it’s not a lie after all. Despite the pause and the obvious way his brain racked for a reason, his tone is genuine. You’ve experienced his insecurities before — that’s not what it was this time.

So you focus on the steering wheel instead, turning it left and away from the truck you drove way too close to. Your distraction might kill you — right there, next to you, clearing his throat and sitting up.

“Oh,” he says, segueing, and you let him, “wait, I forgot. Could we stop by at Yoongi’s for a sec? I wanted to see how he’s been doing.”

An abrupt change in topics, but not too abstract. As someone merely acquainted with the man, you’ve been collecting info on his state from Jimin; of course Jungkook would drop by personally.

You take a look at your digital watch; it’s barely ten and you don’t need to get away before 10:45. Taehyung agreed to meet with you to accompany you to your new potential flat again, so you should have time for a detour.

But.

“Is he…” you start, “gonna be okay with me being there?”

“Why?”

“I mean, just ‘cause… You know. We weren’t the closest for a while.”

Jungkook’s forehead wrinkles in new perplexion, muttering a few words. It takes a couple seconds — but eventually, he figures out that you’re not referring to Yoongi and yourself, and his expression changes immediately.

To subtle pain, you’d guess, like he doesn’t want to relive the memory. Like it never happened; like you weren’t two pieces of the same shattered heart this entire time.

But then he sighs, a hand wandering to your thigh. He kneads it softly, as a reminder to himself and to you that the past isn’t transpiring right now; that you’ve finally breathed and waded through it.

His optimism is encouraging when he says, “Nah. He thinks you’re cool.”

“I guess,” you mumble. You tap the steering wheel nervously, lips in a thin line before you add a hushed, “And if not, that’s alright, isn’t it? Like, hey, as long as you like me? Yeah, I shouldn’t overthink it…”

Jungkook releases air through his nose. You perceive a subtle shake of his head, as if to scold you, hear him say earnestly but gently, “Don’t worry about me. I don’t just like you.”

And whether casual or not, his words engulf your body immediately, like a soothing warm touch across your chest, yet effectively freezing your beating heart in place.

You can’t pinpoint whether the weight of his own words ever affects him as much as it affects you, or whether harbouring these emotions has become a familiar habit to him. At least to you, his tone is conversational and promising, perhaps even subliminally reassuring.

“At the very least,” he continues, “he’ll never disapprove of you the way Jimin disapproves of me.”

Which… snaps you back into reality for a second.

Your friend’s name is connected to more than mere dislike for the man next to you; currently, you think of dark nights and lamp-lit streets. After-midnight shenanigans and near tears in your own car, driven by the man who broke and mended your heart.

It reminds you of a blurry picture; two guys standing near an entrance, the older of them patting the other’s shoulder; smiling at him.

You do wonder if it was a fabrication of your mind.

“Forget Jimin,” you tell Jungkook, speech broken when you take another left and resumed when broader streets start. “Also. He did say he’s growing fond of you.”

“Because you like me. I still need to prove my worth to him.”

You tut.

“Kook, you don’t need to do anything. He’ll come around eventually. Just be you.”

“It’s fine, honestly.” He leans in, nudging your elbow, echoing you with a teasing undertone as he says, “As long as you like me.”

You love it when the initial nature of your relationship breaks through the mist of newfound passion; when you find the foundation of what you were, remembering how you landed here.

Which is why you bite back a laugh the moment you suppress a sassy, teasing remark, as if on reflex. One steer shy from pulling into a parking lot, you breathe out. If you halted here now, you’d kiss him, you’re sure.

But you merely laugh, squinting your eyes as you say, “You’re okay.”

Yoongi’s apartment, now inhabited by only one instead of two people, lies a couple miles from the campus. Jungkook guides you through the streets, jumping from one harmless topic to another — you reach his friend’s place a lot faster than you expected.

The building stands at a quiet place, surrounded by mid-high trees that give the grey colour of the complex a bit of liveliness. You walk to the entrance laughing about something stupid, a subtle nudge of his shoulder here, you pushing against his arm there.

But despite the familiarity and whatever occurred last weekend, it’s still odd jumping into the girlfriend role just yet. The word itself won’t even roll off your tongue very easily so far because you can’t believe a thing about this new reality.

So your hand dangles next to his awkwardly. Your thoughts keep drifting, registering half his sentence at times. What-if situations of gentle kisses and upcoming nights spent together tighten your chest.

Jungkook’s speech is clear and fluent, so you don’t know what your impact on him is exactly. At least he’s made sure you do have one on him — but you still wish you had a map through his mind to understand every thought he houses for you. Every emotion.

On the way up you feel a little dizzy; whether it’s due to the circular shape of the staircase or his proximity, you don’t know. You only realise that something’s still bothering you when you’re halfway up, coming to a halt with one foot on the next step.

“Okay, seriously,” you say, and he turns to you immediately, puzzled as he drops to the same level as you. Close to you.

“What?”

“You said you didn’t wanna leave,” you repeat, still stuck on the hair washing and staying longer thought, “why not?”

The answer could be simple. Could be rooted in emotions and the confessions you later uttered — but there must be something more. You saw it in the brief feeling flashing across his eyes, sitting in the passenger’s seat with silence sealing his lips.

Maybe something happened… because something always happens.

“You’re still thinking about that?” Jungkook questions, eyes wide in disbelief; lips pouting.

“No secrets, right?”

This seems to snap him out of all mysteries, last night’s conversation travelling to the forefront of his mind. But something about your curiosity amuses him. He wraps the fingers of his left hand around the staircase reeling, head dropping with a delicate smile.

His hair hides his eyes, but you know they’re sparkling; voice a mild drizzle when he starts, “It’s…” He draws in, inked digits touching your elbow before moving up your arm absentmindedly. “Don’t worry so much. It’s nothing harmful at all.”

You wait. Let his thumb graze your neck, up to your chin.

He sighs, almost exasperated in a way. “You speak in your sleep, you know?”

Wait. What?

You blink, thoughts disoriented. The staircase is dimly lit, but you recognise the slight upward curve of his lips; more empathetic than teasing.

So you still do?

“Huh?” you make.

“I think you dreamed of waking up a couple times? You hadn’t, though, and it’d always be something about being alone again.”

Again.

The word reverberates through your mind, dragging and stretching. Didn’t you once read that a broken heart is akin to serious rehab, accompanied by withdrawal symptoms and slowly healing scars?

You guess your heart was hurting more than you already knew.

“Okay,” you say, nodding when he does, thumb lifting your head when you drop it. You swallow thickly. “What did I say exactly?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t know anymore. Something about me leaving. And I was scared of waking you up while gone ‘cause you’d actually think I’d left.”

You hum. Allow yourself a moment to process the info; you seek out fragments of your dreams, but you draw a blank. You feel guilty about his concerns, yet relieved. Vulnerable. And somewhat reassured.

“I’m sorry,” you finally say.

Your voice is barely above a whisper — less because of the conversation. More because of the touch on your cheek. It’s soft against your skin, and you shiver. The flutter in your chest is only just bearable.

That’s the thing about falling in love. It’s sweet — so much sometimes that it twists your guts. You’re in so deep, you could hurl.

“Nah. You don’t need to worry about this anymore, okay?” he murmurs.

His eyes dig into yours. Dark and shiny through his healthy tresses, livelier than ever. Sincere. 

You, on the other hand, must look unconvinced without intending to, because his mouth aligns with yours soon after.

He exhales, tilting his head, and says, “Look,” leans in, leaves a featherlight kiss against your cheek, right next to his thumb, “I mean it.”

Guess being with him comes with occasional mental blackouts. And regular arrhythmia. The palpitations behind your ribs are almost ridiculous; instead of gripping your own chest, you grasp his shirt immediately.

Lightly, as if you could collapse without this anchor.

He lets you pull him closer just a little, whispering as if someone could hear, “What’s wrong?”

Vulnerability hidden, you blink again, and joke, “Nothing. Just thought you were gonna kiss me.”

Jungkook smiles. His nose brushes against yours, toying a bit, and his bunny teeth make him look somewhat younger when he voices, “You want me to kiss you?”

“I always do.”

Your grin is playful, but your heart is pounding in your chest. Who would’ve thought the journey from a car to an apartment could be so long, so thrilling?

His snicker is gentle and canorous, knees careful against yours. Your heartbeat accelerates some more, rose-tinted lips opting towards their goal. You part your mouth, ready with a deep breath.

But the two of you are always subject to disturbances — so you’re disappointed but not surprised when you hear rushed steps on top of the staircase, strolling down and crossing your path just when Jungkook backs away.

The stranger passes by you with initial surprise in his eyes, not expecting you, but soon gets over it and drops his gaze again. And once he’s gone, Jungkook winks, a hand on your back pushing you forward gently.

“Later,” he says.

You know as you ascend the stairs.

Know that with the ease with which you handle your feelings for each other, you’ll strive towards a future where you won’t be haunted by dreams of being alone. Where you won’t fear his departure, and where his kisses won’t be interrupted by this cruel world.

The building reminds you of when you’d frequent the dorm you used to know. The walls and hallways are similarly built, narrow and somewhat cheap. They look like most buildings from the inside do, honestly, but you like the pleasant illusion the nostalgia brings.

Even the bathrooms are located near the end of the hallways; Jungkook once told you that Tae and Yoongi have their own kitchen, unlike him back when he still housed his dorm. But there’s a communal bathroom here, too; allegedly one reason why Tae moved out.

The only thing that separates this place from Jungkook’s old dorm is the subtle difference in scent. Not pure testosterone.

You smile.

The mood doesn’t match with what you felt back in June at all.

Back when you stomped to Jungkook’s dorm, furious about yet another insignificant issue, you didn’t think your fingers would ever be brushing his like they are now. Or when you escaped the rain and entered the building’s warmth, your umbrella leaving behind a trail of raindrops.

Your relationships, your priorities, your emotions. Your universe changed faster than the seasons.

As you walk past a random door, Jungkook cranes his neck, staring as if he could x-ray-glare a hole into it and glance at what lays behind it. Perhaps he’s thinking back, too.

You don’t know about all the things he experienced throughout the years there. Part of your heart stings because you remember you weren’t the only girl who ever frequented his place.

But you still left an impression — if the current status of your relationship isn’t proof of it, then the sudden touch along the back of your hand certainly is. A thumb following a vein blindly, opting to grasp your palm into his, yet retracting when you finally come to a stand.

The digit caressing your skin lifts to the door, and his knuckles knock three times, rhythmically. Your chest constricts as you jump back into the moment, probably half as nervous as you’d be if you met Jungkook’s parents.

A moment stretches as you wait for Yoongi to open, allowing yourself just another spiralling thought as you imagine actually daring a meeting with Jungkook’s parents. It’s too early to think about it, isn’t it?

It’s just.

Since yesterday, you’ve created a dozen different scenarios in your head, ranging from a civil, calm conversation with his father to a full snap. Half of you wants to know his genuine thoughts on his son’s sorrows; the other half wants to rage and then bolt away.

Ugh.

When the door swings open, your hand flashes to Jungkook’s. A startled instinct, even though nothing about the action was surprising or scary. But he doesn’t mind — of course he doesn’t.

His eyes rush to yours for a second, warm and somewhat thrilled, his smile permanent. And then he looks back at his friend, quietly squeezing your palm, the shy smile soft as he greets, “You’re walking without clutches, huh?”

Yoongi doesn’t respond right away. He looks from Jungkook to you and back. His gaze isn’t very telling, but you find amusement in it. If you weren’t so ridiculously and inexplicably nervous about his upcoming statement, you’d laugh.

Intently, he grants a peek at your entwined hands, and when he looks at the two of you again, he starts…

Smiling.

Gummies all out, a tiny laugh thrown in between before he says, “Ohoho. You’re here, too?”

The smile turns into a sly grin, a hand clutching the frame of the door. You guess he’s not as balanced after all. Possibly just abandoned his clutches for the short way from the couch to the door.

“I can totally go,” you tell him, the teasing tone missing; soft and small instead.

“Why in the world would you?” Yoongi steps aside carefully, nodding the two of you inside. You oblige, hearing his voice behind you jest, “Now, would you look at that. Did I do that?”

Jungkook automatically drops on the chair at the tiny dining table, like he’s arrived home, and you follow; make yourself comfortable on the seat next to him. There are three chairs, as though carefully chosen for the pair of friends who used to live together and a guest.

Next to you, Jungkook huffs, leaning back as he watches his friend plop onto the chair in front of him, and asks, “How would you’ve done that?”

“Well, you guys gathered at the hospital because of me.”

Right. Good point.

If he just knew how that night played out. Actually, you think he just might, yet not quite aware of its severity.

“Not because of you,” Jungkook promises, “I just charmed her again.”

You laugh. So does Yoongi.

He isn’t irritated or taken aback by the younger’s boldness; in truth, he seems entertained. Arms crossed, eyes small and grin wide. He half mocks, “The young ones are charming for sure these days.”

“Spoken like a true Grandpa,” Jungkook remarks. You press your lips into a thin line, but with a faint smile. You only listen; you’re in the territory of two friends who spend their time roasting each other. You’re not on that level yet, so you observe. “But I had to.”

“You had to, huh?” you joke. Okay, observation broken. Your body tilts towards him. “You didn’t need any of your charm for… this. But still good to know.”

Because you would’ve been putty in his hands, no matter what — charm or not.

"Can confirm," Yoongi agrees, nodding towards his friend, "that he was also a proper mess the last couple weeks. Very out of character."

Your eyes roll to the side to catch a glimpse of him, but the moment you detect the rosy dust on Jungkook's cheeks, you avert your gaze immediately.

Admittedly, the guilt in the middle of your chest is undeniable. But there's comfort in knowing you were never the only half who was deeply, perpetually falling.

Yoongi scratches his temple, doesn't meet your eyes; possibly shy when it comes to conversations like these. But he sounds warm and gentle when he says, "I'm really glad you guys are back."

You’re similarly timid, feeling strange. As if someone’s congratulating you on a fresh marriage. Or maybe that’s just the emotion you want, need to feel.

You say, “Thanks.” And then, ever-so-terrible with compliments, add a little, “Let’s say it was you. Double thank you to the man of the hour.”

Yoongi pulls a grimace hitherto unseen; it doesn’t faze Jungkook, but the Joker-esque grin and wide-eyed nod have you bursting into laughter. His friends are pleasant, you think.

If there was a way to lure Jimin in and convince him of this group’s collective appeal, you wouldn’t hesitate. There’s only a limited time you want him to play the petty, protective friend.

“So, how have you been?” Jungkook eventually asks.

Yoongi rubs the corner of his eye, stretching his injured leg under the table, “Never better. The bank is surviving without me. Besides, I haven’t gotten around to making some music in a while.”

“Tae did tell me you were enjoying your days off.”

Jungkook reacts with a tiny chuckle, but your eyes widen. You let him finish his sentence, and then spit, “Wait, wait. You make music?”

“Oh, I mean… I’m not any good,” he explains, wiggling a hand, a little startled as if he forgot you didn’t know yet. “I just. Make a few beats every now and then and write my own bars and stuff.”

“Wait, rap?” You stare between the boys, to and fro, only a little offended that you didn’t know you had a brooding future musician in your midst. “Can I hea—”

“No.” The answer is immediate. You pout. “Before you ask, I am way too much of a coward.”

“He’s amazing,” Jungkook intrudes.

And you whine, “Unfair, Yoongi.”

He imitates your expression, leaning back, copying your stance, and answers in the same childlike tone, “Warm up to me first! I’ll show it to you one day.”

“One day I’m gon’st hear it,” you declare, overly dramatic with your chin up, “you have my taste in music, you know? I know I’ll like it.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“I can try.”

Yoongi blows a raspberry. You’re not sure what you expected; maybe subtle hostility. But the sense of casual camaraderie is refreshing; lounging comfortably in his living room was a picture far from your mind until now, and you think he enjoys the unforeseen gathering, too.

Because after a moment of stillness, a faint smile touches his lips, his voice back to normal and deep as he remarks, “It’s nice that you guys came. I get bored here a lot.”

Right. You kept wondering.

You don’t dive into the matter immediately, instead drenching your voice in a teasing lilt, “Even though Jimin visits you?”

“Shut up.” Mock exasperation rolls his eyes as Jungkook appreciates your joke, one foot pressing against yours under the table. “No. It’s just been lonely since Tae moved out. It’s a two people thing with two bedrooms.”

He shrugs his shoulders, attention fully on you. Jungkook either doesn’t have much to say or doesn’t want to interrupt. Only listens.

“Living here alone feels like I’m wasting space and money,” Yoongi finishes.

Curiosity piqued, you probe, “What did Tae say when he left?”

“He offered to let me move in with him. But that’d be pointless.”

“Why so?”

“He’s awesome for offering, but I think he wanted his own place, you know? Why would I intrude then? But I did tell him I’d look for another place.”

“Have you been?” you ask. You still remember how happy Taehyung looked last time you met him alone.

How he spoke so highly of a life on his own, gladly interrupted by the occasional visits Eun granted him. Yoongi, you think, would probably benefit from acquiring his own place, too — one that doesn’t remind him that someone left him behind, inhabiting a vacant space thought for two.

“Every now and then,” Yoongi admits. “Will think about it some more once my leg’s healed.”

You nod in understanding, a thoughtful hum escaping your lips. Yoongi soon leans forward, naked arms on top of the table, and delves into a discussion about the rising costs of rent.

He outlines the challenges of finding the right place in the bustling city, and explains his worries about the empty space in a too-large apartment. And you listen intently.

But as minutes pass, you can’t help but notice the contemplative silence Jungkook has fallen into.

It’s always the same with him — thoughts you can’t read, questions you need to postpone.

Because you do glance over at him, observe the distracted furrow of his brow, the distant look in his eyes. You understand he’s once again lost in unknown thoughts, and you sense how jumbled his mind must be.

But you still decide to hold off for the moment, out of respect for the ongoing conversation. You don’t focus on addressing his apparent preoccupation until it keeps going until later, way after you’ve bid Yoongi goodbye.

“Why do you seem so reserved?” you ask in the car, his home your new destination.

It must be around quarter past ten; you should still be able to meet Tae within half an hour. Yet, despite the brooding rush, you can’t help but wanna drag out the ride, finish this conversation.

“Hm?” he voices.

Did he not hear you? Maybe.

You sigh, seeking an available parking spot. You’ve already turned into his street, way past the park, halting close to his entrance. The engine dies, sudden silence inside the vehicle.

“Okay,” you turn towards him, forearm against the wheel. “You’re a lot less enthusiastic now. What’s up?”

He looks distracted. Drags his teeth over his full, pink lower lip hard enough for you to repeat, “Hey. What’s wrong?”

“Uh.” Cue big boba eyes flitting to you. “I was just. Thinking about something.”

“Wanna share?”

“Yeah. Yeah, uhm. I swear I’m not trying to be mysterious, just. Not sure how to phrase it.”

He’s easing himself into this whole thing. The entire opening up act and being fearless with his feelings. So you don’t push him, but encourage, “Try. If not now, then maybe later, though?”

“No, no. Now is fine.” He frees his eyes off the dark bangs when he shakes his head a little, preparing to voice his hidden thoughts. Then, he breathes, “Yeah, so…”

One more second.

And.

“What if you dropped your plans of moving into that apartment?”

Oh. What?

Does he mean what you think he means…

There are only two options, right? And you choose to go with the one that would embarrass you less if it turned out wrong.

“Should I… do you think I should stay with my family?” you ask, your voice cautious.

But when his hands shoot up, immediately denying your assumption with round eyes, you breathe out through your nose. Relieved when he clarifies, “No, not at all. I mean, it’s up to you, but that’s not what I meant.”

So then…

“So you’re saying—”

He interrupts, rushing before he can back down, “Move in with me. And Yoongi could take the apartment you were considering.”

Fuck. 

You didn’t expect your heart to jump up to your throat like that. It’s a day full of brief heart failures. You barely know how to react anymore.

You stare. Then stare a bit more. And eventually, you simply ask, “Really?”

“Yeah, I mean…” He gulps, averting your gaze all of a sudden before it lands back on yours. You chuckle quietly, unprompted, and it boosts his confidence. “You stayed at mine for days and it worked. It could… you know— keep working.”

The suggestion lingers like a fresh breeze, grazing your cheeks and twirling around you like a soothing force. He beams — though subtle, he seems to interpret the simultaneous rise of your eyebrows and your lips immediately.

Still, he inquires, “I don’t know… too soon?”

Technically yes. But then again, no. Because he’s right — you’ve already experienced a piece of heaven, tasted the bliss of domesticity with Jeon Jungkook.

“You really are serious about this, yeah?”

“Only if you want me to be,” he counters, less tense than before, but a hand rubbing in nervous circles over his knee, “if not, then I was absolutely joking.”

An awkward, little chortle fills the small space of the car; you shake your head, teeth out and smile bright. There’s sweetness in knowing that his affection is real. That the thought of shared future pains, joys and days — that it’s all actually become so unbelievably real.

The car is cool in the shadow, but you feel a strange heat coursing through your body. At the end of the street, you see the sunlight brighten the moment he laughs. Fitting.

The crinkly eye smile softens when he reaches for your hand, pulling it off the wheel and wrapping it in his. There’s an automatic reaction in your chest, a constant racing when he says, “I mean it, though.”

Brief pause. He looks down to your fingers.

“I think I got used to having you there. And then, at Yoongi’s I had this… I don’t know, overwhelming urge to tell you. That,” his teeth worry his lip, releasing it softly, “I want you next to me for as long as possible.”

You understand.

He means every minute that society and norms don’t force you out of the house. At nights and in the mornings, on off days and holidays. To fall asleep next to his presence, to wake up on the same mattress, too.

And the longing is undeniable; you know that it is. But you’re already swamped with decisions as it is — could you call off the apartment right here, right now? Rethink all you discussed with the landlord, Taehyung or yourself?

Life decisions are harder than that, and despite all the wants infiltrating your body, you can’t dive into this without a couple more following thoughts.

You keep gazing into his smouldering eyes, more intense when he looks up. Let their effect send a thrill down your spin, a surge of yearning through your veins. 

And then, you acknowledge the need for prudence. You savour the moment, let the anticipation built, and flash a sultry smile to ensure that, yes, if not now, then one damn day, I’ll be yours entirely.

“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything to work more than this,” you admit, “but I need to—”

You halt. Words come hard to you these days; and the two of you are sensitive. It’s not easy to reunite after weeks of overthinking and distance; and you don’t want to provide more reasons to overthink.

But you forget that as sensitive as Jungkook is, he’s just as understanding and gentle, too.

Because he says, “You need to think. And I know you can’t just pack your things and move over, I just— I wanted it out there.”

“I know. I know.”

“And I,” he continues, “I actually thought you were gonna say no right away since you’re getting out of your childhood home just now, so naturally, you would wanna be alone for a while and—”

You lean forward, pulling your hands out of his grip. His eyes shoot down, baffled and confused, but you don’t give him a second to think or speak. In a moment’s notice, his cheeks are squished between your palms, his bunny face now akin to a duck.

“I don’t want to be alone. I’ve been alone all my life,” you tell him; Jungkook eyebrows furrow in empathy and worry, but you smile, “I don’t wanna be anymore.”

His expression and voice are dorky when he speaks, first words incomprehensible. You let go, watching the red splotches on his cheek, and he repeats, “Is that a yes?”

“It’s… I don’t know. A to be continued.”

“I’ll live with that.”

You don’t know if it’s the electrifying prospect of a life together or the confidence he follows his statement up with, but the insanity burns wild in your head. Untamed and dizzying.

“And I’ll wait for however long.”

“I didn’t even ask, I’m sorry… but are you starting work later today?”

You stand in the middle of Taehyung’s living room, a hand over your eyes to protect them from the bright sunlight. He’s busy piling the saucers and the cups, and you wait as he drags a vocal in thought.

“No, no. I’m off today.” He stands, and you automatically walk the short distance to the kitchen, lingering at the door frame. “Need the afternoon for an appointment at the doc. So yeah.”

“Oh. Everything okay?”

He doesn’t speak yet, dishes in the wash basin too loud. They clink and rattle; the moment you’ll move to an apartment by yourself, you’ll have to wash them yourself, too.

Maybe you can make your place as aesthetically pleasing and beige as Taehyung did. You don’t know — you couldn’t imagine much today nor discuss further details about the contract and rent and general house rules.

The landlord bailed on you last second. And Taehyung sacrificed over an hour that he could’ve spent keeping Eun company between her morning lessons.

You apologised the second you entered his apartment instead, thankful for the invitation to tea, yet harbouring guilt for wasting his time. But Taehyung proved incredibly kind, waving off your concerns immediately.

He asked, playfully offended, “So you’re saying a tea party with me is a waste of time?” And then he laughed, immediately shaking his head, “Nah. It’s fine. Am glad someone finally prefers tea over coffee, too.”

So now you’re here.

“Yeah, just a check up,” Taehyung answers, “vamps drew my blood and will tell me today if it’s good or not.”

“Interesting way to refer to doctors,” you admit, backing away when he leads you to the exit. You need to be at work in forty minutes tops. “Good then.”

He hands you your blazer, silent for a moment before he says, “Talking about feeling unwell.” You look up, arm halfway through the blazer’s sleeve. “What were you doing getting shitfaced like that?”

“Uhm…”

Word travels fast. Your cheeks heat up, fingers curling into fists. You smack your lips, letting out a tiny laugh, and ask, “Eun told you, huh?”

“Mhm. Scolded her for taking you to the bar and leaving you alone.”

You sigh.

You should’ve guessed that she’d tattle. And of course you might appear like the helpless, heartbroken girl, seeking comfort in alcohol, dark clubs and blue neon lights. It’s a little embarrassing, actually.

“Kook was there, though,” you defend.

“I know. I called when he was still at your place.”

Huh? What else did he do when you were asleep? Painted a Louvre-ripe masterpiece, probably.

Taehyung decodes the dozen questions in your stare, tumbling until his back leans against the wall. He explains, “We just talked for a sec. He sounded worried, so I didn’t prod too much. Just don’t do these things anymore, okay?”

Huh…

You can imagine it well. Partly because you remember the way he looked at you that night: distressed beyond belief, giving you soft orders, insisting on help everywhere — the car, the shower, the bed.

But also because you know him.

And you don’t think you needed to see him in those very moments to know he must’ve brushed through his silky hair. Must’ve looked through your room, gaze stopping over your sleeping figure.

Voice strained on the phone, yawning, shaking his head because he must have been a little mad at you, but comforted that you were resting, too.

You remember the tone of his voice, soft as a piano tune but saddened nonetheless.

”What did you drink? You’re… in such a bad state.”

You shake the words off. God, he was there for you more than you’ll ever know.

You say, “That’s nice, though, Tae… I didn’t think you’d ever get so worried about me.”

“Hey. You’re still my friend,” he promises.

He’s possibly been the only person throughout this entire ordeal to not be pissed at you or annoyed by you. You never doubted that he still liked you.

“I might not know you inside out like Eun or Jungkook do, but you’re part of this group. So naturally, you’re important, too.”

You push your hands into the pockets of the blazer, gripping the car keys inside. Bashfully, you smile. His sincerity pumps warmth through you; it’s crazy how good belonging somewhere, to someone, can actually feel.

It’s refreshing. New. 

“Wow,” you murmur, shuffling your feet, “thank you.”

“You’re glowing, you know. That’s nice.”

“Am I?”

He nods. “I can’t wait to see him glow either. A couple weeks were a couple too long.”

Those couple weeks felt like someone ripped out the hands of time, keeping them from moving. Your brain aged faster in that time, deep in a bottomless abyss. You don’t want to experience it again.

And you don’t want to imagine Jungkook in the same pit again. Looking for you, but bumping against walls, painted with his past that made him stumble back instead of pulling him forwards.

Your eyes trail down the hallway, looking at the small paintings and decorations on the wall. You take in the furniture, inhale the pleasant colours. Imagine his living room in its entirety, the sunlight seeping through the windows. Curtains pushed aside.

Your apartment could be like this, too.

But.

“Tae,” you begin. You wrap your fingers around your rattling car key; lick your lips. “Do you think I’d like it here?”

“Hmmm,” he voices, gazing down as if he could look past the parquet floor and to where your potential apartment stands nearly empty. “Yeah. I mean, I like to think so, because I’m very happy here.”

He stops abruptly, the tone of the last syllable not matching a sentence’s end. You wait as he smiles a little, creating a thought, “But you could be happy somewhere else, too. Happier even.”

His words hang in the air, a sense of both possibility and uncertainty tangible. You were wanting to venture into this new chapter of your life with hope, but also with trepidation.

Suburban areas are nice, but you opted for the heart of the city — the vibrant tapestry of dreams and opportunities. You didn’t expect the journey to be fraught with sudden doubts.

The best thing, however, is that doubts and dilemmas never seemed this… tempting.

You tell him, “There’s always a place that makes people happier, for everyone.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice tinged with wisdom. “Only, some people already know of it, and some keep searching for it.”

“And I am—”

You pause, anticipating for him to finish the sentence; he responds, “You gotta know.” There’s a playful twinkle in his eyes, support and acknowledgment hiding right behind — matching his words, “I’d be bummed if you didn’t become my neighbour, but. Also just happy you guys are happy.”

Too kind for this world.

In your endearment, you laugh, suddenly stepping forward for a brief, thankful hug. A silent gesture of gratitude for his friendship, no matter how shallow or new.

The people you surround yourself with offer endless reassurance, and you’re lacking the words to express your appreciation.

“Thank you, Tae. Eun’s right when she praises your constant respect for other people, you know?”

Taehyung, maybe a little perplexed, brings a hand to your back, patting gently as he states, “No worries. The worst is over.”

You hope so. God, you genuinely hope so.

You pull back, tucking your hair behind your ear and bid him goodbye with one last nod. Taehyung closes the door behind you with a humorous thumbs up, and you grin before it’s silent in the hallway again.

There’s a tiny window outside, overlooking the street down there and the cars flitting by. The area isn’t as peaceful as Jungkook’s — more lively and noisy. You can see the city’s river if you look far enough.

And as you step closer to the glass, you envision your own apartment again. You imagine the soft glow of the lamp before you go to sleep. The comfortable couch you want to plant in the back of the living room, curling up with work or your laptop or a cup of hot chocolate.

You picture the view of the city as you step to your open window, glancing out as the steam of your beverage swirls in the evening air. Contemplating the world outside.

But then you start rethinking Jungkook’s words, too. The idea of belonging and happiness, of domesticity and what could be.

And at last, you visualise what it’d be like if you didn’t see any of this — the lively street, the river in the distance. Wonder how you’d feel if the horizon looked different.

If you stared out and saw a different canvas instead.

The changes in your life are drastic in some way, but Jungkook always stays the same.

Your house lies quiet most of the time; as days pass, you frequent your room, then drop by in the living room, greeting the staff, grabbing dinner and retracting back to your beloved bed.

Jungkook’s apartment, baby-sized compared to your place, allows a much livelier atmosphere. Maybe because you don’t need to yell for him to hear you from another room. Or maybe because it’s just the two of you.

Perhaps even because you find solace in the couch, in the smaller smart TV in front of it, the glass table, the carpet, the homely furniture in general. The scent reminds you of wood, but you connect it with him, too.

It’s different from the room you grew up in. Different from the luxurious chimney and marble you’ve seen all your life.  And you must admit that you enjoy it a lot more, too.

One of the few reasons why your mood changes from exhausted to merry the moment you knock at his door on Thursday. He was expecting you, because when he opens, he beckons you inside immediately, pulling you in and planting a generous kiss on your cheek.

A smooching sound accompanies it, his foot closing the door as he suggests, “Dinner first or TV?”

“Shoes.” You laugh. You slip out of your thin jacket before tackling your snickers quickly, your clothes suddenly itchy and uncomfortable. “Shoes first, and then shower? Can I?”

“Yeah, of course.”

It’s not the first time that you’d be doing it. But there’s still something new and pure about this new chapter of your life; one that comes with polite questions and reinventing reality, apparently.

Redrafting life as you knew it and striving towards something better.

“I knew it, actually,” he says, forefinger wiggling, “I put a fresh towel on the washing machine. Also had a handful of your shirts here, so there’s one of those on the towel, too. And my joggers… Sorry, you left none of those, uhm—”

He’s started walking ahead, scratching behind his ear, but when he notices you not following, he looks over his shoulder. Blinks at you, staring into his living room and back, innocent voice unsure, “Come?”

“Yeah. Yeah, just— you didn’t have t—”

“I know,” he interrupts, breathing a sigh in faux frustration, “I know I never have to. But I figured you’d wanna shower.”

“…Thank you, Kook.”

You wish you could say more; express your gratitude the way you want to. At least your body is jubilating, craving the hot steam of the shower. Starving further for some peace when you step into the bathroom and detect the neatly placed clothing.

Jungkook halts at the door, gripping its frame, a little shy as if you didn’t breathe each other in for the last couple of weeks and months. He’s looking at you, waiting for something, and when you raise an eyebrow in curiosity, he snaps out of whatever daydream he was in.

“Oh. Right,” he mumbles, cheeks flushed, “sorry. I’ll leave. Can heat up the food. Or, or do you wanna order in?”

“Anything’s fine.” He nods. Opts to walk away, big hand flattening his hair at the back. It takes a moment for your heart to riot as you watch him leave, immediately babbling, “Actually. I was—”

Returning within a moment, he looks alarmed. Less so when you point a thumb to the shower and suggest, “Do you wanna join?”

“You in the shower?”

No, doofus. Join to watch the washing machine unsoil your sweaty clothes.

You clear your throat. “Yeah?”

“I uhm… Is that okay?”

Goddamn. Redrafting life as you knew it, you said.

You just didn’t expect the two of you to still tip-toe around each other. Seems you still have a lot of adjusting to do.

You try to break the ice.

“Acting like I’ve never seen you naked.”

“No, I know,” he responds, “I was just thinking that you…”

You can’t quite decrypt what he’s trying to say, but you do perceive the flash of concern in his eyes. It’s a tiny glimpse, barely there; but you see it. And you think about it.

Try to understand, let moments pass — until you’ve grasped his thinking.

The night he helped you clean up was the last time you stood under a showerhead together; maybe he thinks you’re still connecting it to the night’s trauma or borderline dangerous intoxication. And perhaps you’re wrong.

But you still take a breath, and then segue, “Already took a shower, didn’t you?”

You know he did. He’s addicted to cleanliness, sensitive to scents; he hoards diffusers, skin care products and new underwear like a treasure. And showering is always the first thing he goes for, a beeline to the bathroom after work out sessions and intense summer days.

You follow up with, “It’s okay, if you did. I’ll just go alone and hurry to dinner, then?”

“No, no… No, it’s fine.” He starts his sentence fast, but slows down halfway through, awkwardly. “Of course I can join. What’s some extra refreshment, right?”

“That’s the reason, huh?” you mock, laughing when he shrugs his shoulder. “Keep acting like you’re not the biggest simp around.”

Your confidence boosts his own, too. The signature smile is soft, lips curved gorgeously, but the subtone of his words is teasing, and even a little cocky.

“Of course. I know, I know.”

“Come then.”

You offer a stretched hand, curling your fingers in and outwards, and he places his warm palm into it like a key to a lock. Albeit tense and nervous, your body feels good next to his. The telltale awkward signs of a new relationship don’t deter you from indulging in its sweetness.

So you’re not surprised at how quickly you undress, throwing each other’s clothes at the back of the washing machine and planting kisses whenever one of you bares their shoulder. Eyeing each other from bottom to top.

You think you ogle for a moment too long, though — and how could you not with the freaking silver chain dangling from his neck?

An exciting evening lies ahead, you can already tell.

It’s fresher now outside, and all of Jungkook’s windows are open. Despite the cosiness of the bathroom, you rush under the hot shower stream.

Only, it’s not as boiling as you’d like it to be. Jungkook starts and finishes his showers ice cold, so you screech when you meet water from the Antarctic. You jump on your spot, arms around your torso.

And when you allow yourself one single glance at him amidst the breathlessness, you notice that the asshole is doing it on purpose. Same old. Rouses core memories.

Jungkook wipes over your hair and your face, drenching them thoroughly. You only realise he’s smudged your mascara when he starts rubbing underneath your eyes gently, managing to get some of it off.

“Fuck,” you curse, “I forgot about that. Should I take it off first?”

The intention is to slip out, use one of his cleansing skin products and get the mess out of your face before stepping back to him. But you don’t make it far anyway; he yanks you back before your foot can even touch the mat.

And then, the moment passes in a blur.

Tense body back against his, he tugs you close. Holds both your wrists in front of your breasts, leaning in without a warning, and then — connects his dripping lips with yours.

If there was any space to gasp, you would. Instead, your fingers instantly dig into your hand, sharp nails scarring the skin. You move your fists, trying to touch him, but he holds you in place firmly.

That is, until his digits relax, trailing up your shoulder to your neck, jaw and then to your cheeks. Face in your grip, you let him control the pace. You find an anchor in his bicep, holding on; kissing isn’t enough.

You wish he could eat you up. Wish the tongue finally touching yours, swirling around it, was everywhere on your skin at once.

You feel a slight twitch underneath, right against your body; ready to devour, hopefully soon to explode. But Jungkook gasps for air when his lungs give out, allowing a break, backing away with your face still between his hands.

And then, he utters something surprising — something you didn’t expect in the heat of the moment at all.

“I was meaning to tell you something.”

“…Oh?”

“I’m uh. I’ve been meaning to tell you for days. I just never quite got around to it and we were so busy and tired all the time and—”

“What is it?” you break in, heart pounding at an unnatural speed. “I’m here now, so…?”

For a second, you expect this to take a whole different turn.

The database in your brain empties the moment you scour it for an answer, preparing yourself for molten knees and dissolving hearts. Or maybe, it’s already clarifying to liquid, jumping out of your chest and flowing down the drain along with the water.

But he doesn’t say what you anticipate. Though, what he does admit has your nerves glowing neon white anyway.

“So— the first night of my showcase. On my birthday?” he starts. You feel the muscles of your face change, and he sees it, immediately assuring, “No, no. Don’t worry. I was just gonna say that a guy came to me by the end of it? And—” 

He lets all of it sound like an unsure question. But you think you know where it’s going — you hold your breath under the already suffocating water.

“And?” you prod.

“And turned out Namjoon invited him, and he’s kiiiinda a big shot in the art business? Like, he’s a gallery collector, he said. He’d invest in my art and acquire it and have it showcased in bigger museums for more recogni— I know!”

Your mouth and eyes opened halfway through his quick explanation, fingers back in fists, pressing against his solid chest and then moving up to hook in his silver chain. You’re restless in the congested space, suppressing the high pitched sounds.

He puts his hands on your hips, snickering in joy as he says, “Be careful before you slip.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Thankfully I’m not, angel,” he shakes his head, bangs sticking to his forehead, “not this time, at least.”

You raise a hand to his pec, tapping against it, “Wait. So just so I understood correctly — they’re gonna put up your stuff there for an even bigger audience to see, yeah?”

“I mean, the gallery is definitely far bigger than the exhibition I participated in.”

“Oh my god, Jungkook, the exhibition already had a shit ton of visitors!”

He nods, proving a point.

You feel an electric current in your blood. Pride, that’s what it’s called, too. You sling your arms around his neck recklessly, nearly falling, but you can’t be bothered as you exclaim, “This is so— I don’t even know how to react, Kook!”

And who could convince a big-shot art connoisseur so quickly after graduation anyway? Jungkook’s god given talents are never praised for nothing — you knew it. Fucking knew it.

Won’t make it anywhere, your ass.

“That’s so fucking awesome.” You stare, out of breath all of a sudden. God, if there was a way to express your delight. “When is it happening? Are you selling the one you showcased?”

“I don’t know yet. And no. That’s too… personal to me.” You blink, nodding. Still overwhelmed with how his pieces made you feel — of course they’d hit even harder for the artist himself. “He wants something in a similar style, though. I’ll make something new for him.”

“What’s it gonna be?”

It’s a simple question. You swear it’s nothing too deep.

But Jungkook’s gaze changes. An amused, delighted expression replaces a neutral one, head tilting to the side just a little. His lips, already slightly swollen from the kiss, move up, eyes kind and sugary.

If you only knew how your small details affect him, too. How you looking at him like this, expectant eyes split wide, innocent and gentle, shoots an arrow to his heart.

You just don’t know.

He brushes the hair sticking to your cheek back and tells you, “You’ll see. I’ve been working on it these days, but. Will show it to you when it’s done.”

You can’t even be mad. If it was up to you, you’d probably wait for the big day, too — can’t spoil the surprise, need to cry tears of pride and joy in public.

So all you say, deep from the heart, is, “You’re the fucking coolest person I know.”

“Nah—”

“The coolest.”

“Funny,” he retorts, as bad at compliments as you; throws them back like a boomerang, “thought the same when I met you at the party last year.”

“…Gross.” That’s what you say. But you still shake your head; overwhelmed, smile plastered to your face and cheeks hurting. “God, Kook.”

And that’s all.

You keep holding his stare, finally too tired of the distance to endure any longer — and then lean in. You stop a couple inches away, watch his head angle more, mouth steering towards yours. The smile is mutual, fingers seeking a spot to settle on on each other’s bodies.

Your heart monitor would be wilding right now — the effect of your lips meeting clear as day behind your ribs. And this time, you don’t stop.

The push against his chest is immediate, his feet slowly tumbling backwards. His tongue burns hot against yours, your lower lip fitting perfectly in the gap between his lips. There’s a sharp hiss when his back finally touches the tiles, mouth open but not leaving yours.

Teeth soon clash, and you opt for more of his taste, well aware that you just cannot kiss more than you already are. His hands move up and down, never settling, both your lips harsh and impatient. Your tongues keep moving in patterns, thirst never quenched.

You break the kiss solely for oxygen purposes, but he uses the moment to let his palm wander from your face to your hair, grabbing a patch. One hand pushes against the small of your back, though soon dropping to your ass, fingers between your ass cheeks, teasing the clenching hole.

Fuck.

The moan isn’t intended, but very welcome — you love the sound of it as much as he does, followed by his own. An automatic reaction. His hips indulge in the tiniest movements, length jerking against your body; no more than an inch of his fingertip pushing into your ass.

“Fuck, Jungkook,” you breathe, eyebrows furrowing, mewling against the corner of his lips. “More, now, please.”

It’s an attempt. Of course he won’t act that fast — you know him well enough. He’s been a soft gentleman often enough; but after holding back the past few days, missing it for weeks, you know it won't be easy on him either.

One of you will be on the brink of tears soon; until now, it’s usually been you.

You take a deep breath, agitated when he laughs. He retracts his hand, smoothing back his chaotic mane before leaning in for another peck. And that’s all it remains — interrupted immediately, saliva mixing with the shower water.

“I’m so fucking crazy for you,” he confesses; the shiver doesn’t hesitate crawling down your spine — neither does Jungkook, peppering your neck with kisses.

His actions are smooth — you let him do anything. Like, explore every little spot of your skin. From the softness of your face, down to the flesh of your ass, echoing hard when a flat hand slaps it out of nowhere.

You propel forwards, barely aware of your surroundings. The shower raining onto you is the only indicator of where you still are.

So when he turns you carefully, 180 until your back touches the tiles, you don’t realise his intentions for a moment. Only when he changes his approach, digging your shoulders hard into the wall, knocking you out of breath.

“Are you trying to—” you ask, but he interjects right away.

“Don’t question it this time, okay?” His face inches close again, teeth suddenly pulling and nibbling at your lip. “Just let us do. Lemme do, yeah?”

His chest presses against your tits before he backs away and palms your mounds, squeezing nearly painfully.

For only a heartbeat, though — he doesn’t stall further. Because another second passes before you’re turned in his grip, chest not touching his anymore, but the wall now. From behind you, he grasps your hips, dragging you back just a couple inches; enough to sneak his hand through.

“But whenever things get too much, you…”

You nod. Promise, “Will tell you. I will.”

“Good.” His cock pokes between your ass, and he spreads its cheeks. Lets the hardness rest between them, sliding up and down. “Gonna make you feel so good, though. Wanna make you feel so fucking good.”

Wow… wow, f—

Not that you were ever interested in it before, but…

Part of you wants him to shove it in anywhere. Wherever the fuck he wants. You’d endure all hour-long foreplay and pleas and tears for him.

And perhaps he’s thinking the same. Perhaps you even spoke it out loud — you wouldn’t be surprised if you did. But you choke on your spit when he says, “Missing the sex toys. Like… What do you think of new ones, hm? Someday, maybe. Like— like an anal pl—”

“Please,” you beg, “I’ll do fucking anything for you.”

Break in conversation. Then, “Holy shit.” He chuckles. Fuck — his voice is deeper now, isn’t it? “You’re being whiny. I thought you’re a badass business woman, but you’re so whiny.”

“Because— I can breathe when I work.”

“Ohh. And now,” he whispers, close to your ear, hand moving. Up and further up, stopping around your throat, as if he’s testing your statement. As if he could tell him anything about the state of your lungs. “Now we’re not as focused, right?”

“No thinking when I suck your dick.”

“Dammit. Really don’t wanna wait to fuck you numb.”

You’re shamelessly jittery, patience out the window. “Don’t then. Get to it now.”

“Nope. I know you’re not ready yet. And I’m not either… so—”

He steps closer, forcing your body further forward until your cheek is squished against the wall. His fingers leave your throat to find another target; something far more south, a lot more dangerous.

One small circle drawn around your clit, you gasp, hearing him ask, “You think you can come with just my fingers?”

“I don’t know. I honestly think I need—”

He chuckles, and you can’t help but laugh, too. You’re hilarious sometimes.

“You think you’re so smart. But we can still try, though.” He says it casually, as if the two of you don’t exactly know that he’s perfectly capable of pulling through. But his voice still softens when you don’t answer, “Hey. You wanna try, sweetheart?”

“Yes. Anything,” you convince him, “anything, Kook.”

“Good girl. The best, always.”

His touch vanishes. You let out a mildly confused sound, observing with an unfocused vision how he opens the shower door a little. He reaches for the towel on the washing machine, drying his fingers, other hand moving the shower head until it’s mostly wetting his own back.

It’s a tiny detail, really. You only told him once how action around the clit might become uncomfortable with hands priorly washed or wet, and it seems he remembered.

Your eyes shut when he returns to your bundle of nerves, massaging gently, skilled. It starts slow at first; you feel the hot wetness build in and around your entrance, the line between the shower water and your arousal fading.

Jungkook’s movements, calculated and systematic, only spur your body on. He’s always known what he’s doing; has analysed and explored what you want. How you want it.

It’s true heaven to you: the way he kisses your cheek. The way he draws moans out of you, the motions around your swollen bud rhythmic. Your back and limbs tingle; you don’t know what to do with yourself.

And when you can’t stand still anymore, Jungkook orders, “Stop that. You’ll break my jaw.”

“Sorry.”

Your apology is timid, tiny; he laughs. “You cutie… you’re adorable even in moments like these.”

You throw your head against his shoulder as if to oppose him, opening your eyes, looking straight into his eyes. Your eyebrows are kissing, tension between them, mouth agape.

And he adds, “Or maybe not.”

He lifts you up a bit, dragging your body along the wall — you didn’t even notice that you slid down this much, angled, ass darting out like this. But you also don’t mind the arm that rounds your torso, just underneath your tits, keeping you steady when he takes it up a notch and—

“Oh my god,” you squeak when he pushes two fingers in. “Yes, yes, please—”

The incoherent, random requests are his favourite. Most of the time, he knows better than you what you’re pleading for. Which is why he doesn’t stop this time; probably more in the mood to please you than tease you.

From this position, he can’t reach knuckles deep, but just enough to brush the walnutty spot inside. And to your surprise, the orgasm builds up fast; the first quiver takes over your knees, but you understand that this is nothing compared to what’s to come.

You press your hands to the wall, holding onto remnants of your sanity when he kisses your neck, and along your damp shoulders. His mouth is hot against your pulse, wet hair tickling under your jaw. He bites lightly; soothes the fleeting sting with his tongue. Vampiristic.

Like a sensual massage, well thought out, pornographic.

And then he picks up on pace. Whispers, “That’s right— we got this—”

He starts pumping into you; relishes your incomprehensible curses. The thumb over your clit and the impatience of his fingers inside are a dichotomy, and you don’t know what to focus on. Which is why you stop thinking altogether.

Jungkook takes a sharp breath, quiet whistling sounds included, and then groans into your ear when you do. He keeps his motions up diligently, fingers a bit deeper with each time your ass moves back an inch.

As an aid, he shifts his arm, too, pushing forward, palm pressing against your clit now.

And when you come, you melt. Nearly collapsing, you keep moving, on edge, every spot of your body in tremor. You can barely breathe; you’ve been nestled in the heat of the shower for way too long.

He notices your tremble in an instant, encourages, “Got it. Got you. Keep going, baby, c’mon.”

The peak is blissful; you don’t want to ever fall off the edge again. Want to remain in this starry, gorgeous ache. Your eyes could stay in the back of your head; the world may keep fading. And you don’t need to know where you are.

All you know is that your voice sounds odd, high when you pant, “Don’t go away yet.”

“I’m right here. Right here, got you,” he repeats, holding you upright.

Jungkook knows — knows how to get you from lowest lows to your highest highs. Today was as pleasant as a day at work can be; but if he’s ready to do all this to you on any other, worse day, too, you might never encounter grief again.

He scatters kisses all over your jaw when you’re done — busies himself as you catch your breath, swallowing, eyes closed. Once you’ve caught yourself enough to utter fragments of sentences at least, you tell him, “Something not human about you, Jeon.”

“Oh. Are we back to surnames now?” He cackles, soothing motions along your arms. “Are we gonna shake hands, too, once we’re done? Bow and say thank you?”

You shake your head, though the stupid smile doesn’t wait to spread on your face.

“You’re dumb,” you say.

“You make me dumb.”

He drops his touch, brushing your pussy again — maybe as a test. But you’re sensitive and vulnerable, closing your legs and opening your mouth in response. He’s sly; uses the moment to push two fingers in right away, pressing your tongue down.

And you, as challenge-accepting as ever, start sucking, tasting some of yourself. You wrap your hand around his, moving your head, chest still heaving from the exhaustion. Your eyes close slowly enough for him to see them roll back, a reaction to the images your brain creates.

Like, the thought of the member currently poking you replacing those digits. The prospect of emptying him entirely.

“Fuuuuck— wish my brain could take a picture of this and save it forever,” he says, voice strained.

You open your mouth, licking a strip along his finger, past the tattoo. “What’d you do with it?”

“Would… would bring it to the forefront of my mind,” Jungkook begins, reclaiming his hand and dragging it down to your waist, “and use it whenever you’re away.”

“Hmmm… and then?”

“Would just…”

He doesn’t continue. Only shakes his head, lifting his shoulders, stance desperate and wanting; maybe he’s even a little out of his mind.

You egg him on, “Show me if you can’t say it.”

It’s a surprise that he obliges, but then again, it’s not. You always forget just how weak he is — that his heart sits right there in your palms, his body a magnet to yours.

So you’re endlessly pleased when your eyes flit down to a hand around his dick. Stroking slowly, its head hard against your pelvis. And you manage to watch a tiny second longer until the floor beckons you towards it, down to your knees.

It’s uncomfortable immediately; slick and odd. But you’re distracted by your dry tongue, thirsting, ridiculously hypnotised by the cock dangling in front of you. And then his thighs… muscular and thick. You reach out to them, holding them, steering forwards.

Despite his delicate frailty, you don’t fare any better. Ready to bruise your knees like an obedient doll, eyes wide when you look up at him. You grip him softly, urging him to remove his hand, stroking in his stead.

You pass all pleasantries and hesitations, and dive in immediately — leading your mouth to the tip before wrapping your lips around it delicately. Determined, you let only a second pass, eager as you start moving right away.

Bobbing your head, you take him in as much as your gag reflex allows. He’s too big — it’s impossible to ever swallow him fully. But no matter how greedy you are, that’s it.

You don’t give into it all the way just yet.

Instead, you back away after another lick. Straighten your body, drawing in and repositioning until you can push your tits together around the stiffness.

His groan tumbles out of him broken, choked, a hand against the wall. His abs are rippling, bicep bulged, nipples tiny and perked. Dark brown. Eyes hazy.

You want to do so many fucking things to him — want to mount him. Pull his head back by his long strands. Want, need to kiss him, rub yourself on him, back and forth along his cock until his moans become uncontrolled. Sticky white cum sprayed over his tummy.

Your nails in your skin, yearning for more — that’s one of your billion thoughts.

Instead, you summarise your wants, whispering a single, simple, fucked out, “I…” You gulp down the knot. Shiver at your position, craving the hot water a little now. Then command, “Fuck my mouth.”

His eyes threaten to fall out of his head; like they always do. He knows it’s a constant reaction, too, it seems, because “God. I’ll never get used to you saying this.”

“You better, though.”

“Right. Right…”

He caresses your face, pushes your hair back. Perhaps he’s had enough of the pace; because he soon reaches for your arms, compliant deer kicked out of his head as he forces your wrists up and crosses them against the wall.

One hand is all he needs to hold them in their place. One hand gripping them hard, disabling any movement of your arms.

You let out a strange, obscene sound, finding utter liking in this gesture.

But despite your pleasure, he still eases you into the process, the heart tattoo grazing your cheek. A touch so soft that you think he’s praising you, wordlessly and gently. Making sure you’re absolutely okay with whatever he does to you.

And you confirm it with another blink, stretching out your tongue, ready. Holding his gaze. Mesmerised and frustrated, he says, “You’ll kill me with the way you look at me.”

Jungkook fuels your confidence with vigour each time, eloquent through scorching heat, too. Because you don’t think you’ve ever smiled this self-assured before you knew him; or been certain about your power over others.

You used to be far more insecure than that, feigning ignorance and carelessness, but reevaluating your decisions every step of the way. Months ago, you could’ve never predicted such a shift in conviction towards yourself.

So it’s new to you, but invigorating at the same time, the grin you sport, the words you utter, “Killing you isn’t my intention,” when he doesn’t, you move your head towards the leaking head of his cock, awaiting destruction, “wanna make you feel more alive than ever.”

The breath tumbling out of his mouth is ragged, pinky finger twitching a tiny bit when you wrap your lips around the tip and then let it go with a plop again; like it’s a lollipop to you.

Your knees move closer to his feet, and he stretches his one hand to your shoulder, making sure you don’t get hurt on the slippery ground. But you’re far too distracted to appreciate the gesture just yet, even though you feel the faint tickling along your limbs.

“I got it,” Jungkook then says, back in charge, hands back on the protruding, thick veins.

He moves his hips forward, testing. You roll out your tongue once more, closing your eyes. Try to make more room in your mouth, despite knowing it’s a thing of impossibility. And to your chagrin, it takes only a few more seconds for you to be full already.

Taking in as much as your throat allows, you gag when you reach your limit, letting out a tiny cough, salivating. You still can’t move your arms; his fingers are like chains around your wrists.

“That enough?” he asks. “I’ll stop here, okay?”

You nod. Wait. When he doesn’t move, you start pulling back, and then push forward again immediately. Your tongue is drenched in absolute filth; the spit trails down your chin, and you wish it was his.

But that’s not the point of it all — you’re not supposed to comfortably bop your head back and forth, are you? Despite the daily softness between the two of you, you want to be used. Want all his greed.

And he knows. Asks, “What do you need?”

Of course you can’t speak. He’s aware of that; stares down at you as you breathe heavily around him, mouth stuffed to the brim. Cheeks aching from the circumference.

You moan around him, parting your lips, moving your tongue from under his dick to swirl it around it a little. You move back, tasting the liquid minimally dripping out of his slit. Fuck, you want all of it, in thick, sickening ropes, in loads and buckets.

“Won’t even back away to speak,” he teases, words contradictory, because he won’t allow you to take a break either. Shoves himself inside again; you’re embarrassed that you only manage half of his length. “The dedication is hotter than it should be—”

Full, coherent sentences. How?

But even his string of thought breaks when he starts in earnest. Filling up your mouth once more, as much as he can and then a bit more for good measure. You adjust to his movements, suck down immediately.

You don’t care about the loss of voice later; you want to eat him up entirely.

His strokes grow harder by the second, rock hard inside you. You move your head until the head pokes against the inside of your cheek, and the tight wetness affects him, his knees buckling by one single inch.

“Easy…” he whispers, shaking his head, water drops landing on your face. “Fuck. Wanna have you hanging off the bed one day. Wanna see my cock ram your throat…”

Easy, he said. He’s definitely not being easy on you, though. Not with these admissions. Not with his motions.

The thrusts aren’t just hard, but deliberate and controlled, too. Your head keeps pushing back, lightly touching the wall. You’re far over sucking his dick, way too obedient and submissive to define it like that.

No, you’re being fucked. Gagging and choking around him, sucking in the spit whenever only his tip remains inside, sounds lewd and specific. Coming from the back of your throat, wet, hot and bothered.

God, you wish you were strong enough to take him all the way down to the base, licking at his balls, feeling his twitching dick thumping at the very far back. But you guess this is more than enough for him, too.

Because he holds your wrists harder, a rope around them, digging into your skin. The free hand wipes your hair away again, your body sweat-soaked while the shower water still trickles down his back.

He holds you there; then reaches for your nipple; pinches it hard over your heavily heaving chest, pleased when you open your eyes and look up at him. Waterline damp — the dangling chain might just be one of the reasons for that.

“Bit more,” he mumbles, and you think he’ll surrender right there, inside your mouth.

Which is why you sit up straighter, more determined, licking at the underside of his cock when he drags it out a little. His balls hang in your face and you reach for them, tongueing, hungry, not wanting him to move away now.

He doesn’t. Not yet. Relief courses through you, swallowing around his thickness again. Rolling your eyes back, hearing subtle “Doing well, so well, angel”s, ignoring the pain in your arms as he holds them upright.

You hollow your cheeks when he buries himself in deep, struggling when he stops right there. He doesn’t move; your eyes well up harder. All air enters and escapes through your nose, and you’re shaking, holding his stare as he keeps his cock in place, absolutely still.

That is, until you can barely breathe anymore, nails digging into your palms, arms trying to escape. He doesn’t say a word yet, only lets your hands drop. Your shoulders crack a bit, and you shake your arms, filling up your lungs, your palms next to his feet.

His cock is covered in your spit when you look again; your gaping mouth and chin similarly drenched.

And only when your head stops spinning, does he hold his hands towards you, urging you to take them as he says, “Sorry, baby. You did so well, I…”

You grip his fingers feebly, getting up on weak knees. Instead of holding onto your hands, he soon wraps an arm around your body, pulling you up before he asks, “Less next time?”

“No,” the word comes out as a squeak, throat already affected, “I’ll always tap if I feel it’s too much. I promi— promise.”

“Good,” he praises, a kiss to your damp forehead. He turns the water off. “That’s all I want, baby. Look at me.”

You’re already exhausted, staring down, fatigue fuelled by the hot water. Your eyes flutter open as you meet his gaze, and he puts a hand to your cheek, thumb on your swollen lower lip.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he compliments; his hand must be heating up under your touch, “did you know? So sweet and stunning. It makes me sick.”

“Thought I was the only one. You…” He looks at you, and you hold him tight, smiling about your joke in advance. “You have such an effect on me, it makes me wanna throw up.”

Right. So in love, it makes your stomach turn.

“Please don’t,” he pleads, conjuring a tender eye smile. The wide grin is unreal. “And let’s get out of here. We can’t keep standing here.”

“Waste of water.”

“Yes, waste of water. That, too. And I should have some lube in the bedroom.”

Of course he’s as impatient as you — although you’re almost a hundred percent sure you could do without that stuff easily. The insides of your thighs are slippery, and you’re certain the shower wasn’t the sole reason for that.

Your legs feel weird, your body heavy when you finally get out. The cosy bathroom is filled with steam and heat, but at least you can breathe easier here than under the piping hot water.

The mirror is fogged up; you glance into it to check your state, but recognise nothing but your vague form. You wipe a stripe the size of your hand along it as you walk past, halting at the door. And when you look back, Jungkook is making quick, brief work on picking up the clothes you haphazardly threw to the side before.

“You don’t wanna do this later?” you ask, still fond.

It’s just him cleaning up the floor, but… you enjoy watching him do mundane things. You might never be able to explain why, but you do.

“Just throwing them into the washing machine. Will turn it on later,” he answers.

He straightens his body with a sigh when he’s done, sniffling as he usually does. His eyes are hidden behind his long hair, so he lifts both his hands to brush the soaked tresses back. The muscles of his arms are mountainous and firm. Tattoos ending at his shoulder.

He’s indescribably pretty like that. Looking up, lips parted, jaw chiselled.

You observe him for a bit longer, gaze trailing down his body. Small nipples, broad and sculpted pecs, six painfully visible rectangles of abs. Cock still mostly awake.

Fuck.

Crossing your legs, you bite your lips, one hand on the door handle. You take in the domesticity. The moment might be subtle and casual, but something about it is incredibly homely.

How you speak to each other, and how his washing machine is cleaning both your clothes. It’s the little things, isn’t it?

Your eyes are fond when you say, “Whenever it does happen… I can already imagine all of it clearly.”

“Hm?” He blinks at you. “All of what, baby?”

“Of being here with you. All the time.” His motions stop. He drops his arms, a strand falling back into his face, but he doesn’t care. Glances at you for a couple seconds until you smile and nod towards the door. “Let’s go.”

But it seems he changed his mind in this split second that you turn to the exit.

Because all of a sudden, just as he did before, he tugs you back. And just like before, you land against the wall, having him staring at you as if he’s seeing you for the first time. His voice is a whisper, enchanting, “Okay… you know what. Forget it.”

“Huh?”

“Fuck lube, okay?” His eyes are glued to your lips. Then to your pupils. He looks lost. “We can manage. Don’t need the bedroom… just you. Want you right now.”

“Jungko—”

You don’t anticipate it — so it draws a small moan out of you when his fingers suddenly graze between your legs, digging in for just a moment. Fingering you for a split second as you gasp — and then they disappear again.

He moves in to kiss your cheek. Just a peck first. Then his lips open against your neck, hand moving up your body and pushing your tit up. His tongue soon joins the fun, darting through his parted lips, sucking your tits hard. Biting, groaning, moaning.

“Jungkook.” You push your touch through his hair as he kisses his way further down, nibbling at your sides, and you whine, “Don’t wanna wait, Kook…”

His eyes are closed and his voice hushed, raspy and deep as he says between kisses, “I’ll be gone for a moment, baby. You’ll barely notice, I promise.”

Strange how he means distanced from your kiss, not from your body. Strange how you miss each other while in the same room, but not melted into each other.

You’re losing your mind. Throwing your head back, ruining your hair against the tiles. Eyes droopy and hazy, mind turning in various directions as you relish each touch and peck. Your body relaxes; all the weight of the world off your shoulders.

Jungkook fondles your body, caresses all of you, planting kisses on your tummy, your waist, your pelvis. Continues to tug at the flesh of your thighs with his lips. It feels like a massage, not painful but gentle. Careful as he hoists up one of your legs, throwing it over his shoulder. 

And then… he starts.

His tongue flashes out to your clit. Parts your folds. It’s difficult from this position, but his pointy wet muscle paints patterns over your pussy. And you reel.

Jungkook truly is an artist. Knows to make you mewl, turns your breaths laboured. You move your hips, guiding his face closer with your hand in his hair, slowly riding it. The French kisses, the brush against your thighs… he’s…

God.

“God,” you echo, “I love this, I—”

He’s feasting. Letting out alluring sounds, spurring you on, and you almost topple over the edge. But Jungkook knows what he’s doing — leaves you yearning, moving away and up to you.

When he said he’d be gone for a moment, he truly meant it.

Your lip quivers when he looks at you, ordering a soft, “You’ll come together with me.” He raises your chin. “Okay? You and I together. Always.”

Must be a hidden message. He’s not just talking about sex anymore, is he? But him and you in one bubble, separated from the world. Nothing but you, you and you.

You barely wait another second. Instead, you immediately lurch forwards, initiating a kiss beyond sinful from the start. Teeth clashing, tongues feral. For a couple seconds you breathe into each other, letting out odd noises, his hand pulling your leg back up again and pinning it against the wall.

You’re on your tippy toes when his cock teases your entrance, his lips soon on your shoulder again. Cold chain brushing your skin. He’s sucking harshly, guiding his dick inside with determination. Sheer impatience is palpable in his touch and audible in his sounds.

The head of his dick parts your folds, diving in; and you let out a moan so lustful that he grows downright desperate against your shoulder. Standing here like this is hard, too; so he puts his palms on your ass, commands—

“Jump once.”

“What?”

“Jump,” he repeats, “I’ll hold you. Want you, please.”

“Okay…” you mumble. You put your hands on his broad shoulder, readying yourself, “Okay.”

And then you do — immediately wrapping your legs around him. And he lets you fall slowly, body pressed against yours, so you’re sandwiched between him and the wall; so he can guide his hardness back to your cunt.

You drop onto it slowly, carefully. Impaling yourself on him, inch by inch penetrating your insides. The more you take in, the deeper the crease between your eyebrows. And when he’s bottomed out, you feel like… yourself again?

Because what moment is more intimate than this? What moment allows you to crawl out of your shell more than this?

Even if in a crude sense, this is yet another definition of home. And every definition can be traced back to him.

“You feeling alright?” he asks, and you nod immediately.

“Is a bit weird, but…” you hold onto him, one hand moving to his face. You don’t finish your sentence; only nod, exhaling against his lips.

“Can I start?”

Another nod; and then he starts pumping in. Slowly in and out; you’re firmly in place against the wall, slipping just a little. His hands engulf your ass again — his strength is mind-numbing, and his sounds loud as he splits you in two.

Your eyes shut for a mini moment, and when they crack open again, they’re met with the still mirror. It’s fogging up again, yet still clear enough to make out Jungkook’s back; the form of his body. Your thoughts tangle up.

You’ve seen him shirtless a million times before, fully bare — but it might be the first time you’re enjoying this very perspective. And the entirety of him… leaves you gasping. Butt naked, ass muscles flexing, the triangle shaped back smooth. Where do his guts even fit?

They’re a blessing, those reflections, catching the way he’s standing, ramming into you. And then you, burying your nails into his shoulder blades, expression fucked out, body moving up and down the wall. Having things done to you by him.

You’re so fucking lucky.

You mutter, “Kook…”

“Yes, baby.”

“You look so good… so…”

“Mmmh, you do, too,” the sentence starts in a clear tone, but morphs into a whisper, “just… can’t see enough of you… shit, babe—”

He leans in, parting your lips with his, your tongues touching as he delivers a rough jab just once. And that’s when things stop working for you.

Because soon enough, you’re swaying to the side, nearly falling; as his protective instincts kick in, immediately holding you, his cock jumps out. And he shakes his head, pecking your temple once, and then deducts, “Okay. This won’t do.”

“Hmmm,” you hum in agreement, weak on your legs, “bad idea for sure.”

“Hold up.”

He’s quick to turn you around, thoroughly in charge of your body tonight — you’re fully under his mercy. Ready to kneel and bend for him. And Jungkook, understanding your boundaries, gives you all you need — knows what to do, knows when to stop.

And you keep handing over control; more so when he pushes you over the sink, stating, “Okay. Looks easier.” A pause. “Looks so much fucking better, too.”

Wish you could see. Fuck, fuck, fuck, you’re tense.

He leans down to kiss your back. His dick pokes between your ass cheeks again, slipping down and further down until it makes itself home between your nether lips again.

It falls into it in one fell swoop, swiftly, as if it’s no effort at all — guess it never is.

And god, does the position feel heavenly.

Balls deep inside; the first angle that allows full unhinged, animalistic mode.

But he still starts out slow; with long strokes and a hand in your hair. You tumble backwards a little, urging him to move too, lifting your ass higher and pushing your legs together for maximal effect.

Allowing more tightness for him; more friction for you.

“I… missed fucking you so much,” he says between thrusts. “You feel unreal.”

You guess you do. He does, too. Maybe the two of you need a reminder that this is all too real; perhaps a tantalising equivalent to a wake-up-pinch.

So you suggest, “Fuck me harder, Kook.”

“Hmm… want that?”

“Been waiting so fucking long.”

And while a lover of patience and anticipation — who is he to reject your wishes after the entire ordeal occurring in this room? The two of you have dragged out this moment plenty.

So he listens fast; soon using your neck as leverage as his inked fingers wrap it smoothly. Agreeing, “It’d be my literal pleasure, babe.”

God, he’s a dumbass — but you can’t physically react. Too caught up in something else; storing the laughter and jokes for later.

Because he picks up on pace, not too much right away; but enough for his hips to slap against your ass. Enough for you to be catapulted forwards with a whine, cheek pressing to the glass.

You lift your hand, accidentally wiping again, but only manage a trail, hand sliding down. From behind, you hear a hoarse praise, “Looks so fucking hot,” he draws a sharp breath, nearly hissing, “I promise I’ll be careful, just…”

He pulls at your hair. Shoves his cock inside rougher, face closer to you, lips to your cheek. Swallows hard enough for you to hear, and then, “Tell me if it’s too much. Am careful until I can’t be, baby.”

Until he loses control. He says it right before he drops all inhibitions and — goes feral.

You squint your eyes shut, calling out his name; the word echoes in the small room, and for just a second, you worry the neighbours might hear. And then right away, you stop caring again.

Because you want this man. Now and later and forever; want him like this, want him in any way. This isn’t just sex to you — if that’s what you wanted, you’d download an app like your freshman self used to.

No.

No matter how obscene, there’s meaning in every one of your touches; in every stroke, in every word, in every single time you lose yourself in him.

Your stomach twists as he jackhammers into you; you’re craving proximity, craving all his attention. Want all of his emotions and touches raw and merciless. Want to see him.

Although, when your shut eyes open, you only see blurry forms in the mirror moving, him behind you. He squeezes your neck; you see that much before he slides it down your body, straight to your clit, no detours.

He pushes his knee up for a second, touching the edge of the sink and balancing on one leg, but drops it again soon. The white painted, stainless steel of the sink, previously cold on your tummy, burns against your skin now. A chafing feeling.

Jungkook draws more forms against your clit, but then retracts his hand; instead, squishing your tits, indecisive where to touch. But it’s the last move he makes before he straightens his body, palms on your ass until he spanks just once and…

Pulls out again.

What?

“Look at me, sweetheart,” you register.

You pant, fingers clutching the sink and gulping down the tiredness before you manage a turn. Your eyes land on his dick first; it’s fully drenched in your arousal, so unbreakably stiff.

He whispers again, “Look at me,” but the moment you do, he doesn’t withhold your stare for too long. Instead, his hands are back on your cheeks, drawing you close, seeking your lips. His never-satisfied thirst matches yours; you want to remain here and freeze time.

With your arms around his neck, he guides you towards the washing machine, pushing the clothes further aside. He helps you get on it, but you argue immediately, “This could be dangerous, right? Shouldn’t sit here, I think… might break…”

“It’ll be okay,” he says, making himself comfortable between your legs, pushing them apart with his thighs. Two fingers hold your chin, lips ghosting over yours. “Is a cheap ass thing… want a new one anyway.”

You wonder if he’ll say that about all the furniture he’ll fuck you on. Because observing his eyes, you know that he will — will soil every inch of his apartment within, what you anticipate, a short period of time.

But unfortunately for the washing machine, you’re too weak to reject the offer.

So you hold him tight, jostling him closer to you as you ask, “Yeah?”

“Mhmmmm.” The word drowns in your moan when his cock glides back in; when will you ever get used to this? “Don’t worry… won’t break as badly as we will.”

Well, fuck.

The ridges of his cock drag just right along your walls, the angle making your mouth water. Your cunt is burning; and he still dares to ask, “Okay like that?”

“More than okay, Kook… more than—”

He always screws you numb; barely ever lets you finish your sentences. Your moans have become a constant interruption, along with the goddamn things he says, “Your pussy is so good. So, so good.”

And then he’s back making out with you, sweatier than before. His body is enticingly warm, muscles working on you. Both his and your hair sticks to the nape of the neck or your back, and you hold onto him, keening against his lips.

Then, you lean back for a second, keyed up as fuck, propping up your body with your arms. Your palms press against the back of the machine, and he inches close to explore the bare skin of your torso. His chain skims your nipples, as if on purpose; and he kisses you here, there, everywhere.

Neck, clavicles, tits, jaw.

Perspiring without an end, all of this could be gross. But instead, you feel hyped up, sexy as never before. Dizzy at the sight of his golden skin, the small beads of sweat spreading on it.

It takes one or two more minutes of this insanity until things come to an eventual end. A glorious end, that is — filled with deep moans, squealed calls of names, unrhythmic thrusts that fasten for the finale.

“I’ll come,” Jungkook states, and you shoot back up to him, holding his head against the mounds of your tits. He kisses between them, breathing irregular, words muffled, “Gonna come so hard, what the f—”

And when he does, you lose all coherent thoughts immediately. Not that you could think before — but his uncontrolled exclaims already make you wish for a whole new round. Nevermind that your pussy is wrecked and beaten.

Vocal as ever, he finishes with deep shoves, slowing down with each second. His lips remain open between your collarbones, and you feel his eyebrows draw together. Thick strings of hot cum filling you up, your cunt tightens.

And somehow, after all this, he still finds the energy to sneak his hand between your bodies, blindly seeking your clit until he finds it. Familiar circles render you breathless, even though they’re lazy — but picking up on intensity when he leans back, still breathing hard.

He looks absolutely done — still fucking the rest of him into you. But you’re moaning and groaning, and he’s far from giving up as he says, “Come with me, baby.”

Honestly, he doesn’t need to tell you. You’re already calling and blurting out random words, already limp. Wrapping your legs around his torso with the tiny remaining energy you have left, absolutely insane.

Jungkook kisses you one last time. And you let the build up in your lower tummy and pussy proceed; up and up and up to the peak — until he delivers one last stroke, cock already softening, finger on your nub diligent and…

You milk his dick in its entirety. Your pussy clenches and unclenches. Random figures swim in your vision, flashy behind your eyelids. Limbs trembling, body a mess and fingers hooking into his chain, you only notice now that you’re repeatedly whispering his name.

Winding and crying. Trying not to tug too hard, to break the jewellery, but still urging him closer, closer.

You’re shivering, surviving the vertigo, breathing stagnant. Trying to control it. Quivering like fucking crazy, not feeling your legs.

Also hating how his cum is dripping onto the damn washing machine. In your hazy mood, you laugh a little.

It takes a bit of time for the two of you to calm down, to dim the adrenaline in your nerves. Your chests rise and fall in unison, still clutching to the embrace. His skin is flushed, yours hot, skin tingling with the lingering heat of the passed passion.

And when he finally moves back, looking at you, you see half a dozen things in there. Satisfaction and vulnerability among them. Maybe even a hint of mischievousness, proud of whatever just happened; happy with the emotions it conjured.

Stars in his eyes. Contentment, composure and affection at last.

A pleasant stillness follows, the world outside the bathroom nonexistent. The aftermath of the steamy encounter lingers until you break the silence after all.

“When the hell,” you start, throat dry, “did you get so broad?”

“…What?”

“You just. You looked endless in the mirror. You’re so—”

Amused, he displays a grin as sly as you adore. He tsks and then mocks, “Stop drooling.”

“You first.”

His chuckle is throaty; a result of the constant exclaims and the absolute dehydration. You give the two of you a moment to collect saliva on your tongue, to swallow and wet your cords.

Your fingers paint an invisible, light pattern on his skin; tracing his tattoos is one of your favourite things to do. You jest, “That’s a good way to destress.”

He arches an eyebrow, then rolls his eyes — but the devotion towards you behind the gesture is irrefutable. It carries into his words, no matter how playfully mocking his tone or his sighs, “Everything for the princess.”

“So,” you pause, lips curling into a soft smile. “Is this what I’m gonna be getting for the rest of my life?”

You see it immediately. The explosion in his eyes; the burst of stars in the depths of his pupils. Clear as the night sky, fond and sweet and magical. Guess you spoke big words for sure.

“…The rest of your life, huh?” he asks.

“No?”

“Is that what you want?”

Ever-the-boomerang, you gauge his reaction, closing the distance between you. Lips barely apart, you throw back again, “Don’t you?”

You don’t need to glance through his ribs, lungs, blood and skin; you see the swelling around his heart. Emotions swimming in it in abundance. You see all of it right in his eyes.

And his voice proves it; delicate and quiet, “Baby… you make my heart drop to my stomach all the time. Do I not look at you like I want a rest of my life with you?”

Gosh. You’re too weak for this.

“Look at me like that more often,” you answer, breathing against him, eyes dancing with delight, “maybe I’ll believe you then.”

“Huh,” he makes, letting out an entertained huff, “brat. Maybe later. Let’s get you cleaned up and dressed for now, alright?”

Right. You forgot you’re still here. Snapping back into reality is always a task.

Of course it is.

Because your world is a cocoon; you don’t want to leave it just yet. And maybe, somewhere in the near future — you won’t have to anyway.

Jungkook and you don’t waste minutes doing formalities tonight. No flickering candle flames; no organised set up of your table. You dim the lights, snatching a lamp from his bedroom and rely on it along with the TV’s brightness.

You filled your plates and stomachs with a dish he’s wanted to show you for a while. It’s some special Jeon recipe — limited to him specifically, not his family. The brief cut in your relationship kept you from the meal, but watching him fiddle with the pots and cutlery was worth the wait after all.

He’s still proud of it; you’re filled to the brim, sick to the core, but the noodle-Buldak-mayo-perilla-oil-combination introduced the night just perfectly.

Your body is limp against his after dinner, bloated. A mutual agreement concluded that watching a movie might be the easiest activity you could indulge in to further destress. So you cuddle up, eyes droopy as you wait for the Netflix logo and thump to subside.

You let the username float by, though unable to suppress your giggle. Your back shakes against him, his hand halting mid-air, remote control in it, and you comment, “Letjungcook7. You’re such a dork.”

“Why?” You look back, met with raised eyebrows and round eyes. “Do you not like it?”

“I love it. Don’t you ever dare change it.”

He tuts, trademark smirk tilted; responds, “And don’t you ever change your Sunny Baudelaire icon.”

“God, she’s an iconic baby,” you groan, enthusiastic; your hands gesture to the TV, Baudelaires nowhere in sight, “I will never shut up about this show.”

“That’s why you’re not allowed to change it. Kinda cute how much you love it.”

“Jungkook,” you tug at his unoccupied arm, placing his wrist and palm over your belly button, “would you ever rewatch it with me?”

His hand rubs gently over your shirt, and then drops until his fingers are toying with your — his — jogger’s strings. “I’m a pro at rewatching. I’m down.”

You whisper a dragged celebratory word, eyes back to the screen. He’s scrolling through the genres fast, barely inhaling the titles and summaries. And when he skips three more of the stuff you’d usually settle on, you say, “Don’t think you’ll find anything on there.”

Ironically enough, he answers, “We’ve barely looked. Look. Knives Out’s second part is on there.”

“I just watched it recently. Hmm, what about that Poe movie with Christian Bale?”

On cue, he passes it three seconds later, only stopping on it for a moment before he voices, “Hmm…”

You wait. Drag out another second. Then conclude, “Okay, you’re not feeling it. Got it. Something else?”

“What about Disney?”

“What about scrolling until we fall asleep?”

The hand still busy with the strings moves up to your sides, pinching you lightly. You flinch, hard enough to nearly break his nose, overdramatic by nature. Amidst your commotion, you hear him say, “Don’t mock me. I’ll kick you from the couch.”

“I’ll just stay on the floor then.”

“Angel, I swear.”

“Okay, okay. Sorry.”

But you’re not.

Because the bicker continues for another ten minutes, remote control snatched every now and then, ideas suggested and immediately rejected.

Jungkook admits his guilty pleasures merely a couple minutes later, and you conjure all your patience and discourse abilities to explain why you can’t watch The Notebook or Titanic anymore.

But once Dion’s soprano voice builds a nest in a lobe of your brain, you give in, half laughing, half agitated as you tackle the 90s classic — only for Jungkook to click out again.

“It’s no fun when we’re not both ready to watch it.”

“Dude…”

More scrolling, you guess.

Five more minutes pass — and eventually, Titanic deserted, you sing the songs of Coco instead. You expect Jungkook’s attention and lips to shift halfway through the movie, tracing down your neck or along your sides – a standard for a weekday movie night.

But to your surprise, he powers through it with minimal dialogue and wide, focused eyes. Palm above your ribs, moveless under your shirt and his cheek pressed against your heartbeat, you assume he’s fallen asleep by the time the credits roll.

Until – you feel warm liquid wetting your shirt, a sniffle combining with his shaky breath before you ask with your own damp eyes, “Babe— are you crying?”

His answer is delightfully unashamed and immediate, “I’ve never watched Coco without crying.”

The soft strains of the movie’s soundtrack won’t let your eyes dry either; but Jungkook seems far more into it than you. Adoration burns hot in your veins.

“You never told me that!” you exclaim.

“Because it’s not worth telling. Should be a given — these movies are made to cry to!”

You giggle through your tears. Jungkook’s mind works in miraculous ways — non-judgemental, yet probably flashing a side-eye to those who do not partake in a sob fest during Coco or Encanto.

“I honestly love how you’re not a toxic male at all, you know?” you point out; you feel a huff against your chest.

At least he’s smiling through the brief sadness, too.

You crane your neck, not quite turning around just yet, and watch him rub his cheek clean off the tears. Not that his eyes have stopped welling up, though.

For a moment, you observe, staring at the swollen, pouty lower lip. His pupils glimmer in the TV’s light, long locks brushed back; half of them tied in a tiny ponytail.

You could overthink every detail of his face. Tell him all about his everlasting elegance. Instead, you only lower your voice, soft as you say, “You look pretty even when you cry.”

“Thank you,” he returns, though fingertips still work at the liquid, and you can’t help but laugh.

You can barely believe that’s the same confident beast who was pressing you against cool tiles just an hour ago. The stark contrast baffles you.

You’re amused when you question, “It really affects you so much?”

“Everything about it!” he immediately argues. You expand your eyes. “The way Coco looks at Miguel at the end. And that freaking moment when she meets her parents at the end. Does it not affect you?”

“Oh, of course it does,” you defend, “I’m a story girl. I’ll cry reading and watching these things, for sure.”

“And then the lyrics,” he continues, in his element a hundred percent, “the thought of remembering someone even after they’re gone and far away…”

The further his sentence progresses, the more the words blur. His voice is feeble, hoarse when he gets to the final syllables. When he pauses between his rambling to draw a breath, you hear a heartbreaking shake in his inhale.

And the exhale sounds like a quiet sob.

You turn back immediately, pressing onto the pause button, remote control still in his hand. The credits darken the room as opposed to the movie’s colours before. You see a damp trail along his cheek, eyelashes wet.

Your smile vanishes as you stare a little longer. The blanket falls from your chest into your lap when you lift your arm from under it, hastily drying his tears with your thumbs. Just slightly, he leans into the touch, but his face soon falls, an attempt to hide.

You ask, “What’s wrong?”

Jungkook isn’t embarrassed of tears — you figured this out without him admitting it to you. But he’s embarrassed of the guilt he feels; acknowledging it when he speaks.

“It’d just be nice,” hands holding his face drop; you touch his chest, “to make up with the family like this. They made it look easy.”

You keep looking. Bewildered, unable to answer for seconds too long. You blink until the words sink in properly, incapable of more than, “I’m sorry, baby.”

“No, no,” he argues, shaking his head, “I mean. Who am I to tell you something like this?”

“It’s okay. Your worries are legit worries, too. Look at me,” you reassure, prompting him to meet your gaze. “You’re not a bad person. Okay? It’s… so terrible that you think you are.”

“I fucked up.”

It dawns on you once more that he firmly believes that; causes a searing sting. The process is neither a smooth nor a quick one — you know it’ll take a while for him to convince him otherwise. To drop his current beliefs about himself.

“You didn’t,” you refute, firm certainty and conviction in your voice. “That’s not how a fuck-up is defined, I promise you. And those who are actually wrong probably know, too.”

“It’d just be nice,” he starts again; the shrug of his one shoulder doesn’t distract you from the misery and self-loathing in his eyes, “if he called at least.”

“I know. I don’t know, I… do you think you could call instead?”

Jungkook’s lashes brush his skin, the apples of his cheeks not as round and squishy as usual. Yet, the sadness makes him look younger, softer.

You sigh; a warm blanket isn’t enough anymore. You need to wrap him in the comfort of the world — ideally, in his father’s care.

Jungkook opens his mouth for another argument, but then holds it in, says after another moment of contemplation, “Actually… There’s a gathering coming up. I’ll see my people there, so… I don’t know. Trying won’t hurt, right?”

“It never does.”

His eyes start unfocusing. You recognise it in the way he glues his gaze to a point on the glass table, unblinking, staring nowhere in truth. You keep your attention on him for another second, hoping he’ll look at you, even if forlorn.

But when he doesn’t, you wrap your arms around him instead. His chest is calmer against your head now, breathing as soft as the palms that find your back. He presses you into his body by mere inches; you barely notice.

Your fingers draw shapes on his arm, a subtle consoling gesture. In the background, you hear the song fade, volume lower now. The movie soon transitions to something else; you don’t pay any mind to it, drowsy and distracted in his embrace.

But then your mind wanders; to the man keeping Jungkook’s thoughts hostage. You remember the conversation the two of you had last Sunday. You recall the way your hand held his broken heart together.

You wish it was as easy as a small scar — an echo of whatever once transpired, but also a reminder that it healed.

Then, for a second, you think of your own wounds. How they still need to be cured, too. How years and time alone won’t fix issues; you need to tackle them actively — maybe at some point, the two of you can.

You laugh softly against his shirt, burying between his pecs; joking, “We’re perfect for each other. Dysfunctional families and whatnot.”

His chuckle is still a light tremble, but genuine enough for you to celebrate. His hands push a little harder into your back; your body shifts up his lap, butt half on his thigh. Eyes shut, still sniffling.

Jungkook wraps around you like a soothing force, an invisible bubble. A bandage despite carrying all bruises. You sigh in contentment, head dizzy from exhaustion; waking up just when he blurts a question again.

“You really think that, right? That I’m not a bad person.”

You crack your eyes open a slit.

You understand. Someone who overthinks needs multiple repeated reassurances — you’re the same.

So you nod against him, guaranteeing, “You’re… kind of ridiculously amazing. You’re someone who gives all those people hope who don’t believe in humanity anymore.” Pause. “And I admire you in every way. So much.”

He doesn’t respond. You wait. Further dead silence, interrupted by the soft sounds of the TV. You lick your lower lip, dropping your gaze to where your thumb rubs his wrist. Tracing a vein.

His mellow voice reverberates, a melody to your eardrums when he whispers, “We’d do this so much if you were here all the time.”

“Crying in each other’s arms, huh?”

He clicks his tongue, accompanied by the grin you’re certain graces his face, even if you can’t see. You hear it in his voice all the more, “Sure. Also, have dinner together. Shower and watch movies together. Laugh and cry.”

You smile. “I still can’t believe it, you know? That you want this… and me at all.”

“You feel that, too, yeah?” Fingertips move up your spine, between your shoulder blades and then to the nape of your neck. Tickling, grazing gently. “I promise I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t truly feel all that, though.”

“What’s all that?”

“Just.” His chest rises. Then falls. “Everything.”

One of your heartbeats freezes, you’re sure. And when it comes back alive, you think — maybe he doesn’t need the world’s comfort after all. Or his father’s care. Maybe yours is enough right now.

But then again.

You’d be damned if you kept your traumas intact. Or his. You took each other as you came long ago — as vulnerable human beings, with a whole lot of baggage. With all the injuries on your heart.

Yet, this isn’t a state you want to accept. For neither of you.

Your unwavering belief remains steadfast — that one day, things need to become… okay.

So you gulp down all the pain, lighting a candle in your chest, and say,

“It’s not over yet, baby.”

Zara keeps yelling orders around. Her voice, usually collected and tender, is agitated today. You can barely imagine how many little tasks, how many stressed phone calls must be overrunning her.

You establish a distance between your device and your ear, protecting your hearing with one eye squinting shut. And when she returns to the conversation, you exhale through the nose.

“Sorry. You were asking—”

“How’s it look?” you repeat.

“I mean, everyone’s stressed,” she responds, clearly frustrated; as if it should be obvious to you. And it is; but you’ll spiral, too, if you don’t keep your calm, at least. “A lot to do.”

“You’re sure you don’t need me to come earlier?”

“All good, love. You’re not a manager yet,” she stops her speech to mumble something to another co-worker, imaginary hands jam packed with preparations for the press conference. “But when you are, you won’t know what to do with all the stress.”

“Great outlook into a potential future.”

“I just mean you should enjoy things while they last.”

Zara isn’t the only one wandering up and down the building to assure perfection. She’s only one of the big mentors, managers to handle everything; responsible for the catering and content to be presented at the conference.

Her team stands firmly behind her, but you don’t blame her for still allowing her head to steam. Of all busy people in their blazers and slacks, however, she’s been the only one to spare some time for you.

You’re grateful for her enthusiasm and support. You smile as you ask, “Do you think I can answer everything the way I intend to?”

“I think so.”

“It’s so new to me.”

“Yeah, but you’re a natural at this stuff. And also,” she speaks slower now. The chaos behind her has calmed a little; her voice echoes off somewhere. Perhaps a restroom. “Things are looking good.”

You stop sauntering through the room, pausing in front of the bed’s corner before dropping onto it. Dragging your tongue over your lower lip, you blink, and then ask, “You’re sure?”

“We had a couple conversations over here. Made a few more phone calls, and I think you don’t need to worry about a thing. We’ll come up with something if things derail, though, okay?”

You’re uncertain, still anxious. Should this afternoon flop, you’ll be screwed.

You need it to succeed. You can’t afford misfires. Ugh.

Restless, your foot taps against the floor. You try not to think of things going astray; try to think of a smooth progress, not precarious in any way.

Yet, you ask doubtfully, “Can we do that?”

“We always can. That’s business.”

Guess she’s right. Your mother has saved you one too many times — from stupid things you did as well as from things you never needed saving from.

A rich human being’s power over the media — and frankly, the world — is unbeatable. Barely to be underestimated.

“Okay,” you mutter, “thank you.”

Despite only hearing her voice, you imagine her nod, the way she often does. You miss the warm, promising palm on your shoulder. Appreciate that she’s still here instead of dropping you to the side; leaving the call to handle more relevant issues.

No, she lingers there; you hear her breathe until she asks, “Are you bringing your man, too, by the way?”

Your man.

You straighten your back in pride, bright smile back, “Yeah! He said he’d come and support me. But he’s not home yet.”

“Oh? Well, you gotta be here in three hours. Where’d he go?”

“God knows. But don’t worry about punctuality.” You hear a hum, glancing up at the clock. Past noon. “Hey, also. My parents are definitely gonna come, right?”

“Babe,” she drags the word a little, and you can almost see her side-eyeing you, “journalists will be present. Cameras everywhere. At least your mother would never miss such a thing.”

Right. Cares about that company too much.

You remember the times she proved it to you. When you’d come home from middle school, eating some extravagant lunch while watching her talk on TV. Conversing with your staff.

“Okay. Good,” you say, happy about that very answer for once.

Outside, a door creaks. Steps echo through the hallway, a soft call of your name following as you hear the jingling of keys stop.

He sounds joyful.

You get up, phone halfway off your ear as you say, “Hey, I should go. I think that he—”

And the moment you look at the open door of the bedroom, your heart stops. For a second, you fear an intruder at his apartment, but the longer you look, the more your brain gives out.

The black-white-red jacket hugs his broad shoulders comfortably, the thin white sweater underneath it nearly transparent enough to reveal his tiny nipples. But despite his stature, it’s not his body that kills the power in your head.

It’s the—

You murmur last words into the phone, making out a goodbye that doesn’t reverberate as much anymore. She’s probably out of the restroom again; too distracted to give your mumble any attention anyway.

You place your phone where you previously sat and inhale his appearance carefully.

First off — you can see his ears. Can see most of his eyes. His forehead.

His hair is still dark, but it’s tamed. The wild locks, usually a feature you’ve gotten used to over the span of that one year, lay comfortably on his head. In fact, most of them are gone.

You feel a needle in your chest, but one of the surprising sort. Not painful at all.

“Wow,” you only say.

He reaches to the nape of his neck, fingertips brushing the hair there. “Yeah?”

You move towards his body, eyes fixated on every hair strand. Then, close enough, you state the obvious, “You cut your hair.”

“I… yeah. Is it terrible?” he asks, round eyes meeting yours. He raises his hand again, to his ear this time, scratching behind it for a second. “Not used to it at all. But I figured I’d look a little more serious as an artist like this.”

Really? Most artists you knew cared the least about a fancy appearance.

Then again, Jungkook doesn’t look fancy. He just looks different. Breathtaking, more mature, older.

His cheekbones look more chiselled now, his eyes wider. You could pass out right here, right now, and he still wouldn’t know how relentlessly he affects you.

“More serious?” you ask, less because you need an explanation. More because your mind keeps wandering, and you can’t fathom a word he’s saying.

“Just. Needed a change, I think,” he admits, “and wanted to adjust to a press conference’s typical look, too.”

“You did this for the press conference?”

“I wanted to look put together.”

Your heart dissolves and dissipates. His voice is soft as a petal, tender like the colours on his arm. The expression he sports is unsure, like he wants to hide — waiting for your opinion.

He really put thought into this. Woke up this morning and set a goal with purpose, not uttering a word to you to surprise you a couple hours later.

You don’t know what to say. You barely know what to feel, except this unbearable urge to ramble down every piece of tiny emotion he’s ever made you feel.

You want his body wrapped around you, engulfed in a blanket, head on his chest and slumbering for the rest of your life. Want to mumble little confessions, shiver when his lips touch your scalp.

Overwhelmed — that’s what you are.

“I loved the long hair,” you finally admit, “I guess I got too used to it, so I need to adjust, but. But… this is so… It… it suits you.”

You’re stumbling over your words, suggesting doubt. Not the way to go. Perhaps they shouldn’t have chosen you as one of the press conference speakers after all. 

Jungkook’s concern grows visible in his big, round pupils; expressive, a true glimpse into his heart. You feel bad because you’re not as good with words as he is, and because he seemed so happy about his choice.

You just can’t fucking express yourself — even though you’re melting inside, falling harder. And maybe he notices your awkwardness, because he tries again.

“You’re uh— sure you don’t hate it?”

“No! God, no. It’s different. You look amazing, Kook. You look like…”

He swallows. “Like what?”

“You’re so pretty, Jeon Jungkook.” You say it with genuinity this time. He closes his lips, blinking, and while he attempts to veil his relief, you still see the high rise of his chest. “You look fucking gorgeous, no matter what you do. I… I mean it.”

The answer satisfies him. His risen shoulders drop a little, tension falling off, and he fixes the already perfectly sitting collar of his jacket before he smiles. Just a little, a subtle twitch of the corners of his lips.

As soft as his response, “I always aim to reach your level, you know?”

You roll your eyes. Partly to keep them from watering because your heart is bursting. Splintering like every morning and every night; you wonder if you’ll ever get used to it.

A couple gentle words lie heavy on your tongue, pressing against the muscle to let them out; but at the prospect of actually uttering them, your guts twist. You don’t want to throw up before the meeting.

So you remove the tightness from your chest with a deep exhale, nearly until your lungs are dry, and say, “Shut up.”

Playfully, you deliver a soft push against his chest, laughing when his dramatic ass stumbles backwards. Submerged in those goddamn dimples, you immediately grab the hem of his jacket and before you know it, you’ve taken a step forward and landed in his arms.

You sneak your arms underneath the leather-ish material, not hesitating for a second before you’re squeezing his torso. He lets out a choked sound, groaning, but reacts similarly fast as you.

His heartbeat accelerates for a moment, right against your ear as you make yourself small. The sweater smells like his favourite detergent and him; musky, fresh. Your palms, flat against his back, crave deeper touch.

Nothing crude; just an afternoon on the bed behind you, limbs entwined, laughing about things that probably aren’t that funny anyway.

For a moment, the silence transcends words. You inject the blend of gratitude and affection through your touch, ensuring he understands.

But when it’s not a testament to your emotions enough, you speak against his chest, voice very likely muffled, “You didn’t have to do this for me… you just. You never have to do anything for me, but you still do.”

“I’ll do anything for you.”

Immediate and sincere. Voice unwavering.

God, you’re not his strongest soldier.

A smile tugs at your lips, and you chide, "Stop that."

"What?"

"If you keep saying these things," you continue, a frisky lilt in your voice, "I'll die. Do you want me to die?"

Jungkook chuckles. Always a soothing melody in a hushed room. He remarks, grip still wrapped around you securely, "Acting all innocent now."

You don’t understand right away what he means — but then you hear his heartbeat, picking up on pace again.

Makes you want to squash him harder. Melt into him further.

“Shut up, Jeon,” you respond with a nudge, cheek pressed against his shirt. Just a moment longer — just a couple more seconds to inhale the solacing scent.

Your heart is unguarded; he could sever it if he wanted to. He’s proven that he has the power to. Yet, you keep fuelling it, vulnerable in his warmth as you say, “You’ve no clue what you mean to me, Kookie.”

Your vivid imagination might be forcing things upon your mind that aren’t actually there, but you do think you perceive the way his entire body melts. Nearly limp, in a state so relaxed and peaceful that you have only experienced in the mornings before.

Waking him up for work, feeling weightless limbs wrapped around you, passed out.

His fingers trace patterns on your back lightly, stirring from bottom to top and back. They first stop at the small of your back, then lift off your body, hands suddenly on your shoulders.

He pushes you off him, your movements reluctant, and looks at you with profound sincerity. His voice matches his expression, gentle and adoring, “Will you tell me how much I mean to you?”

Amidst the delicate minutes you spend standing between the bedroom and the living room, you almost forget that there’s a world outside. It’s a little more grey than before, similar to the suit you’ll be wearing in a couple hours.

You remember the prospect of an audience, the answers you’ve prepared, to questions they probably will ask. Zara told you they wouldn’t hold back — they’d phrase their inquiries friendly, but still keep the intentions devilish.

Right.

The world is still turning out there. You want it to stop for the two of you — frozen moments. But it can’t, at least not yet. Right now it’s too real; and you guess that the worst part is that in your line of business, it will keep revolving around people like you.

Whether you want it or not.

So maybe, if it truly needs to keep spinning and can’t halt for you, keeping you in the centre, you should give it something to talk about, too.

Something crisp, something new. Without a care for it, but all the care for you and the man in front of you.

Which is why you spare him another fond smile, forehead calm and your demeanour confident — and tell him, “I’ll do my best to let you know."

The audience stretches to the far back. All the rows are filled to the brim with reporters or guests. The shutter of the cameras and the flashing lights are agitating.

You look down.

Nervously tapping your feet on the stage, you shrink into yourself inch by inch. Your seat is uncomfortable, though padded, a little too warm against your ass right now. Zara notices your tick and puts a steady hand to your knee, repeating for the millionth time today, “Stop. It’ll be okay.”

“It’s just dawning on me though, Zara.”

“What is?”

You nod faintly towards the mic and the attendees, tell her, “That I was actually chosen to speak. They shouldn’t have chosen me.”

“You asked for it.”

“Yeah, but there are more important things to discuss.”

Zara’s lips form a circle; she shakes and lowers her head, sending out a beam of air that you feel on your wrist, blazer sleeves rolled up. You’ve been like that all evening.

“You can do it,” she repeats patiently, “you’re the boss’ daughter and they want your opinion. You’ll hit them hard with yours.”

You suck in a breath, leave the air in your cheeks, and then puff it out again. “I want to. I hope to, I just— never thought it’d be this nerve-wracking. Don’t wanna say anything wrong.”

The subtle shake of her head continues — or reemerges —, lips in a thin line, eyes slowly blinking, “Mh-mh. We talked about it, okay? Practised all the questions they could ask. You’ll be good.”

“You gotta promise.”

“As much as I can, babe, it’s up to y—” She takes in your falling face, holding back with a sigh when she sees the dread in your pupils. “I promise. Of course.”

She taps your knee, softly and lightly, and then says, “I’m so curious about everyone’s reactions. Like. Gosh, just look at those people.”

You understand what she means. “I know.”

Zara places a manicured thumb on her matte red lips, mumbling, “Here for entertainment. At least a third of them will add their own fantasies to the articles they’ll write. Hypotheses and manipulative, neutrally phrased thoughts. Cockroaches.”

Funny. That’s what you call them, too. A collective understanding, you see.

But.

“Shhh,” you voice, “they—”

“It’s fine. They know it, too. Like lawyers do.”

Can’t refute. Eun told you one too many times how unfair the law business usually is, and how she’ll strive to not have anyone ever manipulate her. To remain genuine.

“Yeah, but,” you still argue, “I imagined they’d be listening in all the time. Don’t they do lip reading and stuff?”

She nods, a finger still on her mouth, smiling, “Mhm. I also feel like I could say whatever, but it’ll be you they’ll focus on today.”

Your heart drops, an uncomfortable twist in your guts adding to the stress. Might have to dash to the bathroom at the very last minute. You curse, “Shit, Zara… I should fucking ru—”

“Stay. You can do this. I promise.”

“Okay,” you take another deep breath, helping your oxygen-lacking, spinning head, “okay.”

You look back to the media present, ready to survive questions; prepared to provide answers. The moderator is talking to your mother at the front, covering the mic with a hand.

They gave you around five minutes to speak, and in that time, you need to answer everything. How you do it is up to you, but the pressure to perform in a certain way, accordingly, weighs heavily on you.

But it’s alright.

You’ll just need to stay confident. Stick to your message. They’ll have things to say anyway — and you’ll make the best of them.

You stare past the lights, squinting to find him, raking your neck. His figure towers in the back, easy to detect, and once he meets your eyes — or perhaps never having averted his from you — he lifts a hand to wave in tiny motions.

Then, he drops his fingers again, entwining them in front of his body. He isn’t necessarily allowed here, but you were able to sneak him through in advance. So now he’s a couple feet from the wall, choosing to stand rather than sit, so you find him easily.

So you seek his eyes for comfort if need be.

Before you parted near the entrance, he said, “I’ll be offering a dozen thumbs up like a fool if you need me to.”

You chuckled — but maybe he meant it. Because his smile and nod undoubtedly dispel your fears; as if he can see you struggling.

The seconds drag on, and the conference begins seven minutes later. Your mother is the first to talk, outlining a general overview of what’s to come. Of Charmante’s philosophies, of its success, praising the team.

Then, she forwards to important employees like Zara, letting them ramble about launches or ideas in depth. Business strategies, partnerships, bringing across points that you usually don’t get the chance to share.

This is legit press; even though out for a loophole, they won’t follow you around or hide in the shadows. Incessant and vexing, but at least they’re allowed here.

Conversations about new collections, store openings as well as expansions and customer engagement pass in a trice, and at some point, another coworker is uttering last words to a last question.

And you realise — that you’re next.

The moderator introduces you with pride; everyone applauds, smiling at you fondly despite all the controversies. ”Controversies.” Under quote marks, as Zara pointed out, because you never committed an offence.

You stand on weak knees. Trembling when you grip the podium. It’s like the sound in the room fades, a single peeping tone overshadowing all noise. You barely blink anymore; not even the flashy white can shut your eyes.

And god, you can hear your breathing. Your damn heart. Your nose sucks in all the air available in the room, or at least in the building, and then you open your mouth to speak.

a/n: this is not a cliffhanger!! tumblr just doesn't allow to drop looong posts anymore, so here's the rest of the chapter lol, keep reading and enjoying, i love you and will see you on the other side!! and don't forget to support this chapter, folks 🥺 <3

[gaiuswrites]

yoga!din thoughts:

they've been fucking around for awhile, but only in the studio. never beyond the studio doors, not even in the cramped, single-person bathroom across the hall. their relationship is purely physical—probably couldn't even consider it fwb. he likes her, is irritated by her, likes the smoothness of her pussy. she likes him, is fascinated by him, likes the rigidness of his cock. it doesn't go much further than that.

that all changes when they run into each other at the grocery store.

I-

christ on a cracker here we go. I’m ready to die now. Cause of death, yoga!Din oh NO-

This... I have no idea what any of this is, but Jess and I have been having a good ol’ time with it. I also want to give a shout out to Rachel for always being a rock in these unprecedented times and taking interest in this main man and I’ll probably be sending you similar messages for your masseuse au to torture you and im not even a little sorry about it

(warnings: SMUT, spanking, language, so pls minors, politely, go home thanks)

She always does this—why does she always do this? 

She drifts down the aisles with the practiced effort of a trapeze artist, juggling the load of groceries bundled to her chest.

Get a cart. Just get a damn cart—a basket, something.

But no. She doesn’t. It happens every time: she goes in for one item—maybe two—and two turns to three and three turns to four, and suddenly they’ve multiplied like rabbits and she’s got half the store in her arms.

Trail mix from the bulk bins, almond milk, coffee grounds, bananas, spirulina powder, those delicious chickpea chips that were buy-one-get-one—how was she supposed to just walk past that—spinach, tofu, zucchini noodles, salmon fillets—

And she nearly drops it all when she spots him. Dark hair, dark eyes.

She stalls out, puttering to a halt. He’s reaching into the frozen meats section, rifling through the various cold cuts. She’d recognize the yawn of his back anywhere, the slope of that broad plane— his arms too, how his tricep cuts across the tawny gold. The shapes they can make. 

The positions they can bend her into.

Maybe it’s best if she just turns around now, sneaks away, pretends like none of this ever happened—she could do that. That would be easy—the easier of the two options, to be sure, because the alternative sounds terrifying and messy, and maybe if she just backs up nice and slow—

Din wheels his cart forwards and glances up. Shit.

He’s not sure what he’s even looking at at first. His feet slow, and there’s a groove creased into his forehead, brow ticking down. She’s here— right here in front of him. How can she be here? How can she be anywhere but where he knows her best—knows her at all? Inside that room, woven limbs and sweaty skin on glossed wood floors. How can she be here—outside that sacred space—in his fucking grocery store?

They stare at each other. She breaks first.

“Hi,” she mumbles out, beguiling.

“Hey,” Din responds, gruffer than he means.

“Hi,” she says again, pressing her lips together to hide a smile.

A grin tugs at him too, but he tampers it; they let a silent, pregnant beat pass between them and then—

“What are you doing he-“ “Have you been here befo-“

They’re speaking over each other—nervous and out of step—and they share a huffed chuckle. They’ve never been this before. They’ve always been physical and brash and bold and they’ve never needed words—they’ve shown each other exactly what they meant and what they wanted through touch—and now, when they need them most, they’re at a loss.

“Just getting some supplies,” she answers him with a shrug, causing one of her many parcels to slip from the precarious tower she’s constructed, and Din, ever agile, catches it before it strays too far. 

“My hero,” she quips dryly, gratefully, as he carefully places the package of tofu on top of the heap. He makes a face, wrinkling his nose. “Is that stuff any good?”

“It’s an acquired taste,” she smirks.

He’s closer to her now, less than an arm’s length away, and Din’s eyes flit to the fading mark at the swallow of her neck, peeking up from the collar of her shirt— the mark he left there just days prior, when she ground down on him, supple frame speared by his cock, rocking frantic and needy up and down on him, whimpering hushed noises into the empty studio. His hand splayed the width of her back, cradling her to him as she rode Din, stretching around him fucking perfectly. 

“Fuck, this pussy takes me so well,” he seethed through a clenched jaw, her breasts rutting against his chest with each bounce of her hips. He growled. “You’re so - shit - you’re tight-” 

Din gave her ass a sharp smack before pawing at it, grabbing a fistful of the flesh there and she moaned— she fucking moaned, depraved and oaky, and knocked her head back, lips falling open and eyes rolling shut. Din groaned at the sight—this woman, this fucking thorn in his goddamn side—sheathed around him, writhing as he fucked up into her—and she had the audacity to moan like that. 

“You like that?” He slapped her ass again and she whimpered, clawing at him, tangling her fingers into his hair, nails scraping over his scalp. He had to resist the urge to shudder—snapping his mouth tight around a whine.

Normally, she’d meet him with some sort of resistance. She was cheeky and smarmy and they both knew it—it’s a game they played—perfectly balanced, perfectly opposed. But she couldn’t help it—she was too far gone, too fucked out, and the words unspooled from her lips like yarn. 

“Yes-yes—fuck, Din- please.”

That earned her another swift crack, the pillowed flesh prickling red from the sting of his palm, and it tore a guttural sound out of her, wrecking through her pretty throat. “God, you’re a filthy little thing. So f-fucking filthy for me-“ 

He ripped her orgasm out of her, his fingers snaked between their bodies, furiously working at her clit in tight, wet circles. It felt like a punch to his gut, as her pussy clamped down around him and gushed. 

When he finally came, spilling into her slicked cunt, he had to bite down on her neck just to keep from fucking shouting. 

He tears his gaze off the bruise, returning to her face—and it’s hardly any better. The corner of her mouth has turned up, just barely, the whisper of it wry and aching. That look—that infuriating, debilitating glint in her eyes—has settled and it makes his cock twitch against his jeans.

“Having a barbecue?” she asks, nodding to his cart, the beer and buns and patties there.

He clears his throat, “Something like that.”

Fenn insisted on it—’I’m not wasting the perfect weather. We’re all doing something, whether you like it or not’— He could only fight her on it for so long. Lesser men have tried and failed, and he knew it best to quit while he was ahead.

“Sounds fun. It’s supposed to be a beautiful weekend.”

“Yeah, so I hear.” Din has to fight the roll of his eyes.

The spell had been broken. They’d spirited themselves away—lying to each other and themselves—as if their tryst existed above consequence, above ramification—like they weren’t even real people. Just ideas, ideas they’d fuck and then suddenly and conveniently vanish—out of sight, out of mind; would disappear as the sun that set on them, blurring lines into the dark.

But he sees her here, clumsy willow arms and cotton tee and cut-off shorts and those beautiful fucking legs he loves wrapped around him so much, and she’s glowing despite the ugly fluorescent sheen cast up from the linoleum tile and—

It’s different. She’s different. Fuller. He knows her now—like this. And he can’t unknow her.

His throat bobs. Maybe he should ask her if she’s free. If she’s got plans. Maybe—

“I’ll see you on Wednesday then,” she says, something unreadable in her voice.

Din swallows. He nods. “Wednesday.”

Oh fuck, he likes her.

She tips her head to him, grinning something small, and shuffles off towards the register.

He watches her go, eyes following as she rounds a corner and slips away. She can feel them on her, his eyes, boring into her backside—all the way to her car, through the town, up to her driveway, into her kitchen where she cupboards her groceries—she feels him, the heavy heat of him, melting against her spine.

@djarinsbeskar @frannyzooey @pedros-mustache

[mochiable]

anonymous request: hi bub, i don’t know if you’re still taking requests but i wanted to ask for a namjoon drabble or one shot about him and reader meeting on the bus and namjoon asking them out. a lot of fluff and cheesiness pleaseeee. thank you sm!

— rainy route.

pairing namjoon x gn!oc. genre fluff. wc 2.8k

The raindrops fell heavily, without stopping. They pounded the ground angrily, unleashing all their fury on the dark, wet pavement. People were running, looking for somewhere to take shelter from the rain. You just watched them, scrutinising them with your eyes and pondering why they would escape the rain, it was just water, just that, liquid falling from the sky.

You jumped into a puddle, splashing and getting mud on your shoes. You smiled sideways, wiggling your feet from side to side. Your father was going to kill you when he saw you.

As you got closer to the bus stop, the silhouette of a tall, hooded boy became clearer and clearer. As soon as you recognised him, your feet anchored themselves to the ground, forbidding you to walk any further and bringing you closer and closer to the boy. Now was the moment when you regretted not having taken an umbrella with you, the moment when you were ashamed of your soaked clothes, of your broken, craggy hair and above all of your muddy shoes. God, he must have seen you jump over that puddle.

Slowly your feet revived and you started walking towards the bus stop. Facing your fateful destiny you managed to get under the shelter of the roof, although nothing made sense anymore. You tried to ignore the male presence standing a few feet away from you, but you couldn't help but feel your heart pounding in your chest.

His name is unknown information. You knew absolutely nothing about him, only that he was damned handsome and generous. You saw him every day when he came to take the bus home. For months you had the opportunity to watch him from a distance, trying to camouflage your curiosity, but not quite managing to disguise it. You tried to convince yourself that it was impossible for him to notice your constant glances, but deep inside you knew there was a possibility that every time he turned towards you it was because he felt your eyes on his profile.

In any case, even if you had never spoken to him, you felt more than fortunate every time he flashed you his cute smile as a greeting. You had the luxury of thinking that those smiles were only and exclusively for you, scattering from your mind the thoughts that that's what he did with everyone.

“It's turning into a downpour, isn't it?”, his voice brought you out of your reverie, startling you slightly. You turned your head slightly and looked at him out of the corner of your eye. He had his eyes fixed on the sky, watching the raindrops over the top of his glasses.

You looked down slightly and with your right hand you pinched your thigh, trying to prove that the boy was really talking to you. You groaned at the pain you inflicted on yourself, causing the boy to turn his gaze towards you and look at you with curious eyes. Noticing this, you raised your head and looked straight ahead, watching the cars pass by and the water on the road being lifted by their wheels. “Yeah.”

And that's how you kill the only possible conversation you'll ever have with the guy you like.

“God, you're soaking wet. Did you fall in a puddle?”, fortunately I didn't notice any hint of mockery in his question, which somehow managed to make me relax. Just a little.

“No,” you let out a nasal laugh and tried to control your breathing, praying to God your voice wouldn't break. “It's just that I didn't bring an umbrella and I found it stupid to stand under some doorway.”

“Stupid?”, now it was his turn to laugh. Holly fuck, his laugh. You had just found your favourite sound. No doubt you could stay for hours listening to it. “You could have made yourself sick. In fact... yes, I think you already got sick”, in less than a second you found him in front of you, to see his face you had to look up. He brought his hand up to your face and with his index finger quickly touched the tip of your nose. "It's red," he informed you, smiling with sealed lips and raising his cheekbones.

The effort you made at that moment to keep from screaming was beyond any physical exercise you had been able to do so far. Your bones ached, and it wasn't especially because of the cold.

You stood still, the air catching in your throat and your pupils twitching as your eyes connected with his. You were about to say something, but were interrupted by the loud sound of a horn. You both turned your heads and both your eyes and mouth widened as you watched the bus swerve around a car and pass the bus stop. You closed your eyes tightly and leaned forward to keep all the standing water on the ground from caressing your back as little as possible.

However, the lashing of the water never came. That tall boy had been quick enough to roll you over yourself, grabbing your biceps and covering your body with his, as he wrapped his arms around your shoulders in a tight embrace. He groaned at the cold sensation of the water crashing against his back, at the same time as you gasped in astonishment, unable to see beyond the grey fabric of his hoodie.

Did he just do what I think he did?

After a few seconds he separated his body from mine and looked down at me with a worried expression. He tilted his head subtly to make sure I wasn't any wetter than I was before. Seeing how my clothes were safe from another dip, he turned and pulled off his hood, shaking out his hair and running his fingers through it.

I must have looked like a fool, but it was impossible for me not to open my mouth slightly at the sight. My eyes had decided to stop blinking just so I wouldn't miss a second of that beautiful sight.

“Why did you do that,” I asked once I had come out of my trance and approached him. I pawed a little at his sweatshirt, inevitably soaking my hand. He looked at me in confusion, as if what had just happened was hours ago. “You're completely wet! Have you lost your mind?”

Still with his head half-bent and with several strands of hair falling over his eyes, he turned to look at you and smiled. You felt yourself melt at that very moment - how could an already naturally attractive person be even more so? Was that even possible?

“You're worse off than I am. Don't worry, it'll dry,” he replied, repositioning his sweatshirt with one hand as he shook out his other hand to look at the time.

The bus we were both waiting for finally arrived and you both approached the curb to get on. He let you pass first, so you gave him a smile as a thank you. While you were looking for the bus card so you could pay for the trip, he went to find a seat. You finally managed to get your card and as soon as you had paid you made your way to your seat.

You had intended to sit in the front seats, but in the distance you saw the as-yet-unnamed boy raise his arm and wave to you, then point to the empty seat next to him. Not believing that he could be talking to you, you turned your head in case there was someone behind you, but obviously there wasn't. You turned again and pointed to yourself with your index finger touching your chest. You heard a soft chuckle from him and saw him nod his head repeatedly. Feeling your cheeks slowly turning pink, you walked towards him while trying to hide your face with the collar of your jacket.

“I hope you don't mind sitting with someone who looks like they've just had a shower,” he joked once you sat down next to him. You couldn't help the giggle that escaped your lips. Sitting next to you is a dream come true, you thought.

“That's what I should be telling you. I don't think you're any worse off than I am,” you replied, looking down at your own clothes and wiggling your feet, making the wet soles squeak on the bus floor.

“What do you mean worse? A bus bathed me whole!”, his eyes widened as he shook his hands in exaggerated gestures to prove his point.

“I lied to you. I jumped over every puddle I came across on the way here. I'm worse, end of discussion,” you rebutted, glaring at him with challenging eyes and watching devotedly as two cute dimples formed on his cheeks. Oh, I’d do anything to see them every day.

“Well, look on the bright side. We won't need to shower for a long time,” he joked again pulling a laugh from your throat and getting irritated looks from the other passengers the second he did. You both inclined your heads towards them in apology and laughed softly again as soon as your eyes met.

It might seem strange, but even though you had only known him for five minutes, there was a peace and tranquillity in talking to him that you had rarely felt when meeting another person. As if everything was in its place, as if everything fitted together perfectly.

But the warm interaction was interrupted by the freezing air that forced its way through the doors of the bus. Making your skin crawl and causing a chill that went up your spine. You prayed that the boy sitting next to you hadn't noticed, but he did, and in less than a second he'd already offered you his seat, which was further from the doors, and from which his body could protect you.

“Kim Namjoon,” he said suddenly. You unconsciously turned your head and saw his eyes fixed where the driver was. You stood for a few seconds in silence waiting for an answer until he turned his gaze towards you and showed you his white, straight teeth. “My name is Kim Namjoon, what is your name?”

“I am Ahn Chungae,” you replied quietly, watching in awe as his eyes glistened in the direct light of the moon's rays.

“It's a pleasure, Ahn Chungae,” he repeated in a whisper. You didn't know if it was your imagination, but his face was getting closer and closer to yours, and you couldn't help but wonder what must be going through his mind.

At that moment you turned your head towards the window and stood quietly staring at the foggy glass in front of you. Trying to avoid his gaze at all costs, you drew a sad face on the window, keeping your fingers glued to the glass as you looked through it at the lights of the city. Seconds later Namjoon's hand came into contact with yours, causing you to stop breathing for a moment. He carefully wrapped his hand around your fingers and moved them, drawing what would have been two eyes on the opposite side of the ones you had previously drawn, now forming a smiley face. Then he released your hand, which you placed in your lap, and you watched as his fingers would make their way through the steam from the window, writing two letters: RM.

“RM?”, that question sprang to your lips. Namjoon put his arm in front of your face, resting his hand on the glass. You turned and raised your head, meeting his angelic face, looking at you with a curiosity that made your stomach churn.

“I'm in a rap group, that's what my friends call me,” he laughed as his arm returned to a normal position. He was quiet for a few seconds, staring at you and scanning your face patiently. “Do you have any nicknames?”

“I think the closest thing to a nickname I have is 'Peach'?” you replied after you had organised all your thoughts.

“Why 'Peach'?” he asked curiously, bringing the side of his body closer to yours, coming to brush against your shoulders in a subtle way.

You couldn't help but blush when that question came out of his mouth. “My father started calling me that because when I was little I used to climb on the kitchen chairs to reach the peaches so I could eat them,” you admitted, a little embarrassed, trying to erase the image of you with a completely smudged face from your memory.

“How old were you?” “Two,” you replied with a giggle, eliciting a laugh from him as well.

“You sure were a beautiful baby,” he said bumping his shoulder against yours in an effort to embarrass you further.

“Stop it,” you groaned with laughter bringing your hands up to your face and hiding it from his eyes. You heard his laughter again and felt his warm hands come to rest on yours, pulling them away from your face.

“Don't cover yourself, please. I like your eyes,” he complimented you, unaware that he was causing a whirlwind of emotions to run wild inside you. How could he say all those beautiful words to you as if they were nothing? Did he not have compassion?

With nothing more to say, an awkward silence formed between the two of you. He seemed to be calm, staring straight ahead and humming a song your ears were unfamiliar with. You watched him out of the corner of your eye and tried not to shout. Say something! Talk to him! But nothing came out of your mouth.

“Chungae?” he spoke suddenly, snapping you out of your self-destructive thoughts and making you turn to him. “How old are you?” he asked nervously, fiddling with his fingers trying to slow his heart rate.

“Twenty-two, why?” you inquired back, furrowing your brows in confusion.

Namjoon sighed in what seemed like a sense of relief, which further fueled my doubts. “It's just that I wanted to make sure I wouldn't go to prison for asking you out.”

A smile settled on your face without warning giving away your answer in less than half a second.

“Don't worry, you could always say I made you think I'm of age,” you played along, suddenly feeling more confident.

“While I'm handcuffed and forced to keep quiet? Or better yet behind bars?” he joked, cupping his hand to his chin and leaning in your direction.

“I'd come visit you,” you assured him, leaning in his direction as well.

A smile formed on his lips and he moved closer to me, “Let's have a date, Chungae, tomorrow.”

Again you cursed being wet from head to toe, the shivering it gave you only made your nerves run high. You couldn't look him in the face from the embarrassment that suddenly hit you, so you decided to look over to where a man was sleeping with his mouth open, praying for strength.

“Why should I accept?” you asked in a whisper, rolling the laces of your sweatshirt with your fingers. “I don't know you at all, you could be any kind of freak,” you continued, finally daring to look him in the face.

“Well, I'm a little clueless... and clumsy. Very clumsy, I don't know how I haven't done anything stupid yet with how nervous I am,” he admitted with flushed cheeks. “But we know each other. We've been on the same bus for months and I know perfectly well that you don't stop staring at me until I get off at my stop,” he argues, leaving you in a state of surprise, you definitely hadn't been anything but disguised.

“How can you be so sure?” you asked, playing dumb. You couldn't believe he'd actually figured it out.

“Because I don't stop looking at you until I get off either,” he replied, making your heart skip a beat. What had he just said?

You rested your arms on the back of the empty seat in front of you and then put your head on them. He looked really cute with his cheeks slightly pink and avoiding your gaze. You were trying to look brave at the time, but the truth is that you were waiting to get home so you could scream with excitement.

“So...” as soon as you opened your mouth to speak, he looked at you and froze when he saw that you were also looking at him, and realising that you had already been doing it for a while, “since I'm legal, you can ask me out on a date.”

“I... Sorry about that, maybe that wasn't such a good idea after all,” he spoke haltingly as he looked away again, action that brought a smile to your lips. Oh, how the table had turned.

“Alright,” you blurted out suddenly, facing him and bumping your back against the window. He looked back at you with a confused expression. “See you tomorrow at the usual stop.”

That's how you got a smile out of him, one that wouldn't be the last and which was the author of the future ones.

all rights reserved © mochiable 2021 | reposts, modifications, translations, or spinoffs of any kind are prohibited.

a/n: hi guys! it’s been a long time. i’m sorry for being so inactive these last few months, but i’m in my last year of high school and i had to concentrate on my studies. anyway, as an apology i bring you this one shot i had unfinished in drafts. i hope you like it, and don't hesitate to let me know what you think, i love knowing your opinion about my work. also, thanks for the 300 notes in jaehyun's two posts, it means a lot to me, thanks for the support. see you soon!

[chronicalchaos]

Subject 2.1

"...oh god" Duncan steps into the room, slowly lowering his pistol, Sam and Travis comically peek over each of his shoulders, inside, they could see a man with a lab coat laid on the ground with his legs cut off, and nowhere to be seen, his shirt and chest teared open.

"Is it dead?" The redhead whispers, going on his toes and raising his head, his stomach suddenly twists, he goes off his toes and looks over to Travis, almost hugging his shotgun as a shiver goes down his spine "It's not moving..." Duncan briefly looks at Sam by his peripheral vision and shrugs, putting away his gun and looking around the room.

Sam gulps, hesitantly putting his weapon over his shoulder, following Duncan inside "Wait, you're scared?" Travis hurries to the redhead's side, a playful smirk on his face, almost making fun of him, Sam sighs "It's not fear, i just have a bad feeling–"

The two stop by the body, it's even worse than it looked from the door, the thing that called Sam's attention is how most of his ribs are broken with a weird symmetrical pattern, where there's groups with three broken ribs between two normal ribs, all his organs are missing "Dude!" Travis pokes him with his elbow, enthusiastic as always "Look at his head!"

Sam freezes, tears threatening to go up his throat as his grips on his shotgun's strap tightens, the man's head is turned on a inhuman angle, his face is somehow positioned where the top of his head should be, his chin resting on the floor, it looks...familiar, just not in good way, The redhead feels his heart start pounding, he couldn't pinpoint what was so similar to that body.

"That's messed up..." Sam looks away from the body, feeling his insides twist once again, he has seen bodies worse than that man, why is this one making him feel sick? Travis raises an eyebrow, looking at his friend with a certain concern.

"They've been here..." Duncan thinks out loud, Sam looks over his shoulder, spotting him by a table at the other side of the room "who's been here?" Sam and Travis exchange glances and turn to get closer to Duncan.

"The Weaver kids! Listen to this" He turns to the two, cleaning his throat as he holds a dirty paper "Subject 2.1, Timas Weaver, 14 years old, suitability: appropriate..." Duncan holds back a smile as Sam raises his eyebrows, pushing his nausea aside, just as invested, Travis, on the other hand, had wandered to the table and started fiddling with something "Subject showed signs of aggressiveness ever since he was brought to us, refusing to eat and sleep, the way we've found to get him to cooperate is to leave him in the same room as subject 2.2, one he seems to be quite protective of."

"Suitability? What is he suitable for?" Sam thinks out loud as well, suddenly shivering and trembling "All i know is: Timas is a weird ass name" Travis chimes in with a playful tone, earning a repressed giggle from Sam.

"I have to agree with you on that one. Okay, the kids were Benny, Tim&Tom, Caleb and Lillian" Duncan counts each names on his fingers "If this is Tim...who's subject 2.2?" They stay in silence for a few seconds, until Duncan speaks up again.

"Continuing: 'crossed out' 2008, the subject has been showing signs of discomfort, we did a check-up, his eyes are bloodshot and started gaining pigments, we'll keep him under observation until further notice. 'crossed out' 2008, the subject has been showing more violent behaviors than before, we have been needing to strap down and sedate him to do the daily tests, we knew he was suitable, but being face to face with such project it's truly fascinating..." Duncan finishes, pulling a folder from his backpack and gently puts it with the other files, quickly organizing it.

Sam feels a wave of discomfort emerging, quickly looking over his shoulder, the body is just as he last saw it, a few feet from the body, he saw a paper, it looked to have something written in blood.

Hesitant, he gets closer, picking it up and analysing it, for a gross and stinky paper, it does have a lovely handwriting, sighing, he starts reading out loud "My mama used to say that we were sinners, everything wrong she blamed on us, she said we ruined her life the day they noticed my twin couldn't walk on his own and like that, she rejected us, focusing on her flawless little boy! The one born right after us.

We were lucky papa cared about us, i know he wouldn't leave us behind...i still wonder, what have you done to mama after she was caught on your web? Did you keep her on your chest, close to your heart as she kept you on hers? Or did you just wrap her on your web just like the corpses of the 'flies' you captured over the years? All i know, is that your venom still fucking hurts us, Arachnner.

James. If you're reading this, i hope you burn in the fiery pits of hell" Sam went pale, Arachnner...? Like arachnid?!

"Wait, 'my twin'?! There's twins involved?!" Duncan mutters to himself, the redhead stares at the dead man a few feet ahead, everything made sense! That weird feeling, the nausea, it was his arachnophobia kicking in as the other side is trying to bring a spider of some sort to that body.

"Ah! Arachnner, that's how it's pronounced!" Sam looks over to Travis, who's proudly holding a piece of paper, from what he could see, there was a ritual symbol he recognized as the one who summons creatures, the paper at the redhead's hands slowly falling to the ground as realization hits him, this is a trap!

Suddenly, the body spasms violently, his ribs extend and bend out of his chest, the unbroken touching the floor and lifting the rest of the body out of the floor, while the broken opened to what resembled a mouth with pointy teeth, Sam harshly turns back to the body, eyes widen as he feels the tears finally escaping.

The Arachnner turns with dexterity, it's eyeless face twitching with anger as he stares at Sam, letting out a distorted howl as it tries to grab him with it's human hands, the creature fades in and out of existence, looking transparent but at same time something physical, his mind can't bring itself to comprehend the beast Infront of him, almost trying to protect him from insanity.

"Sam!" His shotgun's strap presses against his chest as someone grabs his gun and pull him back, before Sam knew, Travis was holding him and Duncan standing Infront of them, already shooting the Arachnner.

"Sam, look at me!" Travis puts his hands on Sam's shoulders "That's not a spider, it's just a guy that was brutally murdered–" He nervously laugh.

"Trav, i need your help!" Duncan calls, reloading his pistol, the Arachnner howls again, taking a step backwards as it's shakes it's head, overwhelmed by the amount of times it was shot, but it looked completely fine.

"Dunc needs my help. Stay here, we'll deal with it, okay?" Travis pulls his baseball bat from the table, holding it with both of his hands "I said for you to not call me that!" Duncan goes back to shooting the Arachnner.

"Noted, Dunc!" Travis runs passed Duncan, stopping by the reanimated body and smashing one if the legs – ribs – into pieces.

━━━━━━━━━

@vinehasnohopeleft

It wasn't as clear as i expected, but quickly explaining what you predicted:

Tim was the one who set this trap while they were on a rampage a few years ago, he was the one who murdered the guy and twisted the body to make the transformation quicker.

James never saw the trap, he was arrested already, so the trio were the ones who fell for it, Sam and Travis were the ones who activated it, Travis saying the name while holding a ritual symbol in specific and Sam was the source of fear.

Technically, Tim scared the shit out Sam without even knowing him.

Also! This was my inspiration for the Arachnner:

This creature is called the "Escutado" or "listened" in English.

[miss-dr-reid]

This is calm, and it's, Doctor #9

TW, there is some DV in here and a hospital visit.

As we pulled into the street where the icecream shop is, I saw someone I recognised and my stomach churned. It was my ex. I hadn't told anyone at work about him, yet.

"What's up?" Derek asked. I didn't even realise I had gone stuff until I breathed, glancing at Derek quickly.

"My ex.. he's over there with a mate..." I said quietly, looking in the direction of the one person I hoped to never see again.

"We don't have to get icecream of you don't want." He reassured, placing his hand on my upper arm, rubbing lightly with his thumb.

"No- um- actually... I have a plan. I'll need you guys to help though, if that's okay?" I devised a plan with the boys after finding a park. They both willingly agreed, eager to help out a friend with some pretty revenge.

I got out of the cat and headed to the icecream shop, where my ex was, sitting at a table outside of it. As I got closer, he made a comment, just as I expected.

"Damn, Y/N, you want me back that bad you followed me all the way out here?" Cain retorted, tapping his mate on the arm.

"Well no, actually. Last I heard of you was from the girl you cheated on me with. She told me you kept yelling my name while you guys did the dirty in OUR bed." I clapped back. I whipped my hair behind my shoulders, signalling the boys, I knew what I said would run Cain the wrong way.

He pushed himself up, to get out of his chair when Derek's hand pressed him back down by his shoulder, Spencer's arm draping over one of my shoulders.

"Is there a problem here?" Derek said, staring straight in to Cain's eyes, his mate shifting uncomfortable in his seat.

Cain was not a big guy by any means, bigger than me, but tiny next to Derek.

"Who are you, her boyfriend?" Cain demanded, basically a spitting in Derek's face.

"I'm more to her then you'll ever be. If you cause her any more trouble, I'll make you regret everything you've ever done to her. I can promise you that." Derek's voice stern and low, his grip tightening slightly on Cain's shoulder.

Seeing Cain so uncomfortable was quite pleasing. He didn't say anything, Derek squeezed his shoulder one last time before nodding, releasing him and walking over to us, linking elbows with me. We walked inside the shop and everyone let go. I thanked both of the guys and insisted on paying for icecream, as a thanks for helping me out.

They insisted it was no big deal, defending their family is what they do. I loved hearing that o was becoming part of the B.A.U family.

I ordered the icecream, paid and we each connected our own and headed back toward the car. We sat on the curb, eating our delicious desserts. We didn't say much, just sat and ate. I felt so small sitting between these two guys. I was so happy to just be there with them.

Suddenly, I was going face first into my icecream, which was splattered all over the side of my car as a sudden jolt came through my back. I didn't realise what had happened. I could hear Derek yelling as hands supported my head while I laid back. Spencer's voice filled my ears as everything went dark.

I woke up, rocking slightly. I monitor beeping and people talking. I tried to open my eyes, but my eyelids were so heavy, they felt glued. My hand felt funny, I tried moving it and discovered that it was encased by another hand. I squeezed as hard as I could.

"Y/N!" Spencer's voice filled my ears once again. I managed to half open my eyes, softly smiling up at him. "We're on the way to the hospital. Your ex kicked you while we were eating icecream and Derek chased after him." His voice soft and full of concern.

'Now I owe them double, of not triple for the shit they've dealt with today' I thought to myself, forever grateful that these two are in my life.

We arrived at the hospital not long later. Spencer wasn't allowed in for the x-ray, so he was left in the waiting room. After the x-ray was done, I was moved to a room. After a few minutes, a doctor came in, Spencer in toe, who stood next to the doctor, listening to his every word.

"You'll need to be careful with your nose over the next week, it's broken. Otherwise, your head and spine are fine and you'll be able to go after you've been patched up and kept for observation." He removed the c-collar from my neck and sat the bed up, "A nurse will be in soon to fix your nose." And with that, he left.

Spencer sat in the chair next to the bed and handed me his phone with the camera open.

I took it and looked at myself. I was a mess. There was crusted blood staining under my nose, around my nostrils and mouth.

"This is going to look so bad tomorrow." I said quietly to myself. Even though there wasn't much of a bruise right now, the second day is always worse. Spencer sighed at my comment as I say there still checking myself out. The phone started vibrating, Derek's name popping up on the screen.

"You're on speaker, Mr. Hero." I said to the phone.

"Hey buddy, it's good to hear your voice," he started, "I'll be there in a minute. Just finished giving my statement to the police. I'm see you soon. Also, I told the rest of the team and they're also coming. See you soon, kiddo." He hung up.

The doctor came back with a nurse. Spencer was allowed to stay for the packing and fixing of my nose. The laid the bed back, Spencer on one side of me, the doctor in front of him and the nurse on the other side. Being laid out in front of people touching me made me feel so uneasy, I didn't realise I was tense until Spencer placed his hand on my shoulder.

"Stay as still as you can, this will be quite uncomfortable." The doctor mentioned, and the nurse picked up some gauze off the tray they'd brought in. I grabbed Spencer's hand off my shoulder and held it in mine. I closed my eyes and breathed out through my nose as one set of fingers pressed on the bridge of my nose while gauze was being stuffed up my nostrils. The nurse finished up and I breathed out deeply, I had become so tense while being under her hands that my whole body had basically seized. They sat up the bed and left, going to organise my discharge papers.

Almost as soon as they had left, the whole teamed walked in. Everyone had looks of concern on their faces, giving my sympathetic smiles. Spencer stood up and moved away as Garcia was making her way over to me.

"You gave us a scare, chook." She said, pulling me into a hug. JJ came down the other side of the bed and pulled me into a hug once Garcia had let go. She offered me a wet wipe, which I graciously accepted. I carefully wiped the bottom of my nose and around my lips, trying to remember where the blood had crusted on my face.

"As much good as they do, it wouldn't hurt to clean up a little bit..." She commented, seeing the stained blood on various parts of my face.

"Glad to see you're alright." Emily called from her spot between Hotch and Derek.

I thanked everyone and tried out my most convincing smile, which only got sympathy smiles in return.

"You wouldn't be okay if Pretty Boy was there. He caught your head before you fell back onto the concrete." Derek commended, gesturing at Spence, who's face started glowing red. I mustered up the best thanks I could for him, I was genuinely grateful. "Although, someone had to chase the bad guy...." Derek continued, detailing about what happened.

He told us that I was kicked in the back of the head, my icecream being thrown onto the side of my car, with my face following - thinking back, I remember the crunch my nose made when my face slammed into the side of my car.

HE told us that he immediately dropped his own icecream to jump up and start chasing the guy who had decided to leg it (not surprised). He chased the guy into an alley, yelling at him to stop.

'Stop! FBI!' he had shouted. The guy had managed to get himself cornered and stupidly turned to Derek and tried to fight him. Derek recognised the guy as Cain. As a punch was thrown, Derek dodged, grabbed Cain and pushed him to the ground, holding him there until police arrived.

Hearing the story, I was surprised to hear Cain didn't pull a knife out, it was his go-to weapon of choice. I was happy to hear he was finally arrested. After some more questions, Hotch went home to be with Jack.

The doctor came back with the papers and I was allowed to go. Even though I insisted that I was fine to drive, no one was letting that happen. I also had to have someone stay with me for the night, to make sure everything was alright, apparently. JJ couldn't, she had her family. Derek insisted he was busy with 'things'. Garcia had to get back to Kevin, Emily to Sergio, which left Spencer. It was agreed that he would drive me home in my car, and we had to take Derek back to his car on our way.

~

I felt weird climbing into the passenger seat of my own car. It was nighttime and it made me wonder,

"How long was I out for?" I quizzed, really wanting to know.

"If I had to guess, I'd say like ten minutes." Derek guessed.

"More like twelve minutes and thirty-seven seconds. I was timing to the paramedics." Spencer's voice matter-of-fact. I thanked him for being there for and with me the whole time, and both of them for dealing with everything today.

"I just don't understand how you could let anyone treat you that way, let alone date it." Spencer scoffed, "I've seen the scars you've got, I'm guessing aren't from 'accidents', they show when you're vulnerable, which isn't your fault at all, it actually shows just how trusting you are, which is great, but obviously can get you into trouble if you're not careful. What I'm trying to say is, vulnerabilities need to be taken care of, trust needs to be earned and time heals all wounds." he finished.

"Love also heals" Derek added.

I had tears stinging the corners of my eyes, Trying to escape.

Spencer pulled in to the car park of the Cafe we had been at earlier that day and pulled up in the spot next to Derek's car.

Derek got out and stood next to my door, I rolled my window down. He caressed the back of my head and guided it towards him, leaning over to kiss the top of my head.

"Take care of yourself." His head lifted to look at Spence, "And each other." he finished before turning to get into his own car, leaving to go home.

Spencer didn't move, he just sat in silence.

"What's wrong?" I asked, tilting my head to the side.

"I don't know where you live." He said, giving me puppy dog eyes.

With a giggle, I directed him towards my place. He stopped in front of his place on the way so he could grab a few things, ready to spend the night at mine. He insisted that I go in with him, because he's 'not allowed' to leave me alone.

"Doctors orders. That's me, I'm the doctor." He laughed at me, finding himself amusing.

"Well, I'm also a doctor, doctor, and I said no such thing. But if you insist, I'll come in with you." I said climbing out of the car, he followed and we went inside up to his place.

We walked in to his apartment and I sat on a stool at the bench, so I didn't get comfy.

Spencer wandered off to his room to pack. I pulled out my phone to see some missed calls and a few messages from a number I didn't recognise. I unlocked my phone and opened the messages from the unknown number.

'ur gonna pay 4 wot u did to Cain' Read the first one.

'u dum bitch' read another, the next few that followed were along the same lines.

When Spencer came out, I showed him the messages, not because I was scared, but because I didn't want to keep secrets. It's also probably a good idea to have as many people as possible know, in case anything were to happen. He sighed, reading the messages. He cupped my face with both hands and looked my in the eyes.

"Y/N, nothing is going to happen to you. Even if we have to have someone with you all day and all night. We, the team, will keep you safe - I'll do it by myself if I have to." he pulled my head against his chest and cuddled me, seeing the tears which had started pooling in my eyes. I let the tears come out, my body was gently shaking as I quietly sobbed into Spencer's chest, "You're okay. You're safe with us."

I cried, thanking him, wrapping my arms around his waste. He rubbed my back for a bit before placing his hands on my shoulder, pulling back a bit. His hands were firm, but gentle, he came down to my eye level. His eyes were so warm and welcoming, I admired all of his face while he was there.

He suggested leaving, and his hands trailed down my arms, to my hands. He took my hand in his and I hopped off the stool, following his footsteps to the door.

Not much was said on the car ride to my place. I didn't bother with the radio, only looking out the window, watching everything pass by, giving directions when necessary.

We finally arrived. I have a stand-alone house, on the outskirts of town. Spencer pulled into the driveway and got out. He rushed around to my door and opened it, just as I had started to. He helped me out and draped his arm around my shoulder as we headed inside.

OMG guys, I am so bad at keeping updated

[pink-peony-princess]

Ruin

-Ellen-

I stood staring in the bathroom mirror at the large pink scar that snaked across my forehead from my left temple to just above my right eyebrow.

It had been almost three months now, and I was still in pain, some days it felt like I couldn't escape it.

I lifted my shirt to show my tummy, yet another angry looking pink scar this one jagged from where the glass had gotten me. It still pain, dull ache ever-present, the itch constant. I frowned, frustrated with how long everything was taking to heal.

"Morning baby," Shawn whispered into my neck,coming to rest his head softly on my shoulder and smiling at me in the mirror.

"Hey," I couldn't help the small smile that pulled at the corner of my lips. He was so beautiful, even first thing in the morning, dressed in an ugly washed-out green coloured pair of scrubs,ready for another day as a doctor in the local emergency department.

"What was that frown I saw before I walked in?" he asked, still watching me in the mirror.

I sighed, "Im just sick of being sore and having these ugly scars all over my body. I can't get it out of my head," I whispered, feeling the tears welling up, an all to familiar occurance these days.

"It's gonna take some time baby," he murmured, pulling me to his chest and holding me tightly.

"Yeah I know," I sighed leaning back into his hold. He really had been the best thing and he had quite literally saved my life, both physically and mentally. Our relationship had never felt forced, we'd just naturally fallen for one another, but if I was being honest I would never have imagined to be where I was today three months ago.

-Three Months Earlier-

-Third person-

"This is a trauma call for an eta of ten minutes," a voice came over the Emergency Department intercom.

"I hate trauma calls," Brian sighed as he got geared up, placing the label that declared him to be team leader onto his protective gown, before pulling a fresh pair of gloves on to replace the ones he had just used to help stitch up a little girl's head after she took a tumble.

"Is the bed all ready?" he asked, ducking his head around the curtain of the only free bay in the department. It had been one of those nights, and it was only eight, meaning that he was only two hours into a twelve-hour shift.

"Almost," his college, and fellow critical care doctor, Connor spoke as he wheeled the crash cart into place, and situated the supplies draw.

"What do we know so far?" Michael, another doctor asked, coming to stand by the other two doctors.

"Adult female, hit and run, while crossing the street." Connor spoke, while glancing down to check his watch for the time remaining before they were set to arrive.

"That sounds nasty," Michael commented, wincing slightly in sympathy. "It's a good thing the nurses decided to page Ortho I suppose, it sounds like you'll be needing my expertise," he turned to face his colleague.

"I hate to say it, but I'd have to agree," Brian replied, sharing a knowing look with the other two doctors.

All three of them knew that pedestrian hit and runs where never good, and there was a high rate of critical injuries sustained, and of course these were usually inflicted on the innocent party. They didn't speak for several minutes, each fidgeting, just wanting to start helping the poor girl already. They didn't say it, but they knew it wouldn't be pretty. This has been confirmed when they got a message via one of the nurses, saying that Shawn, one of their friends and fellow colleague, and, emergency care physician was on route to the scene of the accident after the paramedics requested his help. This was not something that happened ogten, and only when completely necessary. The hospital liked to keep Ashton there as his expertise was so useful in many of the situations that the department faced.

-Ellen-

All I could feel was pain. Pain everywhere. Every inch of my body was hurting.

I tried to piece together how I had come to be here, but was met with some unknown resistance when I tried to turn my head, and survey my surroundings. "Stay still honey. We're going to get you to the hospital shortly, but just bear with us okay," a voice spoke from somewhere above my head. It was then that I became aware of the hands touching me, and instinctively I tried to pull away. "Dave, I think It'll be best to sedate her for the time being," a different voice spoke. That was the last thing I was aware of before I woke to bright lights, and calm, but still somehow urgent, voices.

-Third Person-

When Shawn and Dave arrived on scene, it was worse then they had expected. The poor girl was laying in the middle of what would normally be a busy street, onlookers everywhere watching with baited breath. "Can we move some of these guys out of here?" Shawn asked one of the many police officers that were standing around, waiting for direction. The last thing his patient needed was an audience when they were completely defenceless.

When they finally managed to push their way through the crowd of people, and get the relevant equipment set up, it was to find that things were much more complicated and critical then they had first thought.

"What do we know?" Dave, the paramedic on the case asked.

"They've not been able to give us much, but they're saying that someone ran a red, hit her, and took off. They're trying to run the plates now, track the person down," a burly police officer spoke. " I'll leave you guys to it," he spoke, patting them both on the shoulder, before getting up and going to help the other officers control the swelling crowds,"

As they both surveyed the situation, the injuries were clear to see. The girl had dislocated her left shoulder, broken her collarbone, and from the blood soaking through her pants and the angle of her right ankle, she had a compound fracture. Perhaps more concerning though was the blood that was fishing from a open head wound above her eyebrow, and flowing from her nose. The latter was usually a sign of internal bleeding.

"Hello?" Shawn spoke, as Dave started getting the collar ready. "If you can hear me, give my hand a squeeze okay," he continued slipping his gloved hand into the girl's bloody one, and praying there was a response.

After a moment there was, and they both thanked the heavens.

"Sweetheart, my name is Shawn, I'm a doctor, and this is Dave. Can you remember your name?" Shawn asked, leaning down in the hopes of hearing the young woman's response.

"Ellen," she whispered. It was barley there, but it was still a response.

"Okay Ellen, this is going to be uncomfortable, but we need to put this collar on you so that you don't hurt your neck or back okay. And then we'll get you to the hospital," Dave reassured her, before going about fixing the hard plastic to the girl. Both the medics had had to put the collar on to experience what it was like for the patients, and it was uncomfortable to say the least. Neither one could fathom how bad it would be to have injuries on top of this.

They both felt dreadful when Ellen started trying to claw at the collar, desperately trying to get it off, tears flooding down her bloody face.

"I know sweets, it's okay," Shawn tried to comfort her once they were in the ambulance and had hooked her up to an I.V. with pain medication.

"Shawn, I think It'll be best to sedate her for the time being," he informed his partner, getting the sedative ready.

"Can you check her vitals again please?" he requested, "And get some oxygen on her for good measure," he added, before stepping out of the ambulance and heading to the driver's side. "I think she's stable enough to go," he added, before starting towards the hospital with lights and sirens on, indicating that this was a life-threatening situation.

In the back of the vehicle, Shawn was going about checking her pupil reaction, which turned out to be slow, indicating a moderate concussion. After this, he placed a mask on the girl, ensuring that the saturation levels were as high as possible, as after attaching her to the relative monitors, it was found that she was only satting a 80%.

Finally, he went about checking the heart and lungs, and by this point they were beginning to pull into the hospital, which relieved the medic immensely.

They were met with a team of people at the entrance, Shawn was glad to see this included his three colleagues, Michael, Connor and Brian.

"What do we have?" Brian asked, stepping behind the gurney to help Shawn push it now that Dave had left on a new call.

"This is Ellen, she was hit by a car side-on while crossing the road. She's got a dislocated shoulder, broken collar bone and a compound fracture to the ankle. Possible internal bleeding and concussion. The paramedic also found some swelling, possibly indicating spleen bruising. Lacerations to the head, with nasal bleeding. Her BP is low, same with heart rate, lungs sound normal, standard dose of pain medication given on route." He finished as they made it to the bay that had been set up before their arrival.

"Okay, I want a CT, scan of the head and abdomen and spine, and can someone get me an ultrasound machine, stat, and in the mean time let's get her hooked moved on the the bed so we can start preliminary examinations. On my count!" Brian commanded, directing the team in transferring her safely to the hospital bed.

-Ellen-

The first thing I was aware of when I came to be was the bright lights above me, making me want to shut my eyes again almost instantly. After this, it was an annoying tickling sensation on my face. I moved my hand to try and swipe it away, but was met with resistance.

"Leave it there, Ellen," a calm voice spoke. A young man came into view then. "My name is Brian I'm one of the doctors looking after you, do you know where you are?"

"In the hospital," I answered, beginning to feel overwhelmed at the gravity of the situation, which was only made worse when I realised I couldn't move anything apart from my arms.

"Just try to stay nice and calm for me, you'll be fine, we just need to do a few tests and then we should be able to get you out of this contraption," he smiled sympathetically.

"Shawn?" he called. Another youngish looking doctor, this time with tanned skin, dark hair curly hair and several visible tattoos came over.

"You called?" he asked, before turning to me. "Hi Ellen, my names Shawn," he introduced himself with a smile, "I'm another one of the doctors."

"I want to roll her to do a spinal check,"

"No problem, so on three, I'm going to roll you onto your side and Brian is going to check for sensation." He explained to me, seeing the confusion I was feeling.

A few minutes later, they determined that my spine was fine, and this was confirmed by scans they had done when I was out, that came back fine.

"There you go, that's got to feel better," Shawn smiled, readjusting the blankets to provide me with more modesty.

"Ellen, are you in any pain?" Brian asked, coming over and shining a small light in my eyes.

"My tummy is really sore, and my shoulder and chest area," I told him.

"Okay, I'll get the nurse to increase the hourly dosage, there's no reason you should be in pain. You'll probably still be a little sore though, you've got a bruised spleen, which given time will heal, but you'll be tender for a while. As for your chest, you broke your collar bone on impact. We've put your arm into a sling to help limit the movement and give it an opportunity to heal. You did dislocate your other shoulder though, and we're going to have to put it back into place- don't worry though, we've got Michael doing it for you, and we're going to dose you up so you won't remember a thing," he laughed, giving my hand a gentle squeeze.

"You needed me?" yet another doctor walked in, dyed blonde hair, sitting across his face. "Sorry," he added, "There was an emergency in the pit,"

"Ellen, this is Michael, are you ready?" Shawn asked.

"Mmmmm?" I responded unsure.

"You'll be fine," he responded, going to adjust my meds.

To the say that the process was painful would be the understatement of the year, and I may have called all three of them some uncomplimentary names, but after the fact I got some immediate relief.

The rest of the night was spent getting my many cuts stitched up, with the doctors, helping to keep me distracted by talking to me about my everyday life. I ended up in tears when I was introduced to Shawn again,apparently I'd met him a few times before, but I really couldn't remember, who I was told was one of the main people who got me to the hospital. "It's okay," he had spoken, giving me a gentle hug. "It's what we do!" he smiled, grabbing a tissue and wiping the tears off my face.

"They told me you're studying vet science?" he asked, sitting down on a chair next to the bed Connor another doctor and Brian went back to stitching me up. I felt my whole face break into a smile.

"Yep, I'm already a certified carer, but I wanted to take the next step."

"I really admire that," he told me, "Hopefully we'll be able to get that ankle of yours fixed up first thing tomorrow and onto the road of recovery." he spoke, referring to the compound fracture in my ankle that Shawn had told me about not long after I woke. Admittedly, I had thrown up when he told me what a compound fracture was, and had gone into a panic when he explained it would need surgery, but he had calmed me quickly.

"You'll be fine, you've got the best Ortho in the place working on you, Michael. You won't know anything happened once he's done, and you're all healed.

The coming weeks were filled with highs and lows, the surgery went well, and there was no post op infection, something that made all the doctors very happy, however the pain was almost unbearable at times, and they had to give me multiple pep talks to get me through it. I did it though, we their help.

The experience had helped to shape me, and when it was finally time to leave, I knew that I was leaving with four new friends.

But the one person I could always count on was Shawn. He helped me through everything, physio appointments, monthly reviews but above everything else he was a shoulder to lean on, someone to cry to when things got tough. And I guess through all of that our relationship had blossomed without us even realising. But one thing was for sure...

-Present Day-

I turned smiling now, as Shawn looked down at me I uttered the five words that meant so much to me.

"You save me from Ruin."

[mistabullets]

Can you do headcanons for Fugo, Giorno, and Narancia getting to see their crush's face outside of a mask or helmet for the first time. Maybe it's broken or ripped, so they can't wear it anymore. I just adore the trope, and I know it's definitely something I'd do, because my face is very expressive, and often seen as cute, so no one would take me seriously. Bonus points if they've come off as kind of intimidating or creepy, due to their lack of expression.

someone asked for a very similar request so i hope y’all don’t mind me combining the two requests into one!!

Seeing S/O’s Face for the First Time HC’s

Pannacotta Fugo:

Fugo was originally wary of you. You never wanted to reveal your face and sometimes, he had the urge to just punch it off of you. But he kept his cool. He just didn’t trust you since you face was too secretive to reveal. What if you were working for the enemy or a close associate to the boss? Bruno had to reason with him, saying there might be a good reason for it.

Eventually, Fugo just assumed you wanted to lead a normal life and not get your true identity into the mix of it all. It makes sense, considering everyone seemed to know his face and his association with Bruno and the others. He slowly starts to let his guard down around you but he still feels tension. What if Fugo said something rude but he wouldn’t know.

It’s not that you’re creepy but the fact that you have obscured all your emotions and hid them behind a mask bothered him slightly. Who knows what you were thinking. While he now thought of you as trustworthy, the looming fear of betrayal still would cross his mind when interacting with you. The fact you may never know who you’re truly are bothered him…

But was it because of how easy it was for you to slip from Passione’s grasp if things got busy? Or was it maybe the fact that if you were to leave one day, he would never know who you were. No name to put, no identifiable feature besides your height and weight (he had no idea what gender you were either)… just another person, lost in the sea of bodies.

Eventually, like it was fate, Fugo had finally seen your face when your mask was cracked from old age and tear during a fight. Your large eyes showed your focus with brows furrowed and your face contorted with fiery anger and hints of revenge. It was weird, to finally have a face for you. But he thought you had a lovely face with expressive details.

After you were done kicking ass, your face flushed when you noticed Fugo was just… staring at you. It made sense, considering this was his first time seeing you. But he seemed to be captivated by your beauty and how easily you expressed yourself. It was definitely weird but you were cute. “Q-Quit staring” you said. “Oh, right! My apologies.”

Giorno Giovanna: 

Giorno always wondered why you wore your mask. He wondered about it to himself, trying to come up with logical explanations. Did you lead a double life? Perhaps some sort of old scar covered your face? The young boy would try to gain your trust and investigate on his own. He tried to make small talk with you and eventually, you thought he was trustworthy.

You admired Giorno’s skills and how his Stand could essentially bring life to inanimate objects. It was truly something to marvel over, and you were impressed with his deductive abilities. You would talk to him about his thought process and what was going through his head. Well, he couldn’t tell you his true intentions, but he can tell your his sense of logic. 

Eventually, you learned a bit more about his past and how he came to Bruno’s gang. You apologized for his pain. But Giorno couldn’t tell if you were being sympathetic or uncaring of his past struggles since the mask did obscure your features. He realized you had the upper hand in risky situation: no one can see your fear, anger, or doubt.

Your voice never showed emotion and that had a him bit frightened but he was determined. If he was going to be your new don in the the near future, he would demand to see your face. Partly to confirm your identity but somewhat out of curiosity. Did you have a pretty face, that was just as calm and composed as your voice? He was determined to find out.

During the final showdown with the boss, a particular slap to face by a certain enemy knocked you to the ground. It had also cracked your mask and broke. Giorno was too busy to notice the shock read in your visage, the wide eyes of surprise, and how your lips parted in a gasp. No one would have known how truly expressive you were. 

After everything is said and done, Giorno takes a moment to admire your face. It’s almost too cute. He questions why you hid your face. It was somewhat to protect your identity since it was hard to trust anyone but mostly because you don’t want people to read you like an open book. The blonde laughs and you can’t help but blush when Giorno calls you cute. 

Narancia Ghirga:

Narancia seriously thinks you look like a badass with your mask on. He’s impressed by the intricate design of it, believing it gives you specks of personality. He’ll always ask to touch it and will be the one to constantly ask you to remove it. Of course, you outright refuse to and usually tell Narancia to fuck off, albeit playfully. But it would come out the wrong way.

He can’t tell if you like him or if you’re annoyed by his presence. Sometimes, the tone of your voice just sounds too cold, causing shivers to go down his spine. Usually when you have someone held captive, you’ll be the one in charge of investigation. You had a cruel way with words and how you would articulate them to your prisoners…

And while he found that also very badass of you, he couldn’t help but be slightly intimidated by you when he accidentally angered you. For all he knew, you could be a sadist. You could have hated him, Mista, Fugo, and the rest of gang but he wouldn’t be able to tell. Only Bruno had gotten a glimpse of your face but never gave out your real name.

It was terrifying to know what you might be and that scared him. But Narancia being Narancia, would quickly brush away the dark thoughts and doubts. Clearly, if you were looking to fuck up Bucciarati’s gang, it was one versus six. Even thought your stand was quite powerful, he’s pretty convinced Aerosmith could do some damage if needed.

But you seemed trustworthy, so hopefully a traitor was nothing to fret over. During one mission, after the betrayal of the boss, you had your mask shot off your face. Narancia was there to witness the entire thing and gasped upon seeing the flowing hair be set free. Your eyes, with blood trickling down and obscuring your vision, was also on guard.

Luckily, Narancia’s stand discovered the assailant and shot him down before he could do any more damage. Afterwards, he was teasing you about finally seeing your face and laughed when your face was heated up by the red blush that couldn’t be contained. He reassured you that you had an adorable face. You can’t tell if you wanted to punch or kiss him. 

Guido Mista:

You had long ago been incorporated into Mista’s friend group consisting of you, Narancia, and Fugo. Aside from Fugo, the gunslinger had deemed as being the serious one. You would constantly chide them for their childish behavior, lecture them for whenever they did something risky, and was very open about your concerns when bantering went on.

But what you more scary to Mista was the lack of expression. Your body language didn’t have a lot to say, you always balanced and composed during combat. Never letting the enemy get the upper hand. Your abilities were incredible and Mista wondered, how you truly were behind that mask of yours. Probably a hardened person, like Abbacchio.

Sometimes, he couldn’t tell when you were joking or being serious. You would tease him but sometimes, he would catch it as some form of mockery and be hurt by your words. You tried to tell him it was just playful banter. But he had already built up this image of you and what your face might have been: cold, distant, and stunningly intimidating.

And it was hard to replace that image; you, a seemingly playful person that was actually nice? No, never. That caused the two of you to get into little arguments when misinterpretation occurred. Mista was brutally honest. The two of you bickering was an almost everyday occurrence and if the two of you weren’t, then something must have been wrong.

However, all that would come to an end when the enemy had ripped off your mask. Your were wide-eyed, like a deer caught in headlights. A grimace appeared on your face, contorting the soft lines and hardening them with boiling anger. Without a second thought, you fought the enemy and gave him punch. Mista couldn’t help but whistle.

And you heard it! You turned toward him with a bright red face, about ready to punch him too. Cue your usual bantering but this time, Mista is teasing how easily red you get. “I didn’t know you were such a cute person behind that stupid mask of yours.” Even the Sex Pistols chirped in argument, showing how eager they were to see your flustered face. 

[pinkpeonyprincessblog]

Ruin

-Ellen-

stood staring in the bathroom mirror at the large pink scar that snaked across my forehead from my left temple to just above my right eyebrow.

It had been almost three months now, and I was still in pain, some days it felt like I couldn't escape it.

I lifted my shirt to show my tummy, yet another angry looking pink scar this one jagged from where the glass had gotten me. It still pain, dull ache ever-present, the itch constant. I frowned, frustrated with how long everything was taking to heal.

"Morning baby," Shawn whispered into my neck,coming to rest his head softly on my shoulder and smiling at me in the mirror.

"Hey," I couldn't help the small smile that pulled at the corner of my lips. He was so beautiful, even first thing in the morning, dressed in an ugly washed-out green coloured pair of scrubs,ready for another day as a doctor in the local emergency department.

"What was that frown I saw before I walked in?" he asked, still watching me in the mirror.

I sighed, "Im just sick of being sore and having these ugly scars all over my body. I can't get it out of my head," I whispered, feeling the tears welling up, an all to familiar occurance these days.

"It's gonna take some time baby," he murmured, pulling me to his chest and holding me tightly.

"Yeah I know," I sighed leaning back into his hold. He really had been the best thing and he had quite literally saved my life, both physically and mentally. Our relationship had never felt forced, we'd just naturally fallen for one another, but if I was being honest I would never have imagined to be where I was today three months ago.

-Three Months Earlier-

-Third person-

"This is a trauma call for an eta of ten minutes," a voice came over the Emergency Department intercom.

"I hate trauma calls," Brian sighed as he got geared up, placing the label that declared him to be team leader onto his protective gown, before pulling a fresh pair of gloves on to replace the ones he had just used to help stitch up a little girl's head after she took a tumble.

"Is the bed all ready?" he asked, ducking his head around the curtain of the only free bay in the department. It had been one of those nights, and it was only eight, meaning that he was only two hours into a twelve-hour shift.

"Almost," his college, and fellow critical care doctor, Connor spoke as he wheeled the crash cart into place, and situated the supplies draw.

"What do we know so far?" Michael, another doctor asked, coming to stand by the other two doctors.

"Adult female, hit and run, while crossing the street." Connor spoke, while glancing down to check his watch for the time remaining before they were set to arrive.

"That sounds nasty," Michael commented, wincing slightly in sympathy. "It's a good thing the nurses decided to page Ortho I suppose, it sounds like you'll be needing my expertise," he turned to face his colleague.

"I hate to stay it, but I'd have to agree," Brian replied, sharing a knowing look with the other two doctors.

All three of them knew that pedestrian hit and runs where never good, and there was a high rate of critical injuries sustained, and of course these were usually inflicted on the innocent party. They didn't speak for several minutes, each fidgeting, just wanting to start helping the poor girl already. They didn't say it, but they knew it wouldn't be pretty. This has been confirmed when they got a message via one of the nurses, saying that Shawn, one of their friends and fellow colleague, and, emergency care physician was on route to the scene of the accident after the paramedics requested his help. This was not something that happened ogten, and only when completely necessary. The hospital liked to keep Ashton there as his expertise was so useful in many of the situations that the department faced.

-Ellen-

All I could feel was pain. Pain everywhere. Every inch of my body was hurting.

I tried to piece together how I had come to be here, but was met with some unknown resistance when I tried to turn my head, and survey my surroundings. "Stay still honey. We're going to get you to the hospital shortly, but just bear with us okay," a voice spoke from somewhere above my head. It was then that I became aware of the hands touching me, and instinctively I tried to pull away. "Dave, I think It'll be best to sedate her for the time being," a different voice spoke. That was the last thing I was aware of before I woke to bright lights, and calm, but still somehow urgent, voices.

-Third Person-

When Shawn and Dave arrived on scene, it was worse then they had expected. The poor girl was laying in the middle of what would normally be a busy street, onlookers everywhere watching with baited breath. "Can we move some of these guys out of here?" Shawn asked one of the many police officers that were standing around, waiting for direction. The last thing his patient needed was an audience when they were completely defenceless.

When they finally managed to push their way through the crowd of people, and get the relevant equipment set up, it was to find that things were much more complicated and critical then they had first thought.

"What do we know?" Dave, the paramedic on the case asked.

"They've not been able to give us much, but they're saying that someone ran a red, hit her, and took off. They're trying to run the plates now, track the person down," a burly police officer spoke. " I'll leave you guys to it," he spoke, patting them both on the shoulder, before getting up and going to help the other officers control the swelling crowds,"

As they both surveyed the situation, the injuries were clear to see. The girl had dislocated her left shoulder, broken her collarbone, and from the blood soaking through her pants and the angle of her right ankle, she had a compound fracture. Perhaps more concerning though was the blood that was fishing from a open head wound above her eyebrow, and flowing from her nose. The latter was usually a sign of internal bleeding.

"Hello?" Shawn spoke, as Dave started getting the collar ready. "If you can hear me, give my hand a squeeze okay," he continued slipping his gloved hand into the girl's bloody one, and praying there was a response.

After a moment there was, and they both thanked the heavens.

"Sweetheart, my name is Shawn, I'm a doctor, and this is Dave. Can you remember your name?" Shawn asked, leaning down in the hopes of hearing the young woman's response.

"Ellen," she whispered. It was barley there, but it was still a response.

"Okay Ellen, this is going to be uncomfortable, but we need to put this collar on you so that you don't hurt your neck or back okay. And then we'll get you to the hospital," Dave reassured her, before going about fixing the hard plastic to the girl. Both the medics had had to put the collar on to experience what it was like for the patients, and it was uncomfortable to say the least. Neither one could fathom how bad it would be to have injuries on top of this.

They both felt dreadful when Ellen started trying to claw at the collar, desperately trying to get it off, tears flooding down her bloody face.

"I know sweets, it's okay," Shawn tried to comfort her once they were in the ambulance and had hooked her up to an I.V. with pain medication.

"Shawn, I think It'll be best to sedate her for the time being," he informed his partner, getting the sedative ready.

"Can you check her vitals again please?" he requested, "And get some oxygen on her for good measure," he added, before stepping out of the ambulance and heading to the driver's side. "I think she's stable enough to go," he added, before starting towards the hospital with lights and sirens on, indicating that this was a life-threatening situation.

In the back of the vehicle, Shawn was going about checking her pupil reaction, which turned out to be slow, indicating a moderate concussion. After this, he placed a mask on the girl, ensuring that the saturation levels were as high as possible, as after attaching her to the relative monitors, it was found that she was only satting a 80%.

Finally, he went about checking the heart and lungs, and by this point they were beginning to pull into the hospital, which relieved the medic immensely.

They were met with a team of people at the entrance, Shawn was glad to see this included his three colleagues, Michael, Connor and Brian.

"What do we have?" Brian asked, stepping behind the gurney to help Shawn push it now that Dave had left on a new call.

"This is Ellen, she was hit by a car side-on while crossing the road. She's got a dislocated shoulder, broken collar bone and a compound fracture to the ankle. Possible internal bleeding and concussion. The paramedic also found some swelling, possibly indicating spleen bruising. Lacerations to the head, with nasal bleeding. Her BP is low, same with heart rate, lungs sound normal, standard dose of pain medication given on route." He finished as they made it to the bay that had been set up before their arrival.

"Okay, I want a CT, scan of the head and abdomen and spine, and can someone get me an ultrasound machine, stat, and in the mean time let's get her hooked moved on the the bed so we can start preliminary examinations. On my count!" Brian commanded, directing the team in transferring her safely to the hospital bed.

-Ellen-

The first thing I was aware of when I came to be was the bright lights above me, making me want to shut my eyes again almost instantly. After this, it was an annoying tickling sensation on my face. I moved my hand to try and swipe it away, but was met with resistance.

"Leave it there, Ellen," a calm voice spoke. A young man came into view then. "My name is Brian I'm one of the doctors looking after you, do you know where you are?"

"In the hospital," I answered, beginning to feel overwhelmed at the gravity of the situation, which was only made worse when I realised I couldn't move anything apart from my arms.

"Just try to stay nice and calm for me, you'll be fine, we just need to do a few tests and then we should be able to get you out of this contraption," he smiled sympathetically.

"Shawn?" he called. Another youngish looking doctor, this time with tanned skin, dark hair curly hair and several visible tattoos came over.

"You called?" he asked, before turning to me. "Hi Ellen, my names Shawn," he introduced himself with a smile, "I'm another one of the doctors."

"I want to roll her to do a spinal check,"

"No problem, so on three, I'm going to roll you onto your side and Brian is going to check for sensation." He explained to me, seeing the confusion I was feeling.

A few minutes later, they determined that my spine was fine, and this was confirmed by scans they had done when I was out, that came back fine.

"There you go, that's got to feel better," Shawn smiled, readjusting the blankets to provide me with more modesty.

"Ellen, are you in any pain?" Brian asked, coming over and shining a small light in my eyes.

"My tummy is really sore, and my shoulder and chest area," I told him.

"Okay, I'll get the nurse to increase the hourly dosage, there's no reason you should be in pain. You'll probably still be a little sore though, you've got a bruised spleen, which given time will heal, but you'll be tender for a while. As for your chest, you broke your collar bone on impact. We've put your arm into a sling to help limit the movement and give it an opportunity to heal. You did dislocate your other shoulder though, and we're going to have to put it back into place- don't worry though, we've got Michael doing it for you, and we're going to dose you up so you won't remember a thing," he laughed, giving my hand a gentle squeeze.

"You needed me?" yet another doctor walked in, dyed blonde hair, sitting across his face. "Sorry," he added, "There was an emergency in the pit,"

"Ellen, this is Michael, are you ready?" Shawn asked.

"Mmmmm?" I responded unsure.

"You'll be fine," he responded, going to adjust my meds.

To the say that the process was painful would be the understatement of the year, and I may have called all three of them some uncomplimentary names, but after the fact I got some immediate relief.

The rest of the night was spent getting my many cuts stitched up, with the doctors, helping to keep me distracted by talking to me about my everyday life. I ended up in tears when I was introduced to Shawn again,apparently I'd met him a few times before, but I really couldn't remember, who I was told was one of the main people who got me to the hospital. "It's okay," he had spoken, giving me a gentle hug. "It's what we do!" he smiled, grabbing a tissue and wiping the tears off my face.

"They told me you're studying vet science?" he asked, sitting down on a chair next to the bed Connor another doctor and Brian went back to stitching me up. I felt my whole face break into a smile.

"Yep, I'm already a certified carer, but I wanted to take the next step,"

"I really admire that," he told me, "Hopefully we'll be able to get that ankle of yours fixed up first thing tomorrow and onto the road of recovery." he spoke, referring to the compound fracture in my ankle that Shawn had told me about not long after I woke. Admittedly, I had thrown up when he told me what a compound fracture was, and had gone into a panic when he explained it would need surgery, but he had calmed me quickly.

"You'll be fine, you've got the best Ortho in the place working on you, Michael. You won't know anything happened once he's done, and you're all healed.

The coming weeks were filled with highs and lows, the surgery went well, and there was no post op infection, something that made all the doctors very happy, however the pain was almost unbearable at times, and they had to give me multiple pep talks to get me through it. I did it though, we their help.

The experience had helped to shape me, and when it was finally time to leave, I knew that I was leaving with four new friends.

But the one person I could always count on was Shawn. He helped me through everything, physio appointments, monthly reviews but above everything else he was a shoulder to lean on, someone to cry to when things got tough. And I guess through all of that our relationship had blossomed without us even realising. But one thing was for sure...

-Present Day-

I turned smiling now, as Shawn looked down at me I uttered the five words that meant so much to me.

"You save me from Ruin."

[heresathreebee]

Garrote part 10

[Starz Power Diego Jimenez x Jazmine Mann (Black!OC)]

Word count: 3.1k words

Warning(s): Mature | Gun phobia, stalking. Diego and Healy get POVs in this one while Jazmine gets some R&R with the help from her mother. This is a plot only chapter, sorry. Previous Masterlist Next

Author’s Note: No beta reader and I’m far too exhausted to edit properly. After this story, I’m gonna adjust exactly how I format my fics. My million other fic ideas plus my debate over participating in NANOWRIMO this year have been keeping me from working on this too much, I figured it was time to put this up since the last chapter was posted in September... 

The rest of the day went by with a subtle ease. The temperature was just perfect for a coat and Diego seemed to have nowhere to be. Bordering on the miraculous, it was the man himself who asked her if she wanted to go out and have fun. Feeling caught off guard, Jazmine elected to throw caution to the wind and suggest something other than a fancy nightclub to hang out in. And when Diego heard the name, his jaw dropped. 

Two-Bit’s Retro Arcade. 

He did not ask why (though he did scoff, but more so in amusement than derision). Julio was elated to hear the address (apparently he’d been before), and Miguel looked crestfallen to have to stay at the penthouse. The journey from ritzy apartment to 25 cent arcade felt like being washed in time, stepping backwards into her past with a piece that didn't belong in that memory. 

The place was decently busy, there seemed to be no parties bigger than five. A collection of young kids took up the classics section, rotating between Dig Dug, Pac Man, and Tapper Light. The young man who played pinball every day was there. She didn't know his name but she knew his three letter handle because he had the highest score on every pinball machine in the arcade. The rest were small and easygoing groups, buying beers and gathering around prize winning claw games or Dance Dance Revolution. 

"Do they have air hockey?," Diego asked over her shoulder. He was dressed down per her request, in a simple hoodie and jeans. She kept glancing at him, feeling drawn to the simplicity of liking a simple man. 

"Over here." She had no intention of hiding how familiar she was with this place. Diego gave Julio a nod and the man dissolved into the background but was never out of sight. Suddenly, Jazmine became very aware that there were now at least two guns in this public space. Air hockey was... occupied. "Looks like a college tournament. Come on, we're not going to be able to play for like a week." 

She grabbed his arm to guide him away, but the man didn't budge. He stared those college boys down, looking for a fight. If he started something… 

"Diego. Diego! Please… it's just a game, I know a better one we won't have to share." 

At last he acquiesced and followed behind, never more than a foot away. She didn't realize she was holding her breath and wondered if those guys noticed his staring… they probably thought it was normal though. 

Jazmine brought Diego to the darkest corner of the arcade where nobody was or needed to pass by. If she stopped dead in her tracks, Diego would have tripped over her immediately for how close he was, but now that he had her exclusive attention, she didn't mind. She gestured to her favorite game and smiled. 

"Welcome to Marvel Vs Capcom: Clash of Superheroes," she announced. "Nobody plays this version because there's a huge glitch that sometimes makes one character untouchable." 

"OK." Diego wore a sly grin. No doubt he intended to find the cheat character and win all matches, but Jazmine knew all of this game's little secrets. 

Unsurprisingly, Diego's first pick was Wolverine. Jazmine refrained from rolling her eyes and let him work through the board of player characters, picking her own at random and sometimes picking the one she knew would fair better against his character to make it an even game. She watched his brow grow tighter and tighter as he couldn't find the broken character. He even switched up strategies– picking the characters that looked the least strong and working up from there (the opposite of his earlier choices). At last, he picked Chun-Li, having not noticed Jazmine picked it three times already, and he glanced at her face once more to see if she reacted, but the woman gave nothing away. Not until he looked towards the screen did she crack a smile. 

The way the smugness drained off of Diego's face made her smile broaden. He looked at the controls as if they were to blame, then to Jazmine and back to the screen where Chun Li had walked off of the edge of the screen. Annoyed, he leaned over the controls menacingly and waited for an explanation from the Cheshire cat grin on his partner's face. 

It took her awhile to answer him– she was trying really hard to fight the bubbling laughter in her belly. "Yeah, that um… that's what I was talking about. If you play the same character four times, the game breaks. You can't be hit but you also can't hit and you need to hold down the joystick to keep from walking off the edge of the screen… if you let them get away, well… you have to unplug the whole system." 

Diego looked pissed. He stared her down for so long she gulped but eventually, he freed her from his penetrative gaze. His hand slipped under her jacket and found a home at the base of her spine, and suddenly she was being whisked away towards the bathrooms. 

"Where are we–" 

Diego wasted not a breath and pushed her into the women's bathroom (unsurprisingly closet sized), before crowding her space to step inside and lock the door behind. Her heart began to pound against her chest as he turned and fixed her with a commanding glare. He moved as sly as a big cat, forcing her to find purchase against the tiny wood counter with the sink and leaning over her with his lips pressed to her nose. 

He said something softly in Spanish that she didn't understand, but it sounded sultry and it sent a pleasant shiver down her back. She thought he was going to kiss her, but then there was something hard and heavy he pressed into her hand. 

A gun. 

Her eyes bulged– glancing quickly between him and the shiny dark metal of the killing contraption– and shook her head minutely. 

"Take it," he said. She just kept shaking her head, hiding her hands beneath her arms and feeling dizzy, on the verge of passing out. He growled. "I wasn't asking." 

If he wasn't pressed against her, she would be rocking for comfort. Jazmine did not like guns. Her eyes misted over as she whispered, "why?" 

"They've been following us since we left." He slid the wretched mechanism up along her arm and let it rest just below her collarbone. "Haagen's men probably. They're getting bolder– probably by their master's orders." He tilted his head as if he was speaking of something completely mundane as he said, "did you really think those air hockey guys were college students? It's a Thursday." 

Jazmine didn't mean to whimper, but she managed to keep her tears at bay long enough to touch a finger to the gun, not quite taking it, but letting him know she would. She let him show her the safety and slipped it into the back of her pants, careful not to hurt her and demonstrating an awareness of her southpaw. He was almost hugging her when he finally stepped back (as far as the little toilet would allow). When his heel clinked against the porcelain, he turned to make sure he hadn't stepped in a mess, and Jazmine bolted. 

~

"Hello?" 

There was no one else's voice she wanted to hear more than that of Lashawn Mann. Jazmine felt guilt well up alongside the anxiety that had been threatening to consume her for weeks. 

"Mama?" Her voice sounded so small in her own ears. "Can I come over and see you?" 

"Of course, baby. You can come see me right now: I'm at your place." 

Jazmine caught a cab from Essex street home, and though Diego possessed an acute lack of awareness for personal space or feelings, he did leave her alone for a while. No SUVs with fake licenses trailed her home, no voicemails and no texts came through. She put it in airplane mode to make sure things stayed that way. She had a thought to drop Healy's hearing aid down a drain but put it in her pocket instead. 

Lashawn was waiting with Hercules. The tiny bit of annoyance Jazmine usually felt about getting slobbered on washed away the instant she saw her furry grey friend. The woman plopped her butt onto the ground and let the dog run amok in excitement to see her again. 

"Mom…" Hercules settled down in her lap and weighed her to the earth like an anchor for a ship at sea. "If something happens to me, will you take care of her?" 

"What do you mean 'if something happens to you'? Child, I ain't heard from you in two months and you come back with that?" Lashawn sat down on the floor despite her bad knees and leaned on her daughter's shoulder. "Baby, what's going on with you?" 

~

Estupido. She shouldn't have run away like that. 

Diego was overthinking in the backseat while Julio sat in perfect silence. The driver would have preferred the radio on, but his boss demanded the proper atmosphere to brood in. Taking what little he knew of the woman, Jazmine was probably going to retreat to her apartment since he lived in the only other place she was safe. Whatever– she would return in her own time. Unless her own time hindered their operation. 

We can't lose this opportunity. We are so close to Porsche and revenge. Hurry up, cariño. Make our next move. 

Diego was stuck deep inside his head even as he stood with his sister hours later in yet another huge warehouse with examples to be made of. Alicia wiped the blade of her knife onto her bodyguard's sleeve, then turned the blade over to her brother. 

"Finish the last one, will you?" 

Diego hummed, distracted by the conversation at the edge of the half circle. He did not like what he heard. He dug the blade straight into the crying man's heart, then cut his throat just for good measure. The blood on his hands was drying before he was able to speak again. He and Alicia were sat in her limo across from each other. She tactfully ignored his piercing gaze, while he worried the stickiness between his fingers mindlessly. 

"What's this I hear about you staying in New York?" 

Alicia glanced coolly up from inspecting her nails. "What do you mean? Someone needs to run the business." 

"That's what that idiot and your little fuck toy Dre are for. They deal with shit here while we get Porsche back, and then we go home. Together." 

"No," she shrugged. "Dre can't be trusted, Diego. I'm staying, you're going back to Mexico. We can split parent: the girl comes to live with me for a while and then with you. Every month or so…?" 

Diego's hands ball into fists and his teeth hurt from the pressure of keeping his jaw closed. Fucking puta, he thought as the car slowed to a stop. Exiting the car, the man pulled himself up to his full height and reveled in the brief moment of fear that registered on her face. 

"I'm not your errand boy, hermana. I don't do things because you think it's convenient. And I won't be sent away like an annoying pest so you can trounce about in luxury while I'm stuck doing peasant work. Am I the only one worried about that little fucking girl?" 

Through the marble stonework of her mask, he saw the cracks in her armor. "We can talk about this later, Diego." 

"Do you even want her back?," he sneered. 

"Stop it!" 

Alicia pushed him out of her way and disappeared quickly, her entourage scurrying to follow her. Diego looked to his men to find them with their eyes cast down as if they were witness to something they should never see. He stormed away with his head full of rage and more questions than answers. 

~

Meanwhile in a stuffy police office space, Healy was getting chewed out. His superiors figured him out, and now he was sat in interrogation with a furious pair of agents awaiting an explanation and disciplinary action. 

"You took it too far, Healy," his boss said. "I mean, you have really outdone yourself this time." 

"Yes sir." 

"Fucking A, right!" Agent Brasa slammed her hand on the table. No doubt she was chewing a huge wad of nicotine gum and gunning for his immediate firing. "This was our case, Healy, ours. Mine and Holbrooke, not yours!" 

Holbrooke remained ever brooding, silently leaning against the wall and watching the scene unfold. Though they made remained neutrally poised, he could tell by the pinch in their brow they were just as angry as Brasa. Healy had given up trying to talk to Brasa, and instead appealed to Holbrooke this time. 

"You two have every right to be angry with me–" 

"Oh do I??" Brasa cut in, "I didn't realize I needed your permission to be pissed off!" 

"-- but I did it because I had an 'in.' I saw an opportunity that only I could have seized, and–" 

"Are you really going to let him get away with this, Stahlworth?" Brasa looked accusingly at their boss, who merely scratched at his neck and closed his eyes as if keeping them open pained him greatly. 

"Brasa. Holbrooke. Out. I'll handle this the way I see fit– and don't argue with me, Marie, or I'll put you on suspension." 

The two stormed out into the hall, and finally Healy was able to breathe. As soon as he had been confronted by Stahlworth, he had come clean– setting up a covert op without agency permission and using a civilian to distract the perp while he slipped a mole into the organization and collected information. Brasa and Holbrooke had done amazing work– they discovered Haagen was the head, profiled the victims, and knew many of the locations of the exchanges– but they couldn't get any further to seizure warrants or when the exchanges were taking place. 

Healy looked pleadingly at Stahlworth. "They didn't have the resources to cover all those locations with proper 24 hour surveillance, Jack. Haagen is always one step ahead of them– of us– anyways because someone in this very organization is on his payroll. I don't need the glory, I don't want the case to myself– I just want this fucker behind bars. If you have to suspend me, I understand, if you have to fire me, I get it– but please don't throw out my evidence. People's lives are on the line, and Brasa and Holbrooke need this info–" 

"Who's your informant?" Healy snapped his mouth shut as the dreaded words left Stahlworth to hang menacingly in the air. "Healy? Who. Is your. Informant? Who are you working with? Give me a clearer picture of what you've been up to, and maybe I'll ask the DA to go easy on your ass." 

Healy gritted his teeth and dug his heels in. "I can't tell you any of that. A mole for a mole, I can't afford to trust that the eyes and ears in this very room are sound. Now if you want to pass this case back over to the agents it belongs to, I just have a few conditions concerning the safety of–" 

"Is this about Meghan?," Stahlworth asked. 

Healy's voice died in his throat. A lump formed and he had to swallow it down before it consumed him completely. Standing from his chair, Healy buttoned his coat and came face to face with his boss. 

"This is about the kids I can still save. Sir."

~

After LaShawn helped Jazmine pack her belongings, the daughter decided to take Hercules to the park for some fresh air. Her mother had made it clear she wanted Jazmine to move back in with her since she'd lost her job, but what she didn't know was that before Healy and Haagen, Jazmine was two months behind on rent, and she should have lost the lease to her apartment weeks ago. As it stood now, the landlord hadn’t bothered her once– so someone was paying her bills. Exactly who would remain a mystery as Diego, Healy, and Haagen possessed the means and the interest in keeping her in New York City, so she tried not to think too hard about it. 

Jazmine picked a spot in the grass and let Herc off the leash. She threw a beat up tennis ball with a little cheap plastic arm and watched her happy grey pupper zip around picnickers and other dog walkers, always stopping to be petted by every little girl and boy who squealed happily to see her. The woman was jumpy and constantly on edge, but for some reason she barely flinched when Diego sat down next to her. 

"I'll be honest, I'm glad you're here," she said without looking his way. 

He took the plastic arm and threw the next ball watching Hercules trot over hill and dale for this throw. "Did Healy tell you about Porsche?" 

Jazmine turned to see the dark bags under Diego's eyes. "He said something about a missing baby… is that what you mean?" 

The man leaned into her shoulder. "Yes." 

"I'm sorry, Diego." 

"I want my baby back, Jazmine. I want to watch her grow up happy and healthy and loved." He turns to look at her with an expression of maturity she didn't think he was capable of. "That's why I need you. We need you. You're probably scared, but you can't be more scared than that little girl is right now." 

It felt like a punch to the gut. Part of her was annoyed by his dismissal of her fear, but for the most part she understood. It wasn't hard to figure out what happened to older girls and boys in Haagen's ring, but what the fuck was he doing with babies? The thought twisted her stomach until her head ached from nausea. 

Diego continued, scratching at his eye to cover the build up of tears that threatened to spill out. "Healy said he found evidence of sales for kids under 13 that looked more like adoption papers than anything. Requirements for private education and a separate bedroom, things like that. He said he has a stack with no names but six of them are around her age with the name of the adoptive parents on it. It's a start." 

"It's a very good start." Jazmine placed her hand on Diego's back and let him curl into her side with a sigh. "It means she's still alive, that's fantastic... do you think Haagen noticed the papers were missing? He probably has so many…" 

Diego shrugged noncommittally and dragged her down to lay in the grass with Hercules. As he did, she felt the gun in her pants dig into her back, tightening that fist clenched around her heart. She was safe for now, in this moment. But would she ever be again?

@mental-bycatch @nicke0115 @1zashreena1 @girlpornparadise @kid-from-new-zealand​

[citrinekay]

okay, 3 prompts (feel free to use some, all, or none of them!!!) 1: i really really love how you write kink between them. the power exchange is subtle but palpable. we don't see a ton of aftercare (although we have once or twice!), and i know a lot of that fits well with the story (they're still coming to terms with what they've done once the lust has passed). could we see some more extended aftercare? what does it look like for Bill to tend to Holden after he's broken him down?

I love this prompt! I’ve also been thinking a lot about Holden and his anxiety/panic disorder after finishing reading the Mindhunter book by John Douglas. If anyone doesn’t know, Douglas suffered a bout of viral encephalitis that was partially brought on by the massive stress of his job. At the time, he was the only person in the BSU working profiling full time and was working over 100 cases by himself! While in Seattle for the Green River killer (a case which went unsolved until 2001), he became critically ill and was in the hospital for weeks. Before reading the book, I had no idea just how substantial Douglas’s workload was at the time. I’ve been wanting to use the details of that case in my writing so this is the perfect opportunity. This is also goes really well with my fragile series so I’m thinking of this as a little vignette to that ‘verse. Enjoy :)

The Seattle skyline beyond the hotel window blurs into a mass of winking lights and distant starlight as Holden’s body sinks weightlessly into the sheets. Every inch of him is quivering, flinching; he feels raw and used in every way he’s been longing for since the start of this investigation, a seemingly endless parade of decomposed corpses being dragged from the Green River. 

For much of the first two weeks, they hadn’t found the time or energy for this kind of privacy, but it’s been two days since they discovered another dead prostitute in the water. Finally, a breather. 

Bill knows him well enough to see when it’s all becoming too much, when the waves are creeping up over his mouth and nose, when he’s starting to feel like he’s coming apart. He had suggested they take an early day today instead of spending the entire afternoon at the precinct, pouring over details that they’ve already looked at a hundred times before. But instead of getting drinks like he’d told the local cops they were doing, he’d brought Holden straight back to the hotel room. 

Ten flights above the ground, no one else could see when Bill pushed him up against the wall and kissed him until he couldn’t breathe. No one could see when he ordered Holden to strip down and lie on the bed. The taut burn of the tie knotting around his wrists and securing him to the headboard was solely for him, an act of deviancy so far and wide from anything they study that at this point Holden can’t feel any kind of guilt in it. There’s always something tender in the violence of Bill’s hand breaking him, a warm, bubbling security in the pain slowly inching him towards the edge of the breaking point. One word from Holden and it would stop immediately, but that isn’t what he wants; and he trusts Bill to push him just hard enough to break, but not so hard that a gentle touch afterward can’t put him back together again. 

Now, two hours later, he’s lying in a heap of disassembled pieces, his limbs useless and humming, his body crying out in equal measures of pain and pleasure. It’s all over and quiet; the tears slipping from his eyelids are drying quickly. The weight is gone from his chest, replaced by a warm buoyancy, a great relief, a continuing exhale of satisfaction. 

Holden’s gaze drifts from the fuzzy lights outside the window when Bill slips back into the room with a bucket of ice. His movements are steady and practiced as he retrieves a bottle of water from the minifridge, and uses a few of the ice cubes to prepare a glass of whiskey. He sets the two drinks on the nightstand, and goes into the bathroom to retrieve a hand towel that he packs with the rest of the ice. 

When he comes back to the bed, he removes the knotted tie from around Holden’s wrists. As the pressure on his pulse lets up, Holden feels the hot rush of blood and the raw sting of his chafed skin reawakening. He swallows back a whimper of pain. 

Bill tosses aside the tie, and bends to plant a kiss on his cheek. “You okay?”

Holden nods. “Yes.”

“Here.” Bill says, uncapping the water bottle.

Holden shoots a glance at the whiskey. “I’m not allowed to have a drink after all that?”

“Water first.”

Holden represses a sigh, and takes the water bottle. Pushing up onto his elbows, he takes a long drink. 

Bill sits down on the edge of the bed beside him, and grabs the towel packed with ice from the nightstand. Holden clenches his jaw as the ice pack comes in contact with his backside, scorched skin hissing with both shock and relief. 

Bill takes a drink of his whiskey, ice cubes rattling quietly against the glass. 

“I think we’ve done about all we can do here.” He says, softly. 

Holden peeks over his shoulder at Bill’s profile, rigid in the soft, yellow lamplight. 

“We have other cases.” Bill continues, “I’m calling Ted tomorrow.”

“I can handle it.” Holden says, mustering a confident tone. “It was just a bad day, that’s all-”

“I’m not just saying it for you.” Bill says, shifting his gaze to Holden’s naked, broken body sprawled across the bedsheets. He moves the ice pack to a fresh patch of inflamed skin. “We’re not any good to anyone when we’re both burned out.”

Holden turns his focus back to the Seattle skyline crystallizing beyond the filmy sheen of the curtains. He can almost see the Green River from this vantage point, but maybe that’s just his imagination. 

Bill draws in a deep breath, and crawls onto the bed beside Holden. Keeping the ice pack in place, he presses a slow row of kisses down Holden’s shoulder blade, into the dip of his spine. 

Holden hums a sound of satisfaction, and lets his head drop to the pillows. The simmering smattering of kisses awakens new sensation, the gentility that follows the viciousness, the new, aching pleasure that can only be reached after the hardened exterior has been broken down and destroyed. Tears rush sudden and hot to his eyes, not from the pain like before, but out of something much worse. 

Bill lifts his head, and Holden quickly muzzles his misery in the pillow. 

“Hey, hey.” Bill says, concern bleeding into the low rumble of his voice. “Holden.”

“It’s okay.” Holden mumbles into the pillow, his throat thick with emotion. “I’m fine.”

Setting aside the ice pack, Bill sits up against the headboard, and drags Holden’s limp body into his arms. 

Holden presses his eyes shut as he settles down against Bill’s chest. Bill’s hand cradles his cheek, smoothing away the escaped tears as they trickle from the corner of his eye. 

“It’s going to be okay.” Bill says, the sound of his voice vibrating low in his chest against Holden’s ear. “Hear me?”

Holden nods. 

“Say it.” Bill urges, softly. 

Holden draws in a deep breath, trying to force out the shudder in his lungs, but he feels like he’s simply inhaling water. 

“The profile …” He whispers, “It doesn’t make sense for all of them, does it?”

Bill holds him closer. “What do you mean?”

“There’s more than one.” Holden says, “All the murders are similar, but not the same. I think there could be two unsubs, possibly three.”

Bill’s frown deepens. 

“How are we supposed to catch three unsubs if we can’t even catch one?” Holden asks, his voice hardening against the tears. 

“We’re doing the best we can.”

Holden pushes his forehead into Bill’s chest, trying to impress that thought into his mind, but it's a mantra he knows all too well - a mantra his anxieties can easily hurdle. 

“It just feels like I’m drowning with them some days.” He whispers. 

Retrieving Holden’s limp hand from the sheets, Bill lifts his raw wrist into a kiss. His breath trickles warmly down the inside of Holden’s forearm, soothing in a way that’s just as revolutionary as the burn of a hand across his backside. 

“I’m not going to let that happen.” Bill says, his voice unwavering. 

Holden sniffles quietly. 

“Do you believe me?” Bill asks. 

“Yes.” Holden whispers, his voice small and quivering. 

“Okay.” Bill says, “You need some rest. Let’s get a shower, and we can go to bed.”

Holden utters a whimpered complaint. His body is finally feeling unwound and relaxed, not wanting to move from its place wrapped up in the bed sheets and cuddled against Bill’s chest. 

“I’m not putting you to bed like this.” Bill says, gently chiding. “Come on.”

Bill wrangles Holden’s pliant body from the sheets, and leads them to the bathroom. Turning on the shower, he lets the water get hot before motioning Holden inside. He slides the glass door shut behind them, closing them off from the hotel room and the rest of the world. 

As the water pounds across Holden’s back, and the soap cleanses away his sweat and tears, he at last feels the prickle of anxiety drop entirely away from his mind. Maybe it's just the implacable exhaustion of too many long nights finally catching up with him, but when Bill holds him underneath the warm water, he doesn’t feel like he’s drowning any longer.