#we know so little about his inner world at this point that there are a million possible interpretations of how he perceives relationships..

[catboygirljoker]

i think about xigbar too much and often find myself wondering how many of his lives he ended up in a serious relationship/marriage, whether out of genuine feelings on his end or convenience or "my vessel was close to them, it'd be too suspicious to cut it off" like on one hand he doesn't strike me as the most monogamous or traditional-relationship loving man and like he has no issue faking his death to get out of things. on the other, when you live for centuries, what's a few decades with someone you like? i am also looking at him with rose-tinted glasses because i am horngry for that old man

YEAH i get you.... like, xigbar seems like a dick who wouldn't be interested in that kind of close relationship with someone, but xigbar is luxu after centuries of life, and also not long after the events of Dark Road—i think it's perfectly reasonable to imagine that when we see him as xigbar, luxu is at the end of his downward arc as a character, and that earlier in life he might have been a nicer person who was more open to those kinds of relationships!

however i have also joked before that if luxu has always had trouble getting close to people, and if he determined early on that it's not worth the effort to try to stay "in character" as his vessel...that maybe xigbar has gotten divorced more times than he's gotten married

[k-hotchoisan]

missing piece

<seonghwa x fem!Reader>

Building legos is important business and Seonghwa knows that very well when he realises he’s missing a piece.

So who would’ve thought two people attempting to search for one Lego piece would lead to other things?

genres/warnings: smut, pwp, softdom!seonghwa, missing Lego piece (don’t worry it’ll get found later), dirty talk, it’s legit teeth rotting fluff and smut, unprotected sex, breeding kink, established relationship, mild choking, clit stimulation

a/n: another fic exchange with @bro-atz 😎👊🏻 it’s a competition of who can kill each other faster and we both LOSING. love u bro <3 and also finally serving you all the softdom! Seonghwa you all deserve 😛 enjoy my loves 🩷

read bro’s one here 💘

wc: 1.9K

‘A couple activity idea’—apparently the amount of countless generic couple websites would list this idea. 

Yeah, this would qualify for a couple activity idea casually, not when it seemed like a big business deal when it came to Park Seonghwa. 

Seonghwa had the ambiance set, his station ready—the Animal Crossing Soundtrack Playlist with Rain playing through the speakers, his desk clean and white—only stacked with the Animal Crossing Lego sets prepared to to be unboxed, in his favourite oversized shirt, and not forgetting you, who he dragged into his room to watch him build his little building block empire—comfortably seated across him on his bed. 

You didn’t mind watching your partner build the latest Animal Crossing Lego set he just easily blew a couple of hundred on hours before. You watched his inner child take form when he made you sit down with him to watch him unbox the first set he was gonna build, his eyes large and twinkling, just like his Animal Crossing character in-game.

Seonghwa hums softly, and it’s definitely his favourite soundtrack from the game. From time to time, Seonghwa would make the little critter noises his animal villagers would make while he fixes the animal villagers and you can’t help but giggle whenever he does the impressions. He’s finished a cherry tree, making sure he flailed his wrists to get your attention. Your lips pull to a smile when your eyes land on the pretty cherry tree he built, reflecting his satisfaction with his plump lips too. 

Then he’s back to his workstation, and you’re absorbed back into playing your switch. 

“This set is pretty easy”, you hear him comment. 

“Is it?” You reply, your attention focused on trying to slay the beast. 

“Yeah. I think I could finish this in another half an hour.” He sounds confident. 

“Good luck with that sweetheart”, you respond, your eyes trailing back to your game. 

Then midway through, Seonghwa demands your attention again, and this time you watch the way his eyes light up the whole damn room when he shows you the way the little Lego letter fits into its little Lego mailbox. Not gonna lie, it was a very adorable detail. He yaps about it for a good seven minutes before he sinks back into his building block world. 

“Now here’s the million dollar question—pink or brown for the door?” He asks, loosely fitting both coloured doors after one another 

“Pink, obviously”, you pick. Seonghwa seems satisfied with your answer, and you swear you see the little musical notes float out of him when he fixes the door onto the house. 

A couple more minutes later, you glance over at the messy pieces of Lego strewn all over Seonghwa’s table, below his half-completed Animal Crossing cottage. 

He has his cheeks puffed out, and his eyebrows knitted together while he’s carefully scanning over the table. 

“Are you missing a piece?” You ask, setting your console on the bed. 

“Yeah, I think I am”, Seonghwa mutters, his index finger pointing over each piece on the table, in hopes of finding it. 

You take the instruction booklet from his hands, skimming through the pictures before you settle it down onto the desk, your eyes laser-focused onto the mess too. 

“Do you wanna come over to my side instead? Maybe you can spot it better from this view”, you suggest, which Seonghwa takes, so he shuffles over to the bed, and moves to sit right where you are—and now you’re on his lap, with his chest pressing right against your back as he towers over you, arms hugging you from behind. He continues to search for the missing Lego piece. 

You take part in the search too, the game completely forgotten by then. You realise it’s nice just having Seonghwa sitting close to you like this. Maybe this was what they meant by building Lego as “a couple activity”.

“Did you drop it or something?” You ask, shifting slightly to have a better view of the floor. You hear Seonghwa grunt behind you, but you pay no attention, focusing on finding the piece. 

Seonghwa swears he’s focused on looking for the missing piece too—he really wants to complete the set, but at the same time, he’s watching and feeling you move against him on top of the way he’s able to wrap his arms around you easily, smelling his scent on you—it’s not helping his case. He bites his bottom lip, trying to manage himself. 

Obviously, it does nothing, considering he’s having you in such close proximity, and every movement you’re brushing against him is starting to make him grow sensitive. 

His hand snakes down to your thighs, drawing circles, his other hand sifting through the endless pieces of Lego. 

He forces himself to concentrate, and it works for a split second, that is, until you absentmindedly shift his free arm on under your loose shirt, and he snaps. 

“If this is your way of breaking my concentration, you’re doing a good job”, you hear his deep voice ringing in your ears. He’s letting his hands roam all over your body hidden underneath your shirt, his fingers grazing against your nipples teasingly, and it draws gasps out of you. 

“Focus on finding the block, Park Seonghwa”, you tease, readjusting yourself, making sure you press against his growing erection underneath his loose shorts. 

It’s Seonghwa’s turn to draw a shaky breath every time your clothed ass comes into contact with his erection.

You pretend to ignore him, but you can’t ignore the way he’s massaging your tits, and you find yourself sighing and growing hotter through each passing moment. 

You think he’s finally giving you a break, but you’re proven wrong when his hands are sliding down the waistband of your shorts. 

“You’re not finding the block, Angel”, Seonghwa points out, and you pout at his words. Your hand slips under the large opening of his shorts and fuck—his erection is only growing thicker. 

You hear him groan behind you when you let your hands wander to stroke his cock through his underwear. So he retaliates with his finger sliding past your panties, cursing when he realises your pussy is growing wetter by the second.  

“We’re supposed to be looking for the Lego piece, Hwa”, you mutter, mind growing hazy as his fingers get drenched from your slick, circling your clit gently. 

“Mmhm. We are, baby. You’re just not focusing”, Seonghwa replies, his index and middle finger spreading your folds open letting his index finger find your clit more easily, and it’s driving you fucking crazy. 

Your legs push open automatically, your hands pausing stroking him off, well, not that Seonghwa minded. 

“That feels so good”, you sigh. Seonghwa’s other hand cups your jaw, and you turn to face him, feeling the way his hands slide down your throat while Seonghwa has your lips on his, eating up your whines and moans before letting you catch your breath.

“So fuckin wet for me, Angel. You like it that much?” He teases. 

“Mmhm, your fingers feel so good Hwa”, you nod, your grip around his arm tightening as the pleasure builds in your stomach every time his finger strokes against your clit. At this point, you can’t even pretend.  

His lips are pressed against your ear, his voice deep yet you sense traces of whining in his tone when he says, “Sit on my dick. I need you on my fucking dick now, Angel.” 

Of course, you comply, despite your legs trembling slightly, letting Seonghwa slip out of his bottoms. His arm is wrapped around your waist, pulling you impossibly close to him, his lips making a whole garden of bites down your neck before he has both his hands lift your hips. 

Seonghwa lines himself against your fluttering cunt and he pushes himself into your pussy hole, his moans of relief sending you into a spiral on top of his cock sinking into you. 

Fuck, he’s filling you up so fucking good. 

“Fuck. That’s it, babe. You’re so fucking good”, he groans when you squeeze against him. 

“Hwa, oh my fucking god, you’re so full in me”, you sob, trying to adjust to his length. 

“Do you think we can find the piece better like this?” He jokes while peppering kisses down your neck to distract himself so he doesn’t fucking just burst in you just yet. 

Even in your pleasured haze, you still manage to laugh while you try to keep your eyes open. 

“I think we can”, you reply with a giggle, before squealing when you feel him twitch in you. You shift forward slightly, feeling his cock shift in you, dragging along your walls, a small whine escaping past your lips. 

With the last of your sanity remaining, you glance over the desk one more time, biting your lip to stay grounded, obviously to no avail, especially not with Seonghwa and his little movement behind you. 

“I really think it’s-fuck-not here”, Seonghwa mutters behind you, forcing himself not to thrust into you, his fingers slithering down to your wet clit once more. 

“I’m pretty sure it d-dropped. We haven’t checked the floor yet-ngh-right?” you manage to ask.

“Mmmm nope”, Seonghwa responds, mesmerised at the way your slick growing thicker on your clit and on his cock as he continues to rub your clit. “I guess we can do that later ‘cause I really need to fuck your pussy right now, Angel.” 

He doesn’t give you much time to answer because you’re a complete goner when Seonghwa is making you bounce off his cock while he gets you off with his fingers. 

You’re trembling from the sheer pleasure, your vision slowly growing hazy, the knot tightening in your abdomen more quickly than you thought. 

“H-Hwa! Gonna cum-Oh fuckkkk”, you draw out, white clouding your vision. Your cunt flutters around his cock, dopamine shooting up your body while you completely let go on his cock as Seonghwa fucks you through your orgasm.

“Fuck, you’re such a good fucking girl. “That’s it. Be a good girl and cum on my dick like that, Angel”, Seonghwa groans into your ear, his gaze traveling down at the way your thick cream streaks down his cock when he pulls out. He shuts his eyes, sighing into the nape of your neck while he listens to the way your cunt is just so loud and wet for him while he fucks your cream out of you, thrusting his hips upwards. 

“God, your pussy feels so fucking perfect. Fuck. I’m gonna cum. Gonna fill you up so good baby”, he pants before his hips thrust and press against yours, filling you up with his warm and thick cum accompanied by his low groans. 

You feel Seonghwa’s hands run down your body, soothing you after emptying his fucking load into you before he slowly pulls out of your cum-filled pussy. 

“I’ll get you a towel, Angel”, Seonghwa tells you, pressing his lips on your temple before leaving the bed. 

He retrieves a spare towel from the bathroom and cleans you up, before releasing you to wash up in the bathroom. 

When you renter his room, Seonghwa is switching gazes between his half-completed set and the instruction manual. 

He looks up at you with a grin that’s making you feel uneasy. 

“Babe, turns out I wasn’t missing a piece—I already had it in all along!”

Taglist: @bro-atz @diamond-3 @mcarebearsstuff @choisansplushie @pre1ttyies @songmingisthighs @yeosangiess @mylovelymito @softwsan @yourlocaljonghoe @itza-meee @ywtf @jeon-ify @miss-fallon @bunnyluvr25 @eggyboy5 @hourswithoutyou @iwishiwasthemoontonight @yunhogrippers @watermelon2319 @vampiregirl215 @kibs-and-bits @s-h-y-a @luvt0kki @httpseungmxn @vic0921 @sanhwajoong @bitejoongie @no1likevie @woojirang @jjoongstar @yuyusgirl

[ddarker-dreams]

A Deal's a Deal.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, violence against minor characters, descriptions of anxiety, mentions of alcohol. Word count: 5k.

Next

“... Sorry. This one’s no good either.” 

Sighing dejectedly, you sink into your seat. 

You can’t tell if your companion’s disappointed. He maintains a neutral countenance, betraying nothing of his inner thoughts. Still, you study him, awaiting some visual indication before moving the conversation forward. He must sense your intentions, for he catches your gaze and smiles. 

“Should we call it a day? You look tired.” 

“The hell? Isn’t it considered taboo to tell a lady she looks tired?” You grumble. “And here I thought you were Casanova incarnate. You’ve got to work on your charisma stats.” 

Chrollo shrugs halfheartedly. “What point is there if you’re immune to my many charms?” 

“Let’s be real — ‘many’ is overdoing it, a little humility won’t hurt. I commend your budding self-awareness, though. At least we’ve made progress on that front.” 

He hums, offering no rebuttal. You realize that you’ve perked back up, reinvigorated by his goading. He certainly knows how to get people going. Among his defining features, that’s one of the first you recognized; his uncanny way of orchestrating favorable outcomes. 

Sipping your preferred warm beverage, you canvass your surroundings. 

The café’s less crowded than when you came in. There are still a few students typing away on their laptops while consuming a concerning amount of caffeine. In the corner sits an elderly couple, whose order you overheard by virtue of the volume it was placed at — “Give me a regular coffee. Straight black, none of that ‘appaccino, grand venti’ nonsense. Decaf for my wife.” 

(You prayed for the barista’s sanity when he tried explaining the different ways ‘straight black’ could come). 

“... I am losing my touch, aren’t I?” Chrollo murmurs. You snap your head in his direction, having temporarily forgotten his existence. “You prefer older men?” 

You almost choke mid-sip. “Pleh…! That’s it, I’m retiring, good luck sorting your issues out.”

“You don’t mean that.” 

“How I wish you were wrong,” you deadpan. Lifting his phone off the table, you scroll through its contents. There’s nothing new to look at. “An exorcist, huh? You’re positive that’s a real thing?” 

“They exist. They’re just rare, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.” 

“I blame the Protestant Reformation.” 

The skin beneath his eyes wrinkles. “... Cute.”  

His compliment makes you frown. 

“Quit it with the flattery, already.” 

“Flattery implies a degree of insincerity, no?” He challenges. “You of all people should know when I’m being genuine.” 

“You make it sound like I’m a walking polygraph.” 

His lips part and close as he considers his response. “That isn’t how I view you.” 

This guy’s clever with his word choice, you think. Too clever.

Disliking where this conversation might go, you redirect. 

“This ‘Hunter’ site you’ve been using… is there any way for me to access it?”

“Feeling a bit impatient, are we?” 

There’s a patronizing lilt to this tone that has you inhaling sharply. Closing your eyes, you ball your hands into fists, willing your agitated mind to relax. Your goal feels so close. This future you never believed possible dangles above your head, only to recede as if you were Tantalus whenever you grasp for it. Needling Chrollo won’t get you any closer, but at least it gives you something to do, mimicking progress. 

“The Hunter site has various measures in place to prevent account sharing. You don’t want to end up on their radar,” Chrollo retrieves his phone and tucks it into his coat’s pocket. “While your enthusiasm’s admirable, I suggest you leave this part to me.”

You swallow thickly. “... Right.” 

“Are you upset?” 

“No, I’m not,” you rest your hands on your lap. “Just, y’know. Reminded that we’re from two different worlds.” 

Outside the café’s windows, individuals from all walks of life bustle about. Some are on their phones, others chatting with friends, or holding their partner’s hands. It’s a picturesque display of normalcy. They’re likely thinking about what to have for dinner, when to set their alarm for the following day, if they can squeeze out of plans they halfheartedly agreed to over the weekend; you know this because you aspire to live the same way. 

“You’re closer to mine than you think.” 

A fervent disagreement blazes then turns to ash on your tongue. There’s an unidentifiable quality to his stare — neither kind nor outright malicious — almost clinical in its effort to elicit a reaction. You stir in your seat. Despite your time together, he’s as much an enigma as he’d been upon your first meeting. Charming and courteous, yet lacking genuine warmth, like a faux candle. 

“Do you get some kick out of riling me up?”

“Maybe a little,” he admits. “Your expressive nature is endearing. I can’t help myself.” 

His words resonate with such clarity that you can’t help but wish he’d been a little dishonest. 

“I’m not a toy for you to entertain yourself with.” 

His smile makes you squirm. 

“I know you aren’t.” 

“Then what—” you cut yourself off, fearing what might occur if you continue your original line of questioning. “Man, you’re exhausting to deal with. Has anyone ever told you that you have an awful personality?” 

“Few get to be around me enough to comment on its quality.” 

“I’m counting down the days until I’m no longer a member of that inner circle.” 

Before Chrollo can respond, his phone audibly vibrates. Newfound excitement overwhelms you at the sound. He glances at the notification and nods, confirming your speculation. He places it in your eager hands. While you prepare, he steeples his fingers and leans forward, intrigued as always with your work. 

You relax your breathing. This entire process is based on intuition, chasing after faint sensations until your desired outcome manifests. A pliable force thrums through you — what Chrollo refers to as ‘aura’ — awakening from its dormant state. Mindful of your public surroundings, you keep your dominant hand beneath the table. Where there was once nothing, a three-dimensional object rests snugly against your palm. Buttons of varying utility jut outward along its perimeter. This small item, shaped like a cassette recorder, stirs antipathy in your heart. 

Holding down rewind, the cassette whirrs to life. You prepare to record the latest audio note sent in for analysis. 

Instant Replay (One More Time!).

These past few months have seen your ability frequently leveraged. It was your personal conviction to refuse its use, lest paranoia eat away at you. However, freedom from this bondage necessitates further entanglement. You’ve parted with your long-standing morals, primed to pick through the syllables of others for your own purposes. 

Right and wrong no longer concern you. 

All you care about is surrendering this loathsome ability to the man sitting across the table. 

-

The night air is unforgiving in its chill. It infiltrates your layers of clothing with laughable ease, seeping into your marrow and demanding that you shiver as recompense. Gritting your teeth, you pick up your pace, cursing the parking garage’s elevator for being out of order. You knew parking at your friend’s apartment complex was sparse, but this is a new record. 

The heels of your shoes click against the concrete staircase as you rapidly ascend. A pale, yellowish hue illuminates your path, the lights occasionally flickering. The moon must be feeling shy tonight, for it hides behind thick, stationary clouds, refusing the world its silvery guidance.

Upon arriving on the third floor, you hear an ominous crackle in the distance. 

The consequences are immediate. Intuition tells you to pause, goosebumps erupting over your flesh from head to toe. Darkness swallows your surroundings whole in inky blots. Blinking rapidly, your eyes struggle to adjust. You feel around for your phone and turn the flashlight on. The sudden loss of power perplexes you, did the building’s breaker trip? From what you can see, the rest of the street is unaffected. 

You’re about to resume your journey when you feel something cold press against your temple. 

“Don’t move,” a deep voice demands. The roar of a car’s engine echoes nearby, as does the hurried screech of tires. “Not so much as a fucking inch.” 

Anxiety sets your every nerve aflame. You go stiff as a corpse, and perhaps you may have been mistaken for one, if not for the thunderous pounding of your heart. The moisture in your mouth dries up. Tortuous seconds drag on, devoid of any further commands. You’re ready to offer up your purse, wallet, or anything else he insists on, but he’s eerily silent. 

A pair of approaching headlights blind you. 

Is this more than a robbery? You struggle to comprehend the nightmarish events. The man holding you hostage radiates agitation, shifting his weight from foot to foot. In doing so, the barrel drags along your sweat-slicked skin. His apparent sloppiness has you weak in the knees — it’s your life hanging in the balance, why is he acting like the situation is reversed? 

Abruptly, the vehicle veers off course, crashing into a line of parked cars. A terrible cacophony follows. Glass shatters, metal debris shrieks whilst scattering, and car alarms angrily sound in disunity. What you’re witnessing doesn’t feel like real life. Your disbelief is mutual, for the man holding you captive spews curses.

You hear a click by your side; the gun’s safety being disengaged. 

“Shit!” He maneuvers you in the direction of the crash like you’re a shield. “There’s no way we were followed, no way, we did everything perfect—” 

The man never finishes his sentence. 

There’s a wet gurgle, then a wheeze, as something warm splatters on you from behind. Bile rises up your throat as the wretched noises continue. He must’ve fallen to the ground, for you no longer sense his lumbering presence, or feel the cold kiss of metal on your skin. Regardless, you refuse to budge. You squeeze your eyes shut and tremble wildly. 

“There, there. You’re safe now. ♥” A rich baritone speaks from behind. 

His declaration comes out discordant, belying the reassuring contents. You bristle at the new threat that’s presented itself. If what came before was a house cat, then this is an apex predator, the king of the jungle. The air around him feels oppressive, almost noxious. Even without a firearm directed at you, your panic reaches its zenith, soaring to heights untraversed. 

“Hm? Still scared? Ah, that’s right,” he muses to himself. “Chrollo said you’re sensitive to dishonesty. This could be troublesome.” 

“You… you know Chrollo?” 

“So you’re not in a catatonic state — how reassuring.” 

Slowly, you turn around, sensing a distinct lack of ill intent. Flashlight in hand, you try to make sense of what you witness. The scene that greets you is gruesome beyond your wildest expectations. The man who you assume held you at gunpoint has collapsed onto the ground, his jugular slit clean. Blood gushes from the wound like a geyser, forming a crimson puddle around his head. His eyes are wide, bloodshot, nearly bulging from the sockets. Liquids ooze from every visible orifice and a foul odor rises alongside them. This pitiful creature could’ve been your end. Instead, he met his, departing this world in abject terror. 

Unexpectedly, his muscles twitch. Out of reflex, you jump back and yelp. 

“Rest assured, he’s dead as a doornail.” 

“Why…” you wet your dry lips, “What… what just…?” 

While you stumble over your words, the building’s power makes a triumphant return. The lights flash intermittently, then go steady, allowing you an unobscured vantage point. Before you stands a tall, bizarrely dressed individual, with bright red hair. His beady, yellow eyes have a predatory gleam to them that he doesn’t bother suppressing. He holds a playing card in his claw-like hands, the three of spades. 

It’s coated in fresh blood. 

Your eyes fall to the fatal wound on your assailant's throat, the gears in your head turning. 

You take a step back. 

“Let’s try this again, shall we?” With a flick of his wrist, the offending card disappears, though its memory burns strong. “I’m Hisoka, Chrollo’s… colleague of sorts. Now, there’s no need to introduce yourself. I’m well acquainted with you. ♥” 

Is that supposed to make you feel better? 

You couldn’t hide your suspicion if you tried. At the very least, there’s no indication that was a lie. However, his familiarity with you is a double-edged sword. If he’s crafty, he can outmaneuver your ability. Dishonesty isn’t black and white, there are loopholes to avoiding your detection. For instance, one can remain purposefully oblivious, lie by omission, or speak in vague terms. These gray areas pass you by as if you lacked this ‘sixth sense’ to begin with. 

He was lying when he said I’m safe now, you recall. But he doesn’t seem interested in harming me…? Something isn’t adding up.

After much deliberation, you ask, “So you just happened to run into me?” 

“Nope. I’ve been following you,” he freely admits. Your aghast expression makes him laugh. “What’s the matter? You were baiting me for the truth, were you not? You’re welcome to have it. ♦” 

In your heightened state of sensitivity, you sense multiple presences converging nearby. Security guards, if you had to guess. You weigh your options. If you stay here, you’ll undoubtedly be harassed for a story that explains the chaos. Telling the truth would land you in a straight jacket whereas deception guarantees cuffs. Leaving in your car is off the table too, you’d be dubbed an important witness. There’s no way you can claim you drove by the carnage without noticing anything. 

“I can help get you out of this debacle,” he offers. “We’re both seeking the same end — the return of Chrollo’s Hatsu. The latest recording I’ve obtained is most promising. So, I’d rather we don’t continue this conversation in prison. ♣” 

Hisoka takes a step forward and extends his hand.

The security guards are getting closer, you think. There’s no time left.

And so you make your choice. 

-

You didn’t think places like these existed outside of the movies, or maybe you just don’t get around enough. 

You’ve found yourself in what you can only describe as a biker’s bar. The decor is old-fashioned, slightly worn yet authentic. There are pool tables, too many televisions to count, and a functioning jukebox nestled in the corner. Rough-looking men wearing leather jackets make up the main clientele. Fortunately, it’s Hisoka who draws the most attention, his gaudy getup acting as a magnet for the eyes. No one pays you any mind. 

For the second time this week, a weirdo treats you to drinks. The main difference is that this is a depressant and not a stimulant. 

You take hearty sips to calm your nerves. All that happened feels so surreal, like a collection of grotesque images that would be blurred out in a documentary. This is exactly what you wanted to avoid. You want to be normal, untethered by the oddity that is Nen, the ‘world’ Chrollo inhabits. You decided long ago that nothing good can come from it. Maybe if you were more adventurous, prone to taking high risks for high rewards. 

But you’re not. 

Endless money, power, and influence don’t sound appealing. Sure, there’s an allure initially, until you consider reality. Lots of money means either lots of taxes or lots of tax evasion. You barely know what a W-2 form is, much less the hoops you’d have to jump through if your income exploded. Power and influence aren’t all they’re cracked up to be either. All that scheming to stay at the top would take away from what makes life truly worth living — reading Wikipedia articles and watching eight-hour-long videos analyzing a video game from two decades ago. 

“Holy shit,” you press pause on the cassette recorder. “This Abengane guy’s the real deal.” 

“Oh?” 

“He’s familiar with getting rid o’ Nen. During his… huh, what’s it called again… oh. Yeah. Audition. Durin’ his audition for Greedy Island—” 

“ —Greed Island.” 

You wave his correction off. 

“—Yeah, yeah, whatever. But, basically, he’s legit. How’d ya even come across this?” 

“Magic. ♥” 

You make a face. “Is everyone who uses Nen annoying?” 

“Some more than others.” 

Speak of the devil. Craning your neck, you’re met with piercing gray eyes. Unlike Hisoka, Chrollo isn’t dressed like he’s auditioning for the circus. Instead, he comes across as a guy who’s going to pitch the worst idea for a startup you’ve ever heard. He’s wearing a dark blazer with a gray turtleneck beneath it, along with white pants and black loafers. You’re about to make your joke known when something about Chrollo’s demeanor changes your mind. Intensity pours off him in waves, giving you pause. 

“Good news, boss. We found your exorcist.”

The title Hisoka uses to refer to him has you tilting your head. He did refer to himself as Chrollo’s ‘colleague,’ but the word boss implies hierarchy. 

“I heard,” Chrollo smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m surprised you’re not rushing back to Greed Island to track him down.” 

He slides into the booth beside you while never looking away from Hisoka. The tension brewing in the air perplexes you. Shouldn’t this news be a cause for celebration? You’ve helped Chrollo search for a Nen exorcist for months now. Chrollo’s been searching for a Nen exorcist for months now. You’re uncertain what reaction you expected, but it certainly wasn’t this. 

“All in due time. I’d hate to cut my time with your little assistant short.”

Hisoka makes a point of looking you up and down. 

Somehow, Hisoka has made Chrollo seem normal by comparison. Disliking the attention, you reach for your drink, only to notice how light it is. Have you already drunk that much? While inspecting the near-empty glass, you realize the room’s starting to feel warm. The stress of what you endured must’ve impaired your judgment. 

What time is it, anyway? Do I have work tomorrow? 

Your watch reads 2:05 a.m.

Shit. 

“I need— need to get going…” 

“Why the rush?” Hisoka questions. “Things were just starting to get interesting. ♥” 

You ignore him and stare Chrollo down, waiting for him to move aside so you can leave. Instead of getting up, he leans closer, pursing his lips. This is the closest you’ve ever been to him. Heat creeps over your face, from your cheeks to your ears. There’s no denying that the bastard’s handsome. Your friends love teasing you about him for that very reason. They never believe your insistence on having a ‘strictly platonic’ relationship, some even have bets for when you’ll end up together. 

Maybe you would’ve considered it if you didn’t know about his Nen proficiency. 

There aren’t any readily available statistics for Nen, but if you had to guess, you’d say most of the population is ignorant of its existence. People who do know about the Hunter’s Association consider it a private enterprise that specializes in exploration and taking on contract jobs. According to Chrollo, this is by design. You can barely go about your day pretending there aren’t superhumans roaming the planet, doing all sorts of crazy nonsense. 

Society would plunge into chaos if the knowledge reached them. 

You hear what sounds like your name coming from underwater. 

Blinking sluggishly, you discover Chrollo’s hand on your shoulder. “Hm? What?” 

“I’ve been calling your name,” he speaks languidly, likely for your benefit. “Are you alright?” 

“Well…” you trail off, pondering the question. “... Mm, yeah, probably not. I gotta get home, and— god, my car— it’s still back there. I don’t want… I can’t…” 

The anxiety you thought you buried resuscitates itself. It’s dull compared to earlier, yet your breathing grows shallow and your hands feel clammy. Your intenses churn like a parasite had been embedded inside. Everything feels far away, as if you’re in a dream, physically present yet mentally adrift. 

You could’ve died. 

You almost died. 

You’d fought desperately to scrub your mind of this knowledge, but the bottle can only do so much. 

“Say, Chrollo,” with a nearly imperceptible motion, Hisoka summons a playing card between his middle and pointer fingers. “If I were to slice her pretty neck, what would you do?”  

The old-fashioned glass Hisoka had been sipping from cracks. 

Pressure invades the air like a thick, heady fog, so tangible in its potency, that the chatter elsewhere dies down. The sudden silence allows for the clinging of billiard balls to reverberate throughout. Patrons glance around, vaguely aware that something is wrong, yet ultimately unable to identify the source. This primal sense of foreboding evaporates as swiftly as it arrives. The lively atmosphere reemerges, until all present seem to have forgotten anything unusual ever occurred. 

Hisoka absentmindedly cleans up the glass shards, piling them into the corner while Chrollo drums his fingers along the table. Chrollo’s jaw is set and the skin between his eyes is pinched in contemplation. 

Hisoka lets out an exaggerated sigh. “This is turning into a bore. I was confident you’d lose your cool, even if just a bit…” 

“Pathetic.” 

The unexpected vitriol has them both turning their heads in your direction. Chrollo blinks, while Hisoka tilts his head, staring at you owlishly. 

He points to himself. “Me?” 

“Yeah, you! You’re like— one of those birds, those showoff birds… dancing with your colorful feathers… ‘nd stuff…” your speech isn’t the most coherent, unaided by the irritation that’s boiling your blood. You leer at him, fed up with everything, especially whatever schemes he’s roped you into. A rough picture is presenting itself, one stroke at a time. To Hisoka, you’re nothing more than glorified bait. You don’t know if he played a role in engineering the evening’s events, but it wouldn’t be a surprise. 

At the very least, he admitted to following you. Even if he was a third party, he could’ve disposed of the impending threat. Instead, he waited, exposing you to bloodshed for his own ends. You wish you could come up with a more scathing insult. Unfortunately, your temple is throbbing and clear enunciation grows harder as your body digests the liquor you inhaled. 

Hisoka looks at Chrollo. “I’m a bird?” 

“She’s calling your bluff,” Chrollo clarifies. “Had you intended to follow up on your threat, she’d know.” 

You’re glad Chrollo realized what you were going for. The diatribe sounded better in your head. Nonetheless, he’s communicated the essence of things, lacking as it is in panache. Hisoka hums, eyeing you like you’d make for a fine appetizer before the main course. 

“You must have kept that detail from me on purpose. What an intriguing ability. ♥” 

Chrollo brushes aside his comment and refocuses his attention on you. “I’ll drive you home.” 

“But my car—” 

“I’ll handle it,” Chrollo reassures. 

He slides out from the booth and stares at you expectantly. You get the sense that trying his patience isn’t a good idea; his encounter with Hisoka must have soured his mood. He helps steady you as you stand, securing his arm behind your back. Neither of you acknowledges Hisoka while making for the door, though you can feel his eyes tracking your every movement. 

Upon emerging from the bar, the cool air you deplored earlier feels like a godsend. You hear cars rushing up and down the street, indicating the presence of a highway. Other than that, you don’t recognize the area. It’s a small, decrepit outlet, featuring shops plastered with neon signs and bars over the windows.

Chrollo ushers you in the direction of a black, unmarked McLaren.

“If you’re gonna do all that, at least get a less basic color… like pink…” 

“I’ll give it some thought.” 

Once you’re in the passenger seat, he fixes the strap of your purse and then buckles you in. It isn’t long until you’re on the road. He stays in the slow lane, mindful to avoid abrupt motions. You recline back and rest your head, hugging your arms close to your body. At the next red light, he sheds his coat, draping it over your person. The cashmere fabric is soft on your skin, embedded with his cologne and warmth. This, paired with the low hum of the engine has your eyelids growing heavy. You try resisting the temptation. 

“Thank you.” 

“Hm? For what?” 

“... Are you serious?” you murmur. “For comin’ to get me.” 

“Of course.” 

Relief rushes over you as the surrounding area becomes recognizable. Traffic is nonexistent this time of night, it shouldn’t be but a few more minutes until you’re home. Then you can crash out on your bed and deal with the existential weight of reality in the morning. Work can fire you for all you care, you just want to sleep. If you were on your deathbed, you’re ninety percent positive they’d ask you to find shift coverage before you croaked. 

Chrollo pulls into your apartment complex, parking as close to the entrance as he can. 

You fiddle with your seatbelt, intending to make the rest of the trip by yourself.

He places his large, calloused hand over yours, preventing further progress. 

“... Chrollo?” 

He doesn’t respond. His thumb rubs slow, steady circles against your skin. You swallow a growing lump in your throat. He hasn’t been himself all night. Or, to be more precise, he’s showing you a side of himself he’s hitherto kept hidden. You always knew there was more to him than he let on. You never wanted to open that Pandora's box, lest your plans be jeopardized. Playing with fire has its risks, yet cauterizing your personal wounds took priority. You don’t know if you have the right to pray the rest of your being doesn’t go up in flames. 

“I assume you’re aware of my fondness for you?” 

“I— well…” you stumble over your words, then meekly ask, “Is now really a good time for this?” 

Chrollo lowers his head and smiles. “No, I suppose not.” 

An uncomfortable silence hangs in the air. 

“One more question, then I’ll let you go,” he looks up at you through thick lashes, an enigmatic gleam passing over his eyes. “Do I frighten you?” 

Your body tenses. He addresses you so softly, so sweetly, had you not witnessed his mouth moving, you would’ve mistaken his voice for belonging to another. Your facilities aren’t functional enough to properly process his query. Perhaps that’s the point — him cornering you at this vulnerable junction. You don’t get why. You don’t think you could even if you were sober. 

Chrollo, for his part, seems to acknowledge he won’t get far in your current state.

Or maybe he gleaned his answer.

He lifts your hand to his lips, where he presses a lingering kiss. You can’t bring yourself to be the first to pull away. He lingers a while longer, as if stuck in a trance. When he does part, the skin tingles in his absence.

“I’ll be in touch.” 

-

For the past week, you’ve carried on as if nothing ever happened. 

It’s easier this way. There are instances where your performance is threatened, like when you ran across a news article detailing the ‘grisly murder of two men at a parking garage on 9th St,’ yet these lapses can be smoothed over. Ignore, distract, forget. This cycle lends you a credence of normalcy and eases you back into everyday life. 

You haven’t seen Chrollo since that night. You suppose he’s preoccupied with his arrangements to meet the Nen exorcist. While you don’t know the specifics, you imagine he’ll have to meet this Abengane in person. In the recording, he addressed two men — named Battera and Tsezguerra — where he proved himself qualified to enter ‘Greed Island.’ Aside from a few anonymous forums, information on this mythical game is sparse. All you know is that the price is exorbitant and that Battera obsessively tracks down every copy available. 

Wherever there’s Nen, things inevitably get weird, you think.

You begin tidying up your apartment. First is drying off the dishes, which saw their first use all week for a much-needed home-cooked meal. While doing so, your phone vibrates. You throw the damp rag down in a hurry and check the screen. All you find is a notification about your upcoming menstrual cycle. Sighing, you put your phone down on the counter. 

Chrollo had been truthful when he promised to take your Hatsu for assisting in the return of his. A part of you is relieved by his absence; the other is frustrated. You want to get this over with. It’s like when you have an appointment later in the day and spend the time leading up to it in a limbo, not wanting to get involved in anything until the commitment is over. Is it possible he already took it? Curious, you hold your dominant hand out. You haven’t used Instant Replay since the night at the biker’s bar. 

Aura surges through you, concentrating at the palm of your hand. Much to your disappointment, the light pink cassette tape appears. Maybe it no longer works? As a test, you rewind the recording of the audio Chrollo provided at the café. Once primed, you press play, listening attentively for certain cues. 

“It is my great honor to profess that I, Lilith, can purge you of any ailment, even scourges derived from Nen — for a small donation of…” 

The self-proclaimed Mistress of Panaceas sounds increasingly garbled as her lies surface. Clicking your tongue, you deactivate your ability. Everything remains operational. You don’t know what you expected, you’ve overheard the telltale sounds of lying the past few days. It just hasn’t been directed at you, which weakens the effect. 

Will you really have to endure this the rest of your life? 

Shortly into resuming your task, there’s a knock at your door. 

You ignore it, not in the mood to deal with a neighbor asking for something. After thirty or so seconds, there’s another round of knocking. You suppress a groan. Why can’t the world sense that you’re moody and let you brood in peace? Trudging over, you try to put on a pleasant face, unwilling to lash out on others even if you’re in a terrible mood. Erring on the side of caution, you glance out the peephole. 

Upon doing so, you almost lose your balance.

…

He must’ve decided he kept you waiting long enough.

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 19

˗ˏˋ redefining stances ˎˊ˗

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

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 15k

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

✧ author's note ✧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kiki out.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Home.

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

And then it's gone.

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

Those pancake mornings? They always came with conditions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Guilt.

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

You do, apparently.

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

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

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

So entitled. So privileged.

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

Never had to. 

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

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

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

Not over fucking pancakes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The guilt surges again, stronger. 

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

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

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

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

The kind who smells pancakes and wants to cry.

Not because you miss home.

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

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

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

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

The numbers glare back at you, accusatory.

8:00

8:00

8:00

Panic bubbles out of you.

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

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

Nothing is right.

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

This isn't your room.

This is Jungkook's room.

Jungkook's bed.

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

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

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

And then—

Jesus Christ.

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

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

What the actual fuck is wrong with you?

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

So what was it?

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

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

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

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

Including yourself.

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

But it’s no use.

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

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

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

Maybe you could actually be friends.

Real friends.

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

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

Fucking is one thing. Dating is another.

Being friends? That’s a whole different monster.

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

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

But you?

You don’t date. You detonate.

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

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

He’s not dating material.

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

So that’s where he stays. Logically.

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

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

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

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

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

You're not sure it's enough time.

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

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

Pain slices through you, vicious and unexpected.

"Fuck—" 

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

The IUD. Has to be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something soft and warm brushes against your ankle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The thought makes you snort softly. 

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

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

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

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

Completely, infuriatingly normal. Like last night changed nothing.

Maybe it didn't. For him. 

Maybe it didn’t. For you.

Or maybe it did. 

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

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

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

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

Or trying to. 

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

Gang Baby, NLE Choppa.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You make an incredulous sound. 

“What the fuck are you making, anyway?"

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

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

"What? Gotta maintain these gains." 

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

You swat at him, connecting with his bicep. 

Firm. Solid. Warm. 

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

"God, you're so fucking stupid."

"Stupid hot, maybe."

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

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

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

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

Exactly how you like it.

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

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

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

You purse your lips, hesitating. 

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

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

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

Your jaw actually drops. "Excuse me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like maybe you could do it a hundred times more.

Dangerous thought. Very dangerous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seriously? We're doing this now?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. Absolutely not.

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

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

And there it is. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

He scoffs. "Progress."

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

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

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

"Not what you were saying last night."

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

Stupid napkin. Stupid Jungkook.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's not what I meant—"

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

"I didn't say—"

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

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

Except now it feels anything but.

"You're twisting what I said."

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

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

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

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why are people asking about me?"

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

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

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

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

Can't or won't. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You, honestly, feel tired.

Bone-deep tired. 

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

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

He blinks, clearly not expecting the shift. 

After a moment, his shoulders drop a fraction.

"I’m listening.”

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

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

"Shut up." 

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

Crisis averted. Boundaries preserved. 

For now.

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

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

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

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

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

"If that's what you call it."

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

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

This is safe.

Under control.

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

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

"God, you're insufferable."

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

"Stockholm syndrome, obviously."

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

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

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

"They're edible."

"They're incredible and you know it."

"They're protein powder with extra steps."

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

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

"Says the girl who eats chips at midnight."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And the customers at Barnes & Noble do?"

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

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

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

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

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

Like you're actual roommates having an actual conversation. 

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

"I should probably start getting ready."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Okay."

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

Casual. 

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

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

"Huh?"

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

Your eyes drift back to his. Meet and hold.

"I said okay."

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

"Okay... what?"

"Sucking your dick." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You look up at him through your lashes. 

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

A shaky exhale escapes him, warm against your face.

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

"I'm not fooling around."

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

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

It doesn't.

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

His fucking Sonic pajama pants.

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

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

Your hands come to rest on his thighs. 

Strong. Solid. Warm. 

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

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

It's not.

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

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

"So why didn't you ask me?"

He doesn't answer. Can't, maybe. 

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

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

"Have you thought about it at all?"

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

Your eyes snap up to his.

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

"Yeah?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus. 

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

When did Jungkook get so... articulate?

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

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

"How l'd sound?”

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

Oh.

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

"Like this?" you ask, squeezing gently.

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

Not pulling. Not yet. Just holding.

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

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

"Sucking?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Seriously?”

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

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

The picture of nonchalance. 

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

Your eyes narrow. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet... you can’t look away. 

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

Be so fucking for real right now.

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

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

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

You hate him for it.

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

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

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

And still, he says nothing.

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

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

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

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

You start to stand up—because honestly? 

Fuck this. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your jaw tightens as embarrassment flares hot in your chest. 

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

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

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

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

Why does it feel like losing? Like humiliation?

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

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

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

“…Yus,” you mumble under your breath.

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

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

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

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

Out loud.

And it stops you cold.

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

“What?” You demand sharply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Spit.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“Spit on it.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then your eyes flick down, then back up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hisses.

Literally just from your breath.

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

Your eyes cut up automatically.

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

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

You don’t let the moment stretch too long.

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

Let spit fall from your lips.

Slow and steady.

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

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

Big. Wide. Intentional.

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

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

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

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

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

It definitely is.

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

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

But you are. And you do. 

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

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

And his head tips back instantly.

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

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

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

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

Kind of gratifying. Not gonna lie.

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

“Yeah,” he breathes. “That’s—”

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

“That’s good, but… here.”

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

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

The tatted one.

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

And okay, that’s kind of hot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t know.

But you clock it. Catalog it. 

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

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

Like both.

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

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

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

You hold back a grin. Barely.

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

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

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

Validation.

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

But he’s not looking at you.

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

And then—

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

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

Then comes the sound.

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

Rough at the edges, low, weirdly conflicted.

His head dips again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which, apparently, he really fucking is.

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

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

His voice drops again.

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

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

That spot.

That frenulum, or whatever the technical term is. 

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

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

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

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

So. You try.

You mimic the motion exactly. 

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

“Fuck.”

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

You do it again. And again.

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

He melts.

That’s the only word for it. 

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

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

Your smirk barely hides itself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He chokes a breath.

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

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

Like just existing through this is work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then—

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

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

“Your mouth.”

You freeze.

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

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

Your mouth.

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

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

And the expression there?

Jesus. He looks like he’s praying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you swear to god—something inside him glitches.

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

Fragile and desperate. 

Faint little flutter.

But it’s real.

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

As if the universe itself groaned.

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

His hand lifts again, slow.

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

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

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

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

You blink. 

That phrasing. 

Suckle.

What the fuck is he, a medieval warlord?

Still.

Your pulse stutters.

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

Something he’s replayed in his head with specificity.

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

Your brows twitch up just slightly, but you nod.

Because yeah. Okay. That you can do.

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

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

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

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

His reaction is immediate.

Lips part. Chest jerks up half an inch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Jungkook? 

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

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

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

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

You mimic it again. Just to see.

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

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

Then—

“Look at me.”

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

But you don’t.

You kind of… ignore him. 

Not on purpose, really. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stare.

Then scoff. Loud. Disbelieving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. Your mouth opens. Then closes again.

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

“Oh.” 

You blink once before pursing your lips thoughtfully again. 

“…Okay.”

Because okay indeed. You know what he means.

You hate that you know what he means.

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

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

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

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

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

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

So that’s what you give him.

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

And then, your hand moves faster.

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

And he’s feeling it.

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

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

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

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

And you don’t stop.

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

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

Wrecked.

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

Then he groans.

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

“Oh my—fffuckkkk—”

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

“Fuckin’—god, Nix—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He does.

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

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

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

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

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

You keep going.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hold it there, just like he asked.

And he groans.

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

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

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

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

Fast. 

Rough. 

Desperate. 

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

“Yeah—ahhh—shit—ah—ah—fuck—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have the prettiest fucking eyes, Nix.”

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

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

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

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

But you did it. You excelled at it. 

And Jungkook liked it. 

That’s what matters. 

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

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

“Fuck…” he mutters. “Fucking hell.” 

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

“That was fucking amazing.”  

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

“That easy, huh?”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

New territory you’re not sure how to navigate.

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

When was the last time you thanked Jungkook for anything?

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

Not the banter either, you do that too. 

The almost-friendly moment afterward.

It felt… nice. Easy, even. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure, Nix.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like friends.

The word still feels foreign, uncomfortable. 

But not entirely wrong.

goal: 500 notes.

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[vaguely-concerned]

My two cents on how much of Mind!Varric is Rook’s mind trying to fill the blank space and how much is Solas actively talking through a convenient blood magic paper doll of the mind: I think it's a mix of both, a truly collaborative psychosocial horrorshow if you would, but waaaay more towards the second. It feels too directed and tactical at times to be anything else. Rook's mind is willing to go along with the denial phase as far as it can fucking carry them to not have to face the grief and regret and does its part in papering over details that don’t make any sense, the way brains will strive to create coherent meaning even out of deeply confusing input, but to my understanding it's a collaborateur in how that plays out, not the instigator or control center. Solas is using it as a path to agency and to gather insight into Rook as a person unguarded as he can't count on in his own guise. (That stoic option that leads to him being like 'oh I see you're cautiously denying me access to your inner life. well. at least you still have Varric to talk to. y'know as an outlet :)'. You absolute BITCH Solas! That alone convinced me that he HAS to have an active hand in it on some level.)

My guess is that it takes considerable effort on Solas’ part to make Mind!Varric do anything more involved or complicated than seeming to sit up in bed and give casual commentary, and that’s why he keeps having eerie five minute shallow pep talks with you before he announces he conveniently needs a nap aaanyway good luck kid you got this haha. When he’s just spouting NPC lines from his bedrest, I’m ready to believe that could be Rook’s mind being allowed to improv lines for him more freely because it’s less about Solas trying to get something out of them or working an angle and more ‘Still here! Still totally alive and fine and the mentor figure you know and love and trust :) don’t even worry about it! Thankfully there is no war in Ba Sing Sei, as we all know’ upkeep work lol. Rook’s mind is allowed to set the tone of Varric, the outlines, but not always the content. 

AND, on a (beautifully fucked up) character psychology level, I feel like Solas is indulging in actually getting to be the good supportive mentor figure to Rook with one hand to assuage the guilt he feels about what he's done -- and what he's going to do -- to them with the other. Same internal logic as he uses in Trespasser about the Qun. ‘Almost everyone is going to die from the course of action I’m doggedly pursuing eventually. But at least I can make their last years happier and freer and kinder than they would have been otherwise. and that kind of makes up for it right. a little bit. doesn't it. doesn't that make it better at least. I need that to make it better)'. Did I really take your beloved mentor and friend from you if you don’t know yet that I did? Some philosophers would argue not really! So it’s probably almost ok actually. Isn’t it even a little noble that I’m taking all this grief and guilt on myself and shielding you for now. With undertones that I’m not sure he would realize himself (and might be mortified by if he did) that he is so incredibly lonely, and even a dishonest and indirect emotional connection is more than nothing when you’re that desperate. In this setup he gets idk. Both the control he craves so incredibly badly in relationships and over himself, and the scraps, the fading afterimages, of intimacy and warmth and companionship, even second hand. The one thing Solas and Rook agree on deep deep down is that they really wish Varric weren't gone. They're handshake memeing this in the saddest and most creepy way possible.

I think an important element too is that Solas needs Rook and their team to *succeed* —  up to a certain point. He needs someone to hold the two other elven mean girls off until he can get out of here. Ideally, in a perfect world, even do all the hard work of killing them so he can swoop in at the end and do his thing when both sides are exhausted and out of resources to stop him, and then Bob’s your uncle! Same logic as he was using with Corypheus, and after that worked out so well, too! King of choosing to never learn from a single solitary mistake he’s ever made even though i fully believe he could have the capacity to Fen’Harel <3 The underlying idea isn’t flawed, you see, it was just unforeseen circumstances getting in the way. This time for sure it’ll all work out the way I cleverly imagined it in my head beforehand. Cue By Talos this can’t be happening etc. in the form of a statue almost crushing him like a bug. 

So he's providing guidance and forging Rook into a leader from two angles: one Rook might not trust, and one they probably will. Shaping them into what he needs slowly and carefully. He’s helping you hone your team into their most effective state, as he might have done with his own agents back in the day, setting up his chess pieces even if he has to squint through two glimpsed realities to do it haha. Pincer maneuver of an insidious stealth mentor you never asked for. Also… at one point mind Varric gives you a whole little monologue about how Solas' problem is that he’s always seen his interpersonal connections as flaws and see where it’s landed him, all alone and the worst part? it hasn’t even worked. it’s all been for nothing he’s back where he began with nothing to show for it but his mistakes. Like...that has such strong 'uh okay happy to play your therapist from two rooms away here what the fuck kind of traumadump is this' energy to me, I’m not sure Rook like. Thinks that much about Solas as a private person. So much of Solas' self-loathing and futile insights into his own flaws seem to shine through in Mind!Varric's dialogue all the time — I just can't believe that there's no guiding hand behind it as it were. 

Most of all. I feel like people underestimate the degree to which Solas is incredibly funny. As in, he has a very consistent and recognizable sense of humour. It’s one of my very favourite things about him. We must remember — it is crucial that we always keep in mind — Orlesian accent and wig Solas from May The Dread Wolf Take You (my beloved, the explanation for why I love this dude even with the. All of the everything else. No one does it quite like him). He is not at all above doing things or adding little flourishes for his own obscure amusement, in fact that seems to me to be one of his most consistent traits. The Randy Dowager Quarterly comment Varric has? The ‘Maybe this is the Dread Wolf’s revenge. Forcing us to house sit for him’ thing? To Me this is 100% Solas amusing himself in his boring Fade jail surrounded by the screaming hellscape of all his regrets. Source: it came to me as divine revelation through pure vibes trust me bro 

If nothing else I find it much more narratively interesting personally if the connection between Rook and Solas really is that defenselessly intimate and entwined (and so unbalanced!), and the sense of violation and invasion and betrayal afterwards consequently all the more nauseatingly intense. Even if you kept him at arm’s length in the open, he’s been under your skin the whole time, looking around, gathering what he needs to destroy you, wearing the face of a friend. Regretfully, probably, but choosing to do it every step of the way anyway. (Sound familiar, Inquisitor? Solas doesn’t have that many tricks when you actually look at it, he keeps returning to old tried and true ones like a dog with a bone haha.) Maybe he even genuinely meant some of it as mercy, which only makes it so much worse. It makes his sin against his own core principles of autonomy and the freedom of all beings in mind, spirit and body so much more juicily grave if it’s something he pursues actively and consistently, rather than it half-falling into his lap as a happy accident mainly orchestrated by Rook’s own subconscious. Solas, too, is at his very lowest point, the closest to giving in and becoming his own antithesis fully that he’s ever been, and it makes the choice of whether you still reach out your hand to him one last time or not all the more impactful and difficult.

[starryal1na]

─ 𝒌𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒏𝒔

genre: fluff, sfw

word count: 1.4k

characters: aventurine, sunday, boothill, mr reca, alhaitham, kaveh

notes: those headcanons are coming from my silly little mind so don't take them too seriously (ᵕ—ᴗ—) i tried to write them as canon as possible but it might come off as a bit ooc (especially mr reca since we still don't know much about him...) i personally had lots of fun writing for them since they are my favorites male characters from the games <333

Aventurine 𔘓

kisses you as if it were his last – an emotional kisser – needs to be complimented

If you're at the kissing stage with him, congratulations since he doesn't let just anyone in his life. Let alone sharing such an intimate act. Kissing Aventurine may come across as desperate, dare I say needy. It's a lot since he pours all of his emotions into each press of his lips on yours. You feel everything– his complete devotion to you, his fear of losing you, even his inner battles about whether keeping you in his life is a good idea. Even so, each of his kiss is meaningful. No matter how intense it gets, you cherish the way he allows himself to put his guards down with you.

Since he has low self-esteem, compliment him on how good his lips feel on yours. Whisper sweet words here and there between kisses until his features soften, easing all of his worries. Because he craves validation more than anything, your praise will have his heart melting in no time. Only then will he feel more confident, taking the lead and locking your lips in a passionate heated kiss. He will leave you panting and asking for more <3

Sunday 𔘓

kisses you with the greatest care – your lips are his hyperfixation (he will think about them all day long)

He is kinda shy, not daring initiate a kiss even though he dreams of kissing you over and over again. Ever since your first kiss, Sunday hasn't been able to get enough. He unapologetically stares at your lips when you talk, smile or even eat something, fantasizing about making them swollen from a make out session. All his thoughts shut down as soon as you indulge him, crashing your lips against his. It's like he is on cloud nine, the plush of your lips eager yet delicate.

His lips are soft, the softest you've ever felt. He isn’t particularly fond of tongue kissing so he prefers to give you soft, gentle pecks. However, if he feels confident he will deepen them, his body pressing closer to yours as muffled gasps of delight escapes his mouth. And when he kisses you, it’s as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. He is careful with the way he holds you, as if you might break if he dares to tighten his grip. Speaking of hands, he is always touching you. His personal favorite is keeping one hand on your cheek, gently rubbing his thumb over your cheekbone while resting the other on your waist guiding you even closer to him <3

Boothill 𔘓

a biter – and a cheeky kisser – loves to cover your face in kisses only to smother your lips over and over again

He is all for heatedly making out with you. It doesn't matter if you're in public or not, he isn't unshamed at all if it means having his pretty lover panting in his robotic arms. He loves to tease you, especially with his sharp pointy teeth. Whenever you're sitting on his lap, breathlessly following the lead Boothill sets for your make out session, he grazes his sharpened teeth over your bottom lip at some point. It's just enough to hurt a little but he knows deep down you like it this way, so why not take advantage of it ?

Aside from the biting, Boothill also loves teasing you by purposely avoiding your lips. In those moments you wish you had the power to complain, but you're left speechless. He is surprisingly soft as he presses his lips against your forehead, eyelids, cheekbones and then all the way down to your chin and neck. He is taking his time with you, cherishing these quiet moments with you since being a Galaxy Ranger is far from being safe. It's when you're looking at him with eyes full of love, of belonging, that he locks your lips into a tender kiss. But, as cheeky as he is, he pulls away only to press another kiss on your lips, this time with more force. Then another, and another, until it turns into quick breath-stealing kisses. It’s endearing though, how utterly adorable he can be when it comes to you and the way he loves you <3

Mr Reca 𔘓

a perfomative kisser – needs the setting to be perfect in order to kiss you – makes comments about the kisses

As a film director, Reca is an expert at building up a romantic kissing moment— and that applies to his love life as well. Whenever he wants to kiss you, it has to be perfectly executed, to the point where he practically writes the script for your kisses beforehand. It might comes across as superficial, but that’s just how he operates. Otherwise he’d be disappointed in himself. The setting must be romantic enough, so he usually takes you to a breathtaking landscape, a luxurious restaurant or carefully arrange your shared space– dimly lit with candles, with soft, romantic music playing in the background. Every detail must align with his vision of the perfect moment.

Kissing him is perfect. As intented. You don't mind that it was planned since you acknowledge his need to be in control of it. He just wants to be good to you. Plus, he knows how to work you up. Tilting your chin up, he compliments you on how gorgeous you look before closing the gap between your lips. The warmth of his lips is so comforting to you, as is the way he holds you. You can't help but roll your eyes when you hear the enthusiastic "magnificient !" comment he manages to blurt out. The only response he gets is you deepening the kiss, determined to shut him up for good <3

Alhaitham 𔘓

lazy kisser – doesn't kiss a lot but when he does he blows your mind – leaves you breathless and acts like nothing happened

He barely takes the initiative himself, unless you’ve been making out for a long time. Alhaitham's lack of action doesn't come from not enjoying it— it's just that he doesn't really think about it. Most of the time, it's you who come to him asking for a kiss. He never denies you the pleasure of having your pretty lips on his but, like I said, you have to work for it. If you don’t, he simply stands there and give you a chaste kiss.

Other times it's just that Alhaitham likes to tease you, purposely reacting slowly until you grow impatient and take matters into your own hands. Alhaitham patiently waits, curious to see how far you want to go with him. You have piqued his interest and that's all you needed, biting then licking his bottom lip before deepening the kiss. Soon enough, he is the one taking control, moving your lips together as he pulls you on his lap and keeps you as close as possible to him. Because yeah, Alhaitham can be very clingy when he wants to. As soon as you're done, he goes right back to his reading, looking completely unaffected (he is not though, he is internally blushing) <3

Kaveh 𔘓

kisses a lot – steals kisses whenever he has the chance to – unapologetic about the amount of kisses he shares with you (he is just a sweetheart okay)

He is the one who, I believe, would kiss you the most out of the others. He takes initiative a lot. Whenever you cross paths, he stops you just to press his lips on yours. Doing the dishes ? A kiss. Doing errands ? He subtly pulls you into a corner to steal one. Getting ready for the day ? One, two, three...... ten kisses before he finally lets you leave the house. You're not complaining, not when it means seeing him all giddy and flustered afterward. And honestly, it’s not like it leaves you indifferent either. So really, it’s a win-win situation.

The roles are reversed when he is overworking himself on a project. Convincing him to take a well-deserved break is tough, but once he does he is rewarded with the softest kisses in the quiet of his study. He sighs contentedly at the mere brush of your lips, as if you’ve just given him the ability to function properly all over again. His work fades from his mind the moment you leave him with shiny, swollen red lips. And if you sneak into his study every now and then to steal more kisses while he works, he doesn’t complain in the least <3

/!\ don't steal, translate or repost this and claim it as you own /!\

[understandableparadox]

a comprehensive list of everything wrong with hazbin hotel.

quick note before i lose myself in madness, my standards for helluvaboss are non existent because its a free show on youtube. also i kinda like helluvaboss and i will indulge in any bias i damn well please.

oh and spoilers. i guess.

the greater narrative of the entire season is "White lady civilize inner city hoodlum". ex: The blind side. rich girl, affluent family yadda yadda.

the story is set up to be like amphibia, owl house, svtfoe, steven universe, that being starting as something episodic then transforming into story driven narrative. why? because we know the benefits and drawbacks, episodic starts allows us to wander the world, it allows us to understand the dynamics, we are not forced to reckon with anything because there is no deadline. characters are allowed to bloom and shine and the audience can actually get attached.

the source material is Vary Clearly formed from remnants of something out of a middle school edgelord narrative. the usage of transformation, the big spooky grins, the "and then i smile as my eyes glow and-"-isms which in most cases i don't mind because in some instances but in a vary Particular case its astoundingly annoying and that annoyance is like a mold, shit spreads quick.

the color Red. as a lover of homestuck cherubs and karkat and aradia, as someone who fucking loves the color red, it is so painful to say but holy shit tone it the fuck down, i know its hell but their are so many other colors that you can use, its everywhere, the streets, the air, the windows, the screens, the characters, i know the pride ring is represented with red but change up the palates every so often for backgrounds

the rush, this ties into the second point made but i think the story itself is rushed. we know everything way to early. i know way to much and it makes it hard to care about anything because im still trying to digest the last chunk of info. "oh ok, so they clear out hell once a year. oh hell has a heaven embassy? ok. oh that adam the angel, i though he wou- oh its every 6 months now. wait the exterminators die a lot? then why is everyone sca- people in hell already have weapons that can kill angels? w- oh we are in heaven now, ok ma- no one in heaven except for the elites know the exterminations occur? how do-" and its that, just this incessant rush to explain everything to you. notably that's just the god damn spark notes, we need to know everything about the characters now, every single bit of their story, their insecurities, what charlie needs to fix, how she can fix them, the major bad guys, everything. you are never allowed to dwell on a character because we need to rush towards something else. it almost feels like this should have been like... season three, it would have been a fantastic season three if you dropped the introductions honestly.

the concept of redemption. for a story of redemption to work you need to look at three things. What is there crime, Do they want to change, What is preventing them from changeing? there is only one single character that has a notable path of redemption, angel dust, but if you look through their story it feels off. What Exactly is he guilty of? he has sex, does drugs and drinks. his apparent nymphomania is tied to his sad backstory as someone forced into the sex industry so how is that their fault? then if you think about it you start to spiral and notice "hey why are most of these people in hell?" like sure some of them may deserve punishment but then you see the fucking dichotomy and its like "I was a inventor in england and died of the fucking plague, i may have made evil little contraption hoohoohoo" vs "I was a cannibal, a full on cannibal, i fucking killed people and ate them and then someone shot me". ONE OF THESE THINGS ARE A LITTLE MORE FUCKING EXTREME. i'm going to go fucking nuts, the thing they went to heaven with when presenting a case to angels on the idea that redemption and becoming a better person is actually real was angel dust not drinking at a party and not having sex with consenting adults and i want to go fucking insane. WHAT IS THE CRIME, WHO IS THROWING THE BOOK, WHAT DOES THE BOOK INTEL, ARE WE ON GOOD PLACE RULES?! half the cast dont Need redemption they need fucking help, and the other half of the cast do need redemption but they do not seek it making the point moot. sir pentious acts like he has the brain of a hyper intelligent toddler tossing about toys, its almost like he did his one bad thing of spying and then got caught, sank his little diddy about forgiveness and second chances and become a null point through out the rest of the series, sure their was Some weight to him sacrificing himself, he was a decently funny character and he had good moments but him popping up in heaven felt like a fore gone conclusion, he didn't deserve to be in hell so why do i care that he is suddenly in heaven? because its working on the concept the good place already made. no one actually deserves eternal punishment they just need help processing what makes them a dick, but instead of looking at all the parts of the afterlife that make it bad, inefficient and then creating and trying ideas to see if it work instead over a few seasons, we crash dick first into all the major plot points in regards to that and say "tada, we fixed it.".

having a sub-plot about sexual assault and its victims then having multiple sexual assault related gag ruins your point.

don't make a bunch of stereotypically jewish characters into cannibals, that was a big thing, really shouldn't have to say it.

if you are going to make a character black, make them black, you can say alastor was black but sweet seren-fucking-dippity that's not a black man.

pot meet kettle but yeah the cursing could be a little less liberal. maybe just blue hair or the pronouns, not both.

there is a very distinctive art deco/jazz aesthetic which normally i love but i feel as though it is not used to its full extent and in some cases really hurts the character design in and of itself.

this is a vary obvious bit but the story is a million times more interested in gay men then it is of lesbians, which culminates in this insane thing where the writers clearly have more talent or perhaps it would be more abt to say practice writing male gay pining then they are with lesbian pining. which i personally think is hilarious because i did not know you could min max fujoshi-ism that hard.

this next section is more to do with each character on a fundamental level, for the sake of brevity whatever there is left, i'm just doing ones with speaking roles.

13. Charlie:

(see what i mean about that red thing?)

as originally stated charlie fits rather comfortably into every white saviour narrative, though that seems to be part of her joke. though i'm not entirely sure how much of a joke it can be when its rewarded and expected to advance the plot.

her character design says nothing, it has the motif of old puppets or dolls, she wears something vaguely similar to service suits, her demonic form is just some extra horns.not to say every character needs to have their life on a clothes rack but some more snake and goat imagery would be nice

its not the chol design of charlie with snake hair, not an actual problem but its a problem to me, damn you @cholvoq for ruining my ability to look at any of the characters without wishing i was seeing your designs instead.

character wise aside from the white savoir bit, i'm having a bit of trouble understanding what the arc of the character is. she is shown to be naive, someone who doesn't understand how the world works but everytime she says something its something astoundingly clear like "people can actually get better". and its treated like someone demanded faygo in every water fountain. is the joke that the world around her to cynical or is so to naive? please pick one or the other.

now if you know me, you know i fucking hate overpowered characters with a blinding passion, one that would set alit the god damn abyss but in this one special instance, i feel like its warranted, she's the direct descendant of fucking God, she can swing her weight around a little, i mean god damn. she in so many instances looks like shes cowering so often, why would the daughter of lucifer get backed down by some rando pimp? why wasn't she the one to fight adam? sure you can say she is young but how young? her parents were there since pre-abrahamic times, most of the characters showed up in hell in the 1900s, some of them showed up in the 1600s, how old is charlie??? how long does it take for her to learn how to be strong? The story does not suffer if charlie is strong and knows she is strong. it can easily be a case of "i don't believe in violence to a weird degree". fit it into her apparent naivety about the world to believe that violence is never the answer even when dealing with a being that is unilaterally horrible and abusive and monstrous.

she ga- no im kidding, i do think her romance was waysided a bit, it would have been fine to have more scenes of them togather and in love you know?

14. Vaggie

why did you name the lesbian vaggie...? Don't do that maybe?

I like how her design is almost moth like but again i feel as though you could have amped that up.

she feels as though someone tried to combine undyne and pearl from steven universe, same story beats and design elements. it makes it hard to really distinguish her as a character.

i honestly dont have much to say about her. she is fine.

christ kill me, lets just get the big one out of the way

15. Alastor.

God Damn

where to start.

"alastor is mixed race" mixed with fucking what? concrete? there is not a single black feature on that creature, now im not saying you have to make him a png of louie armstrong but it wouldn't hurt to add a curl to the hair maybe? make it a tiny bit more wavy? Something? a crumb i beg of thee?

his symbolism is all over the god damn place, native american monsters (you know the one), voodoo, radio, puppets, stitches, circuses??? and Tentacles i guess. two of those are from closed religions so if you dumped those you would actually get a more concise character focused on the concept of vox populi as a means of societal control and influence as we see in his first song. but again that gets drowned out repeatedly by all the other random toy box bits shoved into him.

tumblr sexy man bait

he serves no purpose in the story. he does spooky stuff, pretends to do things and then goes back to sitting around looking spooky. i understand that his motif is supposed to be aloof mastermind but maybe have him do more mastermindy things? if you remove most of alastors scenes, bar the songs, it doesn't change all to much. husk and nifity can still be at the hotel, they could be looking for outs in their contracts the same as angel dust. hell it even helps with the one scene where he dose some spooky shit, asking charlie for a favor in exchange for his help in the fight with the angels instead of asking him about angel weapons which should have remained a strictly vaggie scene.

his presence in a way delegitimize the story, as I noted in in the section regarding redemption, the three parts are "what is the crime, do they want to change, what is stopping them?" and alastor kinda just spits in the face of that. he is a serial killer cannibal that has no qualms about how evil he is and apparently must continue being evil due to being under the control under someone legitimately called the Root Of All Evil. show him take a slight interest in the idea that maybe shit for him could be better, make him Want Change at the bare fucking minimum or dont have him at the hotel.

his stupid little fucking horns, big shot the troll liker wants characters to have big fucking horns, make them noticeable or dont have them.

he looks more like a dog boy, which could have been an interesting thing with the collar motif but fuck me i guess.

personal pet peeve but i fucking hate characters that have a million plus powers, stick to a set number, be creative.

im getting more petty as i go on so last point: he could have been in less episodes, he didn't need to be in dad beat dad, that should have been just a lucifer and charlie episode. inverse the red and black and i think he would be fucking great color wise, his body type is the same as ten different characters, he isnt radio enough, aside from the voice and and staff if you told me he was the fucking Cat Demon i would have been just as convinced.

16. Angel Dust

what the fuck, gay spider? its hard to actully articulate all the thoughts i have on angel dust, not in the sense that he is a deeply thought provoking character but in the fact that there is not much meat on the bones.

all around i think angel dust is kinda middling. he has a decent enough romance with husk, he has a decent enough story line that revolves around battling addiction and removing yourself from an abuser (which the story tries to brand as "Redemption???")

I dont like that most of his jokes would qualify as sexual harassment, i don't mind him being sexual as a character but continuing on when clearly someone doesn't like the jokes hurts the character.

not a critique but he is pink, which honestly ill fucking take at point, as long as its not more fucking red.

i think his design is an improvement over some of the old vivzie designs but it feels like it could have done with going a few more rounds of design changes.

same thing with alastor, charlie and vaggie, there is not enough of the animal that they are supposed to be. You could have told me angel dust was a fucking bee or something and i would have had to believe you. nothing about angel dust initially says spider, hell he dosent even have enough limps to be a fucking spider.

17. Carmilla carmine

are... are you supposed to be a rabbit...?

Big Yoai Hands

ballet fighting style, could have been cool, wish she fought more like sanji or chun li.

A single mom that works to hard, who loves her kids and never stops-

her song was decent, not great, decent. it feels as though the actress has experience singing but not in the way they tried to make her sing during her two songs. they have a obvious mexican influence, honestly just let her sing in spanish in the english dub. go listen to the spanish dub, "out for love" sounds great in spanish.

i wish i had more thoughts on them, fucking rip.

18. cherri bomb

that's not a punk aesthetic that's 2010s alt

decent character, they showed up once or twice i guess, no real thoughts.

19. egg boiz

absolutely perfect, i have not notes on them, these are perfect creatures.

20. Emily

im so fucking happy to see a singular blue character

does the naive dreamer bit better then charlie

We really shouldnt have seen her until the end of season two or middle of three.

good contrast with the other angels on screen.

Wait she is supposed to be black??? Where???

21. Husk

keith david you absolute delight, Why on gods green earth did they only give you one singing part?

one of the few charecters where its clear husk is a cat, i do like the kinda... marquee design, he is a magic cat, thats neat. i still think you can toss the wings and eyebrows and still have just as good of a charecter.

has a deeply intresting story of someone who died as a nobody, became the fat cat of hell and then was forced back to the bottom by their own vices, not used at fucking all.

huge potential, little pay off.

22. lillith

I know nothing about her except she ditched her kid and husband to vacation in heaven and i think thats kinda funny.

alot of werid things floating around her, again she shouldnt have been shown in the show at all until next season.

23. lucifer morningstar

no notes, funniest charecter, did a song based on friend like me.

few notes: i do like the idea that the immortal symbol of pride is a constant emotional wreckage constantly seeking approval through grand showmanship and manic energy that threatens to take over anything they touch.

would have liked more snake stuff on him, maybe some more goat things like horns.

that is such a stupid fucking staff lmao.

24. Adam.

alex brightman you absolute fucking delight, you should have had more songs.

I wish his design was more focused on the idea of him being a glam rock wash up

I fucking hate his mask

We shouldn't have met him until the end of the season.

25. Niffty

again she is supposed to be a bug or cockroach but nothing about her points to that.

token straight

keeps rocketing back and fourth between sexulization and infantilization

you had kimiko glenn but didnt give her a single fucking song?

26. Sir Pentious

the secret season one redeemed.

the pilot version of him felt more like someone that could do a season one redemption arc, a megalomaniac constantly attempting territory grabs, there is something you can work with, actual character flaws to work through.

essentially a child after the first episode.

actually a snake which i appreciate.

no where near steampunky enough.

27. the villians of the show dont make much sense, each one feels like they should be season long deals on their own instead of a bunch of team rocket esque idiots that show up on occasion, do a bad thing and then leave.

28. Valentino

gOD THERE IS SO MUCH RED

only a moth some of the time.

sucks as a villain, maybe they need more screen time to show why they suck in a more substantial way aside from being told that he sucks.

it is interesting that angel dust is only under his magical control when in the studio, it shows that angel dust has to make a conscious choice to return, which in turn can be made to show how abusers can draw back their victims. I do not think it was done well in this circumstance as it shows him to be cartoonishly evil, constantly flying back and fourth between sweet and utter psycho, there is no actual reason for angel dust to ever actually go back to the studio, he just does so every so often.

29. Vox

legit who cares? the only thing about him that is in any way substantial is all the dope ass fan art we get.

propaganda machine angle that is not explored at all, just hinted at. no actual barring on the story whatsoever.

why didn't he try to do the same shit as alastor by the way? he knows its bad if alastor gets in good with charlie so shouldn't it be a ass kissing race?

same body shape as literally every other male character.

tumblr sexy man version of pyrocynicals fursona.

30. Valvette

the actual poster child of the shows huge problem of "Show me, don't tell me".

apparently the glue that holds the villains together. never shown.

apparently the one that makes the love potions that valentino is famous for. had to learn about that in the fuckin wiki trivias

we know so much about her from things outside of the show.

was there to call carmilla a coward, that's her plot contribution. she shows up every now and again but its never anything substantial and serves to more around take up run time for people We Don't Need To Know Yet.

im not trying to be mean, animation is animation, we need smaller studios to have success in the industry so that other indie studios can have that success, felling a tree makes it easier for others to follow. showing that its possible to number brain rot exacs helps all animators.

but this show has so much bullshit attached to it, it has so much fucking potential that it fries my brain with unyielding frustration.

this took a bit to write, im tired, thanks for reading.

[senseandaccountability]

the narrative that could have been

Having mulled over the game for a couple of days I have realised that the main problem for me is that Veilguard is good based on the premises they ultimately choose, but not based on the set up and promise of what was there before. I know this isn’t a unique take by any means and yes it’s all about the Evanuris and the Veil and Solas. 

Replaying really emphasises how incredibly little the game convinces me of its original main quest - to prevent Solas from doing his ritual. This is a problem as a long-term player because for three games we’ve had build up for a great crescendo tackling the overarching themes of the (restrictions and oppression of) magic, of tears in the Veil, of religious tyranny and oppression based on myths about the Black City and the temptations of flawed humans, we’ve seen and deconstructed the elves quite a bit, we got started on the dwarves and in DAI your Inquisitor can openly ask Solas if it wouldn’t be better if the Veil came down because then spirits wouldn’t be separated from the living and risk becoming demons. Cole, whose function is to reflect the plot, talks endlessly about the old songs wanting to be sung again, about how it hurts to be cut off from part of yourself, how the templars feel it, how the mages feel it, how the elves and the dwarves feel it. The Veil as a prerequisite for life has been deconstructed, the Fade demystified, the gods have mostly fallen. The Veil as an actual wound inflicted on this earth has been presented as a theory and not been convincingly rejected by the narrative. 

The game actually gives no explanation whatsoever as to why the Veil coming down would be worse than what Rook causes in the beginning and what the escaped gods then do to the entire Thedas. The entire south falls to the Blight because Elgar’nan and Ghilan'nain are let loose. The Wardens are more or less wiped out. There’s enormous political turmoil. The game gives us Solas saying “thousands” would die when he brought the Veil down, but that he had a host of spirits there to help. (Yes, I know, his sole function in this game is to Trick and Deceive so who is to say if he’s lying, HUH, but even so, THE ENTIRE SOUTH FALLS TO THE BLIGHT IN ROOK’S VERSION OF THINGS.)

The game puts emphasis on Solas's questionable methods and past horrors but it doesn't ever explain why his goals are despicable here and now. It doesn't convince us that tearing down the Veil with lots of safety measures in place and after considerations is a bad result, all things considered - save for Varric’s initial yelling about demons. (We even learned in DAI that the Veil itself creates demons because it restricts the passage of spirits, come on.) Because three games have suggested it's not, not ultimately. Trespasser especially nuances this, just as it nuances Solas’s view of this current world state. Right after his long nap he would have nuked it all, I’m sure, but the whole point of character arcs is that things happen in them and what happened to him is that he was shown layers and angles he had not considered and adjusted his mindset and ultimately his plan accordingly. That is where DAV should have picked it up. That's where the build up was headed. But, now he must serve the narrative solely as the God of Treachery and Lies which means that previous build up is washed away for the most part. (In no way do I think he is OOC in DAV, I just want to point that out so nobody thinks I’m a sappy fangirl or whatever. I think he is perfectly in tune with his inner Dread Wolf, but that is also all he gets to be, because of the narrative, and I’m always much more interested in when roles and personas clash.) Again. The main problem is that the narrative cannot explain why bringing down the Veil would be the worse option than the shit we see unfold on screen. Instead it gets a bit lost in the past.  And I have Issues with that, as well.  Like, the dumbing down of the war against the Evanuris. The war that started because the leaders of the rebellion - who previously had to carry out terrible orders so the Evanuris, the upper crust of the Elvhenan, could play gods - decided that the Evanuris was a threat to them all. And the game gives us what, a depiction of how the rebellion ended up crossing lines, too? No shit.

Like, I am fully on board with the individual theme of regret on Solas’s part and he ought to be wrecked with guilt but I wish the game could be less all over the place with what sort of things he ought to be wrecked with guilt over. Saying fuck you to the Evanuris is the best and brightest of his character, I suppose I just don't want it dragged down to the same level as him breaking the Titans. I suppose I would have wished for a narrative that also worked on a systemic level when depicting things like, you know, war and revolutions and subjugation. But we don't have that, because DAV is only about personal choices. The Lighthouse crew flippantly writing the hierarchical and violent power struggle off as being about love and betrayal is on my shitlist forever. 

No, Taash et al, it was not about pussy, it was about feeling compelled by superiors to commit heinous war crimes and being lied to about the actual purposes of your damn war in the first place. The elves shouting at Elgar’nan and Mythal in this painting aren’t driven by love and sex they have been lied to by their ruling class. It was never about freedom or ending the wars, it was always about Elgar’nan jerking off to ultimate godhood. The writing even suggests betrayal here is to be understood as Netflix drama betrayal, maybe some juicy porny plot but it’s ABOUT THE BETRAYAL OF THE ELVES BY THEIR OWN KIN.  ((ETA: I would have wanted my Dalish mage to be allowed to be furious, NOT WITH SOLAS, but with the fucking Evanuris for betraying her people and being so fucking vile that the only option that remained was to create a world where she's a second-class citizen. I would have wanted the game to recognize that not all causes are equal and that Elgar'nan's cause for godhood was objectively more vile than Solas's cause for freedom because as it stands now, there are some really iffy vibes of "both sides are equally bad" and other things authorities tend to say when comparing destructive regimes with uprisings.)) I’m sorry, this shit hits me on a personal and political rage level. 

I also can’t help but mourn a game where the Trickster God fulfilled his trope’s duty and shook the stagnation apart with his actions - for good or ill, the way trickster gods are wont to do - and where Rook was tricked into helping and then, a more complex game about its consequences could have unfolded. The Evanuris could still have been the bad guys, if they wanted big villains frothing at the mouth. There could still have been numerous unplanned consequences, like all of Solas's plans have. Maybe other ancients awake as well. Maybe ancient evils who aren’t elves, who knows. Point is - the Veil should have come down, at least in some form, at least in some outcome. THAT is what they've been building up to. In this game that never was, Rook could be an actual interesting character where we could mold her as either accepting of this trickster role (which fits perfectly for a blank slate with no ties) or set to overturn it and enforce status quo, with some vanilla option in the middle. Maybe the Veil doesn’t come down until the very end of the game, ancient magic takes time after all, maybe a lot has happened by then. But ultimately, Rook’s choice in the end should not have been about siding against Solas because he’s lying to you or because he did horrible things in the past or siding with him because you want him redeemed. The narrative should have provided those options either way. The narrative should have been brave enough to suggest that hey, maybe Solas isn't wrong at all - his methods maybe, but his goal, no. If they truly wanted mirrors between Rook and Solas, Rook should have tackled the issue of actively bringing down the Veil herself, not because it's a roses and sunshine-outcome but because it might very well be the lesser of two evils. Gods, that would have been interesting. It should have been a choice about what sort of world Rook and the Veilguard wants to see in the future. It should have been about the people, the world, not how angry Rook is that an ancient elf has tricked her. 

That would have been the game I wanted to play.  This story doesn't really give anything new to the world of Thedas, which a world without the Veil would have. It accomplishes closure for our favourite trickster god and bless them for that, but as for the plot and the world-building it ends on a meh because the narrative isn't about the people unless they're brought up as being endangered. This is why I can feel satisfaction regarding the thematic conclusion to certain character arcs, the trickster becomes the healer with the bloodiest hands, the wolf submits willingly to his trap and so on and so forth, and I can have fun with the characters and their arcs but also really mourn the game that was there, in subtext and build up over three previous games and in several tie-ins.

[alex51324]

Now, more than ever, we need to be careful about spreading misinformation and rumors

I can guarantee that over the next few months, we'll be hearing about a lot of alarming things going on here in the US. Some of those things will be true, and some won't. (And some will have both true and false or exaggerated elements.)

It's going to be absolutely vital that important information is not drowned out by misinformation, rumors, and ragebait.

That means, when you see something that would be important if true, before sharing, you check whether it's actually true.

In library world, we use the acronym SIFT:

STOP: Don't spread the information, or get caught up in your emotional reaction to it, before you've checked it out. INVESTIGATE: Who is saying it? How do they know? If there are links or sources in the post, do they actually say what the person is saying they do? FIND other coverage: Do an internet search for key details: quotes, people's names, specific locations. If something major is happening, there will normally be a lot of coverage. TRACE claims, quotes, and media back to their original context.

Usually you don't need to do all four things: just STOP and then pick what makes sense from the other three. If you decide to share the information, you can also say what you did--"This is a firsthand account from XYZ protest; it lines up with what the local TV station is saying, but has a lot more details about what the cops did," or whatever.

The more urgent the information seems, the more important it is to make sure it's reliable.

If we're hearing every other day that this or that vulnerable group is in immediate, life-threatening danger--but 49 times out of 50 it turns out to mean Trump rambled somewhere about something which, if actually implemented, could end up having the described consequences at some point down the line--then people aren't going to know the difference the one time in 50 when the danger really is immediate.

Think, here, things like immigration crackdowns, CPS investigations into parents who affirm a trans child's gender, or demands that health care providers report miscarriages to law enforcement. We all know that these are things Trump World talks about a lot and would like to be able to do, in some form. For the sake of the people affected by these topics, we need different ways of talking about, "Here they are, back on their bullshit," versus, "This is a policy proposal for a real thing that could happen," versus, "Holy shit, grab the kids and run."

We cannot go to "Holy shit, grab the kids and run" every time Trump, or someone in his inner circle, decides to bloviate about something that could disastrously affect people lives. The people who are most in danger can't stay at DefCon 5 every day of their lives, and when they do really have to grab the kids and run, we need that alarm to be heard over the constant background hum of dread.

The same goes for action items--whether protests, ways to help, or little things people can do to stay safe/sane. There's going to be plenty going on, and nobody is going to be able to do everything, so do your part by passing along those things that you can vouch are true and important, and skipping the things you aren't sure about.

I'll leave you with an example. Remember how a few years ago, we were all-in about hand hygiene and disinfecting surfaces? And then it turned out that those were not actually very important in terms of preventing the transmission of COVID-19, and what we really need is better air filtration in public spaces--but, at my work at least, we still have canisters of surface-disinfecting wipes sitting around, and tattered old signs up about hand hygiene, and no air filters.

At the time, early in the pandemic, we were sharing the best information we knew about how to stay safe, but people got a little too fixated on that initial advice--remember how people would wipe down their groceries? And those little sticks for pressing elevator buttons?--and then when the advice changed, they didn't want to hear about it.

Distrust, fatigue, superstitious attachment to the old grocery-wiping ways--there were a lot of reasons, but the key thing to take away is that attention, energy, and goodwill are all finite resources. Try to avoid wasting it with grocery-wiping--or worse, shilling for the guy selling little sticks to press elevator buttons with.

[dreamersparacosm]

Girl we need a smut blurb for them , im talking wild sex . I’ll take anything I know they’re both freaked out

well, well, well. you put two overachievers in a bed and what’s going to happen? magic, that’s what. or maybe he’ll just use your vibrator as part of your scheduled stress relief. whatever.

the price of desire — epilogue blurb 3!

prompt ; in which stress relief takes on a whole new definition.

warnings ; sex toy usage, fingering, jungkook cums in his pants

There are worse problems to have, you tell yourself.

Ever since you and Jungkook officially started dating, things have gotten a little… out of hand (and by “out of hand,” you mean fucking each other senseless across multiple continents.)

Obviously it started in New York and Seoul. Then it was Paris. You two dabbled in exhibitionism during a trip to Bali. Now it’s whatever remote, paparazzi-proof destinations your travel agent nervously books for you at 2 in the morning.

Hotels, apartments, rental cars, bathrooms you’re pretty sure were not designed to withstand the kind of behavior you’re inflicting on them. At this point, it’s becoming a global crisis. International security agencies may want to get involved.

It’s getting so frequent, so mind-numbingly good, that you’re starting to worry about yourself a little. Like, is it normal to see god every weekday?

Unclear.

But it is nice, really nice, to relieve that stress that weighs on you after a workday. (And god knows you have plenty of that to go around.)

Jungkook is, if nothing else, very committed to the cause. He takes care of you painfully well, as if it’s his full-time job and the only acceptable performance review is your legs shaking too hard to stand.

Case in point: you’re currently spread out across your bed in New York, lips swollen from a makeout, hair damp from the bath he ran for you, and he’s kneeling between your legs, big palms dragging slow strokes up and down your thighs.

It's a perfect Wednesday night, all safe and soft and steady until he drops his suggestion into the quiet.

“Let me use the vibrator on you, baby.”

Your brain, already half-melted from the hour-long slow burn he’s been subjecting you to, scrambles for purchase.

You are not equipped for this on a Wednesday night. Especially not after a 14 hour workday, 2 back-to-back global strategy calls, and a last minute crisis involving a Calvin Klein store opening in Shanghai.

You open your mouth to respond, yet nothing makes its way out.

Jungkook smiles at you with amusement and reaches over to the nightstand like it’s the most casual thing in the world. As if he didn’t casually drop a bomb into the atmosphere of your previously scheduled stress-relief session.

With bulging eyes, you observe as he pulls open the drawer, rummages around for a second, and then holds up your light purple vibrator in his hands.

The device is small and sleek, manages to look mockingly innocent resting in his palm.

You stare at it, then at him, mouth working like a fish suddenly introduced to the concept of air.

"I—" You stutter eloquently.

He responds with that signature grin, the one that makes you want to throw a pillow at his face and climb him like a tree. "Come on, baby," he coaxes, "You said you were stressed. Think of this as... advanced relaxation techniques."

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. "This wasn't exactly what I meant by 'stress relief.'"

"What's the worst that could happen?" he asks innocently, setting the vibrator down beside you before leaning close to press a kiss against your inner knee. "You enjoy yourself too much?"

"The audacity," You roll your eyes, trying and failing to suppress the shiver his touch sends up your spine.

"It’s like.. a scientific experiment," he continues, trailing featherlight kisses up your thigh. "Testing the effects of a vibrator on stress."

"Did you just turn my vibrator into a science fair project?"

His laugh rumbles against your skin. "I'm innovative like that. Always thinking about my subject’s satisfaction."

"You’re not selling it," You sigh but there's no heat behind it.

"I'm persistent," he corrects, looking up at you with darkened eyes. "And also extremely dedicated to your wellbeing. Just say yes."

You can’t look at him. With his mess of black hair falling over his forehead, with his eyes displaying a glint of mischief and the stupid Calvin Klein white t-shirt that drives you crazy. He’s so fucking hot, and it brings you to the brink of temporary insanity. That’s how you got in this mess in the first place.

What you need to be doing is saying no. Set some kind of a boundary. Be a strong, independent woman who does not immediately fold at the suggestion of midweek sex toy experimentation.

You do none of those things. Rather, you sigh and flop back against the pillows, one arm flung dramatically over your eyes.

“Fine,” you mutter like he’s inconveniencing you. “Whatever. Just don’t break my toy.”

You hear him laugh, a rich velvety rumble that vibrates through you while the mattress dips beneath his weight as he repositions himself closer to your core.

Before you even take your next breath, he’s kissing up your thighs, hands stroking the backs of your knees, your calves, your hips.

The vibrator hums to life; it’s soft at first, a low sound and your stomach flips violently.

Curiosity compels you to emerge from behind your self-imposed blindfold just in time to witness his gaze fixed upon you. He is a hungry man, you’ll give him that much.

Which leads you to your next thought: you’re not even sure why you bothered putting on underwear after the bath. A small, defeated part of you wants to blame some lingering sense of dignity, some naive attempt at not being completely easy just because your boyfriend washed your hair like a Disney prince and kissed your shoulder after.

Whatever weak attempt at decency you made is long gone the second Jungkook hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and starts dragging them down. Thumbs brushing over the dip of your hips like he’s memorizing every line, every secret part of you he already owns.

The cotton peels away from your thighs, and the cool air hits your core, makes you shiver. He works them down over your knees, then your ankles, tossing them somewhere behind him without a second thought.

You’re already squirming a little, hips shifting against the mattress, thighs clenching reflexively, but he just chuckles under his breath before reaching for the hem of your oversized T-shirt. (Technically his T-shirt. Technically yours now. He stopped fighting that battle months ago.)

Slowly, he pushes it up, bunching it around your waist, exposing the soft skin of your belly, the slick glistening between your legs that you’re trying very hard not to feel embarrassed about.

A single finger gets dragged between your folds, dipping into the mess he’s barely even touched you to create, and you can’t help the broken little gasp that escapes your mouth. “Oh—“

Jungkook lifts his hand and holds it up between you. Your slick clings to his finger. Shining in the soft light your lamp provides.

The bastard. How dare he provide proof of your demise.

He raises a brow smugly. “Already this wet, baby?” He teases.

You glare at him, or at least try, but it’s hard to summon the proper outrage when your body is practically vibrating with need.

“Shut the fuck up,” You grumble.

He laughs and settles himself back between your thighs. The toy hums softly beside you, still on the lowest setting and when he picks it up again, your stomach nearly exits your body.

He strokes the inside of your thigh with his free hand, “Ready?” He asks. Jungkook’s always been sure to consent; you do know he’s genuinely asking for permission.

You nod, frantic, willing to sell your soul if he would just please, please touch you already.

Oh god.

Oh fuck.

For the love of everything holy.

You jolt forward violently the second the vibrator touches your clit. Even on the lowest setting it’s too much, white-hot pleasure snapping up your spine and exploding behind your eyes.

“Fuck—” You gasp, whole body twitching, hands scrambling for something to hold onto.

A string of curse words falls out of your mouth before you can stop them, completely and deliriously out of your control.

Jungkook smiles, presses his palm flat against your thigh to pin you down. “You’re so sensitive tonight,” He notes, somewhat amused.

You might cry. God damn him for being so perfect to you that he’s holding a vibrator to you and not making comments about how “he could do it better.”

You settle for grabbing a fistful of the bedsheets and moaning helplessly when he adjusts the angle slightly, nudging the vibrator a little higher until your hips are jerking against the mattress.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, thumb rubbing slow circles into your thigh. “Let me take care of you.”

Alright, you’re not afraid to admit — maybe you didn’t care much for his definition of stress relief before.

But now? Now you need it more than anything.

You’re a mess; panting, moaning, hips twitching up and it’s still on the lowest setting.

You risk a glance down your body, and the sight nearly undoes you. Jungkook is watching you intensely, brows drawn, lip ring caught between his teeth, arms flexing where he’s bracing you open.

The look on his face alone could make you finish.

“Please,” you gasp. “M-More.”

He nods once, like he’s been waiting for you to ask. “Yeah, baby?” he’s clearly out of breath, thumb brushing over your thigh in grounding circles. “I got you.”

Jungkook clicks the vibrator up to the medium setting, and the second the stronger vibration hits your clit, your back arches clean off the bed, a cry ripping from your throat. There’s a hum that comes from low in his throat while he presses a kiss to your inner thigh.

“You’re so good for me,” He says against your skin. “So desperate already. Bet you could cum just like this, couldn’t you? Just from how good it feels?”

His tattooed fingers squeeze your flesh harder, holding you open, keeping you steady, and the way he’s looking at you makes you want to sob, truthfully.

Jungkook drags the vibrator in slow circles over your clit, keeping you teetering right on the edge before mercifully setting it down beside you. You barely have time to breathe before he’s spitting into his hand and sliding two fingers between your thighs.

The second he pushes them inside your entrance, you buck violently, a whine tearing out of your mouth. “F-fuck—”

You feel impossibly full already, walls clenching around the stretch, the slick sounds embarrassingly loud in the otherwise silent room.

Jungkook groans mostly to himself, head dropping forward to watch where he’s sinking into you.

“God, baby,” he exhales, curling his fingers in that way that makes your toes curl too. “You’re so fucking wet.“

You moan helplessly. Obviously, the man must be trying to kill you. A death wish of sorts. He works his fingers inside you, dragging them along that sweet spot that has you keening into the mattress before reaching over with his free hand to flick the vibratot back on.

He sets it to the highest setting — and holy mother — you nearly catapult off the bed. The intense, overwhelming buzz against your clit paired with the slow pump of his fingers inside you is absolutely lethal.

You choke on some form of a gasp, thighs jerking. All thoughts of work, stress, the world outside this room — gone. Obliterated.

Jungkook, flushed and sweaty, arm veins flexing with every stroke of his fingers, can’t take his eyes off the mess you’re making on your sheets beneath you.

Your thighs are trembling violently now, little spasms you can’t control. You try — god, you want it noted you do try — to keep your hips still, to hold off a little longer.

But the man is evidently on a mission. Fingers fucking into you deep and steady, the vibrator merciless against your clit, voice rougher than normal: “Cum for me, baby. I wanna see it. Wanna feel you cum all over my fingers. Please.”

You’re way past the point of rational thought. Spinning out. Every nerve ending burning hot under your skin.

“Fuck—” you sob. “Kook— I’m gonna— oh fuck, fuckfuck—”

Neither of you get to find out what you’re “gonna” before the orgasm tears through you viscerally, a full-body convulsion that has you crying out and grabbing onto his wrist.

Your toes curl involuntarily against the sheets while your thighs close around his head, stomach muscles clenching before your whole body lets itself fall into the pleasure.

For one disorienting moment, your vision actually blurs at the edges — a genuine blackout that some doctor could probably explain but you're certainly in no condition to contemplate — while somewhere in the distance you hear yourself gasping his name in a way that makes you grateful these walls are soundproof.

You’re panting when it finally ebbs, chest heaving, pussy clenching desperately around his fingers. Jungkook presses a kiss to your thigh again, slowly eases his fingers out and shuts off the vibrator that's become both your nemesis and savior in the span of minutes.

There’s a quiet that feels almost startling compared to your thundering heartbeat.

You’re floating somewhere, the bed seeming to perform a gentle carousel spin around you when he grabs your face gently with both hands and kisses you. You kiss him back automatically, pulling him closer by the front of his shirt.

Through the haze, you murmur against his mouth, “Take your sweatpants off. Wanna fuck you.”

He responds with a groan, pressing his forehead against yours. Insistently, you tug at the waistband, whining a little when he resists.

“Come on,” you mumble, still half-drunk off your orgasm. “I need you.”

He makes a choked sound and pulls back to look you in the eye. His body moves to lean against your headboard, and you scooch over to kiss down his neck while he tries to come up with whatever excuse he can.

And then comes the confession, tripping awkwardly from his lips. “I… uh…”

Your eyes narrow into spiteful little slits, pulling away from him.

He winces, a full-body cringe that would be adorable under other circumstances but currently only amplifies your confusion.

“I… I came already,” He confesses, so low you almost don’t catch it.

Jeon Jungkook? The Jeon Jungkook… came in his boxers like a teenage virgin.. from using your vibrator against you?

You blink repeatedly, brain attempting to process this unexpected plot twist.

“What?” You say dumbfounded.

He covers his face with one large hand in the universal gesture of mortification, ears betraying him by flushing a deep crimson even in the room's low light.

“You— you… came? Just from—?”

Your boyfriend groans, clearly exploring the possibility of spontaneous human combustion as a merciful escape route.

“You looked so good,” he murmurs into his palm. “I couldn’t— fuck, I tried to hold it—”

You stare at him for another second. Then, completely against your will, you burst out laughing. It spills out in waves that are equal parts exhaustion, affection, and perhaps a whisper of mockery, but your attempts to suppress it prove to be futile.

Jungkook glares at you weakly through his fingers.

“You’re an idiot,” you giggle, “My idiot.”

He grumbles something unintelligible while pulling you firmly against his chest, a transparent attempt to muffle your laughter and hide his reddening face but your giggles persist. At some point, you do take the opportunity he presents to nestle your face into the warm crook of his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne, a chuckle exiting once every few minutes.

All things considered?

Not a bad way to spend a Wednesday night. Not bad at all.

masterlist + ask

[ducklingpia]

Alright so can we talk about the Rafayel to Caleb girlie - pipeline because I’m seeing something interesting

I feel like a lot of Rafayel girlies are so into Caleb right now. Like I saw a lot of us posting about Gege and discussing about his storyline more than other girlies does.

What is with us here? 😂

I saw the post talking about Caleb is for the only-child/ or oldest child who grow up ALONE and I was like, hold on a minute. I think I cracked the code

1. We do have a type. A complex, have a tragic back story but also very passionate man. The type to not be very easy to love. But will be the most loyal& devoted to you through thick and thin

2. From howl in howl's moving castle to Prince Zuko to Gojo Satoru to Oikawa to Rafayel to Caleb- something like that

3. Plus if you are an ARMY, who's your bias in BTS and why it is Min Yoongi??

4. You are not scared of a complicated (fictional) man, you’re not scared to put in the effort for them, to understand and get to know who they are (bc maybe nobody has ever put an effort to really understand you before)

5. And you’re the type to not scared of their ‘flaws’ or ‘imperfections’ (bc you also have some parts of you that is not perfect and you know they would accept them as what it is)

6. you're attracted to someone who doesn’t care if you make mistakes or not be a perfect human being all the time (because you have to be like that all your life)

7. We need a man who is a little bit intense. For some people they’re too overbearing, but for you it's just right. Someone who’s not scared to be ‘too much’ for you in terms of expressing their love (bc that’s what you fear you are so you learn to keep most of your emotions to yourself- leaning more on avoidant side)

8. The kinda guy who would hide their emotional side behind those playful gazes (bc sometimes you did that too)

9. THE BANTER, they have to be a bit of playfulness from them and be able to joke about serious stuffs with you

10. You need someone to heal your inner child. A part from you that never got taken care of

Now with the only child who grew up ALONE topic

As an only child, I grow up in a household where every woman in my life are living the life of “Strong, independent, girlboss” woman to the point of burning themselves on the ground. I see the cycle repeating for several generations until my own.

I grow up mostly alone, having to take care of myself in every aspects. And I mostly did it well.

But In reality, I just can’t effort to be reckless. Because if I don’t take care of myself and keep myself in check, nobody else will.

(Nobody will save me but me)

For some people the “Yandere” side of Caleb are a red-flag but for me?

to have a man care about you and taking care of you all the time? Notices about every details in your life and makes sure you never have to lift a finger? the man who's so down bad and would burn the world down for just you alone?

That’s my wet dream, A fantasy.

unlike MC, maybe because I have to live as an independent woman my whole life. I have nothing to proved.

I just want to be loved.

I just want to be a woman

I just want to just 'be'

His doting & overprotective personality healed the little girl inside me.

Same with Rafayel, being with him always heals my inner child that I never fully experience as a kid.

Both of them are so 🥺🤌🏻🤌🏻🤌🏻

[real-batman-thinker]

I’m never going to forgive you guys for the way some of you characterize Clark, especially in superbat fics.

I understand that he is the man of steel and is humanities’ hope and all that. But he is also a man?

I am so tired of Superbat fics where Bruce is all fucked up while Clark is perfect and has no problems ever. Why can’t we write Clark as having a rich inner life or interior problems? Why are we conflating optimism or hopefulness as signifying lack of depth?

Especially because being hopeful is hard! These days what is there to feel hopeful about? When you are hopeful (and acting on that hope) you are fighting against the systems that tell you that hoping is futile, that you shouldn’t believe in the chance things can be better.

Our current world systems/power isn’t crazy about hope because hope is the faith that things can (and maybe even will) change. Whether actors know it or not, hope is at the root of making things better.

So no… being hopeful doesn’t mean you are non-humanand suddenly stop feeling all the shitty ways that humans feel, it deadass just means you are continuing to want for more.

And I think it’s particular crazy that shallow ‘always emotionally stable’ ‘little internal struggle’ portrayals Superman (which are in a good and genuine desire to stay true to his hopefulness) inadvertently imply that to be hopeful means having no inner life or being superficial.

This is how we get Snyder’s Superman bc people don’t think you can be hopeful and have depth. Especially because having problems/struggles and an internal life is what makes us human (and what makes characters engaging to interact with).

At best, this interpretation makes people feel like they cant be hopeful like him bc they struggle (untrue), and at worst it perpetuates the idea that hopefulness is associated with stupidity/naivety/“being an NPC”. (And guess what kinds of people and systems that thought process benefits 😐).

Let Superman be hopeful and let him struggle for it! He is the man of steel and the hardest thing he can do is to choose hope over and over again because that’s the point and that has ALWAYS been the point.

[langdonsmel]

you absolutely dont have to write this if it doesnt strike you, but i would love to see even a ficlet of eddie somehow coming to the conclusion that buck and ravi hooked up while eddie was in texas and eddie trying Too Hard to be cool about it. bonus points if eddie thinks ravi caught feelings for buck (why Wouldnt ravi catch feelings for buck??? i mean it’s buck. -eddie inner monologue) and regardless of if the hookup actually happened or not (cant decide which is funnier so dealers choice) obviously no feelings were caught and its all. very funny in the end.

i'm not entirely sure this is what you were going for??? but i hope you enjoy it all the same!!

“So, did you manage to stay out of trouble while I was gone?”

Buck laughs, a hearty thing that Eddie feels all the way down to his toes. “For the most part, I guess.” He takes a swig of his beer, letting out a slow breath. “I’m sure Ravi’s sick of me by now, though.”

Eddie pauses, beer bottle half way to his mouth as his eyes flick towards Buck, unsure as to why it feels like there’s a stone sitting in his stomach. “Ravi? He still on B-Shift?”

Buck hums, a noncommittal thing as his eyes are trained on the TV. “He ended up subbing in your spot while you were gone. We spent a lot of time together. He loved to pretend he hated it, but I think he enjoyed the company really.”

Something about the entire thing hits Eddie in the wrong way. Company. Like Eddie wasn’t lonely in Texas. Like he wasn’t actively sending Buck invites to Words with Friends everyday between trips. Like he wasn’t screaming see me in every way possible without saying it.

He fights to keep his voice even, bottle lowering to rest on his thigh. “Sounds like you two had a blast.”

“We sure did.” Buck laughs, thumb picking absent-mindedly at the label on the beer bottle in a way that Eddie’s always been secretly fond of. “There was many a night we’d leave shift together, grab an IPA and put the world to rights. Sometimes, oh man, Bobby would have us up together on station watch, and we’d get no calls during the night, and y’know what it’s like when all the chores are done.” His head tips back towards the ceiling as he grins almost to himself, a private thing that Eddie somehow thinks he shouldn’t be seeing. “I got to know him real well.”

Eddie’s eye twitches a little. He’s not jealous. He’s not. He has absolutely no reason to be. That would be stupid, given the fact that him and Buck are just friends and that he’s straight and that this thing between him and Buck has always been messy and complicated, and he was states away.

But Eddie, he’s never really claimed to be the most rational person ever.

He must’ve been silent for a bit too long, because Buck finally looks at him, his brows creasing together a little. “What is it?”

“Nothing!” Eddie assures quickly, standing from the couch. “Want another one?” He asks, nodding his head towards the bottle.

Buck’s brow furrows more as his eyes examine Eddie’s face like he’s looking for something. He’s just staring, seeing Eddie in the way he always does when suddenly he seems to find what he’s looking for, his mouth dropping open a little. “Eddie? Are you–”

“Same again?” Eddie interrupts, turning to leave when a hand closes around his wrist, stopping him in his tracks. He’d know that touch anywhere, wants to know it everywhere. Has felt it when he’s dying and has felt it when he’s more alive than he’s ever been.

Buck’s thumb brushes over his pulse point and Eddie lets out a shaky breath. It’s quiet for a few seconds, the TV humming quietly in the background before Buck says quietly, “Nothing ever happened, y’know?”

Eddie scrambles for a response, his mouth opening and closing a few times as his eyes are locked on the point where him and Buck connect before he finally feels brave enough to look him in the eye. “Hm?”

“Between me and Ravi.” Buck continues casually, like he’s discussing the weather, thumb tracing the skin of Eddie’s wrist. “He’s a good looking guy, but…” Buck’s brow furrows slightly, tongue poking out to wet his lips, suddenly more serious than he’s been all night. “I was waiting for someone.”

“...Who?”

Buck laughs again, a quiet thing as he tugs on Eddie’s wrist gently, like he knows something Eddie doesn't yet. “Who d’you think? I’ll give you one guess.”

[makeyoumine69]

valentines with patrick pls but it ends with patrick being miserable 🙏

Perfect

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Patrick Bateman x Fem!Reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Can love truly conquer inner demons, or does walking away become the bravest Valentine’s gift of all?

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: Implied smut and a lot of angst.

𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒: [MASTERLIST]; [MY IMAGINES AND SHORT REQUESTS].

𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐑𝐄𝐂: My Darkest Days—Perfect💌

𝐀/𝐍: I want to wish everyone a happy Valentine's Day! Never stop believing in love! And thank you so much for this request because it fits my current mood a lot!💔

The more Patrick got to know you, the more he realized how pure-hearted and kind you were, literally perfect. And at some point he couldn't stand it anymore, because how could you be so perfect? Even the way you laughed was perfect and your smile was as bright as a summer day in New York. The very day the two of you met. And somehow, Bateman knew from the beginning that your presence in his life would change everything, including himself, and he was not ready or happy for that.

But the moment you opened the window in the dark room, you couldn't blame the light coming in and eliminating everything around you, because that's how things work in our world. Simple physical laws against which we are all helpless. And every single second that Patrick was thinking about why he couldn't hurt you physically or mentally, he was suffering from the stabbing pain in his chest, as if his heart was locked in the chains of molten iron.

The man was trying to find an answer that simply didn't exist.

Finally, in desperation, Bateman even considered asking you this question—what was so special about you? Besides the fact that you were just perfect for him? And maybe for the world? But every time he tried to question you, the two of you ended up lost in the fire of passion that you couldn't control, not that you really wanted to control it. Those raw, vivid emotions soon became his most addictive drug because he could finally feel himself alive. The intimacy he despised became a need he couldn't live without, and he was so damn grateful to you that you didn't see it as his weakness. You were just being yourself, accepting him as he was.

But when the woman loved a man and the man loved a woman, but in his twisted way, it couldn't be easy, even though Patrick really tried to make it work. He just knew that one day his own rage would take over and he'd kill you—never in his life did he feel so disgusted than when he imagined your blood on his hands. And it was weird as hell.

"...and we are going to have a little kitten," you murmured, sitting next to Patrick on the warm carpet by the fireplace. "Oh God, I never asked if you even like cats..."

Trapped in his thoughts, Patrick didn't seem to notice your small talk, but when you put your head on his shoulder, he flinched a little, but didn't push you away. "I, uh, never really thought about it," he replied, looking at you. "Tell me something, darling. Are you happy here?"

With a broad smile, you giggled and hugged his arm. "Of course I am happy! Spending Valentine's Day not anywhere but in Aspen seems like a dream!"

"Dream?"

"Yes, very much like a dream," you added, glancing back at him with your doe eyes, where the fire sparks were glimmering. "I know it doesn't seem like much to you. But to me it's like a winter fairytale come true."

Bateman hummed and instinctively pecked your forehead, then your temple, until his warm lips found yours; you didn't hesitate and kissed him back, hugging his strong neck and brushing his slicked-back hair a little. There was something desperate about the way the man held you in his embrace, but you overlooked it, unable to think of anything but the heat radiating from his sturdy body.

"I must say, you always have the best way with words," he whispered into your neck before nipping at your sensitive skin, sending little shivers through your slightly trembling form. "And I like it."

You couldn't stop yourself from laughing when Patrick rubbed his nose against your neck and unintentionally tickled you. "Uh, Patrick!" You snickered and turned away from him. "Too many compliments from you today. Did something happen?"

Silence fell over the spacious room, only the faint ticking of the fireplace could be heard for a while before Bateman pulled you onto his lap and pressed you against his chest so you could hear his steady heartbeat—the soft material of his sweater felt so comforting you thought you were going to burst into tears from how much you loved this man. 

"No, nothing happened," he finally replied, stroking the top of your head. "Just a little nervous about the main surprise I prepared for you."

"Huh?"

"After we're done with our planned events, I'd like to present it to you," Bateman cupped your face, his lips curled into that classic boy-next-door smile that always had the most charming effect on you. "So, have you ever been to the hot springs?"

Before heading out to the best springs in Colorado, not far from Aspen, the two of you made snowmen and played snowball before you decided to compete with Patrick in strength, trying to knock him down only to end up being pushed into the big pile of snow. After laughing for a while, Bateman noticed your slightly offended look, and the next thing you knew, the man turned around and fell on his back next to you, leaving you both giggling at how silly you both looked. But you didn't care because you were lying together in the snow, holding hands and looking up at the sky, which was so clean and white, as if it was covered with snow as well. 

Was this even real?

Later, in Glenwood Springs, you found out that there were almost only two of you, and that privacy helped a lot when you were swimming naked in the hot springs, exhaling the white steam because the temperature around you was quite low. 

Skin against skin, his eager lips on yours, drowning out all the little moans that tried to escape your trembling throat as he rubbed your swollen folds while you were both still submerged in the water. You wanted to claw at his skin, leaning on his shoulders and throwing your head back to give him more space as he kissed you here and there. 

Patrick, mmhm, please, don’t stop.

The man longed to etch those words into his mind, along with the intoxicating sensation of owning you in every possible way. And if your soul could be touched, he could swear he would touch it with a tenderness he had never known before. Because finding someone with a pure soul was something so rare these days. Something almost surreal. Something Bateman secretly thirsted for, but realized too late.

When you came back to Aspen to the luxurious winter house he rented, you spent a dear hour reading The Great Gatsby and even though Patrick kept commenting on how stupid and pathetic it was of Gatsby to try to impress an arrogant bitch like Daisy, you both enjoyed the evening anyway because you could listen to him read the passages forever—his voice was the most beautiful sound you had ever heard. Still, you never really confessed it to him, thinking he would call you silly and... too romantic? Too emotional?

Emotions, emotions, emotions.

Having sex with someone doesn't mean you have feelings for them. Loving someone doesn't always mean it will last forever. Only losing someone feels like something permanent. And Patrick couldn't let that happen.

When you were busy cooking something for dinner, Bateman literally came out of nowhere, hugged you from behind, and inhaled your scent with his eyes closed. Every little detail of you mattered, every little thing—the way you exhaled in surprise, almost jumping up, and the way you were embarrassed when he slipped his hands under your top to tease your nipples, making them hard and sensitive. And as the pot slowly simmered on the small fire, you both worshipped each other, giving everything you had, until Patrick reached his limit and lifted you up only to place you on the kitchen counter, wiping everything from its surface. Almost immediately, without wasting a second, the man began to undo your pants, kneading your breasts and leaving wet trails of kisses along your belly, and when he reached your mound, he nuzzled against it and you could swear you saw his eyes shimmer, but not from fire or anything. 

Were those tears?

…

You kept asking yourself the same question a month later. 

How many times did you read the notebook he gave you as his "main suprise" for Valentine's Day? The gift that unintentionally broke your heart and made you doubt if you could ever fall in love again. Holding a small notebook in your hands, you opened it and traced a finger along his somewhat chaotic handwriting, then the little doodles he made, until you turned several pages and stopped on the last one, where a beautiful doodle of your little figure was drawn. And that short phrase written in the top right corner that said 'I love you', that always made you cry, but after reading it so many times now, all you felt was a void. As if everything that made you feel alive had been erased from you in the most brutal way.

Why did he leave you like this? Why couldn't he just tell you that he had met someone else? Probably someone more beautiful by today's standards. Someone he would be proud to show off in public. Why did he choose to use the fear of hurting you as an excuse? Why?

You would never believe it. It was just impossible to believe that the man who treated you like his treasure could leave you because he was afraid of hurting you, because he thought you would find someone "better", because he thought he didn't deserve you at all. Covering your face in your hands, you closed your eyes and cried, the notebook falling to your feet. But the words written inside had already left deep scars on your mind.

"...all those days when I thought about losing you, I realized that I was so selfish, thinking only of myself and never of you. So now I'm finally thinking about you, my love. Please don't cry, I hate to see you cry. And please forgive me for everything I've done. There won't be a single day that I don't think about the time we spent together. I just want you to be happy and ALIVE. With me...that wouldn't be possible. I love you...I'm sorry. I really am."

The rain fell in a steady rhythm, tapping against the windowpane like a melancholy melody. Patrick stood in the shadows, just beyond the glow of the streetlamp, his coat damp and clinging to his shoulders. From here he could see you through the frosted glass of the café, sitting alone at a corner table, a book in your hands. You looked the same, but different. 

Concentrating on reading, you laughed at something in the book, and the sound carried through the glass, piercing his chest like a blade. Bateman wanted to go inside, to sit across from you and tell you everything—how he had never stopped loving you, how he had watched you from afar, how he had spent every day since he left you trying to become someone worthy of you. But he didn't move. He couldn't.

Because he knew that even now, after all this time, he still wasn't enough.

P.S. Thank you for reading until the end! I don’t have a taglist. You can follow my writing community to know when I update!💞

[vaguely-concerned]

the more I play the more I think lucanis basically knows it's illario who betrayed him right from the beginning (he's had a year in the ossuary to think. not that many people knew where he was going. when you ask him 'did Illario know you'd be on that ship' his only answer is the hardest flattest 'yes' you ever heard). so it's not so much about figuring out who the traitor is (because that's ludicrous. we all know. immediately. they didn't really bother to hide it lmao) as about methodically closing off every single avenue of denial lucanis has clung to that whole time with as much or little gentleness as you might prefer until he has no choice but to admit it. because the moment he has to admit it, he'll have to do something -- feel something -- about it. and that's such a catastrophic event in lucanis' inner landscape (he has had TWO people in this whole entire world up until now and will do anything to hold on to them with a heartbreaking child-like desperation, even at and especially through the detriment of his own self) that he'd rather just. not. what if we quite simply. didn't. what if we just stayed here in the emptiness where we can both pretend you didn't hurt me in a way I should never forgive. I have so much practice in that with caterina already it's always worked out great for everyone so far. (press x to fucking doubt but that's trauma logic for you lol)

after everything illario did, so much of the storm of lucanis' emotions around it is 'what the FUCK did you get yourself tangled up in this time and how do I get you out of this mess safely'. what's worse: the fact that your brother murdered you, or that he put himself in horrible danger doing so and thus exposed you to the risk of losing him forever. lucanis' heart certainly has an opinion here and it's fucking unhinged (affectionate)

the themes of dissociation in lucanis' character in general makes me feel nuts. allllll these contradictory messy things he needs to cut off from each other because they can't coexist or be easily reconciled inside him. but all remain stubbornly true separately anyway and will have their due one day. love and resentment. tenderness and fear and rage. terror and longing. love and freedom don't coexist. the burned out golden child anthem is playing in the background. he was always caterina's favourite and he has to keep striving to deserve that dubious honour with every breath he takes and then, presumably, mercifully, some day he will die and be excused and can rest. and until now he's suppressed all the -- natural, healthy, protective! -- negative feelings that threaten the few attachment relationships he actually has, at the cost of ever actually having his needs for connection and safety met and leaving his core self imprisoned and compromised. and spite goes 'what. no. that's dumb fuck that' (*spite voice* I do not understand that and even if I did I would not respect it) and does not allow him to fall back into that, which I think is what saves his life, ultimately. it took being possessed by a demon for lucanis to even contemplate telling anyone he loves 'no' in any way, but hey. whatever gets you there right lol

lucanis is dealing with the freeze response allll the way down baby. and he was even before the ossuary, that just turbo powered it and brought it to a breaking point way before it could happen naturally. but something was going to break eventually no matter what, and I'm just glad that in the end, through the power of friendship and also pure spite, it doesn't have to be him

[tteokdoroki]

☆༉ — KATSUKI BAKUGOU. what’s one more?

about. now that your kids are all grown up, you’ve gotten to thinking about having another baby with bakugou again.

warnings. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact! nsfw, suggestive and smutty, fluffy, some dub-con, baby-trapping mention, breeding, unprotected sex mention, reader is a mother, bakugou is getting old hehe, they have three daughters lol, fem!reader, pro hero!bakugou.

i imagine that when your kids get a little older and start becoming more independent — your eldest in their final year of U.A, the middle starting U.A and the youngest still kicking in middle school….you catch a whiff of baby fever again.

it’s not even that everyone around you is having kids, most of theirs are well into their teenage years and giving your old friends trouble. it’s more that you miss the tiny pitter patter of feet throughout your house, the gummy giggles and scent of baby safe soap. oddly enough, you find yourself yearning for the late night feeds and the laughter shared over the inherent explosive bakugou diaper bombs.

speaking of your husband, you kind of hate how good he is with kids. he’s always treated your daughters like princesses, spoiling them rotten and raising their standards so that no possible crush could ever compare to the way their daddy treats them. but he’s so tender with the littler ones he visits as part of hero work, the tiny fans that ask him to sign his trading cards or their backpacks.

it’s adorable and still warms your heart to this day. to the point where you’re jumping bakugou’s bones every chance you get without actually telling him you want another one of his big headed babies. of course, he’s only a man and he’s not going to question why is wife of nearly two decades keeps presenting to him like a bitch in heat after lights out and the kids are asleep.

perhaps that’s why bakugou doesn’t question (on the one night where you have a child-free house) the way you toss away the condom, the way you take it raw and clench down on his cock like your life depends on it. why you squeal all high-pitched for him to fill you up with tears in your pretty eyes — how could he say no to you?

his pretty little wife, his lover, hot piece of ass to love and fuck to his hearts content.

what good, loving man isn’t going to cum in his wife when she begs and cries for it?

it’s not until your trained and doughy thighs lock around his slender waist to pull him into your frothing sex that bakugou realises. you’re doing this on purpose.

and by the time he does realise, he’s filling you up to the brim, sloppy white leaking out of you while you cum around him just like you always do — taking him so well, smiling up at him like you’re on top of the world.

“you fuckin’ leg locked me!” katsuki pants through amused laughter, collapsing on top of you with a sweaty and heaving chest.

“nuh-uh!” comes your quick reply, angling your hips up so that he slips deeper into you.

katsuki gets up soon after and disappears to the bathroom, not before prying your legs off of him — knowing full well he had the strength to do so earlier. if he really wanted to. “my own wife… you tried to fuckin’ baby trap me!”

“no i didn’t!” you pout defensively, brows furrowed and nose upturned. your expression only softens when your husband gives you a pointed look and moves to wipe the mess drying against your inner thighs. “okay…so what if i did?”

you loop your arms around his neck with a purr, toying with the silvery-blonde baby hairs on the back of katsuki’s neck and looking up at him with vixen eyes like you’re about to devour your prey. “we can not have another baby,” he tells you simply, kissing the crown of your head when you hiss at the sensitivity. “was i too rough?”

there’s a rasp to his voice, the kind that’s only prominent after hours of singing your praises in the bedroom. it makes you smile, close your eyes in content, and shake your head ‘no’. “why not?”

“havin’ a baby isn’t like gettin’ a puppy ‘nd you know that, sweetness,” bakugou hums quietly, soothing over the bruises he’d left on the soft handles on your waist. he thumbs at the stretch marks and tigers stripes, the very markings that show you were a mother to three of his beauties children. “we gotta focus on makin’ sure kasumi gets into a good agency, if not mine, and don’t get me started on the other two—“

“—but we could do it. right? i mean we’ve done it three times before. raised a baby, what’s one more?” you do your best to sound convincing while you sit up and cling to your man, pleading with those puppy dog eyes that got you knocked up the first time almost eighteen years ago. “don’t you want a little boy?”

“three girls are more than enough.” bakugou pushes your face away playfully, forcing you back into the sheets so he can lie on top of you. “we’re not as young—“ he starts, but back tracks after being on the receiving end of your heated glare. “i’m not as young as i was when we had our first. ‘n shit, my back hurts and my eyes are gettin’ bad, and our kids… they’re exhaustin’, babe.”

the both of you share a laugh. upon brushing a hand through his hair, katsuki trills happily at your affection. “you’re still a good dad. you’d be an even better to our next. even if you’re a little achey in the knees, old man.” though you’re teasing, you really do mean every word you say. raising your kids has been trial and error from the start, but bakugou’s been strong the entire way through — wanting nothing but the best for his family and always putting them first. “plus, the kids are with the kirishimas for an entire weekend, and you’re telling me you haven’t thought about fucking me raw again?”

“jesus woman, you’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me, aren’t you?” katsuki twitches against your leg once again, crawling up your body to capture your lips in a hungry, syrupy kiss. “you’re right,” he groans against them, loving the feeling of your tongue on his. “fuck, you’re right. spread your legs, sweetness. wanna fill this pretty pussy with my cum.”

“yes daddy…” you mewl in reply while a winning grin tacks itself to your lips l face between uncoordinated kisses and surprised moans once your husband eases his throbbing cock back inside of your tight heat. mumbling something about how it feels like home.

needless to say, neither of you are surprised when the next pregnancy test you take is positive. now you just have to explain the baby supplies in your Amazon basket to your three teenage girls.

꒰ end. — all rights reserved © tteokdoroki 2023. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.