#so here is this keyboard smash instead

[brightlotusmoon]

@remmushound

I was making doodles and...it somehow turned into a mini story about Mikey learning how to cook??? What the...?

Also, Donnie, sweetie, don't be dramatic, I saw you eating that creepy pizza thing, so you can eat your brother's soup!

[lock-my-feelings-in-a-jar]

Russ Ballard

[dontbelasagnax]

I find as fandom has assimilated towards a capitalist mindset of consumption, there has been a larger focus on fanart and fanfiction- both in spaces that view creatives as "content creators" and spaces where creatives are seen as writers and authors but lauded similarly to celebrities or deities for gracing the common people with their creations.

This has produced a side effect wherein fanart and, primarily, fanfiction are seen as the Best Forms Of Transformative Works... which means that any other type of transformative work is thrown by the wayside.

There should be no hierarchy of fanworks - every single work is a labor of love (or spite... I see y'all throwing middle fingers to canon 😉) and should be recognized as such. Fandom is a community. It's not a transactional relationship. Everyone contributes and interacts out of shared passions and interests.

If you make podfics, gifs, photo edits, fanvids, fan binding, metas, fiber arts, jewelry, fanmixes, translate fics to another language, run/contribute to a fan wikia or compile lore and resources in other ways: I see, appreciate, and cherish all the hard, love fueled work you put into your creations.

Not to say that fanfic and digital art are over-appreciated (Since I do see that many people are allergic to pressing reblog. It's a community. We're supposed to share and communicate. Lurkers are valid but for the most part, interaction with like-minded people is what fandom is intended for.) but the pedestal they are placed on needs to be lowered. Your favorite artists and authors are real people with real lives. They piss and shit just like you. They work in retail and healthcare and are unemployed due to disability. There is nothing extraordinary about them and they are wonderful human beings all the same. No one is better than anyone else. We're all equals here on this playground.

That said, I think we need to uplift the underappreciated fanworks and creators and give them more attention so they are on equal footing with fanfic writers and fanartists. Reblog the gifsets and tell the creator you're in love with how they colored the gifs, keyboard smash in the tags when reblogging a plush doll someone crocheted of your blorbo, try listening to a podfic on your commute home instead of an audiobook and remember to leave a comment when you get home.

As a final note, I want to give a warm hug to anyone who has sat refreshing tumblr or ao3 hoping that maybe someone will tell them they did a good job. To anyone who has considered quitting their fandom endeavors because their posts or works never get as much attention and love as the rest of the artworks or fics in the fandom tags, your creations are worth making and sharing. Numbers do not equate to quality, nor can they convey how loved your creations are by a given person. Only you can bring your unique sparkle to fandom and your presence is absolutely welcome no matter how big or small, grandiose or inconsequential, important or worthless you think it is.

[sheepispink]

A Night to Remember ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི COD MASTERLIST

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི Part two of Sweet as Sugar Series. Part one here.

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི Prev Chapter Next Chapter

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི Summary: After receiving Ghost’s text, you havent been able to get him out of your head. Lost in a daydream, you may have forgotten an important detail, but luckily everything goes ahead as planned and you end up taking more than a warm heart back home.

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི WC: 3k

To say he hadn’t consumed all your thoughts was a severe understatement, especially considering you were currently staring into the bathroom mirror at two am with your cheeks still flushed and that last sentence ringing out in your head. You have to forcefully drag yourself into bed and refrain from picking your phone up, reading his message again. Last week you were scolding yourself for still giggling over celebrity crushes—now look at you, practically squirming over a text! It probably wasn’t even like that in the slightest; maybe he just needed to talk to you about some orders from your bakery. With a huff, you finally pull the covers snug over you and force your eyes closed, willing your mind to shut up.

Now the sun has risen high, just like the dough for tonight’s stock, the little open sign turned to signal closed whilst you and your parents churn out as many baked goods as possible before it’s time to set up. Slowly, your knuckles knead through the sticky texture, hands speckled white from flour. You had nearly seventy-five different pastries out yesterday, but with the hunger of the soldiers, that was reduced to a measly thirty or so by the time they had left. A sudden ping rings out, cutting through the yeast-powered daze you were in, and the dough is almost flung across the room as you hurriedly pry your fingers out and douse them in water before grasping at the phone across the room. It’s from the lieutenant, as you had hoped, and you hurry your password into your phone before the chat appears.

If you had to decide between the time you idiotically ate lunch right before a plane ride and what you had right now, this would definitely take the tier for the stupidest thing in your life. The text, if not an accusatory message, is simple—so simple that it doesn't even include a single letter.

’?’

Too busy stuck in your daydreams, you had fallen asleep without responding, essentially doing the worst thing you could ever possibly imagine—leaving the man on read. If you had to explain the way your heart had just dropped, it’d be clear from the way your jaw was permanently screwed open until you fixed this mess you accidentally created. Hurriedly, your fingers dance across the keys of your phone, the remnants of the stringy mass making mistypes our best friend until it ends up looking more like a keyboard smash than an apology sentence.

‘You alright there?’

The hair on your head would’ve been clawed out by sheer embarrassment if not for the fact that you feel obliged to at least clarify you did not mean to leave him hanging like a beggar on the street, eventually ending up sending a voice message instead to convey your mortification. “Sorry—I read your text message last night, and I forgot to respond because I was really tired, and I was up all day baking and even now I got up early— I'd love to go around the fair with you but only if you still want to go. I know this is kind of last minute now, and you’re probably super busy—” You squeak out, trying to stop yourself from grovelling even further into the ground before the app does you a favour and cuts the message instead. He sends back a text before you can send a follow-up and you can only imagine he’s probably laughing at you behind the screen; after all, how does someone just forget to reply?

“All that I needed was a simple yes, but I'll take the clarification. So, when will you be done with your parents?”

“We can still go??”

”Yes, now how about six?

”Yes, please!”

You wipe your face with your damp hands, breathing out a lengthy sigh now that you have finally averted the crisis known as your mess of a social life. Unfortunately, in the process of your panic, you had flattened all the dough on the rolling board, some sticking to your elbows now too. This was definitely not good hygiene-wise, and so you let out a long huff, and grab the flour for another batch to be made.

Soft blows of wind pass by you, protected by your woollen scarf that’s wrapped around your neck and your thick coat that is lined with the softest fur. As you help adjust the last of the display for the stall, you notice there was a few more stalls, likely not able to keep up with the demand of running it for two days, and so today they all chose to run theirs. After all your bakes had been sold out yesterday, you may have claimed the same mindset and went overboard on the bakes in hopes people had caught on to the little logo on all the soldier’s cups as they walked around. Somehow hanging out with the lieutenant was at the back of your mind right now; you were more focused on adjusting the bow at the edge of the table, right before making sure there were plenty of tissues available for your parents to grab. Not to mention enough paper bags, plates, checking the card machine actually worked, and the pot of tea was at the right temperature and waiting to be served. You’re just about to add a little more icing sugar onto the fresh croissants when a gruff cough echoes behind you. “Ghost?” You spin around, his callsign falling off your lips easily from how many times you stared at the contact in your phone in the past ten hours.

“Mhm, that's me. Ready to go?” You nod quickly, dusting off any stray sugar specks before walking over to him and waving at your parents. He looks a little different, still clad in his hooded jacket and thick gloves, but far more relaxed than yesterday. Due to the hectic nature of running a stall, you barely got a minute to look around, thus missing the chance to fully enjoy the simple happiness that came with every time it got a bit chilly. Orange leaves had long since decayed, leaving the trees bare and allowing a clear view of small specks of white in the darkened sky, now a navy blue even though it's never really that bright in winter. You’re even a little hesitant with where you step, considering the ground is already starting to grow a little icier. It’s been years, you think, since you’ve felt this giddy around wintertime, with university, jobs, and life pushing out the happy things you desperately tried to cling to. At least you always had the bakery to fall back on, and you hoped Ghost felt the same about your pastries.

“No soldiers today?” You tilt your head up at him, looking around the decorated paths to see if there’s a hint of camo between the sparkling fairy lights and wooden stands that make up this market. “No, they’re too busy packin’ up for the holidays.” He murmurs, his hands shoved into his pockets as his boots crunch against stray twigs from a nearby weaving stand, premade hearths hanging from the canopy. You blink at that, having always forgotten that the military base wasn't too far off this small town. After all, you used to wave at the soldiers eagerly when you were little, a loopy smile forever on your lips when they acknowledged you—kind of like the one you wore yesterday. “Oh? Guess you’ll be gone soon then, I guess. Where are you headed back to?” He just shakes his head this time before he eventually starts to walk towards a chestnut stand, intrigued by the man roasting them. “I’m stayin’ at base. Nowhere for me to go.”

Gruff is the only word you can use to describe his tone, and yet you watch as he pays the man for a portion of the roasted chestnuts. He doesn't hesitate to hand you the cup to hold as you grin at him and cradle the warmth in your hands until it cools to an edible temperature. Though you decide not to pry into his last words, instead choosing to indulge your earlier curiosity in which you were dying for an answer. “So… why did you even want to walk around with me?” In truth, he had not the slightest idea himself; all he knew was that he’d been a lonely bastard for too long, and he was sick of it. There you were with your lips pulled wide into a pretty smile every time he went to your shop, and he’d be lying if he said his heart didn’t clench when you realised his own soldiers had sold out your stock. He tried to convince himself that he hadn’t meant to help you out; it was only convenient, and his soldiers were hungry. Instead of dwelling on it too long, he just steals a chestnut, slipping it beneath the privacy of his mask as he crunches on the velvety taste. “Figured you’d have an eye for the good stuff. Your tea isn’t something most would find around here.” That makes you nod, remembering the interaction you had with plenty of people.

“Yeah, had a few tell me that it was nothing like the chai tea bags they get in the shops.” His head turns to you, blatant distaste written in his eyes at whoever had the audacity to ask you that question. It’s funny, you think, that someone's eyes can show you that much emotion.

“Are they bloody stupid? Of course it’s not—it’s fresh! That’s like different by a mile!” He practically scoffs out, crossing his arms firmly as he shakes his head disapprovingly, earning him a bunch of giggles from you, who can only raise a brow at him cheekily. “Oh, are you a tea connoisseur now?”

“Oi, that’s Lieutenant to you, rookie.”

That makes you laugh loudly, his mask unable to stop itself from wrinkling at the corners as he gestures to you to follow him towards a stall. “C’mere, I'm gonna get you somethin.” He points up at the plush toys hanging from a stall you had subconsciously been eyeing whilst you walked, seeing as quite a few girls were carrying them tightly in their arms too. There’s a particular one, a penguin with grey fluffy fur and small eyes but a large beak, looking at you so innocently. It’s adorable, and even if you feel a little shy accepting it from him, you’d be damned if you didn't let him at least try. But then again.. it was the largest one,’ and knowing these stalls, it probably was rigged a little to stop people from getting the really large ones.. “If you get me one, I'll show you the best spots around. A fair trade, no?”

“Deal.”

All that the stall owner can do is watch in shock, jaw dropped, as the lieutenant easily picks up the rifle and hits down all six of the cans in seconds, practically speechless. “This one.” Ghost doesn't wait a second for him, pointing up at the large penguin, and your own jaw was agape too now, having expected a small little plush to carry for the journey.

“Whoa! It’s so fluffy, you really didn't have to, but—“ The words practically spill out your mouth, fumbling with your lips as your chest brims with excitement, now hugging it close to your chest. You can definitely tell he’s smirking now, especially as he ruffles the penguin’s fluffy fur with his hand, nodding in agreement. “Soft like you.”

The pair of you traverse around countless stalls, from fresh churros to a spiced burrito to fill your stomachs. Currently you stood in front of a tea store, one that sold a selection of tea bags rather than anything freshly brewed. Seeing as Ghost really did seem to be somewhat of a big tea enjoyer, you made it your mission to get him an assortment. So whilst he was taking a call, you were haggling the steep price down to something a little more affordable. “Don't you think fifty is a bit much?” You raise a brow, your arms crossed over your chest, which contradicts your calmer tone with something more accusing. “I mean, these are all imported anyway, they’re hardly homemade.”

“Well, they’re the finest quality—“

“No, if that were true, they’d be fresh. Come on, they’ve been sitting there since yesterday now—thirty five is much more reasonable for the effort of importing and covering enough for you to make a profit.” The owner can only sigh and roll her eyes fondly, handing you the selection of tea after your little bargaining. “Alright, have at it. Only because I taught you how to haggle a price that well.”

After his phone call was over, you followed through with your promise, leading him towards a small hill a little out of the town bounds. The further you go, the darker the surroundings around you grow but he stays close behind you, watching your feet in the small chance you fall. Eventually you reach the top of the cobbled steps, revealing an old stone plaza. There’s a shack not too far off, orange light streaming out and the sound of hushed cheers as they exchange drinks. What’s more important to him is the view from here, overlooking the entire market below. Everything had seemed too crowded before, with many bustling past to queue up for some hot doughnuts and little kids dragging their parents for a chance at the hook duck game. Here, it was entirely different; the lights reflected the night sky, a sea of stars in the midst of the darkness, and the soft music seemed so much clearer now.

Finally, you both settle on the edge of the stone, your shoes in the grass, and he peels off his own gloves, noticing how your hands were buried into the penguin’s fur for warmth. You take it graciously, slipping it over your iced fingers before rummaging through your own coat pocket. “A present for my lieutenant.”

“Your lieutenant? And I thought spoiling you was my job?“

“Well, call me the colonel since it’s mine now.”

He rolls his eyes up at you, but the affection is still visible, opening the box to look at the variety inside. Each one seemed to originate from a different part of the world, and even though he thought he tried most of the flavours, there was a lot more to learn. He can't help but meet your eager face. “Fine... Thank you. But I'm getting you one last dessert for that.”

Unfortunately, just like how his life had been going so far, everything good must come to an end. His phone startles you as it buzzes loudly, his free hand fishing it out before reading the messages there. His teeth grit in frustration, not wanting to levar you so early. You’re better than that, offering him a small grin in understanding. “Military emergency?” He wants to apologize, promise you that he’ll make it up to you, and give you something even better but he can't bring himself to.

He knows he could never be that soft.

With a gruff nod, he texts back hurriedly and pulls his mask a little higher upon his face. “Yeah..duty calls. Sorry.”You shake your head, waving your hands in front of you to reassure him, even if you were already missing the warmth of his palm in yours. He pushes himself up, and you follow as he nods for you to follow. “I’ll take you back to your parents' stall.” He offers and you nod with a small smile on your lips. That was much better than being left alone while he ran off—he didn’t owe you anything, and yet he still chose to make sure you got back safely.

But before he could take his third step, your eyes are widening, hands grasping his arm and desperately pulling him back. The touch catches him in surprise yet somehow exhilarating all the same, and thus he accidentally lets his guard down just enough for you to actually manage to pull him backwards. “The ice!” You squeak out as his foot slides, making him stumble back into you slightly, your grip now squeezing him. You couldn’t possibly catch a man of his stature, no less a person of a more regular size, and yet you still reached out for him and did your best to stop him. He’d be surprised if he’d even feel anything from falling ass flat on a bit of ice, knowing the extent of his usual injuries. Still, here you were like some guardian angel, doing your best to warn him.

“Thanks..” He mumbles, glancing down at your hands still on him before you hurriedly pull back, a nervous look on your face as you sheepishly grin.

“Sorry.. didn't want you to get hurt..”

“Guess we have to be extra careful, huh? I don't want you falling either.”

His now bare fingers gently nudge against your hand, wordlessly asking to hold it. A sinner would be his title if he said he didn't adore the way your eyes widened in wonder, grasping his own hand a little tighter and nodding, cheeks flushed from him and not the cold that bites your cheeks.

He keeps his grasp on you firm as he leads you down the cobbled stairs and back towards the centre of town, the little queue outside your stall coming into view. Reluctantly you part your hands, stepping back as you glance over at the amount of sales made already, a smile curving your cheeks higher. “I’ll see you again sometime soon… Lieutenant.” You hum, a little disappointed but genuine nonetheless. Today had been entirely perfect for you, like something you’d see in the synopsis of a movie. He nods gruffly again, steps a bit forward, and tucks your scarf a little tighter around your neck. “Simon.” He breathes out, voice a little raspy from how long it’s been since he’s said it from his own tongue.

“Huh?” Your head tilts up, confused.

Giving the large penguin plush a little pat, he steps back. “My real name’s Simon.”

————————————————————————

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Taglist:

@bieberismysoulmate @hidden-treasures21

[w4ndal0ver]

The Art of Submission (1)

[minors don't interact, 18+]

pairing: wanda maximoff x fem!reader

summary: As a growing author, you're grappling with a frustrating writer's block while trying to craft your next lesbian erotic novel. With a lack of personal experience holding you back, inspiration seems just out of reach. But when a captivating neighbour steps in, offering unexpected support and a tantalizing invitation to explore the depths of desire, you find yourself on a journey that blurs the lines between reality and fiction, leading to a discovery that you definitely weren't expecting.

content warnings: lead up, talk of submission and sadomasochism, flirty touches and conversation.

note: This is the first chapter of a new story that I'm writing, any ideas or inspiration would be appreciated so if you have any ideas feel free to drop them in my requests, other than that buckle in! (I will try to get the next part out as soon as possible)

The Art of Submission - Chapter One 

The soft glow of your laptop illuminated the cluttered desk, your cursor blinking impatiently on an empty document. You stare aimlessly at the screen, your fingers hovering above the keys waiting desperately for inspiration to strike. It had been hours since you sat down, hoping to squeeze out something, but your mind felt trapped and foggy, yet every time you wrote a sentence, you only sank deeper into it. The end result had started to feel completely out of reach.

Your last book had done okay. It wasn’t groundbreaking or a bestseller, but it was just enough to remind you that you could do this. You could write and publish your writing and make some level of a name for yourself in the world of lesbian erotica. Not that it was hard considering the low level media attention that your field rarely gained. The reviews had been mostly kind and the sales had trickled in steadily enough that you were managing to stay afloat, but nowhere near the level of success that you first imagined when you wrote your first novel. 

Your apartment is a mess, the evidence of your creative block scattered pointlessly across the room. Empty coffee mugs crowded your desk, some still holding the cold remnants of yesterday's caffeine-fueled desperation. You’d also not left the apartment in days, time becoming a blur of restless nights and sluggish mornings, avoiding stepping outside. You found it was easier to stay here, trapped within the confines of your own thoughts, hoping something would come to you. 

You lean back in your chair, groaning in frustration. You thought about getting up and attacking the massive pile of laundry that had sat abandoned in the corner for days, but you quickly pushed that aside, realising that there was no point until you at least got another page written. The cursor was blinking furiously at you and you felt yourself going slightly insane. You wanted to smash your head into the keyboard, but instead you imagined yourself doing it which brought a small smile to your lips. 

It was at this moment that a sharp knock sounded at the door, you spin in your chair, frowning as you try to glance over at the entrance to the apartment. You wracked your brain trying to remember if you’d ordered something, but you couldn’t work it out and you knew you definitely wasn’t expecting company. You push yourself out of the chair with a deflated sigh, stretching your legs out as you go towards the door. The knock came again, firmer this time. Whoever it was, they weren’t planning on leaving. 

Shuffling to the door, you don’t bother to smooth the wisps of your hair or fix the crumples in your shift, you just swung it open. 

“Hey, I hope I’m not intruding, but I thought you could use a break.”

You blink in shock, momentarily stunned. Wanda stood in your doorway, her familiar yet distant neighbour from across the hall. You knew her as the woman who you occasionally exchange small talk with in the corridor, but there she was holding a bottle of wine like she’d been planning this all along. Her reddish-brown hair flowed over her shoulders, perfectly catching the dimming light of the room, the colours of her striped blouse almost too cheerful for the cluttered mess that she would soon walk into. 

“I can basically hear your sighs from across the wall. Writer's block?” Wanda smiled, her green eyes warm but with a hint of darkness behind them, as if she knew something that you didn’t. She stepped further inside, her presence filling the small apartment yet you didn’t move to stop her, you didn’t feel the need to. 

“Yeah no of course, come on in.” You say, brows furrowed in confusion. You hadn’t told anyone that you were trying to write again, come to think of it, you hadn’t even told her that you were a writer in the first place. Suddenly, your cheeks flushed pink in the realisation that she knew who you were. 

Wanda set the bottle down on the counter, next to a half empty cup. The sound of it landing felt louder than it should, cutting through the quiet tension that was arising around the pair of them. 

“You’ve been in here too long, I thought wine might be a good excuse to step away from the screen for a bit.” Wanda spoke with a caring tone beneath her soft voice, yet you found it unsettling in how she acted so naturally, offering up solutions to problems that you hadn’t even told her about. 

Wanda always seemed to have a way of appearing when you least expected it, offering little moments of relief, like that time she helped carry groceries up the stairs. She was friendly, sure, but there was an edge to her friendliness. A knowing look, like she was always a step ahead of you, just waiting for the right moment to weave her way into your life. You didn’t know why, but you weren’t exactly complaining about it. 

“You know, I’ve read some of your stuff.” There it was, you freeze, your heart skipping a beat. Your eyes dart to Wanda’s face, as if you were searching for any hint of a joke but instead you’re met with a calm, confident smile. That wasn’t what you were expecting. You’d always presumed that your audience was horny teenage girls, but Wanda was a mind-blowingly gorgeous woman, the exact opposite of who she was expecting. Besides that, your books lived in a cosy corner of the erotic fiction world, usually flying under the radar, definitely not the type of thing a neighbour casually brings up over wine. 

“You have?” You ask, trying to sound casual but your voice comes out a little more strained than intended. You walk around the kitchen counter where Wanda had perched herself, your hands almost shaking from the unexpected social encounter. You reach into the cupboard, finding two wine glasses and placing them down between the two of you. 

“Mhm.” Wanda leans against the counter, an almost playful spark in her eye, “You’re good. The way you write about submission, it’s real, raw. It’s incredible.” 

You feel your cheeks warm up, unsure on how to respond. This was the first piece of praise you’d received from inside your own kitchen. You felt your pulse quicken, the fact that Wanda had read those words, the intimate fantasies that you’d put into your stories was making this situation way more intimate than deemed necessary. 

You literally were stuck in a state of speechlessness, but Wanda was acting like she expected this. She lets you stand with your back against the counter opposite her, fiddling with the ends of your hair while she pulls up a stool. “Corkscrew?” 

“Oh yeah, of course.” As you turned you wanted to slap yourself, why were no words coming out, you are absolutely embarrassing yourself, yet the redhead was still gleaming at you as if you were adding something to the interaction. You rummage through your drawers to find what you needed before handing it over to her. 

“You know, when I first picked up one of your books I wasn’t sure what to expect.” She chuckled, tilting her head thoughtfully as she worked on opening up the bottle. “But then, well, I couldn’t put it down. Dangerous stuff.”

This time you manage a small laugh, still processing the idea of Wanda - the beautiful and put-together woman from across the hall - curled up reading the things you’d written. “I guess it’s not what most people expect from their neighbours.” Once again you’d tried so hard to sound casual that your voice was wavering in response. 

“Well maybe we just don’t know our neighbours as well as we think we do.” With that, she pulled the cork from the bottle and filled up the two glasses, leaning in a little closer as a smile grew into a smirk. 

You glance down at her as you reach for the glass, “I never really imagined someone like you reading my books you know.” You say sheepishly, taking a sip of the wine hoping to mask the nerves that were creeping up your spine. 

Wanda raises an eyebrow, her smirk more prominent now. “Someone like me?”

You shrug, avoiding her gaze as you fiddle with the stem of your glass. “You know, my audience is usually different. Younger maybe.”

She chuckles softly at your response, “Are you saying I’m too old for erotic fiction?” Her tone is teasing, yet there's a glint in her eye that makes your palms sweat. Her comment about submission still lingers in the air, your cheeks continually growing warmer. 

“No! No, I just-” You stammer, flustered by how casually she was controlling this conversation, “I didn’t think you’d be into, you know, that kind of thing.” Your voice is desperately pathetic and all you can do is smile shyly, trying to lighten the tension that was twisting in your chest. 

Wanda takes a slow slip from her glass, her eyes never once leaving yours. “Don’t assume you know what I’m into,” she comments, voice soft but full of unspoken meaning. There's that look again, the one that says she knows more than she lets on. “But seriously, I thought your writing was refreshing. You don’t hold back and that's what makes it compelling.”

You feel the blush rise again, her praise catching you off guard. “Thanks, I guess.” You mumble, feeling a little more exposed than you’d like. 

She waves a hand in the air, brushing off the awkwardness as she crosses her leg over the other. “I could tell you were stuck though,” She adds, swiftly changing the topic with a casual flick of her wrist. “So I figured I’d rescue you from yourself for a bit.”

It was your turn to raise an eyebrow, “Rescue me?”

She nods, her eyes twinkling. “I’ve been hearing you pace around for days, It’s not hard to guess you’ve got yourself into a block.” 

You can’t help but laugh, the conversation switching to something that was making you more comfortable to talk about. “Yeah, something like that. I’ve been staring at that god stupid screen for hours.” 

Wanda shakes her head, mock disapproval on her face. “That’s no way to get inspired, sometimes you just need to step away.” She gestures to the wine and the dim, cosy lighting of the room. “This is your moment to relax.” 

You take a deep breath, feeling the weight on your chest lighten ever so slightly. “I guess I have been driving myself crazy.” This would usually be an overstep in a first proper conversation, but the curious look behind Wanda’s eyes made you feel like she was making you say all of this, like she was dragging the vulnerability out of you. 

Wanda smiles at your openness, a knowing, almost secretive smile as she lifts her glass to her lips again. “There's a reason they say inspiration strikes when you least expect it, maybe you just need to stop expecting it.”

The laughs were more relaxed now, “Oh, is that how it works?” You tease playfully, finally getting to a point where your nerves have stilled out. You could feel the tension in your body loosen just a little, but Wanda’s gaze still never faded.

She grins at your response, swirling the wine around in her glass. “Well sometimes it helps to just let go.” Her eyes sparkling as she watches you. “So what’s this book about anyway? What's got your pretty little head in a spin?”

You hesitate for a moment, unsure how to respond. There's no easy way to explain what you’re writing without dipping into something personal and intimate. But the way Wanda is watching you so intently, waiting, you decide to just go for it. You’re thinking maybe talking about it will help you sort out what’s been blocking you. 

You clear your throat, and look down at the glass in your hands. It’s, uh well, it's another one in the same genre as the others.”

Wanda cocks her head at you, leaning in again. “Mhm, go on.” She pulls out the stool next to her, tapping on the top of it. You smile in the safeness of her space, walking round the counter and sitting down next to her. 

“It’s about sadomasochism actually. I’m trying to explore that dynamic, the balance between pleasure and pain, trust and submission.” You feel your face flush, realising that there's no backing out now. This is supported by Wanda’s lips curling into an all too well knowing smile. 

“So you’re digging into the darker side of submission? That’s bold.”

You nod, your voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah it’s more about the psychological aspect of it - how it feels to surrender completely to someone else but it's hard to get it to feel real rather than just something for someone to get off on.”

There's a brief pause, both of you deep in thought, but you can feel Wanda’s gaze like a weight on your skin. Her eyes darken, just for a moment, as she processes your words. “Sounds intense.” She murmurs, her voice dropping a little lower. 

You let out a nervous laugh, trying to break the tension that you’d created. “Yeah well it’s not exactly an easy thing to write about. I want to portray it with respect.” 

The redhead has now turned in her chair to face you completely head on, her head tilted as she rolls her lips together. “Maybe that’s because you’re overthinking it.” She pauses, then adds, almost as an afterthought, “Or maybe because you haven’t experienced it enough yourself.” 

Your breath catches in your throat at her suggestion and you can’t hold her stare anymore, quickly glancing away with a small cough. “I- Well I’ve written about it plenty.”

She chuckles gently at your answer, her tone life but her words heavy with meaning. “It’s not quite the same thing though is it?” Wanda’s fingers gently brush against yours as she reaches for the wine bottle to refill her glass. The touch is light, fleeting, but she doesn’t pull her hand away immediately. Instead her fingers linger just long enough to make you wonder if it was an accident or something more deliberate. 

You attempt to laugh it off, but your voice falters slightly. “I guess not.”

She meets your eyes again, her gaze almost daring, “You know, sometimes the best way to get through the writer's block is to immerse yourself in the subject matter.”

You swallow hard, praying that she didn’t hear the gulp that erupted in the back of your throat. The air between you had grown thicker than before. “Yeah I’ve heard that before.”

She smiles, leaning just a little closer, her arm brushing against yours as she picks up her glass. “So what’s tripping you up? The emotional stuff, or you know the physical details.”

The way she’s looking at you, so calm yet so confident. It’s like she’s pulling the words out of you without you even realising it. “Both. It’s hard to get the balance right, making the dynamic feel believable.”

Wanda nods thoughtfully, biting the tip of her finger as she indulges herself into your problem. “Have you thought about how you’re building the dynamic between them?” She shifts closer and in the process her knee scrapes past yours under the lip of the counter top. You’re hyper aware of every small movement now and it's impossible to be an accident. “Like what does submission look like to you? What does it feel like in the story?”

You blink, caught off guard by the directness of her question. “God, I don’t know, It's like surrender, like when you trust someone enough to give them complete control.” You pick up your glass again, taking a massive chug in order to keep your hands steady. “It’s like you know they won’t hurt you, even when you’re in your most vulnerable state.”

She nods understandingly, leaning ever so slightly closer to you. “Okay so what does that look like physically, how are you going to write that?”

Your pulse is going crazy now, you’re convinced that Wanda can hear your heartbeat quicken from just her words. “It’s about touch,” You say, your voice almost wobbling, “The way they respond to each other. The way a person can take control with just a look or a gesture.”

As you speak, Wanda’s lips turn up into a smirk, her gaze still unwavering. She’s so close to you now that the warmth of her body is radiating off of your skin. Her hand rests slightly above your knee, the touch intimate, sending a shockwave up the back of your spine. “Show me.” 

Your breath hitches, heart racing as her fingers begin to trace a small circle against your leg. The motion is almost absentminded, yet it feels nothing but deliberate. She maintains her eye contact, her expression open but charged with a spark of something playful and dangerously enticing. 

You freeze, caught in a whirlwind of sensations as the room feels smaller now, the air thick with unspoken tension. You know exactly what she’s suggesting without her having to say it.

You open your mouth to respond, but immediately close it, earning a small chuckle from the redhead. “If you can describe it so well, you shouldn’t be stuck here right.” The dangerousness in her tone makes the words evaporate and you become acutely aware of the heat radiating from her body, the way her thumb brushes softly against your skin, drawing you in deeper. 

Wanda pulls back just slightly, but her hand lingers where it is, a gentle weight that feels both reassuring and electric. Her eyes lock back with yours, searching, waiting for your answer. “It’s okay.” She whispers, her voice soft yet commanding, as if she's completely in control in this delicate moment, “I’m just trying to help you get… unstuck.”

You can’t look away from her, caught in her captivating gaze. Her confidence is wrapping itself around you, urging you to step closer to the edge of your own desires. The space between you is charged, the possibilities suddenly hanging thick in the air as you contemplate what she could do next.

“Have you thought about drawing from your own experiences?” Wanda questions, still attempting to find a solution to a problem you couldn’t tell whether she was actively helping or not. “You know, sometimes personal stories can ignite that spark of inspiration.”

You swallow hard, feeling a mix of excitement and apprehension. “I wish I could.” You admit, your pulse is still racing from her touch that she has now released, yet her body still remains just as close. “I’ve never really had anything that intimate.”

A playful glint flickered within the green of her eyes, her gaze sharpening. “Really? Nothing? Not even a fleeting moment that made your heart race?” She tilts her head slightly, studying your face as if searching for unspoken truths buried inside of you. 

You shake your head, feeling the embarrassment paint itself across your face. “Not like that, I mean I’ve had relationships, but nothing that’s ever made me feel like I was completely out of control, everythings always felt so safe.”

“Safe can be good, but isn’t there something thrilling about stepping outside of your comfort zone?” Her face leans closer to you once more, the feeling of her leg permanently resting against yours now. 

You nod, the thought resonating with you, but you’re still hesitant. “I just don’t know how to write something so raw and believable if I haven’t experienced it myself.”

Her expression softens, shifting her weight slightly. Her gaze drops to your lips for the briefest moment before locking back onto your eyes. “Kiss me,” She whispers, the command both shocking and exhilarating. 

Your heart races, a jolt of electricity coursing through you at her words. You can’t look away, caught in the depths of her stare. The space between you feels impossibly small, filled with a tension that pulses with possibility. “Just one kiss,” She adds, her voice a sultry invitation. “It might just unlock everything you’ve been trying to write.”

With her eyes gleaming into yours, the world around you fades into the background leaning only the two of you in this moment. You’re drawn to her, every instinct telling you to surrender to the rush of desire coursing through your veins. You lean in, heart racing as you connect your lips together. The kiss is soft at first, a small tentative exploration, but it quickly deepens, igniting something almost primal within you. Wanda’s hand slides from your knee to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as if she wants to consume every part of you. You pull back, the softness of her lips still lingering against yours. You’re panting slightly, taking in the depths of what you just happened. 

Wanda’s eyes gleam with satisfaction, her finger touching her lip and you can’t help but smile widely at her. “See.” She murmurs, her tone low and teasing. “Just a taste of what it feels like to let go.”

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - under the checkered flag (part four)

warnings ; alcohol consumption, reader is STILL a clown, jk is also a clown

prompt ; in which a girl who doesn’t believe in risks takes the biggest one of all—falling for a man who lives for the thrill.

note ; it’s actually sickening how quick i wrote this part bc i was so excited for their story i need to get a life. i really relate to reader so i see her struggles but also jk is so sexy so what we doin fr girl. (don’t get excited yall they’re not even close to smashing yet.. or idk, maybe.. who’s to say?) all ur love and comments on the last part made me so happy yeehaw

playlist here

series masterlist here

“You need to get out there.”

Jisoo’s voice is firm, her arms crossed as she leans against your desk, watching you like you’re some kind of puzzle she’s determined to solve.

You barely glance up from your screen, fingers still moving across the keyboard. “I get out there.”

Jisoo snorts. “Yeah, to his house.”

You pause, fingers stuck mid-air. Jisoo has unfortunately read you better than yourself again. She really should get an award for deciphering your inner monologues.

She smirks, triumphant. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

You roll your eyes, exhaling sharply as you sit back in your chair. “What’s your point, Jisoo?”

“My point,” she says, flipping her hair over her shoulder, “is that you are doing absolutely nothing about the Jungkook situation, and I’m sick of watching it.”

“There is no Jungkook situation,” you argue, though even as you say it, the words feel wrong in your mouth.

Jisoo just looks at you with a familiar gaze, and you wither under her stare. You could not be more obvious if you tried.

“You’re impossible,” she sighs. “Fine. If you’re not gonna do anything about him, at least give my friend a shot.”

You blink. “What?”

Jisoo perks up instantly, sensing an opening. “I’ve got a friend. Great guy. Works in finance. Super chill. Hot in a ‘wears suits and probably owns expensive whiskey’ kind of way. Your type.”

You frown, shaking your head. “I don’t have a type.”

Jisoo grins. “Oh, you do. And it’s not Jungkook.”

Something in your stomach twists. She’s right. On any good day, about three months ago, you would’ve laughed if you saw Jungkook in a bar, probably would’ve made a comment on how tattoos are disrespectful. Now all you do is admire the art on his arm, wanting desperately to trace your fingers on the designs.

Jisoo doesn’t notice—or maybe she does and just doesn’t care—because she’s already pulling out her phone, scrolling quickly.

“Okay, look.” She shoves the screen toward you, displaying a picture of a man. He’s well-dressed, smiling, objectively attractive. “See? Handsome. Stable job. Probably goes to bed at a reasonable hour.”

You hesitate. You should say no. You should shut this down immediately. But instead, you stare at the photo a second too long. There’s a few reasons for this: Jungkook hasn’t texted you all day, and you keep thinking about him, about that conversation, about how he looked at you when he said, "Yeah, I fucking know. It’s all I think about."

You need to fix whatever this is.

And maybe, just maybe this will help. Maybe this will prove something to yourself.

“Fine,” you murmur, looking away. “I’ll go.”

Jisoo gasps, delighted. “Oh my god. You never say yes to things. I’m so proud.”

You shake your head. “It’s just one date.”

“One date,” she repeats, winking. “And if you don’t like him, then at least we’ve confirmed one thing.”

You frown. “What?”

Jisoo leans in, her voice teasing but knowing. “That you’re already taken.”

Your stomach clenches and you glare at her, but she just laughs.

And for the rest of the day, you pretend like her words don’t echo in your head.

By the time you get home, the weight of the day settles into your bones. The office had been its usual whirlwind—meetings bleeding into each other, emails stacking up, numbers flashing across your screen in an endless stream of data. But even as you buried yourself in spreadsheets and client calls, your mind had been elsewhere.

Jisoo’s words still linger, curling around your thoughts like smoke. “If you don’t like him, then at least we’ve confirmed one thing: That you’re already taken."

You exhale, shaking your head as you slip off your blazer, tossing it over the back of your chair. It’s just one date. Just one night to remind yourself of what you want. And it has nothing to do with Jungkook. You cross your heart and hope to die.

Your phone vibrates against your nightstand almost comically as the thought leaves your mind.

Jungkook: Wanna FaceTime?

Your stomach does something stupid, and you ignore it. Instead, you slide into bed, propping your phone up against your pillow before answering the call.

Jungkook’s face fills the screen, messy hair, damp like he just got out of the shower, a hoodie adorning his body. His room is dimly lit, a lamp casting warm light behind him.

“Hey,” you say, voice softer than you mean it to be.

Jungkook smirks, shifting to get comfortable. “Hey yourself. Rough day?”

You hum, rubbing a hand over your face. “Long day.”

Jungkook watches you for a beat, like he’s reading something in your expression. “Need me to come beat up your boss?”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Tempting.”

He grins, pleased, and the tension in your shoulders eases just a little. See, this is normal. This is you and him. Effortless, easy.

And then, before you can overthink it, the words slip out. “Oh—Jisoo set me up on a date.”

Jungkook stills. For a fraction of a second, his face is completely blank. No teasing smirk, no lighthearted remark. Just… nothing.

“Oh yeah?” He leans back, resting his head against the pillow. “Guess it was bound to happen eventually.”

Something about the way he says it makes your stomach tighten. You tilt your head slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jungkook shrugs. “Just figured it’d happen sooner or later. You’re—” He waves a hand vaguely. “You know.”

You frown. “No, I don’t.”

His jaw tightens, but his voice stays infuriatingly neutral. “You’re the whole ‘finance, responsible, put-together’ thing. Kinda makes sense you’d go for some suit-wearing guy with a stable job.”

Your brows knit together. “First of all, you haven’t seen the guy. And two, you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Jungkook exhales through his nose, a short breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “It’s not.”

But something in his voice makes it seem like it is.

You narrow your eyes slightly. “Are you—” You hesitate, studying him. His body language is relaxed, but his responses are shorter, his usual easy smirk nowhere to be found. “Are you weird about this?”

Jungkook scoffs. “Why the fuck would I be weird?”

You blink. “I don’t know. You just sound—”

“I sound fine,” he says, a little too quickly.

You raise a brow. “Okay.”

A beat of silence.

Jungkook shifts, adjusting his hoodie strings, eyes flickering off to the side. “So. Who’s the guy?”

You hesitate. “Just a friend of Jisoo’s. Works in finance.”

Jungkook hums, expression unreadable. “Right. Of course he does.”

Your stomach flips, and you don’t know why.

You cross your arms over your chest, tilting your head. “Why do I feel like you’re judging me right now?”

Jungkook smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not judging. Just… making an observation.”

You hate how much this feels like a shift, like something between you is stretching too tight, pulling at the seams of whatever you’ve built together. It’s just a date. Jungkook shouldn’t care. And yet, his voice is slightly clipped, his jaw tighter than before. He definitely cares.

You chew on your lip. “Are you sure you’re—”

“I’m good,” Jungkook interrupts, forcing an easy grin. “Just curious, that’s all.”

Somehow, that bothers you more, because he’s not good and neither are you. Jungkook shifts again, rolling onto his side, resting his chin on his hand as he exhales through his nose. And then, just like that, he changes the subject. “So, did you ever end up telling your coworker off today?”

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “What?”

Jungkook smirks, his expression relaxing, like he’s willing the tension out of the conversation. “Your coworker. The one who won’t stop bringing those tuna sandwiches that smell. Did you finally tell him where to shove it?”

You huff a small laugh, sinking further into your pillows. “I don’t think I have the luxury of doing that.”

“Shame.” Jungkook tuts, shaking his head. “If I were your coworker, I’d be terrified of you.”

You snort. “You would not.”

“Oh, I would.” He leans closer to the camera, eyes glinting. “You’ve got that whole quiet-but-powerful thing going on. Like you’re secretly running the whole operation but letting everyone think they have control.”

Your cheeks warm, but you roll your eyes. “That’s ridiculous.”

Jungkook grins. “I’m just saying, you do have a certain… intimidation factor.”

“You’re literally a race car driver. I’m pretty sure you have the intimidation factor,” You laugh.

“Yeah, but mine’s expected. Yours is dangerous.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling, and just like that, the conversation falls into the same effortless rhythm it always does.

You talk about your day. He talks about his: how he nearly fell asleep during a sponsorship meeting, how he almost punched a guy for stealing his protein bar, how he spent an hour trying to fix something in his car before realizing he’d been using the wrong tool the whole time. You laugh. He teases you. It’s normal.

For a moment, you forget about the tension from earlier. You forget about the date looming over you. You forget about everything except the fact that this—talking to Jungkook, feeling at ease with him—feels like the most natural thing in the world.

You don’t even realize how late it gets. You yawn, rubbing your eyes, and Jungkook notices. “Tired?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He exhales, shifting onto his back, staring at the ceiling for a moment. Then, before you can say goodnight, “I hope you have fun tomorrow.”

Your stomach clenches. He says it so genuinely. So smoothly, like it’s just another sentence, just another thing he’d say at the end of any conversation. But you know better.

You bite the inside of your cheek, studying him through the screen. “Thanks.”

Jungkook hums, nodding slightly. “Goodnight, [Y/N].”

Your heart stumbles over its own rhythm. You don’t know why, but it does. The sound of your name falling from his mouth with ease seems to stop you in your tracks. You don’t say anything for a beat, but Jungkook doesn’t press. He just watches you, waiting.

Finally, you swallow. “Goodnight, Jungkook.”

And when the call ends, you’re left staring at the dark screen, the silence of your room feeling impossibly loud.

Because despite everything—despite the fact that you’re supposed to be going on a date tomorrow—you can’t stop wishing it was with him.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Getting ready shouldn’t feel like this.

It shouldn’t feel like dragging yourself through wet cement, like trying to convince your own reflection that this is something you actually want. But as you sit at your vanity, smoothing concealer under your eyes, brushing powder over your cheeks, curling your lashes with precision, you feel nothing. Not excitement, not nerves. Just… a dull awareness that this is happening, and that somehow, you agreed to it.

Your phone sits beside you, screen dark, mockingly silent. Jungkook hasn’t texted you all day. You don’t know why you expected him to. It’s not like he texts you every day. (Except he does. Almost always. But maybe not today. Maybe not when he knows where you’re going tonight.)

You swallow, shaking your head, brushing a final layer of lip gloss over your lips before grabbing your bag.

This is fine. This is good for you. You need to stop thinking about Jungkook like this. You need to prove that you can.

The drive to the restaurant is quiet.

The city moves around you—neon signs flickering, headlights spilling across the pavement, people weaving in and out of late-night cafés. You grip the steering wheel a little too tightly, your thoughts a little too loud.

Jisoo’s friend’s name is Minho. He’s perfect on paper. Finance guy. Smart, successful, stable. The kind of man your mother would approve of. The kind of man who won’t leave you breathless, who won’t make you feel like you’re hurtling toward something dangerous every time he looks at you. The kind of man who makes sense. And yet, you find yourself dreading every second of this.

You pull into the parking lot, smoothing invisible wrinkles from your dress, inhaling deep as you step out of your car. This is fine. You’re going to have dinner. Make conversation. Enjoy yourself. You will not think about Jungkook.

Minho is already waiting when you arrive.

He’s tall, dressed in a crisp button-down and tailored slacks. His smile is warm, his handshake firm but not too firm. He opens the door for you, gestures for you to go first, waits for you to sit before taking his own seat. It’s… nice. Everything about him is nice.

The restaurant hums with quiet chatter, soft lighting casting a golden glow over the tables. A waiter appears, handing you menus, listing off the specials in a pleasant tone.

You glance up briefly, offering a polite smile. “What do you recommend?”

Minho hums, scanning the menu. “The chicken looks good. But honestly, I’m not too picky. What about you?”

Your lips part, ready to agree with him on the steak. And then a thought crosses your mind. Jungkook wouldn’t have asked. Jungkook would’ve smirked, leaned back in his chair, teased you about ordering the most boring thing on the menu just to be safe.

Your stomach tightens. You clear your throat, forcing a small smile. “I think I’ll get pasta.”

Minho nods approvingly. “Solid choice.”

The night, the conversation flows easily enough. Minho is polite, well-spoken. He asks about your job, actually listens when you explain the intricacies of consulting, nodding in understanding, adding his own insights about the financial world. It’s… easy. But it’s not effortless. Not like it is with Jungkook.

Minho tells a story about a trip he took last summer. You laugh, because you’re supposed to. But the whole time, your mind is somewhere else. Jungkook would’ve made fun of you for fake-laughing right now.

You reach for your phone, out of habit. Still nothing. Not a single message from him. Your fingers hesitate over the screen before you force yourself to set it back down.

“So, what do you do for fun?” Minho asks, sipping his wine.

You blink. “Fun?”

He chuckles. “Yeah. What do you do when you’re not working?”

Your mind blanks as you come to a detrimental realization. Jungkook is your fun. Wine nights. Video games. Him annoying you just to get a reaction.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, feeling ridiculous. “Uh. I don’t know.”

Minho laughs lightly. “I get it. Work keeps you busy.”

You nod, nearly choking on your saliva as it goes down. You should like this, you should like him, but you don’t. And the realization makes you feel sick. On autopilot, you check your phone again.

That’s really when it hits you. You don’t want to be here. You don’t care if Minho is the perfect guy. You don’t want polite smiles and easy conversation. You want teasing smirks and sarcastic remarks and late-night ramen and someone who reads every little thing about you before you even say it out loud. You want Jungkook, and no amount of pretending is going to change that.

Somewhere in the middle of the date, as time ticks dangerously slow, you realize you need to leave in the middle of his story.

Minho is talking—something about his last trip to Jeju, a hiking trail, how he got lost but ended up finding the best seafood restaurant tucked into the cliffs—but you’re barely listening.

You’re nodding at the right moments, humming in agreement, sipping at your wine, but your mind is somewhere else, or rather—with someone else.

Jungkook wouldn’t have let you zone out like this. Jungkook would have noticed the second your mind drifted, smirked at you across the table, called you out on it just to see you flustered.

But Minho just keeps talking, and you can’t help but compare. You feel awful about it, but the thought keeps nagging at the back of your mind. This is supposed to be good for you.

You inhale slowly, fixing the napkin folded in your lap, shaking yourself out of your own head. Focus. Try. Minho is nice. He’s stable. He’s normal.

A thought slams into you with such certainty that it nearly knocks the breath out of your lungs. You need to get out of here.

“Minho.” You blink, sitting up a little straighter. “I’m so sorry—I just realized I have an early meeting tomorrow. I should probably call it a night.”

Minho pauses, a little surprised, but he nods easily. “Of course. No problem at all.”

He doesn’t look disappointed. Just polite. Understanding. That somehow makes you feel worse. Because the truth is, he probably felt the lack of something between you, too.

You push out of your chair, pulling a few bills from your bag for your share of the dinner, but Minho waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got it.”

You force a small smile. “Thank you.”

The waiter returns with the check, and you busy yourself slipping on your coat, gripping the lapels a little too tightly.

Minho stands with you, offering a smile. “It was really nice meeting you.”

“You too,” you say, and you mean it. He’s good. He’s great, actually. He’s just not Jungkook.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

You don’t even think about it.

One second, you’re stepping into your apartment, kicking off your heels, breath still uneven from leaving the restaurant earlier than you should have. The next, your fingers are hovering over Jungkook’s name, your phone vibrating with noise as you wait for him to answer.

It’s muscle memory. Instinct. He answers immediately, like he was waiting.

The screen flickers to life, and there he is: hoodie on, silver chain glinting against his collarbone, hair messy from the day’s activities. His eyes flicker over your face, assessing, before his lips pull into a lazy smirk. "Thought you’d be out late."

His tone is casual. Easy, but his jaw is tight. His fingers tap idly against his phone, betraying the restless energy behind the smooth facade.

He’s not okay. For some reason, that makes something in you unravel.

You exhale, sinking onto your couch, legs folding beneath you. “It was fine,” you say, voice softer than you intend. “Just… not for me.”

Jungkook hums, tilting his head slightly, leaning back against his pillows. He stretches one arm over the back of his couch, watching you carefully. Slowly, he smirks, like he knew it all along. “Not for you, huh?"

Something about the way he says it—so smug, so damn certain—makes heat prickle at the back of your neck.

You huff. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” he muses, but his grin widens, teeth grazing his bottom lip. “Just saying. You didn’t even last a full dinner.”

You scowl. “I lasted long enough.”

Jungkook hums again, unconvinced. “Did you?”

Your fingers tighten around your phone. “Shut up.”

But Jungkook grins, shifting slightly, his gaze flickering over your face like he’s cataloging every little reaction, every little tell.

“What happened?” he presses, voice dipping lower, smooth and slow like he’s enjoying this.

You exhale sharply, tilting your head back against the couch. “Nothing.”

Jungkook raises a brow. “Nothing?”

You hesitate. “He was nice.”

Jungkook lets the words settle for a beat, then nods slowly. “Nice.”

His voice wraps around the word like it’s an insult.

You glare at him through the screen. “What?”

Jungkook shrugs. “Nothing.”

The teasing smirk is still there, but his eyes have darkened slightly, like he’s weighing his next words carefully. “Did you like him?"

You should say yes. You really should, but you don’t. Instead, you lick your lips, heart thudding against your ribs. “I don’t know.”

Jungkook laughs, soft, amused. “You don’t know?"

Your pulse spikes. “Jungkook.”

“No, I’m just—” He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his expression so unfairly confident. “You either liked him or you didn’t.”

You exhale, fingers winding into the fabric of your couch. “He was fine.”

Jungkook clicks his tongue. “That’s not an answer.”

You glare. “I don’t owe you one.”

Jungkook lifts a brow. “You don’t.” A beat. “But you’re still on FaceTime with me instead of on the date with him.”

You freeze because he’s right, and he knows it. His smirk grows, a slow, knowing thing that makes your stomach twist.

“You’re being annoying,” you mutter, looking away.

Jungkook chuckles, stretching back against the couch again. “Am I?”

The confidence in his voice, the way he’s watching you now—lips curled at the corner, eyes laced with something knowing—it makes you feel physically ill, because he’s won this round. And worse? You are going to let him.

You shift slightly, propping your chin in your hand as you glare at him through the screen. “You’re insufferable.”

Jungkook grins, completely unfazed. “I’ve been called worse.”

You roll your eyes. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”

“Enjoy what?” he asks, feigning innocence.

You huff. “Getting under my skin.”

Jungkook exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “Nah. I just like knowing you think about me when you’re supposed to be thinking about someone else.”

Your stomach plummets. His smirk deepens, almost like he sees it. He sees the way your lips part slightly, the way you blink a little too fast, the way you don’t deny it.

Your throat goes dry. “That’s not—”

Jungkook raises a brow. “It’s not what?”

Your words die on your tongue. What are you supposed to say? That he’s wrong? That you didn’t spend your entire night comparing some perfectly nice guy to him? That your mind wasn’t full of all the ways Jungkook is easier, funnier, more everything?

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “You are so—”

Jungkook interrupts smoothly, “Charming? Funny? Handsome?”

You groan. “Infuriating.”

Jungkook just grins, tongue peeking out to play with his lip piercing, completely unfazed. “Yet here we are. FaceTiming after your big date.”

Your jaw tightens. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he muses, dragging out the words like he’s enjoying every second of this. Then, after a beat, “Maybe you even have a little crush on me.”

The thing is, you’re not even trying to make Jungkook work for it. He’s already noticed your internal struggle, already saw right through your façade. You’re trying to get him to stop saying these words so you don’t go actively insane. If you do give in to Jungkook’s advances, you’ve already acknowledged that it won’t end well for you. It will throw your life off course, disrupt the routine you’ve carefully constructed, and tear down the barriers you’ve worked so hard to maintain.

And Jungkook knows it. His smirk grows, eyes darkening just slightly, fingers tapping against his phone like he’s waiting, waiting, waiting.

You scoff, shaking your head. “You’re delusional.”

Jungkook hums, amused. “Am I?”

Yes.

No.

You don’t know. What do you know anymore?

Your stomach tightens, something unreadable clawing its way up your throat, and before you let him see it, “I’m hanging up now.”

Jungkook laughs, full and bright. “Oh, running away? Interesting.”

“Good night, Jungkook.”

His grin lingers, eyes glinting. “Sweet dreams.”

The call ends and you’re left staring at the screen, heart hammering, face warm, stomach wrecked.

Jungkook is smug, and maybe, just maybe, he has every right to be.

The next morning, the office feels too bright.

Or maybe it’s just your head, still foggy from last night, from him, from the words he left you with. “Maybe you even have a little crush on me."

You hate how easily Jungkook gets under your skin. You hate that you barely slept, that you spent way too long staring at your ceiling, replaying the conversation in your head, reading into every smirk, every teasing lilt in his voice, every time he let the words linger just a little too long. And most of all, you hate that he was right.

You spent the entire night on a date with someone else, and yet the second you got home, your first instinct was to call him. You groan, rubbing a hand over your face as you sink into your chair.

“Ohhh, you are so dead.”

You barely have time to react before Jisoo appears, all but slamming her hands down on your desk, eyes glittering with a dangerous amount of excitement.

You flinch. “Jesus—”

“Talk.” She pulls out the chair across from you, sliding into it so quickly that her coffee nearly spills. “Date details. Now.”

You hesitate.

Jisoo narrows her eyes.

You exhale, tapping your nails against the desk. “It was… fine.”

Jisoo tilts her head. “Fine?”

You nod. “Yeah. He was nice.”

Jisoo’s brows furrow. “Okay, but nice in a ‘maybe there’s potential’ way or nice in a ‘he was fine, but I was thinking about Jungkook the entire time and wanted to go home’ way?”

Your stomach drops and your face betrays you.

Jisoo sees it immediately, her eyes going wide.

“Oh my god.” She gasps, slapping her hand over her mouth before pointing at you accusingly. “It’s worse than I thought. What, did you call Jungkook after, or something?”

You freeze. Your heartbeat spikes. “...No?”

(Lies. All lies.)

Jisoo cackles. “OH MY GOD. You did.”

“I—”

“You so did.”

You huff, crossing your arms. “It’s not—”

“No, no, no.” She leans forward, her grin too knowing. “Don’t even try it.”

You glare at her. “Try what?”

Jisoo smirks. “Denying the inevitable.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Oh, am I?” She lifts her coffee cup, tilting her head. “Because let’s just review for a second.”

“Jisoo—”

“Point one,” she interrupts, raising a finger. “You went on a date with a perfectly nice, perfectly attractive, perfectly normal guy.”

You exhale, rubbing your temples. “Yes.”

“Point two—” Jisoo raises another finger. “You didn’t even finish said date.”

You open your mouth to interrupt, to ask how she got that part of the story already, but she holds up a hand.

“Point three—and this is the kicker—you immediately called Jungkook afterward.”

Your stomach tightens. “It wasn’t—”

“Nope.” Jisoo cuts you off, shaking her head. “You don’t get to explain your way out of this.”

You sigh, fingers curling against your desk. “Jisoo, I��”

She leans in. Her voice softens, teasing gone, eyes glinting with something too real, too honest. “You don’t want anyone else,” she murmurs. “You want him.”

Your throat goes dry. You feel the weight of her words hit you straight in the ribs, knocking something loose. You should argue.You should say something. But you don’t. Because for the first time, you can’t. Deep down, you know.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

The weekend comes faster than you expect, and with it, your friend Maya’s birthday party. She’s been your friend for years, an old roommate from your university days.

The bar is already packed when you arrive, music thrumming through the walls, neon signs glowing against the darkened windows. Inside, bodies press together on the dance floor, a sea of movement and laughter and flashing lights. The scent of spilled cocktails lingers in the air, and you can already hear Maya’s distinct laugh from across the room, high and bright, cutting through the noise.

You smile, slipping into the crowd, letting the energy swallow you whole.

This is exactly what you need. A night to drink, to dance, to shake off whatever this weight is that’s been pressing into your chest all week. To forget about the words still ringing in your head from Jisoo. To forget about the fact that you haven’t texted Jungkook all day, and that he hasn’t texted you either.

You don’t think about it. At least, you try not to. Instead, you drink, a little too much, a little too fast. The alcohol spreads warmth through your veins, buzzing beneath your skin, numbing the restlessness that’s been gnawing at you since last night.

You throw yourself into conversation, let Maya pull you into the center of it all, shots lined up on the bar, toasts to another year, cheers that spill into laughter. It’s fun. It’s supposed to be fun. But somewhere between the second and third drink, the laughter starts to feel too loud. The lights too bright. The conversations too shallow.

No matter how many times you shake it off, that feeling lingers. That feeling that something is missing. That feeling that your phone has been too quiet all day. You try not to look at it. You try not to care. Yet, you fail.

And when you finally step outside for some air, the cool night biting at your flushed cheeks, your fingers move before you can stop them.

You don’t even realize you’re calling him until it’s too late. Until the phone is already ringing. Until his voice—low, groggy, familiar—fills your ears.

"[Y/N]?"

His voice is rough with sleep, the kind of rasp that only comes from being pulled into consciousness too fast. And that’s when it hits you— you really should not have called him.

You blink, swaying slightly where you stand on the curb outside the bar, phone pressed too close to your ear. The streetlights cast everything in a warm glow, the night air cool against your flushed skin.

You should hang up. You should. But the moment he hears your little giggle, he knows.

"Where are you?" His tone changes instantly, sharp, awake, concerned.

God, that makes your stomach flutter, or maybe it’s just the drinks, but suddenly, your lips are curving into a grin, because he sounds so serious and you’re so far gone.

"Maya’s party," you mumble, giggling softly as you glance around, trying to get your bearings. “Well, outside of it. Needed air.”

Jungkook does not find this funny. “Are you drunk?"

You gasp, pressing a hand to your chest like he just accused you of a crime. “Jungkook! I would never.”

A pause. Then, “You’re wasted."

You giggle again, leaning against the cold brick wall, tilting your head up to the night sky. The stars look so prettytonight.

“I am not wasted,” you declare, even though you are absolutely wasted. “I’m… celebratory.”

Jungkook sighs, and you can practically hear him running a hand through his hair. “Who’s taking you home?”

You blink. Pause. Oh. That’s a great question.

You purse your lips, swaying slightly. “I could take a taxi…”

"Nope." His voice is final. No room for argument.

You hum, eyes fluttering closed for a second. “Okay… so, come get me?”

Silence. A beat too long, too heavy, stretching between you.

Then, his voice drops, steady, certain. “I’m on my way."

You don’t even have time to respond before the call ends, the line going dead in your hand.

And maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the way your heart skips, but suddenly, you feel warm all over.

Jungkook is coming. For you.

You frown at your phone. “So rude.”

The night air is crisp against your skin, but you barely feel it. There’s a warmth curling in your chest, spreading through your limbs, a giddy kind of lightness that has nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with him.

You shift on your feet, biting back a smile, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your dress. Your heart jumps, ridiculous and eager, a quiet thrill rushing through you at the thought of seeing him—at the thought that he’s coming for you. That despite everything, despite the late hour, despite how much of a mess you probably sound over the phone, he’s still choosing to show up.

The thought makes something in your stomach tighten, something warm and buzzing, something that feels dangerously close to happiness.

A hand lands on your shoulder, and you turn to find Maya giving you a look. “Who were you talking to?”

You smile. “Jungkook.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Jeon Jungkook? That race car driver you’re seeing?”

You giggle, swaying a little. “Yup. He’s coming to get me. Like a knight.” You pause, tilting your head. “But, like, a tattooed knight. A knight with a lip piercing. A knight who’s really, really hot.”

Maya laughs. “Okay, yeah, you’re definitely drunk.”

You pout. “Nooo. I’m fine. I just—” You stop, eyes widening. “Oh my god.”

Maya panics. “What?”

You grab her arm. “Do I look okay?”

She stares at you. “You look drunk.”

You groan. “Ugh, he’s gonna see me like this! This is a disaster.”

You hold onto her shoulders dramatically, shaking her. Maya smirks. “Sounds like someone wants to impress him.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s not what this is.”

She grins. “Sure, babe.”

Headlights sweep across the pavement, a sleek black car pulling up to the curb. Your heart jumps. You recognize that car anyway. It pulls up to the curb, tires slowing against the pavement, and your breath catches as you see him.

Jungkook.

Your pulse stumbles, fingers tightening against your sides. He hasn’t even stepped out yet, hasn’t even looked at you, but it doesn’t matter, because suddenly, everything feels lighter, easier, safer.

Jungkook barely has time to put the car in park before you’re stumbling forward, waving bye to Maya who just giggles at your walk.

His hand is on you instantly, firm against your waist, steadying you like its second nature. His grip is solid, warm even through the fabric of your dress, fingers pressing into your skin just enough to ground you.

You blink up at him, and god, you should not be this excited to see him.

His brows are drawn together, mouth slightly parted as his eyes flicker over your face, scanning, assessing. “How much did you drink?”

You giggle. “Rude.”

Jungkook exhales through his nose, unimpressed, but his fingers don’t leave your waist. “Seriously.”

You tilt your head, your balance shifting slightly—not enough to fall, but enough that his grip on you tightens. That makes you even giddier. “Enough to be very, very happy to see you.”

Jungkook sighs, running his free hand through his hair before gently maneuvering you toward the car. “Get in, sweetheart.”

And you do. Barely. The moment you sink into the seat, the moment the door closes and you’re surrounded by the scent of him—clean linen, something dark and musky beneath it—you melt into the leather, warmth curling low in your stomach. Then he slides into the driver’s seat, and suddenly, he’s so close.

His jaw clenches as he starts the car, one hand on the wheel, the other running over his face in frustration. But you? You’re just watching him, eyes tracing the slope of his nose, the sharp cut of his jawline, the way the sleeve of his hoodie pushes up just enough to reveal the inked lines of his forearm.

He’s so pretty.

Your fingers twitch in your lap, your lips curving before you can stop them. “You’re so pretty, Jungkookie.”

Jungkook chokes on absolutely nothing. His head turns toward you so fast you almost laugh. His expression is a mix of amusement and disbelief. “Jesus Christ.”

You beam at him, lifting your knees to the seat, turning your whole body toward him like you can’t help it. Maybe you can’t. “You are.”

His grip on the wheel tightens, jaw locking as his eyes flick forward again. “You’re drunk.”

You hum, tilting your head. “So?”

“So,” he mutters, shifting into drive. “I’m ignoring you.”

That makes you laugh, throwing your head back against the seat. “No, you’re not.”

Jungkook sighs, rolling his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches, and you see it. He’s so easy to read, even when he pretends not to be. That makes you bold.

So you lean in, resting your chin on your knuckles, watching him with sleepy, playful eyes. “You like it when I compliment you, don’t you?”

Jungkook scoffs, but his ears are turning red. “Go to sleep.”

“Are you blushing?”

“God, I should’ve let you take a taxi.”

You grin, nudging his arm slightly with your fingers. His skin is so warm, his muscles tense under your touch. “I like that you came.”

He doesn’t respond right away. His Adam’s apple bobs, his fingers twitch against the wheel. When he speaks, his voice is a little rougher. “Yeah?”

You hum. “You always come when I call.”

Jungkook’s knuckles turn white on the wheel.

He glances at you, just for a second, something too much, too close, too heavy.

And then, almost like he’s talking to himself, “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I do.”

You don’t know why, but that makes your heart ache.

The rest of the ride is quieter, but the air between you is charged, humming with something unspoken.

And you? You can’t stop staring at him. The warmth in your chest isn’t from the alcohol anymore. That realization is terrifying, you don’t know why, but it does something to you.

Your pulse flutters beneath your skin, your fingers curling against your lap before slowly, without thinking, you reach out again.

It’s not you. You’re not the kind of person who does this. You don’t touch people so easily, so recklessly. You don’t let yourself be this bold, this transparent. But tonight, you can’t help it.

Your hand finds his forearm first, fingers grazing the warm skin exposed beneath the pushed-up sleeve of his hoodie.

Jungkook stiffens.

His fingers tighten around the steering wheel, his breath catching so subtly you almost don’t notice. Almost. But you do, and it only makes you bolder.

Your fingers trace over the ink on his skin, the lines of his tattoos. The warmth of him seeps into your palm, and for some reason, it makes your stomach flip.

"You’re so warm," you mumble, mostly to yourself.

Jungkook lets out a slow exhale. "You need to sit properly."

You shake your head, still tracing patterns against his skin, drunk on the feel of him beneath your fingertips. "Don’t wanna."

He makes a sound in the back of his throat, something low, something restrained. "You’re gonna regret this tomorrow."

You grin, looking up at him with something dangerously close to mischief. "Are you saying I don’t usually touch you?"

Jungkook laughs, but it’s breathless, like he can’t quite believe you right now. "You never touch me."

He’s right.

But you don’t say that.

Instead, your fingers trail higher, up the curve of his forearm, feeling the shift of his muscles beneath his skin. Your body feels hot all over.

You let your fingers brush against his neck.

Jungkook sucks in a sharp breath. Your fingertips graze the sensitive skin just below his jaw, featherlight, hesitant but curious. He swallows deeply beneath your touch, and your stomach tightens because he lets you do it.

For a second, he really lets you, lets himself indulge into what it would feel like to be desired by you.

Then, breaking the trance, his hand snaps up, catching your wrist. His grip isn’t rough, but it’s firm, steady, grounding you in a way that makes your head spin for an entirely different reason.

"[Y/N]..” he warns, voice low, barely above a whisper.

You blink up at him, feeling reckless, feeling brave, feeling entirely not yourself.

"Jungkook," you whisper back.

His fingers tighten just slightly around your wrist, his jaw clenching, his eyes flickering between yours like he’s searching for something.

His tongue flicks out, wetting his lips, grazing against the silver of his piercing. Your stomach flips. You can’t stop staring.You can’t stop wanting.

But before you can do anything else, before you can ruin yourself completely, Jungkook sighs. And then, in a voice that is too soft, too knowing, too unfairly patient, “You need to sleep it off, sweetheart."

And just like that, you’re ruined anyway.

The hum of the car engine is steady beneath you, lulling you into something soft, something weightless. The warmth of the interior, the rhythmic motion of the road, the faint scent of Jungkook’s cologne lingering in the air—it all pulls you under, wrapping around you like a cocoon.

You don’t mean to fall asleep. But you do. And for the first time in a long time, sleep is easy. It’s peaceful. Quiet. No racing thoughts. No overthinking. No him lingering too close in your mind. Just warmth.

When you finally do wake up, the world is still.

The engine is off, the headlights casting soft shadows against the pavement outside your apartment. The air between you feels heavier, quieter, like neither of you are sure what comes next.

You shift slightly, stretching in your seat, blinking against the dim glow of the streetlights. Your gaze drifts to Jungkook, who’s sitting back against the headrest, one hand still on the steering wheel, the other draped lazily over the gear shift.

He’s watching you. Not in a way that makes you feel self-conscious, not in a way that feels expectant, not in a stalker-y way. Just… watching, like maybe he’s been doing it for a while.

"You’re really nice," you murmur, your voice still heavy with sleep, with warmth.

Jungkook’s lips twitch. "Yeah?"

You hum, nodding slightly, your fingers toying with the hem of your dress, mind still hazy. "You always take care of me."

Something flickers in his eyes. Something that makes the air between you feel too thick.

He doesn’t say anything.

Suddenly, you don’t want to think. You don’t want to overanalyze, don’t want to let hesitation sink its claws into you before you can act.

So you don’t. You just move.

Leaning in before you can stop yourself, drawn in by the warmth of him, the steady weight of his presence. Your breath fans against his lips. His sharp inhale cuts through the quiet. You can feel it—the shift in him. The way his fingers tighten around the steering wheel, the way his jaw clenches, the way his breath falters, uneven, as your faces linger too close, as your pulse hammers beneath your skin.

And for a second, just for a second, you think he’s going to close the distance.

But then, "Not like this."

His voice is low, rough around the edges, like it’s taking everything in him to pull away.

You blink, your chest rising and falling too fast, your body still too warm, your lips still too close. “Why?" It’s barely a whisper, barely a sound. Just breath and longing and confusion wrapped into one.

Jungkook exhales, his gaze flickering down to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your eyes again. “Because I want you sober when you finally kiss me."

Damn it, you feel that everywhere. Like a live wire against your skin. Like an ache settling deep in your bones. Like something dangerous, something fragile, something terrifyingly real.

You huff, shoulders slumping as the warmth of his words lingers in the tight space between you.

The weight of it settles deep in your chest, leaving you fluttery, restless, and entirely unsatisfied.

“That’s stupid,” you grumble, voice petulant as you sink further into the passenger seat.

Jungkook sighs, rubbing a hand over his face before shifting to unbuckle your seatbelt. “It’s not stupid.”

You pout, arms crossing over your chest. “It is stupid. Because I do wanna kiss you.”

His hand freezes. For a moment, you think he’s going to respond, maybe tease you, maybe say something to make this all feel less real, less loaded, less dangerous, but instead, Jungkook exhales, eyes flickering to yours, something unbearably soft in his gaze.

“You will,” he murmurs. “I promise.”

And for some reason, that makes your stomach twist even more.

Before you can dwell on it—or before you can embarrass yourself any further—Jungkook is stepping out of the car, rounding the hood, and opening your door.

You barely have a second to process what’s happening before his hands are on you, warm and gentle, lifting you effortlessly out of your seat.

You squeak, instinctively clutching his hoodie, fingers curling into the fabric. “Jungkook!”

He barely reacts, adjusting you against his chest like you weigh nothing. “You’re not walking up those stairs by yourself.”

You scowl, burying your face in his shoulder. “I could.”

He snorts. “Yeah, sure. After tripping over air four times tonight? Not a chance.”

You mumble something about him being dramatic, but you don’t fight him. Mostly because you don’t want to. Because the way his arms feel around you, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your cheek, the warmth radiating off of him, it all makes your body feel soft, pliant, safe.

Your apartment door unlocks with a soft beep, and before you know it, Jungkook is setting you down inside, his hands lingering at your waist for just a second longer than necessary before pulling away.

You whine at the loss of warmth. “You’re so mean.”

Jungkook sighs, toeing off his sneakers before nudging you toward the bathroom. “Come on. Skincare time.”

Your brows furrow as you blink up at him. “You know my skincare routine?”

Jungkook gives you a flat look. “Do you know how many times I’ve seen you do it? You talk through every step like you’re running a live tutorial.”

You gasp, offended. “It’s educational.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah. Sit.”

And somehow, he actually does it for you. His hands are careful as he applies each product, thumbs smoothing cream into your skin with a level of patience and concentration that makes your stomach flip. His brows are furrowed slightly, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, the sleeves of his hoodie pushed up to his elbows as he massages your face with way too much care for someone who pretends to be this cool all the time.

You stare at him, heart full, warmth buzzing beneath your skin.

When he finishes, he wipes his hands on a nearby towel, tilting his head at you. “Alright. Bed.”

You blink up at him and pout.

Jungkook’s eyes narrow instantly. “No.”

Your bottom lip wobbles dramatically. “You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”

“I do,” he deadpans. “And the answer is no.”

You sway toward him, fingers curling around the sleeve of his hoodie. “Stay.”

Jungkook sighs, long and heavy, rubbing his temple. “[Y/N]...”

You blink at him, playing it up, all wide eyes and softness. “Please?”

He groans, running a hand through his hair. “You’re not even gonna remember this in the morning.”

You nod too eagerly, holding onto him too tightly. “But I will remember sleeping alone and being so sad about it.”

Jungkook laughs under his breath, shaking his head, already giving in.

"Fine," he mutters, rolling his shoulders like he’s pretending this is a chore. "But I’m sleeping on the couch."

You beam. “Good enough."

And as you finally crawl into bed in the pajamas he picked out for you, warmth wrapping around you, Jungkook’s presence lingering in your apartment, you sleep. Peacefully and safely.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

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[posttraumaticprose]

Memento Mori.

Cross posted to AO3

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66643030

Jason and Tim finally acting like feral brothers over Victorian death photography.

The Batcave was quiet. Not serene, not peaceful—just quiet in that exhausted, overtaxed way that came only when Batman was on patrol alone and everyone else knew better than to linger too long in his shadow. The smell of metal and ozone, the flickering blue glow from the computer monitors, the ever-present hum of machines made it feel like the belly of something ancient and cold.

Tim Drake had been watching the pattern for weeks. Every third Thursday, like clockwork, another envelope would be sitting on the Batcomputer’s keyboard. Plain manila, sealed with duct tape. Bruce never said anything out loud—he just stared, picked it up with gloved fingers, opened it, and then either left the room or smashed something within the next three minutes. There was never an in-between.

Tonight, Tim was done pretending he hadn’t noticed. Bruce had already stormed off after viewing the latest one, his jaw tight enough to crack. Once the platform elevator whirred into motion and disappeared up into the manor, Tim made his move.

The envelope was still warm.

Inside was a glossy 8x10 photograph—studio lit, deep red backdrop, dramatic shadows. Jason, in full Red Hood armor, crouched behind a stiff, grinning Joker corpse dressed like a prom queen. The tiara glittered under perfect lighting. The bouquet of dead roses cradled in rigor-stiff hands was a nice touch.

“Jesus Christ,” Tim muttered.

“You say that every time,” came a voice from above.

Tim didn’t even jump. He just turned, slowly, and saw Jason Todd hanging upside-down from one of the cave’s overhead support beams. He was lounging like a very smug vampire bat, sans cape, mask pushed up onto his forehead and eyes glittering with amusement.

“I should’ve known it was you,” Tim sighed.

“You say that every time too.”

Jason flipped down, boots slamming into the floor with a theatrical thud. He looked good. Suspiciously good. The kind of good that only came from causing long-term psychological damage to someone you hated but were also deeply, hopelessly tangled up in emotionally.

Tim eyed him. “How the hell are you getting in here?”

Jason just grinned. “That’s a secret.”

“You do know this is actually insane, right?”

“Oh, for sure. But it’s also hilarious.”

Tim held up the photo. “He was wearing a tiara.”

“Miss Gotham 1983,” Jason said proudly. “Found it in a thrift store. Whole outfit cost me eight bucks.”

Tim stared at him for a long moment. “Shouldn’t he be… rotting?”

“Nah.” Jason wandered over, snatched the photo back, brushed a smudge off Joker’s cheek with his thumb like a proud dad at a dance recital. “I took like 400 pictures in advance. Went all out—different props, costumes, backgrounds. Even got a fog machine for the Halloween shoot. Cremated the bastard after. So I’ve got enough content to keep this up for years.”

Tim blinked. “You made a posthumous Joker photoshoot content calendar?”

“Don’t say it like that,” Jason said, mock-wounded. “Makes it sound petty.”

“It is petty.”

“And yet, it’s art.”

“Jesus Christ,” Tim repeated.

Jason threw himself into one of the swivel chairs, arms spread, legs kicked up on the table. “You have to admit, it’s the only thing that’s kept B on his toes in months. He gets one of my love letters, he gets all broody, and then he does something reckless like punch a window or jump off a building without a grapple. It’s like cardio, but for his emotions.”

“You’re seriously unhinged.”

“Pot, meet kettle.”

Tim hesitated. “You kept the body for how long?”

“Five days. Had to keep him fresh for the Santa shoot.”

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m telling Alfred.”

“He already knows,” Jason said gleefully. “Told me the snow globe prop was too cliché. Suggested mistletoe and a string of lights instead.”

Tim swore softly, wondering how he ever believed he was the sane one in this family.

Jason leaned in, suddenly serious. “But you have to admit, the photography’s pretty damn good.”

Tim narrowed his eyes. He’d been avoiding that part. But he couldn’t deny it—each photo was perfectly composed. The lighting, the posing, the technical skill…

“…Did you hire a photographer?”

Jason snorted. “No. Took a night class. Stole a camera. Did some reading. I had time.”

Tim crossed his arms. “You know, I am a photographer.”

Jason’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “Don’t you dare say it.”

“I could take better ones.”

“You did not just challenge me to a petty corpse photoshoot war.”

“No,” Tim said, already smiling like a demon. “I’m thinking escalation. You’re all about theater, right? Let’s flip the script.”

Jason leaned in, interested. “Go on.”

Tim walked over to one of the sealed storage lockers in the cave’s lower level. Entered a code. Waited for the hiss of air and the metallic click. Inside: Jason’s old suit. Red and green, bloodstained. Preserved. Sacred. A relic Bruce had refused to let go of.

“I hate that thing,” Jason muttered, voice low.

“That’s why it’ll work.”

Jason stared at him. “You want to dress me like a twelve-year-old zombie Christmas ornament and take post-mortem photos of me to mess with Bruce?”

Tim shrugged. “He’s already seeing Joker’s stiff corpse in ball gowns every other week. Might as well complete the tableau. Little Robin, tragically returned from the grave. Very Victorian.”

Jason let out a slow, long breath. “God, you are darker than me.”

“I just hide it better.”

Jason was quiet for a minute. Then he stood. “Alright. But if I’m wearing that thing, I’m also getting a sword.”

“You don’t get a sword.”

“I died, Tim. I get a fucking sword.”

“I’ll give you a slingshot.”

“Slingshot and sword. Final offer.”

Tim sighed. “Fine.”

Within an hour, the Batcave had been transformed into a gothic nightmare. Candelabras flickered from hidden corners. Tim had set up the lighting rig, testing shadow filters and camera angles with a level of detached professionalism that unnerved even Jason.

The suit was too small, tight across the shoulders and arms, but Jason bore it with grim theatricality. His hair slicked back, the domino mask painted on, and an antique sword across his lap as he sat in the overstuffed armchair from Alfred’s collection, stiff and perfect.

Tim adjusted the lighting. “Tilt your head a little. Look more… lifeless.”

“I am lifeless, Replacement.”

“Okay, less sass, more dead.”

Click. Flash. Jason’s blank face was chilling in the first few shots. Then Tim started posing him.

One arm over a teddy bear. Head cocked at a weird angle. A fake blood trail drawn under his nose. Flowers in his lap. A torn comic in one limp hand.

Jason didn’t laugh—but his mouth twitched more than once.

The final shot was staged in front of the massive penny, with Jason posed on a pile of bat-shaped paper cutouts, eyes wide open, looking accusingly toward the camera like a ghost caught in the act of haunting.

“You’re really good at this,” Jason said, impressed.

“I’m a genius,” Tim replied.

They left the first photo for Bruce the next morning—Jason posed like a saint in stained glass, hands folded over his chest, a cracked Robin ‘R’ badge on his tunic, and a halo made from repurposed Batarangs.

Bruce didn’t speak for a full two days.

Then the punching bag in the training room turned up shredded, the Batmobile vanished for twelve hours, and the emergency alert system registered no less than six unauthorized cave entries, all traced to Jason’s apartment.

Tim and Jason just waited. Quietly. Patiently.

Round two would involve a rocking horse and a eulogy read by a ventriloquist dummy in a Batman cowl.

Petty was an artform.

[lilygoofywritingcave]

Happy Valentine's Day !!!!

Oh, it seems a certain member in Slaughterhouse has sent you a letter, are you brave enough to open it?

Spoilers warning for character names

Misaki, the ever silly contract killer

"To Y/N, the chaos to my mayhem (or Whatever Romantic Crap I’m Supposed to Say),

Alright, so listen, uhh I was just planning on sending you a pic of a raccoon holding a heart and call it a day, BUT APPARENTLY that’s not “romantic” enough. Smh. So now I’m here, struggling to put actual words together instead of just sending you a keyboard smash and hoping you get the vibe.

So. Uh. Lily. You menace. Do you have ANY idea what you've done to me?? I’ll see something stupid n immediately think, “Oh, Y/N would laugh at this.” Like. That’s so weird. That’s EMBARRASSING. I save memes just to send you at 3AM, YOU are why Im having sleep deprivation (the good kind ofc). I would smile at my phone like an absolute idiot whenever your name pops up. It’s sick. You did this to me.

Also. Explain why you write me like I’m some cool badass when I’m just some gremlin with a knife and a rifle. Like. Hello??? Ma’am???? I do crimes, that's no news, but then you come along with your little fics n suddenly I feel like maybe, just maybe, I’m not just the sum of all the bad things I’ve done. I don’t know how to process that. Or you. You make my brain short-circuit without needing to doomscroll Tiktok.

ANYWAY. Point is, you’re mine now. No take-backs. Stuck with me forever, I will continue to be the most annoying gremlin in your life, sending you unhinged voice notes, and remind you every day that you matter. Because you do. A lot. (EW I HATE HOW SAPPY THAT SOUNDED MOVE ON PLS...)

...Okay, I think I’ve reached my emotional limit. I need to go set something on fire to balance this out. Or at least, like, flip a table.

Happy Valentine’s, silly.

Misaki Katsuo"

V, cold outside but cares more than you know

"To dear Y/N, Valentine’s Day seems to demand people to express affection for each other, something flowery and poetic. Although I consider traditions like that often exaggerated, but it felt unfair for you. So, I’ll keep this simple, for your sake.

You... matter to me, more than I would want to admit. You’ve become a part of my life in a way I didn’t expect, it is frankly troublesome how often my thoughts wander to you. And despite my usual preference for order, I don’t mind the chaos you bring. In fact… I think I’d miss it if it were gone.

I could compose some poetical metaphor, comparing you to the moon, the stars, or whatever romantic nonsense one is expected to write in a letter such as this, but I won’t waste your time.

Just know that if you ever need me, whether for something important or as simple as spending time together, you have only to say the word and I'll always be there.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Y/N.

"Valentin Viljoen"

Angel, sweet and dangerous like a rose

To My Love, Happy Valentine’s Day.

I know, I know, cheesy, cliché, overhyped day… but I don’t care. Today is just another excuse for me to remind you how much you mean to me, and I’ll take it.

You, you are the one thing in my life that feels real, no cameras, no flashing lights, no expectations to be perfect. Just us, and I need that more than I ever realized.

I’m not easy to love, am I? Always getting caught up in my work, in my image, in making sure everything and everyone is okay… but you? You remind me that I’m more than what people see. That I’m allowed to breathe, to be a little selfish, to take up space in someone's life without feeling guilty.

You make me feel like I’m enough. And I don’t know if I’ve ever felt that before.

So, for today, no, for always, I want you to know that I love you. In the quiet moments, in the chaos, in every way I know how. I love you when I get overwhelmed and you remind me to rest. I love you when you make me laugh so hard I forget whatever stress was eating at me. I love you when you’re just, you.

I don’t say it enough, but thank you, for seeing me, for staying, for being the best thing to ever happen to me.

Now, let’s turn off our phones, ignore the world for a while, and just be together. That’s all I really want.

Your Angel,

Maria de la Rosa

And lastly, the devil himself, Ronin

to my dearest darlin’ Y/N,

there’s always a certain rhythm to a heartbeat. steady, but unique for everyone. funny little thing, really. you press your fingers just right, and there it is: life, thumpin’ away under the fragile skin. but oh, how delicate it is. how easy it Is to destroy

. tell me darlin', have you ever wonder, what it takes to keep that aorta singin’? how much someone’s got Left in ‘em before rotting away? or how love can sink its teeth in deep, turning even the purest souls dark, twisting the light ‘til it don’t shine the same no more?

ironic, ain't it? how even the worst of ‘em, either gutted or broken, still has a heart. just like yours, still beating, lively as ever, a reminder that you’re here and you’re real. that you’re eVerythin’, my everything.

and isn't that a beautiful thing? to havE you readin’ this, seeing the devil puttin' his feelings into words. there ain't no poetrY sweet enough, no god powerful enough to take it away.

Over and over, i think about you, about the way you laugh, the way you exist. about how this world feels a little less, rotten with you in it. Understand this, darlin', you got me by your side. for as long as that pretty little heart of yours beats, you and i will face whatever this shitty world throws at us, together.

Don't ever forget that. And don’t think for a second i’d ever let you go. Remember this and Listen close. It's always been you and you only. Nothing will ever change that.

happy valentine’s, darlin’.

—r. beaufort

(P/S: you know how i play, let's get that pretty brain to work)

[deepdisireslonging]

Eight Miracles With You

The Reader is invited to participate with MJF’s family Hanukkah traditions. She enjoys being included. But Max’s mind wanders as he sees her in the candlelight and can’t wait to get her alone at home.

Pairing: Maxwell Jacob Friedman x Reader

Warnings/Promises: Fluff, Smut, oral (male receiving), lipstick kink (is that a thing?), dirty talk, slight degradation, overstimulation, p-in-v, cock-warming, implied further smut

Word Count: 2900 (omg)

Note: Firstly, just: this man. Secondly: this one came out really intense. Please let me know how you guys enjoyed it with comments and reblogs! Keyboard smashes and emojis are great feedback too. Happy holidays and happy reading!

Max couldn’t take his eyes off of you. This was the first year you’d been able to participate with his family’s Hanukkah celebrations at his parent’s house. It was the family tradition to meet all in one place for the first night and the lighting of the first candle. He swore that you glowed brighter than the candles.

All night, you asked questions about the differences in traditions between your family and his, details about recipes for latkes, and sang along with his parents. You spun the dreidel with his younger cousins. Their familiar bickering about wins and losses mirrored how you handled his opponents in and around the ring. But here, you had a patience that made his chest tight.

What got him the most, though, was the candle lighting.

At each of the windows, family members placed their personal menorahs on the sills. Your candelabra sat next to his, flush with the window so as not to overlap the candles. The shamash candles were passed around to collect the flame. As the sun was setting, the candles were lit at each window, warming the room with their light and passing the light into the cold world outside. Inside, the house lights remained on, keeping his family in view with more light than their menorahs. Max sang the blessings softly, watching you over the radiance of the candlelight. He stumbled over the words; ones that he’d been singing since his childhood. He kept watching your mouth as you talked, sang, or laughed during the rest of the evening. How your hands fluttered as you talked. The dress you wore was one he’d seen before. But how it swirled around your knees as you walked had him licking his lips and his hands running through his hair.

It took forever to say goodbye. The candles were snuffed out after half an hour. But it took another forty-five minutes before it was just the two of you and his parents. After final goodbyes and the drive home, you finally noticed how fidgety he seemed. You barely sat your menorahs in the front windows before he was mumbling about needing to do something and hurrying upstairs.

You shook your head. As much as he loved being the center of attention in the ring, you hoped the crowd of family hadn’t been too much. You gave him space. In the meantime, you cleaned the kitchen from your earlier rush to prepare the sweets you took to the lighting. With a sigh, you turned off the kitchen lights and headed up stairs.

But upstairs was dark too.

“Max?”

At first, you didn’t hear a reply. Then you noticed the glow coming from your bedroom.

“I’m back here,” Max finally responded.

When you stepped into the bedroom, you gasped. Every flat surface was covered in candles. Tea-lights, tall candles, even a string of fairy lights surrounded the bed. You kept your hands clasped over your chest. “What’s all this?”

“I… well,” he floundered while running a hand through his curls.

You thought for a moment. “Maxwell. Were you a little… distracted during the candle lighting this evening?”

“Maybe.” He grinned at you and tugged you close. “Okay. Maybe a lot.”

Again, you looked around. You closed your eyes as you asked, “so instead of focusing on the miracle you were thinking about – ”

“The miracle of you coming into my life, yes.” With the way his fingers were trailing up and down your back, he wasn’t reticent in the slightest. You asked if something like this was allowed. “Well… it’d forbidden to fast during Hanukkah. So, if you’re up for it, we are allowed to, ah,” he kissed your forehead and began to let his hands wander.

You rolled your eyes. “I thought you were the one who had to be ‘up for it’ in these kind of situations.” To test your theory, you slid your hand down to the front of his pants. He was, indeed, up for it. “Okay. You’ve got the candles. You’ve got me. What’s your next step?”

He swallowed hard; his gaze homed in on your lips. “Not a clue. All I want to, all I’ve wanted to do all night was kiss you.”

“Then what are you waiting on? Another miracle?” You slid your hands up his chest and behind his neck. You scratched lightly at the bottom edge of his curls. “Come down here, Scarf Boy, and kiss me.”

With a smirk, he did just that. Small, teasing kisses at first. But as you leaned into him and hummed into his mouth, Max kissed you harder and held you tighter. His hands splayed wide around your hips, trying to feel as much of you as possible. He groaned as your hands did the same to his back and biceps. When you were breathless, he broke away.

“How you doin’ down there, sweet cheeks?”

All you could manage was a “mhmm.”

Proud of himself, he helped your legs wrap around his waist. The bed was soon under you, but Max kept you wrapped around him so he could grind into your rolling hips. He glanced down at your skirt riding up. He rocked into you harder until the fabric was bunched up around your waist. He smiled into your kisses. With a chuckle against the curve of your neck, he leaned you up with a hand behind your head. His other hand slipped between your bodies. With a little teasing and a little rubbing, he succeeded in wringing your arousal through to the front of your panties. Your jolts and whines didn’t make him stop. What did freeze him was how glossy your eyes looked. And how your mouth parted perfectly around those tiny gasps that he loved.

Glancing at your boudoir, his mind spun with an idea.

“Hey, Baby, you gonna take good care of me?” He suckled a soft mark on your neck. “Gonna take care of me so I can take real good care of you?”

You followed his glances to your collection of hair and makeup products scattered haphazardly over the low desk. “Always. But – What do you have in mind?”

He pressed a hard kiss to your lips before shifting off the bed. When he came back, he had one of your lipsticks in hand. He summoned you to sit on the edge of the mattress with a curl of his fingers.

You frowned at the tube he chose. It wasn’t one you used often. The lipstick was too dark for regular use, and really only looked good when you were expecting to be flushed. Realization froze you in place as Max lightly gripped your chin. Your lips parted so he could apply the color to your lips. It didn’t take much to image how you looked to him. Cheeks flushed from his kisses. Eyes wide with realizing what he meant to do. Lips parted in an “oh.”

With his thumb, he smeared the thick layer of color across your bottom lip. “Perfect.” He grinned. “Caught up yet?”

To answer, you reached for his belt buckle.

Max toed out of his shoes and helped your hands rid him of his pants. The button-down shirt hung open over his undershirt, though it was tight enough that you could watch his tummy contract. He regripped your chin as you brought his cock into the open. Back and forth, he enjoyed smearing your lipstick. He couldn’t wait to see what you’d look like after he filled your mouth with his length. A small hiss escaped through his teeth as your thumb circled his tip, smearing the precum there.

His head fell back as you began to kiss and down his length. When he managed to look down again, his breath stuttered to see the red lip prints that you’d left behind.

“Come on, Baby. Mark me up.” He spread his hand over the back of your head. As you swallowed him down, bit by bit, his words stuttered out between rushed breaths. “Love seeing your lips around my cock. Been dreamin’ – use your tongue, just like that – dreamin’ about having you like this all day. Been wanting to feel that mouth just like this.” He groaned as you added your hands to your movements, cupping and massaging his balls to make him twitch in your mouth. “We both know you’re too good for me. But then I’ve got you like this and – easy woman – and I think maybe you’re just as much a degenerate as I am.”

You slid off his cock with a pop. “Darling… you talk to much.”

“Make me shut up then.”

After a smirk, you took a deep breath. Max braced himself for what he knew was coming next.

Relaxing your jaw and throat as best you could, you worked your way back down his length until your lips could rest at the base of it with your nose pressed against his abdomen. Max’s eyes rolled. His thighs twitched as he fought the need to begin thrusting in and out of your mouth. Anything he wanted to say stuttered on his tongue, refusing to make any sense while you had him sucked down so well. He stumbled through a few sounds as you hollowed and sucked your cheeks.

“Gonna, gonna burst. Move, woman.”

Lightly grazing your teeth along his underside, you slid off again. He whined, tightening his grip on the back of your head. “What? I thought you wanted me to move?”

He used his thumb to hold open your jaw. “Fine. Stay still and I’ll move.” He glared at the innocent smile you gave him. Already, the color on your lips was smeared nearly past recognition. But he needed to see it obliterated. Max filled your mouth again. The sensitivity of his cock jarred as your tongue worked around him. With a grunt, he did his best to hold back. Thrusting, he took what he wanted.

Your hands slid up and down his thighs. If he slowed down, you picked up the pace. He wanted to see you debauched, and you were willing to give it to him. But you also wanted to see him wrecked.

The tightening of his hand on your head was the only warning you had before he spilled down your throat. As you swallowed, you kept him in place by gripping his hips. He tried to get away, but you took your time coming off him. When you did, you took his length in hand and guided him to lay on top of you on the bed. He grunted against the side of your neck as you gently stroked him.

“Ea-easy.” He batted your hand away. Before you could snark at him, he reached down for your slick. It didn’t take much movement from his fingers before he could triumphantly watch your eyes close with pleasure. And it didn’t take much more to remove your dress and panties. Before you could bother with removing your bra (one of the lacy blue ones that he liked) he rolled you to sit on his hips.

You squinted at him.

Max swung his hands up and back behind his head. “What?”

“What happened to I take care of you so can take really good care of me?”

“We’re getting there.” He shifted his hips under you, his half-hard cock laid out for your view. “Can’t take care of you with this. So, help a guy out.” Max smirked at you.

His face was pretty, you had to admit. Punchable. But pretty.

In Max’s view, you were stunning. The candlelight glimmered across your bared skin, flickering and giving your face different angles of illumination. You were irritated with him, but beautiful. His stomach contracted under your hand while you thumbed across the blurred line of lipstick at the base of his cock. Panting, he kept still as you pushed his undershirt up so you could see his abs. They flexed as you curled your fingers around his length, gently stroking him.

When you began to roll your hips over his stomach, with his cock trapped between you, the both of you had to moan. You with neediness, and Max with overstimulation. The wetness that had grown with sucking him off slicked up his cock and stomach. You slid back and forth, chasing the sensation of his cockhead catching your clit. But then Max reached up and took care of your bud with his thumb. You braced your hands on his chest.

“Look at you,” he breathed. “Ridin’ me like a perfect slut. My slut. If you hang around me too much longer, I’ll ruin you.”

You licked your lips. “You’re already ruined me, Max. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good.”

His other hand landed on your waist, guiding you to slide faster. Your slick gushed, giving him plenty to work with to rub up over your clit. He teased you for the mess you were making. How he wasn’t even in you yet, and you looked like you were fucked head over heels.

“You gonna cum, Baby? Just from sliding back and forth on my cock? What would your fans think of you if they knew this was the woman you became when the cameras turned off? My valet, my woman, so cock-drunk she can’t even see straight.” He used his hips to push you higher on your knees. With the extra space, he curled his fingers into your heat. “You’re close, aren’t you?”

Desperately, you nodded. All you needed was for him to keep moving his fingers like that. Just a little longer. But as he dragged them out, you keened. Between you, his cock had hardened again. He guided you back and forth, gasping to feel how wet you were. “Max-“

“Gonna take good care of you. Can you wait for me?” He ground his thumb into your clit, hoping to bring you to the brink. He had a feeling he wouldn’t last long once he had your walls around him.

“No.” Your limbs stiffened and your vision blurred as Max’s work sent you over the edge. You tried to fall forward onto his chest, but he forced you keep sitting on his lap as he laid there.

“Did you just cum?” He laughed, awed. “Poor thing. Just came around nothing. Don’t worry; I can fix that.” Lifting up your hips again, he speared you bit by bit onto his length.

Your thighs quaked on either side of his hips. Full of him and reeling from your release, your body couldn’t decide if it wanted him in or out. Your walls fluttered around his length. Beneath you, Max struggled to hold still as your body decided. Looking at the scrunch of his brow and hearing the raspiness of his breath, you knew he was close. You slid your hand up his chest. His hand caught yours after your thumb flicked over his nipple.

“Hey-“

“What?” You gently rolled your hips, making both of you gasp. “Are you the only one in this house allowed to take charge?”

Cheekily, he risked a grin that disappeared into a moan as you rolled your hips again. “I – I thought I was.”

“Are you sure about that?”

His answer was to grip your hips tight. Hands warm and grasping, their paired strength held you in place for his hips to thrust up. Your hands fell to lay over his. As he made you bounce on his lap, you did your best to keep your seat. Max watched you fall apart through lidded eyes. Heart thundering in his ears, he could still hear your cries and the prayer of his name falling from your lips. He watched your throat and lips. He watched your breasts bounce as he thrust. And he felt your walls clamping tighter and tighter around his length with each spear into your heat.

“Getting’ close, baby?”

You nodded frantically. Eyes screwed shut, you slammed yourself down and wriggled your hips, chasing the sensation of being completely full.

“Come on then,” he breathed, “cum for me. Gonna fill you up so good.”

He reached for your clit, circling it until you saw stars. The flames and glow of the fairy lights blurred into one radiance with Max’s awe-struck face in the center. It was the last thing you saw before you came with a shout. Your eyes clamped shut. As he continued to thrust, you fell forward to brace yourself on his stomach. You clawed at his skin, leaving thin red welts. Max groaned, then whined your name before his body shuddered. His release spilled into you, warming your already-flushed body from the inside out. The cum that spilled out around his length mixed with the mess already spread across his lap.

Dazed, you didn’t realize he hadn’t pulled out until you were laying on your side and he was lifting your leg over his thigh. “Max-“

“Hmm?”

“What – what are you doing?”

“Well, you blew me till I came. I made you cum. Then we each came again. That leaves four more.”

“Four?” You whimpered as he slowly rolled his hips. “What? Did you think we were done?” He kissed the end of your nose before burying his head into the crook of your neck and sucking a mark on your pulse point. “Nuh-uh. Have to get to eight. One for each candle and night of the miracle. Not letting you go. Not yet.”

***

Masterlist

***

Other MJF Fics:

A Tease of the Worst Kind (S, Ficlet)

Finish Me (S, Ficlet)

Power Struggle (Whump)

STFU (S, Summer Song-Fic Playlist)

***

Other Wrestling Holiday Fics:

Snow Kisses (F) - Jack Gallagher

Happy to Help (Male!Reader, AR, F, implied S, M|M) - Ricochet

Warm Me Up (AR, S, Virgin Reader) - Elias Samson

Rain Check (F, A, Book/Coffee Shop AU) - Ceasaro/Claudio Castignoli

[lavender-butterfly-cookie]

I literally made a post on Tumblr about this idea but thought I'd actually share it here but decided to make a more special version:

The y/ns one day going into a throw down to see who is the best y/n...the superior y/n...like the embodiment of the song 'the ultimate showdown'...Or, if you want another version I think is also super fun...'the ultimate smash bros' lol...

And can imagine the cookies standing idly by in shock as they see things like streamer cookie throwing a left hook at alien y/n or entity y/n going John Cena on timid y/n...oooor the cookies, when they notice the y/n show down, start trying to stop it, loving all the y/ns and not wanting them to destroy each other lol!

Decided to write this bonus with the version where cookie are trying to stop the fight...just various scenarios that are happening all at once because of the number of y/ns lol:

Entity, in a tree about to jump from it elbow first onto timid y/n: AND THEIR NAME IS ENTITY Y/N COOKIE!

Regular, seeing entity jump right at them: OH DEAR WITCHES-

pure vanilla, quickly running up to push timid y/n out of the way and then catch entity so they don't take fall damage: BOTH OF YOU, STOP! WE LOVE YOU EQUALLY!!!

Meanwhile:

Streamer, holding a modified keyboard to work both as a keyboard and a blunt weapon in their hands: LET'S FUDGING DO THIS!

Alien, with a blunt alien weapon: COME AT ME, YOU COWARD!

Caramel arrow: OK, BREAK IT UP YOU TWO!

Meanwhile:

Timid y/n and shy y/n...really not wanting to fight but know this is a free for all and both immediately think the other is gonna kick their butt: .....

Both immediately start crying.

Cream ferret rushes up, trying to calm them both down: shh shh it's OK you don't have to fight, let's go for hot chocolate instead...doesn't that sound nicer?

They both go off with cream ferret.

Just pure chaos heh...sorry if this idea sounds stupid just with the y/n tag having so many different kinds of y/n cookies...having a creative mind and listening to these songs all combined really makes ya think XD

Let's- Lemme just list how many Y/N cookies I've made just to be sure what I'm getting into=

Ancient Y/N- virtue of patience

Beast Y/N- Shadow of wrath

Child ancient Y/N- Virtue of innocence

Child beast Y/N- Shadow of grief

Male batman Y/N

Entity Y/N

Alien Y/N- (No stories on them yet)

Robot Y/N

Streamer Y/N

Timid Y/N

Shy Y/N

Ghost Y/N

Merchant Y/N

Isekai'd Y/N

Baker Y/N

Tarzan Y/N

Child of White Lily cookie Y/N

Yeah- I'm gonna figure out how to do all of them T T oh boy-

Y/N cookie showdown!

On a random day of a random week on a random month in a random year, the Y/N cookies found themselves in a predicament. They wanted to be the best Y/N cookie. But what happens when everyone wants to be the best? They argue and fight to claim that title. And unfortunately for the cookies, these 17 cookies were no different.

Ancient Y/N cookie and Beast Y/N cookie are trying to stangle each other

Ancient Y/N: DIE, FOWL BEAST!

Beast Y/N: TASTE MY WRATH, STUPID COPY!!!!

Pure Vanilla cookie and Shadow Milk cookie are tying their hardest to pull the two apart.

The Children aren't exactly any better, even if they aren't fighting physically since Mystic Flour cookie and White Lily cookie are holding them back.

Ancient child Y/N: Crybaby!

Beast child Y/N: Goody two shoes!

Both stop talking for a moment, before crying to the adults.

Both: They were being mean to me!

Mystic Flour cookie: There there,

White Lily cookie: It's ok little one.

Male Batman Y/N: *Holding merchant Y/N in a choke hold* Admit your defeat!

Merchant Y/N: *Wheezing* Over my dead body!

Male Batman Y/N: That can be arranged!

Black Raisin cookie: *Trying to push them apart* No! Stop fighting! I love you both too much to lose any of you! Stop!

Streamer Y/N: *Hitting Alien Y/N with their keyboard* Be gone!

Alien Y/N: *Behind a shield* Like your father?!

Caramel Arrow cookie: No no- no insults! Stop fighting before any of you get hurt!

Robot Y/N: *Trying to shoot entity Y/N* STOP MOVING SO I CAN ELIMINATE YOU!!!

Entity Y/N: *Moving in all kinds of inhumane ways* MAKE ME, METAL HEAD!

Agent Jjajang cookie: No- don't taunt each other! Just behave for witches sake!!!

Baker Y/N: *The only sensible one at the moment* Guys- there isn't a best Y/N, stop fighting-

Ghost Y/N and Isekai'd Y/N: SHUT UP!

Isekai'd Y/N: I'm about to exorcise a stupid ghost!

Ghost Y/N: Not if I hit you with another truck first!

Pumpkin pie cookie: No! Stop fighting! You'll end up hurting yourselves! Please stop!

Tarzan Y/N: *Casually holding child of White Lily cookie (COWL) Y/N by their ankle* Hahahahahaha

COWL Y/N: Put me down you brute! Put me down right now!

Cherry Blossom cookie: Aye! put them down!- put- Hey! Put them down and stop fighting this instant!

Shy Y/N: *Thinking they're done for*

Timid Y/N: *Thinking it's over for them*

Both begin crying and Cream Ferret cookie rushes to them both.

Cream Ferret cookie: Hey hey, it's ok. You don't have to fight. You're safe. Come on, let's get you some ice cream and candy for the other two crying over there.

Both nod as they follow Cream Ferret cookie.

[potatomountain]

Kinktober- 2024 Ateez

Masterlist for 2024 Ateez Kinktober!!

~~~ updated: --- ~~~

So for Kinktober this year I went by requests! I got 12 in total, and decided to add one for myself! I am going to attempt to complete all 13! i am a people pleaser :')

The reason is to also complete the Kinktober "Kink" list that was presented in the network @mirohs-aurora-society

For this, the kinks for the network even are listed under the piece (but there are more in the fic, and all will be properly noted in each fic!) And other members are also doing Kinktober! and the parallel Flufftober! (These will be linked below the cut!!)

SOME THINGS TO NOTE

~Pieces shall be linked below and on the member masterlists!

~No order of posting. Once the piece is posted, will be linked with the title instead!

~They are all varying in length

~these 13 will be posted along side 3 other pieces, making a total of 16 pieces for October! CIY will not be posted during this time (its a lot broskis)

Remember to read at your own risk, no MINORS, and pls reblog! Liking does nothing! I'm giving up a majority of my free time this month for this (as is many who participate in full month events like this) and we only ask that if you like the work, SHARE IT! reblog and give nice feedback if possible! Just telling us you like it is perfectly okay too! (keyboard smashes are highly accepted as well)

when reblogging, exclude the network tags pls and thanks!

Dinner and a Show - khj, psh x fem reader

Kinks: Free use, praise kink, orgasm control, exhibitionism, multiple partners

Puppy Play Time - jyh, smg x fem reader

Kinks: Voyeurism, Pet play, threesome, free use

The Prettiest Picture - bf!khj x GN reader

Kinks: marking. voyeurism, body worship

Cnc with Jongho x afab reader (requested by anon)

Kinks: Mask play, degradation, power play, free use

Dragon Yeosang x afab reader (Requested by @thesafecafe )

Kinks: size kink, monster fucking, breeding

Wooyoung x reader x Jongho (requested by anon)

Kinks: Aphrodisiac, brat/brat tamer

Stalker Yunho with San x afab reader (requested by @sousydive )

Stalkers tie up reader once they had enough

Kinks: Bdsm, bondage, impact play, threesome

Dom! Yunho, Hwa, and San x afab reader (requested by: anon)

Kinks: daddy/mommy kink, impact play,  multiple partners, dacryphilia, brat/brat tamer

Rope bunny genderbent Wooyoung x dom afab reader (requested by anon)

Kinks: Shibari, orgasm control, nipple play, temperature play

Yandere Hongjoong x yandere gn Reader (requested by: @arki-sha )

Hj knows reader stalks him but reader doesnt. Reader kidnaps him when they have had enough.

Kinks: Knife kink, blood play, bondage, choking, heavy marking

D&G San dark fantasy warrior (requested by @amazing-flurryfries)

Kinks: Hate sex, blood play, powerplay

Tattoo artist hwa x customer afab reader (requested by me/inspired by @sanjoongie)

Kinks: tattoos/piercings, mirror sex, oral fixation, dumbification

Other Fluff/Kinktober pieces/lists by MAS members! (will be added as they post!!)

@ghxstwrites - Flufftober & Kinktober

Flufftober: Kinktober: Huge - SMG by @kpop---scenarios Halloween Night- Lee Know by kpop---scenarios

Find my other works HERE

Taglist (continued in reblogs):

@crispybaguettes | @sugarnspice630 | @mingsolo | @isiloiale | @candypop1611 |

| @lavishloving | @thesafecafe | @meepsters-world | @mysticfire0435 | @heihaneul |

| @cloudysannie | @sanhwalvr | @plutoneu |  @sousydive | @staytinyinmybpack |

[cokoweee]

So… I always thought the first kiss would get me all giddy. Instead, I am heartbroken. I will elucidate (I don’t have enough spoons to get screenshots, so words will have to do.) I think Kendra was terrified out of her mind. She had to compartmentalize so much lately. I think what happened was, initially Big Mama gave her the deal over the phone in the bathroom, and then right before meeting Donnie in the gala gear was when she had the “eldritch horror” reminder. Thing is, Kendra has apparently been making some mental health positives since reforming, but when she is getting too stressed, she goes back to her vices. She started smoking again after getting stabbed by Bishop. And so here, in the Hidden City, being told to romance a guy, she isn’t even sure likes her back? (The ghosts said he “cared” but what if they mean like Casey and Draxum?) Time for some liquid courage and a LOT of it! Kendra is getting drunk off her rocker, because she knows she has to make a move before the end of the party. But it’s not fair to her, and honestly, it’s not fair to Donnie either. She would have liked to see their relationship develop naturally and if kisses come, then kisses come. But here, she has to drink, enough to get her inhibitions lowered, enough where she is fine forcing a kiss on one of the only supports she has left in the world. And here, Mr. Cirrhosis, himself is not only sober, but batting away her future drinks. She’ll never get shit faced drunk at this pace. Finally, she notices Donnie is getting in her space, trying to get her to leave. But she can’t leave! Who knows if this crazy spider lady is going to go after them?! She already has one psycho on her trail and he’s human (?). So Donnie is giving her grief, she notices him holding onto her shoulders. His outrageous height isn’t quite an obstacle now. He’s close enough to.. Yea, fuck it, guess we gotta go in! And… smooch And I’m just like… I feel so bad! I’m holding these two in my hands going “I’m so sorry! You two need a do-over on that kiss!” And what probably sucks is Donnie gonna chalk it up to her being drunk, and Kendra might think Donnie is gonna kick her out (or get distant again) Also I see you finally had her call him by his given name! just *keyboard smash*

Kiku back at it again with being 80% spot on. You lil pickle you are

You made me remember why I had Frida say her super edgy cringe ass line lol. It relates to this ahahah

My liking to Kendra is showing to much. I’m putting her through the blender. WHO KNOWS WHATLL HAPPEN THO HUH? WACKY KISS AFTERALL AAAHUU. Maybe they’ll get a redo maybe they won’t. (Acting like I didn’t already show them in the future with literal kids)

[mirensiart]

Hey! It's the non-binary lesbian anon from... however long ago that I sent that ask! I really, really, REALLY appreciated all you and your friends' kind words and the resources you shared about that! It made me feel so, so happy and welcome that I actually didn't know what to say in response other than wild keyboard smashing so instead I just bookmarked the replies haha... Really, thank you all so much!! ;w; ANYWAY. Here again to say-- yes!! Urgh! On top of having people question me on whether I'm 'allowed' to still call myself a lesbian after I came out as non-binary, I've also had people make snide remarks about the fact that I like / enjoy a lot of male characters and occasionally write fanfic featuring m/m pairings and it's like...??? That's... got nothing to do with my sexuality? I just enjoy that content totally independently of sexual attraction? Wuh? I don't get it! Why do people scrutinize lesbians so closely about everything??

oh yes! i remember you!!! I'm so happy to know that alex and i were able to help you! let me ping him real quick cause i know he'd like to hear about it as well! @31-radical 🥹💖🫂

we're here if you need anything anon! we're always happy to help! 💖

anyway, ugh! tell me about it! as you said, people tend to scrutinize lesbians so much! I'm sorry you had to go through that as well, i can relate! one of my OTPs is a mlm one and I've had the odd comment about it as well, as if we can't enjoy anything that isn't women related!

like maybe we just like the characters and their dynamics? why does that have to do with us being lesbians! 😓😓

anyway, i hope you're doing well anon, sending you lots of hugs!

[mortuarywriting]

Its 1am and I should sleep but that's not happening so I'm thinking about this thing I've been turning over in my head.

Anyway here's how your softness as a fat partner to the 141 + whoever comes to mind with as a bonus is a grounding force

The mission was supposed to be short and easy. Drop in the bucket compared to some of the others, but when does it ever go like the brief? They're a week over, now, and while no news was good news you'd kill for a text. An emoji would be fine, you'd settle for a garbled keyboard smash as proof of life.

Still, civilian life doesn't stop while your partner is out risking their lives so the populace doesn't see just how close some calls get to total destabilization. You had to work and that meant in the evening you had to unwind before you lost your shit. So here you were, sat on the couch and distracting yourself and decompressing.

The click of the key in the door perked you right up, you paused whatever you were doing to turn and watch the door open, "welcome home! How did-oh," your happiness was paused, replaced by concern by the haunted look in the eyes you love so much. This was a rough one, so you went back to past experience, "do you need space, a pillow, or a weighted blanket?"

Price would stay quiet as he put down his duffel and take off his boots. You were already thinking through contingency plans to get him out of his head if this didn't work, but he sits himself on the couch next to you instead of in the armchair. He about collapses into the plush material more than sits down, but the raised arm is an invitation and you're not one to ignore it. You snuggle in, head on his chest and your weight a comfortable softness where he's hard muscle and strength holding you close. The both of you sit there for some time, you listen as his heart rate mellows as his thumb traces idle patterns into your side. You know eventually you'll both wind up out back sitting in the rocking chairs you gave him shit about getting, but there's nothing like it. You'd take sitting and rocking side by side out there while he has a smoke any day of the week, it meant you had each other and what else do you really need?

Ghost would stand in the doorway for a beat longer than he usually would, and you weren't sure if he'd stay or not. Hell, wouldn't be the first time he arrived on your doorstep just to go back to base without crossing your threshold. It's a pleasant surprise when he walks in, though, and his duffel falls with a thump. Sometimes he needs to put himself away and sometimes he needs your presence. This time it's definitely the latter as he just crosses the room, boots and all, just... climbs onto the couch to lay on it, pinning you where you sit within his grasp and his face pressed to your stomach. You feel your face soften as you run a hand along his back, a soothing presence as he holds you close. You feel him squeeze softly at your sides, fat moving just so in his grip to confirm he's in the present, he's safe, and if you were ambitious you might even say he's home. At some point you'll prod him enough to get him to bed, you were well aware he was too big to sustainably sleep on the couch without hurting his neck or back. Tomorrow you'd heckle him for the boots on the furniture but for now you were glad he was back in your arms.

Gaz offers you a smile when he opens the door, but you know that fake 'trying to reassure you' smile when you see it. He goes through the same home routine but it's more muscle memory than anything- duffel in its spot, boots off and away, hat and keys on the little table- but you don't need to call to him for him to come to you. No, he's dragging himself to you, exhaustion written in his features but you know he won't let himself go to bed without at least checking in. You smile and pat your lap, the easy compromise that has him giving you a soft but sincere smile. He settles onto the couch, laying on his back with his head in your lap as he fights to keep his eyes open. You know he's likely jetlagged to hell, so you start talking- about what he's missed since he was gone, which shows you two need to catch up on, only the hottest neighborhood bird feeder gossip- and you watch as the tension eases from his shoulders. He doesn't need to be on high alert in a combat zone- he's home, he can relax safe and sound.

Soap wastes no time- duffel dropped, door kicked shut, boots pulled off and dropped as he crosses the room to you. You yelp as he scoops you off the couch enough to flop on his back and hold you to his front, burying his face in your neck as he let's his hands roam. You huff, amused more than annoyed at him man-handling you. Well, among other feelings, but those come later, for now you hum and wrap your arms around his shoulders where you can, hugging him close. Sometimes he needed the extra grounding force, too much energy buzzing below his skin and your rocksteady presence a balm. You're happy to do it, you love this man through thick and thin and there were worse things than mandatory cuddles.

Bonus:

+ Kate gives you a weary smile before she stops through the kitchen. You smile as she comes back with a drink for both of you, though you know yours will be touched significantly less as you rest your head in her lap and hear her out as she talks about what she can. She runs her free hand down your shoulder, tracing patterns down the side as she does.

+ Nikolai you know is a 50/50, either he needs to keep his hands busy doing something else or he'll take you up on your offer. The odds seem to be in your favor, though, as he sits with you. You aren't exactly suprised when he pulls you into his lap, or when he takes a few minutes to just sit and listen to your heartbeat and steady breathing. He'll be back and bantering before you know it but for now he holds you tight, waves of soft weight pulling him back to a safe harbor.

Aaaaand now it's 2:30 time is an illusion (oops)

[privatebooth]

All these talks about the new Dragon Age game are making me nostalgic.

I remember how when DA2 was being made there was so much hype, and I was not thrilled at all. Origins left such a strong impression on me, I hated the idea of moving on to something different. Change was always difficult for me to accept, any change. I know a lot of people didn't want to part with their wardens, there's nothing original in that, but...

I hated Hawke before he even came into existence. I only wanted to see more of my Warden and Zevran who turned my world upside down.

Instead, they made this new character who spoke and had a semblance of an actual personality which I couldn't even control!

Then Bioware started feeding us little snippets of the game, and I saw the grumpy little brother, obviously displeased with his life, which pretty much instantly endeared him to me, and I thought I could try playing this game just to make him smile. Also, I really liked Nicholas Boulton's voice, and didn't mind hearing more of him (my Warden was a city fem elf, so I thought working with him would be fun).

The demo came out when I more or less started to come to terms with the fact that I'll never see my warden again, but may still hear something about her, and I was desperate for something. I played with all combinations of classes and genders, absolutely hated the gameplay - still do, loved being a rogue in DAO, but here it makes me want to smash my keyboard - but was very happy to find that mages are much more fun to play now, since I wanted to have Carver in my team.

Okay, but I still hated Hawke. I didn't know anything about his story, didn't care to know, and I told him right away "You will fail". I really didn't want him to succed, there was no way he could ever compare to HOF, who solved every single problem, saved every single soul she could save, and befriended everyone she ever met. The icon of diplomacy and efficiency, with just enough arrogance to be lovable (cocky elf voice FTW!) I still miss her so much.

The good thing about not caring too much about this guy was that I actually allowed Hawke to be human. I didn't feel pressured to play the hero who must always make the right choice. He was allowed to make questionable decisions, to fail, it was expected of him. I didn't want a lousy wannabe superhero. Can't persuade that angry Dalish elf on Wounded coast? That's okay, Hawke, you're not the Warden - she definitely could have talked her down. A crowd of weary Fereldans protecting Anders? Carver, you go talk to them.

On and on, it became more apparent that Hawke's story would not be as glorious as the Warden's, and he won't be as much of a hero. He truly was just a guy who was trying to get by and take care of his family and friends. No ambition to fix the world and save everyone.

The Warden remains an unachievable ideal I can only dream of emulating.

Hawke... he is so much more relatable, and a lot closer to me than any Bioware char will ever be. I love him so much.

[axiomatictwist]

I had a REALLY weird dream. It was Rain World, I was playing it.

I was a pale Slugcat with blue eyes, and I had a green rotund pup that couldn’t decide how many food pips he had. Kept switching from three to five.

It was normal, until one cycle, something happened.

To set the scene, everything had a yellow tint to it. Everything. There were little spores floating around in the air, too. A soundtrack started to play called “ The popcorn plants must eat. “. It had lyrics I can’t remember, but it was essentially just the “popcorn plants” wanting to take over Five Pebbles so they can use him as a host to eat.

Everywhere, on every wall, was rot pustules colored like popcorn plants. They had tentacles tipped with blades, and they could see you. Not to mention the mobile Poprot that would run around like toedscool trying to stab and consume you. It was havoc.

Even worse! Is that in the midst of this! On the walls! Were just these?? Vulture grubs that I could only describe as KING vulture grubs.

THEY SHOT FIREBUG EGGS INSTEAD OF HARMLESS LASER BEAMS… AND THEYD JUSt???? crawl around on the walls??? real slowly but if they saw you they’d shoot five firebug eggs at you.

Moon was there, too. Just her puppet. Her body was transparent and said keyboard smash when you talked to her. I don’t blame her.

Then I woke up, and here we are.