#I’ve built a case

[scrumpledmilk]

Watching nip/tuck is proving to me that I really do make everything gay - why am I shipping Sean and Christian

[azurascottage]

[dreamerlynx]

i need to stop clicking on these videos expecting anything else but hhhhhh the comments in videos about mojang’s updates / The Dreaded Mob Vote make me so annoyed every time !!! every time I hope there is more understanding even if disappointment and every time … no

[marvelsmostwanted]

There are people – some in my own Party – who think that if you just give Donald Trump everything he wants, he’ll make an exception and spare you some of the harm. I’ll ignore the moral abdication of that position for just a second to say — almost none of those people have the experience with this President that I do. I once swallowed my pride to offer him what he values most — public praise on the Sunday news shows — in return for ventilators and N95 masks during the worst of the pandemic. We made a deal. And it turns out his promises were as broken as the BIPAP machines he sent us instead of ventilators. Going along to get along does not work – just ask the Trump-fearing red state Governors who are dealing with the same cuts that we are. I won’t be fooled twice.

I’ve been reflecting, these past four weeks, on two important parts of my life: my work helping to build the Illinois Holocaust Museum and the two times I’ve had the privilege of reciting the oath of office for Illinois Governor.

As some of you know, Skokie, Illinois once had one of the largest populations of Holocaust survivors anywhere in the world. In 1978, Nazis decided they wanted to march there.

The leaders of that march knew that the images of Swastika clad young men goose stepping down a peaceful suburban street would terrorize the local Jewish population – so many of whom had never recovered from their time in German concentration camps.

The prospect of that march sparked a legal fight that went all the way to the Supreme Court. It was a Jewish lawyer from the ACLU who argued the case for the Nazis – contending that even the most hateful of speech was protected under the first amendment.

As an American and a Jew, I find it difficult to resolve my feelings around that Supreme Court case – but I am grateful that the prospect of Nazis marching in their streets spurred the survivors and other Skokie residents to act. They joined together to form the Holocaust Memorial Foundation and built the first Illinois Holocaust Museum in a storefront in 1981 – a small but important forerunner to the one I helped build thirty years later.

I do not invoke the specter of Nazis lightly. But I know the history intimately — and have spent more time than probably anyone in this room with people who survived the Holocaust. Here’s what I’ve learned – the root that tears apart your house’s foundation begins as a seed – a seed of distrust and hate and blame.

The seed that grew into a dictatorship in Europe a lifetime ago didn’t arrive overnight. It started with everyday Germans mad about inflation and looking for someone to blame.

I’m watching with a foreboding dread what is happening in our country right now. A president who watches a plane go down in the Potomac – and suggests — without facts or findings — that a diversity hire is responsible for the crash. Or the Missouri Attorney General who just sued Starbucks – arguing that consumers pay higher prices for their coffee because the baristas are too “female” and “nonwhite.” The authoritarian playbook is laid bare here: They point to a group of people who don’t look like you and tell you to blame them for your problems.

I just have one question: What comes next? After we’ve discriminated against, deported or disparaged all the immigrants and the gay and lesbian and transgender people, the developmentally disabled, the women and the minorities – once we’ve ostracized our neighbors and betrayed our friends – After that, when the problems we started with are still there staring us in the face – what comes next.

All the atrocities of human history lurk in the answer to that question. And if we don’t want to repeat history – then for God’s sake in this moment we better be strong enough to learn from it.

I swore the following oath on Abraham Lincoln’s Bible: “I do solemnly swear that I will support the constitution of the United States, and the constitution of the state of Illinois, and that I will faithfully discharge the duties of the office of Governor .... according to the best of my ability.

My oath is to the Constitution of our state and of our country. We don’t have kings in America – and I don’t intend to bend the knee to one. I am not speaking up in service to my ambitions — but in deference to my obligations.

If you think I’m overreacting and sounding the alarm too soon, consider this:

It took the Nazis one month, three weeks, two days, eight hours and 40 minutes to dismantle a constitutional republic. All I’m saying is when the five-alarm fire starts to burn, every good person better be ready to man a post with a bucket of water if you want to stop it from raging out of control.

Those Illinois Nazis did end up holding their march in 1978 – just not in Skokie. After all the blowback from the case, they decided to march in Chicago instead. Only twenty of them showed up. But 2000 people came to counter protest. The Chicago Tribune reported that day that the “rally sputtered to an unspectacular end after ten minutes.” It was Illinoisans who smothered those embers before they could burn into a flame.

Tyranny requires your fear and your silence and your compliance. Democracy requires your courage. So gather your justice and humanity, Illinois, and do not let the “tragic spirit of despair” overcome us when our country needs us the most.

Sources:

• NBC Chicago & J.B. Pritzker, Democratic governor of Illinois, State of the State address 2025: Watch speech here | Full text

• Betches News on Instagram (screencaps)

[moonsmaxxing]

curious if any of my followers have experience recovering repressed real-world memories while also having kin memories - i’ve decided we need to try some kind of memory work and will be returning to therapy but i know our therapist isn’t especially experienced with kin stuff and particularly if anyone has any like… warnings… that would be really helpful

[hotelcupid]

sighhh i chose a career where i have to give and extend lots of myself and lots of my time to others and now when it serves me to take a break and focus on school i can’t easily do so without letting a lot of people down

[bi-panic-at-the-disco]

ohhh wouldn’t it make the most sense for FNAF 3 and Pizza Sim to be the same kind of thing? Err like sister location has happened probably and like Henry uses Fazbear Frights to idk lure them all and that way it doesn’t have to burn them down twice ig?

[mimiteyy]

outlining (badly) rough waters’ plot

the way im writing some of these story beats sound like fucking seinfeld episodes

[spikeisawesome456]

Ever since I was a young teen, my brain has had this annoying habit of deciding that it will simply not fall asleep before midnight. And if I do somehow fall asleep before midnight? Well, then clearly that must just be a nap, and I have to wake up after only a couple of hours and not fall back asleep again, silly!

Seriously. I could fall asleep at 11:30 (like I did today, in fact!), all tired and cozy and sure that my brain will finally get with the program and realize that 11:30 is a perfectly reasonable time to fall asleep for the night and isn’t actually day time, no siree bob! But no. No, my brain doesn’t realize that. And now here I am, at nearly 5 am, wide awake, unable to sleep. -.- At least I have the week off for Thanksgiving break… thank goodness for a teacher’s schedule.

[joy-haver]

Something I’ve noticed is that leftist movements tend to turn practical, thought out tactics that were part of a larger plan for liberation, and remove them from their context. Then we often use these tactics as symbolic ways to mark our distaste for empire and harken back to older movements. However, these tactics are often already accounted for by the system, and sometimes are actively encouraged as ways to harm our people and defang our processes.

Here is an example;

In the Civil Rights struggle, getting arrested en mass was seen as an important part of the process of freedom. The civil rights leaders realized that the areas they were in did not have large enough jails to confine them all, and that if they filled the jails up, the police simply could not confine everyone else in the movement. Getting arrested in coordinated ways was a noble and helpful sacrifice that kept your brothers and sisters from getting arrested. Due to less strict sentencing at the time, and the ability of the movement to scare the police into releasing people, getting arrested often wasn’t the utterly disabling and free-life ending process it is today. (That’s not to say getting arrested was easy on people; the police brutality of the time was incredibly intense.)

Those who spent time in jail were given almost a reverent status. That had gone through much suffering to keep others from the same fate. Often, their ability to taking confinement completely off the table for the rest of the activists is precisely what allowed for certain other actions to be successful. Paying for legal defense and moderate bail costs was something of a drain on the movements scant, resources but it could often be worth it due to the role arrests played.

However, the state responded to this, and turned it to their benefit. The next fifty years saw a prison boom. Now, economically deprived small towns were made to bid and beg for prisons to be built in there areas; not only to lock people up, but also because working at the prison was presented as one of the only jobs left in rural America. Additionally, thisdrove the labor minded population to be further in conflict with other movements in some areas.

As the capacity of the government to capture and confine increased, the capacity of the movement to fill up the jails and prevent further arrests did not. Now, the system was hungry for more and more bodies for its endless rooms. It further instilled and mechanized the capacity of prisons to force labor, undercutting labor movements. Sentences became longer, parole became stricter, fines and restitutions increased to exorbitant amounts. Those who went in for petty arrests often never came out.

But, the feeling that getting arrested was a noble and venerable goal did not leave the movement. Some transitioned tactics; instead of filling up the jails to allow others to act without recourse, they sought to get arrested in test cases, as they had seen work occasionally before. But this too became more and more difficult, as the legal system realized it did not have to play by its own rules. Slowly but surely, the legal mythology that because it is written and because it is fair, it will be ruled so, began to overtake the minds of activists; even as they failed time and time again to win this way, they still threw countless of their friends into the mouth of the enemy, and condemned them to life in prison.

Even this had become a shadow of itself by the 2000s and 2010s. Arrest became an aesthetic goal instead of a practical one. The most radical in the movements were culturally encouraged to throw their lives away for petty protests that none would see, and would have no material impact on the operations of the system of dominion. The reality that getting kettled at a non violent protest could land you with the same jail time as a political assassination did not dawn upon these activists until long after hey were already in jail, and already disconnected from the movement. Their friends would gather all their meager savings towards bail funds, oftentimes going into debt, or otherwise extracting money from the rest of the marginalized communities supportive of the activism. Those funds would then go to the government in the form of bail, and then right back towards operating the same policing systems that targeted them. In this way, the main economic output of the leftists movement of the time was to fund the very systems of policing that they sought to destroy; and to get themselves and each other locked in cages in the process. Instead of developing practical systems of change, radicals were taught to emulate key aspects of the tactics of prior generations that had specifically been recuperated into the goals of the state.

Those who saw the futility in this were readily pushed towards the defanged and self acknowledged pointless marches of the nonviolent liberal movement, which never had any goal other than to once again emulate the visual aesthetics and personal emotional fulfillment of past movements.

We see this pattern play out all the time. People insisting on the radical importance of a leftist print newspaper in a time when print journalism is dead. A fetishization of industrial unionism in a town where no factory has been for three generations. Arguments over whether to support long defunct governments and long dead leaders for some tactical benefit which will never arise from reality.

It is long past time for us to realize that the process of achieving human liberation does not come from symbolic actions, nor from following the playbook of past movements. We must learn our history, yes, but not to emulate it; instead we must learn it to understand its failures and its successes, and, most importantly, how our movement ancestors interacted with the material conditions of their time to create multifaceted plans that met the needs of their people and made successful guerrilla war upon dominion.

We need to imagine ways of making change that are suited to the times that we are living in, the problems we face, and the opportunities that we have. This utterly necessitates that we get deeply embedded into the places and communities around us, that we listen with open ears to the problems our people are facing, and that we fold those ever more towards opportunities of liberation and care for one another.

[falesten-iw]

When I first joined Tumblr, I had no idea what I was walking into. There’s no manual for navigating this wild, untamed corner of the internet. My first moment here? I was greeted by an image completely naked, no warning, no explanation. It was just there, bold and unapologetic. That’s when I realized: Tumblr is a place where anything can happen.

But for all its chaos, Tumblr has become something far greater than I ever expected. For us Palestinians, this platform isn’t just a space to scroll through memes or vent about life. It’s a lifeline, a place where we’ve taken the raw, messy energy of this site and turned it into a battleground for survival. Here, we tell our stories, raise funds, and fight for our lives.

I’ve seen campaigns soar past their goals, bringing hope to families barely holding on. But I’ve also seen campaigns like mine, ones that fight tooth and nail for every single dollar, every reblog, every addition, and every ounce of hope. My family’s lives depend on this.

It hasn’t been easy. Zionists flood all Palestinian words with hate, twisting truths and spreading lies. They aim to discredit us, to make people doubt us. It’s exhausting. Some nights, I sit with my phone in my hands, wondering if this fight is too big for me. But then something beautiful happens: a donation comes through, a kind message appears, or someone I’ve never met reblogs my story with words that feel like a warm embrace.

And through it all, people are starting to see the truth. The hate doesn’t drown us; it sharpens our voices. Every day, more people step forward to stand with us, to say, “I see you, I hear you, and I’m with you.” It’s those moments that keep me going.

To everyone who has already helped, whether through verification, donating, wrting post , reblogging, or simply sharing a kind word: thank you. You’ve done more for my family than I could ever put into words. But the reality is, we’re not there yet. My family is still waiting for a chance to breathe, to live without fear, to fill their empty stomachs with warm food, and to wrap themselves in clothes thick enough to keep out the bitter cold. They’re hungry, they’re freezing, and I can’t do this alone.

This fight is hard, but it’s not hopeless. Strangers have become friends, and friends have become family. Some of you have shown up in ways I never imagined, treating my family’s survival as if it were your own. That kind of solidarity? It’s powerful.

Tumblr might be chaotic, unpredictable, and sometimes downright bizarre, but it’s also the place where we’ve built something extraordinary: a community that refuses to look away from injustice. With your help, we can take this fight all the way. My family’s lives are within reach, and together, I know we’ll get there.

This campaign isn’t just about me. It supports 26 people, including two orphaned children and an injured family member suffering from hemiplegia after being hit by shrapnel during a bombing. Surgery is desperately needed to replace the infected and failing plates. The needs are urgent, and the future of 26 lives depends on your support.

The video showing the injured family member is shared before in this post: Link.

Please help us ! Donate and reblog this post to spread our story.

Vetted and shared by @90-ghost: Link.

Verified and shared by @el-shab-hussein: Link

Listed as number 282 in "The Vetted Gaza Evacuation Fundraiser Spreadsheet" compiled by @el-shab-hussein and @nabulsi : Link

Listed on the Butterfly Effect Project, number 957: Link

Additionally, Al Jazeera News has documented apart of my family's case: Link

If, for some reason, you couldn't donate via GoFundMe, you can donate via PayPal instead. Please keep the conversion rates in mind when donating through GoFundMe. Every 100 SEK is equivalent to 10 dollars, and 200 SEK equals 20 dollars and so on.

Note: There’s even a raffle for a handmade Palestinian thob if you want to participate : Link

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[arkangelo-7]

I’m sure someone’s already headcannoned this, but Bruce having pet names for the Batkids? Man, those are his babies—you can bet your ass he has pet names for them. He might not be the type of man to show much affection beyond a shoulder pat or the occasional forehead kiss, but he’s determined to parent the crap outta these orphans, and pet names are an easier medium to show that he cares.

Dick is both “chum” and “sweetheart” depending on the context. When Bruce is feeling playful and comfortable (the easy, “your mine and I’m just happy to be here with you” kind of love), he’ll stick with “chum” and Dick absolutely loves it. But when Dick’s sick or has a nightmare or got injured during patrol? It’s sweetheart. It’s default mode for Bruce, because seeing Dick in pain brings up so many raw, intense emotions (Bruce gets scared, goddamit) that it’s easier for him to say “I’ve got you, sweetheart, it’s okay, just keep your eyes on mine,” then it is to say “I’m so terrified that I’m going to loose you, I love you, you’re my everything.”

Jason is“Jaylad.” But it’s less of the name that’s important and more of the story behind it that is. For the first few months that Jason was in Bruce’s care, Bruce didn’t dare call him anything other then his name, in fear that he’d scare him away (he was already so distrusting, so hesitant, so fearful whenever Bruce talked to loud or moved to fast or got upset), but at the same time, he’d seen how pleased Dick had been at being called “chum” and wanted to bestow a similar endearment on Jason. But—he didn’t want to go to far. So instead of calling him “lad” like his own father had once called him, Bruce calls him “Jaylad.” It’s a little more impersonal, but it makes Jason more comfortable. (But when Bruce cradled his son’s broken body he said “no, darling, not you, don’t leave me—” because just how Dick is “sweetheart,” Jason has also always been “darling.”)

For Tim… it’s more complicated. He shoved his way into Bruce’s life and he’s forever grateful, but it wasn’t the same as it was with Jason and Dick. He sees Tim as his son, of course, but their relationship was built on the darkest, most despairing part of Bruce’s life. But even in that terrible season, Bruce would look over at Tim working on a case or cleaning his suit and say, “Good job, sport.” It doesn’t happen often, but Tim is “sport.”

Cassandra is “love.” Bruce has never said it to her, aloud, but he knows Cass can read him well enough to hear the unspoken endearment, to see how much he longs to protect her, bring her joy, fill her heart with all the love she’s filled his with.

Steph is “duck.” And not necessarily because Bruce decided that it was, but because 9 times out of 10 he finds himself screaming, “Robin, get down!” because Stephanie will not for the love of God follow his orders, and end up right in the line of fire. To save time he eventually just started saying “Duck!” It keeps Steph from getting whacked to high heavens and saves Bruce (another) heart attack, but over the years it’s also become somewhat of a ritual to say “duck” whenever Steph walks in the room. Bruce secretly wants to call her “ducky” (which is what his mother called Kate), but he’s never worked up the nerve.

Duke is “kid.” By the time he’s in the family, Bruce has loosened up and lightened up, especially with everyday affection (which is to say, he’s not avoiding it like the plague). He’s quick to say “Good job, kid” whenever Duke had an accomplishment or ask “how are you today, kiddo?” when they see each other in passing in the Batcave.

Damian, lastly, would never allow Bruce to call him anything other then his name. But every once in a while, Bruce can get away with saying “son.” And it’s the best thing in the world.

[heavenlybodies333]

“you’re so horny” ok so fuck me -S.R

Spencer Reid x coworker!reader

The BAU jet touched down at Quantico well past midnight. Another case, another town, another stack of horrific photos left behind. But your mind wasn’t on the unsub, not really. It was on the man sitting across from you on the jet, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek while he typed something into his tablet. Spencer Reid. Resident genius. Your favorite pain in the ass.

You stretched, deliberately arching your back just a little more than necessary, letting out a soft sigh.

Spencer didn’t even look up.

“You’re doing it again,” he said dryly, not missing a beat.

“Doing what?” you asked, all faux innocence as you leaned toward him, elbows on your knees, voice just above a whisper. “Trying to distract you?”

His gaze flicked to you then, sharp as ever, but with that annoyingly unreadable smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “No. Being painfully obvious.”

You let out a scoff, crossing your arms. “You’re so annoying.”

“And you’re so horny,” he muttered under his breath, almost like a reflex.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He looked up again, eyes wide—mock innocent. “I said you're clearly suffering from a state of increased sexual arousal due to prolonged exposure to unresolved stimuli, which—statistically—is more common among high-stress professionals who have limited opportunities for consistent release. There’s actually a 2017 study out of Sweden—”

“Okay, stop.” You groaned, heat creeping into your cheeks. “You can’t just…diagnose me with being horny.”

“I think you diagnosed yourself,” he said smugly, leaning back and crossing his legs, ankle over knee like he was enjoying a private show.

You glared at him, flustered, squirming in your seat. “You're such a smug little shit.”

The engines of the jet were still winding down when Spencer stood up and slung his go-bag over his shoulder, stretching his arms with an audible pop of his spine. You followed him off the plane, resisting the urge to stare at the line of his back through his Henley.

“You know,” he said as you both stepped into the transport van, “if you’re going to keep using your sexuality as a weapon, you might want to fine-tune your aim. That stretch was a bit theatrical.”

You narrowed your eyes. “It worked, didn’t it?”

He smirked as he slid into the seat beside you. “Oh, it absolutely did. I’ve just built an immunity to your dramatics.”

Your voice dropped, words curling around your desire like smoke. “Funny, because I think if I put my hand in your lap right now, I’d find out just how immune you really are.”

Your glare lingered as the transport van rolled through the near-empty streets of Quantico, the dim cabin lights casting a glow on Spencer’s annoyingly perfect face. He was still smirking, arms crossed, legs spread just wide enough to be suggestive without technically doing anything wrong.

You shifted again, heat pooling lower in your belly. He knew what he was doing to you. Bastard.

“You keep squirming like that,” he murmured, voice low and conspiratorial, “I’m going to start thinking you want me to do something about it.”

“I do want you to do something about it,” you hissed under your breath. “But you’re too busy quoting Sweden and pretending you’re not hard right now.”

Spencer didn’t even blink. “Statistically speaking, I could be hard just from the friction of my jeans alone. But sure—blame your thighs.”

Your jaw dropped. “You’re such an asshole.”

“And you’re insatiable,” he countered easily, glancing at the driver before leaning close enough that his breath tickled your ear. “You know what turns me on more than that little act you put on back there?”

You swallowed hard. “What?”

“That right now, I could tell you not to touch yourself when you get home. And you’d listen. You’d hate it—whine about it—but you'd do it. Because the idea of me telling you when and how you get to come turns you on more than anything else.”

Your thighs clenched together involuntarily.

He smirked, satisfied. “You didn’t deny it.”

You wanted to rip his shirt off with your teeth. But instead, you clenched your jaw and stared out the window, muttering, “Fucking hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

You swallowed hard. It wasn’t fair when he did that—when he flipped the switch from awkward genius to calculated menace. It was like watching Dr. Jekyll smirk knowingly as he turned into Hyde.

The worst part? He was right. You’d been half-crazed all week. The case had been long, your hotel room had been cold and lonely, and Spencer had spent every day teasing you.

You barely made it through the front door of your apartment before Spencer had you pinned against it, go-bag forgotten on the floor. His hands gripped your waist like he couldn’t stand the idea of not touching you, his mouth hot and searching against yours, tongue sliding over yours with a groan that vibrated straight through your chest.

You gasped into his mouth, hands tangled in his curls before you could even think. Spencer—your Spencer—wasn’t like this at work. There, he was all long-winded explanations and nervous fidgeting, avoiding eye contact if you so much as leaned too close during a briefing. But here, in the privacy of your apartment, the door slamming shut behind you with the force of his need, he was starving.

You whimper as he curses under his breath. His hands traveled to your waistband, slipping inside with a groan as he felt how wet you already were.

“You’re fucking soaked,” he muttered against your neck, voice ragged and full of something darker than usual. “From what? A few words in a van?”

“From you,” you breathed, nails dragging down his back. “Fuck, Spencer—”

He huffed a laugh, pulling back just far enough to look at you—eyes wild, curls falling in his face, glasses fogging a little from the heat between you. “God, you’re shameless.”

You rolled your eyes. “And you like it.”

His fingers slipped between your folds and you moaned—high, helpless, already unraveling. He pressed his forehead against yours. “Yeah,” he whispered, “I fucking love it.”

He pushed his fingers into you in one slow, deliberate motion. You cried out, grabbing at his shirt like it could anchor you. He hissed through his teeth as he felt how tight you were around him, hips bucking slightly like the feel of you did something to his control.

His mouth met you with a groan, tongue laving through your folds like he was reading you in a language only he understood. You braced yourself against the wall, knees trembling, fingers tangled in his curls as he moaned like your pleasure belonged to him.

“God—fuck, please—”

“Already?” he teased, pulling back with a slick smirk. “That was fast. Almost like you’re really horny or something.”

You didn’t get to snark back before two fingers pressed into you and his mouth returned with vengeance. Every flick of his tongue, every curl of his fingers was deliberate, like he was cataloging every sound you made, every twitch of your body. You were unraveling, spiraling—and he knew it.

“You gonna come already, sweetheart?” he murmured between strokes. “Can’t even last five minutes when I’ve got my mouth on you?”

You wanted to hate him. Instead, you came with a cry, thighs clenching around his head, your whole body shaking against the door. He held you through it, still licking, still tasting like he couldn’t help himself.

When he finally stood, his lips were wet, his eyes blown wide with lust and mischief.

“You know what’s cute?” he asked, guiding you toward the bedroom, already unbuttoning his shirt.

“You?”

He grinned. “You thinking this was enough.”

He carried you to the bedroom, one hand splayed wide across your ass while the other fumbled with your shirt, tugging it over your head the second your back hit the mattress. He followed, mouth already on your chest, sucking a bruise into the soft skin above your bra before pulling it down to flick his tongue over your nipple.

“Jesus, Spence—”

He hummed. “Statistically speaking, women with high sex drives have a stronger response to nipple stimulation—”

You slapped his shoulder. “If you start quoting studies while your mouth is on my tits I swear to god—”

“You’ll come anyway,” he interrupted smugly, already sliding down your body, fingers catching in the waistband of your pants.

“You gonna be good for me now?” he asked, voice thick and low, you nodded, still breathless. “Please. Please, just fuck me.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, dragging it out, letting you feel how hard he was against your stomach. You reached for his belt, fumbling with urgency, but he caught your wrist.

“I said,” he growled against your mouth, “be good.”

You whimpered, nodding frantically. “I will. I’ll be good, I promise.”

He knelt between your legs, dragging the head of his cock through your folds with a hiss of restraint. “Look at you,” he murmured. “So needy. So wet. And all because I didn’t touch you for three days.”

You clawed at the sheets. “You tormented me for three days.”

He grinned, smug and breathless, as he rocked his hips forward just enough to tease your entrance without pushing in. “Correction,” he whispered, licking into your open mouth like he was savoring every whimper, “I watched you torment yourself. That’s different.”

You let out a shaky moan, bucking your hips up, desperate for friction. “Spencer—”

Your back arched, nails digging into his shoulders as he filled you, thick and aching and slow—deliberately slow. His forehead pressed against yours, curls falling into your face as he began to move, hips drawing tight, torturous circles that made you cry out.

“Shh,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “You’re doing so good for me now. Look at you.”

You don’t even realize you’re crying until he slows, brushing them away with his thumbs. “That good, huh?”

You choke on a laugh. “Fuck you.”

“Already am.” He grins and grinds into you, hard.

He reached around to rub your clit, the combination of pressure and fullness tipping you over the edge with a scream. Your whole body clenched, trembling around him, and he groaned your name as he came inside you, hips twitching as he emptied himself with a groan.

For a long moment, all you could hear was the frantic rhythm of your heartbeats, his weight heavy and grounding over you. Then he shifted, brushing damp hair from your face, kissing your temple with a softness that made your chest ache.

He pulled out slowly, making you whine, then settled beside you, gathering you against his chest.

“You okay?” he murmured, all sweetness again, his thumb softly caressing your cheek.

You nodded, dazed and glowing. “Better than okay.”

He smiled—that smile—and kissed you gently. “Good. Because you’re going to be late to work tomorrow.”

You blinked at him. “Why?”

His eyes gleamed.

“Because I’m going to fuck you again the second I get hard.”

You laughed, breathless, already aching in the best way.

“God, you’re such a nerd.”

“And you,” he said, flipping you back beneath him, “are so horny.”

a/n: im going to hell lmao

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[notjustjavierpena]

Sundays

Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: Season 2 of The Last of Us ruined my life, so here is my attempt at fixing my eternal wounds. Lord knows that everyone deserves better. I spent four weeks trying to perfect this. It might be the best thing I’ve ever done. Please be kind and patient with me ❤️

Summary: Joel’s Sundays are for early morning patrol and making babies with you.

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Tags: Domestic fluff, soft but haunted Joel, banter, teasing, Star Wars reference, kissing, praise kink, dirty talk, pussy eating, fingering, breeding kink, one use of daddy, emotional and filthy sex, creampie, aftercare, cuddling 

Word count: 5.7k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65911807

Sundays

On Sundays, Joel does the morning patrols while the rest of the town sleeps. When someone asks why he has volunteered to do them, he lies and grumbles something about nobody else wanting to get out of bed during the weekend so he has to. Yet he always wakes up at the crack of dawn without complaint, showers in the miracle of hot water, fixes himself a cup of coffee, and reads his book - they have recently emptied a library on an extensive supply run and they found The Shining on dry shelves - with his glasses perched on his nose. He likes it; the quiet time for himself while feeling your presence in the house as you sleep under warm blankets upstairs. His morning routine always ends with taking off his glasses to put them on their designated spot on his nightstand and kissing your beautiful hair, watching your body curl up contentedly underneath the covers or if he is really lucky, you turning onto your back and sleepily muttering a demand for a proper kiss. 

He goes back down, ties his well-worn leather boots on a dining chair, holsters his handgun, throws his rifle over his shoulder, and then leaves with a quiet click of the door. 

The Spring air bites slightly in the morning but he doesn’t mind, appreciates the way it wakes him up a bit more and sharpens his focus. He misses you the second he steps out the door, thinks about your warm and soft skin while he checks the front of Ellie’s house, and then walks towards the stables, the gravel crunching underneath his boots. He listens for anything out of the ordinary - can’t be too careful - and even checks the fences surrounding the horses, the weak spots he keeps meaning to patch up himself because he doesn’t trust anyone else to do it right.

Patrol is as usual. He doesn’t expect any danger and thankfully doesn’t find any either, but he is a man of habits and old habits die hard. His free hand rests near the strap of his rifle in case of anything out of the ordinary, but the only time he needs to be on his guard is when Callus, his horse, gets frightened by a rabbit in the bushes along the trail. He calms the animal with a broad, soothing hand and kind words. He thinks about Sarah, about how she would have loved the nature here, and rarely anymore about how her blood felt on his skin.

He is gone for a few hours, three maybe but no more than four. He does all of his usual inner checklists and rides past each checkpoint, all the while thinking about your hair still messy from sleep, your bare foot sticking out from under the blanket.

On his way back, his thoughts continue circling around you. It’s almost dangerous how much he lets his mind drift; how easy it is to get lost in wondering what you’re up to on his way home. He pictures you in the sun coming in through the windows of the house he built for you with hands that have killed but now get to cradle your face too. He loves you most bathed in morning light that makes your skin glow. With a half-laugh, you said you’d be doing housework today, dragging your fingers through his hair last night whilst tangled up in his body. 

He wonders if you’re humming to yourself while mopping the floors or fighting extra stubborn dust bunnies underneath the couch. What are you wearing? What are you thinking about? Is it him? Are your souls really so entwined that your thoughts are full of him whenever his are so full of you? Joel doesn’t even know if he believes in that sort of thing - hearts beating in sync like that - but you don’t give him a choice sometimes, a feeling that not even Ellie has ever teased out of him.

When he arrives home, he smiles with his eyes closed at the twinkling sound of the wind chimes hanging on the porch ceiling. There is dust on his boots and his bad knee has started to ache from the slow change in temperature over the last few hours but he feels content. He removes the rifle from his shoulder to leave it by the door and then toes the boots off carefully. 

He inhales the smell of home deeply in through his nose before holding his breath to listen for any sound of you. His brown jacket comes off right after he has noticed the quiet movements upstairs that make the house creak just a little. However, it’s not the noisy floorboards but your soft curse that makes him climb the staircase.

A younger version of him - a version that was newer to you - would have first thought that you were up to something sinful and private but Joel now knows that the near-silent swear is one of quiet frustration. You don’t hear him at first, too busy muttering to yourself about the fitted sheet that keeps slipping from your fingers as you try to tug it down over the corner of your shared bed. 

“Shit,” you curse again quietly, bent across the bed in a kneeling position with one knee on the mattress and the other stretched out behind you. 

He knows he should announce his presence like the gentleman he is but he is too busy trying to catch his hitching breath from the sight of your gorgeous body. The swell of your hips and the dip of your back have his old ticker beating in his chest like a kick drum but it is, more specifically, the choice of your underwear that has him feeling downright lightheaded. Hugging your hips are a pair of lace panties and they’re see-through and barely there but most importantly cute. You probably picked them up from the trading center without much ceremony, drawn by their aesthetic rather than their practicality, and then forgot they existed until laundry day arrived. He can understand why; they are so impractical that they almost piss him off but it doesn’t outweigh the near-laughable way he is already hardening in his jeans.

“Hey baby,” he finally says from the doorway, his hands shaking slightly with how hard it is to not just walk up and grab at your hips as a greeting. 

“Joel,” you jump a little in your spot and look at him over your shoulder, the sheet still hanging between your fingers in a secure grip, “You scared the shit outta me!”

“What are you wearing?” He asks simply instead of apologizing, trying to act nonchalant as he walks to the side of the bed but you pick up on the strain in his voice. 

You glance down at yourself with a sigh but it just makes your ass jiggle, “Oh, these? They’re my last clean pair right now since I’m doing an epic pile of laundry today. Sun’s coming out. Perfect day for hanging it outside.” 

“They’re–” he replies, gaze fixed on your ass. His voice continues in the same strained tone but he doesn’t know how to finish his sentence. 

“They’re awful,” you help him and start struggling with the corner of the sheet again, “Feels like my ass is being flossed by lace.”

Joel snorts at that, “Should take ‘em off then.”

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?” You snort yourself, finally managing to pull the sheet over the edge. You flatten it with your palm, caressing it almost as if you’re apologizing for the roughness you’ve caused it and so it looks like it hasn’t been a battle to secure. Then you flop onto your back, stretching your arms out behind you to hold yourself up. The grin on your face is mischievous and sexy yet subtle, the position you’ve put your body in pushing your chest out so he can see your breasts through the thin fabric of your t-shirt. He thought he wanted you badly during his patrol but looking at you now, he thinks he might lose it if he doesn’t touch you soon. 

“You’ve got me. Take them off,” he murmurs with a smirk but when you playfully don’t follow orders, he starts leaning down over you slowly with his sore knee dipping into the mattress. You try to crawl back, squealing but he has taken on bigger things than you.

“Joel,“ you stop him by planting your bare foot on his chest but the way your leg bends at the knee just exposes that soft, intimate skin between your legs. He wants to dive into you but he’ll humor you for a moment.

He grabs your ankle to make you laugh but his mind betrays him by reminding him of how fragile his existence here with you is. Jackson remaining completely untouched by reality is a fantasy. He doesn’t tell you, never would tell you how easily it could all go wrong again, because you deserve the fantasy more than he does.

“Joel,” you repeat his name and he comes back to you if only briefly, watching your loving grin with a deep ache in his chest. He hasn’t felt this kind of ache since Sarah’s mother, a tell-tale sign that you are the real thing for him, that he built this house so you can fill it up with love and life. 

Life. It seems almost bordering on insanity to be thinking about children at his age in a world so broken but your eyes sparkle in the town square where mothers carry their babies in wraps while trading cartons of strawberries. You deserve to nurture someone other than him because your soul has so much to give. 

“If you’re not going to do anything but overthink,” you hum teasingly when time has passed and Joel feels embarrassed for having been lost to his own inner world. His thumb presses into the curve of your Achilles heel, tugging your body closer to himself by wrapping your leg around his waist instead.

“You’re the only person who talks to me like that,” he chuckles softly while his cheeks are slightly crimson. 

“It’s good for you,” you shoot back him and it is the truth.

“Was just thinking ‘bout how you do so much that I don’t deserve,” he says with his eyes roaming over your face and chest for a place to kiss. He chooses the column of your throat, “Cooking, cleaning… Lovin’ a man like me.”

“It’s not about deserving,” you muse and sigh at his stubble on your skin, “Do you want me?”

What kind of question is that? He wants you so much that it sometimes feels like it would be easier to live in your veins, to replace his tired and aching bones with yours if it meant never being without you. He sounds psychotic, sounds like something that he read in the string of horror novels he has gathered by now because they feel oddly comforting when there’s something worse on the other side of the gates. 

“Forever,” he replies simply. He would rather die than not have you.

“Not too much to ask for if you ask me,” you reach to cup his face, thumbs stroking along his cheekbones until he closes his eyes at the feel, and then pull him to your lips. You kiss him gently for a moment but with how much Joel wants you, he quickly lets it drift into something else, something more. He kisses you with all that want in his body, needs it to stop prickling underneath his skin. 

“Have you had breakfast?” He murmurs against your mouth, checking in, the question heavy with care for you. 

“No,” you whisper back into another kiss, fingers threading through the hair at the back of his neck, “I was waiting for you.”

“What if, after this, I take you down to the market?” Joel starts descending his lips on your body. He mouths over the mound of your breast, nipping at your sensitive nipple as it strains against the fabric of your top in its arousal, “Could get you fresh strawberries. Or blueberries we could throw in pancakes.”

You let out a soft moan that’s mixed with a breathy laugh, “I’m ovulating.”

“What?” Joel’s voice has gone scratchy. He stills his touch, moving to look up at your face to see what emotion is playing on your features. He didn’t even know you were keeping track. At first, he doesn’t understand your point but you’re quick to let him in.

“There’ll be babies all over the town square,” you grin down at him, cheeks warm with playfulness as you glow, “Just saying.”

“Maybe one of ours one day?” Joel tests the waters.

“Yeah?” Your grin turns into one of unabashed glee.

“Yeah. I wouldn’t mind it if we made a baby,” he answers quietly and moves his palm up under your top to lay it flat against your belly, “We could try. I mean, we’ve been dancing around it for months now, haven’t we?”

“Then don’t pull out,” the way you say those words, like honey dripping from your tongue, makes Joel swear under his breath and his cock jump. He watches the dizzying sight of you shimmying out of the lace underwear before spreading your legs to give room for him. Looking between your legs is like he’s been offered something holy by the devil himself, your slit already glistening and ready for him.

“Wasn’t gonna,” he smooths his hand down your belly to grab the hem of your top again, easing it up your body. You lift your arms over your head to help him get it off, the movement of your body making your tits shake. He moves backward on the bed, kissing his way down your sternum while squeezing your right breast. You arch slightly into the touch, taking it with a soft release of your breath.

Joel revels in you, revels in the fact that you have allowed him something that he hasn’t thought about in decades because the world did not allow it. He wonders if he’ll be a good father again after all these years of never letting himself think of being something to someone so tiny and fragile, dependent. Ellie had already been a mouthy teenager when he got her, and while she had relied on him, she had had one hell of a survival instinct and hadn’t needed any cradling. A newborn will be different; they will need parts of his being that he hasn’t touched since Sarah was handed to him in the hospital. He doesn’t know if he can trust himself to cradle his newborn with hands that now only know how to pull a trigger. He doesn’t know if it is like riding a bike, that it will happen naturally the second he sees them, but he knows that he wants it. God, he wants it. 

“What are you doing?” You question when he is suddenly between your legs, his feet out over the edge of the bed, and it makes him stop dead. Maybe he should stop having these thoughts when he makes love to you. 

“What do you mean?” He asks as he is halfway down on the floor to get in position. He furrows his brows in confusion. 

“You do realize that this is not how babies are made, right?” You giggle in response, sweetly enough to make his cock twitch. Oh, that’s what you’re playing at.

“Ain’t it?” He smirks.

“No!” You snicker. 

“Then I guess I’m just doing this for fun,” he replies and swings your legs onto his shoulders. He yanks at your hips to pull you towards his mouth, “C’mere, you.”

You squeak with giggles and Joel’s heart dances to the sound. However, your laughter switches to a moan the second his mouth touches you and covers nearly the whole of you. He doesn’t need to think about it anymore, has learned what you like by now from the countless times he has eaten your pussy like it was his last meal on this godforsaken earth. 

“Shit,” you gasp towards the ceiling and cross your ankles on the broadness of his back. He swears that he can hear it in your voice how your eyes roll back when his tongue caresses you in soft strokes. You taste so good that he moans into you, lapping up every drop of sticky sweetness with his tongue. 

“I know, baby. I got you,” he pauses briefly to suck on two of his fingers to wet them, following it up by turning his hand toward the ceiling and then sinking the digits inside of you. He expertly presses them upward, curling them into the spot that immediately has your hips jolting. 

“There,” you tell him with a whine, twisting your hands in the freshly-made bed sheets with a curse that he doesn’t know if is directed at him or the stupid fitted sheets slipping from the corners again, “Joel— ah, don’t stop!”

You gasp as he rubs into that spot over and over again, pairing it with his mouth circling in on the place you need it the most. Your clit is hard and sensitive, perfect for wrapping his mouth around and sucking until his cheeks hollow. 

“Oh God… Oh God,” your pitch rises as he works you open on his hand. At some point, you lose yourself enough in it to start tightening your legs around his back and shoulders. It makes your pelvis lift off the mattress until your back is beautifully arched, makes your cunt press firmly into his mouth for any friction. He grabs your thigh with his free hand for leverage and groans softly into you, taking the reward of sinful pleasure shooting straight to his cock from the way you fuck yourself on his fingers and mouth. 

Outside, the heat can’t compete with the warmth coming off of your body. He can hear another gust of wind blowing through the wind chimes around the porch, mixing with the sound of the city waking up and coming to life. He could die right here, he thinks, between your beautiful thighs with skin that smells just faintly of your homemade lavender oil but right now mostly of sex. It wouldn’t be bad, hell, the whole town would say that he died doing what he loved. 

A hand tangles in his hair now. You have relented on the sheets in case you’ll rip them, and Joel takes each painful sting of his follicles with pride as you balance on the edge. He sinks his fingers deeper, works his mouth faster to get you to tip the scales and come so hard that the world fades away from the both of you. 

It happens a moment later. You hold your breath for just a few seconds, completely quiet as you concentrate while the anticipation within your body crackles like electricity he swears, he can feel. 

Then you cry out in relief, throwing your head back and squeezing your thighs around his head so the sound in his good ear blurs as well. He can feel your muscles clamp down on his fingers, near-arrogant pride swelling in his chest from how skilled he is in making you feel good. 

He keeps his mouth on you as long as you allow him, the tip of his tongue flicking over your sensitive and goddamn pretty clit until you protest with a whimper. When he draws back, he keeps fucking you through the aftershocks with his fingers and dares look up at you, heart beating out of his chest and his dick hard enough that it is aching. His fingers are wet with your come, making your cunt squelch in the otherwise quiet room. 

“Attagirl,” he breaks the silence with a praise in his easy southern drawl, letting his fingers slip out finally, “You liked that, huh?”

You hum approvingly in your afterglow and he can’t get close to you fast enough. He crawls up from the floor, grunting at the way his knees remind him of his age, and moves up on the bed. He slots between your legs again like he was made to fit there, kneeling between your thighs. You look soft and dazed, chest still heaving from your high. 

“I love you. Every damn inch of you,” he murmurs softly. He looks at your face, how you smile with your eyes closed and your nose is slightly scrunched up as the sun dances over your features through the window. You’re glowing. Simple as that, no other word for it, like you will when carrying his kid, and he should tell you that you’re the only peace he has ever found. He should say it to you but he cowers each time. It feels more weighted than telling you that he loves you. 

“I know,” you whisper back eventually, eyes blinking open and your hands reaching for his belt. The metal clinks as you undo the buckle, a smug little grin on your face. 

“Alright, Han Solo,” he rolls his eyes for show and then moves over you, the devil in his eyes. He wipes his slick chin and lips on your face, making you laugh in the way that is enhanced by dopamine. He bumps his nose into yours, “Think you’re funny, huh?”

“Little bit,” you smile and get the fly open. You reach inside and wrap your fist around him, the playful air in the room settling immediately when you stroke him lazily, “But I’m just trying to get you to take your clothes off.”

“Fuck, baby,” he groans while you run your thumb over the slit of his dick, “You’re killing me. Gimme a sec of this.”

You give in and let him have this for a moment, stroking him with practiced flicks of your wrist until his hips start to rut so he can fuck your hand. He moans as he stares down between you, the muscles of his neck and shoulders wound so tight from trying not to come that it is a miracle his old bones haven’t snapped in half.

When you feel him near the edge, you squeeze around the base to halt his orgasm. You’ve started to breathe hard alongside him, clearly worked up by the sounds he is making for you. 

“Fuck me,” you beg him, your voice stutters as you frantically try using your free hand to yank his jeans down over his hips, “Please, Joel, I need you inside me.”

He thinks about how worked up you must be between your legs after holding out for so long. Knowing how wet you get from touching him like this, you must be soaked for him and ready to be taken care of like you deserve. It means that Joel doesn’t need to be told twice, already tugging his jeans and underwear just far down enough for what matters. 

However, despite the rush of getting undressed, he still takes the time to reach for one of the newly-fluffed pillows resting against the bed’s headboard. 

“Up,” he says without further explanation but you know what he wants to do, would probably trust him with your life even if he just gave you a look. When you lift your pelvis in the air without question, he slides the pillow underneath you so your hips are tilted just right for him to reach deep. 

Your legs are spread, your cunt practically served on a platter for him with how it is raised slightly in the air, squeezing around nothing as if begging for him. He looks down at your face as he runs the head of his cock through your folds, coating the very tip in a mix of precome and your shiny slick. 

You aren’t watching him though, too busy chewing on your bottom lip with your eyes glued to how the head of his cock sinks into your wet heat. When he starts stretching you with his thick girth, your mouth falls open in a soft moan. 

He places a hand just above your mound, holds you there while he bottoms out with a growl. Then he rocks his hips once then twice, setting up a pace that gives the both of you time to indulge in each other. You are snug around his dick as he fucks you, slick heat that makes his skin tingle and his breath stutter. The remnants of a southern gentleman in him know that he shouldn’t compare, but no other woman has ever made him unravel so much during sex, has ever made him feel so powerful and powerless in bed. 

“Tell me who this pussy belongs to,” he demands to regain some form of control, staring down at your face contorted with pleasure. 

“You,” you gasp feebly, “It’s yours.”

When he fucks you like this, you are his. He doesn’t need to second guess this fact, knows it just from the way your bodies are connected like they know it too. 

He reaches for your thighs, his knuckles going white as he lifts them onto his hips. You lock around him by instinct and force him forward, so he has to brace himself with a hand beside your head. The angle makes him go deeper, the thick head of his cock kissing at your cervix and your greedy cunt flutters like it wants to do the impossible and pull him further in. 

“Look at me,” he says in a voice that reveals just how good you feel to him, watches the way your tits bounce with each thrust, “Say it like you mean it.”

You stare up into his eyes, your brows furrowed as the tip of his cock drags along the front of your walls. He is in there deep, focused on coming just where it matters. Meanwhile, you have to concentrate on forming words, needing to start over several times with how close you are to babbling.

“It’s– ah, fuck. It’s your pussy, Joel. I’m yours,” you cry for him, your pitch close to, but not quite, the one of a wounded animal. The difference is the lack of hesitation; you are both so sure of each other that it makes him ache all over and ignore the sweaty strain on his old back. 

Your hands scramble to touch him but you make a noise of complaint when his chest is covered by his shirt, the barrier a nuisance when you want all of him. He shed the flannel earlier along with his jacket, but right now, it is the soft fabric of his t-shirt that you’re pulling at to get to his skin. 

He dips down to let you pull it over his head, it slipping down his arm unceremoniously until he can grab it with his fist and toss it over his back. Your trembling hands find his skin immediately and it makes you sigh with relief. Your nails drag through the hairs on his chest, leaving red streaks in their wake until you grab the flesh of his sides. 

He sees how your eyes roam over his torso, where scars tell stories of a life much more complicated than this. You have loved each one of them so many times that he doesn’t feel insecure about them anymore, have traced them with your fingers and kissed them enough to get him to believe that he is more than the events that brought them. 

“You’re so beautiful,” you say softly and settle a hand at the back of his neck, drawing him into your arms. He braces himself on his forearms, kisses you like he isn’t inside of you, and has missed you for a weeklong patrol, still taken aback when you say things like that. 

“Sweet girl,” he whispers against your lips and you whimper as his cock pulses inside of your body. You look at him with fiery love and lust, the stare so intense he knows that this will be over soon because he can’t hold back anymore. 

His next thrusts are slower but rougher, harder and insistent in touching the parts inside you that make you barrel towards the edge. He can feel the difference between all the other times he’s been buried in your cunt to the hilt and this time. While the air is still thick with labored breaths and whispered cries for a higher power he doesn’t know if he believes, this is not just sex; this is about taking the very best parts of you and mixing them with the leftover parts of him that he has found aren’t fatally broken because of you. 

The sound of his name pulls him back to you. His pelvis has aligned with yours with each rock of his hips, the spot just above the base of his cock grinding into your twitching clit. 

“I’m gonna— fuck, I’m gonna come,“ you choke on air, “Please, Joel. Don’t stop, baby.”

“I know, honey,” he moans at the way you flutter around his length, voice cracking at how you feel better than a Texan summer. You’re so wet it sounds filthy when he fucks you, barely pulling out anymore and letting you soak his dick while he switches to simply grinding. For a moment, he is even scared that it’ll set him off before you’ve had your second fill, “Jesus, yeah, I can feel it.” 

Your orgasm hits like a runaway train. The hand resting on the back of his neck slides down to squeeze his shoulder, fingers denting his skin as you seek something to cling onto in your state of ecstasy. You come so hard that air is knocked out of him from how tightly your cunt grips him, his whole body shuddering like he’s the one losing it.

He presses a lingering kiss to your gorgeous neck while your head is thrown back, feeling the rapid beats of your heart under his lips. Your free hand cradles him like you’re meant to be a mother already, making it irresistible for him not to inhale your scent of lavender from the spot where your neck meets your shoulder.  

“You feel too good, baby, ’m not gonna last,” he grits out against your sweat-slicked skin, his cock throbbing in time with his heartbeat. 

“Don’t want you to last, want you to put a baby in me. Gimme a baby, Joel,” you beg him and bury your nose in his temple. You squeeze him tighter in your arms, whining from oversensitivity as his thrusts start to intensify toward the end, “Wanna make you a daddy, baby, please, I’m ready.”

Daddy. The word coming from your mouth makes Joel snap. He pushes his hips against yours and comes with a groan, the head of his cock flush against the very back of your cunt. In his life, he has witnessed wildfires and his climax spreads through his lower belly just as fast. His breath is stuck in his lungs as he fills you to the brim, his tongue wanting to say filth but only your name comes out. It’s good enough to make a grown man tremble without remorse in the embrace of his woman. 

After a beat, his body sags from exhaustion. When you let go of his shoulder to run your hand over your hair, your nails have created little crescent marks on his body. He grunts as he rolls off of you in fear of crushing you underneath his weight. You whimper at the loss, a few heavy drops of his seed landing on the pillow still beneath your hips. 

“C’mere,” he murmurs as a haze settles over the both of you, the sweat on his skin turning slightly chilly. He holds his arm out to invite you into the space that always holds you perfectly and you oblige without a word. He’d lay here forever with you if he had to, would embrace being trapped here with you until they had to send out a search party. 

He is still breathing hard when you lay your head on his chest, draping your arm across his body whose stamina isn’t what it used to be. You don’t comment on it though, simply hold him while the sheets get dirty again from the mess between your thighs. While the world fades away around you, Joel decides that he’ll help you do the extra load of laundry. 

Without thinking, his fingers absentmindedly start tracing up and down your forearm in a soothing motion. You swing a tired leg over his body in response, attempting to get impossibly closer despite already practically melting together with him in the post-orgasmic heat you share. 

Outside, a young child shrieks with excited laughter and Joel nearly tears up from how new the sound seems even though it is a daily occurrence in the little town. He must know if you feel the same. 

“What’s on your mind?” He asks and breaks the quiet, still caressing your arm gently. 

“Just thinking,” you reply and splay your hand on his chest, brushing your thumb over his nipple without thinking. You kiss him where you can reach. 

“About?” He pushes, looking down at the top of your head as if he can read your emotions like that. You probably could with him. 

You crane your neck to stare at him with a little tired smile, “Babies. You. How much I love you. I love you.”

“I know,” he answers smugly, arching an eyebrow with a smile. He thinks another confession of his devotion might set his chest alight and right now, you don’t deserve to have his guilt winning.

“You asshole,” you dissolve into a burst of laughter while his smile turns wolfish, your body curling in on itself on top of his chest. He loves your laugh, the way you nearly snort and feel embarrassed by it. It makes him settle a hand on the base of your skull and drag you into the sort of kiss from a person who’s learning to trust joy again.

.

.

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[bubblyi3]

Residuals PART 1 | JJK

"he held her first everything, and became her quietest goodbye."

pairing: jungkook x female reader

genre: childhood best friends, lovers to enemies to strangers, fratboy!jungkook, heartbreak, uni!au

word count: 12.2k

content warning: angst, mild smut, mild languages

summary: jungkook used to be your everything. your best friend, your first love. but you both grew up and grew apart. he’s now the campus heartbreaker, a cocky frat boy who runs with the worst crowd. when a cruel dare asks him to destroy you just for the fun of it. everything shatters. trust. hearts. and maybe the chance to ever put it back together.

author's note: hi hello heyyyy everyone! wow, i’m honestly amazed by how much you all loved the prologue i really didn’t expect such amazing reactions! the taglist is still open, so if you’d like to be notified when future parts go up, just let me know :) i’ve proofread this like a million times (and i’m probably going to read it over again). my writing isn’t perfect, but i’ve given it my best shot. i really hope you all enjoy it! <3

© disclaimer: please do not copy, translate or reproduce any part of this work without my permission. thank you!

🏷️ taglist: @whoa-jo / @username23345 / @kelsyx33 / @toosweetforyall / @junniesoleilkth / @literallyjimin / @jeeykey / @stars4kooo / @delulutofr / @smoljimjim / @elithenium / @mysoulherofriend / @ukndtwme / @nikkiordonez12

You didn’t see Jungkook for days after that night. Maybe it was weeks but the exact stretch of time blurred together, swallowed up by the routines and noise of university life. His absence was loud, the kind of silence that echoes louder than any shout.

Whispers reached you, fragments carried on the edges of campus chatter. Stories of him slipping further into the frat scene, like he was sinking into quicksand and just letting it pull him under.

Rumors spread about the parties he showed up at. The kind of wild, reckless nights where faces blurred and memories faded by morning. Girls said he was charming, magnetic even, but a ghost when it came to texting back. One night stands, fleeting moments, nothing real, nothing that lasted beyond a sunrise or a hangover.

He wasn’t just part of the crowd anymore. He was the crowd. The center of it, like a king in a castle built on noise and neon lights.

And you? You kept your head down, burying yourself in lectures, drowning yourself in coffee and energy drinks, and nights of textbooks and assignment deadlines. Your hands shook a little when you tried to type on your keyboard, not from exhaustion but from the ache in your chest you couldn’t quite explain.

You pretended your heart hadn’t been dragged across glass. Pretended the sharp edges didn’t still scrape at your skin every time his name slipped into a conversation or a memory.

Sometimes, when the library was empty and the world outside faded to a dull hum, you let yourself think about what you lost, or what you thought you had. But then you’d shut those thoughts down before they could consume you, forcing your focus back to the pages in front of you, your lit up screen and the plans for your future.

Because that was easier than facing the truth.

Just as you were finally forcing your mind back into the case study, the quiet was shattered by the familiar sound of laughter and voices outside your dorm room. Before you could even look up, the door swung open.

Hana burst in, her bright smile lighting up the room, followed by a couple of your other uni friends, Mina and Jess. They dropped their bags by the door, eyes instantly locking onto your face.

“Hey, you okay?” Hana asked, dropping onto the edge of your bed, her voice softer now but still urgent. “Seriously, we’ve been worried."

You tried to muster a smile but it came out more like a grimace.

Mina crossed her arms, eyes sharp. “And don’t even bother with that asshole. He’s not worth a single second of your time.”

Jess nodded fiercely, “Honestly, if a guy treats you like that. He’s a fucking idiot. You deserve way better.”

You felt the sting of their words but also the warmth. It was nice, for once, to have people who saw through the bullshit and had your back without question.

“Yeah,” you said, voice a little raw but steadying, “I know. I’m done wasting time on someone who can’t even show up when it counts.”

Hana reached over and squeezed your hand. “Good. Because there’s so much more out there for you. Don’t let him mess with your head.”

You nodded, feeling a flicker of strength return. Maybe it was the caffeine, maybe the company, but whatever it was, you were starting to believe that maybe, you could just move on.

The frat house buzzed with heat, music, and too much alcohol. Bottles clinked together, laughter bounced off walls, and someone had already spilled beer on the carpet. No one cared.

It was the unofficial post-midterms blowout. Two weeks of freedom ahead, meant for studying, naturally, but more often used for making questionable choices and pretending the start of the new term was a lifetime away.

Jungkook sat on the couch, half-draped with a girl whose name he hadn’t bothered to remember. She might’ve told him, but it hadn’t felt important. Just someone he’d flirted with earlier when Taehyung had dragged them over to where the nursing students usually hung out. Now, she was tracing lazy patterns on his thigh, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered something he didn’t catch. His mind was elsewhere. Or maybe nowhere at all.

Namjoon clapped his hands from the center of the room, drawing attention like a magnet. “Alright, listen up. Truth or Dare time.”

A loud cheer erupted. Within seconds, a circle formed. People stumbling over each other, red solo cups in hand, their eyes already gleaming with tipsy anticipation.

The bottle spun. Two rounds of tame truths and half-hearted dares, the usual kiss the person to your left, take two shots, confess your crush.

Then the bottle landed on him.

“Jungkook,” Taehyung drawled with a smirk, raising his shot glass in mock salute. “Truth or dare?”

Jungkook leaned forward, tongue tapping against his cheek, dark eyes flashing.

“Dare.”

A chorus of oohs followed. The girl beside him giggled, her fingers now trailing up his chest.

Namjoon didn’t skip a beat. “Alright. I dare you to make a girl fall in love with you over this semester break.”

Jungkook raised a brow. “That’s it?”

Namjoon’s grin stretched wider, all teeth and something colder behind his eyes. “Make her fall for you. Sleep with her. Then break her heart.”

The room stilled.

Jimin frowned from across the circle. “That’s seriously fucked up."

“Is it?” Namjoon shrugged. “It’s uni. Classes by day, chaos by night. Girls know the game. Parties, hook-ups, heartbreak. It’s practically on the syllabus.”

The room went quiet for a beat.

"It’s a challenge," Namjoon corrected. "A full-on charm test, baby. But hey, if anyone thinks they’ve got more game, step up. Nail it, and you’ll get bragging rights... and drinks on us for the rest of the year. If you can, that is.

Hoseok laughed, head tipping back. "Alright then, Kook. If you're gonna pass. I'll take it... I'll be choosing Y/n."

That name dropped like a lead weight.

Jungkook froze, jaw tightening. No way he was going to make you part of this so called dare. "Don't you fucking dare."

“What?” Hoseok said, grinning. “She’s perfect for this. Bet she still thinks you’re the same guy who walked her home every day after school.”

Namjoon raised an eyebrow. “Hmm. Sounds personal.”

“Used to be,” Jungkook muttered, taking a long drink.

Taehyung chuckled. “So what’s the problem then? If anything, you’ve got a head start. You already know what makes her tick.”

"Plus, don’t you guys live right next to each other?" Seokjin, who wasn’t much of a drinker and didn’t really roll with the guys, piped up.

Jungkook didn’t answer.

Didn’t move. Didn’t throw a punch. Didn’t walk out. Just… sat there, expression unreadable. A storm under calm. Namjoon leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Unless it’d bother you?”

Jungkook looked up slowly, a half-smile curling at his lips. Hollow and sharp.

“Why would it?”

He took another drink, shrugging. “The only thing that’ll bother me is if my parents find out. They’d kill me.”

Laughter erupted again.

“That’s what makes it fun,” someone shouted.

Jungkook didn’t see who said it. He didn’t care.

He’d already lost the moment to walk away. His ego was too big. His heart and whatever was left of it was locked behind layers he didn’t even understand anymore.

You already thought he was a bastard. So what was one more sin?

If anyone was going to break you…

Jungkook made damn sure it was going to be him.

The dare had been set.

Laughter slowly faded into the background noise as the party began winding down. The music was still playing. A little slower now, a little more muted. Half of the people had already disappeared into Ubers or stumbled upstairs in pairs. The floor was sticky with spilled liquor, and the smell of smoke clung to the curtains.

Namjoon tossed empty cups into a trash bag, yelling half-heartedly for everyone to get out.

"Party's over, people! Go ruin your livers somewhere else! But most importantly enjoy your fucking uni break."

Taehyung was sprawled across the couch arm, drunk-texting God knows who. Jimin leaned against the wall, sipping water, a brow raised as he watched Jungkook.

Jungkook ignored the looks. He had the same girl draped over his side again, maybe her name was Bora. Didn’t matter to him. He didn’t really give a fuck.

Her lipstick was smudged, pupils dilated. She pressed against him like they were already halfway to something dangerous.

“Your room?” she whispered, fingers toying with the hem of his shirt.

“I’ve been waiting all night.”

He didn’t answer. Just nodded once, mechanically, and led her up the stairs.

Every step felt heavier than the last.

It was dimly lit, the warm glow from the desk lamp casting soft shadows across the walls. For a frat boy, it wasn’t what most people would expect. Not entirely, anyway. The space was surprisingly organized. His desk was cluttered with film cameras, old rolls of undeveloped film, a half-charged laptop still open on an assignment, and a stack of books that looked more read than decorative.

But the closet told a different story. Clothes crammed in, some half-folded, some forgotten. Drawers slightly ajar, shoes piled in the corner. He sighed internally, rubbing a hand across his jaw.

Fuck, I really need to start packing, he thought absently.

Behind him, the girl closed the door, letting her jacket slip off her shoulders. She crossed the room without hesitation, fingers already sliding up the hem of his shirt.

But Jungkook wasn’t really there.

He stood near the bed, still, watching her or maybe watching himself. Like an outsider peering into someone else’s life.

That’s when his eyes flicked to his bookshelf across the room.

Second shelf, far right. Tucked inside a worn copy of the Little Prince, a photo peeked out like a forgotten bookmark. Faded from time and touch, the edges curled slightly. It was of you and him, probably no older than fourteen. His mum had captured the moment. You were both grinning, ice cream melting down your fingers, sunlight catching in your hair. He had kept it hidden for years. Sometimes he told himself it was nothing. But he never once took it out.

Bora kissed him then, pulling him back into the moment. Her hands on his chest, her mouth moving fast, desperate and practiced.

Jungkook didn’t kiss her back.

He let it happen for a second. Let her think he was game. Let her think she was winning.

But when her hand dipped lower and started fiddling with his belt, his voice came out hard.

“Stop.”

She froze, lips grazing his jaw. “What?”

He stepped back, eyes cold. “I said, fucking stop.”

Confused, she blinked at him. “Seriously?”

“I’m not doing this,” he muttered.

“You brought me up here for what then?” she scoffed, grabbing her jacket.

He didn’t answer.

“Whatever,” she hissed, storming past him and slamming the door behind her.

Silence fell again.

Jungkook exhaled and crossed the room, pulling the book off the shelf. The photo slipped out, landing in his palm.

There you were, frozen in time. Before everything got messy. Before he turned into someone even he didn’t recognize.

He brushed his thumb over your smile and sat on the edge of his bed, head in his hands.

How the hell did he let it get this far?

This wasn’t him or at least, not who he used to be. Not the boy who used to sneak snacks into your window during sleepovers, or carry your backpack when it was too heavy, or make you playlists when you had a bad day.

He had made a promise, to your parents and his own. That he’d always look out for you.

And now he was here. Planning to ruin you. For what?

Some twisted game? Ego?

Jungkook let out a bitter laugh and leaned back on his bed, staring at the ceiling, haunted by your face in his mind. Your smile. The way your nose scrunched when you were deep in thought. The sound of your laugh echoing through his memory.

Jungkook’s mind drifts back to that night. The night you confronted him, asking what had happened to him. The way he brushed off those memories like they were nothing, like you were nothing. He acted like the years they shared, the bond you once had, didn’t mean a damn thing.

And then, almost as if running from himself, he found himself tangled up with some girl he’d barely noticed before. Someone one of the guys had mentioned at the party. That night wasn’t supposed to end like that. It wasn’t meant to be a reckless escape or a way to numb the ache he’d caused you. But there he was, using someone else’s warmth to bury his shame, trying to erase the guilt he felt.

Cowardly.

And now, this dare wasn’t just a game anymore.

It was a storm he’d just agreed to walk right into…

And the worst part? You were the one who’d get soaked in the rain.

The next morning, one by one, people trickled out with backpacks slung over shoulders, hugging their friends goodbye before heading home for the break.

Jungkook leaned against the doorframe, watching it all unfold. His duffel bag sat by the couch, packed but forgotten. He raised a hand in farewell as Taehyung and Hoseok piled into someone’s beat-up car, Jimin tossing him a lazy salute before following.

Namjoon, finishing the last of his coffee, clapped a hand to Jungkook’s shoulder. “Don’t forget the dare, Kook. Two weeks.” He grinned.

Jungkook gave a half-smirk, the kind that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Yeah. I remember.”

But truth was, he couldn’t wait to get out of this fraternity that he's been living in. He missed home. Missed familiarity. Missed something that wasn’t drenched in cheap beer, fake flirting, and expectations.

Just as he was about to call for a ride, his phone buzzed.

Dad: Don’t worry about finding a lift. I’ll come grab you. We’re picking up Y/n too. Your mothers have planned some big feast. Make sure you guys don't leave me waiting.

Jungkook stared at the message.

You.

Of course you were going home too. Of course the two families had planned something.

Like the two of you were still joined at the hip. His chest ached with something he didn’t want to name.

He texted back a short “okay” and ran a hand through his hair.

Jungkook let out a slow, steady exhale as he slung his own bag over his shoulder. Being the last to leave, he made sure to lock up behind him before stepping out into the quiet evening. The walk to campus wasn’t far. Close enough to count the steps yet every inch felt heavier than the last. It had been far too long since he’d seen you, and the thought of facing you again stirred a knot of tension deep inside.

As he approached the front gates, his eyes immediately found you. You stood there, two bags in hand, waiting patiently. Jungkook’s lips twitched in a faint, almost involuntary smile. He’d never forgotten how you always overpacked, insisting on bringing “just in case” everything. It was a small, familiar detail that softened the moment, even as the late afternoon sun cast a warm glow around you, making you look breathtaking. You always had that effortless beauty, but right now, illuminated like that, it was almost too much to bear. Fuck, Jungkook cursed silently, scolding himself for thinking it.

He took a few careful steps forward, keeping a distance that was neither too close nor too far. Your eyes lifted from your phone just as he drew near, and the silence between you stretched, thick and heavy with unspoken words.

Jungkook swallowed, then decided to be the one to break the ice. “So… are you excited to head back home?” His voice was softer than expected. Tinged with a warmth and care you hadn’t heard in a while. You looked up, surprised by the gentleness, almost like the Jungkook you once knew was trying to break through the distance.

He was about to say more, to reach out beyond the silence, when the sudden sound of a car pulling up cut through the moment. His dad’s voice called out, and just like that, the fragile thread between you snapped.

The break had barely begun, yet it was already testing him in ways he hadn’t anticipated.

And you? You had no idea what was about to come.

You heard the car pull up before you even saw it, the sudden crunch of tires on gravel cutting through the quiet between you and Jungkook. The sound caught you off guard, stealing away the moment, and with it, your chance to respond.

Mr. Jeon stepped out from the driver’s side, his presence steady and grounding as always. He gave a cheerful wave as he moved to toss Jungkook’s bag into the trunk, then turned to greet you with that familiar warmth. The kind that made you feel like you were still the little kid who used to tag along with Jungkook everywhere.

Before Jungkook could say a word, his dad pulled him into a firm, heartfelt hug. One that spoke of quiet pride, unspoken support, and the deep bond between father and son. The embrace was comforting, like a shield against the weight of the world, reminding Jungkook that no matter what, some things stayed constant.

You slipped into the front seat quickly, earbuds in, eyes trained on your phone. Not because you were texting anyone, but because it was easier to pretend you were. You didn’t want to look up. You didn’t want to see him.

But you felt him the moment he opened the back door. The air shifted. The seat shifted. He used to call shotgun every time. No matter what.

You never had to ask for it before.

But now?

Now, he let you have it. And that felt like a bigger deal than you wanted it to.

The drive started, slow and familiar. Mr. Jeon chatted away about dinner plans and how excited your moms were. You responded politely, nodded where you should, even cracked a smile at the bit about your little brother refusing to do the groceries unless Jungkook came with him.

You didn’t turn around. Didn’t look at him. But you knew.

You knew he was watching you.

Out of the corner of your eye, in the side mirror. There he was, slouched back in the seat, hoodie drawn up but not enough to hide his stare. You didn’t know what pissed you off more. The fact that he kept looking at you, or the part of you that kept wondering if he missed you.

You hated how quiet he was now.

How calm.

How the boy who used to tap your shoulder to share dumb thoughts every five minutes was now silent. Like he didn’t deserve to speak to you. Maybe he didn’t.

Not after that night, he made you feel like you didn't mean anything to him anymore.

At the next red light, his dad asked, “You two doing alright?”

You gave a neutral “yeah,” not turning.

Jungkook’s voice followed a beat later. “Fine.”

You closed your eyes. Liar.

The trees passed by. The sun warmed your skin. You should’ve felt relaxed, going home. You should’ve felt lighter. But instead, the weight of him just pressed harder into your chest.

Because he’d let you go.

He’d chosen to become someone you barely recognized. And no matter how close you sat in this car, he felt like a stranger all over again.

The moment Mr. Jeon turned the corner onto your quiet street, your heart clenched.

There it was. Your house, and right beside it, the Jeon residence. Still the same distance apart. Still sharing the same trimmed hedges and side fence that separated the backyards. Still carrying the same summer breeze that used to drift through your bedroom window when you and Jungkook would whisper to each other past curfew with flashlights and walkie-talkies.

You almost wanted to laugh at how little had changed out here, while everything inside you had.

Mr. Jeon parked in his usual spot, right between both houses. The engine cut. You reached for your duffel just as the front doors opened.

“Y/n!” your mum beamed from your porch, stepping out with open arms. Jungkook’s mum was right behind her, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, still in her cozy floral apron.

You stepped out of the car, nodding politely as Jungkook opened the door behind you. He let you pass first. You didn’t thank him. Not this time.

“Look at you two!” Jungkook’s mum said, pulling you into a hug while your mum fussed over your hair. “Back from uni and thinner than ever. Are you eating? You’ve been studying too hard, haven’t you?”

You smiled, playing the part. “Just trying to survive midterms.”

Jungkook’s mum reached over and gave his cheek a playful pinch, her eyes narrowing as she leaned in. “So you weren’t joking about the lip piercing?” she huffed. “I thought you were messing with me on the phone.” 

Jungkook chuckled, leaning away slightly. “I told you I wasn’t kidding, but you said, ‘Over my dead body,’ and hung up on me.”

She clicked her tongue, her gaze drifting to the tattoos on his arms. “And this! do you want to give your poor mother a heart attack?”

Jungkook grinned. “You’re still alive though, so I think we’re doing okay.”

She shook her head, though the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her amusement. Her tone softened as she glanced toward you. “Just tell me you’ve been taking care of Y/n like you promised. Did you help her pack?”

He looked at you for a beat, then back at his mum. “Always.”

You didn’t even flinch.

Your mother clapped her hands, excited. “Well, let’s not waste any more time. Dinner’s all ready next door. Come on now, both of you.”

You followed her up the steps to the Jeon house like you’d done hundreds of times as a kid. But everything felt different now. He wasn’t just the boy-next-door anymore. He was the boy who let you down. The one who changed the minute campus swallowed him whole.

The Jeon house smelled like comfort. Grilled meat, garlic, soy, rice. Pretty much your childhood in dinner form. The table was already full, banchan dishes spread like a celebration.

“Y/n, sweetheart, sit here,” Jungkook’s mum said, patting the seat beside her. “Jungkook, go grab the rice cooker.”

You sat quietly, folding your hands in your lap, while Jungkook passed behind you without a word. His shoulder brushed yours.

Neither of you reacted.

The dinner chatter began. Your mum and his mum swapping stories, catching up like nothing was wrong. You just nodded when spoken to, eating slowly, eyes fixed on your plate.

Across the table, Jungkook watched you. Or maybe he didn’t. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of looking up to find out.

Because you both used to walk home together. 

Used to climb your tree when you couldn’t sleep.

Used to swear he’d never be one of those guys.

And now he was sitting across from you, pretending he still knew how to be close.

"So, two weeks off, huh?" your dad called out from the far end of the table.

Both you and Jungkook nodded, murmuring a quiet "yeah."

"What's the plan?" Jungkook's mum asked, eyes twinkling. "You two going to visit your old spots, or just bury yourselves in assignments all week?"

You forced a small smile. "No and yes... for me at least. I'm hoping to balance it out. I've missed home a lot, so I want to soak it all in before heading back."

Jungkook paused, then reached for another kimbap.

“Same here,” he said eventually. “I’ve got a film project to prep over the break, so I’ll be working on that but yeah… I’ve missed this. A lot.”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. How could he sound so… unaffected? So normal?

And maybe you stared too long, because when you blinked back to reality, he was looking right at you.

You coughed and diverted your attention, steering the conversation back toward whatever the parents were chatting about next.

By the time dinner wrapped up, the dishes were emptied, laughter had filled the room more than once, and everyone’s stomachs were happily full. You stood to start clearing the table.

Of course, Jungkook helped. He always did. It didn’t matter whose house it was. He’d gather the dishes, wash, dry, and put them away with you. It was second nature. Respectful. Familiar.

And for just a fleeting second, it felt like old times. Like your Jungkook was still there. Maybe just for tonight.

Both sets of parents waved you off, insisting you two should relax, settle in, rest after all the hard work. But that was never your style and you weren’t about to let Mrs. Jeon and your mum do everything alone.

In the kitchen, silence hung between you. Comfortable. Strange. His presence warmed the space, his clothes carrying that same scent you used to bury your face into when the world got too loud.

You missed him. God, you really did.

You rinsed a plate, passing it to Jungkook without a word. He took it, dried it gently, and stacked it neatly on the rack like always. The rhythm between you felt automatic, muscle memory stitched into routine. But underneath it, the quiet was anything but easy.

Eventually, he broke it.

“Your dad hasn’t changed at all,” he said softly, a half-smile in his voice. “Still talks like he’s trying to interview everyone at the table.”

You let out a small breath. Half a laugh, half a sigh. “Yeah. He gets worse when he’s nervous.”

“Nervous?” Jungkook looked over, his eyes catching yours for a second too long.

You shrugged. “It’s been a while since we were all here. You know what that does to him.”

He nodded slowly, his fingers brushing yours briefly as he reached for the next bowl. You pretended not to notice, but the heat lingered.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he said, voice quiet. “I really did miss this.”

You kept your eyes on the soapy water. “It’s easy to miss things when you’re far away from them.”

That hung in the air for a moment. Sharp. Honest.

Jungkook didn’t say anything right away. Just dried the next plate, slower this time.

“And… can you please keep whatever’s been happening on campus. About my reputation there, under the bus.” His tone was careful now, laced with something like guilt. “Don’t bring it up to my parents. Especially my mum.”

And just like that, the version of Jungkook you’d held onto in your memory. The boy you grew up with felt like he’d slipped away for good.

You stilled, hands submerged in the warm water. “Are you serious right now?” you snapped, voice rising before you could stop it. You turned toward him, brows pulled tight.

He straightened, finally looking at you, face tense. “Hey... can you not-” His voice dipped low. “Tone it down, alright?”

You blinked, stunned.

He exhaled, leaning into the counter, not quite meeting your eyes. “I know, I know. I probably sound like a complete douche. And maybe I am. But I can’t have them finding out. Not about that.”

You turned to face him fully, searching his expression. For a flicker of the boy who used to knock on your window at midnight, who swore he'd always be on your side.

��You left me to figure it all out on my own, Jungkook,” you said, the words thick with the weight of everything you hadn’t said until now.

“You started treating me like I didn’t matter the second people on campus started learning your name.”

That one landed. His jaw tightened. His eyes dropped.

The overhead kitchen light above flickered slightly. The dishes were almost done.

And for the first time in months, you felt like something was finally about to break.

Just then, Jungkook’s phone buzzed on the counter beside him. Once. Then again. Then again. You didn’t have to look. You already knew.

The constant stream of notifications was all the confirmation you needed. It was the guys' group chat. Loud. Persistent. Like the version of him you didn’t recognize anymore was calling him back.

You quietly placed the last dish in the rack, wiping your hands on a tea towel.

From the lounge, laughter spilled into the kitchen. Your parents and his, watching whatever drama or variety show was on, lost in their own version of comfort.

You and Jungkook returned to the living room. The moment your parents saw you, your dad chuckled.

“Done already? That might be a new record.”

Normally, dish duty took longer because of playful bickering, soap flicked in faces, elbow nudges, stupid arguments about whose turn it was to dry.

You forced a smile. “Yep, all done. Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Jeon. Dinner was amazing. It was so nice seeing you both again.”

They stood, warm and familiar, exchanging hugs. Jungkook followed suit, giving your parents a hug and telling them it was good catching up over dinner, offering his own easy smile like nothing had shifted just moments earlier.

Mrs. Jeon turned to your mum, eyes lighting up. “Oh, we have to go to the Saturday market together in the morning. It’s been ages.”

Your mum gasped in agreement, already mentally planning the morning. “Yes! You, me, and our reusable bags. It’s a date.”

Mrs. Jeon looked between you and Jungkook. “You two should come along. Jungkook can drive us all. Right, sweetie?”

You nodded. “I’m keen.” You missed those early morning strolls, the smell of fresh bread and brewed coffee floating through the stalls.

Jungkook scratched the back of his neck. “I’ll see how I feel,” he said noncommittally. “Might have stuff to work on.”

You just nodded. Of course he might.

With the evening winding down, your family said your goodbyes and stepped outside. The Jeon house was right next door to yours. A perk of a lifelong friendship. Even now, you still found it a little surreal that your parents had managed to buy houses side by side. Soulmates, in their own way.

Your mums, always inseparable. Just like you and Jungkook used to be.

Until you weren’t.

After you and your parents stepped out into the night, laughter still trailing behind you, the Jeon house fell into a quieter rhythm.

Jungkook and his parents lingered in the doorway for a moment before turning back inside.

It wasn’t exactly how things used to be. But it wasn’t unfamiliar either. The kind of stillness that only came from being back home after a long time away. The air held something warm and nostalgic, even if a little too quiet now.

“Go wash up and get settled in, sweetheart,” his mum said as they walked back into the lounge. She gave his arm a soft squeeze. “I changed the sheets and aired out the room, but I left everything else just how you had it.”

His dad added with a nod, already making himself comfortable on the couch again. “We’re gonna stay up a bit, finish this show your mum’s obsessed with. You know how it is.”

Jungkook laughed lightly. “Of course. You two and your midnight TV marathons.”

They both smiled, and his mum reached up to smooth his hair. “It’s good to have you home, Kook.”

“Yeah,” he said, hugging them both. “Missed you guys.”

He kissed his mum’s cheek, gave his dad a pat on the back, and made his way up the familiar stairs. Slowly, like each step was stirring something deeper.

When he reached his room, he hesitated at the door before pushing it open.

Everything looked the same.

His old posters still lined the hallway, the same spot on the wall where he'd once drawn on the wallpaper with crayon still hidden behind a framed photo.

Bed made with navy-blue sheets, desk still stacked with random comics and knick-knacks, photos still taped above the headboard—some curling at the corners now. His guitar case was right where he left it. A faint layer of dust coated the windowsill, but otherwise, it felt untouched. Preserved.

Like time had been waiting for him.

He stepped inside, exhaling slowly, letting the weight of the day settle in his shoulders. Tossed his hoodie onto the chair. Sat down on the edge of his bed and stared at the floor for a moment, caught in the hum of everything familiar. The scent of laundry detergent, floorboards creaking in all the right places. It made his chest ache in a way he couldn’t name.

Then he remembered about he buzzing from earlier. The group chat.

He grabbed his phone, the screen lighting up with a dozen missed messages.

Jin-hyung: yo i'm already losing my mind w my cousins here Namjoon: been catching up on readings… send help Jimin: i’m not doing any work this week. i’m feral now. leave me Hoseok: my fam made this huge feast and i’ve been watching my old dance vids + workshop recaps since i got home Taehyung: jungkookkkkkkk you bonding yet or what don’t forget the terms, golden boy Jimin: LMAO NOT THE DARE Namjoon: bro you better have got it started. Taehyung: a bet’s a bet. clock’s ticking. Namjooon: once you make her fall for you… break her. fuck, i’m looking forward to how you’ll pull it off Hoseok: public humiliation? exposure? fuck i can’t wait. but tbh kookie i’m kinda jealous. y/n’s a smash for me. Namjoon: hobi just stfu. Jimin: You guys are lethal. Jin-hyung: yo, i love you all but i’m out of this bs Yoongi: no fun, hyung.

Jungkook stared at the messages, his jaw tight, teeth pressed together.

That guilt was back. The same one that clenched his stomach earlier when he asked you to keep things quiet. The same guilt that rose when he caught that look in your eyes. Like you saw everything, even the parts he didn’t want you to.

He turned the screen off and tossed the phone facedown onto his bed.

The silence returned. He leaned back, eyes tracing the familiar cracks in the ceiling, the soft flicker of light from the street filtering in through his curtains.

You were just next door.

But somehow, you felt miles away.

Drawn by some quiet impulse, Jungkook stood up and walked to his window. He could see your room from here. The lamp had just flicked on, casting a soft, golden glow behind your curtains. He could make out the silhouette of your gentle and slow movement. Maybe you were brushing your hair. Maybe you were changing. He didn’t know.

But he remembered a time when he did know everything.

You two used to talk from your windows, yelling across the small gap between houses like there was no one else in the world. Sometimes so loud his parents would storm in and tell him to quiet down.

Those were the nights when he could make you laugh until your voice cracked.

Back then, when you looked at him, Jungkook felt like he was somebody worth being.

He stayed at the window until your light flicked off.

Then it hit him. You’d gone to bed. Closed off from him again.

He sighed, shoulders dropping, and turned away.

His dad had already brought his bags upstairs. He made a mental note to thank him tomorrow. For now, he just needed to wash up. Get his head straight.

Before stepping into the bathroom, he picked up his phone again. Just to check the chat.

He hovered over the keyboard for a second too long.

Then, almost without thinking. Whether it was anger, pride, or fear. He fired off a reply to the group.

[Jungkook]: Don’t worry. I've got it planned.

He tossed the phone back onto the bed.

The words didn’t even feel like his. But maybe that was the point.

Maybe this version of him, the one they all expected was easier to play.

Maybe if he played the part well enough, it wouldn’t hurt so much.

He made his way into the bathroom, the floor cool beneath his feet, the lights humming quietly overhead. As he splashed water onto his face, he caught his reflection in the mirror. Eyes tired. Jaw tense. Something unreadable just beneath the surface.

If anyone was going to be in your life. It had to be him.

Because no one knew you like Jungkook did.

And maybe, a little game wouldn’t hurt and tomorrow the act would begin.

Just like old times.

Back in your own room, you’d gone through the usual routine. Washed up, brushed your teeth, pulled on your oversized sleep tee. The kind that still smelled vaguely like your old high school fabric softener. You switched off the lamp, slipping under the covers, the soft rustle of sheets the only sound as the world outside dimmed.

Everything in your childhood room was exactly how you left it.

Posters still tacked onto the closet door. Your bookshelf, slightly crooked, still carried the dust of years past. YA novels, a few worn diaries, old photo booth strips stuffed between the pages. The small glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling had long lost their shine, but you never took them down. They were part of it. The history of you.

And him.

Your gaze drifted across the room. You could still picture Jungkook sprawled out on the rug during sleepovers, stealing your snacks, teasing you for your stuffed animal collection. You remembered the blanket forts. The whispered ghost stories. The night he cried after his first heartbreak and you pretended not to see the way his shoulders trembled.

So much of your room carried him. And yet now, it felt like he didn’t belong in here anymore. At least, not the version of him you saw tonight.

You turned to your side, reaching for your phone. The screen lit up with a single unread message from Hana.

[Hana]: omg are u alive or buried under family obligations yet? how was dinner w golden boy? spill. missing you alr though

You smiled faintly at the nickname. Golden boy. She’d started calling him that after you shared your long, messy Jungkook lore. Nappies and all. Hana had become your go-to. The one person you trusted at uni to hold that story without twisting it.

You typed back quickly.

[You]: lol I survived. Dinner was… good? weird? idk. will explain everything when the time comes. And yes, I miss you too!

You hit send, then placed your phone on your nightstand, screen-down.

But sleep didn’t come easily.

Not when Jungkook’s words kept circling back.

“Can you keep whatever’s been happening on campus… under the bus? Don’t bring it up to my parents.”

The audacity.

Who did he think you were?

Some quiet little side character in his new story? As if you didn’t know who he was now. As if you hadn’t heard things. As if you hadn’t seen the photos, the whispers, the rotating of girls, the club nights, the film school fanbase he seemed to thrive off.

He used to tell you everything.

Now he was asking you to lie.

You had to admit, Jungkook was smart. He knew you wouldn’t dare say anything. Not when it meant disappointing his parents. Not when the truth would hurt the people who still greeted you with open arms, who still saw you as part of their family.

You rolled onto your back, exhaling sharply into the stillness of your room.

What hurt the most was how close he was. Just one window away. And yet, somehow, it felt like he was miles from you. That brief silhouette in the kitchen, the quiet tension thick in the air, the group chat notifications you couldn’t see but knew were buzzing beneath his skin. Everything pointed to the same painful truth.

He wasn’t the Jungkook you used to know.

Not anymore.

And the scariest part was… a small part of you still wanted to believe he was. Eventually, your eyes grew heavy, the ache in your chest softening just enough to let you sleep.

The next morning, the scent of toast and brewed coffee nudged you awake.

You blinked your eyes open slowly, sunlight already spilling through your curtains. The world outside your window was glowing. Familiar. Safe.

You sat up, stretching as the sound of light chatter floated in from downstairs. Your parents.

After slipping into some jeans and a clean hoodie, you padded down to the kitchen.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” your dad called out, already at the stove, expertly flipping eggs.

“You hungry?”

“Starving,” you replied with a sleepy smile.

“Morning, sweetie,” your mum chimed in from the other side of the kitchen island. She was already dressed for the day. Hair neatly tied back, sunglasses perched on her head, a canvas market tote slung over one shoulder, and practical walking shoes on her feet.

“I’ve been waiting on you,” she said with a playful glance. “You’re still coming to the market, right? Jungkook’s mum is ready too, we’ll go over there soon.”

You nodded, stretching lightly. “I’ll go get washed up and ready then.”

Before you could leave, your dad slid a plate in front of you. Toast still warm, butter melting into the surface, eggs perfectly done. He gestured toward it with his spatula. “Eat first. Didn’t you just say you were starving?”

You sat down and took a bite, nodding with your mouth full. “Good call.”

He grinned. “Saturday markets are sacred, Y/n. Fuel up.”

The morning felt good. Warm. Comforting. For a moment, everything felt right again.

However, on the other side. Next door, someone was still sleeping. Sunlight filtered through the edges of his curtains, casting soft stripes across his blanket-tangled form.

Downstairs, Mrs. Jeon was already dressed and ready for the Saturday market. Hair pinned back neatly, sunglasses perched on top of her head like a crown, canvas tote over her arm, and a familiar gleam in her eyes. The one that meant today was for errands and bonding.

She bustled through the kitchen humming to herself, wiping down counters that were already clean, checking her phone and then her watch like time owed her something.

Her husband had already eaten and slipped out not long ago, off on one of his routine morning walks around the neighbourhood park. Something he proudly called his “retired cardio.”

By 9:45am, she was tapping her foot at the base of the staircase.

“Jungkook-ah!” she called up the stairs in that half-sing-song tone only a mother could master. “Wake up! We’re going to the market and you’re driving!”

No answer.

She called again, louder this time. “Kookie! I already told Y/n's mum that we'll be ready by 10!"

Still nothing.

She sighed, muttering under her breath as she marched toward the stairs. “This boy acts like he’s filming a movie in his dreams…”

Up the stairs she went, each step announcing her arrival like a one-woman parade. When she reached his room, she didn’t bother knocking. Mothers didn’t have time for boundaries when produce was on sale.

She flung the door open.

“Jungkook!”

He was sprawled out like a starfish, one leg off the bed, the other tangled in a blanket, face half-buried into his pillow. His phone was still lying face-down by his side, forgotten. Hair an absolute crime scene.

She crossed her arms. “Yah, do you know what time it is? It’s already late for the good tomatoes!”

Jungkook groaned from the depths of his bed. “I thought you gave me options if I wanted to go or not. And right now I'm not feeling it....”

“Well... I changed my mind. Get up now."

He cracked one eye open, grumbling. “Why?”

“Because I want to spend time with you.” She softened, patting his leg through the blanket. “Come on. Just like old times. You and me and a lot of fresh greens.”

He groaned again, but this time the stubbornness was softer, almost defeated, as he rubbed his face. “I’m going back to sleep.”

“Not a chance. We’ll get candied nuts. And those dumplings you can’t resist.”

That finally pulled him upright, his hair a wild mess, like he’d just survived a tornado. “Okay, okay! I’m up. But don’t drag me out in my boxers.”

“Then move faster before I do.” She shot him a grin and strode out of the room.

“Ten minutes, Jeon Jungkook. I’m timing you.”

He swung his legs over the side of the bed with an exaggerated groan, shuffling toward the bathroom. “Can a man just get some decent sleep around here?”

From downstairs, his mom’s voice came back without missing a beat. “Hurry up!”

The morning was crisp, sun soft and golden as you and your mum stepped out the front door, reusable market bags tucked under one arm. The walk to the Jeons’ was short. Just a few steps, really but the air buzzed faintly with something unspoken. It always did when he was involved.

Mrs. Jeon was already outside with a bright smile on her face. She turned just in time to see you both approaching.

“There they are!” she beamed, arms opening wide as she leaned in to hug your mum. “Good morning, you two. The weather’s perfect, isn’t it? I told Jungkook the market gods were smiling on us today.”

Your mum chuckled, “Told you it wouldn’t rain, didn’t I?”

Mrs. Jeon then turned her gaze to you, her expression softening with genuine care. “How was your first night back?”

You returned her smile and wrapped her in a hug. “It’s really nice to be home.”

And just as you pulled back, you heard the door creak open behind her.

Footsteps on the porch.

Then came him.

Jungkook stepped out wearing a loose, dark plaid short-sleeve shirt layered casually over a crisp white tee. His light-wash jeans hung baggy and relaxed, the kind of effortless style that suggested he’d rolled out of bed not long ago. Twenty minutes tops, if you were being honest. His hair still held that tousled, just-woke-up look, soft strands falling naturally.

The sunlight caught his face at just the right angle, drawing attention to the silver glint of his lip piercing, shimmering subtly beneath the curve of his bottom lip. It hadn’t been so noticeable last night, dimmed by the kitchen’s soft lighting. But here, in the clear brightness of day, it was impossible to overlook.

And then there were the tattoos, now fully revealed across the backs of his hands, weaving up the veins of his forearms like inked stories waiting to be read. Stark black lines against his golden skin, each mark a sketch hinting at secrets you hadn’t yet uncovered.

He glanced at you briefly before dropping his gaze, jangling his car keys in one hand.

“We ready to go?,” he said simply, voice low and half-scratchy with sleep.

Your mum looked at Mrs. Jeon, a little amused. “Look at him, ready to chauffeur us.”

Mrs. Jeon clapped her hands together. “He’s driving. It’s the least he can do after making me drag him out of bed.

“Mum,” Jungkook muttered under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck, but there was a flicker of a smile.

Mrs. Jeon turned to you then, placing a gentle hand on your back. “You take the front seat, darling. Jungkook’s used to me yelling directions from the back anyway.”

You hesitated. “Oh no, it’s okay, I don’t mind sitting in the-”

“Nonsense,” she waved you off. "Front seat’s yours.”

Your mum nodded in agreement. “Go on, we’ll sit in the back and talk produce.”

You blinked, caught between your own resistance and the weight of four parental eyes.

“Okay…” you muttered, making your way to the passenger door.

You could feel Jungkook’s presence beside you as he unlocked the car, the soft click of the doors breaking the stillness. As you slid into the seat, the familiarity of it all hit in waves.

Not with the new version of him beside you, hands inked, lip pierced, shoulders broader than you remembered.

He got in, adjusting the mirror with a quick glance at the back seat. “Everyone good?”

“Yep,” Mrs. Jeon chimed. “Let’s go get some vegetables.”

As he pulled out of the driveway, the silence between you buzzed louder than the morning radio.

Because you’d thought he wouldn’t come. You really did.

And yet here he was. Driving, casual, unreadable.

And suddenly, a memory bubbled up before you could stop it.

You were sixteen, nervous hands gripping the steering wheel of his dad’s old Toyota. Jungkook beside you in the passenger seat, half-eating a popsicle, half-coaching you through parallel parking.

“Ease off the brake. Not slam it. Ease. You’re not trying to throw me through the windshield,” he’d teased.

You’d glared at him. “Do you want to teach me or not?”

He’d smiled then, soft and crooked. “I always do. Just don’t kill us.”

Back then, you’d learned how to trust the road and trust him.

Now, you weren’t so sure of either.

You turned slightly to glance at him. He was focused on driving, hand casually resting on the wheel, the ink on his fingers visible as he shifted gears with practiced ease.

You folded your hands in your lap and stared out the window again, silence thick in your throat. The radio hummed something soft in the background. Your mums chatted lightly in the back seat, comparing shopping lists and debating what market stall had the best sourdough.

But between you and Jungkook, the silence felt heavier than ever.

He was close. Right there in the driver’s seat beside you, the hum of the engine filling the space between you. Yet emotionally, he felt miles away.

Still, a small part of you clung to memories of the boy who had cheered the loudest when you nailed that perfect reverse park, telling you it was the coolest thing he’d ever seen.

But now… he was someone who made you feel invisible.

Still driving the same car.

Still offering you rides.

Just not in the way he used to.

The local Saturday market was already in full swing by the time you arrived. Tents lined the footpaths in bursts of colour. Fresh flowers, handmade crafts, overflowing crates of seasonal fruit. The scent of brewed coffee, warm cinnamon, and the faint salt of the sea in the distance wove through the morning air.

You stepped out of the car, the gravel crunching softly beneath your sneakers, your mum already calling dibs on the walnut loaf from her favorite bakery stand.

Mrs. Jeon smiled warmly, looping her arm through your mum’s. “Come on, before it all sells out.”

“You two can just mingle together. If you lose us, remember to call,” your mum said with a knowing smile.

With that, the two mums melted into the crowd as if it were their usual Saturday ritual. Which, judging by how easily they slipped away, it probably was. And just like that, you were left alone with him.

Jungkook trailed a few steps behind you, hands tucked in his jean pocket, lip ring catching the sunlight when he glanced to the side. You could feel his eyes on you. Too aware. Too observant.

You didn’t say anything.

He didn’t either. Not yet.

Because internally, he was trying to calculate the angle.

This shouldn’t be that hard.

You had history. Long, tangled, intimate history.

He knew how you looked when you were crying in the dark. When you laughed with your whole chest. When you wore oversized t-shirts in summer and leaned your head on his shoulder like it meant nothing.

The way your mouth twitched when you were annoyed. How your eyes always flicked to the left when you were trying to lie. How you twisted your bracelets around your wrist when you were nervous.

He could read you like a book.

And right now, Jungkook was thinking this bet? This dare?

It was already in the bag.

You used to like him. Hell, maybe you still did. That part of you that lingered, that looked at him in the kitchen last night like you were waiting for an old friend to return.

And yeah, maybe you had every right to hate him now. But he also knew you well enough to know…

You never stopped caring completely.

He could tell.

So all he had to do was dial it up.

The eye contact. The soft teasing. The subtle call-backs to childhood memories. Play the long game. Make you feel like he’s still in there somewhere.

Make you trust him again.

And when the time came?

Well, the ending was supposed to hurt, wasn’t it?

He wasn’t proud of it. But the bravado of the group chat still echoed in his head. Golden boy. Star of the show. No one ever expected him to fall. Just deliver the twist.

“Hey,” he said, suddenly at your side as you passed the fresh fruit stand. His voice was soft, casual. “What do you say we check out that stall with your favorite tteokbokki and fried chicken?”

You slowed your steps. Hesitated. The air felt thicker for a second.

Part of you wanted to say no. To turn away. To remind him that things weren't the same. But your stomach gave a quiet nudge, and the thought of something warm and spicy. Something comforting sounded… nice.

So you nodded. Small. Reluctant. But real.

His grin widened, smooth as ever.

Still, you fell in step beside him, the gravel crunching underfoot as the two of you wove past toddlers with melting ice creams and couples in linen pants holding mason jars of cold brew. The sounds of the market wrapped around you. Vendors calling out, oil sizzling in pans, laughter in the distance.

He led the way like nothing had shifted, like the months of distance. The silence, the sharp edges of everything unsaid didn’t hang in the space between you. You followed, unsure why.

Maybe it was the scent of the food stalls up ahead.

Or maybe it was just easier than confronting the weight in your chest.

“Still can’t handle spice?” he asked, glancing at you sideways, the corner of his mouth twitching into something playful.

You gave a small shrug, eyes focused ahead. “I’ve gotten better.”

“Liar,” he said, light and teasing. And for a second, just a split one, it almost felt like nothing had changed.

He ordered for the both of you like he always used to. Two servings of tteokbokki, one with extra spice “for him,” and crispy fried chicken to share. You stood to the side, hands shoved in your sleeves, watching the steam rise from the giant steel trays, the sauce bubbling thick and red.

He handed you your bowl carefully, making sure the lid was on tight before offering chopsticks with a little flick of his wrist, like it was muscle memory.

You murmured a quiet “thanks,” sitting on the edge of a nearby planter box where the stalls opened up into a clearing. Jungkook sat beside you, just close enough that your arms almost brushed.

You ate in silence for a while, save for the hum of market life around you. Music playing faintly from someone’s portable speaker, a child whining for another bite of cotton candy.

“I missed this,” he said suddenly, picking at a piece of chicken. “Being back home. Seeing the same faces, hearing the ahjummas shout their usual nonsense. Just… being around the people who actually know me.”

Your chopsticks froze mid-air. You didn’t look at him.

“Funny,” you said softly, not bitter. Just tired. “Not long ago, you made me swear to keep your ‘fratboy’ antics under wraps."

His hand paused, the piece of chicken halfway to his mouth.

The words settled between you like a weight. Quiet but sharp, impossible to ignore.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stared off into nothing, like the noise of the market had suddenly become miles away. And for a second, you caught a glimpse of the boy behind the ego. The boy you grew up with before university swallowed him whole.

“I didn’t know how to come back from that,” he finally said, voice low and raw. “So I ran. From everything. From you. I thought avoiding it would hurt less.”

You looked down at your bowl. The food was still warm, but the taste had changed.

“You thought wrong.”

And still, somehow, you kept eating. Because that’s what people do. They sit in the wreckage and try to feel normal. Bite by bite.

Even when the taste is tinged with regret.

It was warmer now, the late-morning sun filtering through the trees. You paused to swipe hair from your face, nearly bumping into Jungkook when he suddenly stopped in front of a vendor booth.

He turned to you with a strange glint in his eyes. “Wait here.”

You blinked. “What? Why-”

But he was already weaving through the small crowd, leaving you with a confused crease between your brows.

A minute later, he returned, something hidden behind his back.

You narrowed your eyes. “If this is some kind of market prank, I swear-”

Then he held something out to you.

A delicate stem of crochet tulips, hand-stitched with vibrant yarn in shades of soft pinks and creams, the green stem twisting gently in his fingers.

Your breath caught.

It wasn’t a typical bouquet, but it felt more meaningful than any fresh flowers could. Each petal carefully crafted, a small work of art. You could tell it was from one of the local artisans at the market. Jungkook had been thoughtful enough to pick something handmade, something to support the small businesses.

His grin softened, warm and genuine, a hint of boyish pride in his eyes.

“Figured you’d like something unique. Plus, I wanted to help out the local makers.”

Your hand hovered briefly before reaching out. “You haven’t given me something like this since we were kids.”

“Since we were eleven,” he said quietly, offering the tulips closer.

You took them slowly, your fingertips brushing his as you accepted the gift.

For a moment, the distance between you seemed to shrink.

The silence. The unspoken words. The weight of all the time and space in between.

It was just you and that little stem of crochet tulips. An unexpected reminder of simpler days.

You turned the flowers over in your hands, and a memory surfaced.

You were eleven, sitting on the porch swing at dusk. Jungkook, always a little quieter back then, had picked wildflowers from the field behind your houses and handed you a handful, shy but sincere.

“These are for you,” he said softly. “Because you make everything better.”

Your chest tightened, that memory hitting with a bittersweet pang.

You looked away quickly, blinking back the rush of feeling. “You’re such a dork,” you murmured.

And just then—

“Y/N! Jungkook!” a cheerful voice broke through the moment, pulling you back to the present.

You turned to see Mrs. Jeon a short distance away, waving a bunch of kale enthusiastically in one hand as she called for both of you. Your mum stood beside her, sharing a quiet laugh as if they’d just exchanged a secret you weren’t quite part of yet.

Jungkook chuckled under his breath. “Crisis alert. Kale mom is back.”

You shook your head, relief flooding in from the distraction. “We should go before she starts preaching the benefits of green juice again.”

He gave a smile. “Yes, of course."

Walking side by side toward them, you held the crochet tulips a little tighter. Like a fragile thread of hope you weren’t ready to let go of. But at the same time, you weren’t about to give Jungkook your heart so easily again.

Because even if you weren’t ready to admit it…

Some part of you still remembered when Jungkook made you feel like you were everything.

And that part?

It was stirring.

Market day had come and gone in a blur. By late afternoon, you were back home, barefoot and content, the crochet tulips resting gently on your desk. Not stored away, but not forgotten either.

Lunch had stretched into an early dinner, your dad had whipped up a simple yet comforting spread. Kimchi fried rice topped with a fried egg, and a side of his homemade japchae noodles that he claimed were unbeatable. You didn’t complain. Meanwhile, your mum had settled into one of her rare naps on the couch, a well-loved novel slipping quietly from her hands onto the floor.

Now, back in your childhood room, you had an annotated PDF open, pen between your teeth, and the kind of concentration only caffeine and obligation could summon. Until your phone buzzed beside you.

Once.

You didn’t think much of it.

Then it buzzed again.

You glanced over.

[Jungkook]: what you up to?

You froze.

The message sat there like a riddle you weren’t sure how to answer.

It wasn’t the words that threw you. It was the fact that he’d sent them at all.

He didn’t text you anymore. Not like that. Not since first year when he started gaining more attention, when people began whispering about his name on campus like it was some kind of currency.

Back then, you'd gone from being the first person he shared everything with to… no one at all. The calls slowed. The texts faded. The responses became one-liners, then emojis, then silence.

So why now?

Why this?

Your fingers hovered over the screen, hesitant.

Because part of you. The part you’d buried under logic and pride and every reason not to care, still remembered what it felt like to open your phone and see his name.

Still remembered what it meant when it was him reaching out first.

You sighed, leaning back against the headboard, the glow of your desk lamp soft against your skin.

This didn’t mean anything.

You stared at the screen a second longer, pulse just slightly faster than before.

Then you texted back, short and safe.

[You]: just catching up on some business case studies. why?

You hit send and placed the phone beside you, trying to ignore how your heart skipped just a little. Trying not to overthink the silence that followed.

Meanwhile, just next door, the Jeon house was dim and quiet, save for the low hum of a ceiling fan and the occasional clack of Jungkook’s keyboard.

He was in his room, hunched over his desk, storyboard sketches spread out in loose clusters. His laptop was open, film project templates blinking back at him while he scribbled notes in one of his lined journals. Jungkook had music playing faintly in the background, something instrumental, lo-fi. The kind of thing that made him feel like he was getting things done, even if most of the evening had passed in more thinking than actual work.

Still, the ideas were coming. Slowly, but they were.

His film pitch was due after break. A short docu-style feature about perception versus reality. He’d circled the word duality three times on his mind map. If he was honest, the concept hit a little too close to home.

His phone was propped up against a half-empty cup of iced coffee, the group video call buzzing on speaker as he multitasked. Or at least tried to.

Taehyung’s voice cut through his scattered focus first.

“So how's it going Kook?”

“Did she fall in love with you again yet?” Jimin teased, the grin practically audible over the connection.

“Shut up,” Jungkook muttered, biting the end of his pen. “We just went to the market. Some bonding time with the mums. That’s all.”

“That’s it?” Hoseok scoffed. “That’s like K-drama Episode 3 material. You’re slacking, golden boy.”

Namjoon chuckled. “Yeah, man, what’s next? Movie invite? Old hangout spot? Sleepover like the good old days?”

Jungkook groaned, leaning back in his chair. “Hyung, it’s not that simple.”

But the guys weren’t letting up. They kept poking and prodding, tossing half-serious suggestions his way.

“Take her to the movies.”

“Get boba, go down memory lane, use that stupid line like... ‘Remember when we used to-?’”

“Or just send a damn text already.”

Jungkook exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temple. He hated to admit it, but they weren’t wrong. He knew exactly how to get under your skin. He’d done it for years. Familiarity was a weapon, and he wielded it well.

But still, there was a pause.

He stared at his phone for a long moment. Because the last time he’d seen your name pop up, it hadn’t been casual. It hadn’t been playful.

It was months ago.

[Y/n]: hey, are you still walking me back after class? you said you’d wait

He hadn’t responded.

He was supposed to be there. You’d planned it. Talked about grabbing Korean BBQ on the way back, catching up. Just the two of you.

But he never showed.

At first, he thought he’d be five minutes late. Then the guys had pulled him aside. Something about a pop-up party. A girl in a leather jacket with silver eyeliner and too much perfume, had laughed at his joke. His phone buzzed in his pocket. Once, twice and he ignored it.

By the time he’d remembered?

It was hours too late.

And you never followed up. Never double-texted. Just… silence.

Which is what made texting you now feel like walking into a room he once trashed.

But still he had to keep up the image. Play his part.

He let out a slow exhale, jaw flexing.

Then, ego first, he typed a short what you up to.

It took a few seconds, maybe even minutes before your reply finally came through. You talked about being buried in case studies. Deep down, Jungkook still admired that about you, your fierce dedication, the way you threw yourself into everything with such passion. He loved that about you. Still did. But admitting it? That was a different story.

[Jungkook]: wanna catch a movie tmr? like old times. just us. my shout.

He hit send and flipped his phone over, face-down, like that would stop whatever was coming.

“Okay. I asked,” he muttered to the phone, more to himself than anyone. “Happy now?”

Taehyung howled on the other end of the call. “That’s our boy.”

The other guys chimed in, egging him on. But under the noise, Jungkook felt something twist in his chest. Not quite victory, not quite regret.

Somewhere between ego and guilt.

Just next door, you stared at the notification on your screen. Your heart thudded in your chest like it used to, back when his texts meant something. Back when the idea of just the two of you made you feel safe, not suspicious.

Was this genuine? Was this a joke?

Your mind spiraled. You remembered the afternoons in the park, movie marathons, late-night talks, the way he used to make you feel seen in a way no one else did. And yet, the hurt lingered.

You sighed, leaning back in your chair.

Maybe it was too soon.

Maybe it wasn’t.

You typed back slowly, fingers trembling slightly.

[You]: I don’t know, Jungkook. It’s been a long time.

You hit send and stared at the screen, waiting for whatever would come next.

[Jungkook]: I know but just trust me. It'll be fun.

You stared at his reply.

You read it once. Twice. And then again, slower this time. Hoping the words would reveal something deeper. A hidden meaning. A trace of sincerity.

But it was plain. Casual. Carefree, like he hadn’t ghosted you that night outside the lecture hall. Like months of silence didn’t exist between you.

So casual, so simple, as if he hadn’t spent the last few weeks making it clear that whatever you two had as kids didn’t mean a thing to him anymore.

Trust me.

You scoffed under your breath.

Still… a part of you hesitated.

As if he hadn’t looked you in the eye before and said, “That shit doesn't mean anything now.”

And maybe you could’ve let it go. Maybe you could’ve convinced yourself he didn’t mean it, that he was just trying to seem tough.

Jungkook was now this carefully curated version of himself. Confident. Distant. The kind of guy who laughed with his friends about dares and pretended emotions were weaknesses.

What happened to him? Who made him believe he had to become this?

You weren’t sure. But you did know one thing. You weren’t going to be his emotional safety net whenever he felt like slipping back into the past. You weren't going to sit beside him on a couch and pretend that watching a movie would make things okay again.

So you didn’t answer. You read his message, let your thumb hover for a second, then locked your phone and threw it on the bed. Do Not Disturb on. He lived next door. If he had something worth saying, he could knock.

Jungkook, on the other hand, stared at the message thread longer than he’d ever admit. He was pacing. He thought the text would get your attention. That it would spark something. Annoyance, sarcasm, even just a roll of your eyes. But instead, silence. No reply. No reaction. Just… nothing.

And that nothing started to dig its way into him.

He scoffed to himself. “Cute,” he muttered, tossing his phone onto his bed and rubbing the back of his neck like he wasn’t annoyed. But he was. Not because he cared. At least, not in the way he used to. No, this was about something else entirely.

The dare.

He wasn’t used to being doubted. Especially not when it came to girls, and especially not when it came to you. You were supposed to be easy. Familiar. A done deal. History, chemistry, emotional leverage. All of it stacked in his favor.

So when you ignored him? When you didn’t fall into the trap like he expected?

That stung. Not just because he fucking missed you. God, he did. But because losing to you would be a brutal hit to the one thing he guarded like hell. His pride.

Leaning against the wall, Jungkook peeked through the curtains of his window, eyes flicking toward your house like he could summon your attention just by looking. He didn’t care if it was real or fake anymore. He just needed to win. Needed to show the guys and maybe to himself that you were still in his orbit. That he still had you wrapped around his finger, whether you liked it or not.

Because in his mind, this wasn’t about friendship. It wasn’t about nostalgia.

This was about control.

And the game had only just begun.

You were thirteen, and Jungkook was as always, barging in next door, like he owned the place. Today’s mission? Drag you into what he insisted was the ultimate way to spend a Saturday: a Marvel movie marathon.

“Come on, you gotta watch these,” he said, practically dragging you by the wrist into your living room. “Especially Iron Man. He’s the best.”

You rolled your eyes but secretly didn’t mind. You had always admired how he could get excited about the smallest things, how his eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning whenever he talked about Tony Stark’s snarky one-liners or those crazy flying suits.

Halfway through the second movie, Jungkook leaned back on the couch, chewing on a piece of popcorn like it was the most important thing in the world.

“You know,” he started, voice low and hesitant, “there’s this girl in my class. Sana. I kinda like her.”

You glanced over, curious but careful not to stare. You knew Sana. The popular girl with the effortless charm, the kind who always had the nicest high-end stationery and an easy smile that made her stand out.

“So, I asked her if she liked Marvel,” he continued, “and she said no. Not even a little. She said it’s dumb.”

Jungkook let out a long sigh, the kind that made you want to hug him. “I guess it’s just a silly crush. Nothing serious.”

You smiled softly, nudging him with your elbow.

“But you’re serious about Iron Man,” you teased.

He chuckled, but then his eyes shifted, locking with yours in a way that made your heart skip.

“I think… I love you,” he blurted out.

The room seemed to still around those words, and your heart jumped.

You blinked, caught between surprise and confusion. Love? At thirteen? You had liked him, sure, but love was something else entirely.

Then, almost instantly, Jungkook’s eyes widened. He scrambled to correct himself, his words tumbling out fast.

“No, no, wait! I mean... I love you. As a friend. You’re, like, the most important person in my life. You mean the world to me.”

He scratched the back of his neck, cheeks heating up. “I didn’t mean it like… that way. Not like that yet. I’m just bad at saying stuff.”

You laughed softly, relieved but also touched. “I like you too, Jungkook. But yeah… love’s a big word.”

He smiled, eyes warm and honest. “Yeah, maybe it’s just something we’ll figure out later.”

And there, on the worn-out couch, two kids tangled in feelings bigger than them, settled for the quiet comfort of a friendship that already meant everything.

[comicaurora]

As someone from a more average family, I’ve always been fascinated by your anecdotes about your upbringing. What’s it like to have parents so deeply immersed in fandom, and when did you realize that most kids’ parents have zero familiarity with fandom stuff?

as soon as I brought up renfaires and D&D and filk songs and cthulhu carols at school and got bullied about it :/ made it pretty obvious nobody knew or cared what I was talking about

But it was nice! Being raised in fandom, a thing built entirely from open enthusiasm for things you love, taught me to pursue things not because they were popular or What Was Expected Of Me, but because I loved them. I think it laid some major foundations in my worldview that helped me avoid a lot of normative expectations that wouldn't have worked for me, just by teaching me from minute one that things that are weird and unpopular can be perfect for you, and things that seem to work for everyone else can not work for you, and that's okay.

Once you've internalized "this seems to be something everyone does/likes/wants, but the thing I want seems to be almost unheard of - and yet I still want it" it may be easier to apply this to things like recognizing one's orientation (in my case "this all seems boring and weird and extremely limiting, but everyone acts like it's normal and great, so I think I'm just gonna… not do it"), pursuing unorthodox careers, and just… trying the weird things and seeing what works.

Identifying the things you love doing is already a difficult exercise, and it's made much more difficult by artificial filters like "these things are Cool And Sexy while these other things are Cringe And Weird and Should Not Be Liked." Being able to decouple your brain from the high school popularity contest makes the search for your passions that much easier, and I think I started with a serious leg up thanks to the guidance and unconditional support of two absolute nerds.