#If I need to change anything just say the word. ^_^ )

[wosospacegirl]

Hiya mate!, Can I have a request maybe a Leah x reader or Alexia x reader. Where the reader join the current girlfriend trend and video their reaction..... Thank you

Love all the fic you made love lots

Current girlfriend- Alexia Putellas / Leah Williamson

I couldn't choose between my captains, so I did a little thing for both of them - two separate blurbs in one.

Word count: 1.7

..

Alexia Putellas

You weren't really someone who posted a lot on social media. Not when you were a teen, and absolutely not now that you dated Barcelona's golden girl.

Alexia liked her privacy. She liked knowing there were things the fans, the media, and the world didn't know. Your relationship wasn't necessarily one of those things. She didn't keep you tucked away in some apartment, hidden from everyone and everything. 

No, she didn't mind being seen walking down the streets with you; she couldn't care less about the cameras in her face when a game ended, and you had come down to the pitch to hug her.

She just didn't like leaving much of a digital footprint, and you were the same way. You liked to keep some things just between the two of you.

But oh. When you saw that little TikTok prank, you couldn't help yourself. You wanted to try it, but you also didn't like the whole world seeing it…the camera would give away parts of your shared home, and that was something just for you two and the people closest to you.

So you decided to film it just for yourself. That way, you could still participate in the trend, keep yours and Alexia's privacy intact, but the prank would have to be tweaked a little.

You tucked the phone into one of the sofa pillows. Didn't have to hide it much, Alexia was terrible at noticing things she wasn't actively looking for.

You sat on the sofa and gave the camera one last look. Great, the frame was perfect.

"Ale, come here!"

Alexia was getting ready for training, focused, in her usual headspace, and of course, you had to mess with her. Just a little.

She said something back from upstairs that you couldn't make out, but then she appeared a few minutes later. And she looked so beautiful with her training jersey on, it made you wanna keep her to yourself.

"So I have this small party at work this Saturday, can you go with me?" You asked gently.

Alexia's face softened. "No lo sé, cariño, tengo que revisar mi agenda" [I don’t know, love, I have to check my schedule.]

You were very used to that response, you expected it even, so you just smiled back, leaning even further into the sofa, you were just getting comfortable.

"Well…as my current girlfriend–" you pretended to cough so it would give her some time to comprehend and let the word settle in. "--you need to be present! It's at 7 pm."

Alexia's smile faltered a bit, and you could see that she was caught between a mix of "did I hear that right?" with "that can't possibly be true."

"Qué?" [What?] She said, her eyebrows furrowing. She was so confused, it was funny and cute at the same time.

"Dinner, at 7 pm, amor," you repeated, but not the part she clearly wanted. "But if you can't go, it's alright…"

"No, no," she shook her head. "Current? Current girlfriend?"

Bingo

"Yes?"

"No? Why current? We've been dating for three years." She said, her voice a little impatient now, as if she was asking herself why she even needed to be saying that.

"Well, yeah, but that doesn't change anything, we are still CURRENTLY dating," you emphasised the word.

Alexia moved on her heels, she opened her mouth, and then closed it again. She looked at you, then looked at her training bag on the floor.

"No me gustó eso," she said. "Not current.. solo novia, okay?" [I don't like that/ just girlfriend, okay?]

The pout on her face was so extremely cute that you weren't able to keep your composure. You got up from the sofa and wrapped your arms around her.

For a few seconds, she stood there, arms crossed, but then she gave in.

"I don't like that word," she mumbled against your shoulder, her voice almost in a whine. "Current makes it sound temporary."

You couldn't help the smile spreading across your face as you held her tighter. "I know, baby. I'm sorry."

"We're not temporary," she pulled back just enough to look at you, that little pout still there. "Sí?"

"No, we're definitely not temporary." You said, kissing her whole face.

She studied your face for a moment. "Wait..." Her eyes narrowed. "You're smiling too much. Why are you…"

Her gaze moved around the room and landed on the phone peeking out from the pillow. Okay, maybe Alexia did have some hidden ability to find phones, actually. 

"Ay, por Dios,"  she groaned, but you caught the corner of her mouth twitching. "You filmed this?"

"Maybe."

"Qué tonta eres…" [You are such a dork] she said, fighting a smile. "Delete it."

"I was already planning to," you laughed, pulling her even closer. "It was just for me anyway. I wanted to see if I could make Barcelona's golden girl pout."

"I don't pout."

"Hmm." You kissed her forehead. "You definitely pout."

She huffed against your neck, but her arms tightened around you. "Next time you want to mess with me, just ask for attention like a normal person."

"Where's the fun in that?"

..

Leah Williamson

You were bored out of your mind. It was a rainy afternoon. It was grey, cold, and your girlfriend had some annoying thing she had to attend to. Meaning: it wasn't a great day at all.

Leah needed to be at some Lionesses' dinner, one to welcome the new girls who had just received their first senior call-up.

You weren't allowed to go since plus ones weren't permitted, so you decided last minute that you would go to some café and do something. You just didn't want to stay home alone.

You had a couple of uni assignments that needed to be done, some research you had to complete for your internship the other day, but the day was already depressing as it was…you didn't need to bring more of that into your already grey day. 

So drinking very expensive coffee and delicious pastries was the right answer. Plus, Leah felt bad that you couldn't go with her and had given you her card.

Your life had been so uneventful lately. With Leah's tight schedule and your responsibilities, you two couldn't go out much or spend the amount of time together that you would like. So you thought, why not make today a little different?

You weren't an influencer, per se, but you had a fair share of followers on Instagram, so why not do a little Instagram Live while you got ready for your outing and Leah got ready for hers? It was June–Pride month–and nothing better to celebrate it than showing off your very hot, very English Captain, Champions-winner girlfriend.

You had your dress on already, and Leah was doing her hair on the other side of the room. She looked pretty. She was wearing mom jeans, a plain white shirt, and a black leather jacket on top of that, you knew your followers would thank you for showing Leah and her outfit.

Again, very Pride Month. Very much gay.

You had obviously asked Leah if it was okay for her to show up in the live stream. She said yes (she always did whenever you asked her to film something with you), so you propped your phone on top of your makeup organiser and pressed play.

In a few minutes, you had a couple of hundred people watching you, to say the least. You began talking about random stuff, nothing really important, just about your day and your routine. 

Leah would casually walk behind you, stopping just long enough to wrap her arms around you and kiss your head before disappearing again, looking for her shoes or bag.

The people watching the live went crazy whenever Leah showed up. It was honestly funny, the amount of fire emojis running up and down on your screen.

Then, a comment popped up asking you to do a prank on Leah, the "Current Girlfriend" prank. The comment quickly disappeared among a hundred others, but it was enough time for you to read it and decide that you were going to do it.

"Leah," you said, looking at her while putting your lipstick on. "Come stand with me for a bit."

Leah was in a very good mood, so she did it quickly and without complaining. She stood by your side and wrapped one arm around your waist, bringing you closer. She kissed the top of your head while looking at the camera.

You decided that was the perfect moment.

"Well, my current girlfriend and I look so fine today and—"

"Current?" Leah interrupted, looking down at you, using the same voice she used when she was surprised. "Okay, wow!"

"What?" you asked, trying to sound clueless, which you were very good at.

"Current girlfriend?" Leah lifted her eyebrows cockily, as if she couldn't believe what was happening. "Who are you talking about? Not me, I'm sure."

"Of course I'm talking about you!" you said, looking at the phone, and then back at her. "Aren't you my current girlfriend?"

She laughed. Really laughed as you were trying to keep an emotionless face.

"I don't understand you," you said. "What's so funny?"

"You," Leah said. "You are funny, silly even, saying things like 'current girlfriend' as if you want to have a different girlfriend in the future."

"I never said that!" You smiled at her before pecking her lips, leaving your lipstick stain on her mouth. "You're being dramatic."

"Me? Dramatic?" Leah asked, pointing at herself, "You're messing with me, aren't you? That can't be possible."

You turned back to your mirror, the Instagram Live still going strong. You picked up some blush, applying it while watching Leah through the reflection.

Leah was so annoyingly confident that it was nearly impossible to pull these types of pranks on her. She didn't get annoyed or mad, she would actually laugh about how ridiculous it all sounded.

"Well…" She watched you through the mirror, making eye contact and putting two fingers in front of her mouth with that knowing look. She knew exactly how much you liked that gesture. "Maybe I should start looking for a future and steady girlfriend since this one–"

Now it was your turn to interrupt her. You rolled your eyes dramatically.

"Don't even finish that sentence," you warned, pointing the blush brush in her direction. "It was all a prank, okay?"

"Oh yeah?" she said, turning to face the phone screen with that smirk of hers. "I didn't even notice, baby." She winked at the camera. "Your girl's not as slick as she thinks she is."

..

a/n: hope you guys liked it!!

Tag list: @footy-lover264, @fortifyde, @naomigirmadefender, @neutraiise, @milkveed, @browercc, @ace-of-baked, @ikzzzya, @sky-the-trans-guy00, @knight-16, @wosohk04, @evaissleepy13, @papimapileon, @unpoppablebubbles @whiskeredshrimp-blog

[twilightofthesandwiches]

…So we do have some implications that Kris… at the very least, does not care for Ralsei as much as they care for Susie, or as much as Ralsei cares for them. Most notably with Chapter 2’s Teas;

I think also maybe their tendency in the recent chapters to point out the differences between Ralsei and Asriel might be related to it. They don’t want to compare Ralsei to their beloved older brother.

But I wonder if that’s beginning to change. Most notably with all the scenes of Kris and Susie comforting Ralsei and encouraging him to be himself… Obviously we are the ones telling Kris to say the words, but... it seems like it was their choice to give him a hug.

Which kinda reminds me of our first indication that Kris genuinely considers Susie their friend.

Plus, like, sure we CAN force Kris to say certain things, but they can also subtly rebel against it by saying things 'weirdly'

or immediately contradicting our words with their own.

So.... not only do they don't really resist this attempt to help Ralsei, here is how they react if you try and pick one of the most flagrant "no Ralsei you and your feelings don't matter (:" options.

They are literally fighting against the Player's control to try and emotionally support Ralsei.

I wonder if this was a matter of Kris' thoughts about Ralsei actually mirroring many Players, that they also thought he was weird and shady and that his niceness was too-good-to-be-true and that he's probably manipulative and evil. And with the revelations about Ralsei and the way he thinks about himself and his reasoning for keeping secrets in Chapters 3 and 4, it's only now that Kris is starting to let their guard down around him and allows themself to like him.

Or if it's a matter of... clearly Kris' situation with the SOUL (AKA us) is a very unhappy one for them. Even if it also seems to be part of the plan Kris and Evil Phone Voice are on, it is not a pleasant experience for Kris. It might be that the thing that endeared them to Susie so much in the first place is the way that she also chafes and rebels against being 'railroaded' by the prophecy stuff all through Chapter 1 - and therefor they were always put off by Ralsei's happy-peppy lack of resistance to following anything the prophecy said....

Hell... we STILL don't know what these two talk about when the SOUL is away following Susie... if Ralsei told Kris they need to put on a happy smile and accept being a 'Cage' for an Amoral Time God, that will certainly sour their relationship.

But now Ralsei is opening up to how much this fatalism has caused him pain, and now he's starting to push back against it. And maybe now Kris can understand that Ralsei is also in the same boat as them and Susie, that they are kindred spirits.

Or maybe... that whole deal with Kris and the Evil Phone Voice seems to indicate they might've known about Dark Worlds and how they work before the story of the game properly starts, and at least that they understand them more than Susie does. Maybe Kris themself thought of Darkners the same way Ralsei thought. Maybe they were distant from Ralsei because they saw him as not 'real'. And watching Ralsei unlearn this mindset is causing Kris to reconsider the way they were thinking of Dark Worlds and Darkners.

Or... well... it could just be as simple as Kris seeing how much Ralsei matters to Susie. We have constant reminders through these two chapters of how much Susie cares for Ralsei and how much she sees them as a trio. So even if Kris just doesn't Vibe with Ralsei, thinks he's annoying or weird or creepy or whatever, Kris cares for Susie, so they know they have to care about her other very best friend.

I wonder if the reason behind the Person-Flavor-Teas being 'Rotten' past Chapter 2 is because Chapter 3 and 4 actually have a lot of subtle shifts in the characters' relationships and it would've been unpractical to keep track of them all, or simply narratively unsatisfying to spell them numericaly out like that.

[goorgeousz]

hi hi baby♥️how are you?

so...i was thinking maybe the reader likes to leave kiss marks on hotch's shirts either near the heart or on the collar of his shirt, maybe the reader is not a member of the bau or maybe works in another unit but in the same building and does not know that jokes are their love language and when they start making jokes about their relationship, calling it 'childish love,' she gets a little embarrassed and stops doing it, and when hotch asks her She tells him she wishes she had been born earlier and tells him she heard about the jokes and he says 'that's why you stopped doing it?🤨' and she tells him that she stopped doing it so that they wouldn't make fun of him, and he takes the time to explain that that's the team dynamic.

and the next morning he arrives with a kiss on the cheek or chin, very proud of it, holding her hand🥹🥹 and when they say goodbye, he takes her face in his big hands and kisses her all over and she just laughs silly and cute.🥹🥹🥹🤍🤍🤍 and hotch is kind of like 'please kiss me forever🥺'

congratulations on 400 followers, love, you deserve many more!🥹🎉♥️♥️

also, as always, only write this if you're comfortable, and if you think you need to change anything about this, pls do, i'm happy to read anything you write, i hope this has the same meaning written as i imagined it.🥲♥️

i hope you have a great week, sending you lots of love!✨✨

xoxoxo

lipstick stain | aaron hotchner

pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!reader summary: you stop kissing your boyfriend because his friends were making fun of him. aaron was having none of it. content/tw: reader wears lipstick, established relationship, age gap, height difference, very silly, fluff, mentions of them having sex (not descriptive), suggestive ending word count: 2.9k a/n: hey my love!!!! i’m great, currently on finals week so a little bit stressed out, but overall fine!! how ab you?? i truly hope you’re okay!! thank you so much, i’m so happy! also, thank you for this request, you already now i’m the biggest fan of whatever you suggest me! it’s so on character of him (in my opinion) and i always have the best time writing them!!! again, thank you so much for everything!!!! sending you much much love, have a great one!!! xxxxx dividers by @uzmacchiato masterlist <3

Standing next to Aaron, even on high heels, you face his chest. Which was very convenient in moments like this, in which you helped him adjust his tie, trying not to blush while he stared you down with that much attention. 

Softening the fabric of his dress shirt – already perfectly smooth – in a delicate caress, your hand stopped at his chest, right above his heart. Even with the layers of clothing, you felt the strong and steady beat of his heart, like it was claiming for your attention. Impulsively, feeling a rush of affection, you leaned forward and kissed the spot, feeling his torno vibrate under your lips.

As soon as you stepped back, your eyes widened. In the middle of the blindingly white fabric, a kiss stain stood out, its shade between pink and maroon, exactly like the lipstick you’d just applied a few minutes before.

“Oh my god, Aaron, I’m sorry. Take it off, I’ll wash it in a minute.” you urged, trying to tug his shirt out of his pants.

“There’s no need.” he said, gently stopping your hands and moving them out of his shirt.

“There’s no… Are you crazy? Are you going to use a stained shirt?”

“Customized” he corrected, smirking as he looked at himself in the mirror, his expression somehow… proud? “Besides, you can’t even see it under the suit.” to prove his explanation, he dressed up the suit, buttoning up and smiling cheekily at you, as if saying ‘Told you so’.

He was right, it wasn’t visible. You frowned, still embarrassed for staining his expensive shirt. He just grabbed your face between his palms, leaving a kiss on the wrinkles on your nose.

“It’ll be our secret. Like Clark Kent.” he joked, his face mockingly serious.

“That’s my 12 old self’s dream.”

“Superman was your childhood crush?” his tone was a mix of mockery and amusement.

“Yeah, I guess I’ve always had a thing for tall brunettes with a savior complex.”

Aaron laughed loudly at that, his head threw back. All the embarrassment you felt before simply vanished.

And just like that, a ritual started. Every day you drove to work together (almost every day), just before you parted ways, you left a hidden kiss on him. On his shoulder, on his arms, his wrist, his chest. Sometimes, when you were feeling specially bold, you kissed just below his tie. And whenever he was free (which was rarer than you liked), he sent you a picture of the stain with a message (many of those, if ever caught, would send you both to a week-long seminar on inappropriate behavior at work) about how he missed you.

It was silly. A ridiculous habit, even. But it was so good, so fun. And it was yours. You loved every second.

That’s it, until one day where you’d been particularly careless. To your defense, you’d spent days apart because of one of those complex cases. So it wasn’t your fault that you wanted to spend every free moment making out with each other. And that morning he was – for a lack of better word – irresistible, with his hair messy and still dump from the shower, the mix of his soap, after shave and cologne invading your nostrils and clouding your senses, his perfectly smoothened white shirt and tie still undone – one could argue that that was his looks every single day, but there was something in the air, you swore.

So, yes, you may have pushed him back to bed. And you might have suggested – begged , with wide glistening eyes and a whine – that he kept his suit on while he trusted in and out of you. And you definitely grabbed him by the lapels of his suit, leaving a kiss stain right on the collar of his shirt, where he couldn’t be able to hide it, and whispered how he was all yours while an earth-shattering orgasm washed over you.

Although he was the one to blame, in his opinion. And he didn’t complain in the slightest, puffing his chest proudly as he finished getting dressed, zipping his pants back on and admiring the red stain contrasting with the white of his shirt. 

On that very same day, not having yet made up for the time apart, as soon as you were out of the clock, you got into the elevator, leaving your floor and  going straight up to your boyfriend’s. Knowing the workaholic you so lovingly called yours, you knew he would stay late, drawing himself on paperwork. It was only fair to order take-out, have dinner with him and lay on his office’s comfortable couch, enjoying his presence (in silence) (it was never silent for long, but that was the condition to be there so you had to pretend). Some of the many perks of dating a unit chief.

You were seated, your shoes long forgotten somewhere on the corner of the room, your legs crossed under you as you waited for Aaron to grab napkins and cups from the shared kitchen when you heard it. His office’s door had stayed open since your relationship stopped being a secret long ago.

“Next thing we’ll see is Hotch wearing a leash” Morgan’s voice echoed through the bullpen.

“Morgan, please.” you heard Aaron’s exasperated tone, muffled by the collective laughter.

“Don’t listen to him, Hotch” Emily defended “It’s very common nowadays between the seventh graders.” another wave of laughter filled the room.

“It’s adorable, actually.” JJ added, amused.

“Didn’t Henry get home with a similar stain on his cheek last week?” Spencer asked, even him joining the teasing

“Enough. I can still fire all of you.” your boyfriend threatened, receiving more laughs and jokes in return.

And that’s the last thing you heard before he walked back into the office, rolling his eyes in annoyance and closing the door with a bit more force than usual. 

Not knowing how to react, you just pretended you didn’t hear it, offering him a smile and throwing a random comment about the food.

The rest of the dinner went pleasantly, but half of you wasn’t there. You couldn’t stop thinking about what his team said. Wasn’t it actually childish? You and Aaron had an age gap, indeed. Visually undeniable. But that’s never been a thing between you.

All the horrors you dealt with on a daily basis made you seem older than others your age, and even though you were considerably younger than him, it wasn’t noticeable in your conversations and not once you had a problem because of immaturity or anything of the sort. But it was something you thought about, sometimes. Being with someone older and, specially, as responsible and stable as Aaron, there’s no way you wouldn’t second guess yourself, at least once. Luckily, he was too good of a person to ever make you feel insecure about it, which led you with only your anxious mind to blame.

The relationship you built was so solid and healthy that you usually found yourself forgetting to worry about the outside world, about what others may think, too wrapped up on your own little happy bubble. But, obviously, his friends would question the fact that he ended up with someone that younger than him. You just didn’t know it would affect you that much.

You didn’t want to embarrass Aaron. So, although you pretend everything were fine,  that thought stayed in the back of your mind.

On the next day, you ended up getting late — for a very good reason. three good reasons, actually — and on the elevator, ready to part ways, Hotch leaned closer to you, angling his torso in a move that was more of a muscular memory than a conscious decision, and waited for the kiss.

Needless to say, you panicked. You definitely weren’t ready to have that discussion, so just turning your head and denying him his kiss was not an option. And you were still feeling too anxious to be able to ignore it all and stain his shirt again and risk his dignity.

So, since you still hadn’t had time — again, for great reasons —  to think about how to handle the situation, you simply did the best you could: yanked him by the neck and locked your lips to his.

Caught by surprise, Aaron stayed still for a second. But nothing more than that, because the very next moment he relaxed, smiling into the kiss and squeezing your hip with his free hand. Before he could ask you anything, the elevator came to a stop, reaching your floor first, and you stepped out hurriedly, mumbling a “i love you” and giving him a smile that you hoped looked mischievous but probably just seemed phony.

The next few days went just as smoothly (not at all). You realized he won’t stop doing it, reaching for your kisses, so you come up with the best solution available: stop wearing lipstick.

As expected, he noticed it and questioned you instantly. To which you replied with another question “Why? Didn’t like it?” resorting to the most basic avoiding method.

“Of course I did.” he answered without missing a beat, his eyes falling down to your lips covered with a clear gloss, and having to force his gaze away back to your eyes after in order to continue the conversation “But I don’t think I’ve ever see you leaving the house without it”

You scoffed, turning around and checking yourself in the mirror. Being, yet again, completely obvious in your try to avoid the subject. Surprisingly enough, he didn’t catch on. “That’s probably not true.”

Before he could press you any further, you turned back to face him and joined your lips together in a slow and deep kiss. Any point he could possibly have made died just then, swallowed on pleasure sounds and the dance of your tongues.

And later, when he leaned towards you waiting for the kiss, you didn’t hesitate to graze your lips on the fabric of his shirt, happy to have found a solution that didn’t involve embarrassing him in front of his friends or explaining the reason behind your change of behavior.

Everything was fine, for now.

A few days have passed, and your guard is finally already down. On that specific morning, Aaron was ready to work, impeccable in his expansive suit, leaning against the bathroom door, watching you do your makeup, with your products layed on the counter.

He was explaining a discussion he had with the director a few days before, and you were so focused on his words you barely registered your own movements, counting on your muscular memory to repeat your daily routine.

Maybe because of that, you didn’t realize your hand subconsciously reached for the lipstick right by the sink. Your fingers hovered over it for a second, grazing the small tube, until you recovered your senses and put it to the side, quickly grabbing the closest product and secretly hoped for Aaron to be so lost on his story that he misses it.

As the attentive boyfriend – and profiler – that he was, of course he noticed it. So much that he stopped mid sentence, his eyes sharp on yours.

“What was that?” he asked slowly, arching an eyebrow.

“What was what?”

He tilted his head to the side, in a silent warning that it was not going to work.

“I got distracted.”

“Why did you stop wearing lipstick?” that was it. Point blank. There was no avoiding it now.

Nonetheless, you rolled your eyes, feeling embarrassed that this was even a topic. “No reason.”

“Honey” he coached, his voice gentle and nudging. In a span of five seconds you rolled your eyes again, sighing and deciding to just get this over with.

“I didn’t want to stain your shirt.”

He frowned, his forehead wrinkling in confusion “It’s not a stain, it’s a kiss.”

“A kiss stain. Anyway, it’s stupid.”

“No, it’s not… Where did this come from?” “Aaron,” you whined, blushing. “Not everything has to be a conversation.”

“I disagree.” he interrupted, but you didn’t even listen.

“I just don’t want you to have a meeting with the director board wearing a stained shirt. It’s not professional.”

“Since when do we care about that?” he tried, exasperated.

“We’re functional adults, government employees. Of course that…” but you had already lost his attention, his eyes narrowed in your direction through the mirror, like he was trying to read your mind.

“Adults?” you hated your choice of words “What is this really about?” you took a deep breath in resignation, letting your head drop down. Soon after, you felt his hands holding your waist, turning you to face him and gently touching your chin, tilting your face up towards his “Hey, you can tell me anything.”

“I just want to be more serious, you know? More mature.”

“You’re one of the most emotionally intelligent people I’ve known. Including me.”

“But I’m immature.”

“Not at  all. And you know it.” he asserted, serious. Then, his voice went softer again “What don’t you explain what’s going on, hm? Please, let me understand you.”

You completely melted at that “I wish I was born sooner. Be more like you guys.”

“‘You guys’ who?”

“Your team. I overheard them talking that night in your office, and I know they think our relationship is childish. And it’s obviously because of me.” 

He smiled, slowly and reverently, looking at you like you alone held the moon and the stars on your eyes.

“Sweetheart, you’re completely misreading the situation.” he said, his voice and his smile softening the blow “Listen, I know we haven’t really had that conversation yet, but you know my childhood was… hard. I was forced to mature much younger than I should've. I ended up missing many of the youths' average experiences. I buried myself into work as soon as I could, and even though it brought me where I am today, I know it cost me a lot.” he paused, taking a deep breath and staring deep into you, as if to make sure you were understanding everything “Ever since I’ve met you, I started to feel young again. In the best way possible. Not because of your age, but because of your heart. You’re kind, smart, funny and so incredibly sweet. You encourage me to be better every day, and everytime I see you I feel like a teenager experiencing my first love.”

With your heart nearly exploding with love, you tugged him closer, kissing him so deeply and tenderly, hoping that he would feel everything you could never manage to put into words.

“We don’t have to keep doing it if it makes you feel bad. But I thought you liked our little joke.” he whispered, his forehead pressed against yours. You felt your face blushing, the proximity and his voice so close and treating you with so much reverence.

“I love it. But I don’t want to be the reason why your friends make fun of you.”

Hotch stopped for a second, as if he didn’t hear what you’ve said. Then, he stepped back, with an exasperated smile. “Don’t worry about that, honey. We’re very close, the team. We tease each other all the time, it’s how we demonstrate affection. We already deal with too much darkness in our lives, that’s the way we found to keep things lighter and a little more bearable.

“Really?” you bit your lip, your eyes widening in hope. His smile grew even more.

“Mhm. They’re crazy about you. Some of them say, and I quote, that I ‘became bearable after you. Sometimes even pleasant to be around. Much less tyrant.’”

You giggled, lacing your arms around his neck “You are kind of a tyrant, indeed.”

He rolled his eyes, laughing, but visibly happier to have solved the problem than actually annoyed at your teasing.

“Nothing you ever feel makes you immature. I want to know all of your thoughts and anguish. Next time just talk to me, okay?”

You nodded “Okay.” he stared at you a little longer, just making sure you really were fine and every doubt about your relationship and yourself left entirely your mind, before he hugged you again, sneaking his arms around your waist and tugging you flush across his chest.

“And promise me, you’ll never punish me like that ever again. Depriving me of your kisses.” he mumbled, nuzzling his nose into your neck. You chuckle.

“I wasn’t punishing you.”

“It felt like it. Promise.” he insisted, his hands squeezing your hips. You leaned back just so he could see the found and honest glint in your eyes, looking at his with nothing but love, and the smirk on your lips as you extended your right hand to him, lifting your pinky in his direction.

“I promise.”

Later, when the two of you arrived at the fbi building, you had your dark and shiny lipstick tinting your lips. And in the very same color and shape of your mouth, Hotch had a mark on his jaw, showing it off like a badge.

Besides that, he also had three kiss stains distributed on his clothes: one just above the heart, another one on his lower stomach.

As for the third…

taglist: all hotch @winyourheartemma all cm @s0urw00lf @deeninadream

[yapithoughts]

DOING THE GOODNIGHT TREND ON EX-HUSBAND!SATORU

It was a random Saturday night. The twins were finally asleep, and you were curled up on the bed, aimlessly scrolling through TikTok to unwind after an exhausting day. That’s when you stumbled upon a trending challenge—calling your ex to say “goodnight.”

It was ridiculous.. yet oddly tempting

You hesitated. After all, it’s not like you and Satoru didn’t talk. You did — strictly about the kids. Who was picking them up from school, whose turn it was to have them over the weekend. Civil, routine, detached. Nothing personal. Nothing warm.

Still… it wouldn’t hurt, right?

You tapped his name and pressed “call.”

It only took two rings before he picked up.

The phone rang twice before he picked up. You immediately heard papers shuffling in the background—he was still working. Of course. That was always the reason.

“Hey,” you said softly.

He hummed in response, voice slightly concerned. “You good? Is everything okay at home?”

It hit you — how natural that sounded. Like nothing had ever changed. Like you weren’t living in two different homes now.

“Yes, kids just got in bed. They’re already sleeping.” You paused. “Still at work, huh? It’s not obvious you’re a workaholic,” you added with dry sarcasm.

You could sense the shift in the air—he heard it too. It was always like this. You used to dream of a life where he’d work less, be present more. You’d rather be broke and have him home than well-off and alone.

“I have nothing to do. I have no one at home anyways.” His voice was calm, but the words hit different. Like they meant more than what he said out loud.

“Well, do you need help or need anything? Why did you decide to call? Missed me?” His tone turned playful — smug, even. Typical Satoru.

“Well… I was just calling to tell you good night.”

Silence stretched. You could almost picture him freezing in place. You scrunched your face, unsure what kind of response you’d just triggered.

“Are you drunk?” he asked suddenly. “Do you know who you’re talking to? You’re my wife, right? Y/n?”

The word wife hung in the air like a ghost. The papers might say otherwise, but he clearly hadn’t let go.

“Yeah… Is this Satoru?” you asked, biting your nails.

“Yeah, what are you—Are you okay?” His voice had shifted again, this time laced with genuine concern.

“More than okay, yeah,” you replied, stifling a laugh.

“Wait—hold on,” he said abruptly before the line went dead.

You blinked, confused. Why hang up? Did something come up? You thought about posting the clip, but sleep was winning, so you set your phone down.

But sleep didn’t last long.

Your phone buzzed, and your eyes flew open at the sight of his name. Messages were waiting.

Satoru | 23:36

I’m at your door.

Are you asleep?

Hey, you alright?

I don’t want to ring the doorbell cuz I don’t want to startle the three of u.

All traces of sleep vanished. What do you mean he’s here?

You | 23:41

Wait what?

I thought you were at work?

Satoru | 23:42

Well… Now I’m not.

Sorry, did I wake you? You’re supposed to be asleep by now.

I was worried so I left work and stopped a little bit at 7/11 to buy foods that you liked, and some for our kids as well.

Open the door, please.

User182629926:

Please tell me you guys get back together.

ibadlyneedasugardaddypls:

He’s a DILF. You better get back to him or I will.

I’myour#1fan:

They missed each other frrr.

lickmytoes:

Oh he hawt.

bigpapi101:

Gurlll, there’s no way he don’t love you anymore.

pookiebear:

You two just need a little talk and then do Boombayah.

[siancore]

Written for the @sambuckylibrary SamBucky Summer Bingo On the Town Card - Square Fill: Pride.

Bucky Barnes had been many things in his long life. A son. A friend. A soldier. A hero. He stood now in front of the cameras and reporters a newly elected congressman. Part of the legacy that Bucky wanted to leave was for the people who had the time and energy to want to know him to really know him. He owed his next words to all of the people who looked up him; he owed the words to himself. Bucky braced himself, took a deep breath, and then said the words he needed to say. 

“I just wanted to start by thanking you all for being here. I know what I have to say isn’t the most important thing for people to hear, but it’s important to me, and I just wanted to put it out there before I step into this elected leadership role.”

The sound of cameras clicking surrounded Bucky as he cleared his throat and stared directly into the main video camera that was focused on him. 

“Where we find ourselves is, for want of a better word, tumultuous. We are in a place where the future historians will question us and what we’re doing to uphold the human rights of our people that many take for granted.”

Bucky calmed himself and continued to speak. 

“There’s a lot of work to be done, by leaders and those who claim to support everyday people. Either we change the systems that have held people back and held people down, or we stand by and watch. Either we hold those accountable for the atrocities they enact, or we wholeheartedly welcome fascism to this land. And I’ve seen fascism at its worst. What it can do. How it takes people’s sense of humanity and replaces it with complacence. I don’t want to be complacent in the face of oppression. I don’t want to be complicit in oppressing others. I want to stand for the truth. That’s the way that I want to push back.”

Bucky took another steadying breath.

 “If I don’t do much of anything, then I want to stand in my own truth.”

He breathed deeply once more and stared down the lens. 

“My name is James Bucky Barnes, and I am a gay man. And I’ve learned that in this day and age, it’s so important for people who have the capacity and support to be themselves to stand up and be counted. To everyone else, I’m here for you and I’ll fight for you. I’ll answer a few questions now. Thank you.”

Bucky was sweating in his suit. His heart was thrumming against his chest. But he believed in his own convictions. He was happy to stand there on international television and tell the whole world an important part of who he was. 

“Happy Pride,” said one reporter whom he gestured to. “Congressman Barnes, thanks for being so candid with us. We wish you all the best. My question is: Will you be joining Captain America at Capital Pride this year?”

“Thank you for the well wishes,” said Bucky with a genuine smile. “Sam took me to Capital Pride a little while ago when World Pride was hosted in DC. It was an amazing experience. My first time attending an event like that. It was really great to see everyone out and about celebrating and having a good time. I had a great time. If Sam wanted to invite me along again, then I’d uh, I’d be more than happy to tag along. Next question?”

“Mr. Barnes, can you go on the record and confirm whether or not you and Sam Wilson are more than friends?”

Bucky felt his face flush warm, and his palm sweat. He figured people were going to be intrigued by his and Sam’s relationship seeing as they were inseparable. Seeing as they were both queer men who were in each other’s proximity most of the time.  They had asked Sam about it enough times. He took a discreet breath and answered. 

“Sam is an amazing man,” said Bucky with an earnestness that reverberated through the small space. “He’s my best friend. When I first decided that I was going to continue on this path of doing this work, Sam supported me. He supported me in ways I can’t even put into words. Sam Wilson is the friend I wish I had when I was a young man trying to figure out my own wants and needs; my own sexuality. And he’s been that person for me now in this time and space.”

Bucky wrung his hands together and said, “I love him. I love Sam. He’s my best friend. What we have is so, so special to me. Putting a name to it feels like it could never be enough. We’re friends, co-workers, colleagues; partners. And everything in between. I have nothing but love and respect for Sam Wilson.”

The amassed reporters all erupted into a furore of more questions. Bucky inched back, held his hands up, and said, “That’s all the time I have for now. Thank you all for your time.”

With that, he stepped away and was ushered into one of the private courtyards as his assistant relayed to the journalists that he was done. Bucky reached into his pocket and retrieved his cigarettes and a lighter. He lit one and took a deep draw. It helped to calm his nerves. He paced back and forth in the small space. He had done it. He had come out to his constituents and the world. He felt as if he might throw up or dissolve. His other pocket began to vibrate. Bucky took his phone out and saw Sam’s name on the screen. He snubbed out his cigarette and then answered. 

“Sam?”

“Hey, Buck,” said Sam’s rich voice. “You okay?”

Bucky ran his hand through his hair and let out a little laugh. 

“Yeah,” he supplied. “Yeah, I’m okay. Are you?”

“Always,” Sam replied, and Bucky could hear the smile in his tone. “So, you did that.”

Bucky had no words, he just let silence pervade between the two of them. Comforting and grounding.

“You did really well,” Sam added. “Handled it like a pro.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m proud of you,” Sam proffered. “I know how hard it is to bare your soul like that. You did an amazing job.”

“I thought of saying ‘homosexual’ instead of ‘gay’.”

“No, that was fine.”

“Oh, thank fuck,” Bucky said with a chuckle. “I didn’t want to say anything that might’ve offended folks.”

“Nah,” said Sam. “You were awesome.”

“Thank you,” said Bucky, feeling a sense of ease wash over him. “Thanks, Sam. I –” 

“You don’t have to say it,” said Sam. “I do gotta ask, though.”

“Oh, God,” said Bucky with a hand to his face and half a smile playing on his lips. “What?”

“Me and you?”

“Sam.”

“Nah, I just mean, Capital Pride.”

Bucky stifled a laugh and said, “What about it?”

“Well,” said Sam, sounding all kinds of cutesy. “The press wanted to know if you and I were going together.”

“Yeah?” said Bucky, unable to keep the smile from his face. 

“So, are we going?”

Silence floated around a beat as Bucky cleared his throat. 

“What, you mean like, together?”

“Yeah,” said Sam, sounding amused on the other end of the line. “Will you be joining me at Capital Pride this year?”

Bucky let out a small laugh and wiped his hand over his face. 

“You askin’ me out?”

“If you’re sayin’ ‘yes’, then hell yeah,” said Sam, confident as ever. “I’m asking you out.”

Bucky felt his tummy do numerous somersaults as a deep happiness wrapped him up in a warm embrace. 

“Well,” Bucky managed. “If you’re asking, then the answer is ‘yes’.”

He took a deep breath and said, “My answer to you is ‘yes’.”

Sam let out a rich, deep laugh and said, “Good. I’ll pick you up on the weekend.”

“It’s a date,” Bucky replied, giddy as all hell. 

“Yep,” said Sam, the smile evident in his intonation. “It’s a date.” 

[keegan-parker]

Jason expected rage. He expected harsh accusations and an even harsher punishment. Banishment from the cave, taking away the money given that Jason didn’t even use because he didn’t need anything from Bruce.

Bruce had rules, expectation. Jason knew using real bullets on patrol with Bruce guaranteed a lecture, ensured an argument yet he still loading his gun with them, ignoring the rubber bullets that worked just as well, just not as permanent.

He glared at Bruce daring him to say anything. Goading him into an argument as he silently cleaned his gun making a show as he reloaded it with real bullets before placing it back in its holster

“Not going to say anything old man?” He questions wanting to get the argument started and done with.

The expected argument hadn’t come. There was no anger, no harsh words not even a glance in his direction as Bruce swiftly drove the bat mobile through Gotham streets

“Really? Nothing?” He tries again irritated at the consuming silence

“What’s the point? It’s not like anything will change.” Batman, no Bruce because even dressed in the bat suit as he was that was Bruce who shrugged at him.

In his anger he barely acknowledges the Batmobile stopping. He opens his mouth to tell Bruce off only cut off as Bruce speaks first

“Here, Your safe house.”

His anger is quickly replaced by incredulity as he gazes at Bruce shocked.

“So what? I’m suddenly not good enough for the cave.” He snarls out anger back full force. “I didn’t even fucking kill the guy-“ he didn’t know why he felt the need to explain himself - fuck Bruce.

“You said and I quote ‘I never want to step foot in this fuck ass cave another day in my undead life’” his voice perfectly mimics Jason’s in the creepy way Damian sometimes did to mess with them

Jason scowls as he gets out of the car slamming the door “Fuck you!” He shouts storming up towards his apartment.

He ignore the “I love you.” Batman yells from the window his cheeks flushed as his eyes burn. He’s not even inside of the building when he hears the Batmobile speeds off.

After the fourth night in a row where one of his kids directly disobeys his orders and gets hurt even more

Bruce is just done

Burnt out, drained, weary; whatever the fuck you want to call it at this point

He’s been working on himself a lot lately. And at this point in all his relationships, he understands that taking away their alter-ego and benching them will only backfire on him.

So he doesn’t do anything

He mentally throws his hands up in defeat and just… does whatever they wants to diffuse the situation

Dick is expecting another yelling match to commence the moment they get back to the cave. In fact, he went out tonight deliberately trying to get to this moment. He brought cough drops for the aftermath to soothe his throat from all the yelling. He knows it isn’t healthy, but he just needs to let out some steam

Instead of their usual routine, Bruce gets out of the Batmobile and doesn’t even look at Dick. You can’t say his posture is… relaxed… but it isn’t wound up tightly like it usually is when one of his children gets hurt

Bruce goes over to the Batcomputer and starts typing down what happened on patrol that night while Dick does his best not to put any pressure on his possibly broken leg

After a few minutes of silence, Bruce sighs and turns back to Duck with a raised eyebrow, his face passively blank

“What?”

Dick shifts and winces as his entire leg throbs painfully. “A-aren’t you gonna call Alfred?” Dick responded back petulantly, keeping his voice low in hopes Bruce wouldn’t hear him then get annoyed and finally show some emotion

“Your arm isn’t broken, is it? Use it.” Bruce said simply before turning back around and continuing to type.

Dick felt anger bubble up in his chest, but it felt stupid to try and start a fight when Bruce obviously wouldn’t engage.

Dick storms off in a huff, at least he tries. He makes it a few steps before deciding to sit down and call Alfred.

“Love you,” Bruce calls back to him without turning around, causing Dick to stick up both of his middle fingers in retaliation.

Or with Jason, he’ll pick his battles and accept whatever happens afterwards

Jason’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. Extremely reminiscent of when he first came to the Manor

He had shot someone on patrol. Could he have used his rubber bullets instead of his real ones? Yes. Did he lie to Bruce and say that he didn’t have real bullets in him? Also yes

But fuck Bruce and all the rules he has

Now it was completely silent as they rode home in the Batmobile.

Jason checked over his gun for the fourth time before carefully tucking it back in her holster.

“You’re seriously not gonna say anything, old man?” Jason griped. Usually, this would be the catalyst for a large-scale argument, but there was nothing. Not even an eye roll for Jason's old man comment.

“What’s the point? Not like you’ll listen anyway.” Bruce shrugged, ignoring Jason's angry scoff as he stopped the Batmobile. “Here, your safe house.”

Jason blinked at Bruce, looking at him incredulously. “Are you fucking serious? You’re dropping me off at my safe house? Not gonna allow me in the cave anymore?” Jason snarled, not even thinking to question how Bruce knew where his super secret safe house was.

“You said, and I quote, ‘never wanna set foot in this fuck ass cave another day of my undead life’.” Bruce raised an eyebrow, at least it sounded like he did. Hard to tell with the cowl.

“Fuck you!” Jason decidedly does not pout as he gets out of the car and starts storming up to his door.

Bruce rolls down the windows and shouts out a quick ‘love you’ before speeding off into the night.

He won't enable it, but he's not gonna go out of his way to stop them if he's tried once before

Tim’s sitting down at the Batcomputer, mulling over a case that Bruce said to drop several times or at least put a pause in it, cause it's taking its toll on the young detective

When Bruce walks downstairs, Tim’s expecting a confrontation since Bruce had told him to go to sleep at least four times already

But nope

When Bruce noticed Tim looking at him, he simply gave him a greeting grunt before shuffling through his own stack of papers

“I know you said to go to bed, but I’m almost done! I swear!” Tim pressed his back firmly against the swivel chair, waiting…

“Mhmm…” Bruce hummed, barely listening. “Sleep, don’t sleep. Whatever.” Bruce takes another sip of his tea before placing it beside Tim, grabbing a folder full of paper, and pressing a kiss to Tim’s forehead. “Have fun, love you.”

Damian’s angry at him for something perfectly normal to be angry about, whether it’s regular teen stuff or vigilante stuff? Agree with him

While he’s threatening to stay a week at Dick’s place or even the Kent farm, Bruce is packing a bag for him

He nods and hums along absentmindedly as Damian rants that he can’t stand being in the Manor. Nothing he hasn’t heard a million times before from his children and other non-children

“What are you doing?” Damian questioned, finally stopping his rant to actually pay attention to what his father’s doing

“You said you needed a break from me, right?” Bruce grinned, actually okay with the house being quiet for a few days. “You’ve been dying to hang out with Jon more, go on.”

Jon, who was listening in just like his father always is, was already floating outside with the biggest and brightest smile on his face

“Have fun, kiddos. Love you!” Bruce called out, ignoring Damian’s sputtering as he shut the manor door behind him

[taegularities]

colour me in: photograph | jjk (m)

Summary: With both your and Jungkook's careers peaking, the future feels promising and bright. Yet, amidst the glowing hope, one single phone call dims the light in the rooms of your shared home.

➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: fwb/f2l, fake dating; angst, fluff, smut ➳ warnings: work-related stuff, new gallery/art/fair stuff, stress and feeling overwhelmed, death of a pet, tears, sadness/grief, doubts, tender moments, talk of jk's future and his art, support, surprises, (talk of) a break up oop, mention of children (i guess that's a warning lol), explicit sexual content: let-out-some-steam-sex, car sex!! a cmi first!!, dom!jk, big dick!jk, he's actually insane, lots of fingering, bit of overstimulation, (multiple) intense orgasms, kissing, manhandling, smacks on pussy/ass, sum hard sex, they're half clothed, playing with his bawlls; the ending.. <3 ➳ word count: 19.4k ➳ a/n: happy bts month and 3rd anniversary to cmi! get ready, it's gonna hurt for a whiiile now :') i know it's been quite long, but i hope you guys are still around. so as always, come and talk to me about this 🤍 ➳ listen to: photograph by ed sheeran | full collaborative playlist 🤍

SERIES MASTERPOST | TAGLIST MASTERLIST | WIPs

“Jungkook?”

“Babe?”

“Jungkook,” you repeat solemnly, lifting yourself off the far end of the mattress. “I hate surprises.”

There’s light static in the foot previously tucked under your bottom, tingling when you limp to his distracted, pajama-clad self. He’s immersed in the sketchbook you gifted him for his birthday, embellishing yet another page but never showing you what you’ve been begging for.

Mid-stroke, he chuckles, side-eyeing you; you’re still sulking from the conversation before. “Nice try, munchkin. No lies in this household.” Because you love surprises and that butthead knows. “Now sit your ass back down. Wait a bit more. If you’re a good girl.”

You pout again. Leaning in, you press your fingers into where his dimples usually emerge, moving his face back and forth until he whines, and tell him, “You’re a mean man, you know?”

“Stop,” he protests, grabbing your hand when your fingers dig in and removes it from his slightly crimson cheeks. “Learned it from you, apparently.”

“Ah… how fucking dare.”

Your joke slips past him as he pats your thigh twice and places the sketchbook on your pillow. You move aside for him to jump off the bed; the day has passed languidly for most of its part, but Jungkook doesn’t know laziness when it comes to hunger.

It’s snack time anyway — a possibly unhealthy comfort after the diligent workout sessions he powered through this week. But they say couples who munch together stay together, and you’re all for increasing your odds.

“Okay, sushi or dumplings?” he asks, fetching the phone he left on the work desk earlier. “Or both?”

You’re more indecisive than him. Wrong person to ask. “Either is fine. Both reduce stress.”

“Why? Are you stressed?”

“I mean… it’s why people snack sometimes, no?”

“You didn’t deny it, though. What’s up?”

You emit a deep breath, combining anxiety about life and relief about being able to talk about it. As he orders whatever he’s craving, you tell him, “Work’s just been chaotic, which wouldn’t be news if I wasn’t the one responsible for fixing it all.”

You shake your head a little, click your tongue and then continue, “I mean, it’s not that anything needs to be fixed, but with the season changing, the collection does, too… and… of course we need to advertise every single sock and glove.”

There is no need to repeat the current situation to him; perhaps you just need to spell it out again, to torture yourself or maybe, to raise your own awareness of how important this thing is.

So of course he’s calm and reassuring when he says, “But you were so excited about it?”

“I still am. Just nervous as hell, too, because I’ve never taken the lead before, really.”

“No? You did do a hell of a job at Charmante, though.”

You smile weakly, hiding the little sigh and admit, “Yes, but those were never my projects alone. Back when I started here at Novaura and they were doing the autumn launch, I was still just learning and watching. It looked so difficult then, too.”

“Only because autumn to winter fashion is such a jump. Listen,” his eyes lift, the phone thrown back on the bed and a moment later, himself as well. His hand lands on yours, rubbing energetically. “It just means they trust you!”

“Yeahh,” you drag the word, and then nod, “yeah, no, sure. Like, so many people do that all over the world and they manage, so I should be fine.” Jungkook hums. “As long as the models don’t leave us hanging — one of them still hasn’t answered.”

You pause for dramatic effect, an expression of your gathered frustration and fear of failure. But when you look at him, eyes filled with support but a slight distraction in the far back, you digress, “But you have your own stress to deal with right now.”

His eyes flit to the ground and he presses his lips to a line as if to disagree, and then actually does, “I don’t know if I’d call it stress. Just nervous, like you. First big thing for me, too.”

So was the exhibition months ago, and he mastered it so easily. But there are a dozen reasons he’d rather forget about these long nights, no matter how victorious he came out of them.

Despite the exposure he received, he doesn’t talk about it, except once, shortly after you found each other again. Poured how it still sometimes hurt to think about the dread that so overshadowed his excitement, bringing to light every other insecurity he’s ever lived with, too.

But. A healthy number of amazing results followed all that anguish — like, the guy scouting him, or you coming to the exhibition after all. 

Okay. Anyway. Your turn to offer some peaceful words before any of you can enable any approaching nightmares of everything that can go wrong.

“You know,” you start, “I could easily give you my very personal and totally unbiased opinion if you let me see.”

You lower your head to throw an ominous through-the-lashes glance, and you probably look like an idiot enough to make him laugh like this. But then, all earnestly, he explains, “No. If I’m able to land this job, I will show you something far bigger. And—”

He stares up to the ceiling, forming an imaginary rainbow with his hands, all theatrical. “And the stuff you want to actually see is part of what will be one day.”

“Dramatic poetry.”

He shrugs. “I might’ve flicked through your anthologies.” A similar pat as before follows on the back of your hand and he rushes to the table, returning with his turned on laptop. “But know what? I can show you a few of these at least.”

The display lights up bright once he’s typed in his password, directly offering a look at the folder containing the pictures he took on your vacation. Random ones, some of them already edited — he likes doing this.

There’s crystal clear water and the horizon behind it; or random alleys. Very artsy stuff, but carrying an obvious signature note. And the edits add to the specific tone that is so easily distinguished from what other people create.

“Does the guy want photographs, too?” you ask, scooching closer.

“Just for the portfolio. I don’t need to exhibit any just yet… maybe someday.”

As he opens a picture the screen froze on before he shut the laptop, you exclaim, “Oh, this was right after the slippery soccer game! When we were having dinner at this fancy hotel restaurant.”

“Right,” he zooms in, dragging the mouse across faces, “you didn’t like the dessert there.”

“But I liked the main course,” you tell him with a slight lift of your shoulder, watching until your face jumps into your eyes, “look at me here. I fucking hate you for catching this moment of all.”

Your expressions are contorted, left cheek filled with a bite of the tart. You aren’t focused on the camera, not posing or smiling like the rest is; entirely distracted by the attack on your tastebuds.

“Oh, I love myself for it,” Jungkook counters, zooming further into your knitted eyebrows. You hit his shoulder a little, and he fakes a devastated exclaim, “Owh. Bully.”

“I look like the grapes offended me and my ancestors.”

“Probably did.”

“Probably.”

You laugh, basking in the post-vacation glow, although missing the moments the pictures are refreshing in your mind. You take over the keyboard to move between them, dwelling on one or returning to another when you recall a story to it.

Jungkook, with the computer on his lap, leans back, listens to your tales and adds his own. Talking about the conversations held before, during and after all these many seconds were captured.

And at some point, as time passes and the delivery service rings the bell, you finally prepare to move from one activity to the next; Jungkook gets up to open the door.

But just before disappearing, uncaring of who awaits, he turns around again, one look thrown down to where you sit so calmly. Looking like the same girl chomping through her lunch in the empty skatepark, legs dangling underneath the summer sun as he teased her out of her mind next to her.

You have changed — but you haven’t. You look happier, at least.

If he could, he’d stare at the glow a little longer.

But instead, he remembers the food waiting outside and with it the certainly impatient supplier, and he leans into you slowly. Digs two fingers into your cheeks, much softer than you did to him before, and closes the space between your mouths.

The kiss is a mere peck, but feathery and sweet, finished in a moment. But it’s delightful, how giddy you still look when you ask, “What was that for?”

His shoulders rise again to a shrug, thumb brushing along your skin. And then, he backs away and leaves with a last statement that is so simple that it really shouldn’t stir your stomach the way it does— “Nothing at all. Could just do it all day.”

Jungkook looks around the dimly lit hall.

Very natural how the gallery collector chose an artistic museum-café for the first meet-up, surrounded by tiny shops offering bookmarks and puzzles of popular pieces.

Of course, the mere reason for this was the collector’s professional visit before Jungkook arrived, coinciding with this meeting only because the guy’s calendar was — as he claimed — already filled to the brim.

Fine by Jungkook. If circumstances offered a way to get into one of his favourite museums for free, just because the man vis-à-vis allowed him in, he wasn’t going to say no.

And the café is of the extraordinary sort — not at the end of the exhibition, behind some souvenir shop, right next to the exit. It’s situated in the middle of the first floor, surrounded by a couple entrances that lead to different eras of painted magic.

The exhibitions are showcased in rooms as brightly lit as the one Jungkook presented his own work in, but the hall housing the café-restaurant in the middle resembles a castle. Lights warm as candles, ceilings high, walls an art of their own.

And amidst all the wonder, there’s him, nervous and fumbling as the gallery collector, Mr. Paik, takes in each page of the portfolio with eagle eyes. Jungkook would run if he could, come back when the man has formed a verdict.

But instead, Jungkook slurps his flat white and waits, eyes bigger than ever as he stares through his growing bangs. And then, Paik finally nods a bit, forefinger tapping at a random spot on the page before he says, entirely unrelated, “You have some good connections, don’t you?”

“I— uh,” Jungkook sits up, uprighting his torso, naming the one person Paik already knows of, “I have Kim Namjoon.”

“Okay. Really, he is more than enough, too.” He shuts the portfolio, only to open it again to one of the first works. “You do have exceptional talent and are in good hands with Namjoon. A convenient combination if you ask me.”

“I think so, too. I have a lot to thank him for.”

“Mmhm, this is incredible. It takes people years sometimes to work their way into a gallery. And that without open calls or random submissions — I mean, possible, but rare.”

“I really am thankful, sir,” Jungkook says, voice a bit livelier. This is what he’s been wanting to hear all those years; it pumps a vast amount of energy into his soul. “Honestly. I can barely believe I was even part of a group exhibition, either.”

Paik laughs, multiple little crinkles of age collecting at the corners of his eyes. He puts a hand on the table, fingers brushing the saucer under his cup.

Then he asks, “Why’s that? Your awareness of detail is great. You can surely work your way up if you give your best, and people will definitely see how much you love doing this, too.”

“I am certainly intending to work hard. Thank you so much.”

A burden falls off Jungkook’s chest and lightens the space. Of course, this is just the beginning and the true trials are still ahead. But this is still a more than opportune way to start out; to find a footing in this area of work and then climb up to success.

The moment paired with the coffee leaves Jungkook hyped to the bone, but he attempts his best to remain composed. Not that he can hide much of his telling smile, and the man in front of him sees through him quickly.

He asks, “Excited, yes?”

Jungkook sighs in relief; his pupils are probably enlarged as hell. “I can’t even find the words. To tell you the truth, I was so anxious about this for so long. And I really want people to feel the same way you did just now. It has been a goal for the longest time.”

He’s probably rambling — so much to staying calm. But perhaps it’s just right, to show his humane side, to actually manifest into words all that his hands bring to paper. Artists are vulnerable; why not show all of it instead of stashing his heart?

“I will help as best as I can,” Paik says, and Jungkook half nods, half bows, ready to nearly tear up until the collector’s next words freeze him on his chair, “we could start out with an art fair. There’s one at the end of November, so in around a month? Not long before the gallery showing. Do you want to come?”

…What?

Let’s see…

That’s in nearly three weeks. No time left at all. Everything is happening so fast that it appears downright unbelievable, too good to be true — never for a second did Jungkook expect for opportunities to fall into his hands like this.

Insane. Insane. Insane. 

“No?” Paik asks again, and Jungkook soon notices that he’s supposed to answer, that he hasn’t said or done anything yet, other than to ponder his luck in his head.

“D-do I want to—” he stammers, aware that his conversation partner is amusingly registering each of Jungkook’s joys.

“I mean, it’s not that easy. You’d have to present your stuff and create new things — if you want. And select pieces you could sell. The competition can be tough, but I wouldn’t be worried—”

Oh fuck.

Half his heart is thrilled about the chance; the other half dreads the moment, finding artworks he can give away. And if nobody purchases it? Or even fails to find their way to his booth? And can he do a lot in three weeks at all?

“You can also just come and look around, without being one of the showcasers, too!” Paik tries to comfort, but—

Isn’t this what Jungkook wants? To show the world pieces of his himself, what he loves, what he’s always done?

Wouldn’t it be thoroughly stupid to say no?

Paik tries again, giving Jungkook some space to think about it. He comments, “I’ll give you some time. But I suggested it because you bring exceptional talent to the table and I know I’m not the only one wanting you to grow quickly.”

“Yes… yes, I can barely wait either,” Jungkook starts, nervously laughing, “but is that even possible? Can I afford to rush it…?”

“Are you really rushing it, though, if you’re doing what you enjoy? Then again,” Paik pauses, thinks about it, “you’re not wrong. I wouldn’t make my hobby a chore. If you feel like it’s too stressful, you can take your time. I’m sure you can make it big either way, no matter when.”

“You are too kind, Mr. Paik.”

“Honest,” he corrects with a soft, likeable smile, “take it easy.”

“Yes. God, I’m just perplexed because—” Jungkook puffs out some breath, blinking. His nervously shaking hands curl into fists, thoughts all over the place. “I’ve always wanted this. My own studio and everything.”

“But it’s too much at once?”

“No… yes. I mean, I want this, but I just can’t believe my luck.”

“You underestimate yourself. You can reach your goals with ease.”

Jungkook offers a vibrant smile, mixed with a bit of concern but with elation, too. When you love something too much, the fear of losing it grows even bigger. But maybe he should focus on what’s in front of him; and right now, it’s a huge ass break just to happen.

“Okay. You know what — I will give it a try. Why not?” Jungkook says, coming way too close to cursing, too close to throwing in words of strong eagerness. “I can already think of so many things. A couple old pieces can be refined by then as well.”

“Remember that you can opt out anytime, I won’t mind. You still have the gallery showcase.” Paik leans forwards, hands folding on the table. “But Mr. Jeon… I wouldn’t worry too much. You are already at a level of ambition that often bears great results. Don’t let any of it falter.”

His words tattoo themselves into Jungkook’s hearts. Somehow, he reckons this is a memory that’ll stay carved in his mind, repeating even if he fails; on loop when he succeeds — many years after today, he’ll remember these joys.

Crazy.

Jungkook’s tense muscles calm as some ease and confidence wash into him, and with a heart full of aspiration and a mind filled with ideas, he says,

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Once the high-reaching waves of delirium have ebbed down and Jungkook calms from soaring, he finds himself in smoggy hesitation. Or maybe, it’s not really that — more so growing portions of panic.

The more he thinks about it, the more his mind whirs. Yes, no doubt, he’s got half a dozen ideas already; he was certainly not lying about that. But — he’s not the only artist in the world. And he definitely won’t be the only or first one to attend the fair, or to be part of a gallery.

So much is at stake, so much to give. He has never considered failure an option; aside from you, art has always been the one thing he’s been sure about, the one skill he’s confided in and understood to the core.

But with all that hope and support comes fear, too, and Paik, while indescribably kind, has awoken pressure in Jungkook he had never put on himself before.

Hours later, as you meet him on your way back home, he doesn’t seem nervous to you just yet. You wait in front of the entrance of the building that holds Namjoon’s studio, car parked not too far. If you’d known he’d be rushing here even on his day off, you’d have told him to take the vehicle today.

Conveniently, you finished just a little earlier than he did, driving all the way to this corner of the town. It’s not particularly close to your work. But despite his retelling of the meet-up with the gallery guy today, you had an odd feeling about Jungkook.

He sounded enthusiastic first; then, different. Not necessarily worried, but his voice had changed and he was in a hurry, pushing the conversation to, “Later.”

“What’s up?” you ask the moment he finds you.

There’s ease in the kiss he presses to your cheek, melting relief in his doe-brown eyes. But you don’t know…

Given the news, you feel like he’s lacking the fitting glow.

“Nothing new since the afternoon,” he answers, light crooked smile as he finds your hand to hold, “what about you?”

You shake your head. “No, I mean. Are you okay?”

“Huh? Struck one of the biggest deals of my life. Is there any other way to feel?”

That’s it… considering the fact that this exact thing happened, you sure cannot hear the excited tremble that such an opportunity usually elicits. He isn’t properly looking at you either. Smiling and swinging your arms, yeah, but staring ahead and sighing, too.

“Tired,” Jungkook responds, a tell-tale answer to Jungkook-esque anxiety and scarily common in human conversations these days, “just really tired. There’s a lot to think about in the upcoming future.”

“Hmm, yes.”

You let the thought marinate, for a moment even browsing your brain for ideas you can deliver additionally to the ones he already has. And he’s distracted, too, walking the rest of the way to the car mostly in peaceful silence.

But when you get in, insisting on driving, especially after his admissions of exhaustion, you prod again, “You know, this is a huge thing. I felt out of my mind when I started at Novaura. It’s okay to feel nervy or something.”

You push the key into the ignition, watching as he nods, a surprisingly steady voice telling you, “I know. Of course, that’s normal.”

Yet, as the seconds pass and the motor roars, you feel him grow uneasy on the passenger’s seat. It’s not until you pull out of the parking lot and near the first traffic light that he finally fesses up.

“I feel really fucking weird.”

You turn to him. The day is darkening and the red traffic light colouring his face extra bright. In it, he looks particularly concerned and frightened, accompanying his words with a deep exhale. He rubs his chin for a second.

And when you dig, “Weird how?”, he says, “I’m just unsure about what I got myself into.”

“Into something you will love to do.”

“Yeah, I mean — I just get why people say it’s dangerous to turn your hobby into work. He said exceptional talent today and my God. It’s very scary, landing amidst many good artists that I might not be able to compare with.”

You hum, checking for pedestrians before taking a right turn. You chew over his words before you ultimately tell him, “You don’t need to compare, though, do you? I thought that was never really the objective.”

“No, but… in the end, competition is crucial.”

“Oh… Jungkook. It’ll all turn out just right.”

It’s all you can do at the moment; wrap your words in honeyed support, extra sweet as you operate the wheel. But he’s distracted; staring out the window, blinking slowly, a hand on his cheek — he looks magnificent even like this, nearly animated.

“Hey,” you start, overcome with bits of guilt that you can’t help better. At home, you’ll prepare a loose schedule for him, boost motivation. You pat the back of his hand resting on his thigh, tell him, “Be yourself. Present what you love. People see passion, so whatever you do, it’ll be enough.”

Jungkook’s eyes widen a fraction; Paik said something similar.

“Present what I love.” He tries out the words, inhales the crips air blowing in from the open slit of the window. Then — displays his signature smirk. “So shall I take you with me?”

It’s only that he meets your eyes again when yours narrow, playfully judgemental and incredibly amused. The humour he finds in every situation…

The palm previously touching his skin lifts and pushes at his shoulder, and you say, “You’re disgusting.”

“It’d be a win-win moment, though. I can just bring you anywhere,” he still jokes, though bits of light remorse resonate in his voice, too. You get why when he says, “After all, I’ll have to be away from you for a little, too.”

Ah… that.

“Well, I mean. Busy times are ahead anyway. I’ll drown myself in work,” you say.

“Yeah. I don’t know. God, this is… stressful.”

You move into your alley, a reflex when the pace slows and you carefully turn into the garage. Jungkook and you abandoned the random parking lots outside that are almost never free and opted for a paid spot in the garage instead.

Big advantage. It’s inside and not a 5-minute-walk away, warmer in the winter, cooler in the summer. And many lots are free because not everybody needs a car or a parking space.

So… it’s often empty…

Right. Mostly empty. Right now, just him and you.

An idea pops into your mind.

Or rather, a tempting reminder. An old joke, indecent, said in excited moments that you forgot about for a while. Life got hectic.

But… hm.

You let the engine die, taking off your seatbelt, but you don’t leave the car just yet. As Jungkook, lost in thoughts, targets for the handle to strut up to your apartment, you hold him back by his elbow. Tug at the jacket.

“Kook.”

He looks back. Big, big eyes. You almost feel bad for thinking what you’re thinking, because there is no way that huge ass pupils like this could ever give into anything but innocent. If you didn’t know this man and the things he does to you, that’s what you’d assume…

“Can I tell you something?” you inquire.

“What?”

He sits back down, fingers falling off the handle. The questioning look turns more curious, but not worried — you don’t look like you have anything evil to confess. Your cheeks heat up.

“I was missing you today,” you confess. How lame — but a start. You shrug a shoulder to yourself. “Like, can’t-work-properly kinda missing.”

“Yeah? Well, welcome in my head,” the tip of his forefinger pokes his temple, “I miss you all the time.”

You keep staring. Wait for the right moment, ponder whether it’d be better to just leave him be tonight. To let him go up, shower, eat a comforting meal and drop into the mattress. But you’re already riled up at your thoughts; already closing your thighs.

It’s just this dumb joke you have, to execute a specific idea on any day that you might need to. When the days are gloomy and the time is right and you feel like experimenting, distracting yourselves.

Suggestions uttered in steamy moments are usually whatever, mostly just a product of brave craze. Yet, it could be a temporary remedy.

Jungkook’s eyes follow your confused thighs. Whatever he sees, it lights up his gaze a bit. Opens his eyelids. His eyes move back to yours and he blinks again, asks you, “Do you want something? Need something?”

He inches closer. Just enough for you to feel his breaths, fingers pinching your chin. But there’s no lewd intention behind this yet. The touch is pure and modest.

You don’t think he’s caught onto you enough to initiate what you’re willing to give, but it’s still something… he doesn’t seem the least bit surprised when you say, “I’d just— love a kiss right now.”

“A kiss?” He laughs. Of course he knew. “Sure that’s not because you knew I needed one?”

“You’re not the only one who has needs an—”

Your words are cut off as they often are; the impish smile stays as his lips meet yours, but he’s still careful, loving, vulnerable after the week he had.

But for now, you don’t say anything — can’t do it anyway as he moves his mouth gently, kissing you sweetly, not for too long but still enough for your tummy to react. So you hold back a bit less when you part, starting, “This might sound sudden—”

You wait. Then, he asks, “But?”

“But… Do you want to… leave it out somewhere? The stress.”

Just a little, he backs away. Perhaps he didn’t expect to hear this already. Maybe he thought you’d promise more, promise a tender night once your door had closed. But you’re feeling like taking a risk today.

“Huh?” he voices.

“It’s what you think, I think—”

“Like now?”

“Like now. Like here. I mean it.”

“…Seriously?”

You nod just once.

He hesitates. Sure he does — is there anyone in this world who wouldn’t give it a thought, so exposed here, a bit hidden but in a garage open to at least some neighbours anyway? Yes, there probably is.

But Jungkook is… an enigma right now. You don’t know what he’ll say. Give in because he digs adventures like this? Lowkey one to enjoy risks, too, to feel the thrill of you under him, trying to compose yourself, to not be too loud; to give you everything in a space that requires caution?

Or maybe… he’ll just shake his head, roll his eyes and leave. Declare you a fool, laugh at you for suggesting it at all. Tease you with it even at a ripe age.

Damn it, you can’t read his expression.

So you wait. Wait for seconds that feel like minutes, watching him cock an eyebrow, look around, lean back, sigh. As if he’s thinking about it hard; harder than work. As hard as his pants stir.

Well.

Then—

“I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“What?”

“You offer that I let out my stress on you,” he repeats, and you nod, “obviously I won’t hurt you, but… I don’t know how hard I’ll snap.”

Oh, fuck… the liquid is pooling between your legs. The everlasting, old effect of his…

You’re quick to let him know, “I don’t mind.” You draw closer, a hand on his knee, inching up until you feel just the beginning of his stiffening member. You withdraw, put a kiss to the corner of his lips. “I honestly don’t.”

“Not even if somebody walks past?”

You toy with the hem of his jacket. “Don’t give a fuck.”

“Angel…”

“Yeah?”

“Sure?”

“Kook—”

“Okay— Okay. Just, you… You’ll tell me if it’s too much?” Shit. That’s it. Your eyes expand; you can’t believe he surrendered. You guess your effect on him is just as apparent. “Because I might…”

“I know. Yes, of course I will.”

“My God,” he whispers, fingers to your wrist, but so featherlight that it doesn’t affect anything. “Nobody who might know me once I’m famous better see me causing… a scandal already.”

You let out a gasp, faux-offended — the two of you have already learned to laugh about the news articles in the past that concerned you. Now, it’s whatever. But the timing of the jest is just right.

Because his grip tightens suddenly around your wrist, and the frisky gasp you let out turns into a real one. Morphs into a tiny shriek when he pulls you into him, dropping another quiet F-bomb and then commanding, “Back seat. Now.”

He doesn’t need to tell you twice. You get out of the car and back into it at a speed that is nearly embarrassing; especially considering how leisurely he strolls back, a hand through his hair, jacket zipped open.

It’s cold outside, but you feel warm somehow. Well, if you get sick because you were stupid… you won’t mind this time. You could squeak in electrified anticipation. 

But not a sound escapes when he finally gets in, luring you into the corner and against the seat before a hand grabs your face and brings his mouth back to yours.

Again, for just a second. He doesn’t make too much of a fuss today, doesn’t say too much; it doesn’t happen often, but sometimes, like now, he does go straight into it with an incredibly determined mind.

And he probably doesn’t have anything to say anyway. His eyes are too foggy. Or at least, nothing except commands. Such as, “Turn around.”

You take off your shoes and your jacket, try to get into position… It’s not easy. Not in such a confined space, not with both your bodies here; not even when he leans back. He’s a big man, after all…

“You tell me if it gets uncomfortable,” he mutters, still soft when you get your knees onto the seat.

But your feet graze his hands, too close to his body; Jungkook fixes the issue fast. Grabs one of your legs and places it down, foot attempting to steady on the car’s floor. The other leg is squeezed along the back of the seat, next to his own leg.

It’s not too comfortable, but not bad enough to complain either. You can still endure easily; it’s not a chore to do so anyway when he leans down, grabbing your jacket and throwing it into the passenger seat. Or when his warm hands crawl beneath your top, raise it, lips just barely brushing your skin.

He wants to do far more than this, but the space doesn’t allow as much; you know that under different circumstances, he’d let his tongue wander down. But he can’t lean back more than this, so he lets the fingers do their job.

Tugs at your jeans, following the hem, unbuttoning them once he reaches the front. 

He circumnavigates along your skin until he’s caressing your ass, allowing another chaste touch just to return to the spot that was covered under the jeans’ button a second ago. The movements are scarce, with an unspoken purpose that you can’t decipher just yet.

Possibly to his own pleasure, to take you in inch by inch, to feel the heat in his already alight fingertips.

And then, without a word or a warning, he yanks your jeans down, bringing the baggy material way to your knees. Your panties are still in place, unfortunately, still a probably irritating obstacle to the delirious hazard behind you.

But you guess he contains his urge to run wild, instead asking with a voice drenched in syrup, “Feeling cold?”

“Surprisingly not…” you tell him, lifting the hand once you notice it’s clinging to the car’s door handle. Nah — would be awkward to fall out half naked now. “Even if I was, I’d take the fever for this.”

Jungkook clicks his tongue, cursing under his breath; you can nearly feel and clearly see him shaking his head without even looking at him. He says, “You’re impossible. Then again,” he sighs, “if you just knew. My view is definitely worth the cold.”

“Shut up. Do something.”

It’s supposed to come out as an order, but you end up sounding as though you’re pleading instead. It must entertain him as much as it embarrasses you because he, clearly helped by the abundant sarcasm in his mind, responds, “Yes, yes. Certainly.”

At least he keeps his promise — happily obliges when he presses a finger to your nub. Not too harshly — it doesn’t hurt when he rubs the cotton panties against your skin before he moves to push them aside.

And you’re neither surprised nor ashamed when his digit slips right in, a smooth one fell swoop motion, prying out a satisfied sound. 

You need to feel all of this. Need to be more comfortable. So you press your forehead against the door; immediately feel it when he pumps his fingers in and out slowly, follows the slight changes in your position.

He doesn’t stop. Continues until his movements quicken just a tad, but then slow down again. Initial instinct tells you that he’s already toying with you, using your devotion to him to tease you towards insanity.

But that’s not true. He’s still too hazy-brained to really think further than this mere touch, admitting to you, “This… is not easy.”

Oh… yeah. You’ve been kneeling here awkwardly; didn’t really think about how strange it must be for the almighty sex god sitting behind you, too. Besides…

“Wouldn’t have guessed,” you tell him; push his ego, “was already pretty fucking nice.”

He laughs, more so lovingly than mischievously. You told him to not hold back tonight, but you know Jungkook — in the end, even he can’t resist your charms. There’s an unspoken and spoken adoration between the two of you and he can never help but showcase it like this.

He attempts to provoke, “You’ll love anything I do, though, no?” 

“You say it like you’re any different.”

“Shut up,” he instantly imitates, landing a couple faint slaps to your ass as he shifts. “And get up.”

And you listen instead of opting for snarky remarks. The faster you indulge, the quicker he’ll deliver. Fuck, you want him to.

The kisses don’t end for the night when you very briefly face him again, half turned to him with an arm backwards around his head. Your lips lock only for a moment before he takes a proper sit in the middle, tugging you up to him.

It’s funny, how he’d never kiss you months ago, no matter how many hints you left and no matter how badly his body urged for it; and now he’s never capable of stopping. Back then, his mind warned him to stay back; that it’d only throw him into this endless pit of madness and falling in love if he gave in.

In truth, he already had. Found out better late than never.

The entire process of moving in here, entangling your limbs and trying your best in barely a square meter, is draining, but you find a solution quickly. Granted, said solution is messy and forces your head against the ceiling for a painful second, but…

Once in his lap and between his legs, everything seems irrelevant.

And you hope he didn’t notice anyway. But of course he did. His laughter reveals it; you tried to brush off how you rubbed your head, to hide it behind your heavy breaths, but Jungkook is attentive. So you join in, surrendering to the playfulness amidst the ardour until it dies in your throat.

Gone and faded when he puts a hand around your neck, pulling you closer; your back is secured to his chest.

And goddamn, the kisses are wet. Sloppy, dirty, landing on more free inches of your skin when he lifts your head, other hand busy roaming over your tits — then further down, down your body, your top, your stomach, once again past the panties that fell back over your drenched pussy.

And the aching clit… begging and swollen. Just waiting for him to come back.

You let out a sigh and sound so lustful, it surprises even you.

And Jungkook, warm, heavy and hard under you, holds you tight, muttering to himself, “Okay.” Waits, breathes, licking his lips before he shortens, “‘Kay.”

You lean forwards when he cups your pussy, and then sit back — or rather, you are forced back as he tugs you in, greedy and fucked out of his mind. You grip his thighs when he sneaks closer to your awaiting hole, brushing over your leg, and then right back in. 

God, the calculated movements…

Rounding the clit… gauging the wetness… stuffing you more and further and better. 

And you feel it all. Every nerve lighting up, walls tighter around him now before relaxing again. Your lower tummy builds up the knot, and you let your head fall back onto his shoulder; only, it’s just your cheek that lands against his, free to be kissed.

“Spread them more,” he whispers against your jaw, nibbling at the earlobe. “These…”

He repeats when you don’t register. Then you take another moment to understand what you can spread, stupidly mistaking his order to hold apart your nether lips; but you soon realise that you’ve decreased the angle your legs stand in.

“Wha—?” you question, even though you’re aware of what to do. You just… you want to feel his piping hot breath against your aflame skin again.

“I said,” he starts, a harsh grip around your thigh pulling it to the side. Your heart rate increases. “Spread.”

Ah…

You’re already so sensitive even without any orgasm, and the sensation keeps you moving, legs shutting involuntarily. And he keeps parting them, pumping harder — but apparently, he wants to focus on more than on actually holding you in place.

You grin. Your mistake.

But you guess this route distracts him from daily issues just as much.

Especially when you let your legs fall over his own, dangling, keeping them there and spreading to your maximum abilities. He can take you out now. And he does. The squelching sounds, lewd, louder even in this car than in your spacious bedroom, make it clear.

Because now he’s using two fingers at once. Knuckles deep. Massaging the right spot inside with ease. The way he knows what he’s doing nearly renders you jealous — but then you realise he had plenty of time to practice on you, too.

There’s a reason for his extensive knowledge of your body, after all.

Like how you want his fingers inside, a thumb on your bud or his hands around your firm nipples. How you love the nasty fantasy of him spreading your cum over your tits, just as he is now when you release your high, screaming into the car, arching your back for seconds.

You attempt to get in between, to quicken the orgasm, to shift until nothing’s left in you. But Jungkook is eager to take over the work; pins your intruding hand to your thigh when you try to touch yourself again.

One more, “Stop this, will you?” is dropped before he is back to your clit, overstimulating you to whimpers.

Are you a masochist for loving this? Did he make you like this? Maybe — probably. You won’t complain. You will take it… want to take it. His angel, yes?

You turn to look at him. You barely see him properly from this proximity and in this light, but you do recognise a hooded gaze meeting into your own eyes’ daze. He closes the distance to steal another kiss, but then he stops; keeps staring at you instead.

He prefers this sometimes. Mouth agape. Forehead close to yours. A sweet voice asking, “What? I can stop whenever.”

Whether it’s a threat or a reassurance, you don’t know. You’ll take both; either does it for you right now.

“No,” you protest, “I told you to let it out.”

“But…” The sly smile returns. The switch from caring boyfriend to reckless devil is rapid, absolute madness. “But I do enjoy tormenting you.”

You tsk, “Then, do whatever the fuck you want. You know what I want.”

“Right… Do it then,” he begins, his voice almost imperceivable. “Take a seat.”

What an ass…

Not in the back seat, obviously; he has most of it occupied already, manspreading as he is. No, he’s talking about that throne of yours that you keep claiming on the regular. The one that…

You clear your head. If you don’t focus on lifting, you won’t be able to. Willpower.

And while moments of giddy weakness do pass, you manage to separate from him by a few inches, keeping an eye on his erection as he hurries — struggles — to take off his pants. It’s a hassle; you bump your head again, too, swearing, “Fucking hell.”

He doesn’t laugh this time. Too busy to rid himself off his boxers, letting the divine cock spring out, towering, veiny, big and fat. It grows by the second when you sit down again, settling between your ass cheeks, twitching.

Your slip is the last hurdle. Which you do try to remove before that pain in the ass — not literally, though you wished it was — brings his fingers back to where you ache for him, gives you some more, still overstimulating and edging when you say, “Bit more — just a bit—”

You’d rather have something else inside, but Jungkook is resolute today, and you will not be one to have a problem with it. Not with him, not ever.

You clench your jaw as you crawl closer to your high again, raising yourself and pumping him in retaliation before he finally gives up around a minute later and a strained voice quite literally demands, “Sit the fuck down.”

“…Pleasure.”

And that’s it.

He impales you so deeply; you never get used to it, always think it’s ending when it doesn’t. Hear the absolutely, devastatingly sinful moans he lets out, see the heavenly attractive face he makes when you look at him.

Your breaths are stagnant when you move back up and slap down onto his legs. Keep giving until something snaps in you after a mere minute already.

This orgasm he built was an intense one, and you awaited it, already knowing you’d wave the white flag very fast already. You’re surprised it took this long at all; you had anticipated to come undone the moment he entered you.

But it still makes your legs quiver. Strains and then relaxes your muscles, numbs you inside out, your body uncontrolled as you unwind in waves. How does he manage to do this each time? How do men usually not?

If you weren’t proud and possessive, and if privacy wasn’t a construct in relationships and the entirety of the world, you’d suggest for him to give a crash course to men on how to help a girl out. At least one guy does it fucking right.

Oh, anyone being fucked like this is just—

You exclaim in lust as you keep bouncing, his fingers pinching your nipples, teeth digging into your shoulder. He remembers that he’s the one supposed to let himself go tonight, and soon reverses, delivering smacks to your pussy before he parts your legs again.

And then… starts hammering from below.

Reflexively, you look down.

You still can’t recognise much in the dark, but you do see the hardness driving into you and out of you. His thrusts are wild, his balls bouncing — you cover them with a hand around them, massaging them and playing until he loses it.

“What the fuck—”

You love it when he expresses such a thing. Cursing, whispering it. It disturbs his rhythm, but that doesn’t mean the ramming stops. Still deep, still fast, still accompanied by low-pitched, guttural, exhausted sounds.

You soon hold onto his legs again, keeping yourself from falling to the side. Then again, Jungkook is well wrapped around you, and he won’t let you go anywhere just now. Not until he’s done with you, and you’re done with any feeling in your body.

What if you just stayed here tonight, told him to keep doing this over and over again? Would he do it…?

You’re so desperate, aren’t you?

“Oh, God… angel,” he only murmurs, biting harder into your shoulder before he moans against it. “Mmh— I love you. And this pu— oh, fuck—”

He can’t talk anymore. Too fast down there, a jarring pace, chasing his peak now at all cost. You’re permanently thirsty for this very moment; when you’re already all wet around him, spilled and filthy, waiting for him to lose control with only one goal in mind.

Seriously, anyone being fucked like this is lucky. You cracked a jackpot in the middle of a hundred concerns.

Crazy how you ran from them by letting him rail you on his small dorm room table, the front of your torso pushed down onto it or cheeks touching the cold of his door. He’d always find a way to bring you to tears of longing, but you didn’t think you’d ever find deeper affection in this passion someday.

But there is. So much of it when he kisses your neck again and then your jaw, raising your legs, keeping them up. Shooting his cock far up into you and pounding you breathless like a doll; all at the same time as he whispers, “I love you, baby. I love you.”

It is never a confession he misses. Like clockwork, always present. Words that don’t convey just yet what he feels but all he can still revert to.

This is what he meant by not holding back. He wouldn’t just stop fucking his craving into you, but all he’s grown to feel, too. And shit, do you love him, too—

He said he didn't know what he’d do. But he does.

Because despite the craze he’s delivering, he’s still somehow careful around you. Even now; always. Even while spreading your pussy wound. Injecting it into his words when he asks, “You… good?”

“Yes, yes,” you yell out; how could you hold back, lower your volume now? “Yes— Kook—”

“I know, yes, m-me…” A pause in between to catch his breath; he’s so fatigued but keeps going. “Me too.”

You call out again, and his hand flies up, leaving your body to shut your mouth. Unrelated, he admits, “Wish I could stuff a-all your holes.” Then shakes his head. “I dunno what sounds you’d make—”

You don’t know either; you can barely imagine it. Imagine anything. And you’re so permanently intrigued by this statement — he keeps saying it. Keeps teasing you. You’re still waiting for this fortunate day.

“You go– got me good last time,” he says, referring to the empty countryside house and the charm you bewitched him with, “my turn now.”

Indeed it is. He’s still not done.

Not at all as he pulls out suddenly, much to your demise, and throws you onto the seat and says, “Ass up. Bit like before.”

He sniffs, and as you look over your shoulder, you see him pushing back the hair and the shirt up to his chest, abs visible even in the faint lights of the garage. You are more than surprised that nobody walked past your car yet.

Or maybe, you just didn’t notice.

Who cares anyway…

You just want to focus. Not on them, but on how he pushes himself back into you, harsh from the start, leaning in with a finger in your mouth again to swallow some of your sounds. He pulls up your ass, pushes down your torso.

Your body is his leverage as his hands settle on your back, his cock shooting back and forth. Pelvis slapping against your ass, loud and aggressive, balls deep…

When he comes, your wrists are in his grip somehow. He’s kissing your shoulder again, endless loads of seed filling you up. His movements are irregular, too, sounds staggering on top of yours, thrusts slower but still deep until he’s… done.

Breathing heavily, he tries not to collapse over you, not getting enough air. But he doesn’t dare to open the windows or the door, either. With all the sweat, the two of you would be sure to get sick, and neither of you can, in hindsight, have it right now.

So you wait. Let him and yourself take a moment, reluctant to let him fall out of you just yet. This is somehow… nice. How he stirs and shrinks, keeping your body warm.

You turn your face to plant your cheek to the seat, and Jungkook, letting out a tiny, tired laugh, says, “Why did you even do your make up today?” Unserious question, really, because he’d never oppose your love for make up. But— “Guess it won’t be difficult to remove it today if I’ve already smeared most of it.”

“Oh fuck…” you say, trying to lift your body with your elbows, but you fall back due to his weight on half of you, “we’ll need to properly clean up the car this weekend.”

“Can’t even think about it right now.”

“Right. So… shall I stop doing my make up from now on?”

“No. It’s up to you,” he immediately answers — but then, like the ass he is, he says, “as long as you’re okay with having it ruined every day.”

You reach for his knee, slapping it as you say, “Sex maniac.”

“I’m not a sex maniac,” he protests, “it’s not about sex but about you.”

You understand — there were times when it was different, for both of you; no matter whether with each other or with others. Sometimes, sex does stem from pure lust, a consensual passing of time. 

But you always sensed that the two of you were far more than that. Maybe not a couple-to-be, but certainly more than a way to pass time. Perhaps the night at the frat party so long ago already felt different, too…

“If you say so,” you tell him, wiggling your butt. He’s already soft, but you still utter, “Wish there was a camera to see what’s going on back there sometimes.”

“Mmmh. It looks pretty fucking good,” he says, pulling out, the panties back at their place as he traps the cum inside for now. “I’ll film it next time.”

“Seriously, man…”

You sit up. You already feel the liquid running out of you when you put your jeans back on; it’s somewhat disgusting, but a symbol of healthy obsession, too. It’s fine.

Besides, you’ll be up in your apartment in a jiffy.

“Truly, how do we clean this up…” you wonder as you look around, not able to see much anyway.

But he argues, “More importantly right now, how do we get to the apartment to clean you up?”

You wave him off with a hand. “Find a way. I can’t move and it’s your fault, so you figure it out.”

A hearty snicker follows, and you can’t help but lift your lips to a smile, too. He kisses your hair, and says, “I am somehow super proud of myself, hearing that.” He leans down, grabs a heavy piece of clothing. “Put this on.”

Your jacket. It’s getting colder by the minute now.

“Up, up, then.”

And you do tumble up. Slowly and cautiously, muscles already aching and everything sore — he’s loving it. “Seeing you like this… I guess it wasn’t a bad idea after all.”

“Not at all,” you agree, “honestly, both routes are fun. My turn next time.”

“Sure. You’re all hot and sexy and make me feel hot and sexy until,” the key turns in the lock, opening the apartment door as he grows quieter, “my mother comes in and sees the clothes lying around the next morning.”

You gasp in indignation, instant embarrassment flooding through you as you think back to the fervent night and the whimsical morning. You whisper, “Did she?!”

But as always, Jeon Jungkook is a jerk.

“No. I’m kidding.” You reach for his arm, whining his name, but sighing in relief, too. “Sorry! But. They probably still knew, you know? Why does a couple ever leave a party early, really?”

You think for a second. Then hum in agreement, letting go of him as you shrug, “To fuck.”

“And now we know it’s valid to do so. Because we fucked fucked.” No shame whatsoever. No filter, either. You laugh. “Alright. We’ve still got time.” He hangs the jacket on the racket. “Hungry?”

“Yes and no. I’m famished, but also more than satisfied.” You walk in with a yawn. “A snack maybe? Full dinner in a bit?”

“I know what snack is code for.” He winks; you roll your eyes. “Okay, okay — wanna watch something in the meantime?”

“Sure.”

As you enter the living room, he looks around, asking, “Where’s the laptop?”

But you’re already taking a turn to the bedroom. Off to grab your clothes, take a quick shower and press a dent into the mattress. You repeat, “Don’t know. I’m not moving anymore. You get it.”

“Brat.”

But he still does.

Still cuddles into you with food, preparing tea and bringing your favourite snacks, tucking you in properly with all the effort left and right. He’s tired and probably still — or again — nervous, and yet he spends the rest of the hours watching some show you started until he starts obsessing again.

Over your heart, over your mind, over you. Barely a mutter when his cheek lands on your chest again, taking in your fragrance as he breathes, “This helped… still does. You always help.”

“…I just want you to know, baby, that… I’ll always believe in the best outcome. You’ll rock this.”

“I’ll rock this.” And as you whisper an exactly, he chuckles quietly. Moving further into you and your soul before he adds,

“Why do I never get used to you?”

You don’t respond — only smile, running your fingers through his silky hair.

But you know the answer.

For this is exactly what happens when the soul keeps falling in love with someone. Over and over again.

“You do know that we’re supposed to meet up with them in like,” you drop your eyes to your wrist, pulling back the sweater to unveil your watch, “forty minutes, right?”

“And you think they’ll complain about some extra time alone?”

You launch a blank stare, not a single blink as you watch him shrug a shoulder. He sports a smirk that you would’ve clenched your jaw to months ago, but today, even if you won’t admit it right this second, it amuses you.

He laughs when you stand there unmoving, like a stick figure silently reprimanding a lethargic boyfriend. You hate to break, but when the contagious chuckle infects you, too, you feel a wave of relief and serotonin ripple through you violently.

Jungkook hasn’t left vacation mode just yet; while the work for the art fair and gallery is still ongoing and he diligent, you catch him slouching ever so often, doodling away at times. You’ll confess, the grey outside is tiring; different from the sunnier countryside you left behind.

There’s a sort of post-bliss blues that even you can hardly shake off.

“You can’t deny that, can you?” he utters amidst his melodious laugh, and you roll your eyes, taking two big steps towards him — much like two days ago.

“I don’t have to deny it to still teach you the importance of punctuality, right? Get up,” you say, smacking his hip — and he uses the chance to lift his arm from under his head, reaching for you, but… failing. “Uh-uh. Enough with your tricks. Get up.”

Last night still wasn’t enough — is it ever? You’re not surprised; neither by his thirst nor by your own inner, involuntary reactions. But no time. It’s rude to let people wait.

And you know exactly what Jimin would say — tease — if the two of you arrived at the double lunch date with him and Yoongi late again.

Jungkook’s voice turns half into a yawn, half into a sigh, tired when he responds, “Yes, ma’am.”

This should do.

But since everything good comes in three, and just for good measure, you add another laser-glance, shooting at him in warning to lift his ass and meet you ready once you are, too. A playfully sigh breathed, you amble to the bathroom, make up awaiting on the sink from when you put it there this morning.

This shouldn’t take long; you’re opting for the minimalistic approach today.

As the hues colour your lips and fill your lashes, you hum a random melody you can’t quite identify. It’s quiet in the apartment until it isn’t — and when Jungkook’s voice chimes, your hand halts mid-mascara-stroke, assuming he’s calling for you.

He’s not; you understand this much when he greets the person on the other end in his liveliest tone at first, volume decreasing as the conversation continues. He’s soon hushed enough for you to not really make out proper words anymore. Hums here and there — Jungkook doesn’t seem to say much at all.

Perhaps it’s Yoongi, or Tae, telling a story. Narrating recent occurrences, the delights and pains that emerged and shrivelled on the vacation that you weren’t part of anymore.

You don’t ask just yet, decide not to disturb.

You finish up whatever is left of your routine, setting the make up and ruffling through your hair, adding volume. When the talk he’s indulging in still remains when you deem yourself ready, you let out a breather and step back into the bedroom.

Still in the same clothes and with the untamed hair as his crown, Jungkook’s gaze is lowered, fingers barely curled into the sheets. He’s sat up now; you see his Adam’s apple bob when you walk in. Instinctively and immediately, you blurt, “Now what did I tell you just a moment ago—”

But the jest dries in your throat and then fades, as dead as Jungkook’s eyes when he looks up at you. Or maybe… maybe they’re not dead.

More so — in disbelief. As if he hasn’t really fathomed what he’s just heard, mind sprinting in circles, attempting to understand.

His chest isn’t moving as it should, and just in general, his body emits inner trouble. Distress. When he lifts his pupils and shifts them towards you, it looks as if he’s hoping that your presence could reverse reality, as if you’re pulling him out of the inevitable quicksand.

But you can’t. You get it; see it right away.

Because the watery gaze and the gap between his lips, this expression, are new to you, no matter how many of his aches you’ve mended. And you guess it has something to do with what his conversation partner just said.

Something that certainly wasn’t part of today’s agenda at all.

They informed you that it happened sometime during the first few hours of last night; not entirely out of the blue, but sudden enough to cause a stir in the house. Neighbours saw the lights, posed questions the morning after.

Ria is a light sleeper, often alarmed when it comes to Gureum.

The whining tugged her forcefully out of her dreams, a bit more defeated and pained this time until exhaustion stopped it altogether. When Gureum’s soul threatened to leave, Ria pulled him into his arms just in time, seated in the middle of the printed carpet.

The shock was too intense to not wake the surroundings; she was nearly hysterical as she drove to the small town emergency vet clinic in a hurry, right in the middle of the night. Her eyes were too blurry to see the numbers on her phone, not clearing for so long until the first call finally chimed in your city and lit up Jungkook’s phone.

Recounting the last hours and the visit in the clinic. Asking what to do. Telling him what the vet had suggested. Revealing how saying goodbye and letting him rest was the kindest option according to the doctor.

Hearing as the Jeons thought and spoke about it, losing part of their hearts, and then after an hour, with a weight on their burdened chests — gave in.

You already know that Gureum’s whimpers weren’t new to the family, albeit less dispirited before — everyone was aware he’d been sick for a while.

It was just that — Jungkook expected far more time. Didn’t think his recent goodbye required any form of final words as the two of you left the town. You guess the tears he shed this morning inhabited not only deep grief, but inevitable, cruel regret, too.

He was already talking about a return during the holidays, how he’d crouch and wait as his forever-puppy charged towards him. The same fluffy face squished between Jungkook’s palms.

The plan shattered like a mirror.

You cancelled the double date as soon as he opened his mouth, barely a word properly announced. Swallowed and eaten amidst the rush of overwhelming emotions. You saw the endorphins decrease in his eyes in real time.

It was more than enough to remain within these walls and offer most of the solace you could possibly summon. He’d need some of the quiet now. Basic human reaction; what good would it do to force himself out the sheets if his body refused so fiercely?

You told him. And then he broke down harder; now that he had no reason to veil the red-rimmed eyes that the tears caused, he let them out in waves, in bursts, unafraid.

Unbelievable, how a singular second could change the course of the day and, possibly, the upcoming week. You knew the moment you saw his face. He didn’t need to verbalise his shock — but when he told you what was going on, your heart still splintered.

The circumstances hit you like a brick, but you figure that they smashed into him like a truck.

And you’re uncertain whether you’re doing this right. Cannot figure out how to properly comfort him, to siphon off the torment. Will pulling him in, hugging him into you serve as a bandage enough? Or uttering the right words to clear the overcast mind?

You wish you were as good with your words as you are on paper.

As good as he is when you, or anybody, is hurting. You wish you could undo this morning.

But you can’t, and the underlying, rooted affection will worsen all that’s already broken.

Because loving somebody who’s gone like this is different from losing them to the world and to time and space and distance. This very love isn’t reciprocated anymore because there is no beating heart left to feel — and you can’t alter what the reality confronts you with.

You just keep loving because you remember and as long as you remember.

And because you feel that if you didn’t, you could impossibly ever honour their once cherished existence. As if forgetting could erase them out of history, when it of course never does.

You know it; once Jungkook has allowed to let him feel it all, you know he will, too. Because the only way to truly brighter days has always ever been through the misty pain. For now, you can only hold him, be here.

Mourn with him as his voice breaks through the silence that befell the late night, muttering, “How does any creature lose a fight against nature when it loved it so much before?”

His voice is so fragile and small; so is he. He’s probably only half expecting an answer when you whisper, “Nature gives and then takes…”

He nods against your clavicles, shrinking on the couch. Half on your body, eyes drooping.

“I read somewhere that… that nature needs to keep a balance for the world to stay intact. But,” he sighs through the exhaustion. The tears have dehydrated him; you throw a glance at the half drunk water on the coffee table. “But pets should be an exception.”

You guess that if this wretched world, separated by hate and misery, could come together and agree on one thing, it’d probably be this very request to exempt all that’s innocent.

You wish the universe and souls worked like this.

“I know.” You halt, mind travelling to what you remember of the Maltese, and then say, “Talking about nature… You once mentioned something about snakes, didn’t you? We never got to the end of the story.”

Your eyes drift to his profile. His muscles are still somewhat weak, keeping the corners of his mouth south, but you think you recognise a little smile nevertheless. And then, he nods again, just before recounting a memory in detail, surprisingly fresh and sharp.

He tells you about how Gureum would detect random snakes in the meadow or fields sometimes, follow them. Dogs are generally curious, but Gureum seemed to have, as Jungkook jokingly deducts, close to no awareness of the dangers around him.

You chuckle.

“And then, with time, he got used to me telling him not to touch or chase the snakes,” he continues, “and I remember him running towards me one day, with an incredibly weirdly shaped snake between his teeth and… I almost died.”

“Holy shit—”

“I kinda flipped just looking at him.” This time, he shakes his head. “Except, it wasn’t a dead snake, just a really damn strange looking, thick orange-brown stick. But I was already scolding him and he did not like my tone.”

“You can be scary. When you tell me to unplug the toaster after using it and stuff?”

Jungkook snickers lightly, joining your sound, and explains, “Gureum wasn’t used to it, though, that spoiled little ball of cotton.”

“Yeah, but… I would’ve gotten half a heart attack, too. Must have been terrifying for the first few moments.”

“But,” he intervenes, “I shouldn’t have been mean. I remember the way he looked at me, all disappointed.” He sighs, and you feel the breath against your skin. “And then he avoided me. Pissed and pouty in his basket on our way back. He— he didn’t look at me until I apologised with a snake toy I found in a shop. Boy loved that.”

“Oh, I saw the toy.” You recall the old and ripped plushie half buried underneath the rest of Gureum’s toy, scattered on the ground under the TV. “Looked all vandalised.”

“Yeah.”

There’s another stillness in the room as the soundwaves die, broken only by your breathing and your eventual hum. Jungkook slowly lifts his head from your chest, staring directly into your eyes, as if to read what you’re thinking — just like you are.

His pupils glint a bit less than usual, eyebrows calm yet sad — he blinks when the dryness burns, and then asks, “You’re trying to say something.”

It’s the same old; but people are different. You don’t know whether he wants to hear it. Sometimes, heartache demands distraction. Other times, sympathy and empathy; to just listen for a bit.

You want to give a healthy mixture of both without making him feel like you’re pitying him, because you’re not.

But you know Jungkook; even with you, he sometimes forgets that he’s thoroughly loved and rightfully so.

So you voice your sincere fondness still, “I am so sorry, Jungkook. And… I wish I could do more.”

His father said something similar on a later phone call today.

I wish I could do something about it. I’m sorry, Jungkook.

And—

Come over. We will talk and eat together.

Sorrow really brings people together, it seems.

He’d visit soon, Jungkook said. Needs some time alone, under the blanket, processing the truth for a bit until he can face actual conversations with people who witnessed the same individual for so many years.

“You might not believe me…” he starts, weaker again. His voice is barely a whisper; he’s so fatigued. “But I don’t expect more than this. You’re enough.” A little pause, and then. “I will also finally call a therapist… might be the right time. We were talking about it anyway.”

You were. You have been for a while. The promise to not let issues interfere with daily life anymore, to heal individually as well as together. So you nod right away, the first to support the idea.

“You have my back, Kook.”

“I know, angel.” He gulps. Close to cuddling back in, but you cradle his face, keep looking at him. He looks surprised for the tiniest moments, but his expressions relax quickly; followed by a question, “And you?”

And you?

You don’t know. You want to lean into his suggestion, but you’re still afraid. Fearful of what you might dig out of the depths of your heart through conversing with the therapist alone.

You’ll do it, pinky promise, but…

“I’ll still wait just a little,” you admit, and he nods, accepts it. “Besides… I want to support you first. Just a bit longer. Then I’ll go. Cross my heart.”

“Good… okay. Whatever you think is right, okay? I’m here, too.”

So typical. An anchor, no matter the turmoil in his own chest.

“I love you. I really do,” you tell him, obliterating any chance for him to respond just yet.

Instead, you pull him. Look at him, misty eyed, and press a tiny peck to his dry lips. He sniffs, parting his mouth and asks, “What was this for?”

And perhaps he’s anticipating your answer, head tilting to the side, another small glitter flickering when you tell him, “I felt like it. Could do it all day.”

And it works — even if for a fragment of a second. The smile appears, but it never really creeps up far enough to his eyes.

You guess that’s what happens when somebody’s soul keeps falling in love and then loses what it loved.

Sometimes, a busy mind is an oblivious mind.

Not that Jungkook ever forgets as the hours of the day pass, but at least work will keep him briefly occupied for now. Motivation wanes when the focus resides elsewhere, of course, so it isn’t super ideal that he was hit by the news at such an important time.

Then again, working isn’t too bad either. It distracts him.

And Namjoon, no matter how well he usually matches somebody’s energy, will do him some good, too. Will cheer him up, push some courage and artistic inspiration into him.

The upcoming trip, the one that will leave you alone in the empty apartment for a bit, is fast approaching, though still a while after the gallery event. But Jungkook and Namjoon are already discussing details, settling on spots that might ignite some painter’s fires in them.

Namjoon said this is all about getting Jungkook to a place that can evoke colours he doesn’t even know, arouse a side of his talent that might help him later on; if — no, when — he rises to the top.

And since you’re done with your meetings today, most chores taken care of for the soon-to-come launch, you allow yourself an afternoon off and meet up with your best friend.

The group has already been back for quite some time, and while you’ve gathered some intel on the latest, downhill occurrences, you want to be there properly. 

This is what you know: Apparently, soon after the two of you left, the conversations got heated, and eventually, as the distress reached its peak, Taehyung and Eun broke up. Ever since, they have been coping — or however well their hearts permit.

You regret your absence the moment Eun opens the door. You were attempting your best to juggle work and the emotional burdens of every hour, bringing solace to Jungkook and finding a moment to meet Eun for an extended period of time.

Eun has been holing up in here for all these days the way you did back in the summer. You are somewhat the worst friend; especially when her quiet voice welcomes you in, her hug not as tight as usual, the bubbly girl even physically worse.

Dark undereyes. Sad and distant gaze. Half a smile, as if fearing that you’re pouring all your sympathy into her, pitying her. She doesn’t enjoy this type of attention, but she also knows that you’re you and that this level of care can’t be changed.

Pity? No. Sympathy? You’d lose part of yourself if that one was lacking.

“I missed you…” you start as you sit down, waiting for her to join as she places a glass of water in front of you. You shift, unsure where to start. “Eun—”

But she’s quick to interrupt, “Listen, I… I know I’m supposed to talk about this.” She’s barely looking at you. “But I’ve thought about it over and over again and I don’t even know what to say anymore.” Shake of her head. “None of us is at fault. I can’t even be mad at him.”

“No… I wanted to say that, too. And that means you’re just as little at fault.”

You wait — because whenever words fail, stuttering and hesitating, wheels whirring in a fragile mind… that’s when even more tumbles out a moment later. And your instincts prove true.

She begins, “But…” Waits; and then spills, “We still fought the way we did and then, when the vacation was over… he was crying and I was, too, and we just felt so fucking sorry the entire time—”

Her voice is already shaking and breaking. She must have practiced this a hundred times in her head, but no preparation is ever enough to keep the affliction inside. It always pours, like rain, inhabiting a story in each drop.

Everyone who has ever loved might understand.

You give her some time as she attempts to hold it together in the middle of her lively and bright living room — but then you place a hand on her knee, assuring that there’s no need for restraint. So she pulls in a trembling breath, eyes so watery that they keep overflowing.

It reminds you so much of him days before.

The tears leave her in streams, collecting abundantly. And her nose reddens; your heart drops. Eun is the last person to ever deserve heartache of such calibre.

She cries until her face grows hot, cries until the sounds echo painfully. You hold her to your heart, trying to piece hers together for a bit, so aware that the one able to do this isn’t in the room with you right now. Rather trying to mend his own.

It’s already bad as it is, and you nearly wish he could spawn in here, tell her he’ll reconsider, make her happy as he’s supposed to. Of course it’s counterproductive; but how could higher powers even split these two in the first place?

It’s brutal.

And it’s worse, much meaner, thinking of the world as a vile place when her blurred speech inquires, “How d-di… how did you cope… when Jungkook and you broke up?”

You don’t quite know what to say. You don’t know because there’s hardly any advice to give. You were a mess. Which is what you honestly admit, “I barely did. You saw me — but you helped make it easier.” You put a cheek to her head. “So I’m here, too.”

“I know. I know… it’s just—” The next breath is sharp, the kind where it hitches and the sounds become high-pitched, mixing with hints of panic and pure sadness. “It’s kind of worse that he didn’t do any— anything wrong.”

She moves her head to and fro again against your chest, furious, “I can’t even rely on anger or just— do my best to hate him because none of us did anything to actually hurt the other.”

Her voice, usually so composed, gains on volume with each word. Probably a way to keep herself from whispering; to keep her sentences from breaking.

“This doesn’t have to be a bad thing,” you tell her, “it can serve as hope, too, you know? That not everybody is just shitty, and that there’s somebody who’s as great as him with the things you want, too.”

“But I want him.”

“Oh… babe…”

It’s this childlike yearning, the burning ache that hurts the most. You know what it feels like and you know there’s no easy way to overcome it, regardless of who one’s surrounded by. Naturally, she feels that way; you wish it had come differently.

She speaks on, “I should’ve known! That man isn’t just good with kids because he’s a social butterfly!” There’s some of the anger she spoke of; somehow, it stabilises her voice. “I should’ve known that he wants his own some day, too. Men, they usually do and it’s just me being so—”

“No,” you immediately react. “You are not wrong or anything at all for not wanting them. Even I…”

You pause. Actually, you don’t really know. You realise that you and Jungkook never got around to breaching this subject, despite cracking occasional jokes about it. You do remember how giddy you felt during the slippery soccer game…

“It’s just that,” you opt for instead, “it’s not so easy to think about and even worse to talk about.”

“And of course it’s easier for men. They don’t know what it feels like. The fear of pain and committing for the rest of our lives and never knowing how a husband might change…”

She’s letting it all out; maybe she needs to. Maybe she hasn’t been able to do so until now. You wonder how much she has said to Jimin so far. He might understand the two of you better than anyone else, having known you all your life, but… he’s still a guy, after all.

“What did he say when you told him? Tae?” you wonder, trying to come up with your own ideas. As far as you understand Taehyung, you don’t reckon he ever responded with anything too insensitive. “Did he dismiss your feelings?”

And you’re right. Because—

“No!” Her body moves to upright itself. “The bastard was perfectly nice. I can’t even hate him!” she exclaims again, majorly upset. “He said he accepts it, but it might become hard to stay because he really fucking wants them.”

You can almost hear the speech marks. And then, you also hear the absolute drop in volume as she sighs; tells you, “He asked about adoption…”

“…Shit.” The word comes out as barely anything. You hush it to yourself. “And?”

“I said that I just dunno if I’ll ever be able to live or enjoy such a life… that it’s not just about the physical pain… that just—”

She doesn’t speak on. So you add, “That’s okay. That’s seriously okay.”

It becomes quiet in the room. You take a look around. See the curtains, neatly bound in the middle, red ribbon around white sheer drapes. And you see the decorations, the pretty flowers, the lunch on the stove.

Eun does everything so thoroughly in her life. She’s always been calm and organised and a role model for anyone ready to dare a fresh approach to everything. She’s unique, your friend, a sarcastic but warm ray of light.

She doesn’t deserve to cry. It’s ridiculous.

Doesn’t deserve it how frail she sounds when she says, more to herself than to you, “I want him in my life so bad. He’s the one guy for me.”

The phase of pure hope. Denying that it’s over, that he’ll appear here in the morning, that a miracle will make the issues go away.

But… it did happen for you. So you try, very carefully, “He might find his way back to you. Sometimes love endures.”

“And sometimes it doesn’t.”

“I know, but… Either way… you will be okay,” you say. Eun hopes, yes, but that doesn’t always go hand in hand with optimism. You need to give her space, give her time; find a balance between the things she wants to hear and what’s realistic. “With or without him, you will be okay. In the worst case, I’m here. I told you.”

It’s an attempt at a joke, and you seem to succeed, bringing out the lightest chuckle and a sniffle before she jests, too, “With or without Jungkook?”

You laugh. “You were the first love of my life. We’ll get there somehow.”

The faint twinkle in her eyes lifts your spirits, urges you closer to her. Your palm rubs her right arm, providing warmth to eliminate some of the frost in her heart. Then again, maybe you’re wrong — post-break up haze creates unpleasant heat after all.

The hot cheeks from made up scenarios and the jealousy that follows; the knot in the stomach that the pining calls forth; the tightness in your chest, breathing soon a myth.

No, she needs another type of warmth — one you can offer with the cold only.

So you get up to scour her fridge, humming on your way to the kitchen island as you say, “You never run out of ice cream, do you? You keep it stored the way others store potatoes.” You hear a weak, lovely laugh. Bend down to the freezer. “Coming in handy now.”

“Clichée remedy, huh?”

“Gotta be clichée for a reason,” you tell her before you plop down with the box and two spoons, taking off the lid to scoop directly from it. Vanilla and strawberry. “Here.”

You hand her one spoon, and she inspects her reflection for a while, as if she’s seeing it for the first time in a while. The utensil seems odd to her, like a new invention — but when she snaps back into her body and shovels in just lightly, you recognise the stare.

Because she looks just as you felt. When every mundane and basic daily achievement appeared like an uninvited stranger; or a chore to get done with, a challenge to survive.

She has something to say; you recognise it in the gulp and the clearing of her throat. Steadying her voice, giving herself a moment for the vanilla to cool her down.

Then, in a now gentle but defeated tone, she recollects, “It was… really weird. We broke up in the middle of everything and then spent the rest of the time there just— fighting and making up. Out of the bed and… back into bed.”

You don’t down your own bite yet; the sugar needs to awaken her happy dessert hormones first. Instead, you ask, “Have you heard from him ever since?”

She pokes the still somewhat solid ice cream, slowly melting. “No… Just whatever Jimin tells me.” She shrugs a shoulder. “Which, apparently, isn’t much either, though. And I hate myself for being this way, but not knowing what he’s doing and where he is drives me nuts.”

“I know what you mean,” you say, eyes following the spoon brought to her mouth and then back to the box. You’re just glad she’s eating at all; you understand that appetite is scarce when the tummy is already filled with dread and hurt. So you speak up again, “Hey. Come over for dinner sometime?”

Eun hesitates. Not the obvious type of rejection, but rather a weighing of options, thinking ahead, evaluating her emotions and what she’s able to withstand on days like these.

You already know what the issue might be before she says it; you realise it too late, but you guess you’d feel the same if you were her.

“I will,” she starts, fillers taking over the silence. “Uh… Well, once I’m able to look at Jungkook again without thinking of… him.”

“…I get it.”

“Which makes me feel horrible. I would love to offer him some comfort, too. He texted a few days ago, you know?”

You do.

As you strolled the aisles of the nearby market, he mentioned it for a second, summarising the already compact yet sweet message inhibiting his support. He was going to pick up some peanut-chocolate snack for her, too, but you reminded him of her allergy.

The chocolate-covered popcorn that is sitting on the table in front of you instead is the substitute that he chose a minute later; but you won’t tell Eun that. She already feels a plethora of negative emotions, guilt not being the last of them.

It’s already obvious when she asks slowly, “I meant to ask… How is he?”

Well, since you’re being honest.

You chew at the inside of your cheek, thoughts wandering to the man who’s trying his best to keep himself together. Smiles at your jokes and jests back, teases you a little to fabricate an illusion of wellbeing.

But you’re not stupid; you’ve grown to understand his inner workings, so you admit, “Not too well either. This took him out a lot more than I would’ve guessed.” You breathe out, deflating a bit. “It hurts to see. He’s living and all, almost his usual self, but. Doesn’t feel the same yet.”

“Mmh. So when I come over,” she says, spoon falling to her lap; perhaps the actual hunger is coming back in pieces at least, “we’ll just grieve our losses together, I guess.”

You nod, light pats to her knee, promising that, “It will stop hurting. For sure.”

But you don’t know.

No. Undoubtedly, pain always lessens, even when it doesn’t fade. Memories ensure a fraction of whatever stays back.

But… none of this will stop now.

You are aware of it, considering the moments these two shared, no matter how little time passed ever since they grew the way they did. And, considering each second you analyse Jungkook’s face, realising that he, too — the ball of sunshine — will experience rain for a bit longer.

No pain will subside just yet.

You saw it in the way his face dried up the last few days. How he remembers more and more of him. And how your eyes got stuck on a piece of paper just this morning, laying on top of a sketchbook and underneath a frequently used graphite pencil.

It was a drawing; Gureum sticking out his tongue, staring at whoever stared back at him. Only a couple strokes of lines and curves, but so insanely real, too.

For a bit, you couldn’t remember where you’d seen these very elements before, in just this order and shades, but then, as the day passed, you saw it in your mind, just in front of you.

A little photograph of Gureum, secured in Jungkook’s wallet for as long as you’ve known.

Never talked about it much. Never paid much attention to it at all.

But now, you keep thinking about it. Maybe less because of how cute you found it, or because of the fact that Jungkook is able to love this much.

More because the pain of losing somebody really is striking — because an essence remains in a photograph forever, affection stored in it, deeming something or somebody eternal.

That’s probably why human beings feel nostalgic about them. Why the concept was invented at all.

Because even when the fear of forgetting lingers — once a moment is immortalised, one never truly ever does.

Jungkook’s fingertaps synchronise with the ticking of the clock, like a pendulum, when you let him in on recent events. All with Eun’s permission, of course.

You’re surprised Tae didn’t open up to him about it much yet; perhaps there’s something about the rumour that girls feed and boys eat information. Or maybe he’s caught in his own emotions, dealing with them alone — it’s all fresh, after all.

Jungkook was the same — he dodged his friends back during the summer while you divulged your mind to Eun.

“I should call him,” Jungkook says. “It’s a bit selfish of me not to.”

He shakes his head a little, embarrassed, and you know why. Taehyung phoned him just yesterday, hearing of the current situation, speaking out his condolences. He didn’t mention Eun even once.

But you can’t blame Jungkook. He’s grieving in his own way, and you’re overly certain he won’t neglect Taehyung for his own misery for longer than his heart can bear. It’s okay to seek time alone in moments like these — it’s true for both.

“You can do it tomorrow if you want,” you tell him, bringing a hand to the nape of his neck to rub. “But don’t strain your brain.”

“No, no.” He leans back on the bed — he’s been spending most of his free time here now — and stares at his darkened phone. “I’ll call at noon.”

The phone falls to the side as he tilts his head and kisses his lips, and then, he adds, “It doesn’t sound right. Them breaking up.”

Certainly, it doesn’t. You saw them during the holidays; saw the invisible bond forming. But then, as you left, you saw something break, too.

“I know,” you agree, repeating Eun’s words, “and it’s hard to intervene or give advice because neither of them is wrong.”

“Mmh… and neither should be pushed to believe otherwise if they know they’ll stick to their perspective.”

“Yeah. I mean. I don’t think either of them tried to convince the other. Which probably hurts more — having to accept a choice while still being in love.” You push out a stuck breath. “It’s just unfair. I might sound crazy, but I still keep hoping they’ll find back to each other.”

“Nah, it’s not crazy. That’d be how it’s supposed to be. But I dunno.” He shrugs a shoulder, less hopeful than you. Makes sense. You don’t understand Taehyung as well as he does. “I’ve always known that Tae wants to be a parent someday.”

“And I’ve always known Eun doesn’t want it.”

“Some dilemmas are just cruel.”

He lets the ticking clock burn some more seconds, accompanied by quiet sounds of the passing cars down the street. You know he’s contemplating something when he stops blinking, and you’re about to ask when he beats you to it, “What about you?”

“About me? What, having kids one day?”

“Mmhm.”

“Hmmm,” you replicate.

You’ve thought about this, so it’s not like you don’t have an answer to it.

It’s just that it barely even satisfies you — you’re not quite sure how Jungkook will digest it. You remember when you locked yourself into Eun’s bathroom, terrified of his reaction and of the two lines appearing on the test.

But he was supportive. And you think he’d want this with you at some point; if you were honest, the times that you painted such pictures as you mused on a possible future, you didn’t hate the thought.

“Honestly?” you start, shifting. “I grew up not wanting to be a mother. I saw the void at home and how dark everything felt the moment I was alone. And… I didn’t want to do this to someone, too.”

Typical fear of adopting abusive behaviour and becoming the culprit.

Jungkook’s hand floats to your knee, brushing over it with warmth, “Why did you think you would?”

“Because sometimes, we forward trauma instead of processing it and learning from it.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of that.”

“But sometimes,” you sigh, mentally switching from left to right, “I catch myself imagining what I’d be like nevertheless. And then I think I’ll want it one day. I really don’t know.” Your eyebrows twitch to kiss. “It’s scary. Talking to Eun scared me ‘cause I don’t want the same thing to happen to us.”

“It won’t.”

Short and precise. Determined and convinced.

Two words alone often suffice; you’re lucky, sharing a space with somebody who communicates with you on the same wavelength. It’s rare, this kind of understanding and love.

You feel instantly relieved.

Yet, you make sure, “It’s just because I know you want this.”

“I want you more. And,” he pauses, tongues his cheek, collects his thoughts to form the sentence, “really, if we settle on either decision while staying together in the process, I’m fine.”

The creases on your forehead deepen. As you said, lucky. But you never expected this level of purity; maybe Jungkook is written by an actual supreme being and you’re met with its manifestation.

Or really, maybe he jumped out of a 3D printer.

You ask, “You’d give up such a thing for me?”

“Like… I won’t lie, I’ve always wanted this. But… it’s your decision.”

See? This is why you deem yourself to be at just the right place in your life, so ecstatic that your heart knew to trust him, to trust this, and to not withdraw when you were hurting.

Your voice lowers, “Is it?”

“You’d be the one hurting,” he says, so matter-of-factly, not to sound smart or feminist. “I’m not going to leave because you decide to avoid pain.”

You chuckle, joyful and bright amidst the colourless days. “Yet, I might decide to go for it anyway.”

“Then I’ll definitely accept it, as well.”

He’s laughing again. It hasn’t been more than a couple days, but he’s never topped this period of time without genuinely laughing before. It’s a tender sound, and authentic, even though it’s still weaker than you are used to.

Obviously it is.

Jungkook is a deep empath; overanalyses and overthinks and overfeels. This day was bound to happen at some point and his heart was bound to break like this.

Some things in life are inevitable after all.

“I love you,” you tell him, a cheek falling onto his shoulder. You close your eyes for a moment, hear his serene breathing. “I’m not letting someone like you go anyway, so just… don’t leave.”

You’re attempting a joke, easing the moment with something as sugary as can get. But it barely takes him a heartbeat to respond, “I was thinking the same about you.”

“Oh… no—”

“It’s just even scarier now, you know, losing people I love.”

Your immediate reaction is speechlessness. You want to let his truth sink into the room, so you can bubble wrap it; just so he knows he’s safe and sound and that his fright, while still present, will crawl beneath the comfort you provide.

One day, he might not see it anymore. He might not dread such an outcome anymore.

“Sometimes these things are out of our control,” you tell him, “but I think some people are capable of promising to stay and actually do so, too.”

“You too?”

You look at him wordlessly, let your eyes speak. Smile at him, take his hand into yours. You don’t think you need to say much and that he understands; and he doesn’t pose a follow-up-question, so you assume you’re right.

Because he squeezes your hand, tells you he’s okay when you ask how he’s doing. Falls into easier and more casual conversation with you, one that allows less heart and mind and more lightness and relief.

As minutes pass, the atmosphere enlivens just a little, enough for you to hope. But maybe, you think, it tires him out, too. Because when you suggest watching a movie to kill the hours until it’s bedtime, he rejects your suggestion; instead, he declares, “I’ll lay down a bit, I think.”

So he does. With a tiny groan and a heavy body falling into soft feathers. And you still sit at your spot.

Watch him fall into a slumber quickly, much until his breathing evens out, peaceful and quiet. Blurry so far, your eyes clear when you, once again, detect the messy desk and the same drawing of Gureum on top of it.

It somehow stands out in the chaotic stack, like an intense presence blending out everything else.

The face on there, the lines and the inspiration behind them feel like a ghost, smiling at you; one he’s desperately carving into his mind, etching it into his memory — how he sounded, how he barked, how he whimpered.

An utter proof for the adoration one holds, beyond a lifetime, reserved even in the absence of a loved one. And these ghosts remain, whether somebody left your realm or just brought in a distance, alive but breathing from afar.

You know, because you recall how much Jungkook haunted you when he stole pieces of you and disappeared from your life for weeks. When he’d return in dreams and thoughts and fears, but never in person.

You couldn’t hear him and couldn’t see him — but somehow, somewhat, he was still always there.

In hindsight, you knew you loved him back then, too. Of course you did; the moment one questions their own feelings, it’s already over, isn’t it? If you had to wonder whether you were in love with him, hadn’t you already lost?

Affection contains such intensity, anyway; an ache stuck in a heart like claws and a breathlessness that doesn’t ever drain your lungs when you’re not in trouble already.

How insane.

Truly, denial often only remains for a moment and turns into transparency very soon. Today, you know with utmost certainty that you loved him.

But that’s exactly why this hurts so fucking much, looking at him.

Locking into his puffy cheeks, the strand of his hair covering half his eyebrow and sticking to the corner of his eye. He always looks so much younger like this. You wipe the hair back; he doesn’t move. Still slightly turned away from you, mouth a little ajar.

So you keep going.

You look at the wall in front of you, hands busy grazing his dark tresses. One of his arms and its fist lay on the pillow beneath his head, the other under the blanket, probably pressed to his heart.

It’s a human way of pushing against the unease.

When your thumb ghosts along his skin, over the apple of his cheek, he does stir. Not too much, only letting out a small puff of air before he turns under the sheets with his eyes still shut — and he stretches out his right arm to drape it around your hips.

You lift your arms a little to give him the space, and he seems to try to adjust until his sleepy brain decides that you are sitting too upright, your hips too high for his arm. But this doesn’t deter him; he doesn’t pull back but lowers his limb to your lap, just above your thigh.

It’s an interesting play, how a drowsy, unconscious mind still registers so much of its surroundings or its emotions. How he’s still acting and reacting according to the life he lives.

And you keep staring. It reassures you somehow. Fills you with soothing consolation.

And he feels the same, you reckon. Because in the middle of it all, he sighs.

Hm…

In a dry desert that exhausts his heart and body with each of its terribly draining attributes, you so proudly feel like his oasis.

Your eyes water, but you breathe in, keep it inside.

You gulp, tugging at the blanket a little to cover the rest of his and your legs; then, you relocate, sliding down on the mattress bit by bit, carefully.

It takes you a matter of seconds until you hear a faint protest, “Mmh, no…” and you hurry to utter an immediate, “I’m still here. All good.”

He relaxes. For a moment, you see his eyelids crack open a slit, and move further with a light smile until you’re lying next to him, forehead at the height of his mouth. You feel the hot breath when he lets out another one of solace.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you add, “just wanted to lay down, too.”

He nods, but barely. Your hand glides over his chest and then slowly rounds his torso, back to his shoulder blades. You want to hold him as close as possible and want to wait with an ear to his cotton shirt until his heartbeat winds down.

It’s warm in this room and under the blanket; the fall outside does nothing for you. But you don’t move.

Jungkook buries his lips in your hair. He’s vulnerable; possibly more than you ever experienced him to be in front of his father, or even without you. Those were different kinds of stitches tearing open.

Right now, he’s scared.

This is the main finding for you at this time — it feels like nothing is happening, but in this silence, his mind is crowded.

Jungkook knows very well that you won’t leave; but he also thought Gureum never would. Just like you, you imagine, he has realised several different ways to lose somebody, and it probably terrifies him.

He’ll swarm around you more often now, you know.

Minutes pass and his eyes shut again, but you know he’s awake. More so when he sniffles; doesn’t cry, but still strays a bit from his peace.

You’re groggy when you open your eyes, too, whispering a, “Jungkook…” as you take in his somewhat asleep, somewhat awake state. He’s aware that you’re here, knows where he is, but his brain is foggy, too.

His words, despite all, however, are still clear as day when he reluctantly, quietly says, “This sucks.”

“I know…”

Another break, another sniffle. Then—

“I love you.”

And that’s it.

You answer, but it drowns in his repeated sniffles, eyes and cheek dry when soon against your scalp. But the actual torment under his chest is more than evident in how he holds you.

You can’t help but revert to more promises, no matter how unoriginal they might be. Is that important as long as you mean them, anyway?

So you mutter, “I will always come home to you.”

Jungkook doesn’t nod. He doesn’t answer. Only presses against the small of your back and then moves his palm to the middle of it, keeps it there at last. He doesn’t need to speak his thoughts anyway, as little as you needed to before.

Your presence is enough. You will never become a ghost.

Talking to his parents and his brother in the past weeks helped immensely.

Somehow, the conversations killed pieces of Jungkook’s denial; and somehow, the revelation of the one he’s been hoping to return to actually being gone, led to a sense of acceptance. Easier to… well, perhaps not move on.

But easier to cope.

To realise that life needs to go on and that this way, dwelling on the past or reliving moments won’t hurt anymore one day.

And working towards his life goals didn’t hurt either. The fair is coming closer, and so is the gallery showing. He’s been working hard; and life is normalising.

You’re back to teasing and fighting and pouting and making up.

It’s nice to see.

When Jungkook comes back home from another day at his parents’, the apartment is empty. The silence is surprising, given the fact that you weren’t supposed to be absent for so long. As far as he was concerned, you were going to greet him when he came back, already here.

And he certainly returned later than he thought he would.

As he slips his shoes off and places them neatly on the side, he calls out your name to double check. Maybe you’re asleep. But you don’t respond; you’re a light sleeper. And on further inspection, he soon detects that the bedroom is vacant.

Jungkook fishes out his phone and dials immediately; you’re already on top of the list, so the five seconds save him some headache. And you picking up nearly instantly only adds to that relief.

“Hey! You home?” your voice chimes, and he relaxes, exhales, falling onto the edge of the bed weightlessly.

A hand dangles between his legs, arm propped up on his thigh, and he asks, “Where are you? I would’ve picked you up if I’d known you’re still out.”

“No, no, it’s okay. I wasn’t too far.”

“Where was that?”

You groan on the other side of the line, as if heaving something of significant weight, your breathing a tiny bit stagnant. He prods, “Are you okay? I can come help if you’re nearby.”

“No, I was just out, doing some shopping.”

“Sure? It’s cold as hell, too.”

“Yes, baby. I’m a big girl, I promise,” you chuckle into the phone and he joins in, nodding without you seeing, “but I’ll talk to you when I’m there. I want to show off my haul a bit.”

“Ah. Thought you hated surprises.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

The grin emerging on his face feels good. Feels freeing. You have an undeniable effect on him and he couldn’t be more enticed by its mystery.

“Alright. I’ll wait then,” he says, and you agree quickly, muttering goodbyes before the call cuts.

Hm. Okay.

Maybe he should take a shower in the meantime, prepare the ingredients for tonight’s dinner. What was it again you wanted to eat today? Risotto? Lasagna? You wanted either in some of the upcoming days. Italian, that’s for sure.

“Both not easy,” he comments to himself, snickering quietly; who would he be if he didn’t yield to your every wish? 

The shirt flies into the laundry basket, the water under the showerhead warm and comforting compared to the dropping temperatures outside. It was raining again; while it has stopped, the wind still whipped his face — so you better hurry back to him carefully.

He hears the door open and fall back into its lock as he washes off the last of his shampoo, a hand sliding across his face, down to his neck and his chest. You don’t exclaim his name or announce your arrival the way you usually do.

Suspect, but probably nothing bad.

It’s okay. He’ll do it instead.

And you answer just as casually when he does. More cheerful than ever even, giving back a, “Take your time! I’m here.”

You’re a handful some days when you scare him like this, especially at such times that his mind makes up scenarios constantly.

Your absence can be mind-numbing — and since meetings often exceed the time you promised and the phone ringing is incredibly unprofessional, he does worry a little too frequently.

It’s not your fault, either.

Usually, you do exploit your position as the manager, allowing yourself a moment to message him back or let him know when you’ll be home. But sometimes you’re… gone, like this. And he hates the feeling he once lived through when you disappeared for so long, hiding at Eun’s.

“Seriously,” he starts as you meet him at the threshold to the bathroom, pushing him back inside, “will I ever not worry sick about you?”

“Sorry,” you begin frivolously, moving into him instead, reaching for his lips, “I got caught up with stuff, but…” Another peck, a hand still on his damp chest. “I’m here now.”

Jungkook isn’t too sure whatever came to possess you in these very hours between the morning and now, but he’s not opposed to it. He revels in the touch of your palm grazing his skin, down to the belly button, lightly tugging at the towel as a tease.

“Woman,” he whispers between kisses, the words growing quieter, “you’ll drive me crazy one day.” His hands come up to cradle your face, to look at you. “You scare me and then you come home to do this.”

“Mmmh, I guess so.”

You let him kiss you, let him open your mouth and push the tongue through — but the temptation doesn’t last long. Because he notices your hesitation, not because you’re unsure but rather… something else.

You want to say something. So he lets you.

“What is it?” he wonders.

“Just exasperated. Just want to show you what I shopped.”

Right. You said that already. You stepped into the apartment, dizzying his head so badly that he almost forgot.

“You have a weird way of showing that you’re tired,” Jungkook remarks, the last word dying as you push a hand beneath the towel, squeezing his ass just a little before backing away. “Honestly, babe.”

“Yes, honestly… come.”

Mysterious, this behaviour of yours. You’ve brought home stuff you needed or wanted several times, but you never seemed as enlivened by it as you do now. And you certainly never made much of a secret out of it as you are now.

And it’s not hard to guess why.

If it was a small object or a dress or a book or a plushie stuffed in one of these environment-friendly paper bags, he might not have noticed right away. But…

But what you decided to march back with today is an entirely different level of unexpected riddle. Or at least, a riddle until its eyes meet with Jungkook’s.

They’re…

They’re round and expressive. Curious and a little shy. Carry the same innocence and dark, serene night in them as Jungkook does. And the— the puppy is blinking slowly, eyes flopping a tiny bit; lets his head fall to the side for a second.

He’s so small. Alert yet gentle. A careful, dark brown Doberman watching a half naked Jungkook with peculiar interest.

Then to you, already a little used to you, and then back to some random spot again.

Maybe he’s taking in his new home. Maybe he’s trying to understand his surroundings. Probably not yet falling in love as quickly and furiously as Jungkook already is.

Certainly not having the same liquid collecting in his eyes as in his owner’s.

What did you…

Is this yours? His? Taken in to babysit? What— 

You stand on the side, hands folded, waiting with your lower lip trapped with your teeth. You’re giving him a moment with the pup, Jungkook knows, removing yourself from the equation to permit the love to unfold.

But how could he ditch you anyway? How, when right now, he could crush you in his arms?

A month has passed since Gureum left. Life went on, but moments of yearning always returned — you saw it all in his eyes. The realisation that Gureum would never come back, and that nobody could replace him.

And of course you know; this right here — you aren’t trying to replace Gureum, but trying to bring new happiness and a new start into Jungkook’s life.

He mentioned this once or twice over the weeks, casually stating how he urged to love someone the way he loved his childhood companion. You put his wish into motion so quickly.

If this moment is what he thinks it is, then he doesn’t know how to digest it for now. How to swallow the mix of longing and relief, of missing somebody and meeting someone new.

The Doberman is a symbol of healing and affection. Of how you care, and of how Jungkook will once again be able to adore the same as he used to. Still does.

“Babe?” he only calls.

There’s nothing more he can murmur right now anyway. What, a thank you? Crying in the middle of the room? Kissing his appreciation into you? None of it will suffice.

“Yes?” you respond.

“There’s…” His open palm lifts, a finger loosely pointing to the focus of his attention. “There’s a dog on our couch.”

You laugh with a tender heart. “Yes. There is.”

Should he move? He doesn’t dare to. Only wipes away the dark, wet curls off his temples. Looks for a bit; watches the still figure barely fill the dip in the cushions, as if he could vanish the moment Jungkook speaks.

You are a bundle of excitement next to him, and the little thing is unbothered, not even looking when Jungkook is teetering between disbelief and wonder.

And then… just slowly, cautiously, surely, he steps forward. Courageous once you say, “Yes, say hi.” A hand already reaches midair before it retreats; should he sit beside him or drop to his knees? Pick him up and place him on his lap?

“Where did you get him from?” Jungkook asks, voice still delicate. “How long did you plan this?”

He’s wondering about a lot of things. How you picked him out of all the dogs you saw. How you chose the absolute manifestation of sweet honey, ogling up to him now that Jungkook lets his fingers reach the soft fur along the back.

He chuckles, breathless and full. Tells the newest member of the household, “So cute. You’re so freaking cute—”

Then, he picks him up, secures him in his arms, a paw on his tatted skin as he gets used to the moment. Trying to understand who he belongs to.

You finally dare to step closer; the dog already recognises your scent a tiny bit, staring at you, paw reaching for your hand when you stretch it towards him.

With kind excitement, you answer Jungkook’s questions.

“So, I was searching for a bit and then… one or two weeks ago, I spoke to a colleague at work about someone she knew who was looking for people to adopt puppies. Gave me her number and all.”

You’re distracted for a moment, delighted when the pup nudges your hand for more pets.

“And… the lady she suggested was repeatedly gushing about his eyes and all before she gave him to me?” you say, the back of the hand brushing along his back. “And on my way back I kept looking at him and realised how right she was. They reminded me of yours.”

Jungkook laughs, and you shake your head with a beam of your own, telling him, “It’s true! They’re this dark brown and huge and round and… I dunno,” you lift your shoulders, pupils flying up to your boyfriend’s, “I’ve always said you have starry eyes.”

You have; the admission is never new, but always heartbeat-increasing.

To be compared with something as gorgeous and celestial as the night sky…

“…And so,” you continue, “I thought.” You cradle the puppy’s face, but this time he retreats, rather leaning into Jungkook’s arms now with a soft whimper. Already fond. You say—

“Bam.”

It’s a simple syllable. A soft, two-letter sound. But something clicks into place immediately.

Jungkook feels it unwind inside him, as if it makes sense, as if whatever is happening is just the right thing. Just fitting to his timeline and life. This is nice. This is lovely. Worth remembering.

The ache, the doubt, the weight that followed him all these days… it all lightens, just a little.

No, Jungkook will never replace Gureum. But he can try to be a family with another one of the world's true angels; remember who he once knew as Bam’s lost brother.

Bam…

Bam. Short but just right, isn’t it?

“Bam,” he repeats, blinking away the tears, “hi.” His chest rises when he breathes in. Falls when he says, “Is it weird to say that I feel like I love him already?”

Is it?

No… of course it isn’t. No emotion that ever emerges out of a gut feeling is ever weird, is it? All it ever is and remains is real. In which sense Jungkook doesn’t need to question his emotions; can trash the question whether the newfound adoration only feels like love.

And as you watch from the other side, you so bittersweetly realise that you were oh-so-right.

Because some things don’t have to be explained. They don’t have to be questioned at all. A lot of times, things just are.

And a lot of times, when one has to ask whether they are loving… they already are.

a little (late) tribute to real life gureum, mixed with all that happened and has been happening in their lives. i guess this truly is a slice of life thing that keeps on hurting, but keeps on giving, too. idk – at least that's how i felt as i wrote and edited it. i really love them so much, y'all :') also, this was supposed to be the original banner, but i discarded it bc it spoiled too much lmao:

how did you guys like it? it's been so long, i hope it didn't disappoint. i would definitely love to hear what you think – this is truly what keeps me and this lil series going!!.. would make my day!! so leave a like/reblog/talk to me pls <3 love you!!

[the-librarby]

DRUNK IN DA CLUB III

- SIMON RILEY (COD)

18+ MDNI.

The aftermath and finale.

Double feature, who knew I had it in me. Don’t get used to it.

Part I Part II

Simon reaches for his phone which buzzes on the nightstand. With bleary eyes he can see the clock reads 7:00 am, and an unopened message.

Open the door for me will ya

With a deep exhale he rolls out of bed, forgoing putting on a shirt as he pads down the hallway of your still house. When he opens the door, the harsh morning light pours in, revealing a chipper looking Johnny in his clothes from last night.

He takes in the sight of Simon rubbing the sleep out of his eye, looking like a picture of relaxation, he almost doesn’t want to comment on it out of fear his words will send him back into his shell.

He does it anyway, “Jesus Simon, put some clothes on, I’m not my sister,”

“Get the fuck out of here,” he mutters, tone still gravelly, but opening the door anyway to allow him in.

“Anything happen while I was gone?” He inquires, kicking his shoes off, “Do I have to give you the talk?”

Simon walks off into his room to find a shirt, John eagerly tails after him and watches him from the doorway, “Nothing happened, I’m no brute. She’s sleeping it off,”

John crosses his arms, leaning against the frame, “Good, you know I’d murder you if you treated her wrong,”

“Why are you back so early? Thought you were just dropping her off,” He asks, shifting his shirt over his head.

John looks away, reaching up to scratch his stubbled jaw, “Oh you know, one thing led to another…”

He raises an eyebrow, walking past John into the kitchen, “And you call me a dirty bastard, should look in the mirror Johnny,”

“Yeah, yeah, say what you want, at least I didn’t beat a guy up to a bloody pulp,” he teases.

Simon turns away to flick on the kettle, “Bloke fuckin’ deserved it,”

“Can’t disagree with that,” he sighs, stretching his arms out, “I am in need of a shower. I’ll be back.”

Simon goes about making a tea as John finds clothes to change into before disappearing into the bathroom. He’d barely slept a wink, a constant loop of what had happened last night on his mind. Your looks,— there was something in those glances of yours— sounds, and body. He’d play any part you wanted him to if it meant he got to see you on the edge of your bed, almost naked, again.

The teaspoon he was holding clatters against the surface of the bench. He sighs deeply and massages the bridge of his nose, for all the jokes being said, he knows this is a line he can’t cross. Being Johnny’s sister, it’ll only get messy if it intwines with his work. He just needs to get through this break with minimal issues before he’s shipped off to the next place he’s needed.

He takes his mug outside to the backyard, slipping through the sliding door, he can feel the sun that is already beaming with warmth this early in the morning. He reaches for his packet of cigarettes, and takes a seat on one of the chairs you have set up in your small, makeshift dinning area. It’s peaceful in your backyard, despite the sweat that’s already beading along his forehead. He’s about halfway through his cigarette when the sliding door opens again.

You emerge, t-shirt from last night still on, and legs on full display. Sheepishly you cross your arms over your chest, to hide the fact that you’re not wearing a bra.

“Morning,” you greet, eyes squinting against the sun.

Simon pauses his next breath, letting his cigarette dangle between his fingers. He feels like a pervert for momentarily thinking about what colour your panties are, “Morning,”

“Sleep well?” You ask, tucking your hair behind your ears. You hadn’t bothered to brush it yet, you can only imagine what a mess you look like right now.

No. “Yeah, you?”

“Slept like a baby,” you hum, “Thanks for everything and I’m sorry for—”

“There she is!” John’s voice booms from inside the house.

You groan, covering your ear nearest to him, “Fuck me, do you have an inside voice?”

John drapes an arm over your shoulder, rustling you from side to side, “Aw, feeling hungover are you lass?”

You head lolls from side to side with his movements, “I had free drinks all night, of course I’m feeling like shit now,”

John frowns, “Free drinks? From who?”

Simon takes a drag of his cigarette, looking out into the backyard. You smile and pat John’s shoulder, “Fancy a slice of birthday cake for breakfast?”

John follows along, “If I ever say no to that, shoot me because I’ve gone senile.”

The events of last night came rushing in the moment you woke up this morning. And although you’re definitely embarrassed over some of it — seriously what were you thinking, trying to run in your heels? — the way he took care of you was endearing. Even up until you undressed in front of him, he was still the perfect gentleman and sent you to bed. If you weren’t already interested, you definitely were now.

You could always talk to Simon later.

Seeing John’s freshly washed hair makes you wonder, “Did you just get home?”

John pauses mid bite, “Uh, yeah,” he says simply, not wanting to elaborate.

You scrunch your nose, “Ugh ew, I knew you weren’t just going to walk her home,”

John laughs, raising his hands in defence, “It’s not like that,” he thinks for a moment before elaborating, “I’m taking her out on a date tonight,”

Your eyes widen, “What?”

“Does that upset you?” He inquires worryingly.

You smile and shake your head, “No, of course not, I’m just joking,” you place your fork down, “I didn’t realise you liked her so much,”

He looks down at his plate, “We just really hit it off,”

“You’re such a softie,” you tease. “Her favourite flowers are Lilies,”

John nods, “Noted, thank you.”

Another few moments of silence pass, from your spot at the bench you can see Simon through the sliding doors. His posture is more relaxed compared to last night, as he finishes off his cigarette.

“You’ll have the house to yourself tonight,” John notes, following your line of sight.

“Hm? Oh that’s good, could do without you for a night,”you sigh dramatically.

John pointedly ignores the insult, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,”

You tilt your head, “Pretty small list to work with.”

The sliding doors open and Simon steps through, cup in hand, “Si, beach today?” John offers.

“In your fucking dreams.” he mutters, shutting the door behind him.

Laughter erupts from both Johnny and yourself at his disdain. The rest of the day follows a mundane path, you’re sprawled out on the couch with your feet in John’s lap, freshly showered in a t-shirt and shorts to keep cool in the heat. The hangover has passed thankfully, so you’re left with a lazy feeling in your bones that can only come with deep relaxation.

Simon is sitting on one of the chairs near you, aimlessly watching some show you put on. John is occupied on your Switch, playing Stardew Valley even though he was unconvinced it would be entertaining, he’s been silent for at least two hours.

“Fuck, I fell asleep in the mines,” he mutters.

“Aw fucks sake John, you’re gonna lose all my resources,” you complain, digging the heel of your foot into his leg.

“I’ve almost reached the bottom,” he says, “Damn bat fucked me up,”

“Did you get any frozen tears?” You question.

John pauses for a moment, waiting for the cutscene to end. You can hear him checking his inventory, “Yes,”

“Can you give it to Sebastian?”

He frowns, “Why?”

“I’m trying to romance him,”

You can hear Simon chuckle above you, but John just scoffs, “Of course the town loner is your type, fucking nerd,”

“He’s not the town loner,” you defend.

“He likes to hang out at the pier in the rain, he’s a loner,”

You click your mouth shut, “Just give him the damn frozen tear, I don’t need the commentary,”

He sighs deeply but you can hear the player’s footsteps and smile. You’re about to zone back into the tv show until he speaks again.

“What have I done?” He asks, “There’s a weird moment happening,”

You look over confusedly, on the screen you realise John has unlocked one of the Sebastian cutscenes, “Give that to me, quick!”

You snatch the Switch out of his hands and watch the cutscene. You can’t help but giggle at how cute it is, unbeknownst to you, Simon watches from over your shoulder to see what you’re laughing at. He doesn’t understand it, and it’s completely irrational to be jealous over a video game character. So he isn’t.

“I’m gonna marry him,” he can’t help but roll his eyes and look away.

You exit the game to check the time, the display reads 5:00 pm, “Don’t you have to get ready, John?”

John checks his phone for the time, “Shit, I completely lost track of time.”

He shoots up from the couch and walks off into the spare room where he’s left his clothes. You save the game and put the console down on the table, Simon and yourself listen to the way John frantically paces between rooms as he gets ready. Eventually he comes out into the lounge, arms spread to show off his outfit.

“This okay?” He asks.

“Turn around,” you reply, still lying down as you scan his outfit up and down.

“You look fine,” Simon responds.

“Fine is not what I’m going for, Simon,” he exasperates, “I don’t have any clothes packed for a date,”

“The clothes are fine, but do you have a different jacket? You wore that one last night,”

John shakes his head, looking a bit deflated. You hum and think for a moment, “I think you left your bomber jacket here last time you stayed over, go check the back of my wardrobe,”

John rushes off to your room, probably turning it upside down in search of this jacket. Thankfully he manages to find it a few moments later, looking much more confident.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he sighs, checking his pockets. He frowns when he feels a tube like shape. When he fishes it out, he sees a sparkly pink lip gloss.

You gasp, “Oh my god I’ve been looking for that! That’s my favourite gloss,”

He tosses it towards you, “Can see you’ve been wearing this in my absence,”

“Yeah, I looked cuter in it too.”

John waves you off, looking down at his phone once more to send off a message. “Can I borrow your car?” He asks, not looking up from his phone.

You frown, “What if I have plans?”

John gives you a knowing look, I think we both know what your plans are.

You roll your eyes, “Whatever, fill her up will you?” You pause, “Where did I leave my keys?”

“In your bag,” Simon responds, “On the bench,”

John walks towards your bag, rummaging through your stuff to find them. Once they’re found, he does a quick once over before announcing his departure.

“Don’t stay out too late!” You call out.

“Ten pm curfew,” Simon tags on, convincingly authoritative.

“Yes mum and dad,” he shouts back, closing the door behind him.

You let out a sigh and stretch your legs until they’re barely touching the other side of the couch. You shuffle up into a sitting position, only drawn in by your desire to eat something.

“Should we cook something for dinner?” You ask.

Simon responds without looking away from the tv, “I am not someone that should be trusted in the kitchen,”

You laugh, “Surely you’re good at following instructions?”

Simon looks over at you with questionable confidence, but you know he’s too polite to say no, so you use it to your advantage and offer your hand to help him stand up. Begrudgingly he follows you into the kitchen, standing awkwardly as you mill around taking out whatever ingredients are left in your house.

With the chopping board set up you turn to him with a broad grin, “Think you can handle chopping vegetables?”

He sighs and picks up the knife, it’s comfortable in his hands, you can tell— and you won’t dwell on the reasons why. You stand beside him to peel certain vegetables before passing them off to him.

“Did you have a good time last night?” You ask.

“It was nice—some parts over others,” he muses, looking over at you.

You smile sheepishly before looking away, “I’m sorry again, I didn’t mean to rope you into my business,”

Simon shrugs, “No big deal, guy was a wanker,” he looks down as he begins to chop the vegetables, “I hope calling you my missus didn’t make you uncomfortable,”

You can feel your cheeks flush, “Nah, it was fine. It was cute being your missus for the night,” you sigh, “I’m almost jealous,”

Simon’s fingers still for a moment before continuing, “Of what?” He tries to ask neutrally.

When you don’t respond straight away, he looks over at you only to see your eyes already gazing back at him, “Of how considerate you are,” you murmur, placing the peeler down you step over into his space, close enough that your arms are brushing together a you lean your back against the bench, “You’ll make a fine partner,”

The way your eyes assess him has him tense, “What are you doing?”

You smile coyly, “Not doing anything,”

He raises an eyebrow, “Whatever you’re thinking, it needs to stop now darlin’,”

“What am I thinking about?” You ask, biting your lower lip to stop the grin that’s trying to form on your face.

Simon puts down the knife to give you his full attention, “Naughty thoughts that I should not be apart of,”

You hum but ease off, walking over to the other side of the kitchen to turn on the stove, “Missing out, they’re pretty fun thoughts I’m having.”

Simon looks up at the ceiling and shakes his head. God help him, he’s on his last tether. He continues about his work silently, refusing to look your way to keep whatever resolve he has intact. You try your hardest to not laugh at how tense his posture has turned, the mere brush of you walking past him as him flinching. It’s uncanny to see a man so big on edge.

“I’m not going to bite you Simon,” you promise, after the third twitch of his arm.

“Don’t know about that one.” he mutters, passing you bowl of chopped carrots.

Dinner manages to come out of it unscathed, he leaves it mostly to you considering he really does not trust his ability to not burn something. Once it’s finished and served, you both eat in the kitchen. Simon seems hellbent on keeping some form of distance between the two of you, so he’s leant against the opposite counter near the stove while you’re sitting atop the bench on the other side.

Unabashedly from your view you get to stare at how his shoulders fill out his shirt— does he own anything that’s not black? —moments of how he took care of you filter through your mind, the way his knuckles flexed after he came back in from the alley, the way he kept a close eye on you after that despite there being no threat.

Simon’s rough sigh and the sound of his bowl clattering against the counter’s surface has you floating back into the moment. Innocently, you watch as he crosses the space between the two of you. He’s still hovering just out of your reach, out of respect. You’re not having it, as soon as he’s within reach you hook your leg behind his knee and draw him in without restraint.

His hands rest on the bench either side of you, leg still entwined with yours, “What will it take?”

You tilt your head and put your own bowl down. With hands free, you can lean back against the counter to accomodate the man in your space. Innocently you trace your foot up and down his calf, “Come on Simon, use that brain of yours, I know you’re a smart man. What do you think?”

He breathes out through his nose, his thumb edges along the side of your thigh, “We shouldn’t do this,” it’s a flimsy defence.

You reach up with on of your hands to stroke the side of his face, slowly inching closer, “Stop acting like I don’t want this,” you whisper, “You’re not hurting anyone here.”

Before he can come up with another feeble excuse you lean forward to slot your lips against his. It’s soft, and tender, like leading a frightened animal out of its cage. Simon takes a moment to warm up, but once he has feeling in his fingertips, they’re moving to dig into your plush thighs. Your arms wrap around his neck and pull him closer, the kiss taking on a more urgent edge.

When you pull back, you lean your forehead against his, the kitchen is silent save for your soft breathing, “Good?” You inquire softly, not wanting to shatter the moment.

Simon silently scans your face, his answer forms in the way he pulls you closer until your legs wrap around his waist, “Johnny’s not gonna let me live this down,” he mutters.

“Don’t bring my brother into this,” you huff exasperatedly with an eye roll.

He kisses you out of apology, rubbing up and down your thighs in a soothing manner. You’re so taken off guard by his initiative, that he takes control. He’s being careful, holding himself back from gripping you too hard like he wants to. Your hands migrate down his chest until they reach the hem of his shirt, Simon lets you hike it up only separating from your mouth when he needs to pull it the rest of the way over his head.

With his chest on full display you can’t help but run your fingertips down it, you haven’t seen his tattoos since the day at the swimming hole. You try to take in as much as the detail you can before he’s pulling you into another kiss. Lost in the middle of it, Simon hooks his palms under your thighs before hoisting you off the bench into his arms. You squeeze him harder for leverage as you pull away.

You grin as you rub his shoulders, “Not just for display, huh?”

Simon chuckles as he walks down the hall to your bedroom, “That is the second comment you have made about my muscles in the last twenty four hours,”

You scoff, “What you’re keeping count now?”

“Maybe,” he shrugs.

“You like hearing me talk about how big they are?” You raise an eyebrow teasingly, “Does it inflate your ego? What else about is big about you, Simon?”

A palm covers your mouth, muffling your laughter. Simon is borderline mortified at your cliché comments, as he walks through the door into your room. When he drops you down on your bed, you’re still giggling to yourself.

“You talk too much,” he states.

You lean up on your elbows to meet Simon halfway as he hovers over you on his forearms, “My talking got us here, didn’t it?”

Simon looks at you with a knowing smirk, he knows defeat when he hears it. Instead of giving you the satisfaction of being right, he reaches to pull your top off which you wordlessly follow. It’s a different bra is what he first thinks, before dropping your shirt to the floor in favour of leading a trail of kisses down your chest.

You’re quiet as you watch him go, his blonde hair brushes against your ribcage the further he goes. His hands are grasping your hips for leverage until he reaches your bellybutton in a slow descent. You can only lift your hips as he tugs your shorts down unceremoniously.

He chuckles for a moment, “No underwear? Bit cheeky of you when you have company in your house,”

You smile slyly, “A girl can do what she wants in her own house,”

Simon slowly kneels at the edge of the bed, pulling you forward by your calves until they’re resting over his shoulders, “Can’t argue with that,”

You roll your eyes, “Especially not when it’s working in your— favour,” your comment filters off into a harsh breath.

Simon kisses up the sensitive path of your inner thighs, even on his knees you can’t help but marvel at how powerful his figure looks. You can’t imagine what he’s like in the field, if only you had paid attention to Johnny’s phone calls you would have a clearer mental image.

All thoughts are lost on you now when you feel his tongue against your clit. “Yes,” you sigh, reaching down to card your fingers through his hair.

Simon listens to each turn of your breath to guide his movements, he presses harder depending how tightly you’re squeezing his hair. By the end of it, he can almost relish in the way your thighs squeeze around his head involuntarily trying to shy away from the building sensation in the pit of your stomach. When you wriggle too far, he digs his fingers into your ass and pulls you closer until you’re flush against his mouth.

“Fuck’s sake,” you gasp, “I’m gonna cum if you don’t give me a break, Simon,”

Simon unlatches his mouth but you can still feel his breath against your clit, “Trying to tap out already, love?”

Your head thunks against the mattress beneath you, so unfair for him to look like that between your legs. Dazed and like he’d rather be nowhere else, “If I can’t move after this it’s your fault,”

“I’ll do all the work,” he promises before diving back in. It’s messy you can feel it, the way he tongues between your clit and hole which is now leaking with how turned on you are.

You clench your eyes shut and reach for his hair again, this time pulling him forward by the crown of his head until he can’t get any closer with his nose shoved against your lips. The rush of your orgasm comes all at once, you’re sure you said Simon’s name either in warning or something entirely else. He doesn’t pull away from your clenching grip until he feels your thighs start to ease off and twitch from the overstimulation.

He looks entirely pleased with himself if the toothy grin is something to go by. You’re too boneless to think of a snarky response as you feel yourself melt into the mattress. Going along with it as he leans down to kiss you deeply. When you lift one of your legs for leverage, he grunts as it gently brushes past his cock which is painfully still confined in his pants.

He pulls away to look down at you, “Good?” He checks in.

You hum, “Great,” sneakily you shift your thigh in between his and rub it against his crotch, “Should we figure that out?”

He exhales roughly, resting his forehead against your shoulder as he ruts down against your leg. The outline feels big, heavy. It makes you a little bit nervous if it’s anything proportional to how big Simon is himself. With his head bowed, he reaches one hand down between your legs, briefly running his finger over your soaked hole before sliding one in. You gasp and clutch at his shoulders, he follows your weight dragging him down, causing him to rut deeper against your thigh.

The sound pulled from him sounds borderline painful, with panting breaths you reach down to unbuckle his pants. The lack of constriction brings instant relief, he pushes another finger inside you as you dip your fingers under the waistband of his boxers. There’s a mutual sound of pleasure, Simon’s brow furrows as your hand circles around him within his pants. Any sort of touch fuels his need to go faster, when his fingers stretch you out too abruptly he apologises roughly and kisses your shoulder.

His cock feels huge under your palm as you stroke up and down, but every subtle grunt and breath you hear against your ear makes it worth it. You’re so wired by the time a third finger stretches you out that you start shoving against his chest. Simon kneels up on the bed, fingers departing from your cunt causing you to clench. His cock lays flushed against his pelvis, you’re immediately drawn in by your own impatience as you try to tug his pants down. You only get as far as his thighs before he has to crawl off the bed to shove them the rest of the way off.

Everything about Simon, you’ve come to realise, is big. “How the fuck do you walk around with that thing,” you gasp.

Simon rolls his eyes as he resumes his position above you, resting his closed fists either side of your head, “Stop being dramatic,”

Your jaw drops, drawing your gaze away to look up at him, “I promise I am being far from dramatic Simon,”

He quirks an eyebrow, “Having second thoughts?” The way your jaw clicks shut makes him smirk, “Didn’t think so,”

“You are a bastard,” you mutter, hooking your legs around his waist.

He leans down to kiss you as he adjusts one of his hands to guide his cock to your entrance. When you feel the tip of it tap purposely against your clit, you can’t help but tense.

You reach up to dig your fingers into Simon’s jaw before you pull away from the kiss, “Don’t be a tease now, Simon,”

He smirks within your grip, sliding his cock up and down but not quite going where you’re want him to, “Ask nicely,”

You huff, each pass over your clit makes you twitch, “You want me to use manners now? Really?”

“Yes,” finding satisfaction in your faltering resolve. “I like a girl that can listen to me,”

It’s a test, to see if you’ll follow orders. You shake your head incredulously, and for a moment Simon thinks you won’t follow through, that you’ll say someone back with equal sarcasm. Eventually you drop the hand that was holding his jaw and let it fall to the mattress beneath you.

“Please, Simon,” you sigh, tightening your legs around his waist just to nudge him that little bit closer, “Put that fucking cock in me already,”

It’s close enough. “Such a good girl,” he rumbles, sinking all the way in.

You ball your fist and gently knock it against his shoulder as you try to bare the girth of his cock stretching you open, “Fucking hell,”

Simon strokes the of your waist to your hip in soothing motions. It’s painful for him to remain so still inside you, you’re perfectly tight around him— it’s almost laughable that you got referred to as loose the night before by your jealous fling.

“Doing okay, love?” He asks between breaths.

You can only hum with your eyes clenched shut as you try to collect your thoughts. After a moment of breathing you manage to open your eyes, and capture the sight of Simon mildly fretting over you.

“M’good,” you unfurl your fist and grip his shoulder with a squeeze, “Too good, start moving.”

Simon’s previous patting stalls to grip your hip instead, with a slow withdrawal comes a deep thrust forward. It’s knocks the wind out of your lungs, you can only hang on as Simon finds a rhythm that has you unwinding. It’s deep, you tell him as much in a repeated mantra like it’s the only thing your brain can comment on.

“Doin’ so well,” he huffs, tugging you forward with his thrusts, “Perfectly tight little cunt you have darlin’, it’s made for me,”

The whine that pours from your lips is involuntary, completely affected by the language itself. You wish he would shut up as it only adds to the onslaught of pleasure pooling in your core. In a moment of quick thinking, you shove at his shoulders again until he eases up. Before he can question if you’re alright, you guide him into rolling over until you’re on top.

The withdrawal of his cock makes you feel empty, but you use it as a moment to catch your breath and get your bearings as you lean your hands flat against his chest. From this view you can see every fleeting look that passes through Simon’s eyes, his hands gently circle your hips. His thumbs digging into the bones as reassurance.

You shift forward and grip his cock with careful fingers before guiding back inside you. Simon’s grip tightens on your hips but he says nothing as you readjust to the feeling.

“You holding back on me, Simon?” You ask, breathless. He remains quiet, you take that as your opportunity to unhook your bra before leaning forward until you’re inches away from his face, “Think I can’t handle it?”

“Yes,” he says earnestly, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

You rise back up, planting your hands for leverage as you lift yourself up before dropping back down in a slowing pace. It’s selfish, to cause a rise out of him, but you can’t help but consider it a challenge. Who is he to dictate what you can and can’t take?

Simon’s fingers dig into your hips, “What are you doing?”

You raise an eyebrow, “Riding you,” you state, matter of factly.

Simon lets you continue your slow pace for a moment longer. It’s not helping either of you, “I know what you’re doing,”

“What’s that sweetheart?”

“You’re not going to get a rise out of me,” he comments, letting his arms fall above his head. A mock picture of relaxation.

“Can’t I just enjoy myself?” You ask, corner of your lips quirking up in a mischievous smile.

It’s quiet save for the soft breaths coming from you and the sound of your skin connecting against Simon’s. Your thighs are starting to strain, and Simon will give it to you, you’re fucking stubborn. But he’s got the upper hand, and is perfectly happy staring at your tits as you work yourself up and down his cock. He’s entranced by it until he hears you mumbling something under your breath, completely unaware.

Please, Simon, please, please, please.

Who is he to say no to his missus?

“Fuckin’ hell,” he grunts, grabbing ahold of your hips and slamming you down against his pelvis. The gasp you let out is most satisfying to him, you asked for this, not him, it’s punishment now.

Your mouth falls agape, clutching desperately at Simon’s shoulders as he takes over, slamming up into you as he pulls you down. It’s much rougher, deeper now, you can feel everything. Your thighs try to draw closer to shy away but he shakes his head and uses strength to flip you back onto the mattress beneath him.

“Greedy little thing,” he grunts, “Can’t just do as you’re told can you?”

You’re panting, open mouthed now, “Simon, fuck,” your fingers curl up into his hair, “Keep going,”

He shakes his head, “Still making demands of me? When is it enough for you?”

He shifts back on his knees, dislodging your grip on his hair. Your thighs rest either side of his waist as he spears you back and forth on his cock, your hands reach for the headboard above you. With your spine arched, everything feels more pronounced as he thrusts in and out at a bruising pace.

“M’gonna cum,” you whisper, clenching your eyes shut.

“C’mon then love, waiting for it,” he grunts.

Your jaw drops with wordless moan, your spine goes taut as Simon delivers one last deep thrust inside you. His thumb circles your clit as you orgasm, making you cry out just that little bit louder. Your thighs are quaking around him until he decides he can’t take it anymore.

You watch dazed, as he pulls out and jacks off over your stomach. Ropes of cum spill against your abdomen and ribcage until he’s done. With heavy breaths he crouches over you to compose himself. You pat the back of his enclosed fist before tugging at his wrist to encourage him to lay down beside you.

Staring up at the ceiling both of you try to catch your breath. When you turn your head, you can see his eyes are closed, “Did I tire you out?”

He exhales deeply, “Is there ever a quiet moment with you?”

You laugh and roll over to his side, hooking your leg around his and draping an arm over his chest, “Is quiet what you want?”

He doesn’t even open his eyes, “No,” he’s had enough of quiet in his life.

You lean up to press a soft kiss against his lips, “I like when you call me your missus,”

He cracks an eye open, “Really?”

You grin when his arms circle around you, “Yeah, does something to me.”

Simon rolls his eyes and kisses you again.

[emeraldserenade]

Joaquin getting baby fever ?

-🐞

Baby Fever ~ Joaquín Torres

synopsis: You babysit for your sister after getting hit with baby fever, only to accidentally trigger Joaquín's as well

tw: fem!reader, reader has a sister and niece, suggestive (obviously), barely edited.

fic, ficlet, drabble, request

Hi, 🐞!! Joaquín would get hit with baby fever so bad.

➽──────────────❥

It started with a TikTok trend, you saw the "What kind of bed bug is this?" and immediately sent it to your sister. You were hit with baby fever hard and needed your fix, so your sister let you take her daughter for the day while her and her husband went on a day date.

Joaquín came home to you curled up in your bed with your niece fast asleep on your chest. One of her tiny hands clutching your hair and the other clutching your shirt. One of your hands rested on her back while the other was holding your phone. You didn't even notice Joaquín walking in, not until you felt his eyes on you.

The sight of you looking over at him, a bright smile on your face with a baby resting on you changed something in him. "Hi, amor," Joaquín breathed out like he couldn't say the words fast enough.

"Hi, Quino," you put your phone down and held your arm out for him to come join you. Joaquín didn't hesitate before slipping his jacket off and getting into bed with you.

Joaquín curled into your side, his head resting in the space between your neck and shoulder while placing small kisses there. He heard you sigh in contentment while turning your head to kiss his forehead. "How long do we have this little one?" Joaquín questioned, gently brushing one of his fingers down your niece's face.

"Until my sister and her husband are done at the movie theater," you told him, taking a glance at the clock neatly hanging from the wall above the TV. "So about another half hour or so," you added.

"Hm, ok," Joaquín mumbled, his thoughts running faster than his mouth. He imagined you round with your growing child, how he'd help you with anything and everything you wanted. How he'd stand behind you and hold your belly up the farther along you got just so you could have some relief. How, when your baby was born, he would wake up at every feeding even if he couldn't do anything at first before slowly taking them over once the baby started taking bottles. How he'd come home to you two, a smile firmly planted on his face just at the prospect of seeing you two. Maybe having another if you wanted it and/or could handle it. The firsts of everything, the pictures and videos you already send when he's on a mission suddenly having little people who were the perfect mix of the two of you.

"You're thinking quite hard there," you muttered, glancing down at him. "Is something wrong?" You sounded concerned and a little confused.

"Nothing's wrong," he quickly assured you with a kiss pressed to your lips. "Just thinking about our future together," he admitted and you hummed.

"What's it look like?" Joaquín paused at your question, children was something you two had discussed but never fully sat down and talked about. He decided now was as good as time as any, even if you were trapped by a baby, he decided he would leave the room if you wanted space.

"A kid, maybe two, me coming home to you guys with a smile. How I'd do everything in my power to help you any way possible throughout everything," he admitted, his voice soft.

"Sounds perfect," you told him, not even trying to dismiss him, you were just so happy you couldn't form any other words.

"Do you... not like it?" Joaquín paused in the middle of his sentence, and if it weren't for the baby still sleeping soundly on your chest, you'd tell him to put a baby in you right at the moment to ease his fears.

"What? No! I love it, I'm just having trouble putting it into words," you assured him and then you kept talking. "If it weren't for her," you took a glance at your niece, "I'd be telling you that right now is a good as time as any to start on that future." The meaning of your words weren't lost on Joaquín and he was slowly sitting up.

"So as soon as you sister gets back and takes her," he also glanced at the baby, "you'll let me put a baby in you?"

"Yes, as soon as she's gone, we will try," you affirmed, kissing him as he leaned back down.

➽──────────────❥

Masterlist | Requests If you want to be added to the tag list, follow the directions on my masterlist

[p3terparker]

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: peter is too shy to make a move on you

𝘄/𝗰: 0.7k

𝗮/𝗻: hi everyone i'm back from the dead after being gone for over a year as usual give me grace with this fic i haven’t written in forever but i’m trying 😭 i miss writing for peter so much ♡♡

it’s no secret peter is shy. ever since the beginning of your relationship, which was months ago, you were always the one to initiate things between you two. he was too shy to even hold your hand or start a cuddle session. you don’t mind that; in fact, you even find it quite cute how he starts to blush when you do something as simple as kissing him on his cheek. it’s endearing, but sometimes you don’t always want to be the one to make a move, which is why you had completely deprived him of any physical touch.

you can tell he’s bothered. he’s been staring at you as soon as you two sat on the couch together and put on your guy’s favorite TV show. he not so subtly coughs to get your attention, but you choose to ignore it as you hold back a giggle. it’s obvious he wants to cuddle, but you’re not going to give him what he wants unless he does it himself.

as the show progresses to the next episode, you finally decide to speak up after feeling his eyes on you throughout the entirety of the first episode.

“you need something peter?” you ask while looking away from the TV you were watching.

“what? oh um, no. why do you ask?” he stumbles over his words as a slight blush creeps over his face.

“because you’ve been staring at me ever since you got home” you giggle

“oh.. sorry” he murmurs out timidly while finally looking away from your face and towards the TV.

that was the last thing that was said before the next episode started and you were engulfed in the show you were watching again.

it didn’t take long for his attention to fall back onto you, staring at you in disbelief because you’re not giving him what he wants. it’s killing you inside to not just wrap yourself in his arms, but you have to stand strong. you continue watching your show for another 15 minutes before peter finally reaches his breaking point.

“why are you doing this to me?”

you pause the show and get a good look at him. he has a small pout and a look of sadness painted all over his face which causes you to feel a twinge of pain in your chest.

“doing what?”

“ignoring me”

“i’m not–”

“yes you are. you didn’t give me a hug or kiss when i got home and now you’re not cuddling with me like you always do” he cuts you off and lets the words pour out frustratedly.

you kind of feel bad but at the same time can’t help yourself from laughing at how frustrated he is over an issue he could’ve avoided by just making a move on you.

“you know you could’ve kissed me and cuddled me yourself, right?”

now he’s silent because you just called him out.

“yeah but… i don’t know how” he timidly says.

“what do you mean you don’t know how?”

“you make me nervous. you’re my first relationship and i don’t know how to initiate anything between us without making things awkward” he quietly states, barely able to make eye contact with you.

“aww peter, come here” you say while finally embracing him. you can feel the tension release from his body as soon as he lays his head on your chest.

“you could never make things awkward between us peter. and as for me making you nervous, do you know how nervous you make me? like seriously, you’re insanely hot and also have the sweetest personality ever”

“stoppp” he whines but gives you a look that tells you he secretly loves what you’re saying.

“alright alright, but i'm serious peter. nothing you say or do could make things awkward between us. you don’t know how much i want you to initiate something for once, i’m tired of practically wearing the pants in our relationship” you laugh while semi-joking.

you don’t know if it’s the entirety of the little speech you gave him or the comment about you wearing the pants in your relationship that caused a change in his demeanor, but suddenly he flipped your position to where he has you pinned beneath him on the couch and passionately kissed you.

“who’s wearing the pants now?”

[enhaeil]

BAD DESIRE ! ☆ 엔하이픈

"innocent girl, don't touch, don't do it, don't wanna take your golden light..."

bad desire (with or without you) - enhypen

c/w: suggestive in heeseungs, vampire!enha x reader, idk enha lore that well so sorry, angsty

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

heeseung ✩ ₊˚

a romantic night out that eventually leads to you straddling heeseung on his couch.

you can feel it in the way he kisses you, desperate yet careful, like he's fighting himself every second.

when your hands start to find their way to his shirt, he pulls away.

"i'm sorry, did i do too much?" you say moving off of him, until he grabs your waist to stop you.

"no— no, y/n. i want this. it's just ... if i lose control... if i hurt you ... i wont be able to live with myself."

you look into his eyes, sincere, soft, yet dark and desperate. you can tell he wants this as bad as you do.

"i trust you, hee. just please touch me."

heeseung's breath hitches, before he presses a surprisingly soft kiss to your lips.

"i need you to tell me if it's too much. if you say the word, i'll stop immediately."

jay ✩ ₊˚

you and jay have been dating for months, yet he wont let you touch or see him when the lights are on.

he comes home to you sleeping in his bed, chest rising and falling softly. he smiles to himself, ridding his clothes and hopping in the shower.

thinking you're still asleep, he comes out the bathroom, bare skin glowing in the moonlight.

but you'd been awake since he shut the bathroom door.

as he sits on the bed, you sit up, lightly grazing your fingertips over his faded scars and glowy skin.

he flinches, making you pull away.

"it's ugly isn't it? you can tell me the truth."

your heart twists. how could someone so beautiful say such hurtful things about himself?

"jay .."

"i can't stand the thought of you seeing me this way, y/n."

you don't say anything. you just lean down, pressing warm kisses over every scar and insecurity he may have.

"you're beautiful to me."

jake ✩ ₊˚

your relationship with jake was perfect, until it wasn't. until he started avoiding you. missing dates. not answering texts. eyes darting away.

so tonight, you corner him.

"jake, talk to me. what changed?"

he freezes. eyes avoiding yours once again.

"i'm not human, y/n. i don't want to hurt you. you deserve someone safer."

your heart aches for him, and you step closer, closing the space between you two.

"jake, i've only ever wanted you."

he stares at you like you've just undone him completely.

"don't... don't say that unless you mean it." he whispers, voice feeling weak.

"i mean it."

suddenly his hands are cupping your face, thumbs trembling as if he'll break you.

"then i can't hold back anymore."

sunghoon ✩ ₊˚

you tried pulling away, tried telling yourself you needed distance.

but tonight you felt the familiar grip of his hand on your wrist as you try to leave the club.

"you think you can run away from me?" his eyes are dark, voice low.

"let me go. this isn't healthy—"

"i tried to let go. without you, it's hell. i can't do it." he says, grip loosening just in case you wanted to leave.

"sunghoon.."

"please. please don't tell me to walk away again. i'm going crazy."

you shouldn’t give in. but the way he’s looking at you, is unfamiliar. a look that says he’d burn the world just to keep you.

sunoo ✩ ₊˚

sunoo hasn't fed in days. you can see it in the tremble of his hands and the gloss over his eyes.

"please, sunoo. let me help you." you beg, trying to get closer to him.

sunoo can't deny how sweet you smell, and how well he can hear your heartbeat. but he can't bring himself to do it.

"no, i can't. i'll hurt you."

"i trust you."

when you tilt your head, exposing your neck to him, his resolve shatters. he pulls you close, lips ghosting over you.

"if i do this, you have to tell me when to stop. promise me."

"i promise."

jungwon ✩ ₊˚

you and jungwon have been arguing back and forth for what felt like hours. he's just been so tense lately, and keeps taking it out on you.

"why do you keep pushing me away?" you shout, tears threatening to spill from your eyes.

something in him snaps, his voice rises, fangs peeking through, eyes glowing faintly.

"because i could hurt you! are you too naive to see that?"

you flinch. the room falls silent. he goes still.

in the next second he's across the room, arms around you, voice small.

"i'm so sorry, baby. i didn't mean to yell like that i— i promised i'd never hurt you and i did, i'm so sorry." he mumbles into your hair, holding you as if you were going to pack your bags and leave any moment now.

your tears wet his shirt, as he rubs your back. "i just don't want you to leave me, won."

"never," he says, pulling you impossibly closer.

niki ✩ ₊˚

you were always such a sweet, innocent girl. so imagine niki's suprise when you show up at his door begging him to turn you.

it's 4:03 AM when niki hears a knock at his door. he opens it, and there you are. standing on his porch, hair messy from sleep, breathing staggered.

"y/n? what're you doing here?" he speaks, voice low and confused.

you look up at him with shaky hands. "i need you."

he frowns, pulling you inside. "need me? baby it's four in the morning, is everything good?"

"i want you to turn me." you blurt out, louder than expected. "please, niki."

"y/n, where is this coming from?"

you step closer now, eyes burning into his. "forever isn't enough for me." you whisper. "i want more. i want all of you."

"y/n—"

"i'm sure of this niki. bite me. ruin me. i don't care, just do it."

his breath stutters, hands fidgeting at his sides. "if i do this, there's no going back, y/n."

a/n: hey yawl long time no see. i have no motivation to write anymore but this was actually sooo fun to write 😭 i need to dig into enha vampire lore more this is tea

[wendichester]

⋆ ˚ ꩜ ｡ practice makes perfect²,

summary. dean finds out you never really had your first kiss. he's determined to change that for you. platonically so, of course.

pairing. teen!dean winchester x reader genre. giggling even more

wordcount. 802

notes / warnings. teen awkwardness not knowing how to handle emotions. lingering touches. prom crisis.

ᯓ★ heavily inspired by this c.ai bot! ★ read part 1

It’s been a week since The Kiss.

Or, as you call it internally: That Time Your Best Friend Kissed You and the Earth Briefly Left Orbit.

You haven’t talked about it since. Not really. Which is fine. Totally fine. Super normal and healthy to pretend like it didn’t completely short-circuit your brain. Like you didn’t replay it six million times while brushing your teeth and scream into your pillow every night.

Dean’s been acting weird. But like… Dean-Weird™, which means he’s just Dean but with more inexplicable hovering. He’s suddenly always around. Sitting a little closer on your bed during movie nights. Tugging on your sleeve when he wants your attention. Laughing way too hard at your dumb jokes in biology.

And the touching.

Oh my god, the touching.

Not in a gross way—just… casual. Shoulder bumps when you’re walking in the halls. His hand lingering on your back when he lets you go through a doorway first. Fingers brushing when he hands you a pen and then not pulling away immediately like a normal person with boundaries.

You’re losing your damn mind.

It all comes to a head on a random Tuesday, when some girl named Bridget says the word prom and detonates your brain like a glittery nuclear bomb.

“I still need a dress,” she whines to your shared lunch table. “I swear if Jeremy asks me last-minute, I’ll say no.”

“Prom’s still, like, a month away,” someone mutters.

“Exactly,” she says. “Which is basically tomorrow. Everyone knows you need time to coordinate colors.”

You giggle into your juice box.

And then, like a heat-seeking missile, Bridget turns to you. “Wait—Y/N, who are you going with?”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Reboots like a dial-up modem.

“I—uh—”

You feel Dean stiffen beside you.

You glance over. And that’s when it happens.

Your eyes meet.

It’s one of those moments—like in the movies. Time freezes. The hallway noise dulls. You’re looking at each other like it’s the first time, even though you literally know everything there is to know about each other. Inside and out.

And it’s like, Oh, are we supposed to go together?

Dean clears his throat and looks away, scratching behind his ear. “Prom’s lame.”

Your heart drops a little.

“Oh. Yeah. Super lame,” you echo, forcing a laugh that sounds a lot like heartbreak.

Bridget snorts. “You guys are so boring.”

Dean doesn’t respond. Shrugs. And then grabs a gummy worm from your bag like he’s never been affected by a kiss in his life.

The weirdness multiplies after that.

Dean’s still around. Constantly. But now there’s static. Like every brush of his hand against yours is electric. Like every “see you later” is packed with something unsaid.

He starts walking you to class more often.

Offers to carry your backpack one day when your shoulder’s sore. (He doesn’t even make a snarky comment about the sheer weight of it, which is extremely un-Dean.)

You catch him looking at you in chem, chewing on the end of his pen like he’s solving a particularly annoying equation. You’re not even doing anything—just doodling in the margins of your notebook. But his gaze feels warm. Heavy. Like he’s memorizing you for something.

You’re both dancing around it. The Thing. The maybe-sorta-crush that’s reached boiling levels of unbearable.

And then you’re both in the library one afternoon, doing absolutely zero homework, when he says it.

“So, uh,” Dean starts, voice low, “if you did go to prom… like, hypothetically… who would you wanna go with?”

You blink up at him. “Hypothetically?”

He shrugs. Looks anywhere but at you. “Y’know. Just curious.”

Your heart is thumping like a kettle drum.

“I don’t know,” you say, watching him carefully. “Depends if the hypothetical guy thinks prom’s lame.”

Dean’s lips twitch into a smile. He’s still not meeting your eyes, fiddling with the strap of your bag where it rests beside his thigh.

“Maybe he changed his mind,” he mutters.

You lean in a little. “Oh, really?”

He finally looks up. And you’re not ready for how serious his face is. It’s not a joke. He’s not teasing you this time.

“I’d take you,” he says. “If you wanted.”

The world goes silent.

“Put on one of those uncomfortable as hell tuxs and all.”

You forget how to breathe.

And then your voice comes out all high and soft and stupid: “Yeah. I’d want.”

Dean’s smile could light the damn sky.

“…Cool.”

You sit there for a second, hearts going a hundred miles an hour in tandem, pretending you’re not both blushing like morons.

And then he reaches out—like it’s nothing—and takes your hand under the table. Just laces your fingers together, slow and gentle.

No one says anything else after that.

Because it’s not practice anymore.

You're going to prom with Dean Winchester.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[sergioguymanproust]

There’s something you need to know,not all forest are welcoming as we might like to think.There are old growth forests that do not care for the human presence ,and will do anything to invite entities and energies that align with their vortexes creating a sense of danger and anxiety directed toward humans. There is the case where the canopy won’t allow sunlight to reach the ground,well ,you might think this is a common occurrence but there’s more to it ,you see old growth forests that are located deep in the hollers and valleys embrace darkness and critters that avoid the light,also cryptids that feed on the animals that stray away from their kind ,deer,wild turkeys,humans,and even birds.Every year thousands of vacationers go missing never to be seen again .Could it be that they chose the wrong forest to go camping.Even for us shamans ,though we pick our trails and woods very carefully,we notice how forests change with the years,this is just normal,what isn’t is the sounds that emanate ,the sudden breaking of branches ,and vacuum that exists deep in the heart of the forest.Also something not mentioned often is the places where battles were fought,there many ghosts that never left the battlefield hang around such places .Well,I will say no more. Jus get to know the woods ,and leave if you have to,Words by Sergio GuymanProust.

In the forest

[theseh00perscanh00p]

Coaching Violation: Part 4

paige x azzi

a/n: i'm sorry for leaving y'all hanging last time...

word count: 5.1k

Bellagio Hotel – Hallway, Outside Room 1125

Paige’s POV

She’d been standing there too long.

Long enough for the hallway’s patterned carpet to start spinning under her sneakers. Long enough to memorize every chip in the faux-gold trim of the room number plaque.

Room 1125.

She should’ve turned around.

Should’ve walked the strip, gone back to her room, counted the ceiling tiles, anything other than this. But her legs had moved before her logic caught up. And now her knuckles had already touched the door.

Twice.

It was too late to run without looking ridiculous.

So she stood there—

Heart thudding.

Throat tight.

Eyes closed.

Until the latch turned.

And a voice said—

“Coach?”

Her stomach dropped straight through the floor.

“Is there something I can help you with?”

Paige’s eyes flew open, already mid-rehearsed apology—

But it wasn’t Azzi.

It was KK.

Standing there with one sock half-off her foot, hair messy, and the world’s most suspicious eyebrow climbing up her forehead.

“…KK?”

KK didn’t move. “So… you knocking on every door tonight, or just the one that used to belong to Fudd?”

Paige’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“I—no. I thought—this was—Shit.” She coughed, tried to pull herself upright, posture tight like a soldier. “Sorry. Wrong room. I was—uh—just checking in. On something.”

KK leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, smirk sharp enough to slice through Paige’s panic.

“You were checking in… on the door?”

Paige winced. “Just—yeah, I’m gonna go. Sorry to—bother you. It’s late. I’ll just—”

She was already retreating, hands up in surrender, halfway down the hall.

KK didn’t say anything at first.

Just watched her walk like she was studying a film clip in slow motion.

Then, just before the door closed—

“Azzi asked to switch rooms,” she said, voice light but layered. “Told me at the front desk something about 1125 being a bad luck number.”

That stopped Paige in her tracks.

“Oh,” she said. “Gotcha. Makes sense.”

She kept walking.

One foot in front of the other.

Keep it together.

Don’t turn around.

But just as she reached the corner, KK’s voice chased her again—casual, sweet, and absolutely intentional.

“My original room was 1333.”

Paige didn’t respond.

Didn’t need to.

The door shut behind her with a soft click.

And all she could hear now was the blood in her ears… and the echo of the number 1125 ringing like a bell she couldn’t unring.

Bellagio Hotel – Hallway, Just After 1 AM

Azzi’s POV

She hadn’t been able to sleep. Not really.

Even after changing rooms. Even after throwing every pillow off the bed and burying herself beneath the duvet. Her body still hummed with restlessness — too sore to sleep, too wired to lie still, too aware of where she almost had to sleep tonight.

Room 1125.

If she hadn’t caught herself at the check-in desk… if she hadn’t insisted on switching—

She would’ve been back in the same room where everything had changed.

The same sheets. The same walls. The same view of the Strip through a half-closed curtain.

Alone this time. Again.

Azzi pressed her palms to her eyes, exhaled sharp through her nose.

The past few days had already run her raw — physically, emotionally, in ways she couldn’t name. The week had chewed her up and spit her out and now here she was, icing her knees at 1am because she couldn’t figure out how else to feel okay.

She shoved her arms through the sleeves of her hoodie, grabbed the hotel ice bucket, and padded into the hallway barefoot in hotel slippers.

It took her three tries to find a working machine.

She finally filled the bucket, wincing as the chill hit her hands. She shook it off, turned the corner toward her room—

—and froze.

Paige.

Standing in front of the door to her room.

Hair down, hoodie loose, hands shoved in the front pocket like she was trying to hide the fact they were shaking.

Azzi ducked slightly, stayed behind the corner. Watched her.

Paige looked like she was mid-argument — not with anyone, just herself. Her body shifted slightly. She stepped toward the door. Then back. Then leaned her forehead against the wall like she hated herself for even being there.

Azzi’s stomach twisted.

She waited. And waited. Until Paige finally turned, ready to walk away.

And then Azzi stepped forward.

“Uhhh…” her voice broke the silence like a dropped pin. “If you’re looking for Coach KK, she’s not gonna be in there.”

Paige jolted.

Her head snapped up, eyes wide — caught in the act. Like a kid with her hand in the cookie jar. Except the cookies were heartbreak and old feelings and a hotel room full of memories she clearly hadn’t buried as deep as she thought.

“I, uh…” Paige started, blinking. “I thought—this was—”

Azzi just raised an eyebrow, ice bucket still in hand. “You sure you’re a head coach? ‘Cause your recon sucks.”

That earned her a very reluctant, very crooked smile from Paige. The kind that only came out when she was completely thrown off.

Azzi’s heart shouldn’t have leapt. But it did.

And now they were standing there again — just the two of them — in what felt like the same hallway, the same hotel, the same goddamn story they never finished.

And neither of them moved.

The ice began to melt, drip by drip, onto Azzi’s wrist.

Still, she didn’t move.

Paige’s eyes dropped to the ice bucket in Azzi’s hands, then flicked back to her face.

“I already checked 1125,” she said quietly. “KK opened the door.”

Azzi’s brow furrowed. “Wait… you went to—?”

“I was looking for you,” Paige said before she could think better of it. The words left her mouth like an exhale she’d been holding all week. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Azzi stood there, stunned into silence for a second too long.

“You were looking for me?” Her voice was small, caught somewhere between disbelief and hope.

Paige nodded.

“I was,” she said, and then softer — barely audible — “I am.”

Azzi didn’t speak. Just stepped past Paige toward her door and slid the key card through the lock.

The light turned green.

She pushed it open, stood in the doorway, then turned her head just enough to look at Paige again.

“You coming in?”

Paige hesitated. One heartbeat. Two.

Then she stepped inside.

Paige’s POV

The room was dim and quiet — too quiet, save for the hum of the air conditioning and the soft clink of ice in the bucket Azzi set down.

Paige stepped inside like she didn’t quite trust the floor to hold her. Her eyes moved cautiously, taking in everything — the slightly rumpled bed, the duffel bag half-zipped on the chair, Azzi’s hoodie draped over the desk chair like it lived there.

Then her eyes landed on her.

Azzi moved toward the bed, a small wince tugging at her brow as she shifted her leg. She didn’t say anything at first, just reached for the ice like this was routine.

“Wait,” Paige said, voice a little too sharp, a little too nervous. “Can I… help?”

Azzi looked at her, surprised.

But she nodded.

Paige crossed the room slowly, every step more uncertain than the last. She grabbed the towel from the bathroom counter, returned to kneel at the edge of the bed, gently took the bag of ice from Azzi’s hand, and wrapped it.

“You’ve gotta elevate it,” she mumbled, like she was trying to justify why she was here at all. She grabbed one of the pillows and tucked it carefully under Azzi’s calf, adjusting until it looked comfortable. Her fingers brushed skin once — the barest touch — but it lit her up from the inside.

“There,” Paige said softly. “So it doesn’t swell overnight.”

Azzi leaned back, exhaling, the tension in her shoulders easing just slightly.

Paige sat on the edge of the bed, not too close but not far either. Her hands found each other in her lap. Fidgeting.

Azzi broke the silence first.

“So… why were you looking for me?”

Paige looked down at her hands. Swallowed.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said after a beat. “Not after seeing your name… and that room number. It just… it felt like the universe was trying to screw with us.”

Azzi let out a soft laugh — just one breathy note — but it was enough to make Paige look up.

That sound did something to her. Made her chest loosen just a little. Gave her the courage to keep going.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I guess I couldn’t stop thinking about how it must’ve felt for you. Being assigned that room. And I didn’t… I didn’t want you to feel alone in that.”

Azzi tilted her head, studying her.

“That it?” she asked. “Or was there something else you were hoping to say?”

Paige didn’t answer right away.

Her breath caught.

Her hands stopped fidgeting.

And for the first time all night, she let herself really look at Azzi.

Like maybe this was the moment she had to stop pretending.

Paige drew in a shaky breath, eyes fixed on a spot on the floor like it might anchor her. Her voice was low when she finally spoke.

“I’ve been trying to convince myself for the last ten months that what happened between us didn’t mean anything. That it was just a moment. Just… a night.”

She looked up, just enough to meet Azzi’s eyes.

“But the truth is — it meant everything. And that terrified me more than I’ve ever admitted to anyone. Because you made me feel something I didn’t know I was capable of feeling. It was different with you. It is different.”

Paige let the silence sit for a beat, the weight of her words still catching in her throat.

“I’ve never been good at feelings. I’m guessing that’s not exactly news to you.”

A soft, bitter laugh escaped her.

“And then the injury happened. My entire world flipped. One minute I was still trying to process what you meant to me… and the next, I was being told I’d never play again. I was angry. I still am. But more than anything — I was lost. And instead of reaching out, instead of saying something… I shut down. I disappeared.”

Her voice cracked.

“I wanted to text you. I wanted to call. A thousand times. But I didn’t know how. And now? Now I see you every day. And it hurts. I’m still scared. And I’m still mad at myself. Because I don’t know how to fix what I broke… and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with all of this.”

She finally looked at Azzi again.

Eyes soft. Unarmored.

“And I’m sorry. For all of it.”

Azzi’s POV

Azzi sat still, barely breathing.

Her leg was propped up on the pillow Paige had placed, the ice numbing everything but the thrum in her chest. Paige’s words still echoed in the quiet — words Azzi had once begged for in her head, long after the messages stopped and the silence became routine.

She wanted to pinch herself. Honestly, she considered it. Maybe she’d fallen asleep with the ice on and this was just her brain playing some cruel, perfect fantasy.

But then Paige’s hand settled gently on her leg — not possessive, not hesitant. Just… there. Steady. Real.

It made Azzi blink hard.

Because somehow, Paige always knew. She always saw her — even in the moments Azzi wasn’t sure she was visible. That touch said, I’m here. It said, Believe me.

Azzi looked at her. Paige, in all her mess and fear and softness. The same Paige who once left her with no explanation… was now the one showing up.

She didn’t know what to say. Her throat felt too tight.

All she could manage was a quiet breath and a softer look.

She’s scared too, Azzi thought. But she’s here.

And right now, all Azzi knew — more than anything — was that she didn’t want her to leave.

Not again.

Azzi shifted slightly, careful not to jostle the ice. Her voice came out quieter than she meant, but there was no mistaking the truth in it.

“I’m not sure what we’re supposed to do either,” she said, eyes never leaving Paige’s. “But ignoring whatever this is… definitely isn’t working.”

Paige didn’t speak at first, just nodded — slow, heavy, like the weight of that admission was something she’d been carrying too.

Azzi drew in a shaky breath. “I’m not gonna beg you,” she added, eyes dipping down to where Paige’s hand still rested on her leg. “But I really… I really wish you’d stay.”

She looked back up, a flicker of something raw in her eyes. “Please don’t pull away. Not this time.”

That silence between them thickened again, but this time it didn’t feel like avoidance — it felt like recognition. Like finally being on the same page, even if neither of them knew how to read it yet.

Paige’s thumb brushed absently against Azzi’s knee, her voice low, “We can’t do what we did again… not now anyway.”

Azzi nods, eyes soft. “I know. But… can we just talk? Like it’s just us again? Like nothing else matters?”

Paige hesitates.

Then: “Yeah. We can talk.”

Azzi shifts, patting the spot next to her against the headboard. “You don’t have to sit all stiff like that.”

It takes Paige a second, but eventually, she moves — slow and careful — settling beside Azzi, backs pressed against the pillows, legs stretched out over the blanket.

The silence between them isn’t sharp anymore. It starts awkward, a few stilted jokes and questions, but gradually it softens. The rhythm of them finds its way back.

They talk about old college memories. Road games. Dumb locker room dares. Paige tells a story about her rookie year in the league, how she got hazed with glitter and a karaoke mic in the middle of a team dinner. Azzi shares how she once fell asleep mid-ice bath and got locked in the training room.

Laughter bubbles up between them like it used to — quiet but real. Comfortable. Familiar.

Then somewhere between a memory and a sigh, Paige shakes her head. “I still think it’s wild you eat Hot Cheetos before tip-off.”

Azzi grins. “You’re just mad it worked.”

Paige chuckles. “I’m mad it didn’t wreck your stomach.”

Azzi turns toward her. “You remember everything I say, huh?”

Paige’s smile falters slightly. “Only the important stuff.”

Azzi studies her for a beat too long. “So you remember what I said that night?”

The air stills again — quieter this time, heavier.

Paige meets her eyes. “Every word.”

Azzi’s voice lowers. “Even the part where I said… I wasn’t used to someone staying?”

Paige doesn’t blink. “That’s the part that’s haunted me the most.”

For a long moment, neither of them says anything.

Then Azzi, soft: “So stay.”

Paige doesn’t respond out loud. But she does. She stays.

And by the time the clock reads 4:47 a.m., Paige shifts slightly. “You need to get some sleep if you’re gonna survive practice.”

Azzi nods, but doesn’t move. “Just… will you hold me? Just until you have to go. Please don’t pull away. Not tonight.”

Paige swallows hard. Her instinct is to run again. But this time she doesn’t say anything.

She just opens her arms.

Azzi folds into them like muscle memory, like the pause between heartbeats. They lie there, tangled in silence — no kissing, no urgency — just the ache of two people who aren’t ready to admit how badly they still want to be held.

When the sun starts to creep in under the curtains, Paige finally shifts.

Azzi doesn’t ask her to stay again.

She doesn’t need to.

Because when Paige gets up, they both share a look. A quiet nod.

A shared truth that says:

I don’t know what we’re doing… but I’m willing to find out.

Team Breakfast – Hotel Restaurant, 8:03 AM

Paige’s POV

The restaurant buzzed with the usual morning chaos — trays clattering, half-asleep players in mismatched sweats, a line snaking around the coffee station like it was the only thing keeping them alive.

Paige had already claimed her seat at the end of the long table. Black coffee sat untouched in front of her, cooling fast.

She told herself it was strategic — arriving early, getting settled before the noise hit. But really, she just couldn’t sleep. And the silence of her hotel room felt louder than any dining room ever could.

Then Azzi walked in.

Hair still damp from her shower, hoodie sleeves shoved to her elbows, a slight limp betraying the toll of yesterday’s late-night grind. Paige felt it like a static charge — that unspoken pull.

She didn’t look. Not directly. But she felt her.

Azzi scanned the table, paused. The only open seat near Paige was one spot over — separated by a single empty chair.

Azzi didn’t hesitate. She took it.

Not directly next to her. But close enough to make Paige’s pulse rise.

And then — the moment. Quiet. Blink-and-you’d-miss-it.

Azzi leaned forward to grab a napkin just as Paige reached for her coffee, their hands brushing for half a second.

Skin. Heat. Stillness.

They both froze.

Paige’s fingers grazed Azzi’s knuckles. Not intentional. Not technically inappropriate. But when Azzi looked up, Paige was already staring.

Their eyes locked. Just a beat too long.

It was Azzi who broke the silence — voice low, barely audible over the hum of the room.

“You okay?”

Paige blinked, caught off guard. She nodded once. “Yeah. You?”

Azzi gave a half-smile. “Didn’t sleep much.”

“Me neither,” Paige admitted before she could stop herself.

Azzi’s expression shifted — softer, more searching — like she wanted to say something else. Like she might.

But then KK’s voice cut in, smooth and sharp from across the table.

“You sleep okay, Coach?”

Paige stiffened. Looked over slowly. KK had her orange juice in one hand and that familiar I-know-something-I’m-not-supposed-too smirk on her face.

“Fine,” Paige said tightly.

KK tilted her head. “Mm. That so?”

Paige glanced at her. “You got something to say?”

KK leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice low. “Only that it’s funny how two people can sit a breath away from each other and still pretend they’re on opposite sides of the world.”

Azzi, now focused on peeling an orange, didn’t look up.

Paige’s jaw flexed. “Drop it.”

KK raised her brows in mock surrender. “Hey. Just admiring the tension. Impressive stuff.”

Paige stabbed at her eggs. “Admire quieter.”

Azzi finally let out the tiniest laugh — not at the food, not at Rickea’s joke. At them.

And Paige…

She didn’t smile.

But she didn’t look away this time, either.

Las Vegas Practice Facility – Late Morning

The bounce of basketballs echoed through the facility like a steady drumbeat. Sharp. Controlled. Comforting, almost — if it weren’t for the way Paige’s nerves felt like they were held together by fishing line.

The team was running shooting drills. Clean lines. Sharp cuts. Nothing fancy.

“Footwork!” Paige called out from the sideline, clipboard in hand. “You don’t get a second look in this league. Make it right the first time.”

She was trying to keep her voice even. Sharp, not harsh. Focused, not frazzled.

But every time Azzi touched the ball, Paige felt her grip tighten on the clipboard. Not because she was messing up — she wasn’t. She looked good. Efficient. Composed.

Too composed.

No teasing. No talking. No spark.

Like something inside her had folded in on itself overnight.

KK sidled up beside her near the half-court line, arms crossed, watching the same player Paige was pretending not to track with every blink.

“She’s locked in,” KK said under her breath. “Scary focused.”

“Good,” Paige said without flinching.

“Or,” KK added, “she’s burying something. Real deep.”

Paige didn’t respond.

“She’s not the only one,” KK muttered.

Paige snapped her eyes toward her, warning sharp. “What do you want me to say, KK?”

“Something honest might be nice.”

“I’m coaching,” Paige replied. “That’s what I’m here to do.”

KK leaned closer, voice low and clipped. “Yeah, well, maybe try doing it without looking like your chest’s about to cave in every time she breathes near you.”

Paige blinked once, hard.

“Keep your eyes on the court,” she said finally, and walked down the sideline before KK could say anything else.

She made herself stop near the rack of spare balls by the baseline. Scribbled something pointless on the clipboard just to feel in control again. But then she heard a ball clatter off the rim, bounce wide, roll out toward her.

Without thinking, she stepped forward to grab it at the same time Azzi did.

Their hands collided — again.

Not grazing. Not brief. Full contact. Palm to palm.

Azzi flinched first. Paige didn’t move.

For half a second, they both froze, fingertips still pressed into the seams of the same ball.

Azzi didn’t look up. “Sorry.”

Paige did look up. Watched her jaw tighten, watched the mask slip just slightly — enough to catch a flash of something raw in Azzi’s eyes before she yanked her hand back and walked away.

Azzi caught the next pass without missing a beat. Drained another three from the corner. No celebration. No glance toward the sideline.

Paige turned back toward the ball rack, heart thudding, clipboard limp in her grip.

She stared at the court like it might unwrite everything she felt.

It didn’t.

Locker Room – Post-Practice

Azzi’s POV

The locker room was quiet in that heavy, damp kind of way it always was after a hard practice — sweat clinging to the air, jerseys peeled halfway down, music faint and low from someone’s speaker in the corner.

Azzi sat on the bench in front of her locker, towel draped over her head, elbows on her knees, staring down at her laces like they held answers.

She had gone full autopilot today. Shot when she was supposed to. Passed clean. Hit her marks.

No mistakes.

No spark either.

And still, it was like her skin couldn’t forget Paige.

The shoulder brush during warmups. The brief hand graze during water break when Paige passed her a towel. The stupid, charged moment when they both reached for the same marker at the whiteboard and their fingers touched — just long enough to freeze her breath.

Every one of those moments, tiny as they were, still pulled her back into that hotel room.

Into the sound of Paige whispering her name in the dark.

Into the weight of her staying.

Azzi thought she’d feel better after their talk. And she did. In a way.

The silence was gone. The unknown wasn’t quite so sharp.

But the weight of it? The want of it? That hadn’t gone anywhere.

“You good?”

Azzi blinked. Rickea was sliding down the bench beside her, halfway through a protein bar, sweat still clinging to her curls.

“Yeah,” Azzi lied. “Just tired.”

Rickea gave her a long look. “You’ve been tired all week.”

Azzi shrugged, wiping her face with the towel again to stall. “Long camp. You know how it is.”

Rickea didn’t press. Just nodded slowly and stood to grab her slides. “If you say so. Just don’t forget how to breathe, Fudd. You’re allowed to.”

Azzi gave her a tired smile. “Thanks.”

When Rickea left, Azzi stayed seated a moment longer. The towel dropped to the floor. She leaned back, the cool of the locker pressing against her spine, and stared at the inside of the door like it might spell out what to do next.

Her phone sat facedown in her locker. She didn’t check it.

She didn’t have to.

No message.

Not even a bubble.

Just the echo of Paige’s hands on hers. And the silence that always came after.

Last night had meant something.

This morning had meant something.

But every accidental touch since then felt like a haunting — like her body was remembering all the things her mind wasn’t allowed to say out loud.

Media Room – Minutes Before the Presser

Private Hallway, Just Outside the Doors

The hallway was too quiet. A sterile stretch of beige carpet and echoing footsteps, with the low murmur of media setting up just beyond the doors.

Azzi stood by the water cooler, arms crossed, trying to steady her breath. Her heart thudded loud in her ears, and it had nothing to do with tipoff.

Then she heard it — the unmistakable rhythm of Paige’s steps.

She turned before Paige could pretend not to see her.

Paige stopped, tension bracing her shoulders, clipboard tucked tight to her chest.

“Hey,” Azzi said quietly.

Paige gave a small nod. “Hey.”

They stood there for a moment. Just like always — too close to ignore, too far to reach.

Azzi tilted her head, voice soft but edged. “Yesterday didn’t mean nothing… right?”

That landed like a direct hit.

Paige exhaled, slow, hands fidgeting with the corners of the clipboard. “No. It didn’t mean nothing.”

Her eyes flicked up to meet Azzi’s, clear and serious now. “I don’t regret it. Not any of it.”

Azzi swallowed hard. “Then what are we doing?”

Paige’s voice dipped low — barely above a whisper. “Trying not to ruin everything.”

A silence stretched between them, thick with everything they weren’t allowed to say.

Then Paige added, almost like a plea: “If we can just get through this first game… together… maybe things will start to make sense.”

Azzi held her gaze, searching for cracks — but there was only sincerity there. And fear.

She nodded once. “Okay.”

The media handler’s voice echoed from down the hall. “We’re ready for you.”

Azzi stepped toward the door. So did Paige.

They didn’t speak again.

Didn’t touch — not intentionally.

But for one second, their shoulders brushed.

And this time, neither of them pulled away.

Media Room – Pre-Game Presser

Paige’s POV

The lights were bright. Cameras flashing. Reporters half-listening, already typing.

Paige sat at the mic with the poise of someone who’d done this a thousand times — because she had. But today, her collar felt tighter than usual. Every breath felt choreographed.

Azzi slid into the seat next to her, setting her water bottle down with just enough force to earn a look from KK across the room.

They hadn’t been scheduled to speak together. But media assignments changed last minute. Of course they did.

The moderator adjusted their headset. “Coach Bueckers, Azzi — welcome. First question?”

A reporter in the second row leaned in. “Coach, how do you feel about opening the season in Vegas — the lights, the pressure, the history of the venue?”

Paige didn’t flinch. “We’re focused on the court, not the zip code.”

Next question.

“Azzi, this will be your first game back since the trade. How are you adjusting to the Sparks system?”

Azzi’s voice was steady, cool. “It’s been an intense camp. But I’m excited to compete. This team has a vision. We’re here to win.”

She didn’t look at Paige. Not directly. But her fingers tapped once against her knee — that subtle, nervous rhythm Paige recognized from nights where everything felt unspoken and still somehow safe.

Another question. Then another. Paige deflected them like usual — cool, clipped, practiced.

Then came the one they should’ve seen coming.

“Coach, what’s it been like coaching someone you once competed against — and now, you know, someone you clearly respect in Azzi?”

Paige’s gaze flicked to Azzi without meaning to. Just for a second.

Respect. Was that all it read as?

She cleared her throat. “Azzi’s one of the most disciplined players I’ve ever coached. High IQ. High intensity. She raises the bar for everyone.”

Azzi looked over, just slightly. And for a flash — the smallest shift in her expression. Gratitude. Pain. Something in between.

“And Azzi,” the reporter continued, “same question — what’s it like playing under someone who used to be on the other side of the ball?”

Azzi didn’t hesitate. “It’s… surreal. But earned. Paige has always been someone who is trusted on the court — that hasn’t changed.”

A longer pause than necessary.

“I listen when she talks.”

Something flickered in Paige’s chest. Something warm. Something sharp.

The moderator glanced at the time. “One final question.”

But Paige wasn’t listening anymore. Not really.

She was too busy trying not to read into the way Azzi’s leg had just barely brushed hers under the table.

Too busy trying to ignore how much that last line — I listen when she talks — sounded like something that meant more than it was allowed to.

And Azzi?

Azzi was still tapping her fingers against her knee. Like she didn’t know what else to do with her hands.

Like she was waiting for the game to start just to stop thinking.

Moments Before Tip — Tunnel Outside the Court

Azzi’s POV

The tunnel throbbed with anticipation — the muffled roar of the crowd beyond the curtain, the sharp scent of sweat and floor polish, the distant clang of warmup drills wrapping up on the court.

Azzi stood just inside the shadows, bouncing lightly on her toes, stretching out her shoulder with one hand, the other gripping the hem of her warmup jacket.

She should’ve been calm.

She’d done this a hundred times.

But her heartbeat wouldn’t settle. Not tonight. Not here.

Vegas always did too much.

She stared ahead at the edge of the light, where the tunnel opened to the court. It glowed like something holy. Or dangerous.

And then — she felt it before she heard it — the presence behind her.

She didn’t have to turn to know.

Paige.

Azzi held still, breath caught somewhere in the back of her throat.

Paige didn’t speak.

Instead, a steady hand settled on her shoulder — firm, grounding — and her thumb pressed in just slightly. Not rough. Not possessive. Just present. Like she was trying to say I’m here. Like she was still choosing her, even now.

To the world, it was nothing. Just a coach offering last-second reassurance to her star guard.

But Azzi’s knees almost buckled under it.

She glanced sideways, just enough to meet Paige’s eyes. They didn’t say much. But the weight of that look — the intensity of it — told her everything she needed to know.

No one else could hear it.

But Azzi did.

I see you. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere this time.

The announcer’s voice thundered through the tunnel:

“And starting at guard… number thirty-five… AZZI FUDD!”

Paige’s hand lifted — slow, careful — like she didn’t want to let go, but knew she had to.

Azzi swallowed hard, turned toward the light, and jogged out onto the court.

She didn’t smile.

She didn’t look back.

But her skin still burned from Paige’s touch.

And for the first time in days… her chest didn’t feel quite so heavy.

[sharkbitten-sailor]

Hyello!!! Ive been loving your works so far, and I saw you were open for requests so could I req for a 007n7 x reader who simply likes to follow him around, not caring about the past. They always make their presence known despite barely talking at all. Which mmmighhttt be a little funny and scary at times when the reader doesn't respond at times and just, stares and stands too still (big ol eyes)

Reader very much does point out things lile generators and items or anything they find odd like a sign the killer or survivor is lurking nearby.

(Ahahahha this is somewhat based on my experience of my first time trying to myth hunt, and it ended with me following this 007n7 cosplayer for about 2-3ish hours because I felt bad they were getting bullied for like... 20 minutes, but I had no idea hoe to comfort them, nor interact in general. But we both did help each other find some things we found interesting!!)

[forsaken] 007n7 x reader who's kind to him headcanons .ᐟ

a/n; oooh hi anon! thank you so much for requesting, it's really adorable <33 i hope i got your idea right (please ignore any misspell & grammar mistakes, i only read this once-)

- 007n7 was once cast out by the survivor group, isolated even among those fighting for the same cause. keyword: was. that all changed when you appeared. - when you approached him with genuine warmth, he assumed it was a mistake. perhaps you hadn't heard about him yet. - but even after the admins shared his past, your kindness never wavered. that was.. new and unsettling. - he watches you carefully, waiting for the moment your smile fades, for the inevitable disappointment. but it never comes. - over time, he starts to believe, just a little, that maybe - just maybe he’s not beyond redemption. - he doesn’t fully understand why you treat him like someone worth knowing, but he’s starting to believe it. - he enjoys your quiet company. he appreciates the way you just… follow him around, watching him curiously while he works on a generator like a cat watching someone open a can. - or maybe, it's simply because you never judge him. not for the past, not for the present. - during rounds, you stick close to 7n7 like a shadow. the only times you're not by his side are when you aren’t chosen for that round or when you're off scavenging supplies, like boxy colas. - whenever you find something useful, he's always the first to get it. even an entire medkit. - of course, certain survivors tend to side-eye you both for that (*cough* elliot *cough*). - he genuinely appreciates your kindness, but he also reminds you that taking care of yourself should come first & depending on the situation. remember that time you handed him a medkit while sitting at a measly 20% hp? yeah, you scared him half to death. - your sharp eyesight makes you great at spotting generators for 7n7. but instead of fixing them yourself, you simply stay next to him, likely guarding him from the killer. - connecting wires isn’t your strong suit? no worries. you've helped 7n7 plenty, and it’s only fair that he returns the favor. - he’s a patient man, so he’ll take the time to teach you how to connect them. - after those grueling rounds, if 7n7 wasn’t chosen, he’ll immediately check on you, gathering supplies to patch you up like a worried father. - expect some head pats. they’re his way of saying, “you did well enough.” - if the bond between you two grows strong enough, he'll show his appreciation in his own way. - need to rant or vent? then congrats! you’ve found the perfect listener. he absorbs every word you say with deep intention, even taking mental notes. - the next time you bring it up, you'll realize he remembers everything. - you have a habit of playfully messing with his clones, like a cat batting at a new toy. 7n7 finds this oddly endearing and amusing. - it soothes him, melting away his stress. a quiet reminder that even in this hell, some things are still worth smiling about.

a/n; finally finished! sry 4 the delay, i got distracted slacking off mid-writing to play blocktales🥲 hope you still like it </3

[katscki]

It wasn’t love at first sight and you didn’t just know, it was a series of little things that drew you to each other, that made your hearts beat faster every time your eyes locked. It wasn’t fate, but now you’re fated.

The first time he noticed you:

Was when some “extra” was bothering the crap out of you everyday for almost a month, practically begging you to go out with him. And for 29 days he watched you lightly brush him off nicely, but on the 30th you snapped.

“Come on please just go out with me once!” The rather unattractive boy in his opinion pleaded again.

“No thank you, while you seem very sweet I don’t think I’ll be changing my mind anytime soon so if you could just-” you’re trying to move past him as he interrupts.

“Fine you’re fuckin ugly anyways don’t know why I even bothered with a bitch like you.” He grumbles.

“Excuse me? You go from trying to woo me borderline harass me actually, to insulting me?” You hiss.

“Not worth anyone’s fucking time like a 3/10 at best.”

“A THREE- BUDDY YOU LOOK LIKE YOU FUCKING FORGOT TO EVOLVE CALLING ME A THREE. SOUND LIKE YOU JUST FUCKING DISCOVERED FIRE YOU NEANDERTHAL. CALLING ME A FUCKING THREE?” You gasped at him, eyes turning at your voice raising, and somewhere about ten feet away you hear a laugh, it was loud and genuine and when you looked at who it was, you couldn’t believe he could even make such a sound.

“Whatever.” The boy pouts, your words clearly getting to him and he stomps away, not before shooting you, and bakugou a scathing look.

You stare at his figure walk away as Bakugou begins to pass you too.

“Shit was fuckin funny, might have to steal that one from you.” That’s all. That’s all he says to you, all he’s ever said to you as he walks away again.

The next time:

Was when you were paired up for a project and decide to work on it in your room. You’re somewhere in your bathroom changing out of your school uniform and he’s sitting on your floor leaning against your bed observing your room. It’s girly to the naked eye but if you look closely, everything in it reflects every version of you.

Your favorite colors, the music you listen to. He huffs a laugh when he looks at The Offspring poster that is sandwiched between Taylor Swift and Sabrina Carpenter. It was just all so very… you. He found him self learning more about you than he had originally intended but somehow he didn’t quite mind. You seemed to have more depth than most of the other people he’s met, you’re intriguing.

Coming out of the bathroom in what seems like the tiniest shorts you could find and an off the shoulder Metallica shirt you go to sit next to put on music, girly pop ringing softly through the speaker.

“How can you do that?” He gruffs.

Your head tilts like a little puppy at his words, “Do what?”

“Put on this girly shit but then come out in a gross, but fuckin cool, shirt.” He makes eye contact with the skull with an eye popping out of the socket then looks back at you.

“What can I say, I have layers.” You smile sweetly at him and all he can do is look back to his papers, heat creeping up his neck.

The third time was when he noticed he felt differently about you:

Not because of anything you did in particular just because of the fact that he didn’t turn you away like the others.

“Hey Bakugou! I was wondering if you would go to the gym with me after school? I need to start weight lifting more but I don’t know a whole lot about it and well,” you gesture at his body, “seems like you know a lot.” You give him the smile that makes his heart tumble and he responds better than you imagined.

“Yeah. I can do that.” It’s quiet and brooding but in no way mean. He wasn’t annoyed at you like he always was everyone else. Somewhere in the distance you seemed Kaminari jaw drop to the floor and Kirishima give bakugou a wide smile and two thumbs up. You make eye contact with the boys and immediately their expressions go back to normal, acting like it never happened. But when you look like to Bakugou, a blush finds the tip of his ears as he glares at them, seemingly trying to blow them up with his eyes.

Little did he know you were working towards the same conclusion yourself, just not quite there as quickly as him.

AN: PART TWO COMING IN A COUPLE DAYS OR TOMORROOWWW #idk it comes when I say it does