#SOBBING CRYING THROWING UP I'M NOT NORMAL FOR THEM | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jungkoode · 26 days ago

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𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 22

˗ˏˋ karaoke night ˎˊ˗

"Vanilla extract has always been his lifeline, and tonight is no different."

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⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 11k

content: friendly drunkness, karaoke, lowkey interest, girl talk, unwanted appearances, trauma responses, isolation, unhealthy coping mechanisms, vulnerability, sneak peeks, soft, lowkey real conversations, subtle references to the past.

✧ author's note ✧

OKAY. Let me just start by screaming into the void real quick: SIX. HUNDRED. NOTES. And TWO HUNDRED VOTES. IN LESS THAN FORTY-EIGHT HOURS?? What the actual hell is wrong with you people??? I'm genuinely flabbergasted. Bamboozled. Reeling. I thought I had time. I thought I could chill. But NO. Y’all are CRACKED and now I’m upping the goal like an absolute psychopath because clearly you’re fiends and I am merely your supplier. I’ll give you your fix, don’t worry. Just know I’m running out of backlogged chapters and my therapist is gonna hear about it.

Anyway.

This chapter. Hoo boy. This chapter feels like the emotional hangover after a wild night—the kind where everything feels a little too raw, a little too exposed, and you’re left trying to piece together what the fuck happened between the yelling and the tequila. There's a reason why I framed it this way, too—because this is the shift. The oh shit, real people have real pasts and they bleed sometimes moment. The façade cracks here, and it does so in ways that are deliberately uncomfortable.

Jungkook is so many things in this chapter, but most importantly, he’s small. And I don’t mean that physically. I mean small like a kid trying to crawl into his own skin. That rooftop scene? I wanted you to feel the stillness after the storm, the weird quiet that happens when someone you thought was bulletproof shows up vulnerable and unguarded for once. And it’s messy. He doesn’t have answers. He doesn’t give you the sob story, not yet. He gives you glimpses. Vanilla extract, deflections, silence. All of it is by design.

(Also yes, the vanilla extract thing is a metaphor. Yes, I know it’s weird. No, I won’t elaborate. Just know it’s real and kind of tragic and also weirdly endearing. Like him.)

And Y/N… god. She’s tiptoeing the line so hard here. Because she wants to help and she wants to understand and she also very much wants to not feel. But she does. And she hates it. And she jokes because otherwise she’ll unravel. And that’s what makes this chapter so bittersweet to me—because they’re both posturing like they’re fine, but their actions betray them. Their quiet kindness, the subtle care. The intimacy isn’t in the sex anymore. It’s in the stillness. In the scent memory. In the way he says “you smell like vanilla” like it’s the only anchor he has left.

And let’s not even talk about Mia because that woman is the human embodiment of a champagne cork to the eye. I will simply say this: trauma is not always loud. Sometimes it’s a whisper that sticks to your ribs. Sometimes it’s someone’s name.

Anyway.

This chapter is long, chaotic, unfiltered, and possibly one of the most emotionally raw things I’ve written for this fic so far. So please take care of yourself while reading. You don’t have to romanticize brokenness. You don’t have to love these characters for their damage. But you can hold space for them. Just like they’re learning to do for each other.

Also Taehyung deserves a nap and a raise for his emotional labor.

As always, I’m deeply grateful you’re here, crying and laughing and spiraling with me. Keep being feral in the comments. Keep voting if it makes your little goblin brain happy. And maybe—just maybe—hug your own Jungkook if you’ve got one.

Or your therapist.

They deserve it.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Tequila makes you do stupid shit, like hugging people you normally avoid touching with a ten-foot pole.

You practically launch yourself from your seat, the room tilting at an alarming angle as you throw your arms around Yeji's neck.

"Holy shit," she laughs, body stiffening with surprise before awkwardly patting your back. "Okay, this is literally the first hug you've ever given me and I don't know how to feel about it."

You ignore her, already detaching yourself and stumbling toward Irya, who catches you with more grace, giggling as you nearly topple both of you over.

"Hi to you too," she says, squeezing back gently.

Jimin is next, accepting your clumsy attempt at physical affection with the patient tolerance of someone used to dealing with drunk friends. He pats your back, concern etched in his features.

"How are you doing?" he asks, holding you at arm's length to study your face.

You flash him a thumbs up, swaying slightly on your feet. "Absofuckinglutely amazing."

"Okay, yeah. No." He shakes his head, exchanging a knowing look with Yeji.

"Why are you guys even here?!" The question bursts out louder than you intended, making several heads turn.

Yeji shrugs, all casual nonchalance. "This is a famous ramen place. Irya's been wanting to come for a long time."

"Guilty!" Irya raises her hand with a sheepish smile.

"And Jimin was like a lost puppy, so we just kind of adopted him," Yeji adds, nodding toward him.

Irya shoves Yeji's shoulder. "No, actually, I was studying with Jimin, and Yeji just came in and was like 'yo, let's have spicy ramen!' And we kinda rolled with it."

You snort, turning around to find the entire table watching this interaction with varying degrees of amusement.

Jungkook has his hand pressed against his mouth, shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter.

You mouth 'die' at him, and he throws his palms up in mock surrender, the bastard.

"Well..." You gesture vaguely, suddenly realizing you need to perform introductions. "These are my friends."

The words feel strange on your tongue—not because they're untrue, but because saying them out loud makes them real in a way you weren't prepared for.

"Yeji, Irya, and Jimin," you continue, pointing at each one. "And this is... um..."

Your alcohol-soaked brain struggles to remember the names of all the people around this table. There's Yoongi, obviously, and Taehyung, and Hobi, and... the others. The gaming nerds. And Tessa. And that other girl who judged your ramen choice.

You wave your hand in a circle, encompassing the whole table. "Jungkook's birthday squad."

Awkwardness settles over you as you realize the predicament. Your friends are here, but it's not like you can just abandon Jungkook's party to join them. That would be rude. And weird. And probably not what a good roommate would do.

Not that you care about being a good roommate. But still. Principle of the thing or whatever.

Before the silence can stretch too long, Yeji speaks up. "We were heading to the karaoke place that's like five minutes from here, if y'all want to come?"

All eyes shift to Jungkook, the birthday boy, the decision-maker.

But instead of looking at his friends, he looks at you first.

You look back at him, a silent question passing between you.

Then he smiles—not his usual smirk, but something softer, more genuine—and turns to Yeji.

“Sure, absolutely. Count us in."

“Hell yes!” Hobi exclaims, clapping his hands together. “I’ve been waiting for an excuse to show off my pipes!”

“God help us all,” Taehyung mutters, but he’s already standing, clearly on board with the plan.

“What about the bill?” Diana asks, glancing around at the mess of empty glasses and half-finished food.

“Already covered,” Yoongi says, holding up his phone to show a payment confirmation. “Birthday gift.”

“You paid for all of this?” You blink at him, genuinely surprised. “That’s… actually really nice, Yoongi.”

He shrugs, looking vaguely uncomfortable with the acknowledgment. “Whatever. It’s not a big deal.”

“It kind of is,” you insist, the alcohol making you more earnest than usual. “You’re a good friend.”

He gives you a look that clearly says ‘please stop talking now,’ so you do, but not before patting his shoulder in what you hope is a comradely fashion.

The group begins gathering their things, a chaotic shuffle of jackets and phones and forgotten scarves. You stand in the middle of it all, suddenly aware of how drunk you actually are as the room tilts alarmingly when you try to take a step.

“Whoa there,” a voice says near your ear, and then there’s a hand at your elbow, steadying you.

Jungkook.

“You good?”

“Fine,” you say automatically, then reconsider. “Okay, maybe not fine. But I’m upright, so that’s something.”

“A low bar, but I respect it.” His tone is light, teasing, but there’s something else there too—concern, maybe. It’s hard to tell through the tequila fog.

“I can walk,” you insist, taking a deliberate step forward to prove your point.

Your legs cooperate, mostly, though the floor seems to be at a slight angle that wasn’t there before.

“Never said you couldn’t.” He’s still close, though, ready to catch you if you stumble. “Just making sure you don’t face-plant in front of everyone. Would hate for you to embarrass yourself.”

“Too late for that,” you mutter, remembering your enthusiastic greeting to your friends.

A laugh escapes him, quiet enough that only you can hear it. “Nah, you’re fine. You’re just… friendlier when you’re drunk. It’s kind of cute.”

“I am not cute,” you say with as much dignity as you can muster while swaying slightly. “I am intimidating and cool.”

“Absolutely,” he agrees solemnly. “The most intimidating and cool person in the room. Everyone’s terrified.”

You glare at him, but it’s hard to maintain when he’s looking at you like that—amused but not mocking, a softness around his eyes that makes your stomach do a weird flip that has nothing to do with the alcohol.

“Shut up,” you say, lacking a more clever comeback. “It’s your fault anyway. Your stupid friends kept giving me shots.”

“My stupid friends, huh?” He raises an eyebrow. “And what does that make me?”

“The king of the stupid friends,” you declare, poking him in the chest. “The stupidest of them all.”

He catches your finger before you can poke him again, his hand warm around yours.

“Your Majesty, then.”

“Oh my god, you’re so—” You break off, distracted by the way he’s still holding your hand, casual as anything.

You pull away, flustered for no good reason.

“Let’s go. Karaoke awaits.”

“After you, Phoenix.” He gestures toward the door where your friends are gathering with the others.

You make your way over, focusing intently on putting one foot in front of the other without tripping. It’s harder than it should be, but you manage, only weaving slightly.

Yeji appears at your side, linking her arm through yours.

“How much have you had to drink?” she asks, voice low.

“A moderate amount,” you hedge. “An appropriate amount. A birthday celebration amount.”

“So, too much.”

“Maybe.”

She sighs, tightening her grip on your arm. “Babes, I’ve never seen you drunk. You sure you’re okay?

“Yuuusss,” you decide, nodding solemnly. “I stand by my choices.”

“Of course you do.” She glances over at Jungkook, who’s now engaged in an animated conversation with Taehyung and Hobi. “So, what’s going on there?”

“Where?” you ask, playing dumb even though you know exactly what she means.

“With your roommate. The one whose birthday party we just crashed.”

“Nothing’s going on,” you insist, too quickly. “We’re just… I don’t know. Trying to be friends. Or something. I guess.”

Friends. You and Jungkook.

Friends.

It’s starting to sound less terrifying.

“I see.” She grins, positioning her head on your shoulder. “Just don’t replace me, huh? I’m your new college bestie. I claim that title.”

Before you can respond, Irya bounces over, linking her arm through Yeji’s free one.

“Are we ready? The karaoke place gets busy on Saturdays.”

“We’re ready,” you confirm, smiling stupidly at the blonde. “Lead the way.”

As your strange, merged group spills out onto the sidewalk, you can’t help but wonder how the hell you ended up here—drunk, surrounded by people who barely know each other, heading to a karaoke bar on a Saturday night.

It’s bizarre. Surreal. Absolutely not how you expected your evening to go when you agreed to take Jungkook to the MoMA this morning.

But as you watch him laugh at something Irya says, his face open and relaxed in a way you rarely see at home, you can’t quite bring yourself to regret it.

Even if your head is spinning and your stomach is dangerously close to rejecting every questionable decision you’ve made tonight.

You catch his eye across the group, and he grins at you—that stupid, lopsided grin that always makes you want to either slap him or—

Well. Other things.

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too, unable to help yourself. And when he falls into step beside you as the group starts moving, close enough that your shoulders occasionally brush, you don’t move away.

It’s his birthday, after all. You can give him that much.

Somehow, the sidewalk is significantly more difficult to navigate than it was four hours ago.

"Careful," Jimin murmurs as you stumble over absolutely nothing for the third time in two blocks. He steadies you with a gentle grip, adjusting to link his arm more securely with yours.

"The ground is uneven," you insist, though it's clearly not. "Poorly maintained city infrastructure. Someone should write a strongly worded letter."

"Definitely the sidewalk's fault," he agrees, humor warming his soft voice.

You've ended up at the back of your odd parade, watching as your two separate friend groups merge into a loud, laughing mass of bodies moving through the Manhattan night. Yeji has somehow ended up walking beside Taehyung, both of them gesturing wildly as they argue about something. Irya is chatting with Tessa—a combination you wouldn't have predicted—while Hobi tells an animated story to Ryan and Seth that has them howling with laughter.

And then there's Jungkook, right in the middle of it all, moving between conversations simply like someone accustomed to being the center of attention. Even from behind, you can tell he's having a good time—shoulders relaxed, head thrown back in laughter at something Hobi says.

You can’t help but think it’s… a bit strange, seeing him like this. In the apartment, he's always a bit wound up—ready with a sarcastic comment or provocation. But here, surrounded by friends, celebrating, he seems... looser.

Happier.

It's a good look on him.

Not that you care.

"Here we are!" Hobi announces as your group reaches a neon-lit storefront, the sign advertising ‘SING YOUR HEART OUT’ in aggressively colorful lettering. "Best karaoke in the East Village."

The place is crowded—not surprising for a Saturday night—but Hobi apparently knows someone who works here because you're whisked past the line of waiting people and into the lobby with minimal fuss.

Inside, it reeks of cheap beer and cheaper air freshener, and the walls are plastered with faded posters of pop stars past and present; along with some occasional muffled screech of someone butchering a high note from one of the private rooms.

Everyone begins shedding layers at the coat check, a flurry of jackets and scarves being handed over to a bored-looking attendant who barely glances up from her phone.

You hang back with Jimin, suddenly aware of how sweaty your shirt is under your own jacket.

Great.

Nothing like marinating in your own alcohol-infused sweat to round out the evening.

"I kind of can't believe we're doing this," you mutter to Jimin, still leaning on him more heavily than you'd like to admit. "Karaoke? With these people? Is this real life?"

"It's definitely happening," he confirms, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Though I'm not sure how much you'll remember tomorrow."

"I'm not that drunk," you protest automatically. "I'm just... celebrating."

"Uh-huh." He doesn't sound convinced.

Across the lobby, Yeji and Jungkook are locked in what appears to be an intense negotiation over room selection, both of them pointing at different options on the laminated menu the hostess is holding. Taehyung stands nearby, pinching the bridge of his nose like he's developing a migraine.

"I'm telling you, the premium room has better song selection," Yeji insists, her voice carrying across the space.

"But the deluxe has the light-up dance floor," Jungkook counters, gesturing emphatically. "It's my birthday, I want the dance floor!"

"The dance floor is tacky!"

"It's not tacky, it's fun!"

"It's the definition of tacky."

"Your face is the definition of tacky."

"Wow, super mature comeback there, birthday boy."

Your eyes drift from their bickering to the quieter presence leaning against the far wall. Yoongi stands slightly apart from the group, scrolling through his phone with the detached air of someone who's physically present but mentally elsewhere.

You notice Jimin's gaze has followed yours. He's studying Yoongi with an intensity that feels almost... private. Like you're witnessing something you shouldn't.

"That's your other roommate, right?" he asks, voice soft.

"Yeah," you nod, head still resting on his shoulder. "Yoongi."

Jimin just smiles, a small, soft thing that doesn't quite reach his eyes. There's something there—a question, maybe, or a thought he's not voicing—but before you can figure it out, Yeji's sharp voice cuts through the moment.

"Y/N! Get over here and settle this!"

You straighten, blinking rapidly as the room spins slightly with the sudden movement.

“What?"

"Premium or deluxe?" she demands, beckoning you impatiently. "Tell this idiot that premium is clearly superior."

Jungkook turns to you, actually pouting like a kid who's been told he can't have a second ice cream cone.

"The deluxe has a light-up floor," he says, as if this is the most compelling argument in the world. "And disco balls."

You look between them, trying to focus through the tequila fog. It shouldn't be this hard to form an opinion about karaoke rooms, and yet.

You can't help the laugh that bubbles up at the absurdity of the situation—Yeji and Jungkook, two of the most stubborn people you know, locked in a standoff over something so utterly trivial.

"Come on, Yeji," you say, rolling your eyes even as you fight back another laugh. "He's the birthday boy. Let him make a choice that matters in his life for once."

Jungkook's indignant "yooo!" is drowned out by Yeji's dramatic sigh.

"Fine," she concedes, throwing up her hands. "But when we get stuck with a shitty song selection, don't come crying to me."

"I'll make it up to you," Jungkook promises, already bouncing with excitement. "You can choose the first song."

"Damn right I will." She huffs, no anger behind it.

Jungkook turns to you, triumph written all over his stupid handsome face. "See? I can be reasona—" He cuts himself off with a yelp as you swat at him playfully.

"Don't push it," you warn, but you're smiling despite yourself.

The hostess, who's been watching this entire exchange with the weary resignation of someone who's seen far too many drunk people argue over karaoke rooms, clears her throat pointedly.

“So... deluxe room? For how many hours?"

"Two," Hobi calls from where he's now organizing a drink order with the rest of the group. "At least!"

"Follow me," she says, gathering menus and leading the way down a dimly lit hallway plastered with even more music posters.

Your odd group trails after her like ducklings, Jungkook practically skipping in excitement. You hang back slightly, still unsteady on your feet, and find yourself walking beside Yoongi, who's finally pocketed his phone.

"You sure about this?" he asks quietly, eyeing you with what might be concern. "You look like you're about ten minutes from passing out."

"I'm fine," you insist, though the hallway is doing that weird tunnel-vision thing that definitely isn't normal. "Just pacing myself."

He snorts, clearly not buying it. "Sure."

"I am," you argue, even as you reach out to steady yourself against the wall. "Totally in control."

"Right." His tone is dry as dust. "That's why you're currently leaning on a poster of Justin Bieber."

You glance over and, sure enough, your hand is planted firmly on young Bieber's face.

You snatch it away with a grimace.

"Ew."

"Exactly." He doesn't say anything else, but he stays close as you make your way down the hall, oddly comforting in its steadiness.

Just like the day at the gynecologist.

The deluxe room, when you finally reach it, lives up to Jungkook's hype—it's large enough to fit your entire group comfortably, with plush seating along the walls, a central space that is indeed illuminated by color-changing floor panels, and not one but two disco balls hanging from the ceiling. The most impressive feature, though, is the giant screen taking up one entire wall, currently displaying the karaoke company's logo bouncing around like an old DVD screensaver.

"This is amazing," Jungkook declares, immediately bouncing onto the dance floor, which lights up green and blue under his feet. "Worth every penny."

"We haven't paid yet," Taehyung reminds him, but he's smiling as he says it.

"Details," Jungkook waves dismissively, spinning in a circle that makes the floor shift colors again. "Come on, everyone pick a song! I want to hear Hobi destroy 'Uptown Funk' again!"

"Bold of you to assume I'd repeat myself," Hobi says, already flipping through the song catalog. "I'm thinking Beyoncé tonight."

"God help us all," Taehyung mutters, but he's already grabbing a microphone.

You sink onto one of the couches, grateful for the chance to sit before your legs give out.

The room is spinning slightly, but in a pleasant way now—like you're on a very slow merry-go-round. From this vantage point, you can watch as everyone settles in, claiming seats and drinks and song choices with the chaotic energy of people determined to have a good time.

Jungkook is still in the center of it all, now trying to convince Yeji to duet with him on some song you can't quite make out over the general noise. She's protesting, but you can tell she'll give in eventually—there's a gleam in her eye that says she's enjoying this more than she's letting on.

The first note of "Don't Stop Believin'" hasn't even finished before Hobi's on his feet, microphone clutched in his hand like it's the Olympic torch and he's the last runner.

What follows can only be described as a religious experience.

The man doesn't just sing—he performs.

Every note, every gesture, every hip thrust (and there are many) executed with the determination of someone who's spent significant time studying the art of karaoke domination.

By the time he hits the chorus, the entire room is on their feet, singing along whether they want to or not.

You find yourself belting out words you didn't even know you remembered, arm slung around Yeji's shoulders as you sway dramatically.

And that's just the beginning.

Taehyung and Jungkook follow with some K-pop song you've never heard but somehow everyone else seems to know the choreography to. Irya delivers a surprisingly powerful Adele ballad that has Yeji staring at her with undisguised adoration. Seth and Ryan butcher ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ with the confidence of men who have never been told they can't sing.

Somewhere between your third vodka cranberry and Yeji's unexpectedly heartfelt rendition of ‘Dancing Queen,’ you lose all remaining inhibitions.

Which is how you end up center stage, microphone in hand, challenging Taehyung to an Eminem rap battle that neither of you are remotely qualified for.

"I've got this," you hiss, yanking the mic toward you as the opening beats of ‘Lose Yourself’ start playing. "I've been preparing my whole life. Get ready to get your ass beaten, jerkinci.”

"You've been preparing to embarrass yourself," Taehyung retorts, tugging the microphone back. "I actually know all the words."

"Bullshit. Nobody knows all the words."

The first verse hits and you're both fumbling, words slurring together as you try to keep pace with the rapid-fire lyrics.

You've got maybe every third word right, but what you lack in accuracy you make up for in enthusiasm, half-shouting into the microphone while Taehyung tries to pry it from your grasp.

"His palms are sweaty—"

"—mom's spaghetti—"

"—nervous, but on the surface he looks—"

"—SPAGHETTI!"

You dissolve into laughter at the same time Taehyung does, both of you bent double as the backing track continues without you.

"Draw," Jungkook declares from somewhere to your left. "You both lose. Spectacularly."

"I clearly won," you argue, straightening up with as much dignity as you can muster, which isn't much. "I hit at least four words correctly."

"Wow, four whole words," Taehyung deadpans. "Eminem is shaking."

"He should be," you agree solemnly. "I'm coming for his whole career."

The music shifts to something slower, and you realize you're suddenly very, very thirsty. And maybe a little dizzy.

You hand the microphone to Jimin, who's been quietly watching the disaster unfold with a bemused smile.

"Your turn," you tell him, patting his arm. "Show them how it's done."

He starts to protest, but Irya's already pulling him toward the screen, insisting they do a duet.

You make your way back to the couches, flopping down with more force than intended. The room tilts briefly before righting itself.

"Need a break?" Jungkook asks, appearing beside you with a glass of water.

When did he get water? More importantly, when did he get so considerate?

"Maybe," you admit, accepting the glass. "Thanks."

He studies your face for a moment, and you resist the urge to check if you've got something on it.

"I'm gonna hit the bathroom. Don't pass out while I'm gone."

"No promises."

He laughs, the sound warm even over the pulsing music, and then he's gone, weaving through your friends toward the exit.

You take a long sip of water, letting the cool liquid soothe your throat, raw from shouting lyrics and laughing too hard.

Your eyes dance around, noticing Hobi teaching Ryan some dance move on the light-up floor, Yeji and Irya huddled together on one of the couches, heads bent close as they flip through the song catalog, Taehyung now trying to convince Yoongi to join him for something that has Yoongi shaking his head emphatically.

It's... nice. In a chaotic, messy, not-at-all-what-you-planned kind of way.

The couch dips as someone sits beside you. You turn, expecting Yeji or Jimin, and find yourself face to face with Tessa instead.

"Hi!" she says brightly, tucking a strand of perfect auburn hair behind her ear. "Mind if I join you for a minute?"

"Free country," you shrug, shifting slightly to make room even though there's plenty of space.

She smiles, and you can't help noticing how ridiculously pretty she is even in the garish lighting of the karaoke room. No smudged mascara, no frizzy hair, no signs of being several drinks in like the rest of you heathens.

It's annoying.

Pretty people should have the decency to look at least a little disheveled when everyone else does.

“That was quite a performance,” she says, smiling warmly. “I didn’t know you were into rap.”

“I’m not, really,” you admit, taking another sip of water. “I just couldn’t let Taehyung think he’s better than me at something.”

She laughs, the sound light and genuinely amused. “You guys have known each other long?”

“Not really. Just through Jungkook, honestly.”

“Oh!” Her face brightens at the mention of his name. “That’s actually… I was hoping to talk to you about him, if you don’t mind?”

The way her voice lifts hopefully at the end, combined with the slight flush on her cheeks that has nothing to do with alcohol, tells you exactly where this conversation is headed.

Great.

Girl talk about your hookup buddy. Exactly what you signed up for tonight.

But there’s something so genuinely nice about her expression that you can’t bring yourself to brush her off.

It’s not her fault Jungkook’s… well, Jungkook.

“What about him?” you ask, though you already know.

“I just… I really like him? And I was wondering if you had any insights, you know, being his roommate and all.”

You should have seen this coming.

Of course the pretty film student would be into Jungkook. Of course she’d want insider information.

Wait.

How the actual fuck does Jungkook pull these types of women?

Like, seriously. This girl looks like she should be dating a 6’4” investment banker with good hair, not your annoying roommate who sometimes forgets to wash his coffee mug for so long it develops its own ecosystem.

The universe is truly unfair.

“I’ve only lived with him for about a month,” you say, because it’s true and also gives you time to process.

“I know, I know,” she says quickly. “But you must have some impression of him by now, right? Like, what’s he really like? Outside of class and everything?”

You take another long drink of water, considering.

The truth is, you do know things about Jungkook that probably no one in this room knows—like how he bakes sourdough when he can’t sleep, or how he gets oddly protective of Griffin’s food schedule, or the precise sound he makes when he comes.

Which is actually a thought that gives you pause.

If Tessa and Jungkook start dating, that means your arrangement would end.

No more convenient stress relief.

No more really good sex after bad days.

That would kind of suck, honestly. Because whatever else he is, Jungkook is fantastic in bed. The idea of giving that up isn’t particularly appealing.

But on the other hand… aren’t you kind of friends now? Or at least trying to be?

And friends help each other out.

Even if that means letting go of a mutually beneficial sex arrangement.

Besides, look at her. She’s gorgeous, clearly intelligent, and seems genuinely sweet. Jungkook would be a complete idiot to pass that up for occasional hookups with his sarcastic roommate.

She’s still looking at you expectantly, those wide hazel eyes so earnest it’s almost painful.

“He’s…” you start, then sigh. “Look, I don’t really know him that well outside of basic roommate stuff.”

“Oh.” Her face falls slightly.

Dammit.

Why does she have to look like a disappointed puppy?

“But,” you continue, “I can tell you he’s very passionate about film. Like, genuinely passionate, not just doing it because it seems cool.”

Her expression brightens immediately. “I know, right? The way he talks about cinematography is so… I don’t know, refreshing? Like he actually cares about the art of it.”

“And he’s good with his hands,” you add before you can stop yourself, then immediately want to die. “I mean, like, fixing things! He fixed our bathroom sink when it was leaking.”

Nice save, idiot.

“That’s so sweet,” she says, apparently not picking up on your momentary panic. “He seems really thoughtful, you know? Like, in class he’s always offering to help people with their equipment.”

You nod, because that actually tracks with what you’ve seen of him. For all his annoying qualities, Jungkook does seem to genuinely care about helping people sometimes. It’s one of his more redeeming features.

“You really like him, huh?” you ask, though it’s obvious.

She blushes, looking down at her hands. “Is it that obvious?”

“A little,” you admit, smiling despite yourself. “But it’s cute.”

And it is cute, actually.

She seems genuinely into him, not just physically attracted or playing some kind of game.

It’s surprising that a girl like her would be interested in your dumbass roommate, but weirder things have happened.

“Do you think I have a chance?” she asks, her voice dropping to a near whisper, as if she’s sharing a secret. “I mean, I’ve been trying to drop hints, but I can’t tell if he’s picking up on them or just being nice.”

You glance toward the door where Jungkook disappeared, considering. Because in all honesty, you have no idea what his type is beyond ‘willing and available.’ Your arrangement has never included discussions about who else either of you might be seeing or interested in. For all you know, he could be totally into Tessa.

And really, why wouldn’t he be? She’s gorgeous, smart from what you can tell, and seems genuinely kind.

She’s basically way too good for him, but if she can’t see that, it’s not your job to point it out.

“I think…” you start slowly, turning back to her. “I think you should go for it.”

“Really?” Her whole face lights up, and you find yourself smiling back reflexively.

“Yeah, really.”

You straighten up, suddenly feeling like you’re on more solid ground. This is just basic girl code, after all. Helping a fellow woman navigate the treacherous waters of modern dating, even if the guy in question is your occasional fuck buddy.

Plus, you can be the bigger person here.

Yes, the sex with Jungkook is great, but there will be other guys. Other hot idiots to hook up with. It’s not like he’s the only option in New York City.

“Look, Jungkook’s… an okay guy, I guess? But if you like him, you should definitely let him know. Life’s too short for subtle hints.”

“That’s what Irya said too!” She laughs, reaching out to squeeze your arm gratefully. “Oh my god, thank you. I was so nervous to ask you, because I didn’t know if you two were… you know.”

“Me and Jungkook?” You almost choke on your water. “God, no. Absolutely not. We’re just roommates. Barely even friends, honestly.”

It’s not entirely a lie. Yes, you’ve been sleeping together, but it’s just physical. There are no feelings involved. It’s just convenient, uncomplicated sex—exactly how you like it.

“Oh, good,” she says, relief clear in her voice. “I wasn’t sure, and I’d never want to step on any toes.”

“No toes here,” you assure her, wiggling your feet for emphasis. “Completely toe-free zone.”

She giggles, and you find yourself smiling back. She really is nice, which makes it hard to keep disliking her just for being pretty and put-together.

“So,” you continue, feeling oddly invested now. “What’s your plan? How are you going to let him know you’re interested?”

“I don’t know,” she admits, biting her lip. “I was thinking maybe I could ask him to coffee? To discuss a project or something? But that might be too subtle.”

“Definitely too subtle. Guys are dense as bricks. Trust me.”

“What would you suggest then?”

You tap your chin, thinking. “You should just ask him out directly. No pretense, no ‘let’s discuss this project.’ Just ‘hey, I like you, let’s go on a date.’”

“Oh god,” she groans, covering her face with her hands. “I don’t know if I’m brave enough for that.”

“Sure you are,” you encourage, surprising yourself with your sudden enthusiasm for this matchmaking endeavor. “Look at you! You’re gorgeous, smart, and frankly, way out of his league. If anything, he should be intimidated by you.”

She peeks through her fingers, looking both flattered and skeptical. “You really think so?”

“Absolutely. In fact…” You pull out your phone, opening your contacts. “Give me your number. I’ll help you figure out the perfect approach.”

“Seriously?” She beams, reciting her number as you type it in. “That would be amazing. I’m so glad we got to talk tonight.”

“Me too,” you say, and find that you actually mean it. “And hey, even if things with Jungkook don’t work out, we should hang out sometime. You seem cool.”

“I’d love that!” She looks genuinely delighted, which makes you feel a small pang of guilt for your initial judgment of her based solely on her perfect hair and flawless makeup.

As you finish entering her contact info, you glance around and realize Jungkook still hasn’t returned from the bathroom.

It’s been what, ten minutes? Fifteen? Way too long, even accounting for lines or hand-washing (which, knowing him, is probably not a factor anyway).

“Hey, I’ll be right back,” you tell Tessa, pocketing your phone. “I just want to check that your future boyfriend hasn’t fallen in or something.”

She chuckles at the term but nods, still smiling. “Sure. I’ll save your seat.”

You navigate through the chaos of the room, dodging Hobi’s enthusiastic dance moves and stepping over Taehyung, who’s now sprawled dramatically across the floor reciting what sounds like Shakespeare to a bemused Yeji. The hallway outside is quieter, though the bass from neighboring rooms thrums through the walls.

Where the hell did Jungkook go? The bathrooms are just down the hall, and there’s no way he’d ditch his own birthday celebration.

Maybe he’s answering a call? Or got waylaid by some random person?

Or maybe the idiot got lost on the way back. You wouldn’t put it past him.

With a sigh, you head toward the bathrooms, determined to drag his ass back to the party.

After all, you’ve got a stunning redhead waiting to shoot her shot with him, and you’ll be damned if your sacrifice of great casual sex goes to waste because he can’t find his way back from taking a piss.

You turn the corner, ready to pound on the men's room door and yell at Jungkook for taking forever, when—oh.

He's not alone.

There's a girl. Of course there's a girl. Because when isn't there a girl around Jungkook?

This one's got shiny black hair down to her waist and is wearing what looks like an actual fucking Chanel dress to a karaoke bar.

Who does that?

The kind of person who also wears Louboutins to a place where the floor is permanently sticky with spilled beer, apparently.

But it's not her rich bitch outfit that makes you stop.

It's Jungkook.

He looks... wrong.

He's staring at the floor like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen, shoulders hunched forward in a way that makes him seem smaller somehow. His usual swagger is completely gone. He keeps opening and closing his mouth like a fish gasping for air, not actually saying anything.

It's weird.

Really fucking weird.

Before you can think better of it, you're walking toward them.

Stupid protective instinct. Stupid tequila. Stupid feet moving without permission.

Jungkook notices you first, his eyes widening in what looks like panic. The girl turns around, giving you a slow once-over that makes you feel like you've been scanned and found wanting.

She's beautiful. Like, unfairly beautiful. The kind of beautiful that probably makes other girls hate her on sight. Perfect skin, dark eyes, delicate features that look more doll-like than human. Her smile is almost too perfect, like it was professionally installed rather than something that grew naturally on her face.

"Oh my gosh, hi!" Her voice is high and sweet, like artificial honey. "I'm so sorry, am I keeping him too long? You must be looking for Kooky."

Kooky? Is she fucking serious right now?

"Can you believe we ran into each other? What are the chances?" She grabs your arm like you're old friends, squeezing with perfectly manicured nails that dig in slightly. "I was just telling him it must be fate. Some connections are just meant to be, right?"

She's acting like you're all at some cute reunion instead of standing in a gross hallway outside a karaoke bathroom. Her perfume is expensive and overwhelming—the kind that probably has a French name and costs more than your rent.

Jungkook clears his throat, still not looking at her. "It's just a coincidence, Mia."

Mia.

The name hits like a slap.

This is her? The ex that sent those texts that made him look like he'd seen a ghost?

Bitch looks like she belongs on a billboard, not stalking her ex in a karaoke bar.

"Oh, you're so skeptical," she laughs, the sound like tiny bells. "Always was. That's what I loved about you though, always keeping me grounded." She turns to you with a conspiratorial smile. "He's the practical one. I'm the dreamer. We balanced each other so well."

She's talking about him like he's not standing right there.

Like he's a character in a story she's telling.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name? I'm Mia."

"Y/N," you say flatly. "Jungkook's roommate."

"Roommate! Oh how wonderful," she claps her hands together like you've just announced you've won the lottery. "It's so nice to see Kooky making new friends. He was always so reserved with people he doesn't know well."

She leans in close enough that you can smell her breath—minty with an undercurrent of expensive champagne.

“Trust issues. We worked on it a lot during our time together."

She says it like they were in some kind of therapy program, not… dating.

What the actual fuck?

"I've found him pretty straightforward," you say, stepping closer to Jungkook because something is clearly wrong here.

He's still staring at the floor, still silent, still looking nothing like the annoying, confident asshole you live with.

"Oh, then he must really trust you," Mia says, eyes wide like you've shared some profound revelation. "That's so special. After everything he went through with his father, it's hard for him to let people in."

His father? Since when does Jungkook talk about his family? He's never mentioned a word about his father to you.

Jungkook's head snaps up at this, face gone pale. "Mia, don't—"

"Oh, I'm sorry!" She covers her mouth with one hand, looking embarrassed. "Was that not something...? I just assumed since you're roommates..." She turns to you and shrugs apologetically. "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have mentioned it. Please forget I said anything."

Right.

Like you're going to forget she just dropped that little bomb.

But now's not the time to dig into whatever daddy issues Jungkook's apparently hiding.

"It's fine," you say, because what else can you say?

"Anyway," she continues, her voice shifting back to that syrupy sweetness, "I was just telling Kooky we should get together sometime. Catch up properly."

She squeezes Jungkook's arm.

“I've missed our little movie nights. Nobody appreciates Park Chan-wook like you do."

Jungkook's still doing his best statue impression, eyes fixed somewhere near the exit sign like he's calculating how fast he can make a break for it.

"We were just getting ready to leave, actually," she says, gesturing down the hall. "I'm here with some friends from Parsons—we have a private room upstairs. You two should join us! We have so much champagne, it's ridiculous. My father just closed another deal in Singapore, so we're celebrating."

Of course her dad makes international business deals. Of course she has a private room upstairs. Of course she's casually drinking champagne while the rest of you slurp tequila from plastic cups.

"I don't think—" Jungkook starts, voice sounding rusty like he's forgotten how to use it.

"It would be so fun!" Mia insists, looking at you now with wide, earnest eyes. "Honestly, any friend of Kooky's is a friend of mine. I've been dying to get to know the people in his life now."

She's laying it on thick, like she's auditioning for the role of Supportive Ex-Girlfriend in some bad rom-com. It's almost impressive how sincere she sounds while being so obviously full of shit.

"We're actually here with a group," you say, firmer this time. "It's Jungkook's birthday."

"Your birthday!" she gasps, turning to Jungkook with exaggerated surprise. "Oh, I can't believe I forgot! I used to be so good with dates."

She steps closer to him, practically pressing against his chest.

"I should have gotten you something. Although I think my presence is gift enough, don't you? Just like old times." She laughs, light and tinkling. "Remember that birthday I planned for you last year? The surprise party at The Standard? Everyone said it was the best night of their lives."

You can practically see her subtext in neon letters above her head: ‘Whatever you losers planned tonight is nothing compared to what I did for him.’

"I don't think he wants to reminisce," you say, surprised by the edge in your own voice. "We should get back."

The bitch’s smile falters for just a second before snapping back into place.

“Oh, I totally get it. You guys have plans. I would never want to intrude on your... celebration."

The way she says ‘celebration’ makes it sound like she's referring to a kindergarten birthday party with paper hats and apple juice.

"We should get your number though, Kooky," she continues, already pulling out her phone. "I changed mine recently. We really should catch up soon. I have so much to tell you."

Jungkook looks like he'd rather eat glass than take her number. His hands are actually shaking slightly—what the hell happened between these two?

"I don't think that's necessary," you say, and without really thinking about it, you link your arm through his.

His skin is cold through his shirt sleeve.

This is the first time his skin’s ever been cold.

He’s usually always a walking furnace—a warm backdrop to your perpetually freezing body.

“Why not? Can’t hurt.” She tilts her head, eyes crinkling in a tight smile.

“Might hurt.”

Mia's eyes flash to where you're touching him, her smile tightening just a fraction.

"Oh, I see," she says, her voice still sweet but with something sharper underneath. "You two are..."

"Friends," you finish firmly. "Good friends."

"How sweet," she says.

She reaches out and straightens Jungkook's collar in a way that feels weirdly intimate.

“You always did need someone to look after you, didn't you, baby?"

She sighs, the sound somehow both theatrical and condescending. You feel Jungkook tense next to you.

What the hell is she talking about?

"Save my number," she says, pressing a small business card—who even carries those anymore?—into his hand. "For when you realize what you're missing. You know where to find me when you want a real connection again."

She leans in and kisses his cheek, holding it a beat too long.

“Happy birthday, Kooky. Try not to have too much fun without me."

She gives you a final look, equal parts pity and dismissal, before sauntering away down the hall, her heels clicking a perfect rhythm against the floor.

Jesus Christ. Is this real life? Did you just witness an actual soap opera villain in action?

The whole thing feels surreal, like you accidentally walked onto a TV set during filming.

"You okay?" you ask Jungkook when she's gone, because what else can you say?

He's still staring after her, jaw tight.

"Fine."

"Bullshit."

He glances at you, momentarily surprised by your bluntness. Then he sighs, running a hand through his hair.

"I... I think I need some air."

"Yeah, of course."

Not that you really have any other response ready. What are you supposed to say? ‘Sorry your ex is a walking red flag’? ‘Want to talk about whatever the fuck just happened?’ ‘By the way, what was that father line?’

"I'll be back in five," he says, already moving toward the exit sign at the end of the hall. "I just need a minute."

"Okay."

He pauses, glancing back.

“Thanks."

Then he's gone, pushing through the exit door, leaving you standing in the hallway with the lingering scent of expensive perfume and a head full of questions.

What the hell was all that about? And why does he look like he's seen a ghost? And what did she mean about his father?

You shake your head, trying to clear it.

Not your business. Not your problem. You have your own shit to deal with without adding Jungkook's ex drama to the list.

But as you turn to head back to the karaoke room, you can't help glancing toward the exit where he disappeared.

He really did look... small. Scared, almost.

Nothing like the cocky asshole who drives you crazy on a daily basis.

It's disconcerting, seeing him like that. Like peeking behind a curtain you didn't know existed.

You're going to need another drink for this.

It's pathetic, really.

Jungkook knows it. He acknowledges it fully, standing here on the rooftop of some overpriced karaoke joint in the heart of Manhattan, staring down at the tiny flask in his hand.

Not whiskey, not vodka—no, nothing even remotely respectable. Just pure vanilla extract.

Fucking vanilla extract.

He twists off the cap, lifts it to his lips, and takes a small sip. It burns just enough going down to remind him he's alive, but it tastes good.

Always good.

Sweet enough to mask the bitterness that's permanently lodged at the back of his throat these days.

It's not the watered-down shit they sell at grocery stores either—he learned that lesson quickly after one particularly desperate night ended with him gagging over his sink.

No, this is the real deal, the expensive kind he has to order online from some bougie shop in France that probably laughs every time they ship another bottle to New York City.

His therapist side-eyed him when he first confessed this little habit—because who wouldn't? Who the fuck drinks baking ingredients to cope?

But after a few awkward seconds of silence and scribbling notes on her pad (he hates when she does that), she'd shrugged and said it was better than alcohol or pills or whatever else he could be doing instead.

So Jungkook took what he could get.

If vanilla extract keeps him from self-destructing completely, then that's what he'll stick to.

He leans against the rooftop railing, cold metal pressing into his forearms through his thin shirt. Below him, lights blur together into a neon haze—yellow taxis weaving through traffic like fireflies darting between trees. The city beneath him looks both indifferent and alive, while Jungkook feels like he's barely holding it together.

Happy fucking birthday to him.

Birthdays are supposed to mean something. Another year older, wiser, closer to figuring shit out—but Jungkook just feels stuck.

Twenty-something years old and still sneaking away from his own birthday party because seeing Mia had knocked the air out of his lungs in a way that made him feel like a fucking teenager again.

Weak.

Pathetic.

Unable to even form a coherent sentence when she'd looked at him with those eyes—the ones that used to make him feel special until he realized they were just another weapon in her arsenal.

He takes another sip of vanilla extract, savoring the burn this time as it slides down his throat. It's stupidly comforting in a way he can't quite explain—not even to himself.

Maybe it's nostalgia or some childhood memory he's buried deep down beneath layers of emotional baggage and trauma from Mia and everything else he's fucked up along the way.

Or maybe it's just because it's something sweet and simple in a life that's become anything but.

He chuckles bitterly under his breath, shaking his head at himself.

"You're fucking ridiculous," he mutters into the night air.

But ridiculous or not—pathetic or not—it helps.

And right now, that's all that matters.

Twenty minutes. That's how long he's been up here, hiding like a child. Twenty minutes of staring at the skyline and trying to get his shit together. Twenty minutes of letting Mia's voice echo in his head like a bad song he can't turn off.

He closes his eyes briefly, inhaling deeply as cool September air fills his lungs.

He can hear muffled laughter drifting up from downstairs—the karaoke room packed with film school friends who've probably noticed his absence by now—and for once tonight, Jungkook doesn't mind being forgotten for a little while longer.

He'll go back eventually; plaster on another easy smile like nothing happened because that's what he does best these days: pretend everything is fine until everyone else believes it.

And then—the icing on the cake.

He mentally claps for himself at that one. Solid joke. A little on the nose, sure, but he'll take it.

You're there.

He doesn't even need to look to know it's you. That faint trace of vanilla that isn't his flask. Not the sharp, concentrated kind that burns his throat and keeps him grounded.

No, you smell like vanilla, but softer. Warmer. Like someone took the edge off and folded it into something human.

There's something else underneath it too—milky, maybe? Creamy? He doesn't know how to describe it without sounding like a complete idiot, so he doesn't try.

It's funny, though.

Hilarious, actually.

Because in the four weeks he's known you, he knows you're anything but soft.

You're mouthy as hell.

Reckless in a way that makes him think you've got some kind of death wish or maybe just a really bad sense of self-preservation.

You talk back every time he opens his mouth, like it's your personal mission to make sure he never gets the last word.

He should find you annoying.

Irritating enough to make him want to jump off this rooftop just to get away from you.

And yeah, sometimes he does—like when you leave your tea bags in the sink instead of throwing them out like a normal person, or when you steal his hoodies and pretend they just ‘ended up’ in your laundry by accident (as if he doesn't know you're lying).

But mostly?

Mostly, you're just...there.

A sudden disruption in his life when he was finally starting to feel okay again. Starting to enjoy the quiet. Heal, or whatever the fuck people call it when they're trying to piece themselves back together after everything's gone to shit.

And then you came along.

All talk back and adrenaline and thrill and sex.

Really good sex.

He shouldn't be thinking about that right now—not here, not with you standing behind him like some kind of ghost haunting his already-fucked-up night—but it's hard not to when everything about you feels like a challenge he can't help but rise to.

The way you smell, the way you look at him like you're daring him to say something stupid just so you can tear him apart for it...it's infuriating.

Addictive too.

He takes another sip from his flask because what else is he supposed to do?

He can feel your eyes on him—sharp and curious, probably trying to figure out why he's up here alone with nothing but a tiny bottle of vanilla extract for company—and suddenly the burn in his throat isn't enough to distract him anymore.

"Didn't know karaoke had a rooftop package," you say eventually.

Jungkook snorts before he can stop himself, shaking his head as he screws the cap back onto his flask.

"Yeah, well," he says, turning around just enough to glance at you over his shoulder. "Figured I'd splurge for my birthday."

Your eyebrows lift at that—just a little—but you don't say anything right away.

"You know they've noticed you're not around, right?" you say after a moment, your tone careful. "People are asking."

He sighs, running a hand through his hair.

Of course they are. Because that's what happens when you disappear for twenty minutes in the middle of your own birthday party.

"You good?" you add, and there's something in your voice that makes him look at you directly. "Because we need you back there."

God, you're annoying. Always so direct, always cutting through his bullshit like it's tissue paper.

He should hate this—hate you—but somehow, Jungkook can't really bring himself to fully mean it.

"How'd you find me?" he asks instead of answering your question.

You shrug. "Just a hunch. Figured if I wanted to escape, I'd go up, not down."

He stares at the city below, the skyline stretching out like a postcard someone forgot to mail. The cars are specks from up here, tiny dots crawling along the veins of Manhattan. It's almost peaceful if he squints hard enough to ignore the noise humming faintly in the background—the kind that never really stops, even at this height.

For a moment, it's quiet. Just him, the skyline, and the faint burn of vanilla still lingering on his tongue.

Then he hears it: your footsteps. Soft, slow, like you're trying not to startle him but also don't care enough to stop yourself from intruding.

Of course you're here.

You stop just short of the railing at first, hovering like you're testing the waters.

Then, after what feels like an eternity but is probably only a few seconds, you step closer and lean against it. Right next to him. Close enough that he can catch another whiff of that vanilla-milky-whatever-the-fuck scent that's been messing with his head all night.

He doesn't look at you. Doesn't have to. He knows exactly what you're doing—trying to see whatever it is he's staring at like it's some big mystery that needs solving.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth despite himself because yeah, this is so you.

Meddling without actually meddling. Curious without outright saying it.

And he doesn't know how he knows that about you, but he does.

So when you finally break the silence with a casual, "What was that?"—your chin jutting toward his jacket pocket—he's not surprised.

"Huh?" He plays dumb, glancing down at his pocket like he has no idea what you're talking about. "Nothing."

Your eyes narrow slightly, and he can feel your gaze boring into him even though he still refuses to meet it.

“Nothing," you repeat flatly, like you don't believe him for a second. "Right."

"Yup." He pops the 'p' for emphasis and turns his attention back to the city below, hoping you'll drop it.

You don't.

"What kind of nothing are we talking about here?" Your tone is light, teasing—but there's an edge of curiosity there too. The kind that tells him you're not going to let this go anytime soon.

"It's just...nothing," he says again, more firmly this time but still avoiding your gaze.

"Uh-huh." You lean in slightly, tilting your head as if that'll give you a better angle on whatever he's hiding. "So nothing just happens to fit perfectly in your jacket pocket?"

He sighs, shaking his head slightly as a low chuckle escapes him despite himself.

“You're relentless, you know that?"

"Yep," you say easily, popping the 'p' right back at him. "So? What is it?"

He hesitates for a moment, debating whether or not to tell you the truth.

It's stupid—embarrassing even—but something about the way you're looking at him makes it hard to keep deflecting.

Finally, with a resigned sigh and a slight smirk tugging at his lips, he pulls the flask out of his pocket and holds it up for you to see.

"It's vanilla extract," he says simply.

You blink at him, clearly not expecting that answer.

“Vanilla extract," you repeat slowly, like you're waiting for him to say he's joking.

"Yup."

He unscrews the cap and takes another small sip just to prove his point before screwing it back on and slipping it into his pocket again.

For once, you're speechless—and Jungkook can't help but feel a small sense of victory as he leans back against the railing with a smug grin on his face.

"Happy now?"

The silence stretches a beat too long after his admission. He licks vanilla residue off his bottom lip, the sweetness turning cloying under your stare.

"It's pathetic, I know."

"I mean—it's weird," you say, shrugging. "But not pathetic-weird. Just… niche."

He huffs, drumming his fingers against the railing. "Yeah, who the fuck drinks vanilla extract, huh? Couldn't stick to whiskey like a normal fuckup. Had to be quirky.”

The word drips with self-mockery.

You lean back, arms crossed. "We all have our vices. At least you don't smell like an ashtray."

"You'd kick my ass if I smoked in the apartment."

"Damn right."

The corner of his mouth twitches. Below, a siren wails—distant, unimportant. He watches you watch the city, the neon glow catching on your eyes.

"It's… comforting. Don't know why. Ethanol or whatever—therapist says it's placebo with benefits."

"Placebo with benefits," you repeat, deadpan. "That your band name?"

He snorts. "Nah. Ethanol Enthusiasts."

"Catchy."

Another pause.

The wind tugs at his sleeves, carrying your scent again.

Fuck.

"What started it?" you ask, casual as someone asking about the weather.

His thumb rubs the flask's engraving—a nervous tic he didn't know he had.

“Didn't wanna become my old man. Found this… seemed safer." The admission tastes bitter. He backtracks with a shrug. "Therapist greenlit it. Win-win."

You hum, noncommittal.

“Explains why you're obsessed with vanilla lattes."

"Am not—"

"You are. You side-eye my tea like it's piss."

"Because it is piss. Chamomile's for grandmas."

"Says the guy sipping baking supplies."

He barks a laugh, sharp and surprised. When he turns, you're smirking—that infuriating, I-win smirk that usually makes him want to rile you up.

Now it just feels… warm.

"You smell like vanilla," he says softly.

Your smirk falters. "You've mentioned. Usually when you're—"

"Not then." He cuts you off, voice lower. "All the time. Even when you're not… y'know."

"Y'know?" You raise a brow.

"Fuckin'—wearing shit. Perfume. Whatever." He gestures vaguely at you. "It's just… you."

The words hang, raw and clumsy.

You blink, that sharp mask slipping for a half-second. He watches your throat move as you swallow.

"Huh," you say finally.

"Huh," he mimics, too quick. Deflect. Always deflect. "Maybe you're part cookie. Secretly."

You freeze. Just for a heartbeat.

Then you smirk, but it doesn't reach your eyes.

“Maybe I'm marinating."

"Maybe," he murmurs.

Another siren. Another beep. Another car being way too loud in this fucking city.

"Or maybe you were made just for me."

It slips out. Too raw. Too honest.

Shit.

Jungkook's throat tightens—what the fuck was that?

He licks his lips, grip tightening on the railing as he scrambles to claw the moment back from the edge of whatever that just was.

"I mean—" He forces a scoff, rolling his eyes like he's mocking himself. "—or you're just some undercover therapist plant. Be honest."

He side-eyes you, smirk plastered on.

“You know Dr. Liao, don't you? This is an intervention. 'Let's gaslight Jungkook into emotional vulnerability via mediocre sex and vanilla-scented body wash—'"

You snort, cutting him off. "Mediocre?"

"Painfully average."

"Excuse you?" You open your mouth exaggeratedly, and he can't help but grin at the sheer offense in your expression. "Okay wow, we are never having sex again."

"Cap."

"Are you seriously using online slang in real life?"

"Yeah, because you're capping."

"I am not capping and stop doing that, it's so cringe."

"But you just said capping too?"

"I—that's because you said it first you moron!"

"And you said it second so who's the real moron here?"

"That's it, I'm never wearing vanilla perfume ever again."

He stops abruptly at that. Looks you in the eyes.

"Like you are right now?"

You open your mouth. Close it real fast. Press your lips together.

"Maybe."

"No maybes. I can literally smell it from here."

He tilts his head slowly, letting you move back if that's what you want.

But you don't.

And he takes that as an invitation, his nose hovering over the soft spot under your ear, where you always apply your cologne on.

"Right here." He mutters, voice velvety and rough. "Really makes me wanna fuck you."

You don't move your head, but your hands come to rest on his chest, and he likes that.

Likes that, despite whatever semblance of control you're trying to channel, you're slipping out of balance.

Like you need to hold on to something—on to him.

"I could fuck you here, you know." He continues, pressing his lips against your skin as he angles your bodies just right—your back against the railing, both his arms caging you in. "Right against the railing. Give the locals a nice view."

"You're insane." You say, but it lacks conviction. He knows it does. "Nobody down there could see us from below, this is a skyscraper and we're on the rooftop."

He clicks his tongue, but can't quite hide his amusement.

"Always ruining the fun. Is this your way of saying no?"

You lick your lips. Feel the goosebumps erupt as his lips trail down your neck.

"No."

"Hmm?" He plants another kiss. "So is it your way of saying yes?"

"No."

You repeat; and this time he actually leans back a bit, trying to figure out what you're aiming for.

"It's a ‘maybe when we get home’. We are not fucking in public, Ro, during your birthday, when all your friends are gonna be wondering where we both are."

His eyes don't stray away from yours. Then, he chuckles.

He doesn't know why he chuckles. Doesn't understand what about your commentary he found funny. Perhaps it's your way of being sensitive even when he's goofing around but totally ready to fuck you for real if you so much as ask.

But it feels familiar.

Safe.

No feelings, no depth—just the usual bullshit.

He likes it. Likes how your smirk looks softer now, under the moonlight, eyes crinkling at the corners, and fuck, he needs another sip of vanilla.

But the flask stays buried in his pocket.

And then you say, "c'mon, Rogue. Your fanclub's singing off-key Mariah Carey downstairs."

And he can't help but reply with a "fuck, really?"

"Taehyung's hitting whistle tones. It's apocalyptic."

He groans, pushing off the railing. "Fine. But you're explaining why I'm not drunk."

"Tell them you're a pastry chef now."

"Fuck you."

"When we get home—"

The rooftop door slams open with enough force to make both of you jump apart like startled cats.

Taehyung stands in the doorway, chest heaving, eyes wild as they scan the space before landing on Jungkook.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he breathes, voice tight with something that sounds suspiciously like genuine panic. "You're up here? On a rooftop?"

Jungkook stiffens beside you, his casual posture vanishing in an instant.

“Tae—"

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?"

Taehyung cuts him off, storming across the rooftop with the intensity of a small hurricane.

His eyes flick briefly to you, then back to Jungkook, who suddenly looks like he wants to melt into the concrete.

"A rooftop? Really?"

You glance between them, completely lost.

There's clearly something happening here that you're not privy to—some subtext that makes this more than just Taehyung being dramatic about Jungkook ditching his own party.

"It's fine," Jungkook says, his voice careful in a way you've never heard before. "I just needed some air."

"Air," Taehyung repeats, like the word tastes bitter. "Sure. Great. Because there's definitely not air anywhere else in this building."

His hands are shaking, you notice. Actually trembling.

"What the fuck, Kook."

"Tae," Jungkook steps forward, reaching for his friend's shoulder, "it's not like that. I swear. I'm okay."

Taehyung's eyes close briefly, his jaw working like he's grinding his teeth. When he opens them again, there's a vulnerability there that makes you feel like you're intruding on something intensely private.

"You can't just—" he starts, then stops, inhaling sharply. "You can't disappear and then be on a fucking rooftop, man. Not after—"

He cuts himself off again, shooting another glance your way.

"I'm sorry," Jungkook says quietly, and there's so much weight in those two words that your own chest tightens in response. "I didn't think about it like that. I just needed to get away for a minute, and this was the first place I found."

"Because you needed to get away," Taehyung says flatly, and there's a question buried in there somewhere.

Jungkook hesitates, his eyes darting to you for just a fraction of a second.

"Mia's downstairs. Or was. We ran into her in the hallway."

The change in Taehyung is immediate and alarming. His face drains of color, then flushes with anger so quickly it's like watching a stoplight change.

"Mia's here?" His voice drops to something dangerous and low. "That fucking—where is she? Did she say something to you? What did she do?"

"Nothing. She's gone," Jungkook says quickly, reaching out to grip Taehyung's arm like he's physically restraining him. "She was with some friends in another room. Just bumped into her on the way to the bathroom."

"And said what, exactly?" Taehyung demands, not even trying to hide his hostility now.

"Nothing important," Jungkook insists, though his tight expression suggests otherwise. "Just Mia being Mia. It's fine."

"It's clearly not fine if you're hiding on a rooftop," Taehyung snaps, then immediately looks like he regrets it. His shoulders slump slightly. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—I was just worried."

"I know," Jungkook says, and there's something so gentle in his tone that you feel like you're witnessing a side of him you've never seen before. "It's okay. I'm okay. Promise."

You shift awkwardly, suddenly very aware that you're intruding on something deeply personal.

“I should, uh, maybe head back downstairs," you offer, already taking a step toward the door.

Two pairs of eyes snap to you, like they'd forgotten you were there.

Jungkook looks caught between relief and something else—regret, maybe?—while Taehyung's expression is blank now.

"No, stay," Jungkook says quickly.

Too quickly.

Then, more casually: "I mean, we were about to head back anyway, right?"

"Right," you agree, though it feels like you're reading from a script you haven't seen before. "Mariah Carey and all that."

"God, they're still on that." Taehyung rolls his eyes, making a visible effort to shake off whatever just happened. "Hobi's been trying to hit the high note in 'Emotions' for like twenty minutes. It's a massacre."

"Can't be worse than your Eminem," you say, hoping to lighten the mood.

It works, sort of. Taehyung's mouth quirks up at one corner.

"Excuse you, I killed that performance."

"Yeah, killed it dead," you agree. "Like, murder. Homicide. Call the rap police."

Jungkook snorts, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Rap police?"

"You know what I mean," you say, waving a hand dismissively. "Let's go save Mariah from Hobi before someone calls actual law enforcement."

As you all move toward the door, you notice Taehyung hanging back just enough to place a hand on Jungkook's shoulder, squeezing once—firm, grounding.

Jungkook nods, a tiny movement you almost miss, and something passes between them again—silent but significant.

But it's not your story to know. Not yet, anyway.

So you lead the way back inside, pretending you didn't notice the way Taehyung's hand shook as it fell back to his side, or the way Jungkook's smile didn't quite reach his eyes as he followed you through the door.

Some things are better left unasked. At least for now.

goal: 600 notes (this chapter was posted after both goals were reached. unfortunately the previous chapter suffered mass unvoting on wattpad after i published the next chapter. please go vote on chapter 21 in WP to restore the original numbers and not mislead any new reader 🫶🏻.)

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sparkriddledfever · 2 months ago

Text

I'm normally not big on babies, however, i can't help but melt at the thought of these tough, war torn bots cooing and playing with the little uns.

Optimus is usually a busy mech, always at the ready should someone need him. Though it's tough for this soft giant to peel himself away from the cooing baby in their playpen; call it whatever you want but it makes his coding purr happily whenever the baby squeals joyfully when he comes into sight.

"Have you been good for your parent?"

Cue baby babbles.

"So I heard."

He's always got that baby to sleep easily. Nobody knows how he does it, but the parent appreciate it all the same.

Ratchet no matter how many times he tried to deny it. His day and others in the medbay brightens up when the liaison swings by with their bundle of joy. It took so much to keep himself from cooing when the liaison points at him "Who's that, huh? Is thhaaatt Ratchet? Wanna say hi hi?"

His spark clenches when the baby cries after getting their updated shots. He may be a grouchy grump, but he never liked hearing little uns cry so he may or may not have played peek a boo which made that smile come back quickly.

No, First Aid, he does not have a clue what you are talking about. If he finds out this gets out, he will skewer your lines.

Drift and Rodimus always seem to find their way to get some playtime in with the youngest crew member. Drift definitely felt himself ascend to some place cause the little gummy smile with the two teeth peeking out up at him had him dying and crying.

"They're so cute," he sobbed, "how do you do it?"

"Oh trust me, It takes a lot to keep myself from kissing their cheeks aggressively at bay."

Rodimus making funny faces or tickling them always makes his day. He definitely ranked them to the "most official cutest baby around".

No, Rodimus, you cannot throw them in the air.

Bumblebee is always so good with kids, but imagine his surprise when they start picking themselves up. He had to drop everything, lower to his knees and watched in awe as they started slowly and stumble their way over to him on their feet.

Frag it! He should have a camera! This is important! He cheers when they collapse in his servos, door wings fluttering while quickly comm'ing their parent.

Jazz is another mech who got a soothing presence. He always entertain the baby babbles, humming them to sleep, etc. He's the most relax and easy going that you could call them buddies since the baby is always wanting JUST him if Optimus is not there at the base.

He always laugh when they squeal happily at the sight of him. Taking them into his arms and going on a "lil ride" around the base.

Ironhide. Ohhhh, he was a sucker immediately. He can hide it under all that grouch like Ratchet, but the little tiny hands on his while holding their bottle made him vent. His optics are staring fondly as sleepy, dropping eyes stared back.

Don't tell him about the fact when you press your thumb against their foot their toes curl. Almost to mimic as if they're curling their hands around your finger.

"Why are you fraggers so cute?"

"What was that, Ironhide?"

"Nothing."

#transformers x reader #transformers x human #optimus x reader #optimus prime x reader #mtmte x reader #polaris writes #rodimus x reader #rodimus prime x reader #drift x reader #ratchet x reader #jazz x reader #ironhide x reader #bumblebee x reader #tfp optimus prime x reader #idw ratchet x reader #idw drift x reader #whichever continuity ya want lol

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yoiisa · 1 month ago

Text

IT'S NOT WHAT I MEANT ⋆˙⟡ MICHAEL KAISER

"Tell me that you're still mine, Tell me that we'll be just fine, Even when I lose my mind, I need to say, Tell me that it's not my fault, Tell me that I'm all you want, Even when I break your heart." - "Afterglow" by Taylor Swift all characters aged up (20+)! Tags: arguments between you two, hurt and comfort Kaiser gets mean and crowds your space. He doesn't touch you, but still proceed with caution! Makeup sex!! CW for vaginal sex (reader is afab), unprotected intercourse (please wrap it before you tap it!), body worship, slight praise kink please proceed with caution ^3^! not proofread.

a/n: This is part of a little series I doing where I’m writing BLLK fics for each of my fav songs on all the T Swift albums.

I consider Lover and Reputation to be complimentary albums, so when I was brainstorming for this series, I knew that Kaiser and Isagi had to be paired for these two albums. Little spoiler ig for which album Isagi will be! Again, this is also a smutty fic, so proceed with caution! Now lessgo!

The sky is blue, grass is green, and Michael Kaiser can easily become the meanest person in the world. It's like a fact of life. Normally, he could keep it to cheeky remarks with you. Aside from teasing comments, he would only ever treat you as a princess- buying you whatever you wanted, littering your neck with kisses while you cook, and immediately scooping you into his arms whenever you complained that your feet were in pain. However, that doesn't mean anything when he's mad. When Kaiser got mad, all pretenses were gone.

"Oh come on!" he scoffs, plopping down on the couch. "You really think I'd go for something as low as some random chick at the bar?!"

"Michael, it's not about that!!" you shout. "It's about the fact that you didn't turn her down until I pointed something out!"

"What was I supposed to do?! Shove her off?"

"Tell her to leave you alone!"

He leans forward and narrows his eyes. "I told her to fuck off, if she-"

"You should've said it again!" you shout, tears beginning to burn into your eyes. You frantically blink them away, but a few manage to run down your face regardless. "You should've said it over and over and over-"

"Don't tell me you're actually crying over this! Are you that insecure?! Are you that big of a fucking baby?!" he laughs humorlessly and leans forward on his knees.

Your heart squeezes and you shake your head as more tears run down your cheeks. "Stop. Stop it right now."

Kaiser stands and paces near the couch for a little bit, laughing incredulously at your behavior. "Of course. Of course. What should I expect but you fucking crying over this bullshit? Of course you're standing there, whimpering like a fucking bitch who has no sense of self whatsoever! Of course you always assume the worst of my behavior! I told you in the car that I told her to leave me alone! I just repeated it five seconds ago and you still-! Ahhh!" he throws his hands up in frustration and lets a coarse shout carve its way from his throat. "Du kannst mich mal!

"Michael-"

"Did you not stop for a moment and think that I was also uncomfortable?! Did you not consider-" he's so angry.

The girl had been ugly as all hell, but also very clearly drunk out of her mind. Perhaps being around you had softened him some though, because no matter what, he couldn't find it in himself to get overtly aggressive with her. He made comments ranging from passive aggressive to downright direct, all sharing the same consensus of "Get lost, you fucking weirdo," but she was drunk. She couldn't take a hint! It wasn't his fault! And here you were, acting like it was!

He couldn't breathe. He was seeing red.

"MICHAEL!" your voice is high and shrill. It wavers as fear overloads your body and you start to sob.

That's when he realizes it. He's left the couch completely and has you crowded back against the kitchen counters. The edge of the island digs into your lower back, and your eyes are wide with fear and now freely letting tears fall. He's in your face, his breath ghosting against your cheeks, and his hands are caging you so you have nowhere to run.

Instead, your legs fully give out. Your knees buckle and you drop to the ground, trembling. You kneel on the floor in front of him with your head bowed low and tears falling onto the marble tiles of the kitchen. Kaiser stares down at you, his chest growing tight as he takes desperate breaths, trying to calm himself down.

I didn't touch them, he thinks frantically. I just yelled at them, but I didn't touch them. I would never touch them like that, I would-

. . . I made them scared of me.

On the field, he was Kaiser. he had to be formidable. He had to be scary and intimidating and powerful, but here? With you? The idea of you being scared of him was too much to bear. He wanted to drop to his knees as well and beg for your mercy. Sob and plead for your forgiveness. If you asked, he'd march right back to the bar and kill that woman. It'd make you happy right?

But no. He's staring at your trembling stature right now, and there was no way for him to fix this. Michael would be lucky if you even stayed in the apartment tonight, or stayed with him in this relationship, period.

"Liebe . . ." It's an unconscious thing, his whispered word. It's so involuntary in fact, that he staggers back from you once he realizes that he spoke at all. He chokes out a wretched sound before cupping his hand over his mouth.

I didn't touch them, I didn't hurt them-

No. I did.

"I need air," his voice is hoarse and deep. "I need . . . I'll be back. I . . ." he can't manage an end to that sentence. He hurries off, quickly grabbing his coat and keys before leaving the apartment entirely, leaving you curled in on yourself on the floor.

--------------------------------------

It's really late once you've finally finished getting ready for bed. Kaiser still hasn't come home. You're wiping down your bathroom sink as you reflect on the events of the day. You look up into the mirror as you put the sponge back behind the spout and take in your wrecked appearance. Your hair is a little frizzy and dull, your cheeks glow red from crying, and you’re dressed in sleeping shorts and one of Kaiser’s old shirts.

Had you really been too pushy? Perhaps, but . . . but Michael was your boyfriend! He had a responsibility on his end of the relationship to uphold. He had to be faithful!

Had you just been too jealous to realize he'd been trying to get rid of the girl? Now that you're thinking back to the evening, he did seem really annoyed by her presence.

I wish I could say sorry, you think, before fresh tears roll down your face and into the basin of the sink. Your shoulders shake and you let out a few tiny hiccups as the sobs wrack your frame one and a time. Where is he? I'll call him and ask when he's coming home.

You wipe your face on the back of your hand and spin to leave the bathroom. As you open the door to the bathroom, you run right into a chest. You yelp in surprise as a pair of familiar hands take your arms by your elbow.

You look up and come face to face with a red-eyed Kaiser. His face is dry, but his nose is red too.

"Micha?" you whisper, and you see a light spark in his eyes. "W-were you drinking?"

He chuckles deeply and shakes his head vehemently. "No. No . . ."

"Your eyes . . ."

He leans down and you lean up a little bit. Your foreheads press together, as his left hand drifts up your bicep and the other drops to the dip in your waist.

"Micha," you mutter as your hands come up to his face. You cup his cheeks and brush your thumbs along his skin.

"Yes liebe?"

A tear runs down your face again as you kiss him deeply. His left hand cups the back of your head while the right hand draws you flush against him.

With your eyes closed, you can't see what he's doing, but Kaiser starts moving the two of you around. You pull apart when he lays you down on the plush covers of your bed. You scoot up into the middle of the mattress as Kaiser drops his jacket onto the floor and practically rips his shirt up and over his head. He lowers himself over you and nibbles at your neck

"I'm sorry," he breathes against the juncture of your neck and shoulder. You shiver and he presses a kiss against your skin. "I . . . I didn't mean to scare you like that. You know I'd never hurt you right?"

You nod, only half listening to whatever he's saying. You just want him to keep touching you, which thankfully he is. His large hands are pushing the hem of your shirt up your body, revealing your stomach and underboob. You sit up and he slowly takes the rest of the shirt off your body, leaving the two of you topless.

You take initiative now, wrapping your arms around his neck and bringing him down for a kiss.

"Mmmph- [name]," he gasps.

"Shhh," you coo before diving in for another kiss.

Kaiser pulls back from your mouth and shakes his head. "Mein herz, we need to talk-"

"We will," you say firmly cutting him off, "but right now . . . right now I just. I need to know you're mine."

"I am," he says firmly. "I am always yours. Meine leibe, mein schatz, und meines lebens."

Your mouths connect again, moving in perfect unison. He sucks your tongue and you moan softly. You spend the next few minutes making out with one another, your hands caressing his back and his kneading your breasts.

You keen into his mouth, the sound chasing his lips as he finally pulls back. Both of you are magnificently flushed now and you can't help but giggle softly.

"What?" he asks, twirling a strand of your hair around his finger as he narrows his brows in confusion.

Your eyes flick from the rosy pink coating his pale skin, the bleached white-blond of his hair, and the blue ends. "You look like cotton candy right now."

He's silent for a moment, before the corner of his mouth twitches up. "Really?" he asks.

"Mmmm," you hum and peck his lips. "And you taste like it too. You're so sweet."

He kisses you back and murmurs into your mouth, "You're sweeter."

In a flurry of kisses and roaming hands, you're left in nothing but your panties and he is completely naked. His belt, jeans, and boxers lie scattered around the room, and your sleeping shorts are at the foot of the bed.

You’re straddling his lap, and Kaiser reaches around and gropes your ass, palming the flesh. You trace a line of kisses up his neck, tracing the rose tattoo with your tongue, before continuing your path along his jaw. When he pulls your hips forward to grind his aching cock against your clothed slit, you bite nibble his earlobe and whimper.

"I feel you," he groans, "through these pretty panties. You're already so wet."

He reaches a finger past the waistband, but before he can touch, you take his wrist and pull back. Staring into his sea blue eyes, you say, "I don't want foreplay, just . . ."

"Just what?"

God, he has to tease, even now? "Just put . . . your cock in. I just wanna feel it."

Kaiser wastes no time. He practically drops you onto the bed and hooks his fingers in your waistband of your underwear.

"Lift your hips for me, love," he whispers, and when you comply he drags them down your legs and tosses them behind his back.

He crawls up your body once more, before finally positioning the head of his cock at your entrance. When the tip initially stretched the ring of your opening, you bite your lip and whimper.

"Shhh, meine leibe," he whispers in your ear, before moving his hips forward more and finally sinking into your sweet pussy. "You've taken it before, just relax."

"I know," you sigh. You take a few deep breathes, trying to relax and open up more for him. " 'ts deep. . ."

"I know schatz, I know," he kisses your temple, then your cheek, then finally suckling your nipple.

You gasp and arch your back, the sudden wetness on your chest taking you by surprise. You arch your back and you finally become loose enough to fully take his cock deep within your body. When he bottoms out, he unlatches from your chest and groans into your ear.

"Wet- ugh. So wet and tight for me," he kisses your nose and you giggle.

"Give me a moment, I'll tell you when to move."

He nods and after a minute or so, you give him the go ahead.

You and Kaiser are no stranger to having sex, and have had a variety to boot. It's more common for him to rail you following a rough game or practice as a form of stress relief. He'll press you into the pillows and you drool as he pounds you from behind. That being said, he's just as good at this slow rhythym.

He takes slow, long strokes, pulling out almost entirely before thrusting deep into your cunt again. The tip of his cock kisses your sweet spot, and you can't stop the string of moans that spill from your mouth.

"Micha!" you gasp.

"Take it, my darling. You always take me so well, c'mon . . . c'mon," he growls in your ear. "I- ugh."

"I love you, ah~" you whimper, your back arching slightly. "Micha . . ."

He chuckles, and it morphs into another guttural sound as he quickens his pace ever so slightly. "It's so good meine leibe, mein schatz . . ."

"I love it, I love having you like this," you bury your face into the crook of his neck. "I don't wanna lose it."

"You wont," his voice is low and firm, his thrusts becoming more shallow and quicker yet. "I'll never let you go, you hear me [name]? There's- ahh, ahh, there's no one else I want beneath me like this, taking my cock like such a good girl, my good girl."

"Micha, I think," you take his hand and guide it to the bulge in your lower tummy. He presses gently on it, and you keen. "I feel it, I'm going to cum soon."

"Yes," he groans, maintaining his newfound desperate pace. "Yes, [name], yes-"

"I'm cumming!" you cry out.

Kaiser groans and relishes in the sensation of your fluids soaking his shaft. With a few more quick pumps, he finally settles himself into your pussy with his own release. He silences his gasps of pleasure by biting down on your shoulder. His body shudders as his hips involuntarily continue to thrust into your heat, draining himself for all he's worth inside of you.

The rest of the night is a quiet affair, with another two rounds, and then aftercare. Kaiser massages the insides of your thighs after having wipes the skin clean. He brings you water and a small cookie, before you finally pass out on the sheets he's frankly too lazy to change right now. Still, he grabs a clean blanket from the living room and drapes that over you instead of the cum-stained ones beneath the two of you.

He quickly takes a shower before returning and nuzzling into beneath your chin, placing a quick kiss to the hollow of your throat before finally falling asleep.

--------------------------------------

The sun is floating through the curtains when he finally rouses from his sleep. Kaiser internally grumbles. Should've closed those before I went to bed.

He's no longer tucked into your body, but instead, your sitting up already, with your back against the headboard, another pajama shirt covering your torso and damp hair.

Kaiser pushes himself up and scoots closer to you, nuzzling into the bite mark he left the night before.

"I'm sorry for yelling at you," he murmurs against your skin. "I . . . I took things too far." When you remain silent, he asks, "You didn't think I was going to hurt you, did you?"

You smile and shake your head. You turn to face him, and he cups your cheeks in his hand, shifting into a more comfortable position.

"No, I known you wouldn't," you sigh, leaning into his touch, "but I was still scared when you got really close like that. I don't think I've ever seen you angry like that up close."

He sighs and shakes his head. "I'm sorry."

"Me too."

"You have nothing to apologize for," he says firmly.

"I still feel guilty, a little bit," you say. "I . . . I feel like I made it into a big deal, bigger than it needed to be anyways."

You roll your shoulders a bit and then shrug. "Then again, if it'd been me in your position, you might've actually killed the guy, so I don't know."

Kaiser blinks, trying to decipher if there was any humor in your words. When he finds a little, his smirk tugs at his mouth. "Maybe, but that's besides the point. I just want you to know . . . I'm sorry."

You stare into his eyes, the earnestness etched into his irises like that's where it's always been. Maybe it has with you though. He doesn't mess around when it comes to you after all.

"I forgive you, mein leiber," you whisper, nuzzling your nose with his.

a/n: WOOO WEEE SHE WAS A LONG ONE! Congrats on making it to the end and thank you for reading his beast of a fic.

Additionally, if y'all caught the reference to one of my fav book series in here, love ya for that!

Anyways, that's it for me! See ya ˙𐃷˙ !

#bllk x reader #blue lock x reader #bllk #blue lock #michael kaiser #kaiser x reader #kaiser x you #kaiser smut #bllk smut #blue lock smut #michael kaiser smut #michael kaiser x reader

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r0ugesun · 10 months ago

Note

"i'm the prince regent, not a dog to be called to heel" yeah alright give me 5 minutes with him and he'll be bending the knee to me like?

and why is Aemond acting so bratty? pouting, crunching up paper, throwing tantrums, crying when he doesn't get his way? everyone in the latest episode literally said that there's there's no telling what he'll do and how unpredictable is next 'outrage' is (in his words...) like all this broken boy needs is some wax play, to be slapped around here or there, be made to sob or cry by reader, overstimulated (not edged, considering we know how annoyed this mans can get), have a 'mother's touch' (mommy kink) and be punished as the 'bad boy' he's been or be sat on by reader turning pussy drunk and he'll go back to 'normal'?

Me personally I would put him in a cage and put a blanket over it when he misbehaved 🙂‍↕️

Anyway ilysm for the idea anon hope u enjoy 😽

Synopsis: Prince Regent Aemond Targaryen's tantrums have pushed the courtiers to their limit. Only y/n can handle his defiance, using firm discipline and control to tame him. Through a night of punishment and domination, y/n pushes Aemond to the brink, teaching him to submit and find solace in her authority.

Warnings: Smut Dom/sub Dynamics Wax Play impact Play (Slapping) Overstimulation Brat Taming Bondage (Hands Tied) Mild Pain Play dacryphilia if u squint.

Sub!Aemond x Dom!Reader

The night was still and heavy with tension.

Within the grand chambers of the Red Keep, Aemond sat alone, frustration evident in every line of his body. His once tidy room was in disarray, filled with torn parchments and overturned furniture, a testament to the storm brewing within him.

You had been summoned earlier in the evening, whispers of the prince regent's tantrums reaching your ears. The small council were at a loss, their fear of his unpredictable outbursts leaving them paralyzed. But you were different. You understood what he needed, even if he didn't.

Taking a deep breath, you approached his door and knocked. There was no response, only the muffled sounds of pacing and the occasional muttered curse. You entered without waiting for permission, your presence immediately drawing his attention.

"Aemond" you began gently, your tone calm and soothing, "what's going on?"

He didn't even look at you, his eye fixed on some indeterminate spot on the wall.

"Nothing" he snapped, the word sharp and cutting.

You sighed, moving closer. "This doesn't look like nothing" you said, gesturing to the chaos around him. "You need to talk to me."

"I don't need to do anything" he retorted, finally turning to face you, his eye blazing with defiance. "You're not my keeper."

"No" you agreed, keeping your voice steady.

"But I care about you. And right now, you're acting like a child."

His reaction was immediate and explosive.

"I'm the prince regent!" he shouted, his face contorting with anger.

You could feel your patience wearing thin.

"Aemond, please," you said, trying to remain composed. "Just talk to me. Let me help you."

He scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You think you can help me? You're nothing but a-"

"Enough!" you snapped, your own frustration boiling over. You took a step forward, your eyes locking onto his with an intensity that made him flinch. "You need to stop this, right now."

He opened his mouth to retort, but you didn't give him the chance. You slapped him, hard, the sound echoing through the room.

His head snapped to the side, and for a moment, there was silence.

When he looked back at you, his eye was wide, and there were tears forming at the corners. "How dare you" he whispered, his voice trembling.

You pushed him, not hard, but enough to make him stumble back onto the bed. He sat there, staring up at you with a mixture of shock and something else - something vulnerable.

"You're being a bad boy, Aemond" you said, your voice firm and unyielding. "And bad boys need to be punished."

His breath hitched, and he hesitated, clearly torn between his pride and the need for the release only you could offer. "I don't-"

"Yes, you do" you interrupted, leaning down so your face was inches from his. "You need this, Aemond. You need someone to take control. To show you your place."

He swallowed hard, his defiance wavering.

"But-"

"No buts" you said sharply. "You're going to listen to me, and you're going to do as I say."

For a long moment, he said nothing, just stared up at you with his teary eye. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Alright" he whispered.

You straightened, a sense of relief washing over you. "Good" you said softly. "Now, stand up."

He obeyed, rising to his feet with a grace that belied his inner turmoil. You walked around him, your hand trailing over his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart. "From now on, you will listen to me"

you said, your voice low and commanding. "Do you understand?"

"Yes" he replied, his voice barely audible.

You stopped in front of him, looking up into his face. "Good. Because tonight, you are not the prince regent. You are mine."

He shivered at your words, but didn't protest. You began to undress him, your movements slow and deliberate, your touch both soothing and arousing. His breath hitched with each piece of clothing you removed, his vulnerability laid bare before you.

When he was finally naked, you took a step back, letting your eyes roam over his body.

He was beautiful, his skin marred by scars that told the story of his battles, his muscles taut with anticipation. But it was his face that drew you in — the mixture of fear and longing in his eye, the way his lips trembled as he waited for your next move.

You reached for the candle on the bedside table, letting a few drops of hot wax fall onto his chest. He gasped, his body tensing, but you soothed him with gentle caresses and soft words. "Shh," you murmured. "It's just a little pain. You can handle it."

He nodded, his eye never leaving yours as you continued your sensual torment. The combination of pain and pleasure seemed to unravel him, each drop of wax followed by a tender kiss that left him craving more.

When you were satisfied that he was sufficiently pliant, you moved to straddle him, positioning yourself over his straining cock. "Now" you said firmly, "I'm going to show you what it means to be truly overwhelmed."

You moved away slightly, still hovering over him, your eyes locking onto his. "Put your hands behind your back," you commanded, your voice firm.

Aemond hesitated, a flicker of defiance crossing his face. "Why?"

You raised an eyebrow, your tone becoming even more authoritative. "Because bad boys don't get to touch. Now, do as you're told."

He swallowed hard, the struggle between his pride and his need for you evident in his eye.

Slowly, he obeyed, bringing his arms behind his back and clasping his hands together.

His muscles tensed, the vulnerability of his position sending a shiver through him.

You leaned down, your breath ghosting over his ear. "Good boy" you murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. "Now, stay like that."

Positioning yourself above him, you guided his cock to your entrance, teasing him with the promise of pleasure.

His breath hitched as you slowly lowered yourself onto him, the sensation almost overwhelming in its intensity. His hips twitched, instinctively trying to thrust up into you, but you pressed a hand to his chest holding him still.

You began to ride him, your movements slow and deliberate, driving him to the brink of madness. He moaned beneath you, his hands gripping the sheets behind him as he struggled to maintain control.

But you were relentless, pushing him further and further until he was begging for release.

"Ah, ah," you chided softly. "No moving. Just feel." He let out a shuddering breath, his eye squeezing shut. His cock throbbed inside you, the overstimulation making every touch feel electric.

Aemond's fingers clenched behind his back, the urge to reach out and touch you almost unbearable. "Please," he gasped, his voice strained. "Let me touch you."

You shook your head, increasing your pace slightly. "No" you said firmly. "This is your punishment. You don't get to touch."

He groaned, his body straining against the restraint you imposed. The pleasure was almost too, his cock pulsing with need as you rode him.

The denial of his desire to touch you only heightened his arousal, his entire body on edge.

Your movements became more urgent, the slick sound of your bodies joining filling the room. Each thrust pushed him closer to the edge, the pleasure-pain driving him wild.

"Fuck," he whimper

his voice breaking. "Please,"

"Please, I can't take it anymore."

You leaned down, your lips brushing his ear.

"That's the point," you whispered. "You're not in control anymore. I am."

With that, you pushed him over the edge, his body convulsing as he came hard, his cries echoing through the room. You didn't stop, though, continuing to ride him Aemond with unrelenting fervor, each thrust driving him deeper into a state of overstimulation. His body trembles beneath you, muscles taut with a mixture of pleasure and pain. His cock, still sensitive from his previous orgasm, throbs inside you, the sensation almost too much for him to bear.

Tears stream down his face, pooling in the corner of his one eye and making it glisten beautifully in the dim light of the chamber.

His breathing is ragged, each gasp punctuated by a choked sob. The sight of him crying, so vulnerable and at your mercy, only spurs you on.

“Such a pretty boy when you cry” you cooed.

"Please," he whimpers, his voice cracking.

"It's too much."

You lean down, your lips brushing against his ear as you whisper, "You're doing so well, Aemond, my sweet boy. Just a little more."

His tears fall freely now, tracing a path down his cheeks. The sight of his tear-streaked face, with his eye so vividly expressive, is a mesmerizing contrast to his usual stoic demeanor. It's a raw, unguarded moment that shows the depth of his submission to you.

Finally, you slowed, your movements gentle as you brought him down from his high. He looked up at you with a wide, dazed eye, his breathing heavy.

You smiled down at Aemond, his breath ragged and uneven. His vulnerability was laid bare before you, and you knew exactly how to remind him of his place.

"You know," you said softly, your voice dripping with a mix of tenderness and command, "your mouth has been causing quite a bit of trouble tonight."

He looked up at you, confusion mingled with the remnants of his arousal. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice a low murmur.

You didn't answer with words. Instead, you shifted, positioning yourself above his face, your knees on either side of his head. His eye widened in realization, a flicker of both anticipation and apprehension crossing his teatures.

"Your mouth is for eating my cunt, not mouthing off" you said hissed, lowering yourself onto him. The heat of your core met his lips, and he instinctively opened his mouth, his tongue darting out to taste you.

You let out a soft moan, the sensation of his tongue against your sensitive flesh sending a jolt of pleasure through you. But you weren't in the mood for gentleness. You needed to remind him of his place.

With a swift movement, you pressed down harder, your hips grinding against his face.

Aemond's muffled groan vibrated against your clit, the sensation almost too much. His hands, still bound behind his back, twitched as he tried to steady himself.

"Don't stop" you commanded, your voice breathy with arousal. "You know what to do."

He obeyed, his tongue working with renewed fervor, desperate to please you. His mouth moved against you, each stroke and flick of his tongue sending waves of pleasure through your body.

You rode his face with a demanding rhythm, your hips grinding down harshly, making it clear that you were in control.

Aemond's breath came in short, hot bursts against your core, his desperation palpable.

His tongue moved faster, more insistently, as if trying to make up for his earlier insolence.

Your hands found their way to his hair, tangling in the silver strands and tugging slightly, eliciting a muffled whimper from him.

"That's it," you purred, your hips rocking against his mouth. "You know your place now, don't you?"

He nodded as best as he could, his eye squeezed shut as he focused entirely on pleasuring you. The intensity of his efforts drove you higher, each stroke of his tongue pushing you closer to the edge.

Your breath hitched, your body trembling with the buildup of your impending climax.

The sensation was almost overwhelming, the pleasure mingling with the power you held over him. You rode his face harder, your moans growing louder as you neared your release.

When it finally hit, it was like a tidal wave crashing over you. Your body convulsed, your hips grinding down against his face as you cried out in ecstasy. Aemond's mouth continued to work, his tongue lapping up every drop of your arousal, prolonging your pleasure until you were spent and trembling.

You leaned down, your lips brushing his forehead. "Good boy" you murmured. "Now, do you understand? You're mine."

He nodded weakly, his body spent and his mind utterly surrendered. "Yes" he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Yours."

You smiled, pressing a tender kiss to his lips.

"That's right" you said softly. "Now, rest. My sweet boy."

As you settled beside him, pulling him into your arms, you soothed him with kisses to his cheek and soft caresses, you couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction. You had tamed the storm within him, if only for a night. And in doing so, you had found a way to connect with the man behind the title, the boy who needed to be loved and cared for.

Aemond snuggled closer, his body seeking the comfort and warmth you offered. "Thank you” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

You kissed the top of his head, your fingers gently stroking his hair.

"You're welcome," you whispered. "Sleep now. Tomorrow is another day, and we'll face it together.”

With that, he drifted off to sleep, his breath evening out as he finally found peace in your arms. And as you watched over him, you knew that this was just the beginning.

Aemond Targaryen might be the prince regent, but in your arms, he was simply Aemond - a man who needed to be loved, cherished, and, occasionally, put in his place.

And you were more than willing to be the one to do it.

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ccsainzleclerc5516 · 11 months ago

Text

Burnt Cookies

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Warnings: fluff, suggestive

You guys thank you for 1.4k of you omg, thank you so much <3

Being a girl is hard in general, and especially when it's that time of the month when every little thing throws you off your feet and makes you cry.

Like for example now when you very enthusiastically started baking the simplest chocolate cookies only to end up in tears because your attention was distracted by the washing machine that was just finished, which made you forget to take the cookies out of the oven in time.

Of course they burned.

When you took them out they looked like little pieces of coal. Since you just happened to be on your period, the failed cookie attempt hit you harder than it would have otherwise.

You normally don't like cooking or baking or any similar culinary activities because you're simply not good at it, no matter how hard you tried to fix it, in the end you simply accepted the fact that it's not for you.

But every now and then you force yourself to cook something and Lando, like the best boyfriend ever, compliments every dish you make, even though you know he's probably lying, but it's cute how he pretends.

It was the same this time when he came home from the practice and found you crying in the kitchen over those damn cookies.

“Y/n? What happened?” He asked approaching you with a worried expression on his face. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” He cupped your face wiping away the tears from your cheeks with his thumbs.

“Because I'm such a failure at cooking. I can't believe that I can't even make some simple stupid cookies.” You cried, and Lando breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the reason for your sobs.

“Baby..” He chuckled shaking his head and making you look up at him. “It’s that time of the month isn’t it?” He knew you weren’t a crybaby normally and that there must have been some other reason why this made you so sad.

“It is, but that’s not important now” You continued crying.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. Come here, baby. I understand.” He cooed you pulling you into a hug and pressing a kiss on top of your head. “I'm sure they’re somewhat edible”

“Oh please, don’t you see them? They look like coal!”

“Here, let me try one” He said letting go of you and bringing the cookies closer to him.

“Lando, please don’t eat that”

“See? It’s not even that bad” He pretended, trying to chew on a piece of the cookie squinting his eyes at the terrible taste that it was leaving in his mouth.

You couldn't help but start laughing putting your arms around his neck and pressing a kiss to his lips.

What guy does this and how did you get so lucky, you wondered. He would literally do anything just to make you happy and to see you smile, and you couldn't be more grateful for him.

“You really love me, don’t you?” You asked looking into his eyes and caressing his cheek.

“More than you can possibly imagine” He smiled.

“I really wanted to do something nice for you” You sighed. “You do nice things for me all the time.”

“Don’t worry about that, baby.” He said pressing his lips against yours. “Besides, if you want, you can do other things for me that I will gladly appreciate” He smirked.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm” He murmured running his tongue over your bottom lip and deepening the kiss.

“Things like..?”

“Let me show you” He whispered taking your hand in his and leading it to the zipper of his pants.

#lando norris x y/n #lando norris blurb #lando norris one shot #lando norris fanfic #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando norris fluff #lando x reader #lando norris smut #lando norris #lando norris x you #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 #f1 scenario #f1 smut #f1 one shot #f1 fluff #f1 imagine

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auggieblogs · 2 years ago

Text

Love grows | Lando Norris Instagram au

Lando Norris x fem! reader

* ੈ✩‧₊˚ in which Lando and his girlfriend are disgustingly in love (and they are making it everyone's problem)

Author's note: Hello, beautiful people. Hope you all are having a good day/night!!! If you can't tell already I am hopelessly, completely and irretrievably in love with Lando and yes everyone has to hear about it (forgive me for I am insuffreable). Anyways, happy reading<3

―୨୧⋆ ˚masterlist

yn.jpg

liked by landonorris, pierregasly, and 136,801 others

yn.jpg muse.

tagged landonorris and arlo.dawg

comments:

username wow haha I am so normal about them (not)

username bf lando, my beloved

username the way he's looking at her in the second pic???

username I need to lay down username I need to be put down (in a grave) username DEAR GOD I SEE THE THINGS YOU HAVE DONE FOR OTHERS

username I just know Lando is currently giggling and kicking his feet in the air, twirling his hair even

oscarpiastri can confirm

username "muse" GOOD FUCKING BYE

landonorris what do you have to say for yourself, now that I'm crying

I love you I love you I love you *liked by yourusername* I will do anything you for, you're the best thing ever yourusername will you eat sushi with me? landonorris anything for my baby!!!! carlossainz55 damn.

username I want what they have

username love how both arlo and lando can sleep anywhere

username I am sick to my stomach, they are too cute

charles_leclerc Arlo💓💓💓

*liked by landonorris and yourusername*

mclaren we can't have our driver giggling and blushing like a teen girl in the middle of a practice session, y/n🙄

landonorris OH SHUT UP

username bwahhah not the admin exposing Lando😭

yourusername sorry admin, can't help it. He's too pretty😞

username sleepover on the highway it is then

username y/n is better than me because if someone looked at me the way lando looks at her I would physically combust

lando.jpg

liked by maxverstappen1, yourusername and 789,235 others

lando.jpg love grows, where my y/n goes:))

tagged yourusername and yndoesart

comments:

username word.

username never beating the y/n lovebot allegations

username she. is. so. pretty.

username GOD REALLY HAS FAVOURITES HUH

yourusername "my y/n" blushing so hard rn

just fell to my knees in a wallmart parking lot

I will kiss your face. I LOVE YOU

landonorris right back at you, baby (I love you more)

*liked by yourusername*

maxverstappen1 what are you doing in a wallmart parking lot?

username sunshine in human form!!!🌞

username no bc she looks huggable

arlo.dawg mum💞🤭

username man is IN LOVE SHGSSKKSKD

username just stalked her art account, so she's beautiful and incredibly talented????

f1 Great artwork in the first picture👏💯

*liked by landonorris and yourusername*

yourusername awh thank you!!!

landonorris one of my favs actually;)

username crying, screaming, shaking, throwing up, pulling out my hair, bashing my head into the wall & going apeshit

username love how they both are equally whipped for each other

danilericciardo whipped is an understatement

landonorris don't hate us for being in love🙏🏻

username mhmmmm who's joining me for Russian roulette?

username MY Y/N? MY Y/N??? I AM ACTUALLY SOBBING

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dollfacefantasy · 8 months ago

Note

I... Absolutely adorable Scott Summers with my entire heart. I need to ask you since I'm a fan of your other work. How do you think he'd deal with a bratty reader/team member?

mdni (18+); cw: smut, brat taming, oral sex (f receiving), overstimulation

hmmmm... so i think when you start dating scott, the first time you get bratty he's confused. like he does not understand that you're trying to provoke a reaction out of him and get freaky. so instead he tries being amicable and working towards a solution.

but you don't seem to want it. there's only so much he can take. after a few too many rolled eyes and stamped feet, he snaps. he grabs one of the arms crossed over your chest, making you stand normally before looking at you and simply saying "enough."

it's just one word, but he says it in the same tone he uses when he gets frustrated on missions. he speaks in a way that the intensity of his gaze stings you from behind the red lenses of his sunglasses.

after that, your demeanor shifts. no longer are you prodding at him. rather, you're pouty. and that's when he starts to understand. he realizes you're not upset about whatever you got snippy about. you're just frustrated in general and want to be put in your place.

and from then on, scott really steps into the role of taming you.

when you brat out, he doesn't play around and engage with you. while i think someone like logan would be more direct with punishments, scott can play the long game. he has the patience, and he uses it.

instead of giving you what you want, and carting you off to your room, scott will just ignore you. he'll tell you that the two of you can discuss how you're feeling when you can do so like a mature adult. at first that only gets you more upset, but before long, your lip is wobbling and your eyes are glossy. you're coming to him, holding his arm and nuzzling his bicep.

"scott, i'm sorry," you whimper as the two of you walk back to your room.

he glances down at your pleading eyes and tries not to smirk. you acted so tough, but you're so easy to break down.

"are you now?" he asks monotonously.

you nod quickly, eager to prove to him that you can behave. the two of you go into your shared room where he takes a seat on the bed and you stand in front of him.

"have anything to say for yourself then?" he asks.

"i'm really sorry, sir," you say, throwing on the title for some extra points. you step closer to stop between his thighs. "'m sorry for giving attitude and calling you a dick."

he chuckles and tilts your chin up. "yeah. that wasn't very nice was it, baby?" he teases.

you shake your head, eyes still cast down.

"you're lucky i can be so forgiving then, aren't you?" he says.

and again, you nod.

once you've acquiesced and admitted your wrongdoings, that's when he moves into the part of the punishment you craved all along. it's the part where he spreads you out on the bed and takes residence between your thighs, overstimulating you to tears with his fingers, tongue, or cock. whatever he feels like.

your legs wrap around his head while your back arches off the mattress. you part your lips in a silent scream as your third release tears through you. your hips buck wildly, but he does his best to hold them in place. he keeps you nice and steady because through all of this, he never stops sucking on your poor, puffy little clit.

you whine and squirm, starting to push at his head to find some reprieve, but he won't let up. tears roll down your temples while spit collects around wet sobs.

"scott..." you choke out as your legs quake violently, "can't... can't do it... too much."

"it's not too much," he chides once he pulls himself off your cunt. he licks a broad stripe over the sticky expanse before pumping his fingers into your dripping entrance.

more tears pour from your eyes as another cry erupts from your mouth. you nod wildly. "yes it is. it's- it's- oh my fucking god," you sob.

"it's what? it's what you wanted?" he taunts, "you were begging for attention so badly earlier. i thought you'd enjoy yourself."

you part your lips to respond, but only a squeak comes out. your hips roll as he curls his fingers with in and brings you to a fourth peak.

your words become babbled and drool leaks from your mouth in the haze. he grins at your fucked out state and keeps sliding his fingers back and forth.

"that's right. you don't need words, sweetheart. you never use them anyways. you always jump right ahead to having an attitude," he mocks.

all you can mumble in response is his name on repeat. your eyes screw shut. a few seconds later, you finally get a small break. it only last a few seconds though because you come to realize the brief pause in his actions was only so he could position himself with his cock at your entrance.

"it's ok though. we'll get all those big feelings worked out so you can go back to being a good girl for me again," he says.

it's the last thing you hear before he slides in and everything in your world explodes into white hot pleasure.

#thank you so much for the scott asks omg #scott summers x reader #scott summers x you #cyclops x reader #inbox 🎀#ch: scott summers 💌

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ajortga · 1 year ago

Text

just too late

pairing: tara carpenter x fem!reader

summary: where tara can't help but regret the outcome of her consequences, she was just too late. how can a heart love if it is no longer beating?

warnings: massive angst, death, stabbing, blood

word count: 3.5k+

a/n: based of a request i got on wp! honestly, i wrote this months ago and got to the end, but their request was so similar that i redid it. posting a small second part soon<3 also omg, thank you for 500 followers!

You had just visited Tara, a bouquet of roses in one hand as you knocked on the door. You had seen them when walking to her apartment and you knew that they were just perfect for her. You had to get them. As you heard the lock of the door click, Tara opened the door. She peeked out and saw you, smiling shyly. You thought she'd smile back, but instead her smile dropped.

That had never happened before.

"Y/N, we need to talk.

You knew something was wrong, something bad was going to happen. Your breath got stuck in your throat as she stepped aside to let you in. You knew the next thing that would happen would not be good.

fast forward 20 minutes

You stood there in Tara's apartment, Sam eyeing you with a penetrating death glare. You felt like sinking into the floor right there and then. You hated this kind of silence.

Sam broke the quietness, her gaze stern, "Y/N, this isn't going to work out between you and Tara." She states, crossing her legs as she sighs, "All of it just adds up."

You shake your head, but before you can retaliate, Sam speaks again.

"You know it too. You started dating my sister two weeks prior before the first ghostface attack. The police found your necklace right next to the victim, covered in blood. I can't trust you and have you near my sister. All of us," she states, twirling her finger in a circle, "Are in danger and I can't let my baby sister get hurt again. None of us trust you, not Mindy, not Chad, and definitely not me. You are going to stay away from her, no more coming over or seeing each other at school. Do I make myself clear?"

"You believe a piece of evidence that barely proves anything? They didn't even find my DNA anywhere!"

"Gloves."

You felt rage crawling its way out, you couldn't believe your girlfriend's sister would think you're the killer. Sam knows all too well how much Tara loves you. "You know I wouldn't hurt you! Least of all Tara! I love her with my whole heart and I would never even think of that! I-I don't know how my necklace got there, someone framed me!" You turned to Tara, blinking away tears that stung your eyes, "Tar.. You believe me right? Please tell her. I didn't do anything! Please don't leave me."

"Please.." you begged. You saw the way her gaze slightly cracked, you knew she didn't believe you. You could feel it, you wouldn't care for fucks sake if Mindy, Chad, or Sam didn't believe you. But Tara was different. It felt like a swing to the heart, it hurt so much. It felt heavy.

Tara didn't do anything but give you a hurt look, staring down at her fingers. You expect her to throw her arms around you, tell you that they all got it wrong and you can both live happily ever after in the end. Yet she doesn't.

"I'm sorry Y/N," she forces her shattered voice in her normal tone, swallowing a cry clawing to come out, "I don't trust you anymore, I don't love you. I-I never did. I just.. Don't think you should visit anymore. We're done."

You felt like your whole heart shattered at that moment as you heard her last two words. You looked at her as you sobbed in your hands. Hurt, mournful, betrayed.

All that Tara said was, "You need to get out please," her eyes pink and glossy.

"You don't understand Tara, please I'm begging you-"

"Y/N, I'm not going to say it twi- It's n-not me Tara!" you say, this point a small cry escaping you. The way Tara looks at you is wild.

Your girlfriend's voice raised, with a fury, she wasn't going to say it again, "Get the hell out! Do you need me to say i-it twice? I don't fucking love you! I don't want to see your face again!"

You flinched, you never felt more heartbroken in your life. Your heart hurt, it felt like someone had smashed it with a hammer. Tears that threatened to fall down were now dropping on the floor. All the moments you've spent together were now thrown away, stomped on. You felt your body shaking as you toss the flowers, leaving them to fall on the floor with a thud.

You simply nod, slowly.

"Fine." You say, more flat than ever, turning to leave as you feel the petals get stepped on by your shoe.

All you wanted was to brighten your girlfriend's day, entering with flowers in your hand and just wanting to cuddle her all day long. Yet, here you are, your girlfriend now turning into you ex, flowers dead, no cuddles, no more trust.

Tara felt horrible, the guilt eating her alive. All of her words were lies, she just knew that if you were to separate from her, she would keep you safe. You wouldn't be the target for ghostface if he thought you were just a normal person in Woodsboro. You would be safe. She tried to assure herself that as you slammed the door.

Her eyes met the squished flower that escaped from the bouquet on the floor and she wondered if she'd ever get flowers from you again after everything.

You stared at the picture frame placed on the counter of you and Tara together hugging with matching clothes, you choked on your sobs. Tara nor your friend group had chatted with you since then. Sam had blocked you on social media. At least your other friends had came along and checked up on you to make sure you were okay. Tara had sent a few messages, saying she was sorry that things had ended up like this, but to realize you blocked her.

You couldn't function properly, your eyes were dry with the amount of tears you released in the past week.

It's not your fault, you tried to assure yourself. You weren't ghostface. You can't believe the person you trusted most didn't even put her trust in you.

Maybe it all is your fault. Maybe if you were different, in personality, how much the core 4 really liked you, you wouldn't be here, crying like those teens in the movies that just feast on a gallon of ice cream. It makes you cry a little harder while you hug your teddy bear.

Especially the taunting memory of Tara screaming at you, tears blurring your vision as you stumbled back out of her apartment. Sam's eyes softening just a little bit, not meaning for this to happen. Yet you didn't even try looking into her eyes, too caught up with your own feelings to feel her sorrow.

The past few days, you've locked yourself up, abandoned school. Ignored the core 4, blocked Tara and the other three.

Your mind wandered, you were clouded in your own thoughts as you sobbed angry and hurtful tears. You cried to the point where tears stopped falling, and you were left with feeling nothing and your body feeling sore. Your breathing was still heavy, you let out heavy shaky breaths, but they started to cool down.

You closed your eyes, focusing on your breathing, until you heard your phone buzz from the ground. You picked it up, there was a message.

A part of you expected your friends to check up on you, since that's what they've been doing every since you've stopped going to school. Instead, you were met with a picture from unknown of the abandoned movie theater not too far from here. There, you saw the camera facing a knife pointing towards Tara and Sam, threatening, daring.

Your eyes widened, as you immediately take your keys and bust out the door, grabbing a small knife, maybe you'll need it, unblocking Tara and calling her and all of those you knew must be in there. They're in danger.

Each call leads to voicemail, from both Tara and Sam, you search up their location. The only one shared for you is Tara's. You almost smash it to the front of your phone holder, locating where they are at.

As much as you hurt, you knew that you would never heal knowing that someone you loved was at risk. The car engine roars to life as you head for the theater.

With each texts and call ignored, you get paranoid, worried sick. Stepping on the accelerator of the car, your car turns a corner and is out of sight.

"She fell for it, she's coming your way," a taunting voice rasps into their phone, Ghostface.

"Our plan is just setting into action."

Carefully, you slip into the door of the run down theater. You hear clatters, and immediately you freeze, hiding a corner and peeking out. Tara's scream echoes through the theater, your eyes widen and you look around, for something sharp.

This is a stupid shrine committed to ghostface, you realize. It makes it a little better, at least you're guaranteed a knife to defend and fight with?

You sweep a corner, the room your in is silent, and you creek down the floor board, being greeted with glass display cases.

You're not good with blood, yet there's evidence from ghostface's mark years ago. TV's, a knife laced in the red crimson color. A gag almost leaves your lips, yet you open the display case and your hands grasp around a cool metal. It's a knife alright, not too sharp if you were to drop it you wouldn't cut your whole toe off. Yet it's do-able.

"Tara?" your voice echoes, walking around and exploring, you're frantic. You keep hearing her voice mail ring through your ears and your worry increases.

You thought the room you were in was obsessive with ghostface, yet when you go into the middle of this shrine, it's filled with obsessive things. Masks, robes, knives, even the TV that Stu Macher was killed by. A shiver escapes you.

You look up, and you see the chaos going, glass shattered on the floor, action buzzing around. You see Tara.

"Tara!" You shout, trying to keep your voice low, your eyes meeting the ladder that goes up, you climb on it, grunting in effort. You climb, climb, climb, climb, until you reach the top.

Tara is with Sam, they're talking about their plan, they're a couple hundred feet away from you. The sister's clothes are smothered in blood, Sam's arm has a wound, and you feel sick seeing the blood seeping from your girlfriend's clothes.

Your about to say her name, until you see a shadow emerge. It's not any that you know, this one is dark, tall, more man-like.

It's not until you see the tilt of their head the sliver of light reflecting off their mask. Ghost face.

You don't know what gotten into you from the adrenaline from the moment, but your legs begin to run, move, nothing sounds more fitting than slow motion. His knife lifts from his chest, the sharp metal edge glistening.

You try to scream, the words bubble up in your throat, comes out in a dry cough.

Your legs feel like jelly, run faster, damnit.

They can't see him, he's behind them, tucked just 2 feet away in a corner, yet you see him. You can save Tara and her older sister, you can save the both of them, you have time.

You can save the both of them, your love outplays your brain. It's telling you to stop, you're going to get killed. But your heart overwhelms it, beating quicker, with each beat all you can hear is

Tara

Save

Her!

Tara

You

Have

Time.

The knife ghostface is holding gets brought down.

"Tara!" You finally scream, it comes out as a desperate cry as you lunge towards her. Her eyes turn from the setting below her to you, confusion, then shock as your hands shove her shoulders. The strength you built up finally goes to use, pushing her out of harms way, she shoves into Sam, as they both stumble back.

You hear them both say your name, confusion at first, before the second time they holler it out. It's a scream, yet it dies down in your ears, feeling the cool metal of the blade slam into your shoulder. The ring from Tara's screams fade, replaced with the blood pulsing in your ears. The pain, the sharp knife sinking into the flesh of your shoulder. All you can do is let out a soft cry, too tired to scream.

Your eyes water, looking up at ghostface, the ugly mask boring into your eyes. He tilts his head, shocked for a moment. Until he tilts his head back again, like the target he hit is even better than what he wanted. They didn't expect you so soon.

The knife tears out from your flesh, a sob leaves your throat, kicking and flaring your arms.

"Y/N!" Tara screams your name, this one you can hear. She's crying, sobbing, wailing. Begging for her older sister to let her go and save you.

Sam shushes her, all they can do is watch. All Tara can do is watch you suffer.

His knife slams into you again, your abdomen. You hear a disgusting squelch as it goes in. The pain is unbearable, this stab hurts even more than anything you can think about. You thought the 4 foot thorn going through your foot was bad. You cry, grabbing the knife that's tucked into your pocket and slam it against the black coat, right where the neck meets the shoulder.

A raspy whisper escapes your lips, "F-fuck you." You snarl.

You barely hear him grunt. Yet he doesn't back down, in fact, you hear the disgusting squelch again.

And again.

The pain lessens. You know why. You're dying.

You can't hear it anymore, but there are now several stabs on your abdomen. You collapse, blood seeping through your clothes, your hands, your face. It's warm, dark red, spreading. It oozes out of your wounds, and the squelching sounds are gone. Your eyes flutter, seeing the flurry of the white masked figure leaving you to rot. Your body collapses to the floor with a loud crash.

You saved Tara, you would die before he could ever kill her. Before she could ever die. If Tara died, you'd kill yourself, or you'd die quicker from a broken heart.

Sam's yelling, kicking ghostface as he lets go of you, you can barely see her bringing him down to the bottom floor, both of them collapsing off the second story.

Your eyes begin to close, your breath comes in short heaves and wheezes.

And then, you see her, barely, through your weak vision.

It's blurry at first, but you know it's Tara, who else would look so good with blood all over her face?

She presses her body down to you, her warmth barely seeping through, your body is colder. Those warm, soft eyes are wide, looking so scared, hands pressing down deeper to your stomach, trying to stop the bleeding.

"Fuck, no. Nononono.. Why the hell would you do that?" She yells at you, shaking your body, you whimper.

You barely respond, croak her name out, cough out blood.

She's crying, you realize, she's choking on sobs as she cradles you, lifting your body up to her chest. She smells like your favorite scent, sweet.. light.. vanilla.. So lovely.

You just want to be in her arms forever. Let her sweetness soothe the pain.

"Y/N," she sobs, seeing the way you're struggling to stay conscious, you're only holding on because she's there. She can tell the way your eyes are slowly glassing over, your vision is twitching, blurring, un-focusing.

Don't cry, you want to tell her, even though you know you're here, dying in your girlfriend's arms. But you're too weak to speak, instead, let a slurred murmur leave you. Her hand is clinging to yours, like if she were to let go you would immediately fall away.

"It's okay baby," Tara sniffs, clinging to you. Like if she lets go you'll shatter, "I'm here, help will come soon. Stay with me. Eyes on me baby."

You look at her, your girlfriend, being in her arms. She has a small wound, around her arm to her shoulder, yet it's barely bleeding. Being here, in her arms. It's your favorite thing ever, you've done it so many times to feel her warmth. You never thought you would not be in Tara's arms at night with you buried against her.

Yet you know it's your last time you'll be in them. You can barely feel the warmth she's trying to transfer to you, you're freezing. She senses it too, the way she's hugging you tighter. Pleading you to stay here, with her. The brunette squeezes your hand, distracts you from the pain that's already leaving. Along with your pulse.

"I'm so fucking sorry," she sobs, "I love you so much, you don't fucking understand," she wails. Pulls you closer to her, "I should have never left you, you mean the world to me, I never meant what I said. I t-thought I could protect you if ghostface knew that you were no longer in our circle."

You wheeze, your eyes never looking away from hers. She notices, how you're studying her, like the moment you don't, you'll forget how she looks like in heaven.

Freckles, doe-shaped crying eyes. You lift her hand to your chest, let her feel your heart, to let her know that your giving her your heart, your love. You don't want her to forget about you.

You don't want to die.

Yet if you don't want her to die, you'll die before she could ever.

Tara's still sobbing, ripping her shirt and tying it against your stomach, the blood seeps through, she tightens it. Looks worriedly down at you.

Ugly shapes of swiggles and dots cloud, you see random shapes flying. Try to focus on Tara.

Sirens ring in the distance, Tara looks back, yet immediately looks back at you. A tear falls from her stained mascara cheeks, down your shirt. Weakly, you bring it up and wipe her cheeks. Assure her it'll be okay. Yet she knows it's not. They're just too fucking late.

You saved her. That's all that matters now.

"It's all my fault, I'm so sorry my love. I never meant to hurt you. I never thought it would end so soon. I don't want you to die."

You swallow, blood slightly gurgles through your throat, use your dying strength to speak, "I'm h-here." You croak, "T-tara."

"I love you so much," you slur, hiccupping on a cry. Trace the matching necklace she gifted the two of you years past on her neck. You're wearing it too. Hers was silver, yours was gold. A silver and golden dove.

The blood loss is too much, you can barely speak. But she's here with you, in your last moments. You're able to have a goodbye you might not have had. She might not be ready, but you almost are.

Time wasn't in your favor. It really wasn't.

This isn't goodbye this is a simply see you later.

She's okay, knowing that makes you feel a little more okay. A little more okay and soothe the worries.

Tara plays with your necklace. A proper goodbye. Her eyes glisten with tears, and she leans down, presses her lips to yours. You kiss her, knowing it'll be the one you'll live to feel. Then you slump back down on the concrete. You don't care about anyone but her anymore. Sirens holler, people bust into the theater, and you look up at her, taking off her necklace and putting it into the palm of her hand.

"I w-want you to promise me one thing."

She sniffles, tears wont stop anytime soon, keeps tying cloth around your deep wounds. It's no use. She nods, "Y-yeah?"

"Promise me y-you won't forget me. E-even when you find someone you love, maybe even more than me. You won't t-throw.." You pause, coughing, "T-throw our memories away. Promise me that. That when your h-hands hold theirs, you realize that mine was once warmer. When you're by yourself on F-Friday nights, you'll remember that you used to come to mine and cuddle m-me." You hiccup, losing your train of thought, blinking, your words are barely audible, yet Tara can still make them out.

"...When you look at the stars on the grassy meadow, you'll remember that that's the spot we always w-went to to get our thoughts out of things," you barely giggle, it hurts your stomach. "A-and, when you look at all my pictures, or maybe one day I won't pass your mind for once, you'll be ready to let me go. The thought of me still being here. Y-you'll be able to love, even though I might still scar your heart."

She sniffles, seeing the way you begin to struggle on your words, they grow quieter.

"But I won't let that happen, I don't want your h-heart t-to scar," You place her hand on your chest again, "You can have mine."

Tara swallows her tears, still, they drop.

"I love you, Y/N," she sniffles, it's the same word from every other time you both said you loved each other. Yet this time, it's so fucking different. It's the last time you'll ever hear her say it to you while you're still hear. "I'll never love anyone more than I loved you."

"I love you too, Tara," you whisper. It's the last time she'll ever hear it from you. A small, weak smile cracks on your face as she leans down one more time, kisses you softly, taking the last breath from your lips.

And it's time to go. Your chest stills.

And for the last time, she hears your heart beat one more time.

A heart that once beat for her was gone.

#jenna ortega x fem!reader #jenna ortega x you #jenna ortega imagine #tara carpenter x reader #tara carpenter x you #jenna marie ortega #jenna ortega x reader #vada cavell x reader #jenna ortega x y/n #vada cavell x y/n #tara carpenter x y/n #tara carpenter x female reader

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