#i think in ???? vibes and feelings and abstract (?) thoughts that like

[gimmethatagustd]

paint me naked | jjk

After the mysteriously hot guy in your university class starts taking an interest in you, should you really trust that he’s not like all the other college fuckboys? Especially when his best friend is the guy who broke your heart?

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader (past Taehyung)

Rating: Explicit

Genre/Trope: College AU, friends to lovers, fluff, smut, light angst

Word Count: 17,025

Content Warning: Self-esteem issues, alcohol, marijuana (of course, it's a jai fic), brief mention of drug dealing, it's very "hehe I have a crush" y'know, kinda YA of me jshdfks rip, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, cunnilingus, can you tell I was a depressed poetry student in college??

A/N: This ended up being my most popular fic back in the day (lol like a year ago). I'm ngl, I don't think of it as highly as I do the other fics I've written, but this was I think the second fic I ever wrote?? Back in 2022. Crazy times. So y'know, growth and whateva. The funniest part is that probs 85% of this fic literally happened to me sjdfks. Except the "Jungkook" was only my friend and we just got stoned and vibed, and instead of painting a naked woman, one time during our studio sessions he painted an abstract rendition of my "soul" but it really just looked like a thumb I'm ngl. All my friends said he was in love with me cuz who paints portraits of someone's soul??

Soundtrack: Paint Me Naked - Ten

“Jungkook, I don’t think this is gonna work.”

“Let me try.” 

Your eyes strained to see the boy standing in front of you, but the room was pitch black. It was good, though. You’d purposefully blocked out as much light as you possibly could. It had been a surprisingly difficult feat, mostly because the two of you hadn’t thought this through very well. A rolled up towel was shoved against the bottom of the bedroom door to keep the light from the hallway out. Blackout curtains had already been drawn over the windows when you got there, so that made the window problem easier. Luckily, you’d remembered to unplug the digital clock sitting on the nightstand next to the bed, the last piece of light you could have some control over putting out. 

To make things weirder, you were in Jungkook’s parents’ room. 

“It’s the darkest room in the house!” he’d insisted and you hadn’t objected because, well, it seemed on brand for the way the entire night was going. 

With arms stretched out, your fingers pressed into something bumpy and hard. You could hear Jungkook’s breathing beside you and a light laugh alerted to you that he was much closer than you’d initially thought. After a quick prod, fingers gliding slightly upward, you realized you were grabbing his abdomen. The hard ripples you’d felt were his toned abs beneath his thin t-shirt. 

“Sorry,” you whispered, though there was no need to be quiet. Jungkook’s hands wrapped around yours and took the objects you had clutched between them: scissors and an undeveloped film roll. 

Drawing your hands back to your side, you waited in silence. The sound of metal scraping against plastic was the only sound in the room aside from the quiet rustle of wind blowing through leaves outside. You don’t think you’d ever felt silence before until that moment. It was electric, a pulsing sizzle that sparked up your fingertips and jolted into your heart as you stood beside Jungkook. The harmony your breathing had fallen into made the moment feel far more intimate than you’d expected. Why was standing in the dark with someone so intimate? 

“Fuck,” Jungkook muttered, and you heard what you imagined was him stabbing the scissors into the film. 

“Oh my god, please don’t cut yourself, okay? I don’t know where the hospital is from here.”

His only response was another quiet laugh and you knew from the sound that his nose was doing that scrunched up thing that it always did when he was making fun of you. After only a few months of knowing Jungkook he was certainly very comfortable teasing you. He was pretty comfortable with you in general, you were beginning to realize. 

And why were you here? Standing in the dark with a boy you barely knew from a shared university class, one who towered over you in height as well as being much larger than you physically. Trying to pop open film because Jungkook somehow thought you could actually develop this film without having access to a real darkroom. Sure, all throughout high school you’d taken film photography classes. You had the development process memorized by heart, from the length of time the film needed to soak to the different types of chemicals needed and what order you were supposed to submerge the prints in. You’d even emailed your old high school teacher to double check. 

But doing all of that in Jungkook’s parents’ house? You knew it wasn’t going to work, but the guy had insisted on you helping him. Was it concerning that he had all these chemicals stored in a plastic tub in his closet? Maybe. And was it the safest decision to use scissors to pop open the film instead of the proper tool (which Jungkook had forgotten to order off of Amazon in advance)? Absolutely not. 

On top of that, no one knew where you were; you’d simply told your roommates that you were going to hang out with the guy from your university poetry class. 

“Jungkook? The weird one with all the tattoos and piercings?” Your roommate, Amiriah, had asked.  

“He’s not that weird.” 

“Y/N, he wrote a poem about eating pussy for a class assignment. You said so yourself. Please tell me how that’s a normal thing to do.” 

“And didn’t he have to read it outloud to the class because he turned it in late?” Now it was time for Courtney to pipe in from her position lounging on the couch, an episode of Love Connection paused on the TV screen. 

“Okay, yes, he did do both those things. But I swear he’s actually really sweet. He’s just misunderstood.” 

Courtney had launched a pillow at you, though the object zoomed past your head and landed against the refrigerator, knocking down multiple of Amiriah’s magnets. Much to her dismay. 

“Maybe we should take a break.” 

Jungkook’s voice brought you back to reality, or at least some semblance of it. You couldn’t understand how someone could have such a soft voice. Listening to Jungkook speak was like floating on a cloud. His cadence was a gentle caress against your skin, a sound that could easily flutter your eyes and lull you to sleep. It didn’t matter what he was saying; everything sounded better coming from Jungkook’s mouth. 

You nodded, forgetting that he couldn’t see you. A few moments and a bit of shuffling later, the lights sprung on. Your eyes instantly shut and slowly pried open again from the blaring brightness. 

The poor film looked like it had been mauled by a bear, but it was still somehow intact. Jungkook slipped it into his pocket for safekeeping and turned to look at you. He had this thing about eye contact that really made you uncomfortable. When he met your gaze, he looked straight into your eyes, as if he was looking into you rather than at you. 

“Do you want a drink?” 

His question caught you off guard, but he was already picking up the towel from the floor to open the bedroom door. Without answering, you followed him through the house and into the kitchen. You stood in the doorway, hands clasped in front of you, eyes following his large frame navigating the kitchen cabinets. 

“All my parents have is rosé, is that okay?” 

He uncorked the chilled bottle and poured each of you a glass. Then he did something that your roommates could add to the list of weird things they’d developed for him. 

He sat on the floor. 

You stared at him with your lips slightly parted, unsure if you were supposed to follow him. There was an entire kitchen table with multiple chairs. Why was he sitting on the floor with his back leaned against the doorframe? Bottle of rosé sitting on the tile next to him. He looked up at you with impossibly soft doe eyes and you couldn’t just stand there with your glass. So, you slowly sank to the floor, your shoulders brushing against each other as you sat next to him. 

“Y’know, I just realized the film you have is color film.” You spoke slowly, hating that you were about to burst his bubble. “You wouldn’t be able to develop it at home, anyway. The chemicals you bought are for black and white film, and color film has to be developed using heat.” 

“Damn.” Jungkook tipped his head back to take a very deep drink of his wine. 

“We gave a valiant effort, though.” You flashed him a small smile and the grin you got in return made your face grow hot. 

Your roommates weren’t really wrong. Jungkook didn’t have the best reputation on your university campus. There were rumors that he sold drugs (marijuana and acid, specifically) and had gang affiliations. He was quiet, kept to himself, and didn’t seem to have a whole lot of friends aside from a few guys who were equally just as questionable. Yes, you knew he’d gotten arrested the day before spring break started for getting into a fight with a guy on campus, but based on what your friends had told you, it was definitely the other guy’s fault. 

You’d also heard he had great head game, but that was a whole other thing. You just had a really hard time believing all the bad things people said about him, even when he’d admitted to a lot of the rumors being true. 

“A gang tried to recruit me when I was fresh outta high school, but I like selling on my own. Can’t trust people for shit.” 

He’d said it so casually, and you wondered what was wrong with you for finding a conversation about dealing drugs attractive. 

The thing your roommates, and a lot of other people, didn’t understand was that there was more to Jungkook than whatever dumb rumors got spread around (real or not). He was an exceptional writer. His poetry weaved in elements of hip hop, almost sounding like eloquent and lyrical rap lyrics rather than your typical stuffy poem that other students in your class tried to pass off as profound. He didn’t shy away from writing about mental health, sex, relationships, and loss. Everything he put down was raw, and you liked that it made other people in the class uncomfortable. Jungkook wasn’t afraid to be himself. Wasn’t that what art was supposed to be all about? 

And he was artistic in every way. Not only did he write well, but he was obviously into photography, and he also dabbled in multimedia sculpture. But the most impressive was probably his paintings. You’d seen the work he’d posted on Instagram, and during one of your hangouts he’d told you about how he’d been commissioned by the city to work on a public mural with another local artist. 

Very few people knew these things about Jungkook. They saw the tattoos, the piercings, the occasional blunt wedged between his lips, and they painted him in a way that was so distorted it annoyed you. 

“Thanks for helping me, though. I appreciate you.” 

You bit your bottom lip into your mouth to suppress another smile, instead opting to simply nod your head and cover up any expression by taking a drink. 

At this point, the two of you had been hanging out at least once a week. Usually you just sat outside on his parents’ front porch and smoked and talked about life. His parents seemed to always be out of town, and although Jungkook lived across the hall from you in the university dorms, he stayed at his parents’ house a lot to take care of their dog. 

It felt weird, though, hanging out with Jungkook. It was like all your interactions could only happen during those moments; otherwise, he didn’t talk to you when you saw him around campus. Even in your advanced poetry class, he would lock eyes with you across the room, but he never said a word. 

And it didn’t help that he was best friends and roommates with Kim Taehyung, the campus casanova who’d fucked you like you were the only girl in the world for an entire semester until you saw him cuddled up at a party with some other girl who didn’t even go to your university. The next day he was standing at your dorm asking for his skateboard back, weaving some lie about how summer break was the time to be single and have fun, but that he would “never forget” the fun times you’d had. 

Then Taehyung got a girlfriend. 

So maybe you were a little bit bitter over how things ended with Taehyung (and maybe you’d spent the entire summer crying yourself to sleep at night and aimlessly scrolling through Tinder, looking for anyone who might replace him and finding nothing). But the worst part was knowing that Taehyung had probably talked to Jungkook about you, and you had no idea what he might have said. 

“Hopefully the film is still okay,” you said after a moment, trying to pull yourself out of the cyclical negative thoughts you were often consumed by. 

You finished your glass, shaking your head at Jungkook’s offer for more rosé. He nodded, pushing himself up to stand and reached out to take your empty glass. 

You watched him from the floor as he washed the glasses in the sink. Your eyes lingered just a bit too long on the way his forearm muscles flexed while he cleaned, a few veins popping out along the back of his hands and the inside of his arm. Tattoos and piercings hadn’t ever been your thing, not that you didn’t appreciate the allure of body modifications. You’d just found yourself going after boys who looked polished, good boys to take home to mom. Jungkook had been the one to initiate your friendship, asking to hang out while you worked on your poems or read the many poetry collections due for class. You’d be a liar if you said his sudden interest in you hadn’t sparked your own interest in him.

Just one glass of wine was enough to make you a bit lightheaded, and Jungkook was a heavy pourer, apparently. 

“You good?” 

You blinked and stared into Jungkook’s face. He was drying off his hands now, watching you with an amused look on his face. 

“Umm, yeah. Just a lightweight,” you said with a breathy laugh that sounded a little too forced for your liking. Jungkook didn’t seem to notice. 

“You wanna go to my studio with me? The one on campus?” 

You looked down at your phone, a few text messages popping up from your roommates demanding to know where you were. Swiping to clear the notifications, you looked up at Jungkook and gave him a small smile. 

“Sure.” 

-

“That thing so fire baby, no propane. Got good pussy, girl, can I be frank? To keep it 100, girl, I ain’t no saint.” 

Music came blaring out of the car’s speakers at an alarmingly high volume, causing you to exhale a startled shout. Jungkook quickly lunged to turn down the volume and accidentally honked the car’s horn when his shoulder leaned against the steering wheel. 

“Shit, sorry.” 

“Talk about fucking sensory overload, fuck,” you mumbled, heart still dazed in your chest. 

“It was actually nice outside for once. I was whippin’ with the windows down, so the music’s gotta be louder.” 

All he was getting from you was rolled eyes and the sound of your seatbelt clicking into place. 

Jungkook turned around to look over his shoulder as he backed out of the driveway. He grabbed onto the back of your seat to position himself; once again, you found yourself eyeing his arms, exploring the exposed tattoos. It kind of pissed you off how hot it was when guys drove backwards. What was evolutionarily advantageous about that attraction? 

“If you wanna change it, I got a couple CDs.” 

Jungkook motioned to the middle console. You flipped through them, finding the album that was currently playing. You’d recognize it anywhere; he was one of your favorite musicians. 

“Bryson Tiller?” You turned the CD case over in your hand, eyes scanning the tracklist on the back. “You listen to sex music while you drive? And off a CD instead of Bluetooth, no less?”

Jungkook barked out a laugh, all teeth and crinkled eyes that you could just barely make out as the streetlights streaked over his face. 

“Yeah, I guess I do. You got a problem with Bryson?” His fingers lazily tapped against the steering wheel to the relaxed beat of Don’t - which happened to be your favorite song on the album. “This car is twenty-one years old. You’re lucky we’re not sitting here listening to cassettes.” 

“Who doesn’t like Bryson Tiller? That’s the baby-making music of our generation,” you said with a laugh. “Honestly, I can’t believe this song came out in fuckin’ 2015. Why does that feel like such a long time ago?” 

Jungkook sat in the driver’s seat with his legs spread as much as possible; this position was what had made you realize just how thick and nice his thighs really were. Plus, he drove with one hand on top of the steering wheel, left elbow bent slightly. He usually let his right hand rest against his thigh, though sometimes he held onto the gear shift in between the two of you. 

There was rarely any traffic in your college town, and especially not at 10pm on a Tuesday night. The two of you fell silent, Bryson Tiller’s soulful lyrics swirling through the car in the absence of conversation. Jungkook was typically a man of few words. You’d grown accustomed to carrying the conversation. With most people, that would have bothered you, but with Jungkook it was different. You knew he was paying attention when you talked; you could see it in the way the corners of his mouth twitched when you said something dorky (which was, apparently, all the time). 

And when he did have something to say, it was always worth the wait. 

“You’ve got good taste,” Jungkook said after driving a few blocks. “Guess I should probably add him to my sex playlist.”

Before you had time to process his comment Jungkook was pulling into the east parking lot of your university, the part of campus that was off to the side and only held art-related facilities. 

He led you to an unmarked backdoor of the building closest to the parking lot. Pushing the door open, he held it for you with a sweep of his hand. 

“Ladies first, noona.” 

Scowling at the honorific, you still obliged, entering a long hallway. The walls were bare, just an eggshell white, a few black scuff marks here and there, as if someone had been carrying something large and struggled to fit it through the narrow space. Jungkook maneuvered past you to lead the way to another unmarked door. 

The studio was a lot larger than you expected. One side of the room had a large rack of painted canvases to dry. You turned to inspect the left side of the room, finding multiple easels with additional canvases of varying sizes, most blank or seemingly half-finished. A rather worn-looking couch was placed in the middle of the room. Beside it was a coffee table and a Bluetooth speaker. (So Jungkook did know about modern technology.) Paint-covered tarps protected much of the concrete floor, and there were paint buckets and other supplies scattered in every corner. The entire room was pure chaos, but it seemed like there was an organization to it that only Jungkook knew. 

“So… yeah. This is my studio.” Jungkook closed the door behind you and locked it. 

Your heart skipped a beat at his action, but you swallowed down the spike of fear that had threatened to bubble up inside of you. You’d spent plenty of alone time with Jungkook. There was nothing to worry about. 

“I had to practically beg the school to let me have my own space since I’m not an art major, but they eventually let up,” Jungkook continued with a shrug. 

You were impressed, honestly. Jungkook wasn’t known for being the most reliable student academically; it was surprising they’d given him such privileges. 

“I like it,” you said simply, eyes still roaming the space. You weren’t sure what you were supposed to do now. Studio art wasn’t really your thing, poetry was. 

Luckily, Jungkook had a knack for reading your mind. 

“You can sit on the couch if you want. I got a project due tomorrow morning, so I’m gonna work on it. But if you wanna paint, just lemme know.” He scrolled through his phone as he spoke, and eventually more R&B music started playing from the speaker. 

“Tomorrow morning? JK, it’s fucking 10:30.” 

You stared at him with your head tilted to the side in disbelief, but you were only met with another shrug and a grin. Living on the edge. King of Procrastination, Jeon Jungkook. You were already getting secondhand stress. 

With a quiet hum to himself as the music took over, it was clear to you that Jungkook had switched to his serious side. He began prepping one of his easels with various paint brushes and paints. Dragging a heavy-looking but small filing cabinet next to the easel, he used the surface to store his supplies while he worked. 

You flopped onto the couch, adjusting so you could have a clear view of Jungkook. He looked cute in his jeans and black hoodie, a blunt pencil tucked behind his ear. His lips pouted slightly as he planned what he was going to do with his painting. Occasionally the pencil would be plucked from his ear and a few sketches appeared on the canvas, too light for you to see what they were from your position on the couch. 

The vibration of your phone tore your eyes away from Jungkook’s figure. It was no surprise that your roommate group text was blowing up. 

Courtnayyy 😘 [10:00] BITCH WHERE ARE YOU A Mili Amiriah 👑 [10:01] pls tell me the weirdo didn’t murder u Courtnayyy 😘 [10:04] If he did can I have your Mac Miller poster?  A Mili Amiriah 👑 [10:15] court how tf would she approve of that if she’s dead? she ain’t gonna see this shit Courtnayyy 😘 [10:18] Ouija board A Mili Amiriah 👑 [10:25] stfu 🔫 A Mili Amiriah 👑 [10:25] Y/N you better answer ur fucking phone right now A Mili Amiriah 👑 [10:40] hellooooooooooooooooooo

You let out a sigh loud enough for Jungkook to look over at you, eyebrows furrowed. 

“My roommates think you killed me.”

Jungkook grinned and turned back to his easel with a shake of his head. You’d expected him to say something, but then the reminder that Jungkook was… unconventional slithered into your mind. 

[10:45] I’m alive. Can you pls stop blowing up my phone now? 💀 Courtnayyy 😘 [10:46] FUCKING FINALLY  A Mili Amiriah 👑 [10:47] what are you doing?? [10:50] We’re just hanging out at his studio. I’ll probably leave soon

You tossed your phone next to you on the couch and lifted your arms into the air to stretch. It was rather warm in the studio and the smooth music of whatever playlist Jungkook had on was making you feel sleepy. What kind of lame college student were you? 

“I was serious about what I said.” Jungkook didn’t look at you while he painted, too focused on mixing the right shade of brown. 

“About what?”

“You can paint if you want. All the paint and brushes are in the cabinet.” 

You chewed on your bottom lip, eyes flitting from the filing cabinet next to Jungkook to the easel off to the side with a blank canvas. What if whatever you painted looked like shit? You had no idea what you were doing. 

But when did you ever get to paint in your adult life?

Pushing yourself off the couch you approached Jungkook to start rummaging in the drawers for supplies. You were stopped in your tracks, however, the moment your eyes landed on his painting. Considering that much time hadn’t passed, Jungkook was far along in his work. You came face to face with a woman, or at least the naked body of a woman. She was painted in soft earthy tones, curves accentuated by what looked like a gold silk ribbon that wrapped around her. The painting was certainly abstract because she was missing a head and her limbs weren’t finished, but just having her strong torso and thighs, and a long regal neck, somehow made her feel complete. 

“That’s beautiful, JK. She looks so realistic… How can you do all those little details so quickly?” You spoke quietly, desperately wishing you could touch the canvas. 

“Painting nudity is easy.” Another classic Jungkook shrug. “That’s why it’s so overdone. There’s nothing more beautiful than humans in their purest state, right? We’re the original art.” 

You would have never considered nudity to be pure, but you liked Jungkook’s analysis. Society saw nudity as all about sex. Despite his depiction of breasts and genitalia, Jungkook’s painting was a reflection and appreciation of a body. 

You wondered if it was anyone’s body in particular. 

The thought soured your mood a bit, and you quickly returned your focus to finding the supplies you needed. Satisfied, you took up the easel beside Jungkook. What the fuck were you going to paint? Especially now that you had this beautiful work blooming next to you. 

“Don’t think about it so much. Just go for it.” 

There was Jungkook reading your mind again. 

You weren’t sure how much time passed with the two of you working silently. At first you’d considered doing something abstract, but eventually you felt compelled to do something a bit more realistic. You’d retrieved your phone (ignoring your roommates’ texts again) to pull up a photo for reference as you painted. 

After a while Jungkook lifted his finished painting and carried it to the rack to dry. By the time he had completed his painting, you were putting your final touches on yours - one that was far more simplistic. You found it entertaining, though. 

“Who is that?” 

You’d been so absorbed in getting those final details perfected that you hadn’t noticed Jungkook standing right behind you. You jumped slightly and that elicited a chuckle from the boy. 

“It’s a portrait of Bad Bunny.” Your greatest celebrity crush. 

“He’s cute. You did a good job considering you looked so scared to start.” His comment left your cheeks burning. You’d hoped it hadn’t been so obvious, but Jungkook was too observant for his own good (and for yours, too). “Maybe I should hire you as my assistant.”

“Thanks. It’s not as good as yours, though.” 

Jungkook waved you off and the action made him realize he had a good amount of paint on his hands. Rather than find a towel, he simply rubbed his hands against his thighs. You watched him, eyes lingering on the way his thighs stretched the tight material of his jeans. Looking up to return to his face you were met with a smirk. You were doing a real shitty job at being subtle, apparently. 

You chose not to say anything and focused your attention on finishing your painting, not wanting Jungkook to be waiting for you longer than he needed to. He sat down on the couch, now distracted by his phone. 

“So,” you spoke as you lifted up your finished painting, following Jungkook’s instructions to put it on the drying rack. “What was the inspiration for your painting?” 

Was it a bold question? You were trying to play it off like you weren’t going to cling to whatever his answer was. 

Jungkook patted the space next to him to encourage you to sit down. Once you were sitting next to him, your body turned slightly to face him, Jungkook leaned forward. His face was mere inches from yours and you could feel his breath tickle your cheek. He watched you with those brown doe eyes, such an innocent feature on an otherwise devious-looking face. The smirk that formed on his lips strongly contrasted the sweetness of his eyes. 

Jungkook’s tongue poked out to play with his lip ring before he answered your question. It was impossible to look away from his lips, and you thought you felt your heart stop. 

“The deadline.” 

The smirk grew deeper as he pulled away, running a hand through his hair. You were more than disappointed, feeling yourself deflate and finally realizing you’d been holding your breath. Your shoulders slumped slightly, but you managed to mask the reason for your disappointment by pretending you were disappointed in him. 

“Boy, you need to work on your assignments earlier so you can come up with something good,” you huffed, crossing your arms against your chest. 

“Was it not good?” He grinned, a cocky twinkle in his eyes, no longer doe-shaped but narrowed in mirth. “Come on, let me drop you off. It’s almost 2.” 

“Fuck, I have an 8am.” 

With a quick check on your phone you saw that it was indeed almost 2am. How had you spent almost four hours in the studio without realizing it? Nevermind the fact that you’d spent another three or four hanging out with Jungkook before you’d even gotten to the studio. 

“I’d skip if I was you.” 

Jungkook led you through the art building and to his car, making sure that the music didn’t startle you half to death when he started the car this time. 

“Unlike you, I’m a good student, thanks.” 

It wasn’t a terrible dig because you knew Jungkook enough to know he didn’t give a shit. All he’d do was give you a small smile and melt your heart with the confusion of how it was possible for someone to look both so soft and so dangerous. 

Your dorm was on the other side of campus, so the drive over was quick. But rather than drop you off at the sidewalk, Jungkook pulled into the parking lot, much to your surprise. 

“I thought you were staying over at your parents’?” 

Jungkook kept the car running, but he unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned back in his chair.

“Me and Tae are gonna go smoke. I got this new strain of indica we wanna try.”

He didn’t look at you when he spoke, instead facing forward to peer out the window. Once he brought up weed, you realized you could smell the remnants of weed smoke in Jungkook’s car, partially masked by air freshener. 

At the mention of Jungkook’s roommate you felt your stomach drop. The feeling was only intensified when you followed Jungkook’s gaze to see a figure with long legs and broad shoulders make their way down the sidewalk, heading right in your direction. You felt ice shoot through your veins and panic settle into your chest. 

“Oh,” you squeaked out. You needed to escape, but you couldn’t force your hands to unbuckle yourself and open the door. 

“Do you wanna come with us?” Jungkook took your lack of movement as a desire to get high. 

You looked at Jungkook with an open mouth, but nothing came out. And even if you could speak, Taehyung was already flinging the car door open. 

“Oh, shit, Y/N. I didn’t even see you there.” Taehyung leaned against the car door, eyes sweeping over your small figure as you attempted to look as relaxed as possible. 

Did he lick his lips or were you just imagining that? 

“Want me to sit in the back?” 

Taehyung leaned down so he could poke his head into the car and talk to Jungkook right over you. The position gave you a perfect view of his neck and his collarbones peeking out from beneath the silk button-up shirt he was wearing, the first few buttons undone as usual. His cologne smelled like cedar and you could faintly smell something fruity, likely the strawberry-flavored vape he smoked. 

All of that was enough to send you mentally screaming into the void. 

“ThanksJungkookIgottago,” you sputtered, doing your best not to touch Taehyung as you moved around him to get out.

“Y/N!” 

You ignored Jungkook’s call, not daring to look back. Despite your exhaustion you took the stairs two at a time until you made it to your dorm, nearly dropping your keys as you unlocked the door. The kitchen and living room were dark, so you knew your roommates were asleep - or at least in their own rooms. You didn’t even bother to do your nighttime routine, opting to strip down to your underwear and collapse into your bed face-first. 

Darkness and silence brought you no solitude; quite honestly, they had the opposite effect. All you had in your head was Taehyung’s face… in your ears, his voice… in your nostrils, his smell. 

Groaning, you flipped onto your back and grabbed your phone to put on your favorite thunderstorm white noise playlist. In the middle of picking the perfect sound, your phone buzzed with a text. 

Jungkook (Poetry) [2:15] you good?

You bit your lip, not wanting to leave him hanging so late, but also knowing if you went down this rabbithole you’d never fall asleep. 

[2:16] I’m fine

Your phone vibrated almost immediately, but you forced yourself to put it away. Whatever Jungkook had to say could wait until the morning. Or until never, because right now you never wanted to speak to another human ever again.

-

Jungkook (Poetry) [2:16] you don’t have to lie to me Jungkook (Poetry) [3:02] lying destroys our intrinsic value as human beings by corrupting our ability to make rational choices and have free will Jungkook (Poetry) [3:03] immanuel kant said that

You didn’t realize you’d be hit with a philosophical lecture the moment you woke up, but then you remembered that Jungkook had gone smoking with Taehyung. The two of them got all philosophical when they were high, as if they really could achieve some kind of superior knowledge. 

They were idiots. 

“Oh my god, when the fuck did you get home last night?” 

Anyone speaking that loud and harshly so early in the morning was an assailant. You glared at Courtney, brushing past her to get to the bathroom. You shouldn’t have been surprised that the girl stayed outside the bathroom door as she waited for you to finish. 

“It was definitely after 1am ‘cause that’s when we went to bed,” she kept on talking even when you turned the shower on. “What could you guys have possibly been doing that whole time? Did you hook up?” 

“No.”

“What?” Courtney strained to hear you over the sound of the high-pressure water. 

“I said, no!” 

It was ridiculous that you were standing there, rubbing your naked body down with lavender exfoliating soap, while you discussed your alleged hook up with a guy you barely knew. 

You thanked the Lord Almighty that your schedule didn’t line up with your roommates on Wednesdays, or else you would have had to suffer Courtney and Amiriah’s interrogations the whole day. 

Instead you sleepily dragged yourself through two morning classes and a work shift at the university library before you’d eventually have to face Jungkook head-on. 

-

Your Advanced Poetry class was small enough that all the students could sit around a large table together. The small, intimate class size made it easier for collaboration and made workshops feel a bit less ruthless. You’d gotten to the point that you could read anonymous poems from each of your classmates and know exactly who wrote what. You were like a little family who met every Wednesday evening for two hours and poured your thoughts, dreams, fears, and goals into each other with every written piece. This class was going to be what broke your heart when the semester was over; you could already feel yourself missing it. 

“Alright, y’all, we’re going to workshop the imitation poems from the exercise last week.”

You felt your heart drop to the pit of your stomach. Whatever else Professor Mendez was saying didn’t compute; she sounded like she was speaking underwater and all you could do was shift your eyes to look at Jungkook across the table from you. You hadn’t expected him to be already looking at you nor for him to hold your gaze until you quickly looked away. 

The poem you’d written for the exercise was about Taehyung. 

You’d thought only your professor was ever going to see it. And now she was calling on you to read yours aloud first. No one else would know who it was about, but you knew Jungkook would know. 

“Y/N?” 

Professor Mendez looked at you, her star pupil, with an encouraging smile. You swallowed, avoiding Jungkook’s gaze though you felt him staring. If you kept the piece of paper on the table in front of you, you wouldn’t risk showing everyone that your hands were slightly trembling. And then you opened your mouth. 

I SAW YOU ONCE IN A FEVER DREAM  (After Kaveh Akbar) I saw you once in a fever dream shirtless  swaddling me in a hammock hanging from cedar trees   When you smoke it gets stuck   in your hair Save it for later The smell of marijuana   and strawberry vapes     lingered in my clothes     In another fever   dream you were my mother The doctor asked if I am  allergic to any medications and I should   have said yes but it is only you   I have felt love flow through me I have never felt   it given My friend once told me  there is only so much you can do   At what point am I the problem   Sometimes I stare at the wall and peel the nails  off of my fingers for every time you broke me  Somehow it feels better this way  

It was depressing, pathetic even. Sure, you’d imitated Kaveh Akbar’s unique writing style to a T, but now you looked stupid for writing about a man you’d never even dated, who had unofficially “dumped” you last spring semester. Jungkook had to know. Unless he was completely oblivious (which was honestly likely, when you really thought about it). And maybe you were being too cocky, assuming some guy who you meant nothing to would care or even pay attention to the fact that his friend had fucked you into a broken heart. 

You sat with tight lips as the class discussed your poem, a few people put off by your use of space on the page, others praising your unique way of formatting the stanzas. Jungkook never spoke, but he never did until the end of class when Professor Mendez called him out for being silent. Then he would provide feedback for whoever had gone before him, his opinion usually directly contradicting whatever your professor said. She knew he wasn’t being defiant, and she welcomed his creative challenge of the status quo. But sometimes he was a bit much. 

“Well, Mr. Jungkook. Let’s hear yours.” 

You could feel the entire room both tense and lean forward, as if scared but also unimaginably eager for whatever it was they were about to receive. 

“I didn’t finish, but I can read what I have. It’s a prose poem.” 

UNTITLED I met her in the evaporated residue of a midnight bong rip. Among glimmers of artificially-simulated worlds, of over-saturated hues. Hurried hues of a purple-pink bruise, bloom, slippery between thighs. Tongue flicks. Slide. These things only happen behind closed doors. An eternity of almosts, she likes to wear my hand as a choker. Drag me whole into desire, into pink folds and broken promises. Drip slick slow stroke glide and move inside, eat feast thrive. Beat it up every time. Pulsate. Pulsate. Own it. My hands on your hips. Blindfold over your eyes. Selfish fuck. I am a decomposing mind; her body whispers otherwise. 

Jungkook could have written a poem about dog shit and the way he recited it would have been breathtaking. It didn’t matter that his lines were verging on pornographic for an academic setting; simply the way the alliteration flowed like honey from his mouth was enough to send shivers down anyone’s spine. The words came out like a gentle lullaby of filth, a smooth mantra, a promise of sin. It was no wonder the classroom fell silent. Even Professor Mendez stared at Jungkook with an unreadable expression on her face. 

“Thank you, Jungkook,” she said after a moment. 

He nodded politely and slouched into his seat again. 

Professor Mendez looked around the room for the first volunteer to take a stab at critiquing Jungkook’s poem. Only a brave soul could manage, and you were determined to keep your mouth shut. You could already visualize the way your classmates were going to gossip about this once class was over. You wondered how long it would take for Courtney and Amiriah to find out. 

“Who would like to go first?” 

It appeared the class had very few critiques, likely because no one wanted to dive too deeply into the abstract and overtly-sexual writing that had been. 

Professor Mendez went on a mini rant about the importance of knowing how to keep the flow of a prose poem that somehow derailed into a story about her new puppy. Perhaps someone had gotten her going to kill the last few minutes of class until it was 8pm and she was forced to let the group of you go into the night. 

You always managed to be the last person leaving the classroom every Wednesday night. Usually it was due to your prolonged conversations with Professor Mendez, the two of you gushing over a new poetry collection or the latest episode of a TV show. Jungkook, on the other hand, was typically the first to leave. Likely to go find his little crew of delinquents to do drugs with or whatever else they got themselves into. 

Except apparently not today. 

As you waved a goodbye to Professor Mendez, you headed down the empty hallway fully aware of the second pair of shoes echoing in the silence along with yours. Your insides were still scrambled from the series of exceptionally unfortunate events that had involved Kim Taehyung in the past twenty-four hours. You had no desire to entertain Jungkook, especially not after him staring you down all of class. And reading that fucking poem. 

“Are you really gonna ignore me?” 

You squeezed the straps of your backpack and stopped in front of the door to leave the academic building. If you acted bothered it would make you more suspicious. And it would let Kim Taehyung continue to rule your mind. You were better than this… 

So you turned around to face the doe-eyed boy and tried not to imagine his hand squeezing your throat. 

“I’m not ignoring you.” You cocked your head to one side in feigned confusion. Jungkook met your look with a small pout. 

“I’m sorry if I did something to upset you yesterday.” 

So, he didn’t know. Either that, or he was lying. But didn’t Immanuel Kant say lying is bad? You did everything in your power not to scowl to yourself. 

“I’m fine, Jungkook. I swear.” You let out an irritated sigh, casting a glance behind your shoulder as you heard thunder ripple through the air outside. You’d obviously forgotten to check the weather that morning, looking down at your t-shirt and shorts. 

“Okay…” He eyed you skeptically, but he didn’t want to push you further and threaten pushing you away completely. “Can I walk with you?” 

“Of course.” He lived literally across the hall from you. You could open your door and be face-to-face with his. 

“Okay… Can I give you a hug?” 

You rolled your eyes so far and deep inside your skull it was a surprise they didn’t detach and disappear somewhere. It wasn’t fair that you were taking out your frustrations on Jungkook simply because your ego was hurt. That self-awareness was what made you nod your head with your arms outstretched. 

Jungkook enveloped you in his large frame, the side of your face pressed against his chest. One of his arms wrapped around your waist, and he held the back of your head in his free hand. There was something about Jungkook’s closeness that caught you off guard. Perhaps it was because this was the first time you’d ever hugged each other; you’d never been this physical with each other at all, actually. You weren’t much of the hugging type, anyway. 

Jungkook’s warmth made you settle into his embrace for much longer than you’d expected. He felt soft, safe. Even the chemical smell of paint that had seeped into his hoodie was welcoming. Despite the rumbling of a heavy thunderstorm outside, you could still hear his heart beat beneath you. Something about that realization made you pull away from him suddenly. It was just too… close. 

He stared at you with a wrinkled brow and the pout was slowly coming back, but he stayed silent. You couldn’t meet his eyes. 

“Ready?”

 With raised shoulders you braced yourself for the downpour. 

By the time the two of you had sprinted across the courtyard, you were completely soaked. You felt your earlier frustrations melt with the water droplets gliding down your arms as you leaned against Jungkook’s equally-soaked body. He was nearly doubled over in laughter, shoulder pressed against the wall next to the front door of his dorm room. 

“You look like a wet cat,” he teased. 

“Oh yeah? Well you look like a wet dog.” Your poor hair was going to get embarrassingly frizzy if you didn’t take care of it immediately. 

Jungkook flashed you an evil grin and violently shook his head, sending water spraying all over. 

“Jungkook, stop!” you hollered, giving him a shove. “I feel so gross already.” 

You twisted around to fish out your dorm key from your backpack, but your fingers scraped the bottom of the pocket. No key. 

“Fuck,” you cursed, setting your backpack on the ground to search through more pockets. Giving up on that possibility, you checked the pockets of your shorts. Nothing. 

Unlocking your phone, your thumb hovered over your roommate group text, unsure if you should interrupt Amiriah and Courtney. It was a little after 8pm… Both of your roommates would be in their weekly sorority meeting that usually lasted at least an hour, if not two. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“I… locked myself out.” What a fucking rookie mistake. What was this, freshman year? “I’m pretty sure I left my keys on the kitchen table.” 

Now you were stranded in your hallway, cold and soaking wet. You could go downstairs to ask your RA to let you in, but she was a bitch. 

“You’re a mess. Come on, I’ve got clothes for you.” 

He didn’t give you the opportunity to protest; instead, he stepped inside his dorm without even so much as a look over his shoulder at you. 

Apparently your desire to be warm and dry was stronger than your fear of entering the Dorm Room from Hell. You’d never been in Jungkook’s dorm before, mostly because you didn’t want to run into Taehyung. 

The layout was the same as yours: full kitchen with adjacent living room, long hall with individual bedrooms that ended with a bathroom. The decorations practically screamed “guys who smoke weed” considering the giant marijuana leaf tapestry hanging in the living room and the multicolored string lights that hung on the ceiling casting a psychedelic glow throughout the dorm. An incense that smelled interestingly like the ocean was burning on the coffee table. 

You were pretty sure burning incense wasn’t allowed on university property. Then again, neither was smoking weed in the parking lot, but Jungkook and his roommates did whatever they wanted. 

“Are you just gonna stand there or…?” 

Jungkook led the way down the hall, you trailing a bit behind him as you continued being nosy. As you passed the first bedroom, the door suddenly swung open, causing you to yelp when you were face-to-face with a rather grumpy looking man with shockingly green hair. The bleary look of his eyes told you he’d been asleep. 

“Why the fuck are you wet?” 

You did a double take, shocked at the roughness of the question from a stranger. Before you could answer, Jungkook was pulling you forward by the wrist. 

“Hyung, I went to the grocery store today. There’s tangerines on the counter.” 

The green-haired roommate grumbled a thank you and shot straight to the kitchen. 

“Just ignore Yoongi,” Jungkook whispered, stopping in front of his bedroom. “He’s a fifth-year senior and probably ready to burn the entire university down.” 

Jungkook’s bedroom was the exact opposite of what you’d expected. After seeing the chaos of his art studio, you’d thought his bedroom would be much of the same. Instead you were met with a simple, organized room. No clutter, no mess. Everything had its place, not an art supply in sight. Peaking over his shoulder, you saw even his dresser drawers were organized, each article of clothing neatly folded. That was likely why Jungkook was able to quickly pick out a t-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts to hand you. 

“Oh, and this,” he tossed you a towel, as well. “You can use the bathroom. I’ll be in here.” 

“Thank you,” you said with an appreciative nod. 

The skin on your fingers had wrinkled up from the rain and you pressed them into the towel to find some relief. Who knew the feeling of wearing dry clothes would be so sweet? You took your time in the bathroom, rubbing down every inch of your body. Unfortunately, even your underwear and bra were soaked. If you put on dry clothes over them, the water would surely bleed into the fabric. So you opted for going commando, to your dismay. At least Jungkook’s t-shirt was baggy enough that your chest wasn’t on full display, and it wasn’t like anyone would know you weren’t wearing underwear. 

You caught a look at yourself in the mirror and laughed at how ridiculous you looked. It was like you’d come out of a really bad hip-hop music video from the early 2000s, literally drowning in baggy clothes. 

“Hey Jungkook… Do you have something I could put my clothes in?” You stood in the hallway in front of Jungkook’s bedroom, wet clothes in your hands. The door was closed and you were afraid of opening it if he was still changing. 

“You look cute.” 

You instinctively squeezed your bundle of clothes, turning your head to the side at the sound of that Mother. Fucking. Annoying. Ass. Voice. 

Taehyung raised an eyebrow at you, probably utterly confused as to why you looked the way you did, standing there in his dorm. You were determined to give him absolutely nothing. 

“So, you and Jungkook, huh?” 

A small smirk twisted at the corners of his mouth. By the way he was standing with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, it was clear that he wasn’t planning on walking away. 

“We just got back from class,” you said matter-of-factly. 

You focused on a spot on the wall to the right of his head when you spoke; it made it easier to look at him without having to stare into his eyes. Even though you found absolutely nothing about your statement funny, Taehyung started laughing. It was a low chuckle that brought that stupid smirk out even more. 

“Were you coming back from class at 2 o’clock this morning, too?” 

His eyes glinted with something that made a shiver shoot down the length of your spine. 

Luckily, Jungkook’s abrupt presence swinging the bedroom door open gave you and Taehyung someone else to focus on, and you could safely escape the fact that you didn’t have a witty comeback to shove in Taehyung’s face for teasing you about Jungkook. There was nothing there with Jungkook.  

He just gave nice hugs. And you respected his creative mind. And he had great taste in music. And you felt a little bit bad for him because people didn’t seem to give him the chances he deserved. And, wow, he was standing in the doorway of his bedroom wearing form-fitting gray sweatpants that sat low on his hips and you could tell that they sat low because he was shirtless. And your eyes were skipping down the path that his happy trail was leading from his belly button down to the strings of his sweatpants that hung down just on top of where you could make out a slight bulge in the fabric. 

“Y/N?” 

You quickly tore your eyes from Jungkook’s crotch to look at his face, not missing the way Taehyung’s smirk was growing even wider. You opened your mouth, then looked down at your clothes, then back at Jungkook. 

“She wants something to put her clothes in,” Taehyung admitted once it was clear you weren’t going to cooperate. “I’m going over to Natalie’s. Oh, and I dipped into your Trojan stash. Yoongi hyung didn’t have any and you have too many.” 

He flashed Jungkook a grin and pushed himself from his leaning position on the wall. 

“Have fun,” he offered over his shoulder as he walked away, heading to go fuck his girlfriend’s brains out. 

You were going to throw up. 

“What a fucking asshole,” you breathed through gritted teeth. 

Rather than be surprised at your cursing, Jungkook gave you a sympathetic look as he took your wet clothes from you to put in a small duffle bag. 

“I’m sorry…” he said after a moment, gesturing for you to step into his bedroom. He closed the door behind you and hopped onto his bed. Just as he’d done in the studio, he patted the space next to him to get you to sit with him. 

“C’mere.” 

“Jungkook, I don’t wanna bother you anymore. You’ve had to deal with me a lot the past 24 hours.” 

“Do I look bothered?”

You gave the boy a tight shake of your head and clambered onto the bed beside him, careful to sit hunched over a bit so your chest wouldn’t be too obvious. For once, he no longer smelled like paint. Instead your senses were overwhelmed by the strong scent of his laundry detergent, something akin to the ocean breeze of the incense the roommates were burning in the living room. He leaned his back against the headboard, but he turned at an angle to look at you from the side. 

“He told me about you two…” 

You felt your body stiffen at his confession and Jungkook rushed to finish his thought. 

“Not the details or anything. But just that you were hooking up.” 

Great. This was perfect. Leave it to Taehyung to treat you like a secret yet blabber to his friends. You hadn’t even told any of your friends about Taehyung. To this day, Courtney and Amiriah had no idea. And could you even trust Jungkook when he said the details were spared? Didn’t boys love to talk about their sexual conquests? 

“I’m sorry he’s such a fuckboy.” 

“Oh, like you aren’t, too?” 

“What?!” 

Jungkook stared at you incredulously, shocked by your sudden aggression. But you couldn’t stop yourself. The anger you’d let fester in you from countless boys quite literally fucking you over was all spilling over the top. It was just unfortunate that Jungkook was there to bear the weight rather than Taehyung; but you didn’t think he was wholly innocent either. College boys were entitled and selfish. Even though Jungkook had never done anything to you, you’d seen how some girls followed after him like he was some kind of mystery meant to be solved. He never explicitly talked about his love life with you, but you only took that as a bad sign. 

“Oh don’t act brand new, Jungkook. You literally make everything about sex. Literally all your poems are about eating pussy. You made that fucking painting of a naked women. And what the fuck is that?” 

Your arm shot out to point at a painting hanging on his wall that looked vaguely like an abstract rendition of a vulva. It somehow felt like the icing on the fucked up cake. 

“It’s called artistic appreciation!”

“You’re just as gross as Taehyung and all the other guys who just use women for their bodies and don’t give a fuck about how we feel or-”  

“Stop it.” Jungkook’s voice hit you like ice. You dropped your arm down and whipped your head back around to look at him, lips falling open at the harshness of his tone. 

“Don’t compare me to Tae. You don’t know what I’m like. You barely know me at all.” 

“That’s not-” 

“I said stop, okay?” he interjected again and the glare he sent you was enough to shut you up for good. Being scolded wasn’t exactly high on your list of favorite activities, especially not from someone you considered to be a friend. Your cheeks felt like they were on fire and you struggled to swallow down your words, shame creeping up your face in waves.

“I’ve spent the last four months in that poetry class watching you write about feeling broken and alone and misunderstood. And you know what I do? I invite you over to do homework ‘cause I know none of your other friends are studying English. And I asked you to go to Morgan Parker’s book reading with me ‘cause I knew you didn’t have anyone else to go with. And I invited you to my studio ‘cause you said you wish you were good at art and I wanted you to see that you could be good if you tried.” 

At this point his cheeks had turned bright pink and his hands were bunched up into fists in his lap. As much as you wanted to, you couldn’t look away from the fire in his eyes. 

“I’m not trying to make you feel like you owe me anything or to get some kind of recognition, okay? But just don’t fucking compare me to Tae when all I’ve ever tried to do is make you feel less alone. I like you, a lot. And I don’t even care that you’re not into me and you’re still caught up on him. I genuinely just want you to be happy.” 

With his monologue over, Jungkook turned his head to stare down at his hands, leaving you to peer at his profile with your mouth hanging open. 

It was the most you’d heard Jungkook speak, ever. It was also the most expressive you’ve ever seen him. Despite his passion for art, Jungkook was a very level person; he was collected even in the most stressful situations. To see him visibly shaking as he raised his voice was upsetting. 

“Jungkook…” You reached out to touch his arm and your heart broke into a million pieces when he flinched. 

“It’s whatever.” 

But it wasn’t. 

You felt like shrinking into the smallest version of yourself and disappearing. You’d spent so much time aching over the wounds Taehyung had left that you hadn’t considered what you might be missing out on, or how you might have been hurting someone else. Your head was lost in the dark cloud hanging over you; your heart couldn’t see anything in front of you. Blinded by your own pain, healing long overdue. 

You were so fucking stupid. 

“JK…” you started again. Lifting your hand, you brought your fingers to his chin and encouraged him to turn his head to look at you. “I’m so sorry. I really am. I just… It hurts? I don’t know what to do with the hurt.” 

From Taehyung and every other reckless boy. 

You let go of his face and waited, holding your breath until your lungs burned. Much to your disappointment, Jungkook maintained that cold stare, his eyes boring into yours so deeply that you felt like he was seeing something inside of you that even you didn’t know. You were afraid to look at him, shame making it difficult to hold your head up.  

“Give it to me.” 

“What?” It was your turn to cast your eyebrows down in confusion. 

“Give me the hurt. You don’t have to hold onto it anymore. I can take it.” His large hand enveloped your own, thumb running figure 8s into your skin.

You tried to speak, but you couldn’t choke out even a whisper as his words repeated in your head. Give me the hurt. Your hands shivered beneath his and you looked away quickly, feeling that horrid prickling in the corner of your eyes. You were not going to lose it just because you were touch-starved and never once in your life had someone so soundly declared their desire to take on whatever pain it was that you were feeling. You liked to keep your pain a secret, only letting out emotions through your poetry. And even then, you wanted to separate yourself from it. Writing was like putting down your emotion, letting it exist outside of you, so you could live free from it. But that didn’t always happen the way you wanted it to. 

You blinked quickly, losing focus on Jungkook’s face until you felt something hot slip down your cheek and you realized you were crying. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, embarrassment flooding your chest as you tried not to hiccup. What kind of emotional disaster were you? As Courtney would say, it wasn’t very girlboss of you. 

“I can take it.” 

This time the embers had gone out in his eyes. Instead, his irises were pleading with you. You tried to cover your face with your hands, but Jungkook held them down. He brushed your cheeks dry with his thumb, cradling your chin in his palm. 

“You deserve better, okay?” 

It was difficult to believe, but the soft gaze Jungkook held made you want to think maybe he was right. But how could it be possible for someone to want to carry your burden for you? He had no reason to. 

“I’m good now,” you said after a moment, the tears dried and your breathing returning to normal. You wanted to give him an out, let him have the opportunity to feel like he’d done his part in case he didn’t really mean what he said. You refused to let yourself fall for anymore bullshit. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” 

“You don’t have to lie to me…” 

There was that familiar line. You felt your eyes instinctually roll and you couldn’t stop the next snarky comment from slipping past your lips, using biting humor as a defense mechanism to cope. 

“Okay, Immanuel Kant.” 

Jungkook snorted, matching your eye roll, but he gave you a smile that reached his eyes. A classic Jungkook grin that had you giving a small smile in return and making your stomach flip like a fucking gymnast. It made you slowly float back down to reality and you remembered you were sitting in a shirtless Jungkook’s bed, his body leaned forward out of concern for you, his face mere inches from yours. Hand still cradling your chin. 

“Jungkook…” 

Your voice got caught in your throat with what little breathing you could manage. Then you watched his eyes drop to your lips as you whispered his name, and the melancholic look he gave you when his gaze returned to yours made you squeeze your eyes shut with guilt. He’d confessed his interest in you and you’d completely glossed over it. Not on purpose, but somehow you were making your feelings the priority once again. And now he looked at you like you were already gone. 

“Yeah, Y/N?” You opened your eyes at his call. 

“I…” 

You wanted to tell him how you felt, you really did. But life had taught you that in relationships there was always someone who cared more, and that person always got hurt the most. You just couldn’t keep being that person. 

Jungkook studied your face for what felt like an eternity. If he was expecting you to finish your sentence, he was certainly being patient. But it was the way his mouth turned downward into a small frown and his eyes traveled off somewhere behind you that told you he’d lost hope. 

Until he was staring at you once again and his grip on your chin tightened so subtly you almost didn’t notice. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

His voice came out low and thick. The tone sent a shiver down your spine and made goosebumps rise along your forearms. You’d never heard his voice drop so deep before, nor had you seen his eyes darken the way they had now. A spark of desire fluttered in your stomach and you felt nearly lightheaded from the way your body was hitting a peak level of anxiety over his question. If you said yes, were you just giving into yet another boy who would ruin you? And you believed Jungkook could ruin you. He was an artist; they were always trouble. 

But there was no denying the fact that your nervousness was merely a physical response to your interest in Jungkook that had grown exponentially over time. You were weak, and he was right. You did feel broken and alone and misunderstood. And you knew that sometimes Jungkook felt that way, too.

Just when Jungkook began to pull away with a look of rejection written across his face, you nodded. Unable to speak, you watched Jungkook’s tongue swipe across his bottom lip as he leaned in even closer. 

You were prepared for something much more lewd than what Jungkook gave you. Though your lips were parted, he didn’t invade your space. Instead of tongue and lip biting, you were met with a chaste kiss. His lips were soft and gentle, and the way his hand cupped your face made you feel secure, just as you’d felt when he hugged you. You’d never felt a sense of security with someone from a simple kiss. 

And then he was ending the kiss just as quickly as he’d started it, finally dropping his hand from your face. 

“Sorry,” he sighed, no longer meeting your eyes when he spoke. “I shouldn’t have asked. I don’t want you to feel like you had to agree to that…” 

It was your turn to shut him up. Maybe it was the remaining hormones swirling in your brain from having cried so much, or the adrenaline from being kissed by a man you’d tried to shoo out of your mind, but you felt bold enough to take his chin in your hand as he had done to you. You pressed your lips against his, this time forcing his mouth into a faster, deeper rhythm. The kiss was heavy and more desperate than the first. It was what you’d initially expected Jungkook to give you; a makeout that went hard and fast from the beginning, 0 to 100. That was what fuckboys did, wasn’t it? Anything to get their dick wet the quickest. 

It was what you were used to.

Your small hands found the tops of his shoulders, fingers running along his smooth, warm skin before you pushed him against the headboard. Swinging your leg over his, your knees sank into the soft bed as you straddled him. You adjusted slightly in his lap and the shift made your core press directly on top of the bulge in his pants that you’d admired earlier. This realization made the sudden heat between your legs melt like lava, and you ground your hips into his in a smooth but firm motion. 

The movement elicited a deep groan from the back of Jungkook’s throat, another sweet sound you’d never had the pleasure of hearing fall from his lips. With his lips parted from groaning, you took the opportunity to slip your tongue inside of his mouth. His hands pushed up the hem of your shirt just enough to allow him to reach the skin of your waist, gripping you hard as your body moved against his. 

“Y/N, wait.” 

Jungkook pulled back to lean his head against the bed’s headboard and you were met not with lust-filled eyes as you expected, but eyes that looked so deeply pained you almost wanted to avert your gaze. 

“I don’t wanna be a rebound. I want this to mean something, or else I can’t do this.” 

Jungkook’s voice came out hoarse, and it trembled. His eyes still held that undeniable sadness that reminded you that, once again, you had failed to see how your own fear of rejection had made you ignorant to the feelings you were instilling in him. Here he was, willing to give himself over to you, holding back because he was afraid that you would hurt him.

Once again, shame flooded your face as you frantically searched for a way to show that you needed this to mean something, that in just a few months he had become the most constant person in your life, the person you were most comfortable with even when all you often did was just sit and talk about life. 

There was an obvious way to fix this, but you still had that gnawing feeling holding you back. 

“I like you, too, Jungkook.” Squeezing your eyes shut, you spoke just barely above a whisper. If you didn’t look at him, the vulnerability of the moment would be easier to manage. “You’re kind and smart even though you’re always toeing the line of academic probation.” 

Your words came out rushed, the last comment making you let out a laugh that sounded more like a short burst of air, and you held onto his shoulders for dear life. 

“And you’re the most creative and imaginative person I’ve ever met, but you’re so lowkey about everything. You deserve more than you give yourself credit for,” you continued, eyes still closed. “And… I guess you’re kinda hot…” 

With that you slowly opened one eye to peek at Jungkook’s face. It was embarrassing to say that the grin he wore made your heart soar and it was only then that you noticed the way his fingertips were running along your sides, tracing invisible designs onto your skin. 

“Only kinda hot?” 

“Oh shut up.” 

You gave him a playful slap against his chest. You let your hand linger there, palm pressed against him to feel the strength of his pec muscle. With your bottom lip pulled between your teeth, you ran your hand down the length of Jungkook’s chest and along his abdomen until you reached between your bodies to access the hem of his sweatpants. 

Without warning you gripped his cock, palming it over his pants. You felt it twitch beneath your fingers, already semi-hard and warm even through the fabric. Jungkook let out a low groan, hips slightly bucking into you. Suddenly aware of how painfully clothed you are, Jungkook slid his hands back up your sides, pushing his t-shirt off of you in the process. Ruining the orderly look of his bedroom, he tossed the t-shirt and brought his attention back to you. 

“Fuck, Y/N,” he hissed, realizing that you weren’t wearing a bra. 

You shuddered at the gentle way he ran his fingers up your sides once more and you leaned forward when his tattooed fingers lightly pinched one of your nipples until it went hard. Then he moved onto the other one, tweaking it slowly. 

After a moment you let go of him and reached for the hem of his sweatpants, waiting for him to lift his body so you could pull them down his legs. 

He’s big, bigger than you’d expected. You’d imagined he would have a nice dick, purely because it seemed like the most mysterious, standoffish guys always did. They didn’t have to compensate by being boisterous and arrogant; they knew what they were packing and that was enough. But Jungkook was quite possibly too much. You were a small person, for fuck’s sake. 

“We don’t have to do this. If you’re not ready, we can stop.” 

There was Jungkook reading your mind, yet again. How was it possible for him to know exactly what to say every single time? Were you just that expressive? If so, no one else in your life read you so well. 

“Stop talking,” you repeated his earlier command, but you didn’t look him in the eyes. Instead you were focused on how heavy and soft his cock felt in your hand as you admired him. You ran your fingers along the prominent vein on the underside of his cock, then you glided your thumb along the tip to smear the bit of precum that was already leaking. The action made Jungkook whimper and the sound sent a jolt straight into your core. 

But just before you could lower your head down to give him what you knew he wanted, Jungkook’s hand was cupping your chin once again. He pulled your face upwards to guide you back to his. 

“I’m fine, Jungkook. I want to do this,” you assured him, but he slowly shook his head. 

“You’re going in so fast, and you don’t have to. I’m not some asshole hookup. The point of all this isn’t just to get me off and make you put in all the work.” He leaned forward to kiss you on the tip of your nose and you’d never felt more wanted in your entire life. “You deserve to feel good for once.” 

Snaking his arm around your waist, Jungkook gently flipped you onto your back. Spreading your legs apart with his knees, he kneeled over you as he began laying hot kisses down the length of your neck, pausing only to suck at the soft skin where your neck and collarbone met. 

“Jungkook…” you sighed, squirming underneath him once his mouth began to travel further down. 

He flicked his tongue against one of your nipples, drawing a circle around the erect mound. He let out a deep hiss of approval when you moaned, arching your back to push yourself against his mouth. While his tongue was busy exploring your chest, Jungkook took his sweet time pulling his basketball shorts off of you, those too flying across the room. 

When he moved back into a comfortable position between your legs, his thigh brushed against your core and he let out a moan loud enough you were sure his roommates would hear him. 

“Fuck, Y/N, you could’ve warned me you weren’t wearing any underwear,” he groaned, his thigh now glistening with your arousal. 

“Sorry I didn’t think to tell you while I was crying.” 

“So dramatic.” 

You covered your face with your hands in embarrassment that bore even deeper into your soul when a pathetic whimper escaped your lips the moment you felt Jungkook’s hand slip in between your thighs. 

“You’re so fucking wet,” he sighed, effortlessly sliding his fingers along your folds. He ran his fingers up and down slowly as if he were memorizing each crevice and the way your legs jumped when he hit a certain spot, especially once he began stroking your clit. 

He was exploring, you realized. He was learning your body and there was nothing more embarrassing. All you could think about was the fear that Jungkook might not like what he saw. Or that he was comparing you to his past fucks. Or that Taehyung had told him things about your sex life. 

“Why are you hiding from me?”

You felt your hands being pried from your face and lifted over your head. Jungkook pinned your wrists above you, his face now inches from yours. You could see a restrained wildness in his eyes, but his eyebrows were knitted together in frustration. 

“Why?” he repeated. 

You shook your head, but another irritated call of your name made you question your decision to defy him.

“I just don’t want you to be disappointed…” you whispered, avoiding his gaze. 

“Does this seem like disappointment to you?” Jungkook rolled his hips into you, his now rock hard cock sliding against your dripping folds. 

“Ahh, n-no,” you gasped, wiggling under his hold. 

“Okay, so don’t hide from me. Let me take care of you.” 

Letting go of your wrists, Jungkook got off of the bed. You watched him with confusion that slowly melted into a mixture of anxiety and sweet anticipation as he hooked his arms around your thighs, pulling you to the edge of the bed. Falling to his knees, Jungkook let your legs rest on his broad shoulders. You could feel his breath against your skin and it took everything in your power not to begin squirming again when you felt his tongue lick a hot stripe up the inside of your thigh. 

“I want you to watch me while I eat you out,” Jungkook murmured, his dark eyes locking with yours as he leaned forward to plant a kiss against your lower lips. “Okay?” 

You had no choice but to nod in compliance, propping yourself up on your forearms so you could get a better view even though everything in you was screaming to break your gaze. You could hardly believe it was Jungkook staring at you through his bangs from between your legs. Not to mention you were usually very shy when it came to being sexually pleasured - mostly because it rarely happened. Guys were always expecting you to do them favors, not the other way around. You couldn’t even remember the last time a guy had gone down on you. 

But there was no time to be shy when Jungkook abruptly plunged his tongue into your folds. You let out a loud yelp and immediately slapped your hand over your mouth to muffle the remaining squeals threatening to slip from your parted lips. Jungkook chuckled at your response and the vibration made your cunt throb. 

Still, you kept your gaze locked with his as he lapped up your juices, no matter how dirty it made you feel to have those blown out pupils bore into yours. Your eyes only fluttered when his lips found your clit and began to suck on it while his tongue flicked a steady rhythm against it, the two sensations proving to be almost too much for you to handle. Your breathing became ragged as you felt your abdomen tense up. 

“Jungkook,” you whispered a moan, hands gripping the bed sheets so tightly your fingers started to hurt. 

“Hmm, baby? You’re gonna have to speak up.” The new nickname made you whimper. 

As if to encourage you to find your voice, Jungkook slid two fingers inside of you as he returned to pleasuring your clit. The sudden stretch immediately ripped a strangled moan out of you and your hips involuntarily bucked into Jungkook’s face. 

“I’m sorry,” you quickly apologized, but Jungkook only fucked into you harder, expertly curling his fingers at just the right spot to make your legs start to shake. 

“Don’t apologize. You can fuck my face all you want,” he lifted his head up to lick his lips, sending you a wink that made your heart stop. 

He could sense your orgasm coming soon by the way your walls were clenching around his fingers, but he was determined to make it as mind-shattering as possible. Fitting a third finger inside of you, he continued to suck on your clit, tongue swirling to the rhythm of his fingers. 

“Ohh, oh my god,” you sobbed, tears pooling in your eyes as you finally reached your climax. You let out a loud cry, fingers tangled in Jungkook’s hair as you struggled to still your shaking legs. 

Licking a final stripe up your lips, Jungkook lifted his head from your thighs and gave you a satisfied grin. He was truly a sight for sore eyes with his mouth soaked in your arousal and his hair a mess from your fingers running through it. You fell flat on your back, legs dangling off the edge of the bed. 

“You good?”

“I’m going to die.”

Your eyes were on the ceiling but you heard him laugh and you felt his strong arms lift your legs back onto the bed, adjusting you so you were comfortably in the center of the mattress again. 

“Damn, I didn’t realize I was gonna make you tap out so fast,” he teased, lying down beside you. He pressed a kiss against your throat. 

“Everyone says you have great head game and I should’ve taken them more seriously.” 

“Who says that?!” 

You turned onto your side to face him, already rolling your eyes. “Don’t you know the rumors that get spread about you?” 

Jungkook gave you a small shake of his head. “I don’t worry about people. I’m only worried about you.” 

The warm fuzzy feelings his words gave you were too much for you to bear, so you pushed them away by pulling him closer, crashing your lips into his. Jungkook wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you flush up against his chest. You could feel his cock still hard against your leg and it reminded you that this whole situation felt so foreign to you. Never had you been pleasured by a man who expected nothing in return.

“You are art, you know that? A fucking masterpiece,” Jungkook sighed against your lips, pulling away to nuzzle against your neck. 

“Jungkook.”

“Yes, baby?” There was that fucking nickname again making your pussy flutter back to life. 

Instead of answering him, you reached down to grab his cock. He groaned against your throat as you gave him a few slow pumps. He’d taken care of you just as he’d promised, and now you hoped he’d let you take care of him. Not because you felt obligated to, but because you genuinely wanted to. 

Wordlessly, Jungkook rolled you onto your back so that he was hovering over you, his forearms on either side of your head. 

“I want you so bad,” he growled against your ear, hips rolling into your open legs. 

“What are you waiting for?” you whispered. 

“Fuck…” 

You blinked and he was no longer on top of you. Instead he was rummaging through the drawer of his nightstand, eventually pulling out a shiny square packet. For someone normally so calm, Jungkook’s fingers were shaking with need as he rolled the condom on. 

“Is this okay?” He returned to his position between your legs as you laid on your back. Your heart stung at his thoughtfulness, shocked that he was asking you what position you wanted him in. You nodded, spreading your legs wider for him. Jungkook ran his fingers along the inside of your thighs, his head dipped down so his bangs fell forward, partially obstructing your view of his face. 

You gasped when you felt something wet hit your cunt. He’d spit on you. You could feel the extra lubrication slide down your folds and the lewd act made you shiver. Sure, maybe that was fairly tame for some people, but it had your head reeling.  

Holding the base of his cock, Jungkook rubbed the tip along your folds, further smearing his spit and your arousal together. 

“If you want to stop, just tell me,” he said hoarsely, and that was the warning you got before he was sinking his cock into your entrance. 

Despite how relaxed and turned on you felt, the stretch was considerable. You tensed for a moment and Jungkook froze, his eyes meeting yours. With a nod of approval from you, he pushed himself in further, finally bottoming out and holding the position as he waited for you to adjust. You felt so unbelievably full with him inside of you and the pressure of him against your walls was enough to make your legs shake once again. 

After giving you a bit of time, Jungkook began to move his hips, starting with slow but long strokes that got increasingly deeper. 

“Oh god,” he moaned, head hanging down so he could watch his cock disappear into your cunt over and over again. After a while he lifted one of your legs to rest it on his shoulder so he could adjust his angle to thrust into you that much deeper, and the next slam of his body into yours that had his cock make direct contact with your g-spot made you scream. 

“Shit, Y/N, Yoongi’s gonna kill us if you keep screaming like that,” Jungkook said with a grin that very much made it seem like he wouldn’t mind dying for such an offense. 

“You… just feel s-so g-good,” you cried out, your nails clawing at Jungkook’s arms as you searched for something to hold on to. 

He couldn’t possibly have been concerned considering he only thrusted into you even harder. The thing about Jungkook, though, was that he was going hard but he was going slow. He was savoring every time he slid into you, savoring the glisten of his cock as he pulled out. Turning his head to the side, he kissed the leg he’d draped over his shoulder, one hand running down the smooth skin while his other held on tightly to your hip to keep you in place. 

“Fuck, yes baby,” Jungkook groaned. He pressed his fingers against your mouth, gently prying your lips open to stick his thumb in your mouth. The action surprised you, but you obediently sucked on his thumb until he was pulling away again. Reaching between you, he pressed his now wet thumb against your clit and began rubbing circles as he fucked you. 

You whined at the sudden stimulation, your walls fluttering around his cock as your breathing turned into panting. “I’m gonna…” you let out another moan, your walls clenching around Jungkook’s cock. “I’m gonna come again.” 

“That’s right, come on my cock for me, baby. Let go for me.” 

How could Jungkook make dirty talk sound so alluring? So supportive? It was just like his writing, a gentle lullaby of filth. From the look he’d given you earlier, you knew there was a less tame side of him you’d yet to tap into. The memory of his poem flooded your mind, daring you to take things a step further… she likes to wear my hand as a choker…

Reaching out, you grabbed the hand that was holding onto your hip and brought it to rest on your neck. You saw that same wild look flash in Jungkook’s eyes once again, and you knew the action had affected him because his thrusting faltered for a moment. With your lips slightly parted, you tilted your head back slightly to expose more of your throat for him. Jungkook wasn’t sure he’d ever seen a sight more beautiful. 

“Shit, you keep acting up like this I’m gonna fall in love,” he grunted, biting down hard on his bottom lip as he opened up his palm to get a firm grip on your neck. As he resumed his rhythmic thrusting, he squeezed your throat. At first, the decrease in oxygen had you gasping in your body’s natural drive for self-preservation. Once your body and mind adjusted, though, you succumbed to the way your body tingled with excitement. When you moaned, your eyes fluttering and rolling back, Jungkook applied even more pressure. 

You’d never imagined you’d have another orgasm somewhere inside of you so soon after the first, but you were convulsing around Jungkook’s cock just as he asked you to, calling out his name in the sweetest song. 

It wasn’t long before his thrusts became sloppier and his grip on your throat became almost too tight. The string of profanity he growled in your ear as he came made you shiver. Was it really possible that you affected him so deeply? 

Jungkook hovered over you for a moment, attempting to catch his breath. 

“I think that’s the hardest I ever came in my life,” he said weakly, finally mustering up enough strength to pull himself out of you. He left the bed to throw away the soiled condom, you musing at his cute little butt as he sauntered away. 

“You’re welcome,” you said with a grin, though the hoarseness of your voice startled you. You pressed your hand against your throat and winced, not because your throat hurt, but because of the way Jungkook looked at you with deep concern. 

“Did I hurt you?” he asked softly, climbing into bed beside you. 

“Please,” you sighed, snuggling against Jungkook’s chest. “You did me too good.” 

“I’ll fucking do you again, too, if you don’t stop rubbing your thighs against me,” he murmured in your ear, causing you to chuckle lightly. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

A loud knock on the door made you jump, your arm instinctually covering your chest though you knew Jungkook had locked the door. 

“What the fuck,” he whispered, silently willing whoever it was to go away. 

The knocking continued, this time a bit more aggressively. 

“Open up, bro, the light’s on. I know you’re in there,” Taehyung complained from the other side of the door. “You’ve still got my pen.”  

Your eyes grew wide as you looked at Jungkook. 

With a groan, Jungkook got out of bed once again. Grabbing the basketball shorts you’d been wearing, he pulled them on and snagged Taehyung’s vape pen from where it sat atop his dresser. He didn’t bother to put a shirt on or fix his sex hair. 

“Wait,” you whispered. “What about me?” 

“I don’t give a fuck,” Jungkook spoke at a normal volume as if to demonstrate how serious he was about not caring if Taehyung saw you there. 

“Seriously, JK?” Taehyung clearly thought Jungkook’s comment had been directed towards him. 

You quickly grabbed Jungkook’s t-shirt and pulled it on seconds before Jungkook swung the bedroom door open. 

You watched Taehyung’s eyes slowly scan over Jungkook’s appearance. His mouth twisted as though he were about to speak, but then he locked eyes with you where you still sat in Jungkook’s bed, probably looking just as fucked out as Jungkook did. 

“Here.” Jungkook dropped the vape in Taehyung’s open palm. “Need anything else?” 

Taehyung’s eyes made their way back to Jungkook and whatever snarky comment he’d been prepared to make before was now gone. 

“Nah, that’s it, thanks.” 

-

After a week of being exclusive with Jungkook, you felt the need to loop your roomates into the whole situation. Courtney and Amiriah were your best friends, after all. The three of you had been your own Golden Trio since day one freshman year, ending up in the same peer mentor group. The first time you’d all hung out together you’d gone to an off-campus frat party. Barely an hour in and Courtney had been throwing her guts up right into the pool. Needless to say, the three of you had never gone back to that house. As horrifying as it was, you felt like it painted the perfect picture of your relationship. You were all in it for the long haul, no matter how messy. 

But now you had to tell them you were dating the weird guy. 

You kept looking at your phone, checking the time. The two should have been out of their sorority meeting by now, which meant they could arrive at your dorm at any moment. Waiting was nerve-racking. You gnawed on a hangnail, only pulling your gaze from your phone when you felt Jungkook’s strong arms wrap around your waist. He pulled you into his lap on the couch and leaned into you, lightly brushing his lips along your neck, making you shiver. 

“Why do you act like you’re having me meet your parents?” he asked with a small chuckle. 

“Courtney and Amiriah are important to me,” you started, trying to find the correct words to explain your friends. “They’re also really… judgmental, but because they care about me. And they don’t trust men.” Which was fair. You did your best to look out for them as well. 

Jungkook hummed in response but didn’t speak. That didn’t surprise you. A man of few words, you knew he liked to have time to decide how he felt or what he wanted to say about things. 

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” you announced, standing up. Jungkook nodded and leaned back into the couch. Was it a good thing that he didn’t seem nervous? 

Of course the moment you entered the bathroom, Courtney and Amiriah came bustling through the front door. Their loud chatter quickly halted when their eyes fell upon Jungkook lounging on your couch, legs spread and tattooed arm draped across the back of the couch. 

“Hey,” he greeted them with a grin and a nod of his head. 

“Oh, um, hi?” Courtney’s greeting was more of a question. 

“Where’s Y/N?” What Amiriah wanted to ask was how he even got into your dorm, but she didn’t want to be rude. 

“I’m here!” You shuffled into the room, giving your friends a little wave. “Jungkook wanted to hang out here for a change.” 

The boy quirked his eyebrow at you and gave you an amused smile, noticing how you’d made it sound like it was his idea when it most certainly had been yours. Not that it bothered him. If anything, he wanted you to deflect onto him. He’d told you he could take anything you needed to give him, and he’d meant it. 

Jungkook got up from his seat and walked over to the three of you, hands in the front pockets of his jeans. The pose made his biceps and chest more prominent, and you couldn’t help but stare for a moment. God, he was too pretty. 

“I feel bad it’s the first time I’m finally meeting you,” he said in a warm voice. “Y/N never shuts up about how great you two are. Pretty sure I’ve heard the story of The Great Edible Debacle at the Dolph concert about fifty times.” 

You were shocked by how charming he was being. Really laying it on thick. 

“That is a horrible story to be telling people, Y/N! What the fuck,” Amiriah said with a laugh. “We’re only a little bit insane.” 

“And stupid,” Courtney chimed in. 

The four of you continued your bantering as you lounged around the living room, snacking on some food your roommates had brought as leftovers from their sorority meeting. Jungkook fit into the conversation rather neatly, talking a lot more than you’d expected, but still knowing when to sit back and let the girls dominate the conversation. He sat with his arm around your waist, keeping you close but not dipping into any PDA, knowing it would bother you if he did. 

The conversation came to a pause when Jungkook’s phone began to ring, all three pairs of eyes pointed in his direction. 

“Ah, fuck. Tae’s calling me,” he mumbled. “I’ll be right back.” As he stood up, he cupped your face for a moment, running his thumb across your cheek before he was bringing his phone to his ear. 

“Hyungie, what’s up?” Jungkook stepped out into the hallway, closing the front door behind him. 

“Girl, are y’all fucking?!” Amiriah leaned forward with a harsh whisper, excitement dancing in her bright eyes. 

“We’re dating, actually.” 

Courtney let out a squeal, bouncing on her knees where she sat on a pillow on the floor, wrapped in a fluffy blanket. “I knew it, I totally knew it.” 

“I’m gonna admit, weird or not, that man is foine now that I’m seeing him up close.” Amiriah loudly sucked her teeth and shook her head. “He’s got that snatched little waist. And those thighs? He could smash a watermelon.” 

“Okay, okay, but we gotta ask the REAL question here.” Courtney was now plopping down on the couch between you and Amiriah, blanket still in tow. “Did he eat it right?? In the words of Nicki Minaj, do he got good form??” 

You slapped Courtney on the arm in protest, but you were grinning as you spoke. “I almost started crying, it was so good.” 

“WHEW girl, stop it,” Amiriah grabbed your arm and shook it. “Are you willing to share? For charity?” 

Before you could scold your friend for trying to get her hands on your man, Jungkook returned. The shift in the room’s atmosphere was palpable, and the way Courtney and Amiriah watched Jungkook with new interest was almost too obvious. 

He gave you a confused smile as he squeezed onto the couch next to you. 

“So, Jungkook,” Amiriah began and you prayed to God she wouldn’t say anything stupid. “You said you heard stories about us, but we didn’t talk about all the fun things we’ve heard about you!” 

You shot your friend a glare but she was already on a roll with Courtney on her heels. 

“Yeah, we’ve heard all about your poetry,” Courtney added. 

You don’t think your roommates were prepared for the low chuckle that rumbled from Jungkook nor for the dark look in his eyes as he turned to you. He grabbed your hand, intertwining your fingers, and you silently pleaded with him to behave. 

“Yeah, I was trying to give Y/N a preview of what she could be getting.” 

“Jungkook,” you gasped and your friends started talking all at once, but all you could focus on was the way your boyfriend was smirking at you, his tongue playing with his lip ring how he knew you liked. 

He leaned into you, his lips ghosting your ear and sending goosebumps up your arms as he whispered, 

“Just wait until you come over tonight.”

Living with Jungkook meant living with the constant smell of paint. Sure, you only just moved in together less than a week ago, but that was certainly long enough to know. And you were already finding little splatters on the floor and in the kitchen sink.

Living with Jungkook also meant that you were required to use the word magnets on the refrigerator to write him a poem every morning, just like he was going to write one for you. This was established as a house rule while the two of you discussed whether it would be a good idea to live together.

You thought the rules were going to be about who does the laundry, but you had to remember, this was Jungkook.

You tiptoed around the cardboard boxes full of all the stuff you two moved in with, but had yet to unpack. The hardwood floors glistened in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the flimsy blinds. Specks of dust glittered the air.

Jungkook was laying out a tarp in the entranceway of the apartment. An array of paint cans were placed around the tarp to hold it down.

“JK, what are you doing?” you inquired with your hands on your hips.

“Painting,” he said with a simple smile before turning back to his work. It was then that you noticed a large tray with fresh paint, and a variety of brushes sticking out of Jungkook’s pockets. 

“Here? This wall is the first thing people see when they walk in,” you pointed out. Leave it to Jungkook to start on a project before he’d even unpacked all his underwear. 

“That’s the point.” He didn’t look at you as he spoke, instead focused on mixing the color he wanted. 

You let out a small sigh. This man… 

“What are you going to do? Please, I beg of you, please do not paint genitalia of any kind.” It wasn’t that you didn’t enjoy your boyfriend’s artwork. You were obsessed with his creativity, actually. It was part of what made you fall for him. But there was no denying that he was… unconventional in his taste. 

Jungkook let out a chuckle, his nose scrunched up and his cute front teeth exposed. It was the laugh that meant he thought you were being ridiculous. 

“It’s gonna be something even better.” 

That was not reassuring at all. 

“Jungkook, my parents are coming to visit in a week!” 

Setting his brush down in silence, Jungkook extended his arm to hook a tattooed finger through the belt loop of your shorts. You begrudgingly let him pull you forward until you were pressed against his chest. Your arms circled his tiny waist and you forgot you were supposed to be annoyed with him when he started caressing your head, careful not to mess up your hair. 

“I’m gonna paint a mural of my muse,” he said in the wispy tone his voice took on when he was thinking through his plans. “That’s you, in case you didn’t know.” 

You lifted your head to look up at him, your chin resting on his chest. “No.” 

“What?!” 

“You are not putting up some kind of shrine for me in the middle of the apartment.” 

“Why can’t I let everyone know that I worship you?” Jungkook whined, letting go of you. You weren’t prepared to be set free, though, and you stumbled backwards. With wide eyes, Jungkook grabbed a handful of your shirt to stop you from falling, but it was too late. Your foot stepped directly into one of his open paint cans. 

“JUNGKOOK!” you shrieked, lifting up your foot to see gloopy red paint drip from your toes.

Jungkook’s cheeks grew puffy as he tried to hold in his laughter while he searched for his towels. It was a failed attempt, though, and you were glowering even harder as you watched the laugh come bursting from inside him. 

“I’m-,” Jungkook wheezed, holding out a paint-stained towel for you. He was laughing so hard his hand shook. “I’m s-sorry, baby, I-” 

He abruptly shut up when he felt your hand swipe his cheek and a thick liquid rolled down his neck. 

“That’s what you get for laughing at me!” you said with a wicked grin, admiring how you’d smeared paint all over the side of his face. 

Your grin slowly fell as you watched Jungkook lean down to drag his fingers through his tray of baby blue paint. 

“Don’t you dare,” you warned, pointing your finger at him. 

“What? I’m not doing anything.” Jungkook gave you the sweetest smile and reached for your legs. You felt his wet hands slide down your bare thighs and you shrieked again as he threw you over his shoulder. 

“Put me down! Kookie, you’re going to get paint all over the floor.” You gently beat his back with your fists, but your laughter made your actions less convincing. 

“Me? You’re the one ruining my painting area.” He tried brushing his bangs out of his eyes, but ended up smearing paint across his forehead and into his hair. “Now I have to clean my baby up.” 

You could hear the pout in his voice as he carried you down the hallway to the bathroom, dripping red and blue paint. The two of you were certainly going to leave your mark on this place.

@rkiveslibrary @mar-lo-pap

[yellowjacketsfashion]

hi! this is kind of an abstract concept and not technically a request so feel free to ignore! I was thinking about the dead team members that we got to know over the seasons (Jackie, Laura Lee, and Mari) and was wondering what you think their personal styles would have evolved to if they’d made it to adulthood like the others? Thank you for all your work with this blog btw!

Sure, this is kind of subjective as a lot of it has to do with them then having to survive in the wilderness to live into adulthood but this is just how I think their styles could progress.

Jackie:

I think she’d still dress preppy but it changes with the time / she stays updated on fashion trends to some extent. Something new would be that I think she’d wear athletic wear like leggings and sports bras and stuff. Not as everyday outfits per se but because I think she’d works out / stay active. To some extent though I think the silhouette of her outfits would still be reminiscent to what she wore in the 90s as her and Shauna’s fashions are supposed to mirror each other or act as different sides of a coin. Because of that I think she’d wear the yellow dress to the class reunion.

Laura Lee:

For Laura Lee I could see her style going a few different ways.

If she survived and continued to believe in Lottie’s visions (thinking Lottie is a prophet) she’s dress more culty as she would have followed Lottie and joined her cult. She’d probably wear heliotrope but would maybe be more distinguished from the other members as I think she’d probably be Lottie’s second in command type thing.

If her time in the wilderness made her change her stance on religion/ her religious beliefs (she’s no longer religious) I think she’d probably still wear florals but she might dress less conservatively. Because she’d probably be more hardened and stuff her fashion might contain darker florals or be slightly edgy but overall not too much. She would wear pants.

If Laura Lee continued to be religious but renounced the wilderness (and Lottie’s visions) she’s probably double down on her religious beliefs and so she’d continue to dress conservatively. Maybe she’s spiral into a more extreme group too trying to be more devout / because then she’d probably say the wilderness was god testing her against the devil or something.

Mari:

To some extent I think she’d dress like Adult Allie. I don’t really have anything concrete to base this off of but it’s kind of just a vibe. I also think she’d be a big fan of a sports team and so she’s have jerseys or merch and whatnot of the team. I don’t think she’d continue to play soccer competitively since she dislocated her knee but maybe she’s still be around soccer as a coach or something. Maybe she’d have a kid who plays soccer so she’d be a soccer mom and kind of dress the part.

These are just my loose opinions so they’re not concrete or anything but hopefully it’s still interesting for you! I’d love to know how you guys think their fashion would progress if anyone wants to share or give their thoughts!

[sforzesco]

"Since you've named yourself after Julius fucking Caesar, perhaps I'll follow in your lead and choose one of the conspirators." "Interesting," says Giuliano. "Should I worry about finding you at the center of some kind of conspiracy that ends with my death?" "Not from me," replies Ascanio. He sounds tired. "Not anymore."

informally, some kind of. conversational follow up to the last comic. I'm trying to get the atmospheric conversational whimsy out of my system because I have a vision of the vatican as a body in active decay, a point of infection spreading out and poisoning the well, a jaw unhinged that people walk into over and over, and I am so close to figure out how to convey this visually. maybe.

[queer-omens-in-the-archives]

so we've spent the past three months writing MelloNear daily, and we've worked on enough different pieces in that time that i now have some Thoughts as to the narrative purposes they each tend to serve in our own works (this is not. about canon though i suppose it DERIVES from their canon dynamic. this is very much about how we personally play with the blorbos)

by and large Mello serves to drive the plot, regardless of the position he is put in within the universe. we don't even have to actively be trying to do anything with him -- even in our more Near-centric pieces, as long as Mello is present? his emotions, whims, wants are what shapes the trajectory of the story, his emotional beats are the beats that drive the plot forward. he feels, he impulses, he injects stuff into the sequence of events. things happen because Mello wants them to (or pushes Near to make them happen if/when he himself cannot).

meanwhile Near is much less of a driving force for the plot and more of a reflective force for the story. he isn't IRRELEVANT to the plot, he doesn't do NOTHING, but most of what he does from a plot progression standpoint is reactive. like, he acts not because of an inner drive, not based on his own wants or needs, but largely when his circumstances require action of him. (by circumstances i don't just mean Plot Events. sometimes what he reacts to are his own emotions, like in sweet atonement, when they are so overwhelming that he cannot put them aside to strategise effectively anymore -- the keyword here being "effectively", because even then his first response will still often be to try to strategise.) by and large what Near does do is provide space for reflection, for thought, for analysis. things happen to him, or through him, and he thinks about them a bunch, and he'd leave it at that if Mello wasn't pushing him.

so they make for super neat storytelling when you figuratively drop them together in a jar and shake them around, because it's like. Mello pushes Near into action Near wouldn't take on his own; and then Near adds weight to Mello's direction, provides a deeper sense of spacetime, fleshes out the places where Mello takes him that Mello wouldn't necessarily stop at or consider on his own. like at their core, in the way we write their dynamic, Mello Does and Near Is. and mixing them up, you get: all of the essential elements for a compelling story!

and obviously im not like, talking in absolutes, none of this is true 100% of the time or the only possible reading of them, nuance exists etc etc. but that's the general trends we're starting to notice in our own MelloNear writing over the past few months

[radioroxx]

remembers my isat tattoo hcs from one million years ago

[straykats]

if i was able to articulate everything in my head,,,, u guys would start unfollowing me bc of how much i'd talk

[almostempty]

clint gets cockworshipped (clint x f!reader)

wc: 5.4k | other fics | rating: 18+ | ao3

summary: clint deserves some cock worship

tags: cock worship/blowjob pwp, clint comes twice (2!), a little overstim, established relationship, f!reader is able bodied with curly hair mentioned (if you don’t have curly hair and you can’t imagine it for this then it’s not for u, sorry not sorry my poc babes catch pink pussy strays all the time with no warning; you can pretend or not idc), my adhd brain cell can't edit anymore so if there are words missing in sentences soz

a/n: i love this character and the vibe he had with his girl; this fic IS written as reader x clint but, yeah i was picturing grace the whole time (sue me) and i added a reference to the movie she wanted clint to rent bc fuck it why not- this can be read pre-canon or as post-canon-she-lived!au but no baby, pregnancy, or marriage references are made (you can imagine them if you want just don’t tell me about it thx) 

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Clint planted the idea in your head, so it’s his fault really. Maybe he didn’t say it out loud—but he said it with his actions. He never lets you make it all about him. Not in the way you want.

He’s too proud. Too stubborn. Too efficient. Too fucking good looking when he’s breathing like he just ran ten blocks and his eyes are clouded with that intoxicating blend of lust and possession. 

So you always fold. 

Or, you always let him pull you off his cock and fold you into whatever position he’s been holding himself back for. Maybe he wants to eat it from the back until you’re collapsing in front of him or lay you on your back and fold your knees to your chest so he can see everything while you melt. But you’re determined to watch him fall apart. Not in submission, but in safety. You want him to lean into that feral edge he gets when you’re on your knees and he palms the back of your head. When he almost slips into something raw and selfish. Clint isn’t a selfish man, though. He’s built with devotion and grit. He takes it as his duty to be the kind of lover he thinks you would want to brag about. The kind of lover that focuses on you and your pleasure. 

And in his man flavored brain he hasn’t considered that you might get off on pleasing him. 

So he doesn’t indulge. Doesn’t surrender. Doesn’t luxuriate.

You can practically hear his inner voice. His thoughts and the visceral sensation from his perspective. 

When he nears the edge—testing his resolve—he’s prideful about his self-control. Thinks it makes him a better man to hold off. Never falling too deep into the seduction of your mouth.

Your teasing tongue. The soft, warm slip of your lips, enveloping just the tip. Like a warm bath cascading over every nerve, cushioning every ridge and vein. 

Slipping and sliding, in and out and in and out. He loses his tether to space and time. 

Squeezing, sucking—engulfing him in your mouth, freeing his mind in waves.

Until the abstract starts to take shape. Building and building. 

The pressure. 

Building and building. 

The escape. 

Relief is so close, but the build up is fucking divine. 

And then your eyes. The glassy, faraway gaze you get when you’re so lost to the baser carnality of flesh and sin. The way your lips swell and shine as you work harder, faster. Bobbing up and down. Sucking in your cheeks. Using your hand to coat his shaft in saliva. 

Until you’re hungry. Ravenous. 

Taking more and more. 

Until his dick is nudging the back of your throat, the spongy tip working deeper as your muscles constrict. 

Until something clicks deep inside you, and that low, filthy moan starts rolling out without permission.

Until your groaning vibrates against the head of his cock, and he nestles deeper into your throat. You both feel it—his length throbbing desperately inside of you.

When tears run down your cheeks, and everything is a wet mess, dripping from your chin—

When just the tip grazing the back of your throat is about to turn into shoving his cock mercilessly deeper and deeper? 

That’s when he always stops. 

That’s when he pulls you off of him. His hands holding you back like he’s holding off a demon. Like he has to stop you from devouring him whole. For his survival. 

Your gnashing, vicious glare is quickly softened. But a mess of tears and anguish bubbles instead. Tempting him, like only his body can release you from this torture. 

But you don’t get your way. You’re shushed. 

Dismissed. You argue with teary eyes and a ragged, hoarse voice. Protesting his cruelty. You think that part might clue him in. 

The fact that he’s the one dragging you off of him. 

That you’re crying on your knees for more by your own volition. 

You think, maybe, if he’s so devoted to bringing you pleasure, to coaxing you into waves of bliss—mindless, syrupy, boneless bliss–that just maybe, he’d let you keep going. Let you spend the time you want with your lips wrapped around his thick cock. That he’d give himself to you with trust. 

If he wants to do such a good job pleasing you–then maybe he ought to let you have your way.

Let you twist your soft fist, pumping his cock from base to tip. Filling the room with debased wet noises as the pool of saliva under your tongue drips, thick and shining, over your knuckles and beneath your palm. 

Let you hear him. Unfiltered. No more strangled grunts and throaty groans. You want to hear him call out for you openly, from his heart and from the caveman part of his brain he keeps domesticated most of the time. 

You crave the deep, thrumming moan of satisfaction. His elation reverberating in your bones. 

….

So this morning, before he got out of bed, you made him agree. You drive a sharp, no-nonsense bargain. No outs. All your demands spread on the table—or the sheets—between you. You wanna take your time and you want him to enjoy it. No, there's no ulterior motive and there’s no anniversary he’s forgetting about. “Okay,” he murmurs into your ear before giving you a chaste good morning and good-bye kiss. He hesitates when he catches the hard line between your brows. “You always say that.” “Do I?” “Mhmm. You say ‘okay’ when we start messing around—during the movie I picked and before I know it you’re fucking the daylights outta me and I’m passing out in your ratty old t-shirt again.” “I thought you liked wearing my shirts to bed,” he argues but the soft smile peeking out the corner of his eyes tempers you. “Maybe.” You shift your hips to pull at the aforementioned shirt where it’s twisting and bunched up underneath you. With a soft huff you add, “Just say ‘yes’.” “You got it backwards, babe. Nancy says ‘just say no’.”

“Shut up.” You toss a pillow at him for that. “I’m not offering ‘free’ drugs. Just let me do something for you. You work too hard. Too much dangerous shit.” He gives you a sober look as he pulls his arm through the sleeve of his shirt. “It’s not forever. And I’d do it every day for us, there’s no you owing me anything.” “I know,” you sigh softly. The sun filtering through the dusty blinds is already warm on your skin. Neither of you have a lot. But you have each other. And that fills him with enough pride to fight tooth and nail to get out of the debt he was born into—no matter the job. “Why don’t you consider it doing something for me?” “This shouldn’t even be an argument.” “That’s what I’m saying!” You stretch dramatically before crossing the room, feet padding across the worn carpet. “Don’t trip. I just wanna see my man let go and come down my throat.” He lets you pull him in for another kiss. You can feel the heat of your words dancing on his tongue as he deepens it, palm firm around your jaw, encouraging you to keep going. You pull back with a soft laugh. “We could do it now.” “Baby, you weren’t even listening!” You scoff, giving him a gentle push. “I said I wanted to take my time. I’d miss half my shift.” He relents and you send him off with a stern ‘be safe.’ 

He thinks you’ll forget. But you won’t. You can’t. You told him over and over again that this is all you’ve been able to think about. And despite the fact that he scares the shit out of anyone that looks in your direction, he doesn’t scare you with his attitude. And when you get home from your shift it’s only gotten worse. The insatiable thirst to feel him clear your mind—fucking your mouth like he means to replace every thought with the weight of him. To only have the mental capacity to focus on breathing and relaxing your muscles. It keeps you fired up enough to drag him straight to the bedroom, before you’ve even gotten out of your work clothes.

You warn harshly that if he tries to stop you, you’re going to come up with your own punishment for him. You don’t miss the way his eyes darken and his nostrils flare when you threaten him.

No. Today, your hulking debt collector—with his sour looks, dry humor, and leather jacket—is going to let you take what you want. And you tell him as much in a rant interrupted by a few kisses punctuated with your teeth tugging at his lower lip and clothes being pulled off and tossed to the floor. Stubborn as he is, he knows you’re even worse. So he’s pliant when you push him to sit at the edge of the bed, settling onto the mattress with a knowing gaze. 

Clint is still and quiet as you start. His own head is still full of enough bullshit from the day.

Just watching. Breathing. Nothing else exists when you drop to your knees in front of him. When you look up at him it’s not loaded with faux innocence and the frustration is already dissipating, all that’s left on your face is the joy and a hint of sinister satisfaction. It sparkles in your eyes and has you buzzing. 

He’s yours and you’ve got no mercy now. Just a desire to give. And Clint? He starts to slip so quickly now. Enjoying the way you hum, tongue flat against the underside of his cock, vibrating soft and low. As if you’d been starved, you start with making out with his tip, lathing your tongue along the crown, suckling and swirling it between your lips and letting your saliva and his precome pour from your tongue so you can coat his shaft down to his balls. Messy. Sloppy. Eager.

Wet, obscene sucking sounds mix with his throaty grunts in the warm evening air. He’s beginning to loosen up and you’ve barely gotten started. You pay special attention to the sensitive spot that you know makes his stomach muscles tense and his toes snap. His own groan is cut off with a strained curse. You ease off the intensity, but for every sound he makes you reward him with a more enthusiastic response. Trying to tell him you love to hear him. To keep going. Louder.  

“Fuck, that feels good.” Yes! Like that. You stroke him with your mouth and hand in tandem, hoping to milk another sentence out of him. It’s not that he doesn’t praise you normally or that he doesn’t love to murmur something filthy in your ear in bed—in the checkout line at the grocery store. It’s that you just wanna hear it pouring out of him without a filter. You want to hear him so fucked out—because of you—that he can’t help but spill whatever’s in his head. You want to hear him unravel out loud. He’s getting there. Encouraging you with more soft praise that makes your chest swell and your cunt flutter. 

You pull off his dick with a wet pop, moving to kiss and suck at the base. You continue with your hand, slow, firm, pumping along the smooth skin and twisting your wrist—keeping him revved up, but not overwhelmed. Not a race. “Keep talking.” You meant for it to sound like a seductive purr—but to your surprise it’s edged with something desperate. His cock jumps in response, the muscles in his thighs ripple with tension. “Please, I need to hear you.” Again, you’ve got his number, the kick in his shaft and the clench of his jaw confirm your discovery. “Shit. Yeah, okay.” His chest is already heaving, and his eyes half-hooded. He pushes some loose curls back from your face as you start to take one of his balls into your warm mouth. You play with silky smooth skin on your tongue. “You make me feel so fucking good.” You move to the other. Letting your eyes fall shut for a moment and breathing deep. The musky scent is grounding. It also makes you want to dig your nails into his thighs and take him for a fucking ride.

His hand slides around to your jaw and you pull back, licking your lips. Then his thumb finds your mouth, slow and deliberate, tracing your lower lip before slipping past your teeth, like he’s trying to soothe the riot in his chest. 

You suck on it, eyes locked on his, and something shifts in his expression. A quiet flicker. Awe, maybe. Or disbelief.

“Come here,” he murmurs, voice gone gravel-soft. He guides you back onto his cock, his other hand cradling the back of your head, fingers lacing through your hair as he settles in.

“Just like that,” he breathes. “Goddamn, you look so pretty like this.”

His thumb stays at the edge of your mouth, wiping a smear of spit from your cheek as his hips lift just a little, more instinct than control. “Like you were made for me.”

His words swirl over you, thick and sweet like the smoke from a Black and Mild, curling slow down your spine. The heat flows smooth and slow, flowing down your spine as droplets of sweat threaten to form. 

You work him with precision, knowing his body like an instrument. Conducting an orchestra of one.

His sentences turn to grunted single-syllable words each time you take a little more of his dick. Sweat beads form in constellations on his chest as it rises and falls. 

He’s in deep now. Under your spell. 

Entranced by your bright little moans and the gleam in your eyes as you stare up at him. 

He knows no more words. 

Just heavy, ragged breathing interspersed with choked sounds. You use your tongue to tease, swirling and tracing along every nerve you can locate.

Involuntary moans, frustration and something raw are strangled in his throat and reflected in your own. You’re frenzied, just as fucked out from taking him apart as he is from being deconstructed by your mouth. 

He strains, thighs flexing, as you suck and swallow lewdly. Your tongue could be numb, but you need more. You don’t stop. You can’t stop.  

He swells on your tongue, getting heavier and harder like your mouth is coaxing it out of him. 

Your lips strain around him, stretched just wide enough to ache, your jaw protesting each inch. The head of his cock drags slow against your palate, thick and impossibly hot, filling every inch until your throat has no choice but to yield. 

You breathe through your nose, fighting the instinct to gag. Your whole body tightens like it’s wired straight to your throat. The delicious pressure—dense, unrelenting—makes your throat pulse around him. He’s reduced to something primal. Revealed to be just as debauched at his most raw and unfiltered. He thrusts harshly, finally shoving himself down your throat the way you wanted. Fucking your mouth with abandon, his eyes rolled back and tendons in his forearms rippling as he clenches his fists. You gag, obscene and choking on the force of it. He’s heavy on your tongue, riding the edge of unbearable—until his wide hands force you off. He cradles your jaw between his hands, briefly letting you back off to cough before he supports the weight of your head. You stare up at his face, taking in every detail. The patchy flush scaling up his neck and his mouth drooped in a stupor. Wrecked and euphoric. 

But Clint’s dark eyes are glinting with an alertness you weren’t expecting. He looms over you with something wicked and enticing settling into his features. 

The view sends a rush of hedonistic desire barreling through you. And a deviant grin spreads on your face, before you open your mouth wide, laying your tongue out for more. A dark chuckle shakes Clint’s ribs. “So fucking stubborn,” he growls, his voice rough and dangerous. He releases his grip, watching with an amused smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth when he sees the effort it takes for you to hold your own head up. You squirm under his heady gaze, rubbing your thighs together seeking any relief for your throbbing pussy. Hoping he doesn’t call you out for it. Not right now.  If you were to give in. Fold. Beg him to fuck you now, you know he would. You’d sob, writhe, and wail at just the kiss of his cockhead against your clit. The heat and pressure would have you undone before he could sink it inside of you. Your swollen bundle of nerves pulses with anticipation and frustration. 

You know he’d torture you deliciously. Fuck you slow and heavy, make you feel every inch before giving it to you like you want. Arousal drips from your achingly empty cunt, and your walls clench as if his dick were just out of reach. He grins like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“Stubborn and greedy,” Clint adds, before tapping each of your cheeks with his shining, slick shaft. He sits proudly, letting his cock bob in front of your open mouth before repeating the same motion. He tilts his head, studying you with rapt attention as he listens to the sticky slap of skin against skin.

Saliva pools under your tongue as if you weren’t a slippery, spit coated mess already. You can feel the energy between you humming. A switch flips somewhere deep. Heat rushes your veins, thick and sudden, like liquor spreading through your chest and rolling low. Clint grips himself with a tight fist. Big hand. Big dick. You go a little dumb for it, your vision blurring at the edges. He pumps his hand once. Twice. That’s as far as you can count right now. He fucks his fist with a tight grip, hips canting just slightly. A few more strokes, then—“Open.” He taps the blunt tip of his dick on your shining, pink tongue. “This what you want?” he asks with mockery edged with disbelief. “You want it nasty? You wanna suck on it just to make me feel good?” You hum your affirmation as he starts to rock back into your mouth with slow thrusts. It’s not long before he works back up to a brutal pace, holding you steady as he slips past your lips over and over again. His strangled, handsome grunts punctuate every movement, and you moan back in call and response. Lascivious. Depraved. Mindless with ecstasy. “Oh, shit.” His voice is untethered. “You love it.” 

You moan again in agreement and encouragement. He’s getting it. 

“Making a fucking mess, baby.” “Mmm,” you purr, muffled by the wet sounds filling the air.

“Yeah, you always get what you want, don’t you?” Your entire body alight, thrumming with delight and lust. For a moment your eyes flutter shut and you’re lost in the most rudimentary form of existence. Just a body. Not dehumanized like an object—but human. Flesh and blood and bones and nerves. Controlled by gravity and pleasure. 

His.

When you pull back to catch your breath—ragged and gasping—you hold his heavy lidded gaze. Instead of wiping the saliva off your face you smear it down your chin, drawing your hand down to squeeze your tits in a show for him. A thousand remarks silently float on his heavy exhales. Praise and awe and filthy teases he can’t put together. You revel in the weight of the moment but can’t hold back the impish smile that spreads across your face.

You have another silent conversation with his cock. Studying it. The curve, the heft, the thick vein pulsing just beneath the surface. The fat droplet of precome leaking from his slit that joins your saliva catching in streaks and gathering at the base—where it sinks into the soft, dark curls there, slicking the roots and making everything look unbearably erotic.

It’s almost stupid. The way it’s just him. Maybe that’s just biology or a little bit of Freud (which you’d never admit), but the dick is really built just like him. Strong and gorgeous and molded by something greater than you to show his devotion, just like his hands, and his fucking intuition—and most of it’s so alive. You can feel his pulse under your fingers as you spend a little too long enjoying your moment of appreciation, until you trace down, down, down, to massage his balls. Vulnerable. Just for you. In the most twisted romantic sense you could tear up if you thought too long about the way your man is vulnerable just for you. The things he does just to keep you both afloat. The violence he deals in, the hard edges, the determination and gall. And yet—he never chose this. To be born into a world that demanded so much. You pull off with a gasp, breath ragged, and spit slow onto the head of his cock. It drips, glistening, and you drag your tongue through the mess before taking him in again. Slow and deep, like a fucking performance. Your lips seal around him, cheeks hollowing as you sink lower. Clint huffs out a short breath, half groan, half laugh. “Jesus,” he mutters, like he can’t believe how far gone you are. Like he loves it.

You salivate faster than you can swallow. Slick rushes down his shaft, noisy and obscene. Salt and musk coat your tongue—warm, earthy, a little bitter.

You slide your hand up slowly, twisting your palm like a prayer. His breath hitches. He twitches. You chase that with your mouth, leaning into the gravity of it.

You don’t just suck his cock—you kiss it.

Your whole body is pulsing. You can feel your heartbeat in your clit. In your fingertips. In your tongue. 

You lick along the crown, slow and pointed, tracing the soft ridge where the color darkens. He jerks. You chase that movement with your mouth, then your hand, then your whole body leaning forward like it’s gravity pulling you down.

Tongue first. Then lips. Then again and again. Plush kisses. Sloppy kisses. Filthy, noisy, open-mouthed adoration.

You drag your tongue down the underside. Flat and slow. Tasting where he’s softest. You hum, low in your throat, and he shivers like you just said his name.

Clint lets out a sound somewhere between a grunt and a moan. You swear it scrapes up from somewhere he never lets anyone near. His hands find your face again.

“Don’t stop,” he rasps, broken and breathless. “Don’t fucking stop. Baby, please.”

His voice hits that hunger that’s been gnawing at you. This is what you want. His unraveling. His trust. The heavy roll of his hips and the deep, animal sounds in his throat. So raw and desperately close. 

So, you give it to him, tight and perfect, your hand stroking in sync with the rhythm of your throat, never breaking eye contact.

You feel the shift when he’s too far gone to hold back. His thighs tense. His breath cuts off. The curse he mutters is strangled and low—your name folded into it like a prayer.

Then he comes.

Hot and deep in your throat, pulsing with every wave. He tries to pull back but you don’t let him. You hold steady, swallowing around the weight of him, letting him give it all to you. His fingers curl tight in your hair, his hips stuttering as it shakes through him.

When all the fight is finally gone from his body, you lick your lips, smiling unapologetically. Quiet seeps in as he catches his breath. His voice is barely audible when he speaks next, wrecked beyond repair. “You’re gonna kill me,” he whispers.

There’s a beat. A flicker of mischief in your smile.

“How would I do it? I couldn't live without ya.” You murmur in your best Sid Vicious accent, earning you an eye roll and a soft exhale from Clint.  “You and that fucking punk movie.” He scoffs without animosity. “Mhmm,” you hum, letting the relaxation settle into his bones.

You rest your head on his thigh and watch his fat cock soften in front of your nose—the way it twitches, rolls, like everything inside of him is still shifting and settling.

The air is thick. Sweet. Like sex and sweat and reverence.

You’re high on it. On the quiet, wrecked man under your cheek. On the trust. The way he gave in.

It’s not just about giving anymore.

Your pussy is still swollen and wet just from watching him fall apart.

You haven’t come. You’re not even frustrated. Just restless—wired and buzzing.

You still need him in your mouth.

Not hard. Not dominant. 

Just warm and soft and spent. His taste still clinging to your tongue. The scent of skin and salt in your lungs.

You want to feel him twitch back to life against your lips. To savor it slow.

Greedy. Curious. Unhurried.

You’re not sated. You’re still hungry—but not for release. For him.

Just to feel it on your tongue again.

Soft and pliable, still sticky with spit and come.

Still heavy. Still his.

You drag your tongue along the cooling dampness, the velvety, stretchy skin, reverent and insatiable, already craving the weight of him, hot and hard in your mouth.

Clint is still coming down when you move again.

Your head stays on his thigh, lips brushing against the inside of it, inhaling deep like you’re grounding yourself in the scent of him. 

His body is lax, legs spread wide, leaned back on his elbows. 

"You done?" you ask, soft and sweet, like you aren’t already pressing your lips to his hip, nipping gently. 

Clint makes a rough, exhausted sound, falling flat to the mattress and dragging a hand over his face, groaning deep in his chest. 

"Yeah, baby," he mutters. "I’m done."

But you know better.

His cock is still right there, softening but still thick, still kicking with life, still heavy against his thigh. 

Your lips part, hovering just above the swollen tip, breath fanning against him, watching for his reaction. Your breath is warm where it ghosts over the sensitive skin, and his leg jerks beneath your touch. 

"Don’t—" he exhales sharply, fingers twitching like they want to push you away but can’t quite commit. "Too much," he mutters, but his voice is weak, lacking the sharpness of a real command.

Not a real warning. Not convincing. 

Because when you press a kiss to the flushed, glossy tip of his dick, his whole body jerks. It’s slow and reverent. 

His hand spasms where it rests on the bed, like he might reach for you. Like he might pull you away. 

But he doesn’t. But he never does. 

His body is betraying him. 

"You don’t get it," he pants, eyes squeezed shut. "It’s not gonna happen. Not again."

Wrong. 

Because his cock is already yours again. Already swelling before you take it back into your mouth. Heavy and helpless. Thickening against your tongue. 

Clint groans. Low, drawn-out, almost pained. "Oh, fuck—"

But you hum against him, savoring the way he jumps at the sensation and whimpers at the tail end of a wrecked gasp. 

His hands clutch your head, body shaking, legs trembling, no fight left in him.

Offering gentle licks and soft, open-mouthed kisses, worshipping him like he’s a divine being.

The room feels heavier with each passing moment. His body is trembling now, muscles taut beneath your touch. He leans back up to watch you, glued to your mouth. 

You’re meticulous, lavishing every inch of him with attention. Feather-light brushes of your lips along his shaft. The tip of your tongue tracing the sensitive ridge beneath the head. You’re not trying to drive him mad. You’re succeeding.

And when he gets it…he breathes your name. Dazed and destroyed. 

Something in you sings at the sound of it. It’s not just filthy—it’s sacred. He’s falling apart, and you’ve never felt so full. So loved. So in control and completely out of it all at once.

“You. Fucking menace,” he rasps, voice hoarse and raw. A sound you want to hear more of. 

You smirk up at him and Clint groans, tipping his head back, already broken, already yours.

He’s yours now. Completely undone.

So you shift, wrapping your hand around his base, watching his thigh jump beneath your palm like his body’s trying to wrestle itself out of control. His jaw ticks. His brows pull together like he’s fighting to keep his eyes open. But he has to watch you.

He bucks once, involuntarily jerking toward you. The noise that slips out of him is caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan. You just lean in and swirl your tongue slowly around the ruddy, deeply flushed flesh. 

The noises he makes are guttural, unrestrained. The growls in his chest vibrate against your lips when you take him back into your mouth.

His shaft throbs against your tongue, impossibly sensitive, and every movement of your lips sends sharp jolts through his body. He’s panting now, the sound raw and ragged, as you bob your head seeking more.

You’re not just getting off on his sounds. You’re addicted to his surrender. Every breath, every tensing muscle, a confirmation that he’s still letting you have him. 

You can feel him straining to hold on, his body taut with the effort, but he’s unraveling fast.

His chases more unconsciously, rocking toward you and forcing himself deeper into your throat. The pressure is overwhelming, but you don’t stop. You press forward, letting him own the space in your throat as you swallow him whole.

The sounds are pornographic and lewd. Echoing in the air between his gasps and the muffled moans vibrating from your chest. He’s lost now, completely at your mercy, and you’re relentless. You pull back to tease him with just your hand, rubbing along the most sensitive nerves. So concentrated. You hold your tongue out–knowing he’s close again. “Like this?” you ask, already glowing with the high of reading his body so well. He can’t answer. Just squeezing his eyes shut. Fighting the urge to collapse. But he’s determined to watch you. His jaw flexing as he struggles. “Come for me,” the words are soft, like a prayer not a demand. “Again.” “I can’t—shit, baby, you’re too good,” he chokes, like the truth is dragging its nails up his throat. He pants out another curse and, “Gonna—” 

When he comes the second time, it’s not as strong but just as physically and psychologically devastating. 

It lands on your tongue and lips before you swallow and give him one last suck and squeeze, milking every last drop from him—along with an almost pained, broken groan. 

Even as he softens, you don’t stop. You lick at the sensitive head, suckling softly, drawing a sharp hiss from his lips as his hips jerk away instinctively. His body shudders beneath you, his muscles trembling uncontrollably.

When you finally release him and his length slips from your mouth, you can’t stop from pressing one last kiss to the tip. 

He lies back flat, utterly spent, the sheen of sweat on his skin catching the dim light. His eyes closed, his mouth slack as he tries to catch his breath.

You watch him, lips swollen, your whole body humming—sated, smug, and a little in love with how completely he gave in. You’ll never forget this version of him. 

Soft. 

Spent. 

Yours.

You kiss the inside of his thigh, quiet and slow. Then drag your palm along his thigh. Still loose. Still recovering. But he’s watching you now, head tipped forward to keep his eyes on you. 

A smile pulls at the corner of your mouth. 

Clint exhales like it’s half a laugh, half a warning. “Didn’t think you’d go that fucking hard.”

You smile, just a little. “I told you I wanted to take my time.”

“Okay,” he admits. His voice is gravel, stripped bare. “You’re right.”

You don’t say anything to that. You stay there, the ghost of a grin on your spit-slick mouth, cheek pressed to his thigh like it’s holy ground.

You don’t move. Don’t gloat. Just exist with him like this.

Quiet. Sated. And a little exhausted. 

Still his fault, really.

He loves you like a rock. Solid. Unshaken.

And maybe he still doesn’t let you make it all about him. 

But tonight he did.

You gotta worship that when you can.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

thank you for reading pls let me know what you liked or hated or ??? join my tag list here @yxtkiwiyxt my clint babe <3 @lovely-vamp-princess @gothcsz @auteurdelabre @adoreyouusugar @swankyorange @itwasntimethatdidit40 @ivoryandflame  @indiegirlunited @syd-djarin  @miss-oranje-disco-dancer @harriedandharassed @bbyanarchist @94namkooksworld

@mushgloomz @probablyreadinsmut @ohhoneypascal @noisynightmarepoetry

@joelmillerisapunk @lilac-boo @sunshinehaze1 @worhols @dontlookatme121 @sunshinehaze1 @clubsoft @natalieispunk @jokesonthem @slimybeth69 @4ever-billies-girl @gossipgirl-03

other a/n: a long time ago @gothcsz posted the first part of unscripted desire and these two lines:

Javier tuts, walking over to you with his soft cock hanging between his legs and you do your best to not let your eyes drop down to it. He’s got an unlit cigarette hanging from between his lips.

and it made me think about soft cocks for weeks, WEEKS! …which led to a wip that died when i lost my whimsy in the dark months, but now… NOW it is HERE bc it was meant for clint all along so extra ty for that <3 

[marvelsswansong]

perfectly poisonous pair

summary: the three times Coriolanus realizes you're his perfect match, his eternal soulmate: darkness and all.

tags: coriolanus snow x fem!reader, possessive and dark soft!Corio with equally unhinged reader (an anon previously said morticia x gomez addams vibes), fluff, violence, non-canon compliant, CW for graphic descriptions of violence, kidnapping, murder, possessive/dark thoughts - please take care of yourself first!

☆ word count: 6K+ words ☆

⚠️ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲, 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞.⚠️

Marriage is, at first instance to Coriolanus, an institution and an act that he doesn't quite see the point of.

The legal and financial benefits, sure. But committing himself to one person, to be bound to them body, heart and soul for the rest of his life? That level of vulnerability and permanence feels too foreign. Too abstract, even, that thinking about it quickly makes his stomach churn with sickness.

Coriolanus spends the majority of his upbringing, consoling himself that he doesn't have the time to worry about such things as romance. After all, there was always the next bill to pay and the next threat of eviction to dread.

Not to mention, he thinks, no one will truly ever get him. Not even grandma'am or Tigris understands his inner being. The man deep within his guts, the cunning voyeur who enjoys violence and manipulation. And if they only knew, he believes, they'd be horrified.

No one really knows Coriolanus for who he is. And no one will truly be able to understand what it's like to feel and think like him.

So marriage is completely out of the question for him.

At least for a long time.

Until he meets you.

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

the beginning: "must be a coincidence."

You're the first person (other than the wide-eyed idealist, Sejanus) to treat Coriolanus with kindness at the academy.

You come in as a transfer student mid-way through the semester and he comes to notice the small ways with which you show your appreciation for him. Slyly backing up his answers in class discussions. Smiling at him in the hallways. Sticking up for him in conversations, not caring if the others give you odd looks for defending a 'clear outsider' amongst them.

"If you ever need anything, you can always count on me." you'd once told him after school, his knees barely brushing against yours in the car you've invited him into so that he wouldn't have to walk home in the freezing cold.

Suppressing the urge to interrogate the reasoning behind your kindness, his numb fingers felt sudden warmth when you delicately placed a crumbled up note into his fist with your address in it.

"Stop by whenever you need something. Don't suffer alone, okay?"

He never takes you up on your offer.

At least, not until a few months later, when he finds himself knocking on your door late at night. Three in the morning to be precise, with a busted lip and dark red stains blossoming across his white shirt.

And when you open the door, you don't react to his disheveled state in the same way he'd expect from his family. No pity and shock like grandma'am, nor is there a trace of light apprehension and fear like there would be from Tigris.

Instead, your eyes crinkle with kindness as you invite him inside your home and sit him down on a nearby chair in the living room.

"How bad is it?" you ask, cutting him off with a stern glare before he can lie. "And don't lie to me, Snow. I need to know if you're going to need a drive to the hospital instead of my attempts at first aid."

Sighing, the blonde gives in, his bones aching too much to put up a fight.

"Not that bad, I promise." he grumbles, trying to keep his breathing normal as you lean in closely to examine his injuries. At this proximity, he can see the reflection of the overhanging yellow lights in your irises, your eyebrows furrowing in concentration before you leave the room and return with a soft towel and warm bowl of water.

"Could you look up for me?" you question, your cold fingers steadying his neck to carefully crane it upwards.

The warm, wet fabric in your hands then trace the edges of his jaw, picking up the droplets of blood scattered across his face.

Keeping his eyes forward at the line of bookshelves by the fireplace, time seems to slow down. His senses are overwhelmed by your hairwash - rosemary and vanilla, he thinks - and the room is awfully quiet. All he can hear is the muted sounds of your soft breaths and the rustling of leaves outside, the pale moonlight creeping in through the gaps of the floral curtains in the dead of December.

"Do you mind me asking what happened?" you ask, now switching your attention to the trail of blood buried into the crevice of his neck. You cringe right afterwards, almost wincing at your audacity. "Sorry, you don't have to say if you don't want to."

If anything, it just makes him smile. He likes seeing you embarrassed, he thinks.

"No, it's fine. I'll say. It was just... a party gone awry. Felix managed to convince everyone to go downtown."

You frown at the mention of the downtown area - it was common knowledge that it wasn't safe to wonder the south of the Capitol this late at night, especially if you were obviously from central.

"And then?"

"Got jumped. Felix and his friends ran away quickly. Sejanus got caught up in the mix and I couldn't just... leave him."

Coriolanus hates admitting the slightest sign of weakness, that perhaps he had a friend he cares for, so he's eternally glad that you don't dwell on it. Humming in response, you squeeze the towel in your hands, the water below now a murky shade of brown.

"And how much of this blood is your own? Do I need to get the sewing needles out?"

"I-"

His response is staggered by brief flashes of the fight playing in his mind. He recalls there being a lot of heavy breathing and fast movements. A slash there. A broken nose there. His feet driving down onto the man's chest repeatedly, down, down, down - he hears bones cracking at some point and Sejanus is suddenly pulling him backwards, begging him to stop but Coriolanus can't-

"Coriolanus."

Your voice snaps him out from his dazed state. He then swallows nervously, not knowing how much is safe to disclose.

"I'm fine. Really. Just some bruises and a split lip. The blood is from dodging a few knife attacks and the criminals stabbing one another."

It's a half-truth, really. Coriolanus had dodged a few stabs his way, but only because he tripped the man charging him and grabbed the knife instead to drive it into the man's sides. Enough to severely wound, but not kill. He feels the soles of his left shoe drag on the floor, the fabric nearly coming off from the repeated force with which he'd stepped on the other accomplice's ribs. It makes his jaw clench with embarrassment.

If you notice it's a lie, you don't say anything.

You ask him if he can undress, so that you can wash his clothes for him. After all, you tease in a lighthearted manner in an attempt to lift the mood, you still have school tomorrow at eight.

"You can leave the dirty clothes hanging by the chair outside the bathroom. I think you're overdue for a long, hot shower."

All arguments die in Coriolanus' mouth when he realizes how nice this feels. The foreign comfort of being cared for by someone else, of having his guard down and following someone else's lead for once. So he wordlessly follows you to the bathroom in the back and discards of his dirtied clothes outside.

The hot water is a nice luxury, the scalding temperature starting to erase his memories of the fight. He rubs his scalp raw and watches the water beneath his feet fade into the drain, the steady dripping of water droplets calming his mind.

When the blonde finishes, he comes out and sees that you've folded a set of new, clean clothes for him by the door of the bathroom (your father's old clothes, he learns). Once changed, he wanders outside and finds you hanging the freshly washed clothes outside on your front lawn.

"You should go home, Corio." you say quietly. "Your cousin and grandmother must be worried sick." you look back at him, a reassuring smile on your face.

"How... how can I ever repay you for all this?" he finds himself asking, desperate for an answer. Surely, you'll want something back for this. Certainly, this was all to get something back from him-

You shake your head sideways, waving your hand in dismissal.

"There's no need to repay me. I like to think you help me out every day at school, so think of this as more of... a much delayed gift."

Once you're both back inside the house, no longer shivering from the cold, he finds the silence to be oddly tense. You're in your sleepwear, after all, a silky night dress stopping right above your knees with a gray knit cardigan on top.

He swallows, nervously. He hopes you can't tell how fast his heart is beating.

"Uh, thank you. Seriously. I owe you."

"You really don't."

"I really do."

You roll your eyes playfully.

"The only person who owes me anything is Felix. He shouldn't have suggested you all go to downtown when it's dangerous, and he especially shouldn't have left you and Sejanus to nearly get stabbed to death." you spit, and your angry expression makes him chuckle.

"Ah, well, but he is the president's son. What can we do." he jokes. A small grin flickers onto your lips for half a second at that comment.

"So he is. Good night, Corio. I'll see you tomorrow."

It's initially an uneventful day for Coriolanus the next morning when he walks into the academy, naturally catching your eyes from across the room. You give him a reassuring nod from behind the door of your locker, where the majority of your attention is being held up by an overeager Felix - your assigned partner for the week.

Due to his schedule, Coriolanus doesn't see you again until lunch time. By which the newest rumor sweeping the academy has been the sudden violent illness which has fallen upon the president's son.

"I heard he was puking blood." he hears Clemensia whisper to Arachne, who nods furiously.

"Sejanus had to carry him to the medic's office - Felix looked like a half-dead ghost."

He's itching to speak to you as he quickly rounds the corner and runs up the flights of stairs leading to the library, where he's shared many lunches with you before. He knows your favorite sport by heart, that being the cozy seat under the large arched windows overlooking the front lawn.

As expected, he finds you there, sitting cross legged and gazing out towards the lawn. Upon closer inspection, he sees that you're watching Felix get escorted into a dark vehicle, an unreadable expression on your face.

"Have you heard that Felix is sick?" Coriolanus carefully asks, sitting down from across from you. You turn to him, your face scrunching up in sadness.

"Yes I have. Terrible news, really. Something about nasty nausea and uncontrollable vomiting."

Your tone is sympathetic and your face has all the features of genuine worry, but there's a small twinkle in your eyes that indicates a secret.

It makes Coriolanus delirious with want.

"And would his illness have anything to do with you being close to him as his project partner?" he questions, sliding in closer towards you to keep his voice down.

He looks down at your lips then back up at you, smirking.

"Just seems strange, don't you think? Given that he seemed just fine last night?"

A half-second smile, you shrug.

"Must be a coincidence."

He kisses you right then and there.

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

the point of no return: "you're quite a messy lover, Coriolanus Snow."

Finding you is a miracle to him.

And now that you two are officially dating, he sees the glimmer of hope for something permanent like marriage in the future.

But Coriolanus is still unsure of the publicity of that kind of arrangement, which leads him to request that you two keep the relationship under wraps. At least until graduation, he justifies, to keep the romance hidden away from the judging eyes of the faculty and fellow classmates.

You don't seem the least bit bothered by the news, your lips only quirking up into a warning smile as you tease that you may then have to bring other men as dates to public events to save face.

At the time, he'd just shrugged at that, playing it cool. "I don't get jealous easily." he'd said confidently.

Oh, how he was wrong.

It's only after he becomes your boyfriend that he becomes acutely aware of and sensitive to how desirable you are to others. Visitors to the academy flirt with you openly, not knowing that Coriolanus is watching from the background, fuming with anger. Your male classmates are too eager to carry your books for you, their body leaning ever too close towards yours when you ask them to pass on the papers in class.

But this, right now, seeing you with another man at the spring gala... It feels different.

Those people, the strangers and classmates, you let down firmly but gently. Those people, you wouldn't even let their hands hover above your skin, always placing a firm distance between you and them. Those people-

Fuck.

You didn't smile at those people like you're smiling at this date of yours. The tall, dark haired man's arm is lingering just above your waist, too close for Coriolanus' comfort, and his thoughts turn lethal when the man leans down to whisper something in your ear that seemingly makes you laugh.

It takes everything within him to not lose control then, when Sejanus speaks up.

"You alright?"

His friend's voice cuts into the tirade of violent thoughts playing in Coriolanus' mind, the whiskey starting to taste sour in his mouth. Forcing another sip of alcohol, he meticulously coaches himself to nod along, feigning disinterest in you and the mystery man.

"Just fine, Plinth." he grits out, but with his steely blue orbs not deviating from where you and your date are standing, it's obvious to any bystander that he's lying. So Sejanus chuckles, nudging the blonde playfully.

"Yeah right. Though, I'm not surprised that (Y/n) brought him along." Sejanus takes a sip of his wine, before pausing at seeing the blonde's expression remain hardened. "You do know who he is, right?"

"Am I supposed to?" Coriolanus scowls.

"That's Harrison Bramford. His grandfather was one of the main generals back in the days of the war and his family single-handedly leads the weapons manufacturing industry in Panem."

"Hm." is all Coriolanus says in response, the revelation doing little to appease his anger. His left arm rises in a reflex to force more alcohol down his throat, only to find the glass half empty.

"I need another drink." he announces, not caring to hear his friend's response.

Sliding into the bar, he hears your soft laugh and whisper before you disappear into a nearby hallway, leaving your 'date' alone. Out of the corner of Coriolanus' eyes, whilst he leans forwards and pretends to watch the bartender grabbing him another glass of whiskey, he sees the tall dark haired man also beelining towards the bar.

"Vodka on the rocks." Harrison growls, nearly slamming his glass down onto the counter. It's only then that Coriolanus lets himself look into the man's light green eyes, taking care to keep his expression fairly neutral and his voice calm.

"Rough night?" Coriolanus asks, deciding to play the unassuming role of a concerned stranger. Harrison chuckles, wiping his hands on his thighs whilst shaking his head.

"You have no fucking idea. Women are such pieces of work."

The blonde tastes blood with how hard he bites his cheek in an effort to stay silent.

"Your whiskey, sir."

He's grateful for the interruption of the bartender sliding his drink down towards him, as with every word leaving your date's mouth, Coriolanus is feeling his rage boiling and threatening to spill over like toxic waste.

"This chick asked me to come here tonight, you know? Me. A Bramford. I put up with her annoying stories and stupid questions all night, I even held her fucking bag for her to go to the bathroom." the man rants, his skin starting to twinge red with how fast he was speaking. "But will she even let me kiss her? Nooooo. Apparently it's too quick. Wouldn't even let me grab her ass."

It's then that your boyfriend finally loses it, and there's a muted sound of something shattering and the feeling of something sticky and hot running down his right hand. There's a few gasps of shock, the bartender hurrying over with a spare napkin as Coriolanus' blue eyes adjust to the blurry scene in front of him.

He's shattered the glass in his hand.

"Shit, you alright?" Harrison asks, leaning over to see and then pulling back with a disgusted expression after seeing the bloody sight. Remaining calm whilst pulling out the chunks of glass, Coriolanus chooses to play nonchalant, shrugging his shoulders.

"Yep. Sorry, not used to..." he pauses, trying to find the right excuse. Instead, he finds a brilliant plan. "Not used to going so long without smoking."

The dark haired man nods in agreement, seemingly sympathizing.

"Ah, I get you. Nasty withdrawal symptoms, huh? Seen a lot of my buddies get them whenever they try to quit smoking."

Securing the makeshift tablecloth wrap around his injured hand, Coriolanus pushes his chair in with his legs, his uninjured hand strategically reaching into his pockets.

"I think I need a cigarette. Care to join?" he asks, already knowing the answer from the overwhelming scent of cigarettes spayed over the man's clothes.

"Why not."

Suppressing a smile, the blonde leads the drunken man out the door and far away from the venue, down a few shady alleyways and into narrow dirty streets crowded by graffiti and trash bags.

"Uh... you sure this is the right way?" the man behind nervously asks, and Coriolanus almost wants to roll his eyes at how pathetic he finds the man's fear.

"Don't worry, Bramford. Just avoiding the 'no smoking' signs and security guards by the venue."

Once the blonde is sure that they're both sufficiently far away from the venue, at a dead end alleyway sandwiched between a run down bike shed and abandoned dumpsters, he stops in his tracks. Coriolanus then uses the split second of confusion felt by the other man to strike him directly in the chest, forcing the taller man's entire body down.

Grabbing the nearest object next to him - a wooden crate- Coriolanus smashes it into bits on the man's head, whose face is now pressed up against the dirty cement.

"You absolute piece of shit." Coriolanus swears, adrenaline pumping through his veins in irregular rhythm as his boot kicks into the pained man's ribs repeatedly. "You disgusting, vile, privileged piece of shit."

Each insult is compounded by a stronger kick, the three glasses of whiskey and pure rage emboldening his thoughts and strengthening his attacks. Coriolanus thinks he may have heard a bone or two cracking, but he isn't sure. He can't even bring himself to care, not when his mind's fixation switches to the enticing sight of a broken glass bottle laying to his right, the jagged scars glistening under the moonlight. Coriolanus snatches it up in half a second, before pressing the edges of the makeshift blade against the whimpering man's throat.

"W-why are you doing this?" Harrison barely gets out, mouth already filled with blood, his gasps stuttered in pain.

The blonde only chuckles, his left knee coming down to press the man further into the ground, right hand beginning to trace the edge of the glass down the man's neck.

"Because, Bramford. You denigrated the love of my life. You dare try and place your filthy hands on her. Hell, for the crimes of your family and your disgusting behavior tonight, I should do the Capitol a favor and ki-"

"That's enough, Corio."

Your boyfriend nearly drops the bottle in his hand out of shock at hearing your voice ring out from behind him, the development so unexpected that for a second he almost wonders if he's hallucinating. But no, when he tilts his head backwards, he sees as clear as day you standing there with an amused grin on your face.

"Darling, I-" Coriolanus begins, stepping back up carefully and setting the glass bottle aside (but far away from Harrison's reach).

You just shush him, that ever-so-understanding twinkle in your eyes, your heels clicking on the uneven cobblestone as you stand with your body right up against his.

"I warned you about this, you know." you sigh. Coriolanus frowns, confused.

"What?"

"That you'd be jealous. He's just a toy, love. Nothing happened nor was ever going to happen tonight." you assure him, taking his uninjured hand in yours and squeezing it in comfort. You frown at the sight of his other bloodied hand, but he waves it off as an explanation for a later time.

"It's not that I don't trust you, petal. It was just... this scumbag was speaking about you in a revolting manner. I just couldn't contain myself." he slowly explains, a mix of guilt for being caught and anger for not being able to finish his actions creeping in. "He deserved it."

"Not denying that, love." you assure him again, smiling. "But goodness... What a mess you've made. You're quite the messy lover, Coriolanus Snow."

Coriolanus then can only watch, mesmerized, as you walk up next to Harrison's squirming body on the floor. Crouching down next to the man, you tut, as if you're saddened by the sight in front of you.

"Here's what's going to happen. We'll do you the favor of making it looking like you had too many drinks and got robbed. We'll take your wallet and expensive jacket. You'll survive, only a few major injuries but nothing life-threatening, and that's the story you'll tell your father and his friends." you pause, letting out another sigh, as if explaining this whole ordeal is tiring you. "In return, I will keep quiet about your nasty drug addiction to your father. One more strike and you're out, as your daddy said, so let's not aggravate him further. Deal?" you ask, smiling sweetly.

When the man stays silent, only letting out pained breaths in response, your right hand snaps out to press his face further into the concrete.

"I said, do we have a fucking deal, Bramford?"

Coriolanus finds himself completely transfixed by the attractive sight playing out in front of him: your pretty face scrunched up in fury, your delicate fingers dipped in blood as the man beneath you pathetically sobs and agrees. You then smirk, harshly dropping the man's head back down. Your boyfriend is by your side immediately, taking off the man's jacket as you pocket the wallet, your eyes finding Coriolanus' once more.

"I think I'm in love with you." the blonde confesses, the words coming out faster than he'd anticipated. It's a mix of things that causes the sudden confession, the adrenaline from having beaten a man nearly to death, the way your hair is being caressed by the harsh winds, the smell of your sweet perfume mixing with the harsh stench of copper in the air...

It's all making him dizzy and lovesick.

But all you do is roll your shoulders back and chuckle, kissing him quickly on the lips.

"I know."

But, Coriolanus thinks, you can't know - the real depths of his love, the unbridled fire now lapping at his skin, the overwhelming desire to claim you as only his.

And when he finally comes back home, he digs through his cabinets and finds the family ring. Swallowing thickly, he stores it in a small jewelry box and tucks it right underneath his bedroom's windowsill.

One day, he knows. He'll marry you.

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

the final act: "sorry for worrying you."

He'd meant to propose sooner.

He really did.

But then the games happened, his victory came with the assistant position to Dr Gaul and a full ride scholarship to university from the Plinths, and you'd be called away to District 2 to assist on your family's business operations.

Coriolanus missed you, fiercely. No amount of blurry phone calls and monthly visits lasting no more than the short weekend could satisfy his ache for you. Your melodic laugh. Your soft touch. Your witty observations and jokes, your soft breathing on his chest when he'd hold you at night.

But it's necessary, you'd remind him, lips trailing across his cold skin. It was how you and him were going to conquer the Capitol. Together.

On an assuming Tuesday in April, on the day you were due to arrive in time for Tigris' birthday, the phone rang in the mansion. The housekeeper, mid-way through dusting the library in preparation for your arrival, had come running into Coriolanus' room without even knocking. He'd woken up bleary eyed, a few swear words of annoyance on the tip of his tongue, all of which dissipated upon seeing the alarmed look on the housekeeper's face.

"It's for you, sir. Says it's urgent."

Brows furrowing, but not thinking anything much, Coriolanus answers the phone.

"Coriolanus Snow speaking." he mutters into the receiver, eyes still foggy from the remnants of sleep. The voice on the other end chuckles, a dark and pompous sound which makes him scowl in annoyance.

"Mr.Snow... when was Miss (L/n) set to arrive in the Capitol?"

The sinister question jolts the blonde awake immediately, a quick glance at the clock hanging by the door confirming his worst fears. It was four am, at least three hours past the time you were set to arrive.

"Is this a ransom call?" Coriolanus growls into the phone, his fingers clutching the receiver so tight his knuckles were beginning to redden. Teeth aching with how tensely he's clenching his law, his frantic eyes find the housekeeper's worried ones, before he urgently signals for the older woman to fetch the guards roaming the front of the property.

The stranger on the other side only chuckles in response, clearly gleeful at the distressed sound of Coriolanus' voice.

"I'm not sure, Mr. Snow. Would you like to perhaps ask her instead?"

The string of curses and violent threats bubbling under his throat never get spoken when he hears the sudden shuffling of feet and muffled arguing on the other side of the phone, before your voice fills his anxious ears.

"Hi, Corio."

Huh.

You seem awfully relaxed for someone taken as hostage.

Yes, he recalled having numerous discussions with you about such a scenario occurring once Coriolanus' status was elevated in the Capitol and you'd agreed to take on some share of the family business. And your boyfriend also knew that you'd grown up training in archery and fencing, so it wasn't as if you were wholly unprepared to defend yourself.

But still, it shocks him how your voice is completely aloof and calm, with even a hint of a smile at the end of your sentences.

"Hi, darling. Are you alright?" he carefully responds, pondering if you are perhaps being held at gunpoint and forced to speak in an unnatural manner. But you just hum in response, the same noise you'd make if he'd asked you something simple like what you wanted on your toast, nonchalant as ever.

"Yes, I'm perfectly fine. Just don't forget to water the lilies, they get very temperamental this time of the year. Wouldn't want a repeat of last April, now would we?" you joke, and Coriolanus feels himself slightly relaxing into the conversation.

"Of course not."

"And don't forget you promised me pancakes the moment I came back to the house. I've been missing your banana pancakes dearly."

He can almost picture your smile at that comment.

"Well then... you should hurry back soon." he calmly responds, only for the phone to then be ripped away from you and the stranger's voice returns - grating and aggravated. Coriolanus can tell that your kidnapper is frustrated and dumbfounded by your seemingly calm disposition and mundane conversation with your boyfriend, a revelation which fills him with great satisfaction.

"If you still want her alive, leave a suitcase of $20,000 by the coordinates sent to you. You have two hours."

As if on cue, the housekeeper rushes back in with a note - tied to a bird sent over to the house, she says - and the security team behind. Unravelling the coordinates written onto the piece of paper, and looking back at the clock, Coriolanus' mind whirls with endless possibilities.

Explaining the situation in brief, he directs three of the guards to go out into the location with a briefcase loaded with fake cash - one to drop off the bag, the other two to keep extensive watch to see who picks it up. The other two, he commands to stay by watch at the house.

Sitting in an unmarked van whilst staring at the spot where his security guard had placed the suitcase, Coriolanus' leg won't stop bouncing up and down.

He's riddled with anxiety and doubt, hating himself for being unable to protect you, worrying about your whereabouts. As even if you sounded awfully calm and capable on the phone, a part of him can't help but wonder if that was all for show, to prevent him from worrying too much.

A torturous hour passes before Coriolanus gets a call from the housekeeper.

"Sir, she's home."

He nearly drops the phone.

"What?"

"Miss (Y/n) is home. She is sitting in the kitchen, having a cup of tea as we speak."

It's a blur as Coriolanus commands the car to race back towards the house, his heart nearly pounding out of his chest as he bursts through the doors of the main hallway.

And there, calm as ever with a light grin on your face, is you.

You're sitting in his favorite velvet cushioned chair by the dining table. Your face smeared with blood, your clothes are torn and hanging in loose threads, and your hair is wet, red crimson droplets falling onto the floor in steady drips. And as the sun rises over the estate, the golden light illuminates your hairline and Coriolanus swears he sees a halo above your bloodied form.

"Hi, love. Sorry for worrying you."

Without a single word, he rushes over to you and nearly yanks you up to a standing position, backing you up against the wall to kiss you fiercely. Your knees almost buckle from the force with which he grabs your neck, his shaky breaths so desperate, his hooded eyes still looking into yours as his left hand suddenly shows a ring box in his hand.

"Marry me, darling."

You blink twice, surprised at the sudden action, as he chuckles and laces his fingers with yours - blood on blood.

"We're perfect for each other. You are my soulmate, my perfect pair: body, heart and soul. Truthfully, I've had the ring with me for almost two years now, but it never felt... quite right." he pauses, taking in your shaky, happy smile. Your cold hands warming in his embrace. "Not until now. You're the one for me."

"Even if I bleed all over your kitchen?" you croak, as he slides the cool metal onto your ring finger, before kissing your bruised knuckles.

"Especially if you bleed over my kitchen. As long as it's not your own blood, of course."

It's you who closes the gap this time, nearly tackling him with the force with which you kiss him, arms encircling around his back. Smiling into the kiss, he tastes the mix of your strawberry lipgloss and the metallic hint of blood on your lips, an intoxicating combination.

When you two finally part for air, the silver band now glistening on your ring finger, Coriolanus chuckles.

"Now, would you like those banana pancakes?"

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

epilogue: "nonsense, darling. I'd clean blood off of you forever."

"I think I'm starting to see a gray hair. on you, Corio."

Your husband scowls at the playful joke in the bedroom mirror, standing up to straighten his tie as you get changed in the walk-in closet.

"Please, I'm barely 30. Are you sure you're not hallucinating, darling?" he fights back, and you peek out half-dressed from the closet, pouting.

"You're questioning my eyesight now? How could you be so cruel."

Your faux sour expression is quickly kissed away by two cold hands cupping your cheeks, and you would've lost the balance in your heels had he not steadied you immediately, his hands dropping to your waist.

"Aw, I'm sorry, petal. Will you ever forgive me?"

You pretend to think about it, cocking your head sideways.

"That would depend."

"On what?"

"Mom! Dad!"

Your snarky response is cut off by the sound of small feet pattering on the marble floor, the front doors swinging open as a small figure runs straight to you and crashes into your legs. A spitting image of you and Coriolanus, your daughter, looks up from your knees before grasping onto her father's hand.

"Up, please."

Clearly amused by the sudden burst of energy in the room and his daughter's politeness even in moments of silliness, he crouches down and picks up the squealing child who comfortably settles into his arms.

"Guess what."

"What is it, honey?" you ask, brushing the stray hair out of her eyes.

"I got the highest score in my entire class on my math test."

"Wow, that's incredible, sweetheart." Coriolanus practically melts on the spot, bouncing the child up and down as she giggles into his neck. "You are the smartest person ever, Belle."

"Not as smart as mommy." she sasses in response, looking up at you for approval. You coo, ruffling her hair affectionately before looking up at your husband with raised eyebrows.

"See, Corio? Even our daughter is kinder to me than you are."

He rolls his eyes in response, left hand sneaking out to pull you in close as his lips kiss the top of your head.

"Nonsense. I love both my girls equally." he says, only for the picture perfect moment to be interrupted by another figure rushing into the room.

"Mrs Snow, the car's just arrived for you by the fr-" the intern freezes in his steps, having clearly caught the Snow family at a private time. You of course don't mind, just being amused by the situation, and your daughter is just curious at the new person who just walked in. All the while, Coriolanus' reaction couldn't be more different, his glare sharp and mean.

"I thought I made it clear, I don't want to ever be disturbed when I'm with my family. Unless it's an absolute emergency." Coriolanus states, his tone icy and unforgiving.

By the furrowing of his eyebrows and the cold stare in his eyes, you can already anticipate the flurry of murderous thoughts filling his head before you cut in. After all, the interrupting intern, a 17 year old boy by the name of Elijah, is only trying his best. And you find him oddly endearing and sweet, particularly with how badly he tries to impress your husband.

"It's fine, Elijah. Please ignore my husband's rude comment. I'll be right out."

Setting your daughter down, Coriolanus leans forward and growls into your ear, watching the young boy scatter away quickly.

"You're too nice to him, darling. Don't you think we should dispose of him and get a new intern...."

You slap his shoulder.

"What do I always tell you? No need to create unnecessary messes. Besides, he's really good with Belle and easy to control."

He smirks at that, irises filled pink.

"You're probably right. Can't have another bloody mess on your hands to clean up."

"Or vice versa."

He leans in close, cold lips touching your forehead.

"Nonsense, darling. I'd clean blood off of you forever."

And he truly means it.

a/n: andddd that's another major Corio fic down! thank you to everyone who showed me love on my last Corio oneshot ("melting snow") and for those who answered my poll - dark soft! and possessive Corio won out but girldad!Corio also got a TON of love so I included it a bit here and will probably write a whole standalone fic with girldad!Corio as the concept. thank you again to everyone for remaining patient, I had writer's block for a bit and I've just had the most awful few weeks ever (mental health wise and life wise) so it was difficult to find moments to write.

as always, please leave a like/comment/reblog/ask if you enjoyed. the interactions is what motivates me to write! I hope you liked it hehe x

[punkpandapatrixk]

☃️What Typa City Actually Suits You~? ♦︎ Timeless Pick A Card

We were born into certain Fates, but our Destinies may look entirely different than those circumstances we found ourselves in at birth🚂Where you are in the world right now, if it isn't a place, an environment, a frequency that allows you to maintain balance, integrity and authenticity, perhaps it isn't really your Home⚓️Ain't where you belong, hon.

‘Home is not where you are born; home is where all your attempts to escape cease.’ — Naguib Mahfouz

Somewhere on this Planet your Home exists. Maybe your Soul Tribe can be found there as well☃️Your Home, is a place where you get to feel that you belong, in spite of shortcomings and disadvantages, no matter what, it feels effortless. It's an environment that has everything—well, maybe most things—you need to thrive. A frequency that just makes sense📻

The wind, the water, the earth, are calling~📠

Are you answering?

inspi: London & Madrid | IRENE's Sweet Simple Series

wispy: Kazamidori (Weather Vane) by Sakamoto Maaya

deck-bottom: XI Justice, Priestess of Wisdom, Red Physician (Galen of Pergamon)

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Pile 1 – People; Creativity; Intensity

vibe: Paris | IRENE's Sweet Simple Series

fate ain't Destiny – 3 of Pentacles

You were born into a world that has a strong sense of community. Some of you may have liked it a lot; some of you may have felt stifled and unable to focus on what you actually want. You've dreamt of a world where you can be a bit more individualistic. Go at your own pace and do creative shit that actually suits you. But it seems at times, your community doesn't understand your point of view. Generally speaking though, you aren't necessarily a loner—you do like people. You find people terribly interesting and you enjoy hearing their stories.

Essentially, you're a terrific listener. It's just that...where you came from...people are really quite foolish and uninteresting. You could die if you had to pretend any second longer that you actually cared what they have to say. The truth of the matter is, you've always wanted to be surrounded by diversity and meet people from unique backgrounds that wildly differ from your own. That's the kind of 'chit chat' you'd never tire of. When we say that you 'like people', we generally mean that you like extraordinarily interesting people.

You're someone who's quite intense, maybe that's why shallow conversations bore you to death. Where you came from, serious, intelligent, abstract conversations seem to scare the living shit out of most people. To you, people's interactions are mechanical at best. The Normies seem to operate on a very narrow range of selection of acceptable topics or themes of conversations. Thought-provoking discussions? Oh, never! Nobody wants a disaster! Sometimes, it makes you feel like a 52-hertz whale—the loneliest whale in the world.

where do I go? – Queen of Pentacles Rx

You'd like to be in a place where people care a bit less about what others are doing with their lives. Yeah sure, anywhere you go in the world nosy people exist, but a place where generally people keep to themselves would suit you better. At least that'd give you a bit more room to breathe, is what you think as a fundamental priority. A place where people wouldn't ask intrusive questions. A place where people respect personal space and will understand if you need some time to warm up before they can ask weirdly personal questions.

You'd like to go to a place where people wouldn't think ill of you just because you're eating lunch or dinner alone. It seems that you're mostly tired of having to care about or anticipate what people might think upon knowing or seeing this and that which you enjoy doing alone. You hate people being nosy or presumptuous like that. After all, what's so wrong with enjoying reading a book alone? What's so unacceptable about enjoying being indoors gardening or painting alone? It's not like you want to be alone; you just enjoy being creative on your own when there's nobody else to share or exchange interesting ideas with.

It looks like you've often had your gaze fixated on cities, countries and cultures where people appear to be far more free in pursuing their creative hobbies. You want to find your Muse; or perhaps you want to be someone's Muse. Your Soul wants you to make a career out of some wildly artistic pursuit, where the sky is the limit. A place far stranger than where you are now; perhaps one where you can hear the forests share their wisdom with you~

a Home to call my own – 7 of Pentacles Rx

The city that essentially suits your spiritual tastes is definitely a safe one. A high-trust society where crime rate is low and friends can always be relied upon even on your wildest night-outs. A city where it isn't difficult to find your way home or crash at someone's couch when the need arises. Even more importantly, a city where water and air are clean, and foods are aplenty and come in variety. Why is this important? For your mental sanity. You're the type that wants to be productive and creative.

That type of endeavour is surely to eat away at a person's sanity if they aren't surrounded by ease on the most fundamental level! You want to live in a city or country that's pretty~ Where the landscape is generally awe-inspiring; where it's easy to go to places that can immediately soothe your Soul on days you feel stressed out; where the traffic isn't crazy, so you can easily make plans to meet with your friends, for any kind of occasion. You just need a city where everything is there.

You don't mind rude people. You don't mind cold and detached people. All that matters is that most people leave you alone while the interesting ones are easy to befriend. Interesting people are rarely the sanest and creative ones can oftentimes be a little intense, but that's just what you like. You want to be surrounded by intensely powerful, smart individuals with whom the exchange of creative/artistic ideas can feel empowering, even world-changing~!

BELONGING🔻🧡

my Heart's a battleground – Red Astronomer (Johannes Kepler)

manifesting Heaven on Earth – Priestess of Fertility

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Pile 2 – Serenity; Independence; Intellectualism

vibe: Amsterdam & Barcelona | IRENE's Sweet Simple Series

fate ain't Destiny – IX The Hermit

I've a feeling, you're generally a quiet and observant one. You are very attentive to the needs of other people. You have a heart that feels deeply and you notice everything. Some of you may have developed this ability, or sensitivity, through surviving a chaotic childhood. Perhaps at some point in Life you were constantly living on edge and had to learn to observe the moods of everybody around you. You became a master at this, but it's cost you a lot of your peace of mind and a general sense of ease.

Since you're incredibly tuned in, you can easily lose yourself in the vibes and moods of the people around you. This is definitely an empath issue hahah You can often be deeply overwhelmed by constantly feeling, sensing, or 'hearing' the thoughts and emotions and desires and intentions of the people you're interacting with. Sometimes you just don't even know which thoughts are yours or others'. It takes a looot just to maintain composure and remain functional. Society is exhausting for the most part.

That's why you've often dreamt of running away to a completely hidden city where no one knows you and live there for a while just to be able to catch your breath. You've wished there could be one moment where you don't get so distracted by other people's thoughts, aenergy, expectations and, judgement. If you could be honest, unfiltered, sometimes you're just tired of being polite to everyone. You wish you could scream in their faces or hit them in the head with a guitar just to shut them up.

where do I go? – 9 of Wands

I feel that you're someone who hasn't gotten enough recognition for your immensely high IQ or EQ. When you were growing up, the adults around you could've deprived you—very, very much—of emotional and spiritual nurturing. I think they just didn't know what to do with you. You often felt like you were much, much older than your parents. You easily noticed the small things they missed. What is essential is invisible to the eye. I guess you didn't always have a clear thought or words for this feeling, but it was...just a sensation.

And in a way, those circumstances could've caused you some degree of disillusionment, maybe even disappointment. Weren't adults supposed to be the better people? You could've thought that. And it was tiring feeling the way you did. In a sense, you never really thought of where you'd want to go, but you just wanted to be in nature. To be near the waters or the mountains. I think you like the company of rocks and plants and bugs LOL At least bugs don't ask you unnecessary questions or bore you with unintelligent conversations.

If you've graduated your First Saturn Return, chances are, your Soul is beginning to pull you towards a simpler lifestyle somewhere quieter, where there aren't that many Humans and nature is aplenty. Some of you may be attracted to the idea of moving to the countryside or even to a satoyama. I sense that your Soul wants to do something more meaningful with the time you have and you honestly don't mind the 'hard work' that may come with rural living, as long as the tiredness from excessive human interactions can be mitigated.

a Home to call my own – Queen of Swords

A place that would make you feel most at home is one where you get to indulge in much more intellectual pursuits. If you did decide to move to very, very rural, underdeveloped areas on the Planet, chances are...people's variety of intelligence may look very different than those living in far bigger cities, exposed to all kinds of foreign cultures. But I feel it isn't the human interactions you deeply care about. It's your own personal activities you are concerned with.

You seem like the type who wouldn't mind living an off-the-grid kind of existence. Maybe then, there you could become a lifestyle blogger/vlogger like nyangsoop or Li Ziqi. Perhaps in a quieter environment you can finally focus fully on that book you've been meaning to write. Stuff like that. You yearn to live, perhaps permanently, in a place where you can rest your tired Soul, where your everyday Life can be, at least, more easy breezy~

There's this calm lifestyle channel called Tomei that I think you may also resonate with. She doesn't live in a rural area (I think), but she manages to carve out her very own unique aesthetic and pace that allows her to live more slowly, reflectively and meditatively. It's a vibe like this I'm trying to illustrate :D Well, where ever it may be, as long as you get to manage a work—could be freelance or remote, too—with minimal human disruption, it seems you'd be plenty satisfied ^^v

BELONGING🔻💙

my Heart's a battleground – Gold Historian (Raphael Holinshed)

manifesting Heaven on Earth – Priestess of Enchantment

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Pile 3 – Inspiration; Futurism; Dynamism

vibe: Berlin | IRENE's Sweet Simple Series

fate ain't Destiny – Ace of Cups

There are people in this world with a penchant for romanticising the past. The are also those who possess the natural ability to be utterly present in the now. You? To your own surprise, perhaps, you think constantly about renewal, rebirth and the future of Mankind. At least, since you were a kid, if there were values in your society, nation, custom—or even race—that felt outdated or they simply didn't make much sense to you, deep down... You knew you were meant to break them.

Didn't matter your gender or race, whichever country or city, growing up you felt very restricted in comparison to other people you were observing. This was simply because your mind was that expansive. You felt like a fish yearning for the ocean whilst trapped in a bowl. Thus it was that you developed a yearning for places that would make you feel more alive. You're looking for a sense of dynamism and excitement.

More so, you want to be around strange and unusual people that you wouldn't find at all in your place of origin. You are very much attracted to alien beings. For example, if you had come from an artistic background instead, you'd probably dream of moving to a commerce city like Chicago because that's what you're interested in. And vice versa; you could've come from a high society like Rose in Titanic and dream of wildin' in the West LMAO

where do I go? – 0 The Fool

Basically, you're a textbook rebel. You may not look it on the outside, but deep down, you're always thinking of exploring the world and savouring all sensations and experiences. Which...sometimes could be dangerous if you're reckless. But the funny thing is, this daredevil approach to Life seems to be attracted to you more than you it. Maybe you have strong Aquarius/Uranus or Pisces/Neptune placements in your birth chart that's kinda spelled chaos and uncertainty for most of your Life.

There seems to be a cosmic force that governs your movements, sometime in spite of your wanting to remain static and settle down. That said, it's hard to say exactly what typa city actually suits you, because you seem to manifest on your own a movement towards either chaotic environments or cities that are constantly developing and changing. It's like, from deep within your psyche, you want to be dynamic and constantly growing in knowledge and experience.

I believe this is exactly because you're an Advanced Soul. You have a mission in this world—that's why you thirst for knowledge and first-hand experiences. You want to be in the scene of whatever interests you. You could be interested in music, modelling, acting, designing, whatever, really, and you want to be where the biggest players are. That said, capital cities or places that are called the 'melting pot' of cultures and ideas would suit you the best. Diversity and dynamism are your key interests.

a Home to call my own – 4 of Wands

With you, more than the idea of what kinda city you can call Home, it's what kinda scene you can find there. As long as you can find a community that resonates with you, a culture that for the most part aligns with your values, and making a living there is genuinely exciting, that's your place. Amazingly, I'm getting a sense for some of you that it literally doesn't matter what kinda city you live in as long as the Internet works well LMAO

A high-tech society is probably important for you because you're constantly working on the Net? Some of you could be professional gamers, huh? ;D I also see that you'd generally enjoy big cities that regularly hold massive gatherings like concerts, raves, art exhibitions, sporting events and/or other exciting, maybe fascinating, 'community events' and celebrations of a more 'global' scale. Cities where 'international' or 'multicultural' can really be felt.

Alongside artists and gamers, some of you tuning into this are probably scholars and you're looking forward to be in a city where the universities are famous. Cities that contain old, revered academic institutions are probably very attractive to you. Lastly, some of you are probably interested in being part of the tourism industry! Big cities that are often popular tourist destinations could likely offer job opportunities that feel dynamic and exhilarating for you ^o^/

BELONGING🔻💗

my Heart's a battleground – Gold Magus (Johannes Faustus)

manifesting Heaven on Earth – Priestess of Rebirth

Access bonus, cards + affs on Patreon🌸

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

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[alanisstonedd]

hooper!connie doing different die jobs on his buzzcut like dennis rodman? yes plz.

cw: cussing, excessive use of hair die?, one mention of sex

an: guyssssss!!! this is for you baddiessss!!1 i will be posting sm more bcs i quit my job! YAY!! love youuuu, kisses 💋

✮ FIRST OFF - hooper!connie DEF does the heart one for VDAYYYY. hes popping out with this at least two weeks before vday, probably with your initials somewhere in the design, and your vday proposal coming shortly after. this nigga had three deep red rose bouquets, a whole light-up sign, champagne, chocolate covered strawberries, and ofc a whole buncha designer presents sitting in the corner. you had him turn around for your pic of the setup so all them hoes could see your initials... iktr girl (vday acrylics that he payed for also make an appearance grabbing the back of his neck)

✮ i lowkey think the keith haring art one is just some shit he wanted to do. nigga js doing whatever. he thought ts was cool ORRR someone designed it for him and fell in love w it

✮ im imagning hooper!con did this one for halloween w his goofy ass. i think the whole head would be cosmo bcs you went as wanda and he wanted to fully match you. coach didnt love this one as much bcsss he play too much so it became an issue (distraction) the whole game lmfao. no but fr its not as subtle - he literally has cosmo on his head, but u know bro DO NOT GAF about the damn scouts or PR issues or nothinggggg. he gon do whatever

✮ he lovessssss doing this abstract shit like its literally his favorite style to do and he feels like it goes with his vibe more. coach loves when he does this too bcs its gets hella kids talking about the game bcs its fire. and ofc con loves being all everyone is gossiping ab bcs hes an attention whore. he feeling himself tooo fucking much with these ones + always gets mad compliments on the artistry. (these look so fine on him w the chain combo when yall hunchin)

✮ he came home with this snowflake mess saying he did it for winter and you fr busted out laughing. it actually ended up growing on you though. the early january ski trip made it out the gc and he looked fine affff snowboarding and stuff with this style. everybody making corny ass jokes calling him "icy" and "cold af" and you love it.

✮ and surprise surprise, BEFORE the snowflakes - a couple weeks before christmas - he popped out with this foolishness talmbout “its for christmas mamiiii, im the grinch look-” and turned around all excited. you laughed and told him you love it bcs atp whats done is done. hes not hurting anyone lol. great ice-breaker, as most of his buzz art is. he always tryna take pics from behind so people see the design & it actually gets annoying

✮ he did this one for your bday bashhh bcs your theme was black and white. he had on a crisp all black tux on with black forces, with you in your bday dress you had planned in advance. he loved this because it complemented you guys soo beautifully. the pics were TOP TEIR u ard knowww

✮ hooper!con lovessss an animal print moment. def gets this when hes feeling experimental and different... you suggested he try an animal print, and he fully made you come to the shop so you could help him design it. he started with the purple zebra, and you did the regular leopard for him after he begged you to help him switch it up one night (he has an addiction). he starts doing this mostly on vacations because he feels like the animal print is "exotic"

✮ this one was a product of yall being fried ASF and giggling about feeling like your veins were coursing with electricity. yall went at like 2am to get some blue die & you did it for him. looked a little chopped bcs you was fried but he liked it & it ended up being so fire. one of the finest looks on him.

✮ simply peeps this on social media and decides he needs it. he liked it but thought it looked kinda stupid from the front and you only gave it like a 5/10, cute but hes done better fr.

✮ this one he LOVED. another random thing he saw on his explore page or fyp. def thought it was more fire than the snake. you also loved this one, simple but so cool. cant tell him shit with this design he think he hard fr.

©  alanisstonedd 2025 — do not steal, plagiarise, or modify my content.

[l4mplight]

Miquella and Trina; A Tragedy

Hey Tumblr. I have a lot of thoughts about Shadow of the Erdtree, and these ones... let's just say I don't think they'd do well on Reddit. It's not often that I feel particularly impacted by a particular fictional character. Usually I connect more with narrative arcs and themes, which is why I think I'm so drawn to the ephemeral, vibes based storytelling of Fromsoft's games. Playing through SOTE, though, I found Miquella (and St Trina) to be extremely emotionally compelling and relatable, and I wasn't sure exactly why. I think I've put my finger on it now though. First of all, know that I am writing from the perspective that Miquella is a sympathetic character. I know that it's not uncommon to read him as a manipulative Machiavellian villain, but I think that's both a misreading of the text as well as just plain boring. Like, he's not a Griffith clone you guys, give From some credit. Anyway, here we go.

"You have no understanding. Of Miquella the Kind. Of St. Trina's Love.

Content Warning: I'll be discussing themes of depression, and the implication of suicidal ideation.

So, a classic Fromsoftware theme is despair, and the ways we cope with a world full of it. It shows up twice in Shadow of the Erdtree; with Midra and the Frenzied Flame, where despair leads to a selfish nihilism that asks us to burn everything down, and with Thiollier and St Trina, who offer sleep as a comfort to the weary. Running a small errand for Thiollier has him say the following.

"If you find yourself… weary of the weight of this life, then just give me the word. Sleep is a balm, and eternal sleep… is an elixir."

Drinking the elixir he offers will, of course, result in an instant death. This is our first encounter with the idea of "Eternal Sleep," a more potent form of the sleep status effect that only appears here in the Shadowlands, after St Trina has been abandoned. The Velvet Sword of St. Trina tells us as much: "Silver sword of St. Trina, now stained the color of velvet. Inflicts eternal sleep. When St. Trina was abandoned, the faint, light-purple mists coalesced into an intoxicating deep-purple cloud." In order to ascend to godhood, Miquella abandons first his physical body, and then the more abstract aspects of himself. As we begin to descend down the fissure where we'll find Trina, a cross marks the spot as the place where Miquella abandoned his love. This connects Trina, "the discarded half" as Thiollier puts it, with Miquella's love. Leda confirms this in her own dialogue:

"St. Trina's love for Kind Miquella is boundless. She is, after all, his other half. Or perhaps her feelings go beyond even that. Even if she was left behind, I doubt her heart would waver."

Keep that in mind, it'll be relevant later.

Near the cross, a spirit offers up some of the most heartbreaking dialogue I've come across so far. The spirit gives us a bigger picture of Miquella's goals:

"Kindly Miquella... I see you've thrown away... something you should not have. Under any circumstances. How will you salvation offer... to those who cannot be saved? When you could not even save your other self?"

I teared up at this. The emotional impacted was aided by the fact that I ran into the spirit right after telling Moore to put his past behind him, leading him to rededicate himself to Miquella. He says:

"Hm. Maybe that’s Kindly Miquella’s love. Love for all the unloved. Love, to banish the pain."

Note here that Moore suggest Miquella's love will "banish the pain." This is also essentially what Trina's sleep does. It's a comfort to those in need. Anyway, between these two instances, we end up with a pretty good picture of the sort of god Miquella wants to become. He was already sympathetic to the outcasts of The Lands Between in the basegame, where he built Elphael and the Haligtree as a haven for those rejected by the Golden Order, such as the Albinaurics and Misbegotten we find there. In the Shadowlands, he has gone a step further. Hornsent tells us that he has committed himself, in essence, to righting Marika's wrongs.

"Miquella has said as much himself – he wishes now to throw it all away. He says the act – though undoubtedly painful – will sear clean the Erdtree’s wanton sin. The truth of his claim can be found at each cross. 'Tis evidence enough to earn my belief."

Of all of Marika's children, Miquella is the only one to see the serious flaws in her empire. Ymir points this out to us as well.

"No matter our efforts, if the roots are rotten, then we have little recourse. Ever-Young Miquella saw things for what they were. He knew his bloodline was tainted, his roots mired in madness. A tragedy if there ever was one. That he would feel compelled to renounce everything when the blame lay squarely with the mother."

My thinking here is aligned with Mother Ymir. You really have to feel for Miquella; he has essentially taken on, alone, the responsibility of making up for centuries of Golden Order imperialism. That's a massive burden to bear, especially for Miquella, cursed with eternal childhood.

(It's easy to miss, but Miquella actually ages up significantly when we see him in god-form. Until he steps back through the Divine Gate, he would have looked and sounded like he does in the introductory art and in ending memory scene. Compare those with how he appears in the boss fight, and it's clear godhood at least helped him reach puberty lol) So we've established that Miquella is the child of Imperial Rome on Steroids, is cursed with eternal childhood, and is an empathetic prodigy with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Surely his mental state is perfectly healthy, right? Right??

Final warning, this is where things get quite sad. Here is where I will try to tie Miquella's arc together with Thiollier and St Trina, and the comforting oblivion and relief from despair that sleep represents for them.

As we search for St Trina, we descend down into the Stone Coffin Fissure. This is a place of death, with massive coffins built into the fissure walls, and Gravebirds, Bloodfiends and Putrescent enemies everywhere. St Trina is found at the deepest possible pit of this fissure, in a swamp of putrescence that has since blossomed into a garden of deep velvet lilies because of her influence. Trina offers us nectar of "eternal sleep," as Thiollier did previously, and as established then, "eternal sleep" is essentially nothing more than a peaceful death. Trina seems to fit in quite well in this place of ancient dead things, with some of the ancient remains even being compelled to fight for her in exchange for eternal rest, becoming the Putrescent Knight.

(Side note for levity because we're about to get sad again; I love this guy. It's a knight made out of the skeleton of a horse, riding on that same horse's decaying flesh goop body. Like, ugh. Beautiful. Plus, it may even have taken that shape because of Trina sharing Miquella's memories of Radahn, who was never far from his horse Leonard...)

We meet St Trina in her garden, and when we imbibe her nectar, we eventually begin to hear her voice in our death-dreams. She seems to pity him. Mourn for him, almost.

"Make Miquella stop... Don't turn the poor thing into a god..."

Trina appears to be in a bad state after her fall. She can only manage to get a few words across to us at once. Just as Leda predicted, her heart hasn't wavered. She is only concerned with Miquella's well-being.

"Godhood would be Miquella's prison. A caged divinity... is beyond saving."

Trina's most pressing concern is that godhood will be a prison for Miquella. Now, this could in theory be because gods are subject to manipulation from the Fingers and the Greater Will or a similar reason, but given that she calls him a "poor thing," I think there is likely a more emotional reason behind Trina's plea. I think that Trina is speaking as the embodiment of Miquella's love, but especially his ability to love and care for himself...

"You must kill Miquella... Grant him forgiveness."

...and she asks us to kill him.

In excising Trina from his being, I think Miquella also expelled the part of himself that was able to recognize how miserable divinity would be for him, and how miserable he was. The part of him that was tired of carrying the responsibilities that his compassion demanded of him. The part of him that was exhausted, despairing and desperate from having failed to cure Malenia, failed to save Godwyn, failed to perfect the Haligtree. St Trina is the part of Miquella that wanted to be stopped, to rest, to sleep, to die. In abandoning her as he does, Miquella is essentially repressing those thoughts and feelings, replacing them with more "selfless" ones; self-sacrifice, suffering on behalf of others, his martyrdom and apotheosis. I don't want to forget about "grant him forgiveness" either. She might mean forgiveness for failing to become a god, for not being good enough to succeed Marika and right her wrings. Maybe forgiveness for failing Malenia and Godwyn, or for leaving the Haligtree behind. Maybe even for abandoning her. But on the road to godhood, Miquella can't afford to indulge in this sort of self-pity. A child craves forgiveness and approval, a god must cast these things out.

"I'm feeling rather lost. Haunted by memories. Of St. Trina. Her visage. Her scent. The lure of velvety sleep. Would Kindly Miquella chasten me? For falling for St. Trina, while knowing that she was the discarded half? The problem is… I simply cannot help it. I would sacrifice everything, just to gaze upon her, one last time."

I want to mention Thiollier one more time here too. His primary visual motif is the long white braids that he wears on his clothes, reminiscent of Miquella and Trina's own signature braids (remember, she looked like an older feminine Miquella before her fall and injury). Thiollier is obsessed with Trina, pursuing her to hear her voice and fade into the comfort of her velvet sleep, though this doesn't kill him like it does us. I don't think Thiollier is connected to Miquella in any textual way, but I think he does serve as a reflection of the sorts of thoughts Miquella may have been surpressing. The self-pity, the need for approval and love, the feelings of weakness and uselessness. These are the things that lead Thiollier to pursue endless slumber.

Thiollier doesn't give in to that despair, however. Though he initially takes St. Trina's words... poorly, he eventually realizes what must be done, and dedicates himself to his new purpose: carrying out her final wish.

"I am here to serve St. Trina evermore. I am deeply sorry. For doubting you. I am here only to grant St. Trina's singular wish. I will stop Miquella the kind. He will never become a god."

This post is already quite long, but I also want to mention the obvious gender stuff going on here. There are a number of moments that make it seem as though St. Trina might actually be more than just "half" of Miquella. Firstly, as she is shown falling in the story trailer, Leda is describing how Miquella abandoned his fate, as if Trina had a vital role to play in Miquella's future. It also seems as though Trina isn't cursed in the same way that Miquella is; her voice and size indicate that she is at least more substantial than his "infant form," and she is depicted in "adult form, somewhat unnervingly" on the Torch of St. Trina. Furthermore, her "adult form" has a third eye in the middle of her forehead. The third eye is a symbol of enlightenment in both Hinduism and Buddhism; it seems that Trina has achieved some level of wholeness in this depiction. Meanwhile, when Miquella achieves godhood, his eyes remain permanently shut. He also appears to have only one physical arm. He holds Radahn with two incorporeal arms while casting with his real right arm, but his left arm appears to fade away to nothing before the elbow, as if unfinished. Miquella's blindness and asymmetry here, I think, reflect how unbalanced and incomplete his divinity is without Trina.

One more hint towards St Trina being a part of Miquella's future lies way back at the Haligtree. In Malenia's bossroom, just above where Miquella's cocoon was once embedded into the tree, the branches and roots appear to form a silhouette. This could be Miquella, Trina, or both, but I do see a certain resemblance to Trina's depiction on the torch in the way the "hair" covers the eyes. Given that Miquella's body appears to have grown a decent amount inside of the cocoon when we see in at Mohg's palace, it's possible that the cocoon situation was his original attempt to cure himself of his own curse, or perhaps become a part of the Haligtree itself. In the Shaman Village, Marika's home, there is a similar scene. A woman's body that resembles Marika seemingly mummified within the hollow of a tree. I honestly have no idea what to make of that just yet, but I thought it worth a mention.

So, with all that in mind, abandoning Trina seems to be even more significant. Not only has Miquella divested himself of his love and his fate, but maybe even his future, too. Being eternally nascent, he is always in a state of potential, after all. Am I suggesting that Miquella is a transfeminine character? That he was meant to grow up to become a goddess in the aspect of St. Trina, or maybe even more like Marika than he already is? Well, maybe. If you find it compelling, then absolutely. Fromsoftware's storytelling is always ambiguous, and is always design to leave us some room to read and interpret, to really play in the space we are given. Personally, I do find it compelling in a horribly tragic sort of way, fitting for the setting. It's also entirely possible that I have rather self-indulgently projected some of my own angst onto these character. I likely have, to be perfectly honest. It's rare that I really connect with a set of characters or a story like I have with this lot, and I hope that maybe some of you reading this will feel similarly. If you have read this far, thanks <3

[casscainmainly]

"My long-held belief that Duke and Luke should not get along" <- could you please elaborate on this? I'm fond of both and I collect your thoughts and analyses like they're rare trading cards so I'm ready to be all 👀🫳🍿

First of all anon this might be my favourite ask ever, I've been dying to write my thoughts on these two so THANK YOU. Secondly my belief that Duke + Luke wouldn't get along actually stemmed from WFA, I was super annoyed with Luke giving Duke the pep talk in ep 76 because they have no relationship!!! Then I started thinking harder and realised they are a really interesting pair. In case anyone hasn't noticed I'm fond of giving Duke relationships where he's annoyed with the other person so 😭 this is very on brand.

The thing about Duke + Luke is they are, on the surface, similar - they are Black members of the Batfam who operate mostly independently, 'separate' from a legacy as Signal/Batwing (though I will deconstruct this later), devoted to their family, have a strong sense of justice, and view crime-fighting as a business. But I believe at their cores they are fundamental opposites - and it's this hidden opposition that makes me think they wouldn't vibe with each other. I'm focusing on We Are Robin Duke and Batwing Luke, though I will also refer to Duke's Signal days + Luke in Detective Comics.

(This is going to be a long post because this is lowkey my Luke + Duke thesis 😭)

Introductions

Duke and Luke were both introduced in the New 52, actually in the same year (2013!). What's really cool about their intros is that you already see how different they are. We first meet Duke in Zero Year, where he's fishing in the subway and then attacked by a gang; we then get the famous scene of him solving crosswords by Bruce's unconscious body. When Bruce tells Duke and his family to leave, Duke refuses, telling him they can't leave Duke's grandma and that all it takes is one riddle to free the city from Riddler's influence.

By contrast, we first meet Luke in the spotlight as he's wrestling for MMA in Batwing #19. He's been wrestling to get Batman's attention, refusing all job offers from his dad to do so (and thus creating some juicy father-son tension). In Batwing #20, we see he has two degrees from MIT, lives in a fancy apartment, and is really tech-oriented; his cover story for Batwing is that he's travelling the world.

Already, there are a couple things that already firmly separate them:

Class: Duke is from the Narrows whereas Luke is rich

Connection to Batman: Duke stumbled across Batman and gained his attention quite organically, whereas Luke was actively begging for Batman to notice him

Agency: Duke's actions were motivated by the extreme circumstances of Zero Year and a desire to help rooted in his material environment, whereas Luke's is a more internal, abstract wish to help (pointing to their class differences again)

Gotham: Duke refuses to leave his city, whereas Luke immediately packs up and travels the world

Intelligence: Both of them are fiercely intelligent, but in different ways - Duke loves puzzles and riddles whereas Luke is more inclined towards engineering and technology

And these differences only grow as they get older!!

Maturity

Duke is 16 (in my head, canonically it's vague but he's between Damian and Tim so 14-17) and Luke is 23. This age gap is honestly not that big, but I think it would feel big to both of them. And what's worse is that Duke is quite mature, but Luke is said to be immature:

Batwing #23

I don't think Luke is actually immature, but it's a recurring theme that other characters perceive him as unwilling to grow up; and I genuinely do think Batwing, for him, is kind of an adventure at first. Now compare this to Duke, whose circumstances disallowed him being childish. He had to grow up because his parents weren't around anymore, and he became quite jaded as a result. Even after he's mellowed out in his Signal days, I still don't think he could tolerate working with someone who comes off as light-hearted as Luke does. Duke would be annoyed by how he perceives Luke doesn't take things seriously, and Luke in turn would be annoyed when Duke inevitably criticises him for it.

Arc

Following on from above, their arcs are actually in total opposite directions. We first meet Duke alone and disillusioned with everything, putting his whole being into finding his parents. Then, through We Are Robin and Robin War, he begins to understand what Robin means as a symbol and finds community, leading to his brighter personality in Signal comics. Luke, however, begins very light-hearted (as seen above), with a huge respect for Batman and the Bat symbol. Once his family starts being torn apart, though, he becomes increasingly aggressive, more isolated, and in a much darker place. Compare a narration box from the last issues of both:

Batwing #34 / We Are Robin #12

These encapsulate their journeys: Duke learns that he doesn't have to act alone, whereas Luke struggles with accepting all that has happened since he put on his suit. Being a vigilante improves Duke's life, whereas it essentially ruins Luke's. This is why I don't think that WFA ep made sense!!! They have nothing in common in terms of the vigilante experience, and I think they would frustrate each other because they have such different conceptions of what the vigilante life is!!!!!!!

Batman and Robin

Okay so I said that Luke + Duke aren't legacies; even though Batwing is one, Luke doesn't actually talk to David Zavimbe, and his Batwing is not spiritually connected to David's really. But Luke and Duke both do take inspiration from other Batfam members - Batman and Robin, respectively.

Batwing #25 / Batman (2011) #45

Luke is the rare Batfam member whose motivations don't spring from tragedy - he's inspired one night when Batman saves him and he jumps in to help. Luke's love for Batman is wrapped up in Bruce himself, as a person rather than a symbol; he genuinely thinks Batman is awesome and wants to help people under his name.

Duke is the exact opposite - Robin is not a person for him but a symbol, and a symbol that can be spread to many people. It's also intimately tied with Duke's relationship to Gotham, because Batman is "on the gargoyle" and Robin is "on the street". Importantly, Duke says to Darryl that "I know you work for him, but you're us". Working for a singular person is in opposition to this 'us' that Duke believes in.

Luke, though not exactly an employee, literally wanted to work for Batman, Inc. Batwing is in many ways a 'job', an alternative to the corporate life Lucius wanted for him. Duke would, I think, take huge problems with Luke's philosophy as a whole. Separated from Gotham, attached to Batman as a person rather than as a symbol, Duke just literally wouldn't understand where Luke is coming from. And Luke, too, doesn't seem to respect Robin as a mantle (this is after someone mistakes him for Batman in Batwing #34):

I think Luke views Robin as firmly a kids' role, a sidekick for Batman; that would annoy the STUFFING out of Duke. I actually could write a whole post in itself about this incident and Luke being mistaken for Batman but that's for another day. The point is they are attached to the Batman and Robin legacies which in themselves are already vastly different, but Duke is kind of anti-Batman and Luke is a little anti-Robin, so they would not mix.

Family

One thing they do have in common is a deep love for family. But even then, their familial relationships are extremely different: Duke has a wonderful relationship with his parents, bolstered by the fact he lost them for a while, whereas Luke has a contentious relationship with his. Duke in some ways idealises his mom and dad, while Luke is sharply aware of his parents' shortcomings.

Batwing #20

Now this wouldn't be an issue normally, but Duke canonically has, like, a problem with judging other people's families. It's a really consistent (and somewhat hilarious) trait of his:

We Are Robin #5 / We Are Robin #5 / Gotham Nights #8

The Dre comment ("you're a mob kid?") is particularly telling. Because Duke has such a good relationship with his parents, and because he's shaped so much by them, I think he sees children as reflections of their parents/families. It's hard for him to see someone completely divorced from their family - you even see this a bit in Batman & The Outsiders, where although Duke understood Cass' disagreements with Shiva, I don't think he really got the nuances of what that felt like for Cass.

Luke's relationship with his father is complex and contentious. They love each other, but Lucius' desires for Luke just don't match what Luke wants, and Luke can't tell him about Batwing either so it's a constant back-and-forth. This secrecy is another thing Duke wouldn't get - I've made posts before about Duke and honesty, and it's a huge value of his. It's significant that as soon as his mom is healed she finds out about Signal; dishonesty is not really a factor in Duke's life, whereas it is Luke's central conflict. Luke's entire thing with his dad and his alter ego is something Duke has never had to deal with, and I think Duke would just be like 'tell him?? and make up??' and Luke would sigh so loud and hard.

Personality and Authority

But all of that aside, I just think their personalities wouldn't mix! Duke is a jaded teenager whose overt honesty and resistance to authority often give off a bad first impression (see his first encounters with Black Lightning, We Are Robin, Damian, even the Bruce train scene...). People do warm up to Duke quick, and once you love him you adore him, but there's a hurdle to becoming close to him that you have to leap first.

Luke, on the other hand, is affable and immediately likable. He's popular in school (as Russell mentions in #25), has experienced college social life, and is open and friendly. I think in an initial meeting Luke would find Duke off-putting and rude, while Duke would find Luke shallow and annoying. Luke is an extremely confident person, as shown in both Batwing and Detective Comics (particularly the latter). I think Duke would take this confidence as him being stuck-up, especially because Luke is rich.

Their class differences also separate their reactions to authority. Luke doesn't take authority at face value - he disobeys Bruce basically as much as Duke does. However, given his upbringing he isn't that anti-authority. Compare Luke and Duke's attitudes to cops:

Batwing #25 / We Are Robin #2

The Luke narration box is after the cops shoot him and accidentally make him kill his best friend 😭😭😭 like if that had happened to Duke his inner voice would NOT say that. This is another example of how their different upbringings and personalities cause them to have DRASTICALLY different outlooks on things. Batwing also sides with Batwoman when she kills Clayface in Detective Comics, something I think Duke would not do (he would've sided with Cass) so their ideologies often put them on opposite sides.

FINALLY, and least importantly, Luke is not a reader. This is a recurring thing and it's so funny:

Batwing #21

That's Tam telling Luke to "read a book". I think this exact interaction would happen with Duke taking the place of Tam, where he'd just be super annoyed that Luke doesn't enjoy literature. Honestly I think Duke might remind Luke of Tam in a lot of ways, since Duke is Bruce's golden child just like Tam is Lucius'. And that would annoy Luke, like he can't escape annoying younger siblings even as Batwing?? Bruce liking Duke more than Luke, even when Duke doesn't even care for Bruce's approval, would send Luke's blood pressure through the ROOF.

Conclusion

Um anyway I'm so so sorry this was so long but that's why I think Luke and Duke wouldn't get along!! It's mostly that they have such different outlooks on literally everything and their personalities clash. Anyway, if anyone bothered to read til the end here's your reward!! A little edit of what SHOULD have happened in WFA ep 76:

[comicaurora]

How do you decide if your story should be told as book or as a comic? It's purely through preference? Themes? Aesthetics? I have examples of both as my favorite stories, but I can't decide for the life of me

I think if you have a really clear image in your head, it kind of needs to be done visually, because prose is entirely interpetive and all the visuals get built in the audience's head using your writing as the loose prompt. However, prose is very good at efficiently communicating broad impressions, internal thoughts and potentially extremely abstract and non-visualizable concepts. They're good at different things.

If you think it'll lessen the impact if the audience doesn't see exactly what expression character A is making when confronted with situation B, you just gotta show them exactly what that looks like. In contrast, if you're much more focused on making the audience feel something specific, you might want the precise vibes control you get in prose.

[rist-ix]

Bloom's turn!

I'm gonna admit, I don’t think Bloom's reboot design is bad. I was ranting about Aisha's a lot, but despite me generally disliking Bloom's recent pink trend, this new design is… fine?

Anyway, redesigning it out of principle:

My main criticisms about the canon design are that the hair looks wack and the wings are too messy, but I do really like the added pinks for once! I still wish there was less of it, but combined with the more cosmic looking background (which I love!) it looks really celestial and warm. Idk I don’t have a lot of complains about the palette this time.

I wish her little half-sleeve was a bit less transparent, it’s barely visible like this and I really like that one shot where it appears on her arm. Deserves to shine a little more in my opinion. The shoulder pad… I like the idea behind it? I think it looks really awkward in execution though. I made it symmetrical and more collar-like because that made it more royal-looking in my opinion. Almost prince-ly, like some kind of ceremonial military uniform. Not because it reminded me of Utena haha noooo

Anyway, more thoughts under the cut:

I've kind of done the same thing I did with Aisha's wings in that redesign, but instead of making it look like water caustics I went for some more plain flame-looking patterns. It's very abstract, but as long as it vaguely resembles fire I’m happy. For the top, I tried to stick relatively close to canon — mainly because canon sticks very close to OG Bloom! Praise where praise is due, I appreciate the thought. Because the top part of the top is very narrow tho, that means the weird little shoulder pad ends up looking like an awkward little flap instead of armor. I’m deducting points for that. Granted, I also didn’t make it look like armor in my version, but I feel like that royal little suit-look would work AMAZING for that one shot where Bloom carries Icy bridal-style. You agree.

For the overall look, I went for much more symmetry than Aisha's redesign. I think Aisha being very headstrong and independent means she can afford to break patterns more, like she has her own way of doing things, even for clothing. But Bloom is still very new to being a fairy. I think she would be more than happy with just fulfilling her role as a fairy, so she can look a bit more… girl-next-door, I guess. That sporty little ponytail and singular sleeve should keep it from looking too well-behaved, I hope. I actually really like the ponytail in canon too, it’s just the sudden bangs that throw me off. Plus, I feel like the braids look odd. Don’t know why tho.

One detail I want to highlight: I made two version of her little headpiece. I feel like the first version is what Bloom should wear when she first starts out, and doesn’t yet know who she is. They’re just round little hair clips, mimicking the shape on her collar and creating a bit of a triangle, with Bloom's face at the center. But! They can also look like stunted little horn-stumps, in a way. So when Bloom regains her power in the finale, they can evolve into full little dragon horns, like she's molting out of her awkward hatchling stage.

I'm really happy with this! I feel like the vibe is a good blend between formal goody-two-shoes, and confident — maybe a little too cocky — little superhero. A bit girly, a tiny bit tomboyish, and a whole lot of kick-ass. Now if only I hadn’t set the resolution to like. 4 pixels in any direction. Wouldn’t that be fun.

[domm1etae]

My Good Boy

f!reader x yunho

oneshot | mdni

2.8k

Yunho is always eager to please his noona, Y/N

nsfw tags under

f/m, vaginal sex, teasting, dirty talk, subby yunho, dominant reader, pet names, slight begging, little age gap, oral sex, handjob, mommy kink, needy, and moooore...

Yunho stepped out of his architecture class, checking his phone for any messages from his girlfriend, Y/N. Even though they’d been dating for nearly a year, he still felt his heart race every time he thought about her. Y/N wasn’t like anyone he had ever met—she was older, bold, and carried herself with a quiet confidence that Yunho admired. She was in her final year of her literature program, and while they were both busy with their studies, they always made time for each other.

Today, Y/N had texted him that she’d be working on her thesis at her favorite coffee shop, the one tucked away in a quieter part of town. It had become their little spot—a cozy, vintage café with bookshelves lining the walls and the soft sound of jazz playing in the background. He smiled, already excited to see her.

When he arrived, he spotted Y/N in her usual corner, sitting by the window. The light streaming through the large glass panes made her look like she was glowing, and Yunho’s breath caught for a moment. Her signature style was as striking as ever—dyed purple hair falling in soft waves around her face, a loose, oversized sweater hanging off one shoulder, and a few silver rings on her fingers as she scribbled in a notebook.

Yunho quietly approached, setting a coffee down in front of her. "Hey, beautiful," he whispered, leaning down to kiss her cheek.

Y/N looked up, her face breaking into a bright smile when she saw him. “Hey, babe. You just saved my day—I’ve been staring at these pages for hours, and I’m losing my mind.”

Yunho chuckled as he sat down across from her. "I figured you could use a break. How’s the thesis going?"

Y/N groaned dramatically. “It’s coming along, but I’m starting to feel like I’ll never be done. I’m rewriting this one chapter for the third time, and it’s still not right.”

Yunho admired her dedication, even if he worried that she pushed herself too hard sometimes. “You’re going to nail it, noona. You always do,” he reassured her, gently squeezing her hand across the table.

She gave him a small smile, appreciating his words, but Yunho could see the exhaustion in her eyes. “Why don’t we get out of here for a bit?” he suggested. “There’s this new art gallery downtown I’ve been wanting to check out. What do you say? Let’s take a break, just the two of us.”

Y/N tilted her head, thinking it over before she grinned. “Alright, deal. But you have to promise to help me with my project afterward.”

Yunho laughed. “Anything for you.”

After quickly packing up her things, they stepped out into the crisp fall air, hand in hand as they walked down the cobblestone streets of the old part of the city. Yunho loved these moments—walking side by side, talking about anything and everything, with no one around to interrupt. Y/N had such a relaxed vibe when they were together, and she brought out a more carefree side of him.

“So, how’s architecture treating you?” Y/N asked as they strolled.

“It’s… a lot,” Yunho admitted with a chuckle. “I’ve been working on this huge project, and I don’t think I’ve slept properly in a week.”

Y/N smiled sympathetically. “Sounds like we’re both in the same boat, huh?”

They made their way to the gallery, a small, intimate space with local artists' work on display. Inside, Yunho took Y/N’s hand and led her through the various exhibits. She was always so thoughtful when it came to art—commenting on little details that Yunho hadn’t even noticed. Her passion for creativity was one of the things that drew him to her in the first place.

At one point, while they were standing in front of a large abstract piece, Yunho turned to her, watching the way her eyes studied the painting. “You know,” he said softly, “sometimes I think you’re the most beautiful piece of art I’ve ever seen.”

Y/N’s face flushed at his words, and she rolled her eyes playfully. “You’re so cheesy, Yunho.”

“I’m serious,” he murmured, stepping closer to her. “You’re like no one else, Y/N. I’m really lucky.”

Y/N’s teasing expression softened, and she reached up to brush a strand of hair away from his face. “I’m the lucky one,” she whispered before leaning in to kiss him softly.

Yunho felt his heart soar as their lips met, the world around them fading away. There was something magical about moments like these—just the two of them, no deadlines or stress to worry about. When they finally pulled apart, Y/N rested her forehead against his.

“I think I needed that more than I realized,” she said with a small laugh.

Yunho smiled, his hand gently tracing the curve of her jaw. “Then I’m glad I dragged you out of that café.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon at the gallery, completely lost in their own little world. By the time they left, it was already getting dark, and they walked back toward Y/N’s apartment together. The streetlights illuminated their path, casting a warm glow as they walked in comfortable silence.

When they reached her door, Y/N turned to Yunho with a mischievous grin. “You’re staying over, right?”

Yunho’s cheeks turned pink at the suggestion, but he nodded. “If you want me to.”

“Of course I do,” she said, opening the door and pulling him inside.

Once they were in the privacy of her apartment, Y/N dropped her bag on the couch and turned to him with a playful glint in her eyes. “Now, about that project help you promised…”

Yunho chuckled, his hands sliding around her waist. “I didn’t forget.”

She smirked, leaning in to whisper against his ear. “Good. Because I’ve got a few ideas.”

Yunho’s heart raced as she led him toward her bedroom, her boldness always leaving him breathless. Even though he tried to act cool around her, Y/N’s confidence and forwardness never failed to make him feel shy and flustered, which only seemed to amuse her more.

Once they were inside, Y/N gently pushed Yunho onto the bed, straddling his lap as she leaned down to kiss him again. Her hands roamed over his chest, sending sparks of heat through his body.

“Noona…” Yunho whispered breathlessly, his hands gripping her hips.

“Shh,” she murmured against his lips. “Just relax, babe. Let me take care of you.”

Yunho's breath hitched, eyes wide with anticipation as she slid her hands up his chest. A teasing smile played on Y/N’s lips, her gaze darkening with intent as she leaned back slightly, giving him just enough space to breathe before she whispered, “Stand up. Pants off. Let noona show you how much of a good boy you've been.”

Yunho’s heart pounded in his chest, and he didn’t hesitate for a second. He quickly stood, his hands trembling as he fumbled to unbutton his jeans. Once his pants and boxers slid down to the floor, he kicked them away, his hard length standing at full attention. His cheeks flushed, feeling both exposed and utterly captivated by the way Y/N’s eyes roamed his body.

She let out a breathless laugh, the sight of him so eager making her insides tingle with excitement. “Good boy,” she cooed, leaning forward and running her hand along his thigh before lightly tracing her fingers over his cock. Yunho gasped, biting his lip to stop a moan from escaping, but Y/N didn’t let him hold back for long. Her other hand wrapped around his length, stroking him slowly as she pulled him down into a rough, messy kiss.

Yunho whined into the kiss, his lips moving desperately against hers. His hands fisted the sheets beside them, but Y/N didn’t stop, not even for a moment. “N-noona,” he whimpered, his voice shaky. “I-I can’t hold it. It’s too much…”

Y/N pulled back just enough to meet his teary eyes, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, “You don’t have to hold back, baby. Just let go for noona.”

His eyes fluttered closed, her soft voice melting him into submission. She pumped him harder, her thumb teasing over the sensitive head as Yunho gasped and whimpered. “You’ve been such a good boy,” she praised, “and good boys get rewarded, don’t they?”

Yunho nodded frantically, his body trembling with need. "Y-Yes, noona… please—please let me cum… I’m so close…”

“Then cum for me, Yunho,” she whispered, her breath warm against his neck as she stroked him faster, her grip firm and unrelenting. “Make a mess for noona.”

It didn’t take long for Yunho to unravel. His body tensed, his breathing quickened, and with a low moan, he spilled over her hand, his hips jerking forward as he came, the intense pleasure leaving him shaking. Y/N watched him intently, her own arousal building as she guided him through his release, her strokes slowing but not stopping until she knew he had nothing left to give.

Once he was spent, Yunho collapsed onto the bed, panting heavily. Y/N smiled down at him, wiping her hand on a nearby towel before leaning over to kiss his forehead. "You did so well, babe," she murmured, her fingers brushing through his hair softly. "So perfect for me."

Yunho blushed at her words, still coming down from the high, his body limp and satisfied. "Th-thank you, noona," he mumbled, voice hoarse from the intensity of it all.

But Y/N wasn’t quite finished yet. Her hand moved down between her own legs, teasing herself as she whispered in his ear, "Now it's my turn, puppy. Show me how well you can use that mouth of yours."

Yunho's eyes widened slightly, but he nodded eagerly, his body still buzzing with the desire to please her. He shifted, positioning himself between her legs, ready to give her the same pleasure she had just given him.

Yunho lowered himself between Y/N's legs, his heart racing as he settled into the new position. The scent of her arousal filled his senses, making his mouth water with anticipation. He glanced up at her, a hint of nervousness in his wide eyes, but her encouraging smile was all the reassurance he needed.

“Good boy,” she murmured softly, her fingers running through his hair in gentle strokes. “Now, show me how much you want to make me feel good.”

Yunho leaned in slowly, pressing soft kisses along the inside of her thigh, making her gasp as he got closer. His tongue darted out to trace a line up her folds, tasting her for the first time. Y/N let out a low moan, her hips arching slightly off the bed as her fingers tightened in his hair. That simple reaction spurred him on, the praise from earlier still echoing in his mind as he worked to please her.

“Just like that, baby,” she breathed, her voice laced with pleasure. “Keep going.”

Her approval sent shivers down his spine, and Yunho became bolder, his tongue exploring her eagerly. He teased her entrance, then flicked his tongue over her sensitive clit, drawing a soft gasp from Y/N’s lips. The sound made him growl softly against her, the vibrations adding to her pleasure as her hands tugged harder on his hair, pulling him closer.

“Y-Yunho,” she moaned, her breath hitching as she felt the heat build inside her. He was so eager, so willing to do anything to make her feel good. His mouth worked over her with increasing confidence, alternating between sucking gently on her clit and plunging his tongue inside her wet heat. The combination of his movements had her toes curling in no time.

Yunho glanced up briefly, eyes dark with lust as he watched her reactions closely. He loved the way her face twisted in pleasure, how her thighs trembled around him as she tried to hold herself together. It fueled him to do more, to be better for her.

“Noona, you taste so good,” he groaned, voice thick with desire as he pulled away just for a second. “I want more.”

Y/N moaned at his words, her fingers digging into his scalp as she pushed his head back down. “Then don’t stop, baby,” she commanded breathlessly, her voice needy. “I’m so close… don’t you want to make me cum?”

That was all Yunho needed to hear. He dove back in, his tongue lapping at her feverishly while his fingers dug into her thighs, holding her steady as he brought her closer to the edge. He focused on her clit, flicking it with precision until Y/N’s breathing became erratic, her moans higher-pitched, her body trembling uncontrollably.

“Fuck—Yunho, I’m gonna—”

Her words dissolved into a loud, broken moan as the pleasure finally crashed over her like a wave. Her hips bucked up against his mouth as her orgasm hit, her body shaking as Yunho continued to work her through it, his mouth never leaving her until he felt her body start to relax beneath him.

When she finally came down, Y/N’s chest was heaving, her entire body limp from the intensity of her release. Yunho pulled back slightly, his lips and chin glistening with her wetness, and he looked up at her with a proud, almost shy smile.

“Did I do good, noona?” he asked softly, his voice filled with a mix of excitement and hesitation.

Y/N chuckled breathlessly, her eyes heavy with satisfaction as she gazed down at him. “You did amazing, baby,” she whispered, reaching down to cup his face in her hand. “Come here.”

Yunho crawled back up the bed, and as soon as he was close enough, Y/N pulled him into a deep, slow kiss. She could taste herself on his lips, and it only made her kiss him harder, her hands roaming over his bare skin as she pulled him on top of her.

“I’m not done with you yet,” she murmured against his lips, a wicked smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You still owe me one more round.”

Yunho’s eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. He was still sensitive from the earlier release, but the way Y/N looked at him made his cock twitch in anticipation. “N-noona… I don’t know if I can…”

Y/N smirked, her fingers trailing down his chest until they wrapped around his half-hard cock, stroking it gently. “Oh, you will,” she whispered, her voice a seductive promise. “Trust me, baby. I’ll make sure you’re ready.”

Yunho whimpered, already feeling himself harden under her touch. He knew he was in for it, but he couldn’t deny how much he craved it—the way Y/N took control, the way she made him feel both vulnerable and desired all at once. He would do anything for her, and she knew it.

With a teasing grin, Y/N shifted her hips and guided Yunho’s cock to her entrance. She bit her lip, holding his gaze as she whispered, “Now be a good boy and fuck your noona like you mean it.”

Yunho groaned, his resolve crumbling as he pushed into her, feeling her warmth envelope him. It was slow at first, but Y/N wasn’t patient. She wrapped her legs around him, urging him to go faster, harder, until their bodies moved in perfect rhythm. The bed creaked beneath them, their moans filling the room as they lost themselves in the pleasure of each other.

It didn’t take long for Yunho to feel that familiar tightness building in his gut again, but this time he didn’t hold back. He thrust into her with everything he had, his breath ragged, his hands gripping her hips as she moaned his name over and over.

“Yunho,” she gasped, her nails raking down his back as her own pleasure built again. “Fuck, baby, I’m gonna cum again—don’t stop!”

Yunho gritted his teeth, doing everything he could to hold on for her. He wanted to last, to make sure she came first, but he was so close. “N-noona, I—”

“Cum for me, baby,” she moaned, pulling him down for a kiss. “Cum inside me. I want to feel you.”

That was all Yunho needed to hear. With one final thrust, he buried himself deep inside her, spilling his release with a low, guttural moan. Y/N came with him, her body tightening around him as they both reached their peaks together, their moans mixing as they rode out the high.

Finally spent, Yunho collapsed on top of her, their bodies tangled together as they panted, trying to catch their breath. Y/N chuckled softly, running her fingers through his damp hair.

“You’re so perfect,” she whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “My perfect boy.”

Yunho smiled tiredly, his heart swelling at her words. He felt safe, content, and utterly loved. "Only for you, noona," he murmured, closing his eyes as sleep slowly overtook him.

[toastytrusty]

ok i know I'm a few days late now BUT! full thoughts on hickey davechella.

his undiagnosed playlist is mostly instrumentals. could represent how disconnected he feels from reality, could represent him repressing his emotions/ignoring his issues/masking his true self/whatever. you get it

the non instrumentals on undiagnosed are really upsetting. was lowkey crying listening to Black Holes In The Sand. gives credence to the disconnected from reality theory

also Come Over. is the vibe self hatred, self pity, something else? lots of family issues certainly but we'll get to that later

I Would for You (on undiagnosed) is also on gibson's playlist. lol

The Sound of the End of Music (on undiagnosed) is a mash up of This is the End and The Sound of Music. This is the End was on tozer's playlist. lol

an undiagnosed hickey attatching himself to other people and mirroring them rather than developing his own sense of self? likely story. morphing how he thinks they are and what he thinks they like into something else entirely? even more likely

The Angel Gabriel on undiagnosed. just everything about that. why is he listening to christian hymns. i' m gonna freak out

the songs on undiagnosed that can only be described as Weird Noises. Shell Cameo, which is a single piano with? shower noises? in the background? Weather Three immediately after that, which is just. 12 minutes of doom sirens. he likes weird noises

Glory Only Once also very similar. anyone else hear the ominous whistling? 😂

so many orchestral pieces. what a cultured young lad

Vexations: Vexations: Thème being almost complete silence. kind of similar to the instrumentals possibly representing a disconnect from reality. there's just nothing

The Unanswered Question has a lot to unpack. i don't wanna ramble Too much about music history and the significance of this song but. it is a piece in conflict with itself, asking itself questions and leaving itself unsatisfied. it's about the inherent terrifying disorder of existence. it's about finding comfort in solitude and silence. you ever think

Don't Smoke in Bed. just. everything about that song. yeah

now on the treatment playlist. his music taste fucking rocks. we got ella fitzgerald we got father john misty we got jeff buckley we got the beatles we got peter gabriel we got bruce springsteen. he is cooking

first song on treatment, What Do You Think Will Happen Now? feels like affirmations and something he's trying to convince himself of rather than something he yet believes. prefacing the playlist with a new positive worldview, representing his journey with getting treatment? perhaps?

he immediately has more weird noises on treatment. Hocket for Two Voices: I.— is very short and i am sure there is lovely musical theory behind it that i am not smart enough to comprehend but it is kinda just weird noises to the untrained ear. A Boy Called Conjuror is also like this. a love of weird noises transcends therapy!

I'm 89 falls into a similar category. he just listens to people talk. he is clearly still quite lonely

there is still a good amount of instrumentals on treatment, but the vibe is Decidedly different. big Maybe It's All Going To Be Okay energy. Forever Held made me cry the first time i heard it

most of the songs are not instrumental though! very lyrical. something about him approaching and processing his issues.

the songs about love on treatment. All The Right Reasons is very deeply moving Made me cry a bit. Love Love Love actually made me take my headphones off stand up and walk across my room but maybe i'm just too mountain goats pilled

side note for that: the song called Love on undiagnosed is an instrumental. love was something abstract and impossible to define or put into words before, but now it feels a lot more real.

It's Only A Paper Moon was very moving. he just needed someone to believe in him

Because the Night. i laughed. even treated modern hickey yearns for cannibalism as a metaphor for love. i'm joking. mostly

we still got christian themes in treatment! they are, however, less overt. like it's become a part of something else and can peacefully exist alongside him, rather than being so blatant and forceful. the jeff buckleys, father john misty (kinda.), etc

SPEAKING OF THE JEFF BUCKLEYS AND THE FATHER JOHN MISTY. New Year's Prayer is a heavy hitter. it's hard to pin down the exact vibes but it's somewhere between coping and accepting. if you get it. and Bored in the USA is one of the most reminscent of show hickey's pysche, imo. it's steeped in fear and regret and a resigned kind of hope

in line with the religion stuff. the orchestral piece, Gnossienne: No. 3, references gnosticism, a religious doctrine that supposes divinity can only be found in rejecting the material world (because it is evil) and the god that created it (because it is evil), and instead finding salvation in some secret hidden being through a different kind of spirituality. lol

Nobody's Fault but My Own is kind of heartbreaking honestly. it shows how much he Is healing and Is processing and Is taking accountability and changing the way he views the world. one of the most impactful imo

Kansas City felt very reminscent of show hickey's relationship with london

Mercy Street. so much to unpack. the daddy issues. the remorse. the begging for forgiveness.

even more family issues because the last song on the treatment playlist is My Father's House. it felt kind of like an ultimate culmination of the thesis of treatment being him facing his issues and being forced to confront and process them. there's an element of being too late to right the wrongs of your past, but there's also the element of accepting that, and forgiving yourself

now. the radioheads on both albums. both second to last song on their respective playlist. How to Dissappear Completely on undiagnosed, How to Dissappear into Strings on treatment. the first one was kind of viscerally upsetting and felt very in line with how disconnected the entire undiagnosed playlist was, almost like he doesn't feel real. one of the few lyrical songs on a mostly instrumental playlist is about how much he's Not a part of the world around him. smth smth the only thing he can put into words is that he has no words. however, How to Dissappear into Strings is Not! lyrical! it is entirely instrumental, on an otherwise predominantly lyrical playlist. like he's not thinking about dissapearing anymore, or he can no longer put words to it. it's still there, some things can't be magically cured and made go away forever, but it's less, now.

aspects of both playlists being very similar, sharing sounds and themes and artists, felt very much like healing not being linear, and treatment not entirely changing who you are. it's clearly the same person behind each playlist, with different experiences shaping them differently, but the same nonetheless. it's really beautiful

and to close out, i just want to say how meaningful this whole experience with hickey's playlists was to me. it was genuinely so truly truly moving to witness a character that is clearly severely mentally ill be given the grace and opportunity to heal and overcome their struggles, rather than it being homogenized into the rest of them. so often characters like this are not treated with the same potential to overcome, and are condemned to just being Like That forever, as if their struggles are inseparable from their essence and something that defines them. they are wholly characterized by being quirky and insane and inconsolably evil. but that clearly was not how this was treated at all (and never how hickey has been treated by the show), and being able to witness hickey's journey across these two playlists was very cathartic to me, and i appreciate it. a lot.