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jungkoode · 13 days ago

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𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 24

��｡°✩ mirrors ✩°｡⋆

"When you're dealing with Jason, who talks about literature like it matters and opens car doors, the friendship bracelet feels like something from a different version of you. One that's messier, pettier, still half-formed."

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⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 8k

content: coffee dates with intelectual men (jason derulooooo), friendship bracelet anxiety, protective!yoongi, mia aftermath discussions, tessa planning

✧ author's note ✧

Okay. Before you all start side-eyeing Jason for breathing, let's set something straight—you're biased. And you're totally valid for that.

This is a Jungkook x Reader fanfic. Obviously, we're all rooting for the emotionally constipated trauma boy who talks with his eyes and stores all his feelings behind gym towels and granola bars. I get it. I'm rooting for him too. But Jason is not here to steal your man. He's here to teach. To nudge. To trigger reflection. He's not necessarily here to stay—but he is important. For Y/N. For her growth. For us to see what it looks like when she's treated decently on surface level, so we can question what actually feels good, and what merely feels safe.

Jason, like every man I write, is not perfect. (You'd think I'd spare at least one of them but alas, I'm God here and a mean one.) Y/N is looking at him through rose-colored glasses—yes, that's intentional. But this is not your cue to dissect him like a frog and declare "something about him rubs me wrong, Kiki please kill him." Let's calm down, Hannibal. Not every man who isn't Jungkook is a villain in this story.

And speaking of bias—let's talk about Y/N. I want to gently remind you all: this story is told through her perspective. That means the narration is not omniscient. It's filtered through a lens of impulsivity, self-sabotage, and defense mechanisms. She's in her 20s and emotionally immature in ways that mirror her environment, her upbringing, her trauma. So yes—you'll read lines where she praises Jason and drags Jungkook through the mud like he owes her money. That's part of her architecture. Not mine. I don't write self-insert. I write character. And Y/N is doing what a lot of us do—projecting simplicity onto what's new and shiny, and demonizing what's familiar and complicated.

Because when you're operating from trauma, you fixate on the flaws that allow you to detach. On the safe narrative. Jungkook is socks on the couch. Jungkook is dumb. Jungkook is the roommate who yells too loudly when he's playing CoD. Not Jungkook who didn't burst into his bedroom during her panic attack because he knew she wouldn't want to be seen. Not Jungkook who's messy, perhaps not attentive when it comes to mugs in the sink—but attentive in the things that matter.

So yes. Y/N is unfair toward Jungkook in this chapter. And Jungkook is unfair toward her, too. And they will keep on being unfair and you'll want to scream and you'll say 'they're stupid' and yes they are. That's the point. That's humanity. That's how we cope—through flawed logic and messy defenses. It's ugly and real and mine.

Tessa. Let's go there. I've said it before, but I'll reiterate it loud enough for the back rows: Tessa is not the villain. She's not here to be the hot girl we all collectively throw into a fictional toilet. She's kind. She's respectful. She shares common interests with Jungkook. She's doing her thing. And that's exactly why she throws Y/N off. Because it would be easier to hate her if she were rude. If she were smug. But she's not. And that's the dissonance. That's the discomfort. Tessa would probably be a friend if the circumstances were different. But she's not. She's interested in Jungkook. And Y/N is sleeping with Jungkook. So while jealousy isn't the correct word, there's still that… gut feeling. That primal "mine" that you don't have to be in love to feel. Especially when someone's the only person who's ever made you feel wanted and safe in your body. (She did say he knows where the clit is. Let's not forget that.)

And Jungkook—again, for all his confusion and emotional hoarding—does not make fun of her for liking things. He forces her to confront her wants, to allow herself to enjoy things without guilt. Encourages them. Creates space for them. And she doesn't consciously realize that. But subconsciously? It's why she's defensive. Why she's scared of losing it.

Last thing I'll touch on: Yoongi. Because I love the way he shows up here—not loud, not meddling, but present. I made a point of explaining his schedule (beyond just plot convenience lmao) because I think it's important to portray him realistically. He's a producer. He's constantly working. And yet, when he is home, he doesn't overstep. He doesn't offer gossip. He doesn't reveal Jungkook's mess. He respects Jungkook's boundaries. He gives Y/N a branch. A little nudge. And if you know Yoongi, you know that's massive. That's someone who sees pain but respects the privacy of it. That's how love shows up in quiet friendships.

So yeah. That's Chapter 24. Not a love story. Not yet. It's a story about mirrors. About coping. About not knowing what you want until someone else tries to hand it to you, and you flinch.

Enjoy Jason while he's here. He's the first of some.

Now go read. Come back messy.

Love, Kiki (who writes enemies-to-lovers and then gets mad when they don't like each other yet) (ಥ﹏ಥ)

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Turns out seventy-something grandmothers also read vampire and werewolf books.

Sunday shifts at Barnes & Noble are usually dead—just you, the books, and the occasional lost tourist looking for the bathroom.

But today feels off-kilter, like everything's been shifted two inches to the left.

You keep catching yourself touching the bracelet on your wrist, the beads spelling "ROGUE" pressed against your skin, a constant reminder of last night's decisions.

You still haven't taken it off. Haven't even considered it, really, which is weird because it's just a stupid tacky bracelet. Wearing it shouldn't mean anything. It's not like you and Jungkook are actually friends.

Are you?

…No. Definitely not. Just roommates who occasionally don't want to murder each other. Roommates who sometimes have really good sex. Roommates who made matching bracelets in a moment of insanity.

Fuck, that does sound like friendship.

"Excuse me, dear?"

The voice pulls you from your spiral, and you realize you've been staring at the same page of inventory for at least two minutes.

The woman standing at your register is tiny, maybe five feet tall on a good day, with perfectly coiffed silver hair and pearl earrings that are definitely not fake.

"Sorry," you mutter, quickly scanning the five hardcover books she's placed on the counter. The entire Twilight saga, special edition with gold-edged pages. "Did you find everything okay?"

"Oh yes, thank you," she says, pulling out a wallet that looks expensive in that understated way rich people prefer. "My book club is doing a throwback month. We're revisiting our guilty pleasures."

You nod absently, focusing on bagging the books without making eye contact. Just get through this transaction and then you can go back to questioning your life choices in peace.

"So," she says as you process her credit card, "Team Edward or Team Jacob?"

Your head snaps up, certain you've misheard.

"I'm sorry?"

"The eternal question," she says with a wink. "Which supernatural suitor would you choose? The brooding vampire or the hot-headed werewolf?"

Is this happening? Is this actually happening right now?

You stare at her, completely dumbfounded.

She's got to be at least seventy, wearing a cashmere cardigan and sensible heels, asking you about fictional teen heart-throbs like you're at a middle school sleepover.

You open your mouth to give some non-committal answer, but then you remember Dora from the laundry room. How quickly you'd dismissed her as a cranky old lady, only to discover she was just a widow feeling lonely.

Maybe this woman is the same—just looking for a moment of connection in her day.

"I'm honestly Team Alice," you say, surprising yourself with the genuine smile that forms. "She was probably a better choice than either of those two drama queens."

The woman's face lights up with delight.

"Oh! Bold choice. I like that." She leans in conspiratorially, lowering her voice. "I'm Team Edward, myself. I guess I like old men after all."

A startled laugh escapes before you can stop it. "He is like a hundred years old in a teenager's body. Very problematic."

"Precisely why it's a guilty pleasure, my dear," she says, accepting the bag you hand her. "The best kind of fiction lets us enjoy things we'd find appalling in real life."

There's something weirdly profound about that statement coming from a pearl-wearing grandmother buying vampire romance novels on a Sunday afternoon.

"Enjoy your book club," you say, meaning it.

"I will. And you enjoy whatever team you're on," she replies with a wink, nodding toward your wrist where the friendship bracelet sits.

Before you can respond, she's walking away, her heels clicking rhythmically against the floor.

You stare after her, feeling like you've just had some kind of surreal encounter with a Twilight-loving fairy godmother.

The rest of your shift passes in a blur of restocking shelves and helping lost customers find the bathroom.

By the time you clock out, the Twilight grandma feels like a fever dream—something your brain made up to break the monotony. But the conversation stays with you, an unexpected bright spot in an otherwise tedious day.

You're still thinking about it when you unlock the apartment door three hours later.

"Hello?" you call out, dropping your keys on the entry table with a clatter.

Nothing.

The apartment is empty, the silence confirming what you already knew—you've got the place to yourself.

No Yoongi with his silent judgment. No Griffin with his judgmental silence. And no Jungkook with his...

…

Whatever.

You check your phone.

An hour and a half until you're supposed to meet Jason for coffee.

Plenty of time to shower away the retail grime and maybe even put on something that doesn't scream ‘I've been folding books for eight hours.’

As if sensing your thoughts, your phone pings with a text.

𝐉𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧: 𝚂𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 4? 𝚆𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚞𝚙?

You bite back a smile.

He's offering to pick you up? So he remembers where he dropped you off that one time after class?

That's... actually kind of sweet. A guy who actually pays attention to details.

It's refreshing after dealing with Jungkook, who once put an empty milk carton back in the fridge and claimed he ‘didn't notice’ it was empty. Like someone just happened to drink all the milk and then carefully put the empty container back exactly where they found it.

Idiot.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜! 𝚂𝚎𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚝 𝟺 ❤️

You don’t know why you’re using proper caps now, or why you add the heart emoji. It’s all without thinking, and you stare at it for a solid five seconds wondering if it's too much.

But it's already sent, and honestly, it's just an emoji. Not like you're proposing marriage.

As you scroll back through your messages, another unread text catches your eye. From last night. When your phone pinged during the bracelet exchange with Jungkook.

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚑𝚎𝚢! 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝! 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞! 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚠𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎? 𝚒'𝚖 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚔𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎! 🥰

Oh.

Oh right.

Tessa from last night. The literal goddess with perfect hair who wanted your advice about dating Jungkook. The girl you told to go for it because, why not? He could do a lot worse than someone genuinely nice and put-together.

You stare at the text for a long moment, trying to figure out what to say to that. Because it’s weird. It feels weird.

No, the weird feeling is probably just that you're not sure you want to get involved in Jungkook's love life. It's one thing to suggest Tessa make a move, but playing matchmaker? Giving ongoing advice? That's crossing into territory that feels uncomfortably personal.

Plus, you're kind of sleeping with him. Would be weird to help another girl date your fuck buddy. Not because you care who else he sleeps with—you don't. Obviously. But it would just be... awkward.

And what would you even say? ‘Hey Tessa, here's how to seduce my roommate: play hard to get, argue with him constantly, then jump his bones when he least expects it. Works for me!’

Yeah, no.

You set your phone down without replying. You'll deal with Tessa later. After your coffee with Jason. After you've had a shower and maybe some time to think about how to navigate this bizarre social situation you've somehow landed in.

As you head to the bathroom, you catch your reflection in the hallway mirror. You look tired, a little rumpled from your shift, but not terrible. Your eyes drift down to the colorful beads circling your wrist. ROGUE, spelled out in childish letter beads.

You could take it off. Probably should, honestly. It's not like you're twelve, wearing friendship bracelets with your BFF.

But your fingers don't move toward the clasp.

Instead, you just turn away from the mirror and continue toward the bathroom.

It's just a bracelet. It doesn't mean anything.

You'll take it off tomorrow.

Funny how a look can make you remember what it’s like to feel beautiful.

Jason’s car is clean. Not serial killer clean, but neat in a way that feels vaguely impressive for a guy who’s in grad school and not living off a diet of ramen and emotional repression.

When you slide into the passenger seat, your dress rides up just a little, and you catch him glance—brief, polite, but definitely there.

You don’t blame him. You look good.

Hair curled. Lip gloss strawberry-slick. Earrings you almost forgot you owned. The black dress is simple but it fits just right, hugging the curve of your waist like it was designed to hold you together when you forget how.

You’d like to pretend you don’t care what Jason thinks, but you shaved above the knee and sprayed perfume behind your knees, so.

He smiles when he sees you, soft and almost surprised. “Hey. Wow.”

‘Wow’. Not ‘you look nice’, not ‘I like your dress’.

Just wow, like he wasn’t prepared for this version of you.

Like he’s seeing you, not the outfit.

You kind of love that.

“Hey yourself.”

You buckle in and feel the nerves pull tighter in your chest. You’re not used to being nervous anymore. You’ve fucked your way through worse situations than this.

But this isn’t sex. This is coffee.

Somehow infinitely more exposing.

The drive is short, music low—Jason puts on some indie playlist that’s equal parts folky and hipster, and you catch lyrics about moons and bones and the way someone smells in spring. He doesn’t talk much on the way, but it’s not awkward. Just quiet. Thoughtful. There’s a kind of comfort in that, in not having to fill every second with chatter.

When you arrive, you wonder if you’ve accidentally agreed to a second location with a man who might bankrupt you.

Because this coffee shop? It is sleek and minimalist, all marble tables and matte-black finishes, the kind of place where the baristas wear aprons and pour water like they’re performing surgery.

And holy shit, it smells amazing. Not in the burnt hazelnut way you’re used to from campus cafés, but rich, deep—vanilla and cinnamon and fresh grounds that probably cost more per ounce than your soul.

Jason holds the door open for you. Doesn’t make a big deal of it. Just does it like it’s second nature. And okay, fine, you notice that. You’re not made of stone.

You order the strawberry latte on a whim, mostly because the flavor name makes you smile—‘blushberry blossom’ (c’mon that’s such a cute name)—and partly because the idea of something pink and ridiculous feels like rebellion in a place this serious. Jason, for his part, gets a cortado.

You sit by the window, where light slants in gold and sharp across the marble, catching on the rim of your cup and your collarbone.

Here, the world outside feels very far away—no Griffin knocking shit over, no roommates stomping around the apartment like emotional hurricanes. Just soft jazz and clinking spoons and the man across from you who keeps doing this thing where he leans in slightly when you talk, like he doesn’t want to miss anything you say.

“You really think that about Bishop?” he asks, eyebrows up.

You nod. “Yeah. I mean, it’s not that I think she hated women, but there’s definitely an internalized thing going on in the way she writes about domesticity. Like she’s performing detachment because that’s the only way to survive inside it.”

Jason exhales, a quiet sound of admiration. “That’s really smart.”

You shrug, suddenly a little too warm.

Compliments on your appearance are easy to swat away.

This kind—the you’re actually intelligent and I’m listening to you kind—sticks in your chest like static.

Your latte arrives, delicate as hell. Pale pink with foamy swirls and a single edible flower floating on top. Instagram bait. You take a sip, expecting something syrupy and fake, but it’s…

Huh.

You pause. Purse your lips. The taste is sweet, but not in a candy way. More like… too smooth. Like it’s missing bitterness. But it’s fine. Just—off, somehow.

Not bad, just… not what you were expecting.

You take another sip.

Still weird. Still fine.

You say nothing. Just keep talking, keep leaning into the conversation, because Jason’s eyes are lit up and he’s asking you questions like he actually cares about the answers.

You talk about poetry, about undergrad nonsense, about that one professor who only teaches in metaphors and might actually be a tree in disguise. Jason laughs at your jokes and adds his own and it’s easy. Like, actually easy. Like your brain isn’t doing somersaults trying to predict the next emotional landmine.

Halfway through the drink, he glances down at your wrist and tilts his head.

“Is that… a friendship bracelet?”

You glance at it before you remember it’s there.

Your hand had been resting on the table, fingers curled lightly around your cup, the ROGUE beads facing up like they want to be seen.

Shit.

You forgot you were still wearing it. In fact, haven’t you been wearing it all day? All shift. Through your shower. Through putting on perfume. Through curling your hair. Through walking out the door knowing someone might see it.

You pull your wrist back instinctively. Not fast enough to be defensive, just enough to make it clear you hadn’t meant for it to be a conversation piece.

Jason doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease. Just raises his eyebrows, curious but not unkind.

“Oh,” you say, pretending it’s nothing. “Yeah. It’s—stupid. A joke, kind of.”

Jason’s brow furrows. “No, it’s cool. I mean, it’s cute. Just wasn’t expecting that from you.”

You laugh, a little too fast. “Yeah, me neither.”

“It’s not a bad look,” he offers. “Very… I don’t know. Vintage, maybe?”

He says it in the tone of someone trying to offer reassurance, not judgment.

And that’s the thing, because he hasn’t said anything bad about it.

It’s you.

You feel it. That quiet little itch of self-consciousness blooming under your skin.

And suddenly you are twelve years old, and someone just caught you doodling hearts in your notebook.

You feel… silly.

Not because it’s a dumb bracelet—it is—but because it’s on your wrist in this place, with this person.

With Jason, who talks about literature like it matters, who picked you up on time, who smells like sandalwood and books, who looks at you like he’s trying to memorize your mouth.

The bracelet feels like something from a different version of you. One that’s messier, pettier, still half-formed. The version that knocks Jungkook’s protein powder off the counter just to watch him flinch. The one who keeps secrets in locked journals under the bed.

You press your wrist lightly against your thigh under the table, hiding it without really hiding it. Jason doesn’t press. He just sips his coffee and asks what you think about Rainer Maria Rilke.

You tell him. You talk about how Letters to a Young Poet changed the way you understood loneliness. About how writing doesn’t have to be for anyone else. About how maybe there’s something holy about solitude when it’s chosen.

He listens like the world’s on mute.

And maybe, just maybe, you start to believe the things you’re saying. Maybe you start to feel like someone worth listening to.

“You should read this essay by Gilbert and Gubar,” he says, pulling out his phone to make a note. “I’ll send you the link. It’s about the madwoman in the attic as a feminist symbol. Might give you some interesting perspectives.”

“That would be great,” you say, soft smile tugging at your lips.

It’s been ages since you’ve had a conversation like this—someone who not only gets your academic interests but actively engages with them.

“You’re really smart, you know that?” he says suddenly, setting down his mug. “Like, genuinely insightful. You should consider applying to graduate programs.”

The compliment catches you off guard, warmth spreading through your chest.

“I’ve thought about it,” you admit. “But it’s competitive. And expensive.”

“True,” he nods. “But there are fellowships. And based on what I’ve heard from you in class and now, I think you’d have a shot.”

You take another sip of your too-sweet latte to hide how pleased you are. It’s not that you need validation, but… okay, maybe you do, a little. Who doesn’t?

“I could help you look into programs, if you want,” he offers. “No pressure, just… I know the landscape pretty well.”

“That would be amazing, actually,” you say, meaning it.

By the time you’ve both finished your drinks, the afternoon light has shifted. You’ve been talking for over two hours, and it’s only when you check your phone that you realize how much time has passed.

“I should probably get you home,” Jason says, checking his watch reluctantly. “I’ve got a stack of papers to grade before tomorrow.”

“Right,” you nod, equally reluctant to end the afternoon. “Teaching assistant duties call.”

“Unfortunately,” he sighs, then brightens. “But I’d love to do this again. Maybe dinner next time?”

“I’d like that,” you say, and you really would.

After 10 minutes in his car, you think he’s turning toward your apartment.

You’re wrong.

Jason’s blinker flicks left instead of right, merging smoothly into traffic like this isn’t a diversion. Like it’s part of the plan.

You glance over, raising an eyebrow. “Um. Home’s the other way.”

He smiles, eyes still on the road. “I know. I wanted to show you something first.”

Your chest flutters—nothing dramatic, just a soft little hum, like the opening notes of a song you don’t recognize but already like. You sink back into the seat and let yourself be curious.

The drive winds west, toward the river, buildings falling away into stretches of old brick warehouses and glass condo towers that look like they belong in an entirely different version of your life. One where you probably own a milk frother and know what saffron tastes like.

Jason doesn’t say much, just tunes the radio to some local jazz station and hums softly along. The golden hour light cuts sideways through the windshield, warm and syrupy, painting the world in blush and amber.

He pulls over near a quiet overlook, where the road widens into a shoulder and the guardrail curls just enough to frame the view. The Hudson stretches wide in front of you, molasses-slow and glittering under a sky that’s all pinks and orange melt, the kind of sunset you always say you’ll watch more often but never do.

He doesn’t make it a thing. Just kills the engine, unbuckles his seatbelt, and nods toward the passenger side.

“Come on.”

You follow, caught in that half-stunned, half-swoony state that makes your steps feel floaty.

The air outside is cooler than you expect, touched with that river dampness that curls around your ankles and lifts the hair on your arms. The water looks like glass, rippling only when the wind brushes across it.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, stepping closer to the edge.

The view is stupid. Like, actually unfair. The sky’s a cliché in real time—cotton candy pink and tangerine and just the faintest smear of lavender toward the edges.

You pull out your phone without thinking, framing the scene like muscle memory.

One shot.

Then another.

Then one with your shoulder in the corner, just to prove you were here.

Jason stands a little off to the side, hands in the pockets of his coat.

He’s not watching the view—he’s watching you look at the view, which somehow makes it feel even more unreal.

“I didn’t want the date to end in a parking lot,” he says quietly.

You smile down at your phone, thumbs already moving. You pick the best one, swipe through a filter, drop the saturation just a little. Caption: this sky is a lie and I’m letting it.

You post without thinking. It’s just a sunset. It’s just a moment. But it feels worth remembering.

A notification pops up a few seconds later. Like.

Then another.

Then—

35mmghost liked your photo.

You blink.

Snort.

Okay. What?

You don’t say anything, just stare at the name for a beat longer than necessary.

35mmghost.

That is… not what you expected Jason’s Instagram handle to be. If it is Jason’s. Which would be hilarious. And weirdly endearing.

You flick a glance toward him. He’s smiling to you, with his phone between his fingers. Like you just caught him.

He just pockets it and gazes out at the river like he’s trying to memorize it.

You file it away. Not important. Probably. Just… cute.

Jason, apparently, has a secret artsy side.

And a dramatic username.

Ghost, really?

You like it. Quietly. Silently. The same way he let you have the view.

He doesn’t know you noticed. Doesn’t try to impress you with it.

And for once, you don’t overanalyze. You just let yourself stand there, cheeks a little pink from the wind and the compliment still buzzing somewhere behind your ribs, watching the sky slide into dusk like it’s not even trying to be beautiful.

Like it just is.

When he finally drives you home, you find yourself feeling lighter than you have in weeks.

There’s something refreshingly straightforward about Jason.

No games, no cryptic comments, no emotional whiplash.

Just a smart, mature guy who seems genuinely interested in you.

When he pulls up to your building, he gets out to open your door again—which still feels like something from a movie rather than real life.

“Thanks for today,” you say, standing awkwardly on the sidewalk.

Is this the part where you kiss? You’re not sure what the protocol is here.

Jason solves the dilemma with a warm smile and a slight step back—respecting your space in that careful way that somehow makes him even more attractive.

"Thank you for making my Sunday exponentially better," he says.

It's such a nerdy, earnest thing to say that you can't help but smile.

"Exponentially, huh?"

"At least by a factor of ten," he confirms with a grin. "I'll text you about dinner?"

"Sounds good."

You watch him drive away, a pleasant buzz of anticipation tingling in your chest about seeing him again.

For once, your love life seems straightforward and uncomplicated.

A mature guy who's exactly what he appears to be. What a fucking novelty.

When you finally make it upstairs, the apartment is still quiet. Still empty.

You kick your shoes off at the door and shrug off your coat, fingers catching on the thin leather strap of your bag. You leave it on the couch and walk straight to your room, not bothering to turn on any lights.

There’s enough spill from the windows to see by—blue-gray and soft, the city humming faint in the background like a lullaby that never really ends.

You catch your reflection in the mirror again.

Dress still hugging you right, lip gloss faded but not completely gone. Your cheeks are flushed in that way that feels natural, earned.

You look good. You feel good.

But your gaze drifts. Down to your wrist.

There it is. Bright and stupid and clunky against the sleek black of your dress.

ROGUE.

It looks even more ridiculous now than it did in the café. Like a tacky souvenir trying to pass in a room full of doctoral candidates.

You sigh.

It’s not that you’re ashamed of it, exactly.

Just… aware of it.

In a way you weren’t before.

Aware of what it signals—about you, about the you that exists in here, in this apartment.

The one who fights over fridge space and burns frozen pizza and still hides snacks under the bed like you’re prepping for an apocalypse Jungkook might eat through.

Jason didn’t make you feel bad about it. Not at all.

But there was that little jolt of being seen in a way you didn’t mean to be. Like wearing pajamas to class by mistake.

You run your thumb over the beads. They’re slightly warm from your skin, the elastic stretched just enough to make a faint indent on your wrist.

It’s silly.

So fucking silly.

You shouldn’t have even worn it out. It doesn’t belong in cafés with marble tables and edible flowers. Doesn’t belong with guys who talk about Rilke and open your door and make you feel like your brain is the most interesting thing about you.

It belongs here. Inside these walls. In the shared chaos of mismatched mugs and territorial coffee wars and Griffin sleeping on your face.

It belongs in the version of you that forgets to do laundry and screams at reality TV and gets off with your roommate like it’s just another way to burn through stress.

Maybe it’s time to choose. Or at least… edit.

You slide the bracelet off. Slowly. Carefully. Set it down on your dresser, next to the copy of The Bell Jar you’ve been meaning to reread and a half-burnt candle that smells like peaches and something faintly smoky.

You’ll still wear it sometimes. Just not… when you go out with Jason. Not when you want to feel sleek and composed and like maybe, just maybe, you’re building something a little more deliberate than chaos.

Maybe that’s okay.

You leave it where it is.

And you don’t stop to think whether Jungkook is even wearing it at all.

“You’re alive?”

The words slip out before you can stop them, a bit too loud for a quiet apartment and a bit too sarcastic for someone who just walked through the front door.

But it’s Yoongi. You’re pretty sure he came out of the womb with a glare and noise-cancelling headphones.

He gives you a flat look, keys jingling as he kicks the door shut behind him.

No hello, no how was your day, just a flick of his eyes from your face to your bare legs stretched across the coffee table, one foot propped up like you’re posing for a toenail polish ad no one asked for.

“Didn’t expect you home,” you add, waving your freshly painted big toe in his direction. “Figured you were off ghosting the apartment all weekend like usual.”

He drops his messenger bag by the door with a soft thud, shrugs like the weight of being perceived is too much.

“Didn’t have that much work today,” he says, deadpan, already halfway to the kitchen. “Been overworking all week. Even I get tired of being productive.”

You blink. “Wait—you work on Sundays?”

“I work always,” he calls back, grabbing a mug from the cabinet like it personally offended him. “What’s your point?”

You roll your eyes, adjusting your foot on the arm of the couch so the polish doesn’t smudge.

“My point is, maybe stop pretending you’re not a person and do something degenerate for once. Watch trash TV. Go outside.”

“I went outside,” he mutters, reaching for the coffee grounds. “Regret it.”

“You’re making coffee now?” You glance at the clock. “You’ll be awake all night.”

“Mm,” Yoongi says, which is less a response and more a vibe. “Not like I’ve slept properly in a week anyway.”

“That sounds healthy,” you sing, flicking the cap back onto the nail polish bottle.

You don’t know when this stopped being weird—talking to him like this.

It’s not friendship, exactly, but it’s not not that either.

Comfortable-ish. Low maintenance. The kind of dynamic that doesn’t need checking in.

Griffin trots out from wherever he was napping, tail flicking with that ‘where the fuck is my dinner, peasants’ energy.

You lean over and scratch behind his ear. “Still no sign of your boy?”.

Yoongi shrugs —his primary form of communication—then cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “JUNGKOOK!”

The silence that follows is answer enough.

“Nah, he’s not home,” Yoongi confirms unnecessarily.

You roll your eyes, screwing the cap back on your nail polish. “Thanks for the thorough investigation.”

You go back to focusing on your second foot, tongue poking out slightly as you try not to smear the top coat.

Then—

“Hey,” he says, casual but not. “By the way…”

You pause, brush hovering mid-air.

“…I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”

Your stomach drops.

Those words never precede anything good.

Is he kicking you out? Did you do something wrong? Is the rent going up? Did he find your secret stash of chocolate-covered pretzels hidden behind the rice?

“Okay…” you say cautiously, sitting up straighter. “What’s up?”

Yoongi takes a sip of his coffee, still not meeting your eyes. The silence stretches just long enough to make your anxiety spike before he finally speaks.

“It’s about Jungkook.”

Oh.

Oh no.

Did Jungkook complain about you? Is Yoongi about to give you some weird roommate intervention? Does he know about the… arrangement you and Jungkook have?

God, that would be mortifying.

“What about him?” you ask, aiming for casual but landing somewhere closer to defensive.

Yoongi presses his lips together like he’s trying to decide if speaking is worth the effort. Spoiler: it usually isn’t.

Then—quiet, low:

“Back at the karaoke place… you met Mia, right?”

You freeze mid-swipe, the brush hovering just above your toenail. There’s a split second where your brain tries to play dumb. Pretend you didn’t. Pretend you forgot. But your body answers before your mouth does—shoulders tensing, breath pulling tight behind your ribs.

“Yeah,” you say slowly. “I remember.”

And you do. Perfectly. Chanel and Louboutins and weaponized perfume. Voice like saccharine venom and teeth too white to be trustworthy.

You remember the grip on your arm. The way Jungkook looked—vacant, off, like someone unplugged him at the base of the spine.

Yoongi nods once, eyes fixed on his coffee like it might offer divine clarity.

“I need to know what happened.”

His voice isn’t demanding, not exactly. Just… steady. Firm in a way you’ve never heard from him before.

“What did she say to him?”

You shift on the couch, pulling your knees up to make room for Griffin, who hops beside you with zero regard for the wet polish on your toes.

You don’t answer right away. Not because you’re trying to avoid it—it’s just that you’re not sure how to answer.

Yoongi doesn’t push. Just waits.

You glance toward the kitchen, then back at him.

“I didn’t hear everything,” you start. “She was already talking to him when I found them. I didn’t even know who she was at first, just thought—some random girl, y’know?”

He nods once. Still waiting.

“She was dressed like she had three bodyguards waiting outside,” you add, because you can’t help yourself. “Total Upper East Side vibes. Like she was slumming it for the night.”

That earns a dry little huff from Yoongi. Almost a laugh. Almost.

Your fingers twitch against your thigh.

“She knew it was his birthday,” you say, softer now. “Said it all sweet but—like. Fake sweet, you know? Like she was performing nice but wanted him to feel like shit for not inviting her.”

Yoongi’s jaw ticks as he listens. He’s still holding the coffee mug, but you can tell he’s not really drinking anymore. Just holding it like a prop.

“She said…” Your voice trails off. You swallow. “She said, ‘Try not to have too much fun without me.’ And something about his dad. I didn’t catch all of it. But her tone—it was like… she wanted to rattle him.”

Now Yoongi finally looks at you. Not full on, not probing, but enough to catch your face in his periphery.

“She mentioned his dad?”

“Yeah.” You nod. “Just—like, she knew it’d hit a nerve. She said something about ‘not replacing her’ or whatever. I don’t know the full context, but... whatever it was, it fucked with him. He looked—”

You pause.

The image flashes in your head: Jungkook standing in the hallway, motionless. His face locked down, shoulders tight. Like something inside him had short-circuited.

“He looked small,” you say quietly. “Scared. Not like himself.”

Yoongi takes that in. Doesn’t react right away. He just huffs out a breath through his nose and leans back against the edge of the kitchen counter.

Another pause.

Then: “She’s good at that.”

He says it flatly. No inflection. No explanation.

You tilt your head. “You know her?”

“Not much. But I know exactly what he looked like after her.”

You’re quiet, sensing the line. The invisible perimeter Yoongi keeps between what’s his to share and what isn’t.

“I’m not asking for his secrets,” you say, meaning it.

“Good,” he replies instantly. “Because they’re not mine to give.”

That makes you like him more. Irritatingly so.

You don’t push. But your gaze stays on him, curious.

Yoongi shrugs, finally setting his mug down on the counter. “I’ve only known him for a year and a half, so I wasn’t around back then. Not for most of it. But she left damage.”

You stay quiet.

“She knows his pressure points. Knows when to act like she’s joking and when to twist the knife.” He rubs the back of his neck like he hates even saying this out loud. “Jungkook’s got a... hard time with boundaries. Especially when it comes to people he used to love.”

Used to. Interesting phrasing.

Your lips part slightly, but Yoongi’s already waving a hand like he regrets going this far. “Anyway. Not my drama. Just wanted to know what she said. He didn’t tell us much.”

“Us?”

Yoongi shrugs again, folding his arms. “Me, Taehyung, Hobi. The ones that showed up when she blew everything up.”

You blink. “Blew everything up?”

He gives you a look. Not mean. Not angry. Just—measured. Like he’s deciding how much to trust you.

“I said too much already,” he mutters. “But yeah. That hallway thing? That wasn’t nothing. I just needed to hear it from someone who saw it up close.”

You nod slowly. “Makes sense.”

Silence again. Not uncomfortable exactly. But heavy.

Yoongi runs a hand through his hair and glances down at Griffin, who’s now making biscuits into a throw pillow like he pays rent.

“He didn’t tell you anything, huh?”

“No.” The word comes out before you can stop it. Then, quieter: “He just said he needed air.”

Yoongi exhales. “Figures.”

You want to ask more. About Mia. About Jungkook. About what the hell happened that’s got Yoongi this protective over someone he’s known for less than two years. But something in his expression makes you hold your tongue.

So you just nod, brushing your fingers lightly over Griffin’s back.

After a beat, you say, “Thanks for telling me. Even if it was just a little.”

Yoongi lifts his coffee mug in a half-toast. “Don’t read into it. You were there. I needed intel. That’s all.”

You smirk. “Sure.”

But you both know that’s not all.

Not even close.

"Wait," you call out just as Yoongi's about to disappear completely.

You're not sure why you feel compelled to say this—it's not like you owe Tessa anything—but after everything you've just learned about Mia, it feels important somehow.

Yoongi pauses, hand on his doorknob, eyebrows raised in silent question.

"That girl at the birthday party," you say, the words tumbling out before you can overthink them. "Tessa? I think she genuinely likes him. Like, in a normal way."

You don't know why you're telling him this.

Maybe because after hearing about Mia's toxicity, the idea of someone simple and sweet being interested in Jungkook feels like information worth sharing.

Yoongi tilts his head slightly. "The ginger one? Sat next to him?"

"Yeah," you nod, surprised he noticed. "She asked for my advice, actually. About him. She wants to get coffee with me to talk about it."

"Huh." Yoongi leans against his doorframe, considering this. "She seemed... nice."

The way he says ‘nice’ makes it sound like he's describing an alien species he's only read about in textbooks.

"She is nice," you confirm. "Like, genuinely nice. Soft. Girly. Probably doesn't have any emotional baggage or toxic exes lurking around corners."

You're babbling now, but you can't seem to stop.

Because you feel guilty.

Because you told this nice beautiful girl to go for an emotionally stunted dude who apparently has way too much baggage.

Because maybe Jungkook is not even ready for any of this.

"I told her to go for it. With Jungkook, I mean. Before I knew about... all this Mia stuff."

Yoongi's expression shifts subtly—a slight narrowing of the eyes. "You're playing matchmaker now?"

There's no judgment in his voice, just curiosity, but you feel defensive anyway.

"Not matchmaking," you clarify. "Just... I don't know. Being supportive? She asked, I answered. It's not a big deal."

"Right," Yoongi says, in a tone that suggests he thinks it might actually be a big deal. "And how does Jungkook feel about Tessa?"

You shrug, suddenly realizing you have no idea. "I don't know. They're in some classes together I think. He hasn't mentioned her."

"Jungkook doesn't mention a lot of things," Yoongi points out.

"True." You fiddle with the cap of your nail polish, avoiding his gaze. "I just thought... she’s nice. And so pretty. I just thought… maybe it could do him some good—before I even knew about this, I mean.”

Yoongi makes a noncommittal sound. "Maybe."

"You don't think so?"

He shrugs. "It's not about what I think. It's about whether Jungkook's ready for someone new. Especially someone... nice."

The way he says it makes you wonder if ‘nice’ is a liability in Jungkook's world.

If after someone like Mia, ‘nice’ feels too foreign, too simple.

"Well, I already told her to go for it," you say, feeling suddenly uncertain. "Should I... un-tell her?"

Yoongi actually smiles at that—a small, fleeting thing, but definitely a smile. "No. Let it play out. Who knows? Maybe you're right. Maybe nice is exactly what he needs."

He doesn't sound convinced, but he doesn't sound dismissive either.

"Okay," you say, relieved. "I just... wanted you to know. Since we're apparently on Team Jungkook now."

Yoongi snorts. "I've always been on Team Jungkook. You're the new recruit."

"I didn't exactly volunteer," you point out.

"And yet here you are," he says, "worrying about his love life."

You open your mouth to protest, then close it again.

He's not wrong.

"Anyway," Yoongi continues, "thanks for telling me about Tessa. And about what happened with Mia."

You nod, feeling like you've passed some kind of test you didn't know you were taking.

Yoongi gives you one last unreadable look before finally retreating into his room, the door clicking shut behind him.

You sit there for a moment, processing the entire bizarre conversation.

In the span of fifteen minutes, you've gone from painting your toenails in peaceful solitude to being drafted into some kind of Protect Jungkook squad with Yoongi, of all people.

Life in Apartment 6B just keeps getting weirder.

Thirty-seven minutes later, you're sprawled on your bed, hair still damp from the shower, staring at Tessa's unanswered text like it's a bomb you need to defuse.

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚑𝚎𝚢! 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚢𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚢? 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎? 🙂

You’re second-guessing everything after that conversation with Yoongi.

Should you really be encouraging Tessa to pursue Jungkook when you know he's still dealing with Mia-shaped emotional shrapnel? Is it fair to either of them?

But then again, who are you to play gatekeeper to Jungkook's love life? Maybe Tessa is exactly what he needs—someone sweet and uncomplicated. Someone who doesn't have the baggage of a toxic ex or whatever the hell happened with his father.

You groan and flop back against your pillows.

Why do you even care?

It's not like you and Jungkook are anything to each other. You're just roommates who occasionally fuck.

You’re barely even… friends.

The word acquires a weird shape in your mind.

You pick up your phone again, determined to respond to Tessa without overthinking it.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚎𝚢𝚊! 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚢. 𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚝 2 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎. 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 ��𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚠𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝?

You hit send before you can change your mind.

It's just coffee. It's not like you're arranging a marriage.

Truth is, next week’s already packed—Yeji’s gallery prep, that shift you picked up for someone who ‘owes you one’ but never actually pays up, and whatever Jungkook’s been muttering about needing help with but refusing to ask.

It’s easier to just skip ahead. Two weeks. Feels safer. Less chance of Tessa becoming something to manage short-term.

Her response comes almost immediately.

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚊𝚑𝚑𝚑 𝚢𝚊𝚢𝚢𝚢 🥰! 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚂𝚢𝚛𝚞𝚙 𝚘𝚗 𝙴. 𝟷𝚜𝚝 𝚂𝚝. 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚛, 𝚠𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞!

You know Syrup—it's one of those Instagram-bait cafés with latte art and avocado toast that costs more than your hourly wage. Not exactly your usual haunt, but it's not too far from campus.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚢𝚛𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜! 𝚒’𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚝 2 💕

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝! 𝚒’𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚞𝚙!

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜!!!

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚:𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚔𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠? 🤗

You stare at the message, a knot forming in your stomach.

Because you don't ‘get’ Jungkook. Not really.

You didn't know about his dad, or the full extent of the Mia situation, or why he disappeared to the rooftop that night.

You know he likes John Mayer and makes good coffee and his favorite position is cowgirl.

You know he smells like rain and his hands are always warm and he secretly carries cat treats around.

But those are just details, not understanding.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚒 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚒 ’𝚐𝚎𝚝’ 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚎 𝚛 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚒𝚏 𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚗 :)

That feels safer.

Better to lower her expectations now than have her think you're some Jungkook whisperer with all the answers.

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚊𝚑, 𝚝𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢!

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚒 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠? 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚢, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗'𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕, 𝚒 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕!!

Intimidated by Jungkook?

The idea is almost laughable.

How could you be intimidated by someone who once spent twenty minutes trying to coax Griffin out from under the couch with a piece of string cheese?

But then you remember how other people see him—the sharp jawline, the tattoos, the way he carries himself like he’s not actually dumb as hell.

You can see how someone like Tessa might find him intimidating.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚙𝚏𝚏𝚏𝚏𝚏

𝐘𝐨𝐮: ��𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚡, 𝚜𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚖

You hesitate, then add:

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜, 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚘 𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠

It feels important to add that caveat, even if you're not sure why.

Maybe because of what Yoongi told you.

Maybe because you've seen glimpses of that complication yourself.

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚑𝚊𝚑𝚊𝚑𝚊 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠!!

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗, 𝚋𝚞𝚛 𝚒 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝?

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎, 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚞𝚢

You frown at the screen. There's something about her response that doesn't sit right with you. Like she's romanticizing the very things that make Jungkook difficult—the walls he puts up, the emotional distance, the complications Yoongi hinted at.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝… 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚐𝚘 𝚒𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚢𝚔? 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚊 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚘𝚕

You hit send, then immediately regret your tone. That came off way harsher than you meant it to. You're about to type a follow-up when Tessa's reply appears.

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚘𝚑 𝚐𝚘𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 🙈 𝚒'𝚖 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚛𝚗

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚒 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚒'𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚐𝚞𝚢𝚜

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝... 𝚠𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗-𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚖𝚜? 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚋𝚘𝚢 😣

Oh. That's actually... kind of sweet. Seems like Jungkook really does have a thing for Korean cinema.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚘 𝚗𝚘 𝚒 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝! 𝚒 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎... 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚢𝚔?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚖. 𝚒 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘!

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚒'𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚠/ 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚖 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎! 𝚖𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚔

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚕 🙈

Your heart softens a little. There's something vulnerable about the way she just shared that personal detail, then immediately apologized for it.

It reminds you of how you sometimes overshare when you're nervous, then backpedal frantically.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚘 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚣𝚎! 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚍. 𝚒'𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚘 :(

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜 💕 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚘. 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚒'𝚖 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚖!

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚒 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚐𝚞𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚒 𝚍𝚘? 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 ��𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚜 😔

That actually makes a lot of sense. You can see why she'd be drawn to Jungkook if they share this interest.

And you know from experience how rare it is to find someone who genuinely cares about the things you're passionate about.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚞𝚢𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚘𝚗!

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝚝𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚜𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 🙄

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝?? 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚔𝚊𝚛-𝚠𝚊𝚒 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚕

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚔𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚒 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚘𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖?

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎 🥺

You can't help but smile a little. She’s clearly excited she is to have found someone who shares her interests. You remember feeling that way with Jason today, when he actually engaged with your thoughts on literature instead of just nodding along.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎!

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚝𝚠 𝚒 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛. 𝚒 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚛𝚗

Tessa takes a moment to reply, the ellipses blinking thoughtfully.

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚘𝚑 :( 𝚒 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚝

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚘 💕

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚎!! 𝚒'𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚑𝚞𝚜𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚑𝚊𝚑𝚊 𝚒 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛? 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚏𝚏?

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒 𝚝𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚜 𝚞𝚙!! 𝚒'𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕 🤞

Okay, that feels reasonable. She's acknowledging your concern without getting defensive, and clarifying her own expectations.

Maybe she's more level-headed than you initially gave her credit for.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍!! 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 <3

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚒'𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚜𝚘 𝚒'𝚖 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝 😴

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚌 𝚞 𝚝𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚢𝚛𝚞𝚙! :)

Time to bow out before you accidentally become her relationship coach.

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕!! 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐!! 🥺✨

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚍𝚊ｙ!! 💖

You put your phone down, feeling a sense of closure on that front, at least for tonight.

Tessa seems sweet, if a little naive about the potential complications involved with Jungkook.

But she's also genuinely interested in him for reasons that make sense, and she seems aware enough to proceed with caution.

You roll over, pulling the covers tighter.

It's weird, offering dating advice about your roommate who you're also sleeping with to a girl you barely know.

Weirder still that you actually kind of... like her? And want things to work out okay for her?

Maybe you're growing up. Or maybe you're just tired.

Either way, Tuesday is going to be interesting.

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spicy-apple-pie · 1 year ago

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Bruce is a widdle gwumpy :(

(btw, do you guys like the formatting in rows of two or single file if that makes sense?)

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satorusugurugurl · 1 year ago

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JJK Men Making Up With You After A Fight

Characters: Gojo Satoru, Nanami Kento, Ryomen Sukuna, FAB!Reader

Content Warning: sex, makeup sex, fighting, public sex, choking, dirty talk!

Word Count: 5,453

A/N: Hot diggity damn, makeup sex time. Gojo’s had me cackling!! As always, requests are open!! I don’t bite. . unless you ask nicely 😈

Gojo Satoru

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, and you ignored it, much like the other ten times it rang. You instead headed for the concession stand at the theater. Your boyfriend, Satoru Gojo, had pissed you off beyond all means. He'd forgotten all about your date. The specific date you had been planning for a month. You intended to celebrate at the fanciest restaurant and made reservations two weeks ago. All for him! Because they had world-class desserts.

You got there before him; they took you to your private table. Where you waited, and waited, and waited. Finally, forty-five minutes later, you called him.

“Hey, babe!” He said over the sound background chatter. “What's up? I'm out at the new cafe with Suguru and Nanami!”

“Oh?” Gritting your teeth, you tapped your nails against the table. “Are you having fun?” The tone of your voice was bitter and cold.

Your boyfriend hesitated, “Uhm yeah, the desserts are delicious.” Rage boiled in your gut.

“You know who else has delicious desserts?” He hummed, but you didn't give him a chance to answer. “The restaurant I'm at! You know the one I made reservations for three weeks ago?!”

You could practically see the fear in your boyfriend's voice. “Oh fuck, shit! That was tonight?! Stay there; I'll be there in a couple of minutes.” Your eyes stung with unshed tears.

“No, you can come, but I won't be here.”

You had done just as you said, quickly paying for your tab before hurrying out of the restaurant before Gojo could teleport there. You crossed the street, heading towards the movie theater. There was not a chance in hell he would find you in here. You were heartbroken; all the effort you put into your date was wasted.

You sat in the very back of the empty theater. You were feeling some ease that there was no one here. Then again, they were playing older movies anyone could stream nowadays. You seriously doubted anyone would be joining you to watch Titanic. You could zone out, cool down, and try to figure out what to say to Satoru the next time you see him.

As the opening credits started to play, you heard a door slam open. Peeking down, you choked on popcorn as you noticed your boyfriend scanning the theater. Bright blue eyes seemed to glow as he held his blindfold in one hand. Fuck! Fuck! Fuckin stupid Six-Eyes! Those blue eyes instantly found you, and you could see the relief wash over Satoru. You hid your face behind the bucket of popcorn, internally groaning as you heard him bounding up the stairs.

“Y/N! Why didn’t you wait for me?!” You ignored him, slowly lowering the bucket to stare at the movie screen. “Hey, hello?”

“Shh!” You scolded before stuffing more popcorn in your mouth. Avoiding his questions altogether.

His shoes stepped over the soda-sticky floor, blocking your view of the screen. “We need to talk.” His hand gently reached out, index finger lifting your chin to look up at him.

“Fuck you.” You said, getting up and moving further down the row, plopping down in a seat.

“Y/N baby!” The groan he let out had you rolling your eyes. “Please, I’m sorry I forgot!” He bounded after you, only for you to get up stepping into the lower row. Your action had Gojo stopping in his tracks, the two of you staring at each other. “Are you playing keep away?”

A rich laugh escaped him, one that was full of humor and delight. It had him hunching over as he cackled. You hated it, but you found your smile tugging at your lips. Here he was, groaning and whining like a child, and you weren’t any better. You were running away from him, pouting like a toddler that didn’t get their way.

Gojo’s laughter the tears forming in his eyes, had your heart feeling lighter. God, he was such a cutie. A cutie who forgot all about your date. A date you’d spent time, money, and energy on! All for his benefit. Holy shit, the Gojo charm almost had you forgiving him!

“No!” You snapped, stomping down your foot like the mature adult you were. “Shut up! I’m mad at you.”

Turning to head further down the row, you gasped as Satoru jumped over the row, landing right in front of you. “Look, just give me a chan—“ he started before you threw a handful of popcorn in his face, “okay, and here I thought I was the immature one.” His tongue darted out, licking at the salty butter off the corner of his mouth.

“You are! Toru, seriously! I put all that time and effort into planning that for you!!” You threw another piece directly at his forehead. He allowed the abuse with the popcorn to continue. He was staring at you as you tossed another piece at him.

“Are you done now?” He asked as you hugged the bucket to your chest. “Awesome, cool.” He reached out, ruffling your hair. “I can’t make up for missing the date that I seriously appreciate you planning and paying for. I can, however, make the most out of the night I fucked up.”

“How do you plan on doing that?” You flung one more piece of popcorn at him. It hit infinity before he snatched the bucket from you, placing it in one of the empty chairs.

“You’ll see.” A childlike smile was plastered across his face as he ran down the stairs, grabbing two bags before running back up to you. “We might not be at the fanciest of restaurants.” Your heart soared as he held out a take-out bag from the restaurant where you had made reservations. “But dinner and the Titanic?” He learned by pressing his forehead against yours. “Sounds like a great fuckin’ date to me.”

Taking the bag out of Satoru’s hands, you sighed, your fingers grazing over his longer ones. He didn’t have to pick up dinner from the restaurant you planned to take him to. Satoru didn't even need to try to find you when he knew you were angry, yet here he was—trying to prove to you just how sorry he was. Those were some of the things you loved about him. Cocky, annoying, and charming in more ways than one.

With your free hand, you grab onto Satoru’s wrist, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Has anyone told you that you're a charming asshole?” Seeing your smile, Satoru let out a sigh of relief before intertwining your fingers.

“Nope, that one's new.”

“Don't push it.”

“Yes, ma’am!” He grabbed the popcorn bucket before following you back to the top row. The two of you cracked open the takeout containers, eating the delicious food while whispering as you watched the movie.

Halfway through the food and movie, you hummed, watching the infamous steamy car scene before you turned to Satoru, who yawned. “Hey, Toru.” he tilted his head, turning to look down at you. “Do you think we could recreate this scene?” He perked up. “In a veil?”

“Oh, holy fuck!” You yelled, hand gripping Satoru’s shoulder as you bounced up and down on his cock. “Fuck, oooh fuck!”

Your boyfriend's head was tilted back against the chair. Whines and whimpers escaped his pressed lips as you slammed yourself up and down as hard and as fast as you could. The tiny viel Satoru had put around the two of you was keeping you concealed, and the heat within the small space.

The thick, musky, almost sweet smell of sex was getting to you, making you hotter and hornier. Knowing the two of you were fucking in such an open space, without people knowing, God, it was so hot. You were going to fuck Toru’s brains out as both punishment for forgetting your date and for making it one you would never forget.

“Y/N, please,” Satoru cried out, “please fuck.”

“Please, what, Toru~?” You cooed, rocking yourself back and forth on his dick, making his jaw drop into a wide ‘O’. “Tell me what you want baby~”

“I wanna cum; I wanna cum in your pussy.” He begged, his hands groping and massaging your breasts. “Please, baby~?”

You giggle just before you can respond to the people entering the theater. The cleaning ushers, no doubt. Your body seized up, clamping down on Satoru’s cock, causing him to growl. Your hand flew up, covering his mouth as you listened to the staff talking. While they couldn’t see you, the thought of strangers walking around while you had sex, god, it made you wetter than wet.

Keeping your hand over Satoru’s mouth, you fucked yourself down on him like he was your own personal dildo. His whines grew louder under your hand as he gripped your ass, helping you fuck yourself on him. He was so close, so, so close.

All he needed was a little push. That push is your twitching cunt. You rocked faster, your free hand resting over his chest, as you felt your orgasm coming in fast before your back arched. A silent scream etched your face as you came hard. Satoru gaped into your eyes, eyebrows furrowed together, as one hand gripped your ass and the other smacked into the veil.

Or rather, through it.

A bloody murder scream came from one of the workers as a disembodied hand popped out of thin air. The co-workers followed her out, screaming and yelling. At the same time, Satoru pulled his hand back inside the veil. The two of you were coming down, your bare chest resting against his. You just stared at each other for a long moment before you both started to giggle loudly.

“G-Guess the handprint scene doesn't work well in the veil.” Satoru chuckled, cupping strands of hair behind your ear.

“Guess not.” Was your confirmation, as you slowly pulled yourself off of Satoru’s lap with a wince. “Such a shame. I was hoping for better results.”

“Hmm, it might not work with the veil, but I have an idea where we could try because I’m not done yet. I still haven't apologized to you in the way you deserve.”

“Oh?” You both picked up your trash and readjusted your clothes as Satoru lowered the veil.

“Yeah, I wanna apologize to you in the shower, in our bed, fuck even the balcony.” The two of you ran for the exit door. “It's a good thing that the restaurant you picked out is known for the aphrodisiac desserts.”

“Wait, what?”

“Oooh, sweetie,” Satoru sneered down at you with a mischievous chuckle.“Why do you think I kept bugging you to take me to that restaurant?”

It was going to be a very long night for you.

Nanami Kento:

“Damn!” The soft curse woke you up; you rubbed your eyes, watching your fiancè searching for something on the dresser.

“Kento?” Your groggy voice drew his attention towards you. “Welcome home.”

Your beloved fiance had been gone for two weeks. He'd just gotten home last night; Gojo had picked him up for you. You had been working your ass off for the previous two weeks. You picked up the work of another co-worker who had just walked out without notice. Gojo knew you had been running around for two weeks filing paperwork, assigning missions, and helping Shoko. He was instant on you getting some sleep. He assured you he'd get Nanami, and you were thankful for him doing that for you.

This way, you could spend more time with Kento.

“Where are my cufflinks?” Nanako snapped, his eyes full of annoyance.

His tone had you blinking in stunned silence. “Right there,” you motioned to the box he always kept them in, “was your mission rough?” That would explain his cold, sharp tone.

“Yes, Y/N, it was rough.” He opened the box, grabbing the links before slamming it shut. “You wouldn't understand.”

His words sliced through you like a hot knife. “Excuse me?” You three the sheets off your body, standing to face him. “What the hell do you mean I wouldn't understand?!” Nanami Kento rolled his eyes at your anger.

“I'm simply stating the truth. You don't understand what it's like to go out on missions, fight, and do more than paperwork.” His hand ran through his still-damp hair. “So I'm just trying to understand why you couldn't pick me up last night. Gojo told me that you were burning the candle at both ends. I fail to see how that is even possible.”

The bedroom was nearly silent. The only sound that you could hear over the boiling rage was your heartbeat in your ears. “Get out of my way.” Was all you could manage as you pushed past him, digging through your drawers for clothes.

“Honestly, why are you acting like a child?”

“Why are you acting like a dick?!” Nanako was seconds from snapping back, but his words evaded him when he saw you crying. “You have no idea how hard my job is!” Your hands wiped uselessly at the stream of tears. “My worthless coworker quit. So I'm stuck doing my job and hers!”

“Y/N.”

“Yes! I do loads of paperwork, and I sit in front of a computer most of my day.” You pulled on your pants, stepping out of Nanami’s grasp. “It may not be physically demanding, but in a mental aspect, I'm drained. Paperwork, mission assignments, and death notices!” Honey-brown eyes went wide. “Yeah, that's why my coworker quit! She couldn't handle it!”

“Love, I—”

You held a hand up, silencing Nanami. “So last night, Gojo picked you up instead of me because I was in Kyoto. Telling a mother and father that their eighteen-year-old son died!” Flashes of Yu Haibara flashed through Nanami’s eyes.

He could barely handle his death, imagining what his parents went through. When someone in your position told them that their child was gone, he couldn't even begin to imagine what that must have been like. Emotionally and mentally draining. He had no idea how much your job consisted of because you hardly brought it up. More concerned with him.

“Y/N, I had no clue—”

“No, fuck you.” You turned on your heel, racing for the door. “Welcome home! Kindly go fuck yourself.” With those words, you left, leaving Nanami alone in your apartment.

It took you a couple of hours to cry out your feelings. The exhaustion and stress of the last two weeks hit you all at once with Nanami’s cruel words. He had no clue what you went through without him here. It didn't matter if he was just as exhausted as you were. Both of you had been ground to bones in two weeks apart.

Despite all of those factors, he still had no right to talk to you the way he had.

But as much as you wanted to stay away from him, your apartment, reality, you had to go back. Your engagement ring glimmered as a stupid reminder, even if he had crossed a line today. Nanami was still the love of your life.

The second you unlocked the door to the apartment, you sighed. “I'm home.” Your voice was barely audible.

Just as you finished removing your shoes, you looked up to see Nanami. His cheeks and neck flushed as he looked at the floor. Your fiance looked like a dog that had been scolded, as he should. Despite wanting to throw yourself into his arms and cry out your frustration, to hit, to beg him to hold you tight, you just walked past him.

Entering your living room, your heart lurched into your throat as you gasped. A large bouquet of roses is on your coffee table, surrounded by all your favorite snacks. The words ‘I’m Sorry’ were spelled in rose petals on the floor.

You had thought you were incapable of crying anymore, yet fresh tears spilled over your tear-stained cheeks. Nanami’s body looked over you, his hands hesitantly rubbing your shoulders. To Nanami’s relief, you didn't attempt to pull away.

“Y/N, I'm so, so, sorry.” you leaned back into his chest, sniffling as you wiped at your eyes. “The way that I acted this morning was utterly disgusting. I took my frustration and anger out on you, the last person I should ever hurt.” His fingers began kneading and rubbing at your sore muscles. “Could you ever find it in your heart to forgive me? For being an irrational ass?”

”A major ass.” Nanami’s whole body relaxed at your soft voice.

He turned you around to face him, his strong arms holding you flush against him. “Yes, a total and complete asshole.” Once your arms wrapped around his waist, he fully relaxed. ”Are you okay?” His smooth voice whispered, his chin resting on top of your head. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

“No, I just want you.”

Pulling away to look up at him, he noticed the dark circles under your eyes. “Yeah? Do you need me to help you fall asleep?” His hand trailed down, gripping your hips. Your nod was the only confirmation he needed.

Sprawled out over the bed, candles burning, soft music playing, you gasped and whimpered. Nanami’s face was buried between your thighs, kissing and sucking at your drenched folds. Those honey-brown eyes that had been filled with concern and worry earlier were now drowning in lust. His needs could wait until later. This was all about you, making you feel better.

”Fuck Ken!” Your fingers grazed over his undercut before gripping the longer strands of hair. “Don’t stop, please, fuck.” Obeying your wishes, Kento’s tongue moved faster. Sucking and slurping at you. Quenching the thirst he had been craving for the last two weeks. “Yes, yes, yes!’

Feeling your cunt clenching, Kento shoved two fingers inside of you, his tongue focusing on your clit. You gasped, eyes wide as his two fingers rubbed expertly against your g-spot. You swore he nearly sent you to heaven as white spots flooded your vision. You screamed before squirting all over his face. The sensation, the taste of your cum had him rutting his hips into the mattress. His tongue did not once let up. It was your orgasm, the content sigh that left your lips that had him stiffening. His cock spurting cum all within the confines of his boxers and sweats.

Your dazy eyes trailed down over your nude body, focusing on Kento’s rutting form. Humping the mattress until the last waves of both of your orgasms came to an end. Kento hummed, his voice vibrated against your still trembling pussy. When he found the strength to pull away, You smiled as he trailed soft kisses up your thighs, hips, stomach, and chest before finally landing on your lips.

You kiss back softly, his arms pulling you close as he pulls you to lay on his chest. His hands gently caressed up and down your back, a slight frown gracing his face. “Ken,” you kiss his chest, “it’s fine. Please don’t worry about it anymore.” His eyes glanced at you before back at the ceiling, his fingers never once pausing.

“I know, I just, I didn’t know your job consisted of so much.” His eyes shut tight, eyebrows scrunching together. “You do all those reports, help Shoko, inform families of deaths, and on top of that, you take care of our home.”

His words from over, repeated over and over, on a loop. Just a desk job? You didn’t know what he went through. When it was the other way around, he didn’t know what you went through daily. His words were cold and cruel. All because he had taken his exhaustion and frustration out on you. The most important person in his life.

Your slender finger gently rubbed up and down the bridge of his nose. Grounding him, pulling him out of the deep void of his thoughts. Opening his eyes, he was met with your glimmering Y/E/C eyes. Your sleepy gaze and gentle smile had his heart clenching in his chest.

”Ken, it’s okay. You didn’t know, much like I don’t know about all of the struggles you go through.” Your gentle touch had him relaxing against the mattress. “Let’s just agree not to downplay each other again. We both work hard, every day, to make this life for us to share.” Slowly pulling your hand away, you leaned up, kissing his lips. “As long as we come home to each other at the end of the day, that’s all that matters.”

Kento smiled softly, pressing a gentle kiss against your lips. “I couldn’t agree with you more, Y/N.” Your warm, tired smile had him melting. “I’m home.”

“Welcome home, Kento.” You whispered against his lips.

Ryomen Sukuna:

You loved your boyfriend, really you did. But for the last week, he’d been almost insufferable. His younger brother Yuuji was on Spring break. His best friend Megumi had invited him to join him and his family for the week on the beach. Sukuna all but packed Yuuji’s bags for him, ushering the twerp out of the apartment before locking it up, heading to spend the week with you.

It was like his own personal spring break away from his brothers.

Which also was the start of a week from hell for you. At first, the weekend was lovely. The two of you stayed in, had crazy, animalistic sex, and just enjoyed each other. But when Monday rolled around and you left for work, things took a turn.

You came home to find Sukuna’s clothes all around the room, the dishes from breakfast still in the sink, and he was snoring on the couch. At first, you were upset. The poor guy was raising his young brother while their other brother, Choso, was on vacation with some college friends. Sukuna truly did bust his ass for his brothers, so it made sense that he was beat.

So you let it go, picked up, washed the dishes, and made the two of you dinner. It had been somewhat annoying, but it was alright. You wanted to make sure Sukuna got as much rest as he could before he went back to work the following week.

Tuesday afternoon, you came home to a similar situation: clothes everywhere, dishes in the sink, only Sukuna had just returned from the gym. When he got home, he started helping you before taking a shower. Maybe he had just been so interested in getting to the gym that he forgot to do the dishes. That sort of thing happened when you were in a rush, so it wasn’t that big of a deal.

But when you got home today, it was the same damn story. You looked around the apartment, groaning out loud as Sukuna scrolled briefly through Netflix. There were empty soda cans, trash, and, of course, his gym clothes all over the floor. This was not the man you knew.

“Ryomen Sukuna!” Your sharp tone had him turning in your direction. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to find something to watch on Netflix?” He raised an eyebrow as if it wasn’t obvious what he was doing.

“I can see that!” You scrubbed a hand over your face. “I meant all the trash, clothes, and everything!”

“Oooh,” he looked around the apartment, “I’ll get to it.”

You tugged at your hair with an exasperated groan. “That’s not the point! Why are you trashing the place to begin with?”

“I’m on vacation.”

“So?!” Your tone had his full attention now. “When I have a day off, I don’t trash your place.”

Sukuna pinched at the bridge of his nose with a grumble. “Are we seriously going to fight about this?” He narrowed his gaze at you, those eyes you normally adored full of irritation. Irritation that had no right to even be there!

“Yes, we are! How is it fair that I make us breakfast, go to work, come home, and make dinner? On top of that, you expect me to come home and pick up your trash and clothes?”

“Well, I mean, yeah.” The answer that came out of his mouth far faster than you thought. “I mean, that’s your job. It’s what you’re good at.” Sukuna rolled a shoulder as he twirled the remote between his fingers. “I exercise spirits, and you—“ He finally turned, seeing the rage and darkening of your cheeks. “You—are good at caring for the house and cooking.”

Oh, he’d fucked up.

You didn’t say a word. Instead, you scoffed and stormed to the bedroom, slamming the door. Sukuna winced and turned his head to face your room. Perhaps that wasn’t the best choice of words. He had meant to say, well, that you were a good caretaker, wifey material. Now that he was looking around the room, truly taking in the state of your usually well-kept home, your words were beginning to settle in his gut.

Had he been that lazy and messy? The take-out containers, his gym clothes, and empty cans confirmed that, yes, he had. Ever since his brothers left, he didn’t have to move constantly. He didn’t have to take Yuuji to school, helping Choso with homework. He had time to himself, where he didn’t have to ensure everything was in tip-top shapes. This was a chance for him to mellow out and relax.

He’d wanted to spend this mellow time with you, his girlfriend, the most amazing woman he’d ever met. But instead, he’d gotten lazy, stuck in a rut of not having to do such a damn thing. This wasn’t how he normally acted, so why now? Fuck, and to tell you you were nothing but a maid, that it was your job. Yeah, no, he totally fucked up.

You were his girlfriend, partner, and the woman he wanted to spend his life with. Most of his other partners hadn’t been able to handle the fact he was a single dad. He had raised his two brothers, just the three against the world. But you, god, you were an angel. You helped him out, making dinners and teaching him the best ways to cook and stir certain foods, which grocery stores had the best sales. You had made him a better man, a better brother.

And he’d gone and turned himself into a shitty boyfriend, trashing your apartment, making misogynistic comments, hurting you. He had to fix this. Or he might very well end up losing the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Without a second thought, he got up, executing his plan.

You needed an hour and a half to yourself before you had completely calmed down. You glanced at your reflection, whipping at your tear-stained cheeks before entering the living room. All you needed to do was grab something to eat and go back to bed. When you walked out into the messy living room, you stopped.

The trashed room scattered with clothes was completely picked up, and the coasters and books were neatly put back into place. Sukuna was nowhere to be found. So you headed into the kitchen, which was also spotless. No crumbs were on the counters, and the dishes had been cleaned and put away. There was still no sign of Sukuna.

Part of you was still angry and didn’t want to see him. The other part of you wanted to thank him and hear what he had to say. Just as you were pulling your phone out to call him, your door opened. Sukuna stepped in with a bag of takeout. He took his shoes off, placing them where they were supposed to go before he locked the door.

“Suku?” He jumped, startled by your voice. But he slowly turned to you, giving you a remorseful smile.

“Hey,” he put the takeout on the counter, “Y/N, I—“ his cheeks flushed as he rubbed at the back of his neck. “You know I’m not the best with apologies, and I suck at fucking using my words.” With a heavy sigh, he grabbed your hand. “But what I said earlier was fucked up, and I’m sorry. I don’t see you as some maid, I just.” You couldn’t help but smile as he struggled to find the right words. “I don’t want you ever to feel like I don’t appreciate everything you do. You’ve made me a better man, and I unfortunately haven’t been like that this week.”

You hummed, nodding in agreement as you interlaced your fingers with his. “Yeah, you’ve been a manchild. Yuuji would have been more mature than you.” He cringed, dropping his head down. “Then again, you did clean up your mess and pick me some dinner.” Your thumb brushed over his knuckles. “So maybe you haven’t been as bad as you think.” Sukuna was leaning in to kiss you, but you squeezed his hand tighter and tighter until it was almost painful. “But if you ever tell me it’s my job to take care of you or the chores again, I’ll put you in my trunk and help people look for you.”

Your boyfriend winced before nodding in understanding. “Right, yes, understood.” The second your hand softened, he pulled you towards the bedroom. “Come on.” You blushed, watching his back. His neck was a soft, rosy color.

“What are we doing?”

“You’re not doing anything.” He said, pushing you back against the bed. “I’m going to show you how much I appreciate you.”

Oh, and Sukuna did just that. He licked and sucked on your clit until you came. His fingers slammed in and out of you, fucking you until you squirted all over his hand. His smirk was sinister and hungry each time you came. Only when you were fucked out of your mind did he decide to fuck you with his cock.

“Please~ please, Suku~” You panted as he rubbed his cock head up and down your entrance. “Please.”

“Why are you begging?” He grunted as he slid his entire length into you. “You want my cock that bad.” He smirked at your tiny whimpers, his cock stretching you in the most delicious way.

“Yes, yes, I want it.” You grabbed his hand, and he went to hold it, only to watch as you placed it over your throat. “Give it to me.” You felt his cock throb inside of you.

He squeezed without having to be told twice. “Such a dirty slut I have.” He squeezed harder as he pulled out. “Here I’m trying to be romantic.” He slammed into you, the bed creaking under the force. “And my slutty little Y/N wants me to fuck her pussy like I normally do.” You whimpered, nodding in agreement. “Yeah, that’s the best way to show you how much you mean to me, right? Fuckin’ that tight cunt until you can’t walk. Making sure you’re ruined, only I can satisfy you and your needs.” He grabbed your thighs, pressing them to your chest, forcing you into a mating press.

“K-Kuna!” You cried out as he released your throat, his hands fisting the sheets.

“That’s right, scream my fuckin’ name.” He groaned, pressing a searing kiss against your swollen lips. “Scream it, let everyone know how much your boyfriend appreciates you, how good he fucks you.”

His words, the deep thrusts, and your already sensitive pussy clenched. “I-I’m so close.” You cried out, eyes locked on Sukuna’s.

His hips sped up, cock throbbing hard as he growled. “Go on then, cum for me again.” You screamed as he slammed harder and harder into you, sending you over the edge. Your screams were muffled by Sukuna’s growls as he kissed you desperately, fucking you through your orgasm right into his own.

He stilled, lips pressing harder against you as his hit cum filled you. Your soft whines of pleasure had Sukuna’s hips moving slowly until he was sure your pussy was done milking him. Pulling back, Sukuna panted, smirking at the blissed-out look in your eyes—a look he always wanted to see.

“Love you, Suku.” You breathed out, leaning up and kissing him. He didn’t say anything for a long moment. But his large hand cupped your face.

“And I love you and everything you do for me.” Without another word, his lips were on yours, his hips slowly rutting against yours. He intended to make you know just how much you meant to him. Even if that meant you’d have to call out of work tomorrow.

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ef-1 · 1 year ago

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Enchante! | Disembodied

#tell daniel enchante has been appropriated by preppy bitches its ours now 💞#it was such a cold day but i persevered bc a hoe never gets cold #(im unfortunately a hoe with MS so i had to wear a turtle neck under the dress but we move)#index: rows #1. fits. it was acc supposed to be shoes but i had to do a brutal crop in the first one bc i was with some and standing on the bar logo rip #2. my friends and my knees #3. thrifting and casual affection (we dont talk anymore (im jk but its complicated lmao(cute pic tho)))#photography series

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i-love-ptv · 8 months ago

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Busted and Blue ｡𖦹 ⋆｡

Pairing: Boyfriend!Rafe Cameron x Girlfriend!Reader

It’s the annual kook halloween party, so of course you’re going to let loose with your friends! If only you proceeded with more caution like your boyfriend wanted..

Wc: 3,727

Hurt + comfort, protective Rafe, SUPER creepy guy harasses reader n grabs her :(( soz

An: Hey chat 😈 I would’ve gotten this out sooner if I could, but ofc i’m super sick (i think i have the flu somehow? 😭) But anywho, I hope yall enjoy this cause i lowkkk had this sitting unfinished in the docs since late september..🌚

Not proofread I fear (cause when do I ever guys)

Feedback always appreciated n welcome! Also send halloween/fall requests guys I wanna hear from y’all! :3 <33

“Y’ready, puddin’?” You turn to your boyfriend, Rafe, while adjusting the ears resting upon your freshly styled hair.

Rafe smirks at you, “‘M ready when you are.”

You grab your wallet off of your nightstand, alongside your keys, and stick them into Rafe’s jacket pockets.

Rafe grabs you by your waist, stepping closer to you, making sure he doesn’t accidentally step on your furry boots, and leaving an airy kiss onto your lips. He knows you’ll pout if he messes up your gloss and lip liner.

“Let’s go!” You cheer excitedly, gripping the golden haired boy’s arm and pulling him along. Rafe chuckles at your enthusiasm.

But before the two of you can pass the door’s frame, you abruptly stop walking, and let out a yelp.

“Wait!”

“Jesus Christ! What?” Rafe shouts out, purely in concern.

Due to you stepping into the bathroom, he can barely see you. But he sees you reach for something off of the sink.

You practically skip over to him giggling. “I almost forgot, Ray!”

You wave a container of face paint in front of his nose. You’re bouncing in your spot, making him grip your hips still.

“Y’scared me, sweet girl.”

You pout at this, but your frown quickly turns into a smile when you open the lid of the container.

“Mhmm. Sorry Ray. But your costume’s not complete without it!”

Rafe is sporting a camo fleece jacket, with matching baggy pants, and some dark boots. He’s wearing a camo beanie too, which covers his delicious buzzed hair.

He has a prop gun sitting in his waistband.

And last but not least, Rafe was letting his facial hair grow a bit for this exact day, per your request.

Instead of being cleanly shaven, his scruff was coming in, and the sight nearly made your mouth water.

But that’s besides the point, tonight was the annual Obx Halloween party, thrown by both Kelce and Topper at their shared house alongside a few other kooks as well.

If you didn’t know any better, you would’ve thought it was a fraternity, but honestly, it wasn’t really far from one. Every day you wonder why their parents decided to fund it, but that’s besides the point.

Every kook attends this party every year, and some pogues would come too.

Did this cause a few problems? Absolutely, but at least it’s a bit more civilized than it was years prior.

With the party, there’s a costume contest, you even went out of your way a few years back to make a cute ballet box. Although, last year you had to make a new one, due to one partygoer accidentally crushing it against the table it rested on during a drunken fight.

You were pissed, to say the least, you spent the rest of the night sulking, and Rafe nearly punched the kid, despite him already suffering from a beating. He hated seeing you upset.

But every year, for 3 years in a row, Rafe and you would win the ‘Best Couples Costumes’ competition.

Last year, it came close, but everybody loves a classic, and you knew two measly pirates weren’t going to beat Flynn Ryder and Rapunzel.

And this year, you knew that you both were going to win again, your deer costume was just the cutest!

You’re holding Rafe’s face, specifically holding his cheeks with your thumb and index finger. You squish his face a few times cheekily, before applying the black face paint onto his cheeks.

You drag the brush down, lightly tickling Rafe’s slightly rosey cheeks, he’s trying not to react, you can tell. You find it cute.

“Okay! Now we’re good to go!” You clap your hands together with a giggle, Rafe swears he falls harder for you every single day.

You intertwine your hands with his, then head to Rafe’s car.

Rafe opens your door before you can even reach for the handle.

“Wowww,” you drag out, “Aren’t you a gentleman?”

He side-eyes you, leaving you cackling as he rounds the car to the driver’s side.

After walking through the front door of Kelce and Topper’s house, you’re immediately greeted by several people, some of your friends, some of Rafe’s.

You’re holding your boyfriend’s hand tightly, tip-toeing in while responding to all of the ‘Hey Dollie!’s and the ‘You look so cute Dollie!’s.

You drag Rafe into the kitchen, blabbering on about how you “need to find a smirnoff or else you’re going to collapse”.

Topper and Kelce spot Rafe, they rush over and start patting him on the back.

“Ayeee, howdy Rafe! Glad you finally showed up!”

They’re both dressed up as cowboys, their forced country accent makes you giggle.

Kelce notices you before Topper does, he instantly grins.

“Howdy there, Miss Dollie! Look at you!” You beam brightly, taking pride in your costume.

“A deer and a hunter? How cute, I think someone’s gone soft.” Topper raises his eyebrows in a teasing manner. He always talks about how “Rafe’s gone soft”, because years ago, if a girl asked if he wanted to wear matching halloween costumes, he would’ve laughed in her face.

“Shut the hell up Topper.” Rafe practically barked at him.

You walk over to the fridge, looking for your beloved smirnoff. Topper coos at Rafe, while Kelce makes kissy faces at him, making you laugh at their antics.

You hear a squeal behind you and you whip your head around.

There in front of you, is none other than your [basically almost] sister-in-law, Sarah Cameron.

“Oh my god, Dollie!! You look so cute!” She barrels into you, and you stumble back.

After you two talk for a bit, she drags you away, telling you how she wants to show you something.

You look back at Rafe, who looks a little apprehensive about letting you roam without him.

It’s not that he didn’t trust you, and he definitely wasn’t one to completely baby you, but he didn’t trust others.

There are some sleazy kooks here, ones that act how he used to, and that nearly sent a shiver up his spine at the thought of you being subjected to being around anyone like that.

He wants to protect you, he needs to.

It’s his job as your boyfriend.

Your future husband.

Anything can happen at a party, especially if you're not in his eyesight.

But you gave him a look of reassurance. Your eyes convey a message, almost as if you’re saying “It’s going to be okay” to him personally.

He holds your gaze for a few seconds longer, he looks uncertain, but eventually, you’re lost in the wave of bodies.

“Dude, you act like she’s gonna disappear or something, she’s only gonna be gone for a little bit.”

Topper’s statement makes Rafe turn back and glare at him.

He says nothing, instead, he goes to the fridge to grab a beer.

He knows he can only drink a few, since he’s going to be driving back home tonight. And you sure as hell aren’t going to let him drive if he’s even a bit tipsy.

…Even if that means you have to drive in the dark, which is hard for you to see in.

That’s one of the things that Rafe loves most about you. You’re so attentive. It’s new for him.

The two of you have been dating for years, coming up on four, to be exact.

But Rafe doesn’t think he’ll ever truly get used to the feeling of your love, and your warmth.

Rafe truly wonders if there’s an off-switch on Topper and Kelce.

They’ve been talking about a whole bunch of nothing and quite frankly, it’s starting to piss him off.

He knows you’d hate it if he was too busy worrying about what you’re doing rather than enjoying his time at a party with his friends.

It’s been an hour of non-stop chirping in his ear, and Rafe’s been nursing his second beer for the past 20 minutes.

“Yo, Rafe. Did your girl ever bring the costume ballot box in?” Kelce asks, touching his beer bottle with Rafe’s, making a sharp ‘clink’ noise.

Rafe groans, “Aw shit man. I'll go get it.” He rubs his hand over his face.

And with that, Rafe is trekking through the house towards his car, but not without pushing a few people out of his way.

Kelce snickers alongside Topper, who is growing agitated by his so-called girlfriend’s pestering, and finishes off his 5th-or-so beer.

Kelce hears a whimper from behind him, and quickly shoots around to see you: wobbling in your shoes, with your legs pressing together slightly. He can tell you’re already drunk.

“What’s up, Dollie? You okay?” Kelce rests his hands on your shoulders, aiming to keep you steady.

Your glossed lips remain in a pout, “Have you seen Rafe? I gotta go to the bathroom ‘n he told me to tell ‘em when I gotta.”

“He jus’ went to his car to get the ballot box. I can take you if you want though.”

“Oh pretty please, Kelce?” You’re speaking so urgently, Kelce can barely understand you.

But that doesn’t matter, cause he makes you hold his arm so you don’t get separated from him while he walks you to the less-crowded bathroom upstairs.

When you get there, you quickly unwrap your arms from Kelce’s bicep and rush out a ‘thank you so so much, Kelcey’. Which makes him chuckle, knowing that Rafe would mope if he heard it.

It’s been 10 minutes, and Kelce grows a bit worried. He’s confused as to why it’s taken you so long.

“Hey uh, Dollie? You alright in there..?” He questions as he knocks his finger on the door.

“Mhm! Jus’ tryna…Button m’damn shorts.” You slur, and Kelce hears your heavy footsteps through the door.

Kelce hears you murmur ‘Dumb fuckin’ nails…Won’t lemme do shit’, before a girl wearing a Tinker Bell costume grabs his attention.

Now if Kelce was in the right state of mind, he would’ve never left you alone. But right now, with quite a bit of alcohol in his system, he’s not thinking clearly.

So after another five minutes when you finally walk out of the bathroom and see a random guy leaned against the wall, smirking at you, instead of Kelce, you panic.

“Wha’s good pretty girl?” He coos, similar to how your boyfriend would, but more sinisterly.

You sort-of sober up at this, despite having 3 shots and 2 of Sarah’s cocktail things. But your mind still remains foggy.

You don’t respond at first, for some reason you think he’s talking to someone behind you, until he grabs your arm when you try to pass him.

“Nothin’? C’mon talk to me doll.”

You don’t like how the nickname sounds coming from his mouth, and you stammer to try and respond.

“Jus’ wanted to use the bathroom..”You whimper meekly.

You’re looking around for Kelce or even Rafe, but you can hardly tell whether or not this guy really is pink.

“Dollie? You up here babe?”

You whip your head back, too quickly unfortunately, and you see Sarah coming up the stairs.

….Not without tripping up the step once or twice, though.

“Oh m’gosh Dollie, I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Listen, I found some more shit, ‘n I could totally make one of those cool Bloody Mary’s—“

The drunk blonde cuts off her rambling once she opens her eyes and looks at you.

You’re grimacing, while trying to pull your arm away from this guy, who seemingly has a painful grip on you. And you can barely stand straight.

Sarah’s eyes widen, and from the looks of it, all of the alcohol from the night has suddenly vanished from her body.

“What the fuck d’you think you’re doing?!” Sarah nearly barks at the boy as she takes a few steps closer, trying to steady herself.

“This doesn’t concern you, bitch,” he sneers, making you inhale the smell of alcohol from his breath due to the close proximity.

Sarah’s practically stomping across the hallway, reaching for your hand.

“It obviously concerns me since you’re gripping my best friend, you cunt.”

When the blonde girl finally reaches you, the drunken kook shoves her straight into the wall, making you shout for Sarah.

You’re pushing against the man, begging him to just let you go, while he’s trying to drag you back into one of the dark rooms of the house.

Meanwhile, Rafe’s freaking the fuck out downstairs, and honestly, he’s about to flip this entire house upside down.

He’s taking large steps, walking with a purpose as he finally spots Topper. He smacks a rough hand on his shoulder, interrupting Topper’s conversation with the girl from earlier.

“Yo, Topper, you seen my sister?”

Topper turns around, nearly snarling due to the mention of his ex girlfriend.

“No, dude, why the fuck would I know where she is?”

Rafe’s nose flares, he’s growing more and more irritated by the minute at the thought of you being out of his line of sight.

“Don’t fucking catch an attitude with me, and I don’t really care where the fuck my sister is, I’m looking for Dollie.”

There’s a beat of silence between them, despite the loud surroundings, then somebody’s rushing to Rafe before Topper can even respond.

It’s some random pogue, which angers Rafe even more, — but he’d never tell you that though.

“Rafe! This guy just shoved Sarah into the wall upstairs,” he rushes out through his panting, since he had sprinted down the stairs moments prior.

“And, and he keeps grabbin’ on Dollie-“ Rafe immediately starts charging upstairs.

His large strides make everyone turn towards him, wondering what made Rafe Cameron furious this time.

Rafe swears that his heart is going to pound out of his chest; this is the exact reason as to why he wanted you at his side tonight.

He knew not to let you drink with Sarah, because everytime the two of you are left alone together with alcohol, it doesn’t end well.

Rafe’s taking two steps at a time, he’s balling his fists so tightly that his knuckles are turning white.

He swings around the banister, then he sees a group of people holding back a guy who’s cursing loudly, and flailing his body.

“She was fucking asking for it, get the fuck off me!”

Then as he’s walking up, he sees Sarah slap him, and reach into her boot.

“You dirty. Fucking. Freak!” Sarah yells, putting emphasis on every word she spits.

And at the end of her shouting, she sprays her mace in the boy’s face. She’s waving her bedazzled pepper spray container wildly, making the boys holding the kook avert their faces.

Rafe whips his sister around, “what the fuck is going on? Where’s Dollie?”

Sarah huffs at the brunette’s harshness. “She locked herself in the bathroom after I managed to get the guy off her.”

Rafe nearly bulldozes through the forming crowd and parks himself right in front of the door.

But he hesitates to knock.

He urgently wants to get to you, to pull you into his arms and take you straight home. He wants to go through the after-party ritual you both have:

First, he’d always set you down in the kitchen as soon as you both got home, so he could get you a glass of water.

Then after you went into your shared room, he’d help you take off your shoes and clothes, so you could eventually get changed into something comfier.

Then, he’d remove whatever makeup you're wearing, and then tie your hair up —however that may be.

Rafe loves taking care of you, you’re always so stubborn when it comes to him pampering you.

You love the princess treatment, really! But you’re afraid of asking for too much, and Rafe vowed to spend the rest of his life proving to you that there’s no such thing as ‘too much’ with him.

Rafe wants to do all that with you right now, but he knows that you’re startled, frightened even. So he needs to calm down before trying to reach you.

His breathing is uneven, borderline ragged. There’s a slight shake in his hand, and quite frankly, Rafe can’t tell if it’s from sheer rage, or it’s because he can’t handle the thought of scaring you further.

He knocks at the door.

•······················•

There’s a knock at the door.

A gasp rips from your throat, breaking you out of the almost trance that you’re in.

You’re sitting in the bathtub, it’s gross, you’re aware of this. But you’re too shaken up and tipsy to even care.

You just want to be as far away from the door as possible.

“Hey, uh, Dollie? You in here?” You hear it come from the other side of the door, it’s muttered softly.

“S’me, baby.” He continues, although he didn’t need to, because you know that voice like the back of your hand.

“Ray….” You croak, you try to speak more than one singular word, but silence grips your throat.

You can’t seem to move, your joints remain still, but your chest is heaving wildly.

You know you need to get up, you need to unlock the door so Rafe can help you, but your buckled knees keep you grounded at the bottom of the tub.

You open your mouth to speak but only a choked sob escapes.

“Okay, okay. I’ll—I’ll be there in a second, baby.”

Your head leans back on the wall, and you take in your surroundings. You’re in Topper’s bathroom, you can tell because he’s the only one with a bathroom that doesn’t connect to his bedroom.

Kelce must’ve brought you here since it was the closest one. You wonder where Kelce is now.

The sound of the doorknob rattling makes you jump—almost out of your skin.

The door swings open, nearly clashing against the wall. You lock eyes with your boyfriend.

He whispers, “oh Dollie,” and rushes towards you.

Rafe picks your body up out of the tub, and lays you in his lap. Your position similar to a baby being held; Rafe couldn’t help it.

You cried in his arms, despite not wanting to cry in front of him, your resolve had slipped.

This wasn’t your first time having an issue like this, but it had never reached this point before.

Everyone in Kildare County knew you were Rafe’s girl, just like how they knew Rafe was your man, so nobody had dared to go past a few flirty remarks, or even a sly glance.

It was Rafe’s fault, he was sure of it. If he had just found you and took you to the car with him, none of this would’ve happened.

“Don’t do that, Rafe,” you murmur through your sniffles, your voice still holding that rasp from earlier.

“..Do what?”

“Blame yourself. I know that’s what you’re doing, Stop it.” You place a soft hand on his cheek, making you cringe due to all of the surfaces you’ve been touching.

Rafe presses a warm kiss to your temple and caresses your back

There’s a pause, but neither of you mind; the bathroom serving as a temporary solace for you.

You’re rubbing circles on Rafe’s arm while he rests his chin on your head. Whispers are exchanged between the two of you, until you decide that it’d be best to just head home.

Before leaving, though, you make sure Sarah at least has a ride home, for whenever she decides to leave.

You asked Rafe if you could talk to Kelce before leaving, but he refused. Simply stating that you could call him tomorrow.

You pouted at this, but you understand his reasoning, well at least you somewhat could through your haze.

While Rafe’s helping you step down the steps, you see John B walking up.

“Rafe.” John B says, acknowledgingly.

Rafe’s eyes slant, “John B.”

You perk up with a smile, “hi John B!!” You exclaimed with a slur, and with a little too much enthusiasm for Rafe’s liking.”

“Hi, Dollie,” John B smiles at you, and gives you a high-five, making you squeal in your drunken state.

After 10 minutes of Rafe trying to guide you, and you tripping over your own feet, you both finally made it to Rafe’s car.

While he’s buckling you in, Rafe can’t help but think about when you gifted him this car for his birthday.

Well, you picked it out, Ward had actually bought it.

He remembers when you first placed the keys in his hand, you were nearly bouncing in place waiting for his reaction.

Now he’s gotten cars before, in fact, that’s all Ward usually gets him every other birthday besides a watch. But this one, was one you picked out. So he knew he was going to cherish this for the rest of his life.

That same night, you told him about how Ward and you were at the car dealership for hours, since you refused to take any of the cars they originally offered you.

- -

“Y’know I would’ve liked any of ‘em, you didn't have to spend so much time on it. You could’ve gotten me a smoothie, and I think I still would’ve loved it.”

“Woww,” you drag out with a hushed whisper. “You think?”

Rafe poked your side, making you giggle.

“I’m kidding! I’m kidding! But I wanted it to be special.

Couldn’t just pick out any ordinary one. I dunno, I’m surprised you like it so much, since you already have a car and a dirt bike.”

- -

If only you truly knew how much he appreciates everything you do for him.

As soon as Rafe reaches his side of the car and enters, he looks over and sees you slumped back, since he lowered your seat back to get you comfortable.

Your hair’s a bit wild, your lipgloss is almost fully gone, probably from the sweet residue being left on every bottle you’ve touched tonight.

Your mouth is open slightly, and Rafe thinks it’s the cutest thing.

If you found out, he knows you’d be beyond mortified. So, Rafe will just keep this moment locked away for himself.

Honestly, he wishes he could keep you locked away for himself, as selfish as it is.

He can’t help it. You make him whole.

He’s a satellite, and he can’t get back without you.

Because you’re his love; his life.

#lee’s writing! ₍ᐢ. ̫.ᐢ₎#Spotify #rafe cameron #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron x reader #rafe x reader #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #outer banks #outer banks fic #outer banks imagine #obx x reader #obx x you

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hwallazia · 5 months ago

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SWEET, SWEET REVENGE – 최산

⋆ synopsis. you give san a taste of his own medicine, taking the lead and setting the tone yourself.

pairing. boyfriend! san & fem! reader.

wc. 0,9k

warnings. sub! san & mean-ish dom! reader, suggestive language ofc, nipple sucking/play, cowgirl position (riding), pet names (love, good boy, sannie & more), dacryphilia?, implied edging, creampie, teasing, praise, dirty talk, slight overstimulation, so much whining, just a normal scenario of a desperate sannie <3

nic’s notes ⋆ three san fics in a row—sorry not sorry tho! he’s the one who posted that slutty pic & i just couldn’t resist— oh, slight update, i’m currently working on a hongjoong ask i recently got, so look forward to it <3

okay but imagine riding san so fucking harshly that you have him whining and panting for air underneath you.

he’s the prettiest babbling mess and his desperation’s only growing stronger with each passing second, indecisive hands roaming all over your naked, bouncing body. the pleasure is so great that he can no longer feel his fingertips, so his hands surrender and fall helplessly to the messy sheets.

tears decorate his frowned expression, and sweat streams down the sides of his face as messy locks of hair stick to his glistening forehead. he stopped breathing through his nose some time ago, the exhaustion so overwhelming that he can only draw breath through parted lips. occasionally, his wet tongue flicks over the rim of his lips, moisturizing them slightly.

“y-yn, love— mgh!” your warm walls clench around his length purposely, stealing the words from his mouth; a proud smirk appears on your lips at the delightful sound. the clash of his hips with the wet flesh of your ass deafens him. “please.. slow down a b-bit!” his words grow in pitch, a squeaky tone replacing his baritone.

“don’t wanna.” you spit out, your tone drowning in nonchalance. “just shut up and take it, that’s what you always say to me, right?”

he sobs, his voice cracking. “b-but—“

“no buts, sannie.” your hand flies towards his sweaty cheekbone, your reassuring thumb providing sweet ministrations. a lovely, yet devilish smile curves your lips up. “take it like a good boy.”

san whines and curses under his breath, his head rocking backward as precious tears escape from the corner of his half-lidded eyes. his frown deepens as the delicious, purple veins of his neck pulsate strongly; his lids almost falling shut. he babbles something you can’t quite understand. “what d’ya say, baby?”

he bats his wet eyelashes as his pleading eyes peer into yours, almost like a silent imploring. “this ‘s torture” he rambles, hiccuping a tad bit in mid-sentence.

“oh really?” you stop your movements before pushing—more like forcing your body upwards, easing san’s hardened cock from the warm embrace of your walls. his length immediately bobs up and slaps against his chiseled abs, throbbing helplessly. the soft plea that escapes his lips penetrates your core almost violently. “‘cause it seems to me that you’re..” your index ghosts over his velvety, leaking tip, the strong jolt of san’s hips almost making you lose your balance. “enjoying this. maybe a bit too much.”

“mhn! baby—babybabybaby” he pathetically cries out—words falling off his lips like a mantra, failing completely at trying to keep his shuddering bottom lip trapped between his perfect row of white teeth. “please just go slower, you’re g-gonna make me—hmph!”

san’s words get caught inside his throat the moment you slam your hips down in a swift motion, more tears pooling in his eyes. his lower body shifts relentlessly, almost as if he’s trying to escape from the overwhelming stimulation. a sinister chuckle rumbles through your chest before you slap his thigh harshly. “stop running and take it like i know you can.”

and that stirs something deep within him, a soft stroke to his submissive facet. you know he can take it, so there’s no excuse, no reason behind all that whiny and pathetic behavior of his.

sharply contoured arms wrap around your bouncing figure, fingers clutching your stuttering hips, ‘cause you’re no different from him. you’re close to the edge as well, but you can’t afford to let the mask slip.

exasperated sighs and soft cries pour out of san’s swollen lips, his phalanges clinging to your body for dear life. he can’t bring himself to stare down to where your bodies connect, ‘cause he’d cum right then and there. instead, he buries his face in your breasts, spitting and attaching his warm tongue to your perky nipples.

you slow down the pace a tad bit, so he can comfortably suck on your tits. how considerate of you. “fuuuck, that’s a good boy.” you coo at him, stroking his hair lovingly. in response, san’s cheek nuzzles even deeper into the soft flesh of your chest, humming delightfully as the petname strikes a spark into his limbs.

now, you can’t bring yourself just to be mean to him and deny him another release. your soothing hand travels from his nape to his cheekbone. you lift his head before speaking. “y’ wanna cum, pretty boy?”

san writhes beneath you, wiggling his hips like a dog. “yesyesyes” he gulps dryly. a painful cough follows his pleas. “yes please—i’ll do whatever.” he rasps with a blissed-out expression decorating his beautiful face.

“then let go, angel.”

with shaky breaths, he meets your thrusts by lifting his hips powerfully. the ambition to finally surrender and let go clouds his senses, as his back arches beautifully. his jaw drops, his limbs go numb and his cheeks hollow when he bursts inside you, white shoots of cum painting your insides white. you cum not long after, your convulsing walls strangle his poor softened girth; san let out whiny and shuddering whimpers in response. “f-fuck baby stop—stop please, ‘s too much.”

you stare down at his doe-eyes as your malicious mind schemes one final tease. you pinch his hardened nipple as you simultaneously clamp down his cock. san’s body jolts upward while you coax one final, delicious moan from him.

he juts his bottom lip, sulking. “why’re you so mean.”

you kiss his irresistible pouty lips, your soft chuckle soothing san’s chest. “you love it.”

he sighs as he takes in the scene, helplessly in love with you on top of him. “guilty as charged i guess.”

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#© hwallazia #ateez #ateez smut #san ateez #choi san #choi san ateez #san smut #choi san smut #san x reader #san scenarios #san fanfic #ateez x reader #ateez scenarios #ateez fanfic

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prokopetz · 10 months ago

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Inadvisable tabletop RPG idea #137: Apocalypse Engine-like where instead of three possible outcomes, each basic move has 36 possible outcomes, arranged into a d66 table. Rather than modifying a sum-of-2d6 roll, your relevant stat rating furnishes a pool of from two to five d6s (with the range from 2–5 mapping roughly to the range from −1 to +2 in PbtA terms), and you're allowed to choose any table row whose index you can assemble from the resulting collection of digits.

(In order to preserve roughly the same set of likelihoods of good versus bad outcomes as standard PbtA, you'd want roughly 21 "bad" outcomes, 12 "mixed" outcomes, and 3 "good" outcomes in each move's d66 table. Particular care should be taken to structure each table so that the inverses of any non-doubles result – e.g., 12 versus 21 – are of the same tier, because it will always be possible to flip digits, and if any given entry is categorically less favourable than its inverse, players will simply never choose it.)

#concepts #gaming #tabletop roleplaying #tabletop rpgs #game design #big stupid tables

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voitier · 3 months ago

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Blame Morpheus for your sins - 02

𝒾𝓃 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝒸𝒽... you and jungkook had been attached by the hip since you were little toddlers learning how to live in your own bodies, which led you two to spend most (if not all) of your life together. one weird dream makes your whole view about your best friend change. how will you live with that?

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝒶𝒾𝓃𝓈... [mini-series!] friends to lovers, college au, jungkook is whipped for reader but she's oblivious to it all, descriptions of wet dreams, second-hand embarrassment, learning how to deal with new found feelings, sex and all the good stuff, HEA.

𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔... (18+) description of period pain and discomfort, mentions of medicine, unprotected sex, second hand embarrassment, explicit language, sexual tension, wet dreams.

▸ 𝓔𝓷𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓱 𝓲𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓶𝔂 𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓼𝓽 𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓾𝓪𝓰𝓮

▸ 𝔀.𝓬. : 2.5𝓴

first / next / index

There were some days that tired you out more than others for various reasons, but your number one excuse was that you were on your period. Hormones, stress, body working overtime, all reasonable causes for your discomfort, right? Then, on top of that, add your classmate and friend, Jimin, whom you absolutely loved but he was so, so hyperactive and chatty all the time which normally wouldn’t bother you, but today was not the day. At all. So it was no surprise when at the end of the second lecture you gathered your things and bolted out of the class, telling Jimin that you needed to go back home cause your period was killing you - which, by the way, wasn’t even a lie - and headed straight for home. Well, technically, not your own home.

Your feet dragged you around campus until you reached the dorms almost as if they got their own mind, knowing exactly what you needed. You fished around your bag in search of the spare key Jungkook had gotten you when he moved in, muttering a curse word when you really couldn’t seem to find them. Once your finger touched the cold metal you pulled them out immediately, jamming the key in the lock and twisting the knob. Upon entering, you let your body slump against the closed door, groaning as you felt the heaviness of the day weighting on you. Your bag slowly slid from your shoulders, falling to the ground with a soft thump.

Jungkook’s kind voice reached your ears from the desk in the corner of the room. “Petal, could you bring me the can that’s in the fridge?”

Petal. Petal was the nickname he had saddled you with when you were nine years old, and you used to doodle flowers and petals and leaves everywhere, even on top of his homeworks. He absolutely hated it, especially when you turned his little “essays” - if two rows of words about his dog can be called an essay - into your favorite canvas, giving the black and white paper a tinge of color with your best imitation of nature. What was that saying? Oh, right, “art imitates nature”. Also, it is known that every artist has a little bit of insanity, a little bit of being annoying in them, so were you really to be blamed? You were just… experimenting. Yeah, that’s what it was. Totally. It wasn’t to prove a point to that Rylee girl that Jungkook was your best friend and yours only, absolutely not. Truth to be told, you were a jealous girl growing up. You didn’t want anyone near your pens, your toys, your books, you didn’t want anyone near what was yours, Jungkook included. Part of the reason was probably because as an older sister you always had to share everything with your sibling, never truly feeling like something was a hundred percent yours even when it meant so much to you, and your possessiveness slowly creeped from inanimate things to people. Now, years later, you can affirm that the jealousy went down a notch, not having any problems with sharing things anymore; and as for Jungkook… Well, he wasn’t of your property, right? So, nothing to be jealous about.

You sighed, dragging your feet to the ground as you walked towards the mini fridge, pulling out the can of an energy drink before leaving it on his desk, groaning again for dramatic effect. You sat back on his bed, right next to the desk, immediately hugging your Hello Kitty plushie to your chest. You watched as he opened his can, gulping at least half of the drink down in one shot, his eyes never leaving the computer screen once. The blue light of the videogame he was playing highlighted his dark circles under his eyes, a clear telltale that he had been at it for hours with little or no sleep at all. A quick glance at what he was wearing, pajama pants and a white tee, was an easy confirmation that he hadn’t even showered yet.

“Shouldn’t you be studying?” you asked, slouching your back against the wall. With a quick flick of his wrist he pulled one headphone to the side, giving you a quick glance up and down before biting back with “Shouldn’t you be at lecture?”. “Touché,” you sighed tiredly, adjusting your position on his bed so you could lay more comfortably. Your limbs ached in discomfort, and no amount of adjusting seemed to do the trick for you. You buried your head in his pillow, praying whatever god might exist out there to pull you out of your misery. “I have some tablets if you want,” he offered calmly, his voice a soothing balm to your mind. “‘s alright,” you mumbled, folding your legs up to your chest, “just need to rest and I'll be fine”.

Slowly, the pain in your body tired you out of all your energies, helping you fall asleep quickly while Jungkook kept playing by your side, stealing quick glances your way every now and then to check on you. At one point or another he got up, finally turning off his game as he stretched his body that almost went numb, placing his headphones back in their place carefully. He ran his hand through his hair, pushing his glasses up as he sat by you on the bed, watching with unease as your body looked tense even while sleeping. He sighed, figuring that there wasn’t much he could do; still he tried to do something, laying behind you and wrapping his arm around your body, hoping that the warmth of his hand and body could help you relax at least a little.

He loved little moments like this, moments where he could hold you and admire you and be true to himself without the fear of being too obvious and accidentally pushing you away. The soft scent of your vanilla shampoo hit his nose, and he dipped his nose in your hair to inhale more of it, almost feeling intoxicated. He couldn’t help but notice that you had started leathering your body in the same vanilla scented lotion you had gotten not too long ago, and, as if hypnotized, his nose traced the path between your nape and your neck, resisting the urge to cover your skin in kisses the more he went south.

“Fuck,” he whispered, a tinge of desperation in his voice. He needed to touch you, he needed to taste you, most importantly he needed you, now. He reached for the neck of his shirt, stretching it briefly to cool off, his skin seemingly on fire. He knew that he had never gotten this worked up around you, that this was new territory and it was dangerous, but he just couldn’t pull back, at least not when he was hyper aware of your ass pushing into his aching cock, almost in a mocking way. Then, the worst thing that could happen happened: with a little stir and a moan your body squirmed back, this time pressing firmly on his boner, blissfully unaware of the inner turmoil of your best friend.

A stifled moan escaped Jungkook’s bruised lips, his patience finally snapping. He grabbed your shoulder soft but firm, shaking you awake while he hovered his body over yours. “Petal, please…” he had begged as soon as your eyes had peeked open, covering your neck and collarbones in kisses.

“What’s… what’s going on, Kook?” you groggily asked, rubbing your eyes as you tried to understand what you were woken up to. Jungkook groaned, grabbing your hips before pushing his boner onto you, letting you feel how pent up he was. “I’m sorry, I… just this once, please,” he begged, desperately rutting his hips into you. And how could you say no to him when he was so clearly worked up he couldn’t even think straight?

You grabbed a fistful of hair at his nape, gently tugging him towards your face as you locked your lips in a heated kiss, letting your hands explore each other’s bodies with no shame or restraint. A broken moan slipped from his lips and…

Oh.

That definitely did something to you, a swarm of butterflies breaking free in your stomach while the proof of your arousal pooled in your panties. Wait, weren’t you on your period just now? Jungkook’s hand snaked around your throat, squeezing gently until you whimpered from the lack of oxygen and lust. You closed your eyes, somehow managing to shut your mind completely and relishing in the comfortable warm and fuzzy feeling, knowing that the man on top of you would take care of you no matter what.

“Do you want me to stretch you out first?” he asked, his voice a low murmur while he undid your pants and pulled them down, freeing your neck from the firm grasp he had it in before. Cool air filled your lungs again, and you took a big breath in while shaking your head no. “Need you now,” you timidly admitted, working with Jungkook to free him from the constriction of his clothes until you were both naked.

He pulled back once your last piece of clothing, your bra, was on the ground with all the others, his eyes traveling up and down your body in a mix of admiration and arousal. “Fuck, petal, you’re so beautiful,” he whispered, letting his warm hand stroke your sensitive skin, goosebumps rising all over as he cupped your breast and toyed with your nipple. You whined impatiently, lifting your hips to meet his in a desperate attempt to catch his attention and make him do something, anything, to soothe your ache.

Jungkook chuckled, rubbing the tip of his cock against your clit teasingly. “Getting impatient, aren’t we?” you whined in response, another broken “please” escaping your lips as tears of frustration welled in your eyes. “I know, petal, I know,” he cooed, cupping your cheek in his hand, enjoying the way you seemed to melt in his touch. “Gonna make you feel good really soon,” he murmured, slowly easing his length inside your welcoming walls. You gasped at the delicious burn, his cock stretching you so he could fit in snugly. He moaned as pleasure washed over his senses, clouding his mind in the best way possible. He brought you in for a kiss, rocking his hips back and forth slowly while swallowing your sounds, each moan pulled out of you going straight to his already rock-hard cock. Slow, deep thrusts became fast un uncoordinated snaps of his hips as he chased his high hurriedly. You observed as a drop of sweat fell from his temple to your hair, his eyes hooded as pleasure surged in his veins.

“I… fuck, petal, I love- petal? Petal!”

You opened your eyes suddenly, your chest heaving up and down. You took in the scene before you: Jungkook, still sitting on his gaming chair with his headphones on his fluffy hair, shaking you by your shoulder gently. “You fucking scared me to death. Are you ok?”

You rubbed your eyes, humming a confused “hm?”, groaning in annoyance as you peeled off your clothes sticking to your sweaty body like a second layer of skin. “What are you talking about?” you groggily asked, slowly sitting up on the bed, taking in the deep red marks on your arms and hands. Oh yeah, you slept good.

“I’ve been trying to wake you up for the past five minutes, you were fucking hyperventilating in your sleep, I thought you were having a whole heart attack,” he rambled nervously, slumping back down in his chair once he realised that you were, in fact, well and alive. Still. You groaned, trying to wear off the tiredness that weighed on your limbs, burying your head in your hands. Suddenly, a flash of your dream came crashing down on you. “Petal, please…” had begged the man in front of you in your dream, but now here he was, blissfully unaware of everything. Your cheeks flushed a crimson red shade as the realisation of what you dreamed settled in, your whole body tensing in fear that he could detect anything if you even dared to move a muscle.

You couldn’t help but turn to look at your best friend. Did he look…different? Or was the dream messing with your head? You couldn’t help but take notice of little things you had never paid attention to before, like the way his slender fingers moved skillfully around the keyboard, pressing the right keys every time. The memory of his gentle grasp around your neck lingered on your skin, the ghost of something that never happened. You exhaled slowly, peeling your eyes from his hands just to land on his body, mouth watering at his relaxed and confident demeanor, his body lax against the padded chair, his legs spread apart just enough to be extremely attractive but not vulgar or annoying. He adjusted his position, not noticing his pants dropping slightly on his hip bones to reveal the white waistband of his underwear, the color of the fabric contrasting pleasantly his honey colored skin. You wondered how it would feel to run your fingertips right under his waistband, teasing him until- no, stop it. He was your best friend, for fuck’s sake.

“What are you staring at?” Jungkook’s question pulled you out of your train of thoughts, making you gasp softly as it startled you. “I’m not staring,” you immediately answered, planning to lie till you made it out. You couldn’t help but notice that he hadn’t even needed to look your way to know that you were staring, and for some reason this realization turned you on more than you would have liked to admit.

Jungkook glanced confused at you for a second, asking “why are you acting so weird?” while clicking angrily the keys of the keyboard as the game lagged. You sighed, plopping down on the bed again, covering your rosy cheeks with a pillow. Bad, bad move. In the desperate effort of covering up your frustration, you didn’t think that Jungkook’s pillow would smell exactly like him, and your breath stuck in your throat once the smell entered your nostrils, filling your whole system. “Sorry, had a weird dream and I still feel off,” you mumbled, your voice muffled by the plush pillow. You hoped he didn’t catch on the way you clutched the pillow harder, pushing it into your face more.

Jungkook scoffed, shaking his head, “blame Morpheus, then.” The smartass always knew how to use his knowledge, and he hinted at it every now and then. “Yeah… yeah, I guess I should,” you mumbled, fingers itching to take the matter into your own hand and end your misery.

Silence fell again in the room, until Jungkook decided that he had enough for the day, turned off his computer, stretched and got up, throwing a quick “going to shower,” in your way before disappearing behind the bathroom door.

What you didn’t know, and he wouldn’t dare to say, was that Jungkook had to get out of there before he went insane, in his mind an image instilled wouldn’t give him peace: you, whimpering softly in your sleep, and a word falling from your lips in a soft moan every once in a while:

“Jungkook.”

first part / next part

taglist: @tastykookoonut @koooobi @hoseokteardrop

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lani-sun · 4 months ago

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☆ ritualistic ☆

synopsis: jake reminds himself it’s just biology. just the instincts of his newly-acquired form urging him to take, to claim, to keep. and maybe, just maybe, he could’ve controlled it. (had you not made everything so damn difficult, of course.) avatar!jake sully x fem!scientist!reader

warnings: there's no plot here friends i am SORRY, kind of dark!jealous!jake if you squint, slight enemies to lovers, graphic, descriptions of lust bc imagery goes wild here, explicit sexual content [18+ MINORS DNI], dom/sub dynamics, dubcon, dirty talk, slightly sacrilegious?, dacryphilia, major major size kink, biting/marking, jake sully being himself should be an inbuilt warning, let's pretend (for the bio minor stem girly in me) that the lab is somehow perfectly clean and non-contaminated after this pls

☆

jake finds you in the lab, your eyes scrunched into crescent moons underneath scuffed safety glasses hooked loosely behind your ears. his own pin back against the underside of his head instinctively, attuned to the rhythmic, near-silent reverberation of your breath. in. out. in. out. your gloved hands (ancient latex, he notes with a disgruntled twitch of his nose) shake incrementally as you peer into the microscope you're hunched over, adjusting the brilliance of the light painting your petri-dished specimen in a silvery glow. the sound you release when you get it just right—faint, pleased, unfairly absentminded—is enough to send a spark of something foreign down his spine. something delirious, fervent in nature. something that grits his teeth on instinct, clamps down on his jaw like barbed wire, like an insatiable beast clawing at the bars of its enclosure, crying out for the feeling of your flesh (futilely human, extremely off-limits) in its hands. and god, he's not supposed to think about you like that. not supposed to want you the way he did. not when his body isn't meant for you, not when he feels the chains of his forced entrapment in a life confined to a wheelchair coming undone at the sight of freedom. at the sight of you. in this form, he could take you. hell, he could have you. bite into you. he swipes his tongue across his top row of teeth, feeling for the elongated hooks of his canines. yeah, he'd like that.

he settles on making himself known. as his low hum of greeting fractures your reverie, your gaze snaps harshly to his, ricocheting of the surface of his skin. (and he likes it, the aggravation simmering under the surface of your composure. he's always had a soft spot for brats. for an animal to tame.) he swears he can hear the startled hitch in your breath, can sense the shaky, half-jump in your heart rate. "mornin' doc," he chirps, lips quirking up at the sight of the exasperation already etching itself into your features. you rip your safety glasses off, shoving them into a pocket of your lab coat before yanking your mask down with an irritated huff.

"i cannot with you today, sully." a muscle in the delicate column of your neck bounces under his unyielding stare as you reach underneath the metal tabletop to grapple for a pipette, balancing it in the junction between your thumb and index finger. sticky, cloying heat gathers in his veins, a tangible ache hunting for purchase in between his temples. take, it begs. take her.

you continue, oblivious. "and i told grace to change the code on the damn door—"

he clears his throat. reminds himself that fantasizing about you while you're within arm's reach of him is a decision better left unmade. "aw, c'mon, don't be like that. 'm not gonna stay long. not smart enough t'be a scientist like you, pretty."

you huff. "that's an understatement. go out and do—other things, then. stop bothering me." you yelp when his hands (heavyset, gorgeously sea-blue) meet the slim neck of your microscope, slapping them away with a flick of your wrist. "jake!"

a chuckle rumbles in the back of his throat as he backs away, arms raised mockingly in surrender. "show me what you're workin' on." his tail flicks across the backs of your thighs as he stalks around the table, diminishing the space between you. inch by inch. breath by breath. prowling. you track him warily, but a sharp gasp—low, so low he swears he's imagining it—slips through your gritted teeth when his palms flatten against the counter on either side of your waist, your shoulder blades nearly pressed to the junction of his navel and thigh. you jolt when his tail curves downward to wrap around your ankle (fragile, he thinks, so breakable) and squeeze.

"hey—" you warn, the force with which you grip the lab bench beneath you burning half-circle indentations of your fingernails into your palms. "what are you—"

"show me," he coaxes, voice like honey down the curve of your spine. "teach me, if you wanna. 'm not complainin'." his face goes slightly slack when you shift your weight, the cotton of your coat brushing against his tensed lateral muscle. your proximity is stifling. suffocating. he nearly tackles you to the floor when your hand tentatively encases his wrist, the illusion of distance accompanied by an empty threat of resistance. (he just can't help himself, you see. hunting prey is in his biology; he has to do it to survive. and you understand that, don’t you, sweet girl?)

"teach you?" your voice is erogenously breathless, spine fleetingly rigid. ramrod-straight, enraptured in the suggestive slide of his skin against yours. he resists the urge to outline the arc of your back with his knuckles. with his tongue. "not a service i offer, sully. not for you."

"who's it for, then?"

you shoot him a dark look over the incline of your shoulder, a brooding lilt scripted in the slant of your brow. an unavailing warning to his wandering hands. "why does it matter?"

the scent of you floods his senses as you shift, and his focus momentarily gives way to antiseptic and dampened soil, lemon and fresh chamomile, pine and vanilla-tinged sweat. a lingering body lotion, perhaps, or a coveted perfume. (and oh, are you trouble. trouble in the form of gentle hands, soft eyes, fragile bones. trouble in the way your defiance bleeds like a salted wound, roving gaze shirking under the weight of his shadow. it is raw, the way he longs to sink his teeth right into your godforsaken throat, apologies already teasing the tip of his tongue, just waiting for him to extinguish the fire he started—).

"just wanna know who's been spendin' time w' my girl." jake's chest vibrates with amusement against the dip of your nape, but the salacious slip of his tongue against the roof of his mouth betrays him. the heat of you burns through his layers (well, layer) of clothing, akin to an open flame. taunting him. tempting him. his gaze drops to the flex of your neck, the hypnotic flutter of your pulse thrumming dangerously close to the surface; the involuntary twitch of his fingers is only customary. only natural. "you're in 'ere too much, baby. gotta get you out."

"here's where the money is, jake," you counter, and his stomach seizes when your elbow brushes the braided cords of his tewng [loincloth]. "all the samples from the valley still need to be cataloged, and norm brought me a—"

jake's voice slices through the air, crackling roughly with unbidden contempt, an edge of resentment he can't quite bring himself to swallow. "you're gettin' samples from that asshat now?"

you crook a brow. "well. he offered." (he battles the depraved urge to clasp his hand around the dainty column of your throat, to press his chest flush against the arch of your spine. to school you in the art of possession, of ownership, of instincts that slither through bone marrow, of urges that writhe beneath his skin like a sickness, ravenous and unrepentant.)

his jaw flexes lazily, tongue pressing heavy against the inside of his cheek. his restraint is a brittle thing, straining beneath the weight of something starved. something venomous. "'s that right?" his teeth flash pearly-white. "doin' a lot for you, isn't he?"

you whirl on your heels to face him, snaring his gaze in yours. your vexation rises, fiery and unmistakably overeager, but a viscous want accompanies it, swirling in the whites of your eyes. it grows bolder under his earthy stare, a mere captive to the deepening hunger stretching wordlessly between you. it lingers, needlessly persistent in its provocation—the constant standoff of shallow breaths and locked jaws, of tongues bitten raw and fists clenched around unfulfilled promises of restraint. his stare tumbles downward to the wicked curve of your mouth, and he swears he can taste the startled exhale of breath that leaves you. gotcha.

"ever heard of overstaying a welcome, sully?" your expression dissolves into schooled imperturbability.

his braids follow the movement of his head as it tilts, azure skin glimmering aquamarine in the lab's sterile lamplight. your eyes track the slow sway of each woven strand, the way the beads threaded into each end collide sharply in sync—hypnotic, deliberate. erotic, almost. "careful, doc. keep talkin' like that and i might just start thinkin' you don't like me very much."

"i don't," you respond swiftly, but a flicker of suspicion contracts his pupils. he doesn't believe you for a single damn second. (and you're so pretty when you lie, aren't you? pretty girl, so resistant to an orbit your body is meant to sustain. saliva coats his mouth. the things he thinks of doing to you are despicable. downright lewd, even. he thinks of folding you in half. he thinks of molding you to his pleasure until you can't tell his name from your own. he thinks of making you cry. and he should feel guilty. he should chain himself to contrition. but he doesn't. he never has. he never will.)

he leans in. grins in wolfish pride when your pulse skips one, two, four beats. "you're a good liar, pretty. gotta give you that."

you jerk forward instinctively when one of his hands slides to your stomach, forcing the arch of your spine to coalesce with the unforgiving edge of the table. the other dips under your coat, captivation evident in the way his palm stretches effortlessly around the fullness of your waist. it is nearly consumption, an unfurling desire hell-bent on catharsis. on bitter-blooded ecstasy. (it is only nature, he reminds himself. it is only his new body, adjusting to the unfamiliarity of want for an object he cannot have. cannot attain. he's not himself. he's not thinking straight.)

"jake." a tinge of nervousness colors the syllables of his name as your mouth parts around them. he drops onto his haunches just as you reach for him, eluding the desparity of your touch. your hand flexes in midair, barren. "what are you—"

"bet norm's thought about this." his voice is a rasp against your skin, curling warm in the crook of your neck. his nose brushes the tender slope of your pulse point as his words wash over it, savoring the frantic thrum of your heartbeat against his lips. "bet he's wonderin' what you feel like under all these—" a pause. intentional, drawn-out. with an arbitrary flick of his wrist, he slides your lab coat off your shoulders, his fingers ghosting across the expanse of bare skin he can see. "clothes."

"what the fuck are you talking about?" there is no bite to your bark, a weak imitation of pious resolve hovering in the air between you.

"y'don't think so?"

"jake, stop."

he heeds the urgency in your tone, leaning back on his heels. (he knows you're fighting it. fighting him. stubborn, sweet girl, ankles deep in quicksand. so damn eager to play the ethical upper hand. so devoutly attached to your cool-blooded composure. so resolute in slipping from his grasp. flighty. he grits his teeth. then again, he's always liked butterflies. they look so pretty on their backs.)

your shudder of breath betrays you. "this isn't—we can't."

his eyes narrow—watching, knowing. he can smell it on you, the quiet betrayal of your body, the want fused to the rhythm of your pulse. it pools in your gaze, a laceration bound by silence. his fingers trace idle patterns along your thigh, evocative of ink kissed into parchment. a silent mantra hums beneath his touch—mine, mine, mine. "don't you want it?"

"jake."

"it's a yes or no question, pretty."

"that's not fair." your lower lip juts outward, crowned by the swell of your trembling inhale. "you've don't even like me. and you're a pain in the ass. i'm not letting you take my clothes off just 'cause—"

"who says i don't like you, huh?" he presses his nose to your sternum, grinning viciously when you choke. "i like you tons, baby."

"you didn't let me finish. i'm not letting you take my clothes off just 'cause—"

"who says i was gonna take your clothes off?"

your fingers sink into his hair, curling along the sharp cut of his jaw, thumbs hooked around the curves of his ears. controlling, captivating. taking what is already yours. he is gold wrapped in skin, inescapably sweltering beneath your touch. liquid longing fills the void of cloying stillness, his gaze dragging lazily over your lips, your throat, the shell of your ear. your echoed stare is a live wire, leaping frantically from feature to feature. "you talk too much." the words ghost from your lips like silk. like a promise of calamity, of disaster.

his ears twitch, tracking the staggered cadence of your breath. "you keep lookin’ at me like that,” he drawls, smirk broadening, "and i’m gonna start thinkin’ you wanna do somethin’ about it."

and for once, you do.

you yank him forward, crushing your mouth to his with enough force to bruise. his answering groan reverberates down the channel of your throat as his teeth catch your lower lip, eyes eclipsed by the storm-black of his pupils. he does not hesitate to lay claim. does not hesitate to anchor your body against his, swallowing your startled yelp. it is animal, the festering in his chest. lust. it makes devils of good men. makes massacres of soldiers.

"'s this what you wanted? huh?" his hands palm the outline of your chest, marveling at the artificial ribcage his fingers provide. (he resists the urge to nip at the indentation of your collarbones, at the dainty bone lining the column of your throat). your hands scramble for his biceps when he slots an arm underneath your thighs and single-handedly places you on the counter. "yeah, y'did."

"shut up," you whimper, and oh, fuck, his teeth ache. there is no bite to your bark, a weak imitation of resolve hovering in the air between you. "j-just shut up."

"nah." jake stands as he slots a thigh between your legs, parting them around the intrusion. his mouth moves south to taste the damp skin of your pulse point, salty musk exploding on the base of his tongue as he sinks to his knees. (and he'd pray to you, if he could. would bring you trinkets at an altar made of gold. would stroke his cock right there, at the edge of your world and his, begging for you to touch him.) "i think y'like it when i talk." his nostrils flare. "can smell it on you."

the cotton of your shirt doesn't stand a chance; it tears like aged paper beneath his hands, splitting stitches merely rendered a casualty of his need. your entire body jolts, mouth poised in a soundless gasp as his name tumbles out of your mouth, caught in a dangerous balance of shock and rapture. his grin widens. "could fit all of you in 'ere," jake breathes in wonder, fingers unfurling against the expanse of your ribcage, cyan thumbs hooking under the padded fabric of your bra. "in my hands."

"god." the word rips from your throat, breathless, a prayer to something holy. something sacred. your head drops forward in surrender, forehead pressed against the sharp curve of his collarbone. his hands are everywhere—everywhere, everything, all at once—as the clasp of your bra gives way and his tongue draws forward to trace agonizingly slow circles against the side of your breast, just an inch from the growing tightness throbbing beneath your skin. "someone—someone could see us—"

"let 'em." it is sacrilegious, your little whimper, the way it escapes from the corner of your mouth. it instigates sin. calls upon forces beyond his better judgement, beyond plain, good common sense. beyond right and wrong. his fangs graze your nipple, and a harsh breath catches halfway up your throat, the hand in his hair tightening around his kuru {braid} instinctively. he chokes roughly, slicing through the silence with a drawling inhale. (careful, pretty.) a shameful blush paints your cheeks in mahogany as your hands trail downward, tracing the corner of his mouth with the pad of your thumb. (there is but a single strand of mangled control holding him together, and the second he snaps—).

all it takes is one, broad palm flat against your sternum for your shoulder blades to kiss the cold metal of the table underneath you. pinned. (trapped). he tears into you like scripture. devouring not with mercy, not with patience—but with reverence. with ecstasy. it is simply a testament to the ruinous want stitched into the carbon-fiber of his bones, a hunger that has kept him starving, aching, waiting. your breath stutters, wrecked and disparately shallow, slipping from your lips in uneven waves. (he has never wanted anything the way he wants you. has never even known he could want something this damn much. and yet here you are, in front of him, his pretty little girl—). you lift your hips obediently when his hands slip under your leggings, earning a low hum of approval as he tugs at the panties clinging wetly to your cunt, leaving both in a haphazard tangle around your ankles. his thumb presses into your pulse, feeling for frantic jump in your heartbeat.

"look at you," he drawls, tone akin to that of a drawn-out prayer. his entire frame shakes, an embodiment of fraying restraint. "so pretty f'r me. fuckin' wet, too."

you only realize he's dipped inside you when the tip of his middle finger brushes the silken, pulsating center of your core, a stretch so deep it borders on cruel. your entire body jolts as your mouth falls open in in a soundless cry, fingernails clawing uselessly at the table’s edge. his groan bleeds through your ribs, settling into the hollows like a symphony only your bones remember. en echo of something long buried. "jake. jake, oh, fuck—"

"that's my name, baby," he mutters, thumb smearing through your slick, cautious circles gathered methodically around the tingling bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs. (your arousal smells like rain, like velvet rose, like a hazy memory of a garden at dawn gnawing at his fraying conscious.) "jesus fuck, can't even get two fingers in 'ere, pretty. how're you gonna take my cock like this, huh?" the sound that rips from your throat in response is nothing human. his fangs flash crystal, scissoring hand devastatingly carving out space to fit himself in between the thighs of a body not meant to hold him. a body not meant for his hands to touch. (but it would take divine intervention to stop him now. he is a hound, an animal spoiled rotten by the scent of flesh. your flesh.)

your hips jerk at the unexpected sight of his middle and ring finger sinking into his mouth, leaving your empty cunt clenching around nothing. your pupils blow wide as he hums against the sweetness of you on his tongue, swiping the muscle downward to catch the droplets of milky white lingering across his knuckles. (he finds himself wondering if your tears will taste as good as your cunt does). his name escapes your lips in a whisper, trailing gently over the softness of your skin. your pulse is a wreckage beneath his palm as his mouth crashes over yours once more, the prickling rhythm erratic against the rounded edge of your ribs.

then—he moves. presses his weight over you, drags his mouth down the line of your jaw, your throat, the shallow depression of your clavicle. "been thinkin' about this," he rasps as your hands flutter uselessly at your sides, scrambling for purchase against the line of his torso. he ruts his hips ever-so slightly forward, harshly reminded of the painful hardness throbbing under his tewng {loincloth}. "for so long. fuckin'—jerked off t'you. had a real nice dream, once."

your voice is unbearably soft, enslaved to single-minded pleasure. "you d-dream about me?"

jake's breath hitches, heat grazing the sweat-slick line of your throat. "yeah, baby. tons." his steady stare brushes yours, sapphire flush painting his freckles in a shade of liquid ivory. "gets worse after seein' you. can't sleep for days w' you patterin' around in 'ere." he raises a hand in a slow arc, fingers wandering along the tender line of his temple as the other works the strings of his tewng {loincloth} loose. it falls, forgotten, and—oh. oh. your lips part around a soundless gasp, any sense of decorum failing you. the sight of him eclipses language itself, glowing pre-cum slathering his length in a starry sheen, flushed tip carved from material far more primal than skin. than muscle, than bone. you swallow, pulse skipping, and his cocky-eyed grin only grows.

shameless, he nocks the dripping slit against the tender mess of your folds, coating himself in your slick with an unbidden groan. "wanna take samples? 's better than norm's, i promise."

"jake—oh my god." he swallows your exclamation as his mouth claims the expanse of yours, hands branding heat along your ribs, your waist, the soft, trembling flesh of his thighs. his fingers wrap around your hips and pull, the blunt, aching weight of him nudging at your entrance. you whimper, dizzy with desire. "g-go slow," you slur, clambering for his shoulders, arching your back in an effort to appease the burn pulsating under your skin. light explodes behind your closed eyelids as he slowly—slowly—sinks the first inch inside; you seize, lower stomach contracting around the foreign intrusion. the stretch sings through you, the thick head of his cock cradled between your legs, and yet jake forces himself still, a vein pulsing in his forehead.

"lemme in, c'mon, pretty," jake pants, exhaling roughly through his nose. his cock throbs restlessly inside you as instinct claws at his spine, shaking with the urge to chase the relief of being fully sheathed, of simply forcing you down the rest of the way. he grits his teeth when you mewl, glimmering tears clinging to your waterline.

"'s not gonna fit," you howl, and guilt lances through him. (that's what he does with pretty things, isn't it? he breaks them. it's in his nature, written in the code of his biological being. he can't help himself, he's so sorry, pretty girl—)

"fuck," he chokes, languish enshrining the syllables in agony. his tail wraps around your calf, soothing. easing. "fucking shit, i'm so sorry, pretty—"

"hurts more when you stay still," you whisper, eyelashes damp where they flutter against the heat of your cheeks, and jake's breath pans over your throat in a sinking shudder. your vision spotlights as his fingers pull upward, reaching between your parted lips to gather the saliva pooling at the corner of your mouth. he kisses the shell of your ear as he strokes your spit lazily over his length, whining lowly at the lewdly-wet squelch. "d'you hear that?" his voice is enthralled. "that's you and me, baby."

your gaze flickers skyward, unfocused and glassy. mindless. (always thinking, aren't you, baby? he's happy to help you turn it off, if you'd let him. happy to strip you down to something soft, something malleable in his grasp—something that belongs only to him. it’s only fair. it’s what you deserve). a dark chuckle rumbles from his chest, sharp with satisfaction. (yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you?).

he gives you no warning before taking hold of your hips, molding your lower body in a high arch, and sinking the rest of the way in.

"jake—!" his name leaves you in a breathless sob, a prayer, a curse, a requiem. you're nearly catatonic, twitching like you’ve been electrocuted as you spasm beneath his hands, the girth of him infiltrating the marrow of your bones, the lining of your ribs, the edges of your lungs. the dull ache in your stomach intensifies as his hips rut up, your head smacking against the ground as his ridged cock rams lecherously into the spongy entrance of your cervix. jake punches out a strangled laugh as your stomach mounds obscenely (frighteningly, if he were being honest with himself) to accommodate the sheer size of his length, a shaky hand reaching forward to feel for himself underneath your layers of quivering muscle. you jolt with a sharp cry, feet kicking helplessly in midair as tears spill in shimmering rivulets down your flushed cheeks. “so-“ he cuts himself off when your cunt, unable to squeeze around the girth of him, flutters achingly. begging for release. "tight. knew you'd be so fuckin' tight—"

he doesn't wait. can't. his hips roll forward, dragging another devastatingly thick thrust through the vice-like grip of your cunt, the sensation of him rearranging you from the inside out. his hand slips between your thighs (greedy, insistent), feeling for the slick heat pooling there, brushing over the tender, swollen knot of your clit. he drinks your shaky squeal, chest rising and falling in rapid succession as he folds forward, tongue swiping across your upper row of teeth. "jake,” you sob, a wrecked little thing, hands fisting in his braids, grasping for something, anything. "'m gonna cum—oh god, i wanna c—please, can i, jake, please—"

"w'me," jake manages to hiss, tongue swirling patterns into the wounded skin of your clavicle. the blunt tip of his cock twitches as his thrusts shallow, a moan purred into the junction between your neck and shoulder. the tightness in his stomach ebbs as the wet slap of your pelvis against his reverberates in the air, a symphony of noise escaping your throat as he fills your womb in thick, unrelenting waves of searing warmth. you sob raggedly in relief, convulsing under the weight of his palms, cleaving lines of deepening crimson in his back. (pretty little thing. so good for him. you'd let him do this every night, wouldn't you? would let him bury himself to the hilt until he flooded your cunt with his seed, would let him turn your pristine skin a splotchy, bruised shade of fuchsia.)

he thinks with his teeth, lovely girl, and you've got such a pretty neck.

note: WOW WHY DID THIS TAKE ME FOREVER?! i was so smut-stumped for whatever reason, so i apologize for the rushed ending and for the fact that i forgot to include jake taking sips of CO2 while he was in an oxygenated lab LOL (the stem girl in me is screaming at them having sex IN THE LAB). this one's for @pandoraslxna!! love always from lani!!

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