#its on both ao3 and wattpad

[nearly-magic]

i decided to rewrite a part of one of my oumami fanfic chapters because it was LACKING!! but im not gonna update it because i wanna keep the chapters as close to how they were when published, so that my writing skills can be seen improving lol- ANYWAYS heres the small bit of the chapter :3

"Hahahaa! Wooow, what a cool trick that was, Kokichi! Dumbass, heh," Miu joked.

"It's not like you're any better! Here, try doing what I tried to do," Kokichi hands the phone over to Miu. Miu quickly restarts the level, and immediately begins fumbling around.

While Miu was attempting the trick, Kokichi's eyes drifted away from the phone screen. They drifted over to Rantaro, and he couldn't look away. His eyes followed individual strands of his hair over to his piercings. Did he always have those in? Does he not have other ones? Do they not hurt after a while?

Then, his eyes shifted to Rantaro's face. The sun hit his face just right, he was more than just 'pretty'. His eyes were the most charming green he'd ever seen, like shiny polished emeralds with how they sparkled.

His outfit was different from what he wore in the killing game. Well, everyone's was, he didn't know why he highlighted his specifically. He was wearing a plain white T-shirt, which had some kind of brand logo in the corner. He still had his necklace thing however. I wonder if that has any sort of importance to him.

Kaede told a joke, which Kokichi didn't hear, but he watched how Rantaro laughed. His laugh made Kokichi's heart feel like it could soar the skies and touch the clouds, but he was brought back down to Earth when Miu celebrated, excitedly shaking Kokichi.

"Did you see that? I fuckin' did it! I'm a genius! A gorgeous one at that!" Miu yelled, making him cover his ears due to the sheer volume.

"..Huh? Oh! Yeah, awesome! You go girl! Guess ya proved me wrong!" Kokichi faked paying attention because he was focused on something else, something he considered more eye-catching.

"Lemme try now!" He tried to grab Miu's phone, but she pulled away before his fingers could even touch it.

"Wait, dumbass! I'll give you my phone in a second! You're so impatient!" Miu said with a smile. Her phone beeped, indicating it was on low battery.

"Hah! My phone's on five percent! Ah, wait, that means I can't use it either.. Well, I'm a fuckin' winner, cuz I did the trick and you didn't," Miu puts her phone away in her bag and Kokichi complained a little, slumping in his seat.

Everyone had finished their meals already. Miu stands up to go to the bathroom, almost getting tripped by Kokichi. She turns to yell a couple more swear words, then runs off.

Kokichi watches her go away. 'Guess I'll have to talk to these bozos now,'  Kokichi thinks, putting his hands in his pockets. He then unexpectedly feels something in one of them.

He pulls that something out, and discovers it's a piece of wrinkled paper. From before the killing game, presumably.

He unfolded the paper and all it said was 'lol, gay '. He could feel his face get warmer slightly.

He felt called out because of earlier. Not his fault that Rantaro was just that pretty.

What?

He put the paper back in his pocket once he saw Miu coming back. He tried his best to conceal his blushing face, but to no avail. He saw Miu's face turn into a smug one, meaning she thinks she knows what's up.

Before Miu could say anything, Kokichi trips her again, completely throwing Miu off as she starts throwing friendly insults at him again.

[jesterjamz]

fish yuri is REAL now btw you can read the first two chapters Here (wattpad) or Here (ao3) or even Here (my website)

[isobugz]

(warning: this is long cause it's basically the skeleton/framework of the whole fic, it'll also spoil the kdrama if you'd want to watch it first)

please be nice, this is the first time I'm posting something of my own/original(?) lol

HEAR ME OUT OKAY‼️‼️‼️

so like,,, camerashipping (I have miles and Waylon brainrot) but put those bitches into the kdrama bl "Semantic Error"

specifically waylon as Chu Sang Woo and miles as Jang Jae Young, I've been thinking about this for days while rewatching it lmao, waylon being straightforward and no nonses, logical to a fault and "like a robot" (using the descriptor for sang woo that Jae young uses), while miles is chaotic and a bit mischievous but he's harmless (i swear)

they're in college and miles is basically living to annoy and bother waylon after he had messed up miles' chance to graduate (it was actually miles' fault but that's not how he wants to see it lol), though he quickly drops the reason because he simply likes messing with waylon and getting reactions from him, miles even joins a few of waylons classes just so he can't be avoided and unknowingly moves into the apartment next door

their relationship starts to take a change when miles saves waylon from a possible fight at a bar (think grown man threatening a college student), miles' feelings for waylon start to develop during that event, they become more friendly, miles no longer doing much to bother waylon but still having fun playfully messing with him, waylon not even minding the time around him anymore

one day, during a little excursion to the theater department to put back some costumes miles had "borrowed", miles decides to tease waylon by leaning in as if to kiss him only to whisper to him, waylon freaks out and runs off, finally noticing his own feelings for the other man (but not understanding them) and it makes him push miles away and shut him out after they've gotten so close, he's never been one for feelings and these new ones scare him in a way

they stop seeing each other for a while, miles avoiding waylon like the man clearly wishes him to, waylon going back to his monotonous everyday routine he followed before miles changed everything, but waylon realizes that he doesn't like going back to how everything was, he misses miles and can't stop thinking about him, eventually deciding to find the man and apologize (without explaining his feelings), miles doesn't immediately accept because hes stubborn and hurt but they work things out, back to normal but a little,, different, waylon becoming a bit more physically affectionate and even accepting some physical affection from miles for the first time ever, of course miles is definitely in love by now and waylon is,, stupid and won't acknowledge his own feelings

but then >:) eventually they're drinking together, waylon definitely having gotten ahead of miles in how much alcohol hes consumed, so when miles starts his usual teasing, waylon decides to tell miles what he thinks of him, rambling about all the negative things about him (more so the things he did to mess with waylon) eventually ending with waylon telling him he's lucky he's handsome, this triggers miles to start teasing more, a tension between the two while miles leans in towards him, there's a pause before miles warns waylon he's going to kiss him, that he can decide if he wants to stay or leave, and without missing a beat, waylon grabs that stupid man by his jacket and pulls him in for a kiss, pulling away for a moment just to be pulled back in by miles

waylon stands after the kiss has ended, panicking and trying to leave only to be stopped, miles asking why hes going just for waylon to say they should move on, it was a mistake and they were both drunk, miles being tired of the back and forth decides to confront waylon about how he feels, admitting his own feelings in the process, the confrontation ending with miles offering waylon a "two week trial period" for him to test out the relationship, waylon needs time to think

they haven't seen each other in a while since then, eventually waylon stops by to see miles again and after a bit asks what the trial period would look like, miles decides to give him a little preview, showing him small sweet affections and when waylon almost melts, miles pulls back and asks if he'd like to try the actual thing

finally after constant indecision, not having answered miles the last time and taken more days figure things out, waylon makes his choice, confessing to miles, telling him he wants to do the trial only for miles to deny him, waylon confused and almost hurt until miles tells him they should do the real thing, asking him if he'd like to date, and then they kiss the end :3

notes

there's no guarantee I'll ever write this lmao

there will be more meat to the story, this is just base work, partly why the last part sucks lol

obvi i wouldn't follow everything exactly from the drama

certain little details like the use of honorifics in the drama will be adjusted appropriately for the fic

waylon is stupid and figuring himself out, pls give him some grace 😔

Jae young is an artist who's in the design department (like video game characters and the works) and I'm undecided if I'll change that for miles, will need to change some plots if so lol (sang woo is studying compsci so waylon is fine)

Lisa legally has to play the role of ryu ji-hye (girl love interest for sang woo/waylon, i promise it's not a bad role)

[2-faded-memory-2]

fucking hate how everything has to be one thing or the other. are you golden retriever or black cat. are you the sun or the moon. are you nature or city. shut the fuck up. everything is a disgusting little scale and gradient map. nothing is binary and its time you stop pretending it is and should be. nothing about the complexity of people fit into a tiny little box or two please shut up.

[overcastjhs]

did i just make the song of the summer? 😝*starts reading the opening lines to my favourite fanfic*

[xadeone]

The Ao3 tag filter system is my best friend

this is for those who despair over seeing ships or tropes that make them uncomfortable while they do their little scrolly-scroll on ao3, acting like they aren’t responsible for their own internet experience

(alternatively, the back button also works)

[miss-allsundays]

wattpad might be a heap of trash-fire for publishing fanfics (and for its terrible tag system) but it’s quite literally the only app that helps me organize what i want to write and what-not i love its draft features man

[altruistic-meme]

finally taking a little initiative and moving a few of my old oldddd wattpad hetalia fics onto a pseud on ao3 ;;; maaaaaaaan these are so old

but i did learn that even 7 years ago i did the dramatic short choppy paragraph breaks after a sentence thing that i do now. 

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 23

˗ˏˋmatching threads ˎˊ˗

"You didn’t expect Jungkook’s birthday to end with soft talks about Mayer, thunderstorms and stupid craft projects. And yet, here you are."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 9.5k

content: delayed gifts, hand brushing, subtle comfort, emotional hypervigilance, miscommunication, clashing attachment styles, slow understanding, quiet intimacy, unexpected softness, bittersweet memories, trauma-informed reactions, symbolic objects, real conversations, familial grief undertones, perceptive but clueless boys, warmth in small gestures, psychological contrast, vulnerability denial, casual closeness, accidental meaning, rain metaphors.

Kiki Nation’s official discussion thread for FMU 23

✧ author's note ✧

This chapter made me feel some type of way, and not in the thirst-posting way for once (shocking, I know). There’s a softness to it that snuck up on me. Like I sat down to write what I thought would be a moment of transition, and ended up face-planting into the kind of quiet, delicate intimacy that’s so often overlooked both in fiction and real life. So here I am, feeling dumb and raw and tender over two forks.

I’ve been thinking a lot about Chapter 21, specifically that hand-touch moment—how subtle it was, and how I never explicitly addressed it in the narration because I didn’t want to. That’s the thing with psychologically driven writing: you’re not meant to be spoon-fed emotional meaning. You’re supposed to notice the tiny things. The almosts. The unspoken. The instinctive kindness that isn’t necessarily romantic, but still manages to get under your skin. That’s what that subway touch was. Not Jungkook being in love. Not a declaration. Just him, in his purest, most unaware form—being soft. Gentle. Deeply perceptive in a way that hurts because it’s so unconscious.

And that’s what this whole chapter is circling around. It’s not about a confession. It’s not even about clarity. It’s about conflict—internal, relational, unintentional conflict between people who are shaped by opposite emotional mechanisms.

Jungkook isn’t emotionally open, but he acts open because he’s thoughtful. Reader is emotionally hyperaware, but she reacts closed-off, because she’s scared and guarded. He acts without thinking deeply about it. She thinks deeply and then doesn’t act. They miss each other again and again not because they don’t care, but because their blueprints don’t match. And yet—they try. Or maybe, they accidentally try. And isn’t that so real?

One of them touches without thinking. The other flinches while overthinking. One gives a gift like it’s nothing. The other interprets it like it’s everything. They’re both right. They’re both wrong. That tension? That’s the story.

This chapter doesn’t show love blooming. It shows understanding struggling to sprout in barren soil.

They have so much ahead of them, so many versions of themselves they haven’t grown into yet. This moment is not culmination—it’s foundation. It matters. It matters more than if they’d just fucked again. Because emotional timing? Matters. And this wasn’t the time for sex. It was the time for emotionally loaded shit I can’t name because you haven’t read the chapter yet, but is now haunting me forever.

Read slow. Read deep. Look for the invisible thread. That’s where the truth is.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Walking back into the karaoke room feels like entering a different dimension—one where rooftop confessions and ex-girlfriend confrontations don't exist.

The noise hits you first, a wall of sound that's almost physical in its intensity. Hobi is mid-Mariah, belting out a note that should probably be classified as a war crime, while Ryan and Seth egg him on with increasingly chaotic dance moves. Tessa's doubled over laughing on the couch next to Diana, both of them recording the spectacle on their phones. Yeji and Irya are engaged in what appears to be a heated debate with Jimin over whether Britney or Christina had the better 90s catalog. Yoongi watches it all from his corner seat, expression caught somewhere between amusement and exhaustion.

"Holy shit, he's alive!" Kevin shouts when Jungkook steps through the doorway. 

The room erupts in cheers and catcalls, like they're welcoming a returning champion rather than someone who disappeared for half an hour.

"Dude, we thought you fell in," David calls out, raising his drink in salute. "World's longest bathroom break."

"Nah, he was definitely sneaking in a Clash Royale marathon," Kevin argues, tossing an empty cup that Jungkook easily dodges. "Probably hiding in a stall like a true gamer."

"You wish your stats were as good as mine," Jungkook fires back, slipping effortlessly into the friendly banter like he wasn't just having some kind of existential crisis on the rooftop. 

It's impressive, really—the way he can flip that switch, become this version of himself that fits perfectly into the chaos around him.

While everyone's attention is focused on Jungkook's triumphant return, Taehyung makes a beeline for Yoongi and Hobi, who've gravitated toward each other in a corner of the room. 

You're not trying to eavesdrop, exactly, but you happen to be standing close enough to hear the urgent whisper:

"He was on the roof."

The effect is immediate. Both Yoongi and Hobi snap their heads toward Taehyung, their expressions shifting so quickly it's almost comical—except there's nothing funny about the naked fear that flashes across their faces.

"It wasn't like that!" Jungkook interrupts, appearing beside them with surprising speed. His voice is a harsh whisper-shout, barely audible over the music but intense enough to make all three of his friends freeze. "I just needed air. Seriously."

"Bro..." Yoongi's voice is low, the single syllable carrying more weight than it should.

"Jungkook, you know how that looks to us," Hobi says, softer but no less serious. 

"I know. I'm sorry," Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, a gesture you're starting to recognize as his nervous tic. "But it wasn't... that. I swear. I just went there to think."

"After seeing her?" Taehyung presses, still tense.

"Yeah," Jungkook admits, "but it wasn't—look, can we not do this right now? It's fine. I'm fine."

There's clearly more to whatever ‘it’ is—something significant enough to make three grown men look like they've seen a ghost. 

But Jungkook's expression makes it clear the discussion is over, at least for now.

You should probably stop pretending to be fascinated by the karaoke song list and move away before they realize you're listening. 

But before you can, Jungkook abruptly changes the subject, his voice rising to a cheerful pitch that sounds slightly forced.

"Alright, alright!" He claps his hands together, turning to face the room. "So... birthday gifts for the birthday boy?"

The tension shatters as the crowd erupts in excited chatter. Seth whoops loudly, and someone (Ryan, you think) starts an off-key rendition of ‘For He's A Jolly Good Fellow’ that quickly derails into chaos. Jungkook's shoulders visibly relax as the attention shifts from whatever just happened to the much safer territory of presents.

One by one, people approach with gifts—some wrapped beautifully, others clearly hastily stuffed into whatever bag was available. 

Taehyung goes first, handing over a sleek black box tied with a simple red ribbon.

"Don't make it weird," he warns as Jungkook takes it.

Inside is what appears to be a ridiculously expensive camera lens. You don't know enough about photography to identify it, but based on the way Jungkook's eyes widen and his mouth forms a perfect ‘o,’ it's something significant.

"Dude," he breathes, lifting it carefully like it might shatter. "This is—holy shit, Tae."

"Yeah, well." Taehyung shrugs, but you catch the pleased smile he tries to hide. "You've been whining about needing a better wide-angle for your urban shots, so."

Jungkook looks genuinely moved, holding the lens like it's made of gold. "I can't believe you remembered."

"I always remember," Taehyung says simply, and the way he says it that makes you think he means more than just camera preferences.

Hobi goes next, presenting a sleek box containing what looks like high-end wireless headphones. 

“For all those late-night production sessions," he explains with a grin. "So we don't have to hear your trash music taste through the walls anymore."

"You love my music, asshole," Jungkook laughs, already testing them out.

"I love peace more," Hobi retorts, but he's beaming as Jungkook gives an enthusiastic thumbs up.

Yoongi's gift is less physical—a card containing what appears to be a voucher for studio time. 

“Booked you sixteen hours at Blueline," he says with characteristic understatement. "For that soundtrack project you mentioned."

Jungkook looks up from the card, something like disbelief crossing his face. "Dude, Blueline is impossible to get into. How did you—"

"I know people," Yoongi shrugs. "Just don't waste it making crap."

"I would never disrespect the temple," Jungkook promises solemnly, pressing the card to his heart with mock reverence.

The gift-giving continues, a parade of thoughtful items that speak to genuine friendship: rare vinyl records, vintage film books, an artisan coffee setup that makes Jungkook actually bounce with excitement. 

It's sweet, really—seeing him surrounded by people who clearly know him well, who've put thought into what he'd like.

And then it hits you.

Fuck.

The Mayer vinyl. Sitting on your dresser at home, still in its brown paper wrapping from that record store in Williamsburg. 

Because okay, first of all—who brings a fragile vinyl record to MOMA and then a karaoke bar? 

You simply had no way of bringing it without raising suspicions. 

And maybe asking Yoongi for help bringing it over would’ve made it look like you cared, so.

The gifts are winding down, and Jungkook is making his rounds, thanking everyone with what seems like genuine gratitude. He looks happier now, more relaxed—whatever happened with Mia and on the rooftop temporarily forgotten in the warmth of celebration.

You're contemplating whether you should make up some excuse about your gift when suddenly he's right there, appearing in your peripheral vision like he materialized out of thin air.

"So," he says, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as he leans just a bit too close. "Where's my present, Pyx?"

The nickname rolls off his tongue, familiar enough now that you've stopped rolling your eyes every time he uses it. (Mostly.)

"At home," you admit, trying to sound casual and not like someone who completely failed at basic gift logistics.

"Oh?" 

His lips purse, fighting back what's clearly a smirk. 

The glint in his eye is positively dangerous. 

"At home?"

Your cheeks heat up against your will. 

“Not—I don't mean it like that," you stammer, realizing too late how your answer could be interpreted. "I mean I literally left it at the apartment. It wouldn't fit in my bag."

"Big gift, huh?" he murmurs, leaning even closer. His breath brushes your ear, warm and smelling faintly of vanilla. "I'm intrigued."

"It's just a thing," you say lamely. "Nothing special."

"I'd honestly be happy with the other interpretation, for the record," he continues like you haven't spoken, voice dropping to a register that should be illegal in public spaces. 

"In your dreams," you scoff, but it comes out weaker than intended.

"Every night," he confirms, that infuriating smirk spreading across his face now. "Detailed, technicolor dreams. Sometimes you even—"

"Boundaries, Rogue," you cut him off, pressing a finger against his lips. "We're in public."

"That didn't stop you earlier," he whispers, gaze flicking to your lips for the briefest second. "On the roof?"

"That was different."

"Different how?"

"We were alone then."

"We could be alone again," he suggests, voice casual but eyes anything but. "Plenty of dark corners in this building."

"You're incorrigible."

"You like it."

Before you can come up with a suitably cutting response, Ryan's voice cuts through the general noise of the room: "Yo, I'm gonna crash out! It's getting late!"

The announcement triggers a cascade of similar declarations. 

Suddenly people are gathering coats, exchanging final birthday wishes, making plans to meet up later in the week. The energy in the room shifts from celebration to conclusion, that particular lull that comes at the end of a good night.

As people begin filing out, Seth materializes beside you, a confident smile plastered across his face that probably works on most girls but just makes you want to step back a foot or three.

"So," he says, leaning in close enough that you can smell the tequila on his breath, "I was thinking I should get your number. You know, to hang out sometime."

"Uhhh," you stall, searching for a polite rejection. "No thanks."

His smile doesn't falter. If anything, it widens. 

“Come on, we had fun tonight, right? Just give me your number. I promise I'll only use it for emergencies." He winks, like this is some clever line that's going to change your mind.

"I said no thanks," you repeat, firmer this time.

"Don't be like that," he persists, stepping even closer. "Just your number. What's the big deal?"

You're about to tell him exactly what the big deal is when Jungkook appears at your side, his expression suddenly hard.

"Bro," he says, annoyance coloring his tone, "can't you see she ain't interested?"

Seth blinks, looking between you and Jungkook. "I'm just asking for her number, man. No harm in that."

"Except she already said no. Twice." Jungkook's tone is still light, but there's an edge to it now. "So maybe take the hint?"

For a moment, Seth looks like he might argue. Then he sighs, holding up his hands in mock surrender. 

"Fine, whatever. Your loss," he adds, with a final glance your way before merging back into the departing crowd.

"How is that your friend?" you ask once he's safely out of earshot, genuinely baffled that someone like Jungkook would hang out with such a persistent creep.

"He isn't, technically," Jungkook shrugs, watching Seth's retreating back with a slightly disgusted look. "He's Ryan's friend, who sometimes hangs out with Ryan, and so with us too. Definitely not my pick for the squad."

"Thank god for small mercies," you mutter, and he laughs, the tension from the Seth encounter dissipating as quickly as it arrived.

Jungkook steps back from you, that heated moment dissipating as he slips back into social host mode. You watch as he makes his rounds, thanking everyone for coming, accepting final hugs and handshakes. He's good at this—making each person feel individually appreciated, remembered. 

It's a side of him you are staring to recognize more and more often. 

When he reaches Tessa, you notice how his posture softens slightly. He says something that makes her laugh, tucking that perfect auburn hair behind her ear in a gesture that's both shy and flirtatious.

"You need a ride?" he asks her, and you barely manage to overhear. "I can call an Uber."

"No need," she smiles, gesturing toward Diana. "We're sharing a car. Diana lives just a few blocks from me."

"Good," he nods, looking genuinely relieved. "Text when you get home safe?"

It's sweet, the way he's concerned for her safety. Not what you'd expect from the guy who leaves his dirty dishes in the sink for days and thinks changing the toilet paper roll is optional. 

But then again, tonight has been full of surprises when it comes to Jungkook.

"Will do," Tessa promises, then hesitates before leaning in to give him a quick hug. "Happy birthday, Jungkook."

You watch them, something jittery settling in your chest. 

His lucky ass might actually score someone genuinely nice and put-together, who seems to actually like him beyond just his face and body. 

Good for him. 

Good for her, even, if she can't see that she's way out of his league.

Ten minutes later, the room has mostly cleared. Only your strange merged group remains—Yeji and Irya saying their goodbyes to Jimin by the door, while Taehyung, Hobi, Yoongi, Jungkook, and you linger in a loose circle near the couches.

"Subway?" Yoongi asks, addressing both you and Jungkook with his usual economy of words.

Jungkook nods, glancing at his phone. "Still running for another hour."

"I'll walk with you guys to the station," Taehyung offers, but Jungkook shakes his head.

"Nah, you're uptown. That's the opposite direction."

"I don't mind."

"I'm fine, Tae," Jungkook says firmly, and there's a weight to the words that seems to carry a conversation from earlier. "Really."

Taehyung doesn't look convinced, but after a moment of silent communication, he relents. "Text me when you get home."

"Yes, mom."

"I'm serious."

"I know," Jungkook's tone softens. "I will."

The farewells are quick after that—Hobi heading uptown with Taehyung, Jimin walking Yeji and Irya to their car, and the three of you—you, Jungkook, and Yoongi—making your way toward the subway station that will take you back to your shared apartment.

It feels like you've been gone for days rather than hours—like the person who left the apartment this morning for her first day at Barnes & Noble somehow isn't quite the same one heading home now.

But that's a thought for another time, when your head isn't fuzzy with tequila and your feet aren't aching from standing half the night.

For now, you just follow your roommates through the city streets toward the subway station, the quiet between you comfortable in a way it hasn't been before.

The subway car at this hour is practically abandoned—just a few night owls and the occasional service worker scattered across the seats like human tumbleweeds. 

Yoongi claims a seat by the door, immediately slipping his AirPods exactly like someone who's perfected the art of social avoidance. Within seconds, his head is tilted back against the subway wall, eyes closed. 

Either he's fallen asleep that quickly, or he's just really committed to pretending the rest of the world doesn't exist.

Jungkook drops into the seat beside him, legs splayed wide in that uniquely male way that screams ‘my balls need their own zip code.’ You take the spot next to him, trying to claim whatever minimal space is left.

Like seriously? There are literally twenty empty seats.

You nudge your knee pointedly against his. "Do you mind?"

"Wha?" He glances down, genuinely confused.

"The manspreading, bro," you gesture at his legs. "You're taking up enough space for three people."

He grins, completely unashamed. "I need to air out the jewels."

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?" You swat his arm, genuinely annoyed. "That's exactly the problem with guys like you. Public space isn't designed for your testicle ventilation system."

"Guys like me?" He raises an eyebrow, still smirking but at least looking slightly less smug.

"Yes. Guys who think their comfort is more important than the space of everyone around them." You're on a roll now, the combination of lingering tequila and genuine irritation fueling your feminist rant. "Women are literally conditioned to take up as little space as possible, to cross our legs, to fold ourselves into tiny spaces, while men just spread out like they own the world. It's literally a physical manifestation of patriarchal entitlement."

His smirk fades slightly, replaced by something closer to actual consideration. 

He glances down at his legs, then at the way you've automatically tucked yours together to accommodate his sprawl.

"Shit, I sound like a TikTok right now, don't I?" you mutter.

"No, no," he says, actually shifting his legs together. "You're not wrong. I didn't really think about it that way."

Wait. What?

"You're just saying that because it's your birthday and you think you get a free pass," you say suspiciously.

"No, I actually get it," he says, looking strangely thoughtful. "My mom used to call me out for the same shit. Called it 'man space disease.' Said my dad had it too."

And now you don't know what to do with yourself. 

Because what the actual fuck? 

How are you supposed to maintain righteous irritation when he just... listens? Takes criticism? Brings up his mom in a way that makes him seem like an actual human person with a past and stuff?

Goddammit. Now you can't even properly be mad at him, which somehow makes you even more annoyed. 

"Anyway," you say, desperate to change the subject before you lose all moral high ground. "Happy birthday again or whatever."

"Thanks," he says, and then adds, "for everything. The museum was actually cool. Didn't know you had taste, Phee."

"I'm literally an English major."

"Yeah, but that just means you read boring-ass books from dead white guys."

"That's... not what English degrees are about," you sputter. "And I bet 90% of your film classes are just Scorsese and Tarantino circle jerks."

He laughs, a genuine sound that echoes in the empty subway car. "Fuck, you got me there. Though Tarantino is—"

"If you say 'ahead of his time,' I will push you onto the tracks at the next stop."

"I was gonna say overrated, actually. Everyone loses their mind over Pulp Fiction, but honestly? Mid."

You blink, genuinely surprised. "Okay, that's the most correct opinion you've ever had."

"I have tons of correct opinions. You just never ask me about them."

"Sure, like your opinion that coffee is better than tea?"

"Because it is!"

"That whole statement is a crime, is what it is."

He scoffs, rolls his eyes, and leans back, conversation over because he’s clearly not arguing over this. 

So the subway rattles on, the rhythmic clacking of wheels against track filling the silence. 

Your thoughts drift to earlier tonight—to that moment on the first subway ride when his hand had brushed against yours. 

Just a whisper of contact, his pinky grazing yours on the metal bar.

Why did he do that? What was the deal with that?

The question nags at you, an itch you can't scratch. Not because it matters in any deep way—obviously it doesn't—but because puzzling out Jungkook's behavior is becoming something of a hobby. 

A frustrating, often pointless hobby, but still.

"Hey," you say before you can talk yourself out of it. "Question for you."

He turns toward you, eyebrows raised slightly. "Shoot."

"Earlier, on the subway..." You hesitate, suddenly feeling stupid for bringing it up. "You kind of touched my hand on the bar? What was that about?"

"Huh?" He looks genuinely confused for a moment, then recognition dawns. "Oh! That."

He says it so casually, like it wasn't something worth remembering. Which it isn't. Obviously.

"I just noticed you had a panic attack this morning," he continues, his tone matter-of-fact. "In my room."

"What?" Your voice comes out sharper than intended, surprise making your pulse quicken. "How did you—"

"I passed by and heard your breathing," he explains, shrugging like this is a completely normal thing to say. "But I didn't want to intrude. Since it's something very personal and knowing you..." 

He looks to the side as he gestures vaguely. 

"Well, I don't think you'd have appreciated me barging in, so I just went back to cooking my super pancakes."

You stare at him, dumbfounded. 

Who… Who the fuck is this dude? When did Jungkook develop this thoughtful, considerate side? Is he possessed? Should you be checking for pod people?

"So on the subway," he continues, oblivious to your internal crisis, "I dunno, I felt you had off vibes, and—"

"Again with the vibes?" You can't help but interject.

He laughs, the sound sharp and genuine. "Bro, you had this face like the sad hamster meme and I couldn't take it. That's why I brushed your hand. Reassurance, y'know?"

"The... sad hamster meme?" you repeat, incredulous.

He whips out his phone, types something, then shows you the screen: a round-faced hamster looking depressed as hell, its tiny eyes radiating existential despair.

"That's not—I don't look like that!" you protest.

"You literally did. One hundred percent emotional support hamster energy."

"I will actually murder you in your sleep."

His expression shifts, something vulnerable flickering across his features.

"My mom—" 

He cuts himself off, suddenly looking down at his lap.

But somehow, he decides to continue.

"My mom used to do that for me, so I thought it might help. The hand thing. Not calling you a hamster," he clarifies quickly. "Just a small touch when I was stressed. Sorry if it was weird."

Oh.

"No, no, it wasn't weird," you say quickly. 

The image of a younger Jungkook, being comforted by his mother with small touches, is annoyingly humanizing. 

Couldn't he just stay a two-dimensional asshole? Would make life so much simpler.

"No?" He looks up, searching your face.

"...No." You clear your throat, trying to regain your footing. "It's kind of nice, actually. That you're this attentive." 

You clear your throat then; but it’s like the air is getting stuck in your throat at the sudden sincerity of this conversation.

So you can't help adding: "I guess. Could've apply it to the household, you know? Like maybe notice when the trash needs taking out?"

He snorts at that, the weird moment breaking; and you couldn’t be happier.

“One step at a time, Pyx. One step at a time."

"So your observational skills only work when it comes to me having panic attacks, not when the dishes need doing?" 

"I have selective observation abilities," he admits with a grin. "Like a very specific superpower."

"World's shittiest X-Man," you mutter. "'I'm Emotional Support Man. I can tell when you're sad but can't locate the broom.'"

He laughs, harder this time. "Fuck, that's actually my brand. Can I put that in my Instagram bio?"

"Only if you credit me."

"Deal."

The subway lurches around a corner, and you both sway with the movement. You catch Yoongi cracking one eye open, glancing at you both before apparently deciding you're not interesting enough to stay awake for and closing it again.

"So like, you must be psyched about the studio time from Yoongi," you say, genuinely curious about this part of Jungkook's life that you know almost nothing about.

"Dude, you have no idea. Blueline is like..." he gestures expansively, searching for the right words, "it's basically where half the top-charting albums from last year were produced. Their equipment is insane. Sixteen hours there is worth like, a month in a regular studio."

"And he just... got that for you? Just like that?"

"Yoongi knows people," Jungkook says, with a hint of pride. "He's lowkey connected as fuck in the music scene. Doesn't talk about it much, but he's got production credits on some tracks that went viral last year."

"Wait, seriously? Yoongi? Our Yoongi? The guy who speaks like four words a day?"

"That's his whole strategy," Jungkook whispers dramatically, leaning closer like he's sharing state secrets. "The less he says, the more people think he's some kind of genius."

"Is it working?" you ask, also whispering despite yourself.

He grins. "I mean, he got me sixteen hours at Blueline, so yeah, I'd say it's working pretty well."

"What are you gonna do there?"

"I'm scoring a short film by this director I know. Nothing major, just like a fifteen-minute thing, but I've been wanting to experiment with this sound for a while—like lo-fi beats but with some orchestral elements mixed in. Kind of a vibe Jonny Greenwood meets Nujabes thing, if that makes sense?"

It doesn't, really, but the way his eyes light up as he talks about it is surprisingly engaging. 

Cute.

Because that’s Jungkook when he talks about something he cares deeply about. He just… gestures as he explains, hands moving expressively, and his entire demeanor changes.

"That's actually really cool," you admit before you can stop yourself.

"Yeah?" He looks genuinely pleased by your approval, which is weird. Since when does he care what you think? "You should come by sometime. Check it out."

"I didn't know you were into all that," you say, genuinely curious now. "The music stuff, I mean. I knew about the film major, but..."

"I'm a man of many talents, Phee," he says with an exaggerated wink that makes you roll your eyes.

"Okay, and we're back to you being insufferable. That was a nice five-minute break."

He laughs, not at all offended. "Can't let you get too comfortable. Gotta keep you on your toes."

The subway announcement system announces your stop is next. 

Yoongi's eyes open immediately, like he has some kind of sixth sense for exactly when to wake up. He removes his AirPods, tucking them into his pocket as he stands.

"You coming?" he asks, directing the question to both of you but somehow making it sound like he couldn't care less either way.

"Yeah, yeah," Jungkook says, already standing. 

He offers you a hand up, the gesture casual but unexpected.

You hesitate for just a second before taking it, letting him pull you to your feet. His hand is warm, the calluses from guitar playing rough against your palm. And then he drops it as soon as you're standing, no lingering, no loaded moment. Just a simple courtesy.

But it’s the normal, everyday nature of the gesture that throws you. 

Like this is just what you do now—casual, friendly touches that mean nothing beyond basic human interaction.

The subway slows as it approaches your stop, and you grab the pole to steady yourself, pushing this strange new dynamic to the back of your mind to examine later. 

When you're alone. 

And preferably sober.

You've never heard Griffin meow that loudly outside of dinner time, and even then, it's not this fucking dramatic.

The elevator doors have barely slid open when the unholy feline screeching hits your ears—a sound that could only be described as a cat being simultaneously vacuumed and baptized against its will.

"What the fuck?" you mutter, already picking up your pace toward the apartment door.

Jungkook's reaction is instantaneous. One second he's trudging beside you, still talking about some obscure music producer, and the next he's bolting down the hallway like someone lit his ass on fire.

"Griffin!" His voice carries genuine panic as he fumbles with his keys, hands suddenly clumsy with urgency.

You follow right behind him, though your motivations are decidedly less noble. 

The building has a strict no-pets policy, and the last thing you need is to get evicted because Jungkook's furry contraband is having a meltdown at 1 AM.

"Jesus Christ, let me do it," you hiss, shoving at his hands. "You're gonna wake up the whole floor."

"I got it, I got it," he insists, still struggling with the lock as Griffin continues his banshee impression on the other side of the door.

"Clearly you don't got it," you argue, trying to wrestle the keys from his grip. "You're making it worse!"

"Can you just—will you just—give me a second—"

You're both so busy fighting over the keys that neither of you notices Yoongi until he's physically shoving both of you aside with surprisingly pointy elbows.

"Move," he grunts, extracting his own key and long since given up on expecting basic competence from either of you.

The lock clicks open, and the door swings wide just in time for an orange blur to come rocketing out into the hallway. 

Griffin shoots between your legs like he's auditioning for some Usain Bolt competition (but make it feline), though to no avail, because Jungkook's reflexes are impressively fast. 

Three quick strides and he's scooping the cat up, cradling him against his chest.

"Hey, hey, buddy, what's wrong?" he murmurs, immediately checking the cat for injuries. "You okay? What happened?"

Griffin, now safely ensconced in Jungkook's arms, has miraculously stopped his caterwauling and is instead purring loud enough to vibrate the hallway. 

The little shit.

"Oh my god, Jungkook, tell your cat to shut the fuck up," you hiss, glancing nervously toward neighboring doors. "You know the neighbors are gonna snitch if he keeps that up."

"No they won't," he says with the confidence of someone who's never faced consequences for anything in his life. "They all love me."

You blink. "You know all the neighbors?"

He just shrugs, already carrying Griffin back into the apartment like the entire dramatic episode never happened.

Yoongi, having completed his sole contribution to the crisis, is already disappearing into his bedroom, door clicking shut behind him with a finality that says ‘do not disturb under penalty of death.’

You stand awkwardly in the entryway, fidgeting with your keys, suddenly hyperaware that you're alone with Jungkook for the first time since... whatever that moment on the rooftop was.

He snorts, still cradling Griffin like a baby. 

"So where's my gift?"

Of course. Of course he couldn't just let it go. Had to make things weird and awkward because god forbid Jungkook let any interaction proceed without maximum discomfort.

You grunt noncommittally and trudge to your bedroom, pointedly closing the door behind you. 

There, sitting innocently on your dresser, is the crumpled paper bag from the flea market. 

Inside is the stupid vinyl record you'd impulsively bought for fifteen bucks because it had "John Mayer" on it and you vaguely remembered Jungkook had a vinyl wall with what looked like Mayer albums.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. 

Now, you're not so sure.

But it's not like you have any alternatives, and you did promise him a gift, so...

You grab the bag and head back out, careful not to make eye contact. You have no idea why you're suddenly nervous about this. It's just a vinyl. Probably one he already has. No big deal either way.

"Here," you say, thrusting the paper bag toward him.

He quirks an eyebrow, clearly puzzled by the plainness of your offering. 

What was he expecting? A fucking gift-wrapped Ferrari?

He sets Griffin down carefully on the armchair before taking the bag from you. The cat immediately curls into a perfect circle, clearly untroubled by whatever had sent him into hysterics five minutes ago.

Jungkook pulls the vinyl from the bag with deliberate slowness, like he's trying to extend the suspense. A small smile forms on his lips when he sees it's a record, but then—

His face contorts into an expression you can't begin to interpret. 

It's like watching someone cycle through all five stages of grief in under five seconds, ending on some emotion that looks like he might either laugh hysterically or have a stroke.

Your stomach drops. Fuck. You knew it. He already has it. Or worse, he hates this album. 

Great going, genius. You had one job.

"Nix," he starts, his voice strangled.

"It's fine," you interject quickly, already looking away and biting your lip. "I mean, if you already—"

"Phoenix."

Something in the way he says your nickname—your full nickname, not the shortened version—makes you reluctantly look back at him.

He's not... mad. Or disgusted. Or disappointed. 

If anything, he looks... stunned? 

His eyes are practically twinkling, like you just handed him the fucking Holy Grail instead of a dusty old record.

"Where the fuck..." he starts, then shakes his head slightly. "Where the fuck did you get this, Nix?"

You blink, caught off guard by his reaction.

"I—a girl has her secrets," you mumble, because no way in hell are you admitting you found it in a five-dollar bin at a flea market.

"This is Inside Wants Out," he says, staring at the record like it might vanish if he blinks.

"Yup. That's what it says," you confirm, pointing unnecessarily at the album title clearly printed on the cover.

Like, yeah. Thanks for confirming he can read. At least he’s not that stupid. 

"It's John Mayer, right...? I thought... I mean since your whole vinyl wall is mostly—"

"This is Inside Wants Out," he repeats, more emphatically this time, like you're not getting the significance.

You nod slowly. "Yeah... I heard you the first time."

"Do you know how hard it is to get this shit, Nix?" His eyes are still wide with disbelief. "This is a collector's item."

Oh.

Oh wow.

Oh fuck.

You didn't mean to give him something with actual significance. You were just trying to not completely fail at basic gift-giving. But now he's looking at you like you just casually handed him a winning lottery ticket, and you have no idea how to respond.

"I mean... I knew you'd appreciate it," you lie smoothly, like you totally knew what you were doing. "You seem like the type to be into the rare stuff."

His eyes narrow slightly, like he's not entirely buying your sudden expertise in John Mayer collectibles, but he's too excited about the record to push it.

"It was his first EP," he explains, still handling the vinyl like it might explode. "Self-released in '99, before he got signed. There were only like a thousand copies ever pressed, and they never reissued it on vinyl."

"Oh," you say eloquently. "Cool."

"Cool?" 

He laughs, the sound both incredulous and delighted. 

"Nix, this thing goes for like three hundred dollars on eBay if you can even find one. How did you—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head again. "You know what, never mind. I don't even want to know. Just... thank you."

Three hundred dollars? 

You almost choke. The grimy old man at the flea market had sold it to you for fifteen bucks, and even then, you'd thought you were overpaying.

Holy shit. You accidentally gave Jungkook the perfect gift.

You're still processing this bizarre turn of events when he does something even more unexpected. He steps forward and hugs you—a quick, one-armed embrace that's over almost before it begins, but still manages to short-circuit your brain for a solid three seconds.

"Seriously," he says, already stepping back. "This is... thank you."

"I—yeah, of course," you manage, still off-balance from the sudden contact. "Happy birthday or whatever."

He grins, already carefully examining the record sleeve for any damage. 

"Or whatever," he echoes, but there's no mockery in it. 

Just warmth.

A warmth that makes something in your chest twist in a way you don't want to examine too closely.

Jungkook flips the vinyl over in his hands, tracing the track listing with his finger. 

"I started collecting his stuff in high school," he says, voice softer than usual. "Everyone gives him shit, you know? Like he's this basic white dude music or whatever."

"Isn't he, though?" You can't help asking, even as you drift closer to the couch instead of retreating to your room like you'd planned.

He looks up at you, expression caught between offense and amusement. "That's what everyone thinks. But his guitar work? Seriously underrated. The guy's technically insane."

You perch on the arm of the couch, watching as he continues examining the record. 

“So you're into him for the... technical aspects?"

"Partly." Jungkook shrugs, a small smile playing at his lips. "But honestly? His music just hits sometimes, you know? Like when you're driving at night with the windows down, or when you just need to chill and not think for a while."

"Didn't take you for the introspective type."

"There's a lot you don't know about me, Phee," he says, but it's not a challenge or a flirtation. Just a simple statement of fact.

"Like what?"

He looks surprised you asked, like he expected you to roll your eyes and walk away. 

After a moment's hesitation, he gestures toward his bedroom. 

“I've got every vinyl he's released. Started with Continuum when I was fifteen..." He trails off, then shakes his head slightly. "Anyway, been collecting ever since."

You’re not sure whether he wants you to ask, or doesn’t want to overshare. So to play it safe, you don’t dig.

Instead, you find yourself saying, "My dad's obsessed with him."

Now it's your turn to be surprised—by your own admission. Because you hadn't planned to share that.

Jungkook's eyebrows lift. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you confirm, suddenly interested in a loose thread on your sleeve. "Used to play his albums constantly during gardening weekends. My mom would pretend to hate it, but I'd catch her humming along when she thought no one was listening."

"Gardening weekends?"

"Mandatory family bonding," you explain, the memory both distant and vivid. "Every other Saturday in spring and summer. Dad would handle the heavy stuff, Mom did the flowers, and I was on weed duty."

"Weed duty," Jungkook repeats, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Like, you grew pot with your parents? Damn, Nix, I had you all wrong."

You roll your eyes, but you're fighting a smile too. "Garden weeds, dumbass. The actual nuisance plants."

"So what? You'd all be out there pulling weeds while John Mayer serenaded you from a boombox?"

"Something like that," you say, the mental image so accurate it catches you off guard. "How'd you know about the boombox?"

"Dads and boomboxes go together like peanut butter and jelly," he says with authority. "It's basic dad culture."

"Fair point." You hesitate, then add, "He had this super old one. Battery-operated, because the garden was too far from the house for an extension cord. The sound quality was garbage, but he refused to upgrade. Said it had 'character.'"

Jungkook smiles at that, a genuine one that reaches his eyes. "Sounds like my kind of guy."

"You'd hate each other," you say automatically, but then consider it. "Actually, no. You'd probably bond over guitar shit and expensive coffee, and it would be absolutely insufferable for everyone else."

"I'm great with parents," he protests. "They love me."

"That's because they don't have to live with you."

He gasps in offense. "What? Come on, living with me is the best experience ever.”

"So now ‘best experience ever’ is you eating my leftovers and folding your briefs on the entrance table?”

"And mind-blowing sex," he adds, because of course he does. "Don't forget that part."

"And we're done here," you announce, standing up from the couch arm. 

"Wait," he says, surprising you again. "What was your favorite song? From those gardening days, I mean."

You pause, considering whether to answer. It feels oddly personal, sharing music taste with Jungkook. More intimate somehow than the physical stuff you've done together.

But he's looking at you with genuine curiosity, still cradling the vinyl you gave him like it's something precious, and you find yourself responding before you can overthink it.

"'Slow Dancing in a Burning Room,'" you admit, the memory rising unbidden. "Not off that album, obviously, but it was on Continuum."

“Really? I wouldn't have pegged you for that one."

"Well, I wasn't exactly vibing with the lyrics at age ten," you say, defensive without knowing why. "It just... reminds me of my mom."

"Your mom was into songs about dysfunctional relationships?"

"No, dumbass." 

You take a breath, weighing whether to elaborate. 

Fuck it. 

“There was this one time, we were gardening, and it started raining—like, suddenly pouring. Dad ran inside with the boombox, but Mom just... stayed out there. And I did too."

Jungkook's watching you intently now, the vinyl temporarily forgotten in his hands.

"That song was playing right before the rain started," you continue, eyes fixed on that loose thread again. "And when Dad got inside, he must have put the song on again inside the house, because we could hear it through the open windows. Mom just... started dancing. In the rain. And she pulled me in, and we were spinning around like idiots, getting completely soaked, while Dad watched from the porch and pretended to be embarrassed by us."

You risk a glance at Jungkook and find him smiling softly.

"What?" you demand.

"Nothing," he says, but his smile doesn't fade. "Just... that's a really good memory. I like that it wasn't some deep angsty reason. Just your mom being cool."

"She wasn't always," you say before you can stop yourself. "Cool, I mean. But she had her moments."

A comfortable silence falls between you, the kind you didn't think was possible with Jungkook. He's still looking at you with that soft expression, and you find yourself continuing without really meaning to.

“Anyway,” you say, desperate to lighten the sudden heaviness between you. “I like sad songs and thunderstorms. Shocking revelation about the English major, I know.”

His mouth curves into a smile, but it’s gentler than his usual smirk. 

“I know you like thunderstorms.”

“You do?”

“Yeah,” he nods, setting the vinyl aside with careful hands. “Remember the first time we hooked up in this apartment? There was a storm outside.”

“How do you remember that?”

He shrugs, casual, unbothered.

Like it doesn’t cost him anything at all to reveal he keeps details in mind or cares. 

“You were curled up in that bean bag by the window, watching the rain like it was telling you secrets. All broody and intense. Very on-brand.”

“I wasn’t broody,” you protest automatically.

“You were staring at a lightning storm. The only way you could’ve been broodier is if you were wearing fingerless gloves and listening to The Cure.”

You throw a decorative pillow at his head, which he catches easily. “Fuck off, I don’t even own fingerless gloves.”

“Yet,” he adds with a grin. “There’s still time, though. Hot Topic’s having a sale.”

You flip him off, but you’re smiling despite yourself.

“I just like storms, okay? They’re… honest.”

“Honest?” He raises an eyebrow, looking genuinely curious.

You struggle to articulate something you’ve never had to put into words before. 

“Yeah, like… they don’t pretend to be anything other than what they are. They’re loud and chaotic and messy, and they don’t apologize for it.”

“Huh,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “Never thought about it like that.”

“Plus,” you add, tone deliberately lighter, “they smell good.”

“Yeah I guess they do,” he agrees, and for some reason, this tiny point of connection feels significant.

“You smell like rain,” you say, the words slipping out before your brain can catch up with your mouth.

“Huh?” he looks at you, confusion replacing his easy smile.

“I mean,” you backtrack, suddenly feeling stupid, “you’re always saying I smell like vanilla and stuff. And you really like vanilla, right? With your vanilla extract flask or whatever. Well, you smell like rain. At least to me. I really like rain. That’s all.”

There’s a moment of silence, just long enough for you to start mentally calculating how quickly you could fake your own death and flee the country.

“I smell like rain,” he repeats, expression unreadable.

“It’s not a big deal,” you say quickly. “Just an observation. Like how Yoongi smells like coffee and disappointment.”

He laughs at that, breaking the weird tension. “That’s… oddly accurate.”

“I’m very accurate,” you say with mock seriousness. “My superpower.”

And… why exactly are you quoting him? That’s exactly what he said in the subway.

And you said it without thinking. 

“Well,” he says, not catching onto that or at least not making it about that; leaning back into the couch cushions, “for what it’s worth, I’m glad I don’t smell like disappointment. Rain is definitely the better option.”

“Don’t get too excited. I didn’t say you smell good,” you lie, because of course he smells good, the bastard. “Just like rain.”

“Uh-huh.” His smile is knowing, infuriating. “You literally just said you really like rain, though.”

“I changed my mind. Rain is overrated.”

“Sounds fake, but okay.”

Griffin chooses that moment to stretch dramatically on the armchair, reminding you both of his presence. The cat yawns widely, showing tiny needle teeth, before resettling into an even tighter ball.

“Anyway,” you say, seizing the opportunity to change the subject, “your cat is still a menace, even if he has good timing.”

“The best timing,” Jungkook agrees, reaching over to scratch behind Griffin’s ears. “Though I still don’t know what set him off earlier.”

“Maybe he sensed a disturbance in the force.”

“Maybe he just missed me,” Jungkook suggests, and the sad thing is, he’s probably right. Griffin is ridiculously attached to him, like some kind of orange, furry shadow.

“Cats don’t miss people,” you argue, just to be contrary. “They’re cold-blooded killers who tolerate humans because we operate can openers.”

“Griffin misses me,” he insists, stroking the cat’s back. “Don’t you, buddy? Tell Phoenix how much you missed your dad.”

Griffin blinks slowly in response, which Jungkook apparently interprets as agreement. 

“See? He says he was devastated by my absence.”

“He says he’s plotting to kill us both in our sleep,” you counter.

“Nah, he only does that to people who don’t bring him treats. Speaking of which…” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small packet of cat treats, shaking a few onto his palm.

Griffin is suddenly wide awake, lunging for the offering with surprising agility for a creature that was seemingly comatose two seconds ago.

“You carry cat treats in your pocket?” you ask, incredulous. “To a club? To a karaoke bar?”

“Always be prepared,” he says solemnly, as if quoting some ancient cat-owner wisdom. “Besides, Griffin can sense when I don’t have them.”

“Your relationship with this cat is genuinely concerning.”

“Says the person who talks to him when she thinks no one’s listening.” He smirks at your surprised expression. “Yeah, I’ve heard you. ‘Who’s a little murder machine? Is it you? Yes it is.’”

You feel your cheeks warm. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You baby-talk my cat, Phoenix. Just admit it.”

“I do not baby-talk—”

Your phone chimes with a text notification, cutting off what would have undoubtedly been a brilliant denial. 

You move towards the entryway, where you'd left your purse on the table, and reach to look for your phone, when suddenly—

Oh. 

The DIY bracelets. Right.

You'd left them at the shop at first for that contribution project Ash had talked about, but then... something had pinched at you when Jungkook mentioned having one similar as a kid. 

How it reminded him of his mom.

And now that you're talking about mourning a mom that you still have alive, because the mom from your memories often differs from the one who exists now... it feels like the right moment. Like maybe these stupid friendship bracelets aren't just arts and crafts bullshit but something that might actually mean something.

Fuck, that's corny. You're being corny right now. This is what happens when you let your guard down for five seconds around Jungkook—suddenly you're having feelings and shit. Gross.

But your fingers are already closing around the bracelets. 

You're impulsive like that. Always have been. Jump first, think later. It's gotten you into trouble more times than you can count, but occasionally—very occasionally—it works out.

You slip them into your fist, hiding them behind your back as you walk slowly toward Jungkook. He's still standing there, watching you with that half-curious, half-amused expression that makes you want to simultaneously punch him and—

"Hmm? What's up, Phoenix?" he asks, eyebrows lifting slightly when he notices your hands hidden behind your back.

"Nothing," you say, too quickly.

His eyes narrow, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. 

“What's that?" He takes a step closer, trying to peek around you. "You hiding something?"

"No," you lie, taking a step back. "Mind your business."

"You're being weird," he says, his smirk widening into a full-on grin. "What is it? A love letter? Secret diary? Embarrassing photos of you in middle school with braces?"

"I never had braces," you retort, still backing up as he advances. "And it's nothing, so back off."

"If it's nothing, why are you hiding it?" He lunges suddenly, trying to grab at your hands, but you twist away, nearly knocking over a lamp in the process.

"Jungkook, I swear to god—"

"Come on, just show me!" He's laughing now, the asshole, clearly enjoying your discomfort. "What's so secret that you can't—"

He makes another grab, and this time his fingers catch your wrist. You try to pull away, but he's stronger than you, the jerk, and before you can stop him, he's pried your fingers open.

The bracelets fall into his palm.

His laughter cuts off abruptly. 

He stares down at them, then back up at you, his expression shifting to something you can't quite read. 

His eyes go all soft and wide, like some anime character or something, and it makes your forsaken insides twist.

"How?" he asks, voice quieter than before. "I thought we left these at the shop."

You look to the side, feeling heat crawl up your neck. 

This is so fucking embarrassing. 

It's just bracelets. 

Stupid, childish bracelets that shouldn't mean anything.

"When I came back to get my phone, I..." You trail off, not sure how to explain without sounding like a complete sap. "I saw them and I just..."

You shut up, because what are you supposed to say? That you couldn't stand the thought of leaving them behind? That something about his face when he talked about his mom's bracelet made you want to give him this small piece of today?

He seems to understand anyway, nodding slowly as he looks down at the bracelets again. 

"Thanks," he says, and it's so genuine it makes you uncomfortable.

He holds them for a moment longer, then asks, "Can I?" gesturing toward your wrist.

You extend your arm automatically, then realize what he's doing as he fumbles with the clasp of the Phoenix bracelet.

"No, let me wear the Rogue one," you say quickly.

He pauses, brows furrowing. "But I am Rogue."

"Well, you said you didn't want to wear a bracelet calling you 'Rogue,'" you point out, "so... might as well wear the Rogue one myself and you wear the Phoenix one."

A slow smile spreads across his face, like what you've just said makes perfect sense instead of being the most backward logic ever. 

And with a soft, delicate breath he says:

“Deal."

His fingers brush against your skin as he fastens the Rogue bracelet around your wrist. You try not to react, but your pulse quickens traitorously beneath his fingertips.

When he's done, you take the Phoenix bracelet from him, gesturing for his wrist. He extends it without hesitation, and you're struck by how much larger his hand is than yours, how warm his skin feels beneath your fingers as you fumble with the clasp.

"There," you say, pulling away quickly once it's secured. "Now we're even."

"Even," he echoes, looking down at the bracelet on his wrist, the fiery beads catching the light. "I guess we are."

You stare at the bracelet on your wrist for a few seconds, the beads catching the dim light of your apartment living room. Your eyes flicker up to his wrist—he's doing the same thing, turning his arm slightly to inspect his newly acquired accessory like he's never seen a fucking bracelet before. 

His eyes catch yours, and you can't help asking, "You gonna wear it?"

He rotates his wrist, watching how the beads interact with the light. 

“Maybe." The corner of his mouth twitches. "I don't know, does it fit my vibe?"

Is he serious right now? 

You deadpan him, staring straight into his eyes without blinking.

He can't help but snort, his shoulders shaking slightly. "That's a no, then?"

"Whatever," you say, waving your hand dismissively. "You don't need to wear it. It's a silly thing anyway." 

And it is. Just a stupid arts and crafts project you made while trying to keep him busy for his birthday party. 

No big deal if he tosses it in a drawer and forgets about it. Literally could not care less.

"Nah, it's cool," he says, examining it again. "Kind of tacky, but in a fun way."

He looks back at you when you stare in silence too long. 

"What about you?"

"Huh?" You blink, caught off-guard.

"Are you gonna wear yours?" He gestures toward your wrist with his chin.

"I don't know." You twist the beads around your wrist, acting like you're still deciding. "It's not like I want people to know I have friendship bracelet gay shit with you."

He snorts, rolling his eyes. "Right, I had forgotten what I'm gonna say when people ask what 'PHOENIX' means."

Your eyes flicker back to him, side-eyeing him suspiciously. "What would you say?"

"Maybe I should tell them it's from my roommate," he says, tapping his chin in mock thoughtfulness. "Who rose from the ashes and all that. Like some kind of angry, book-obsessed firebird."

"Don't you dare talk about me like that!" You immediately shove at his shoulder, scowling. "Oh my god."

He sidesteps your attack, continuing, "—into this majestic creature who's deep down probably not plotting to murder me in my sleep—"

"I swear to god," you lunge at him again, "if you say that cringy shit about me to anyone—"

"—and who secretly loves making friendship bracelets—"

"I will end you," you threaten, trying to grab his arm while he deftly avoids your attempts. The audacity of this asshole. "I will literally smother you with a pillow."

"—and wearing them too!" He's full-on laughing now, dodging around the coffee table. "The bracelet represents how we've evolved from mortal enemies to... slightly less mortal enemies."

"That's it." You grab a throw pillow from the couch and hurl it at his head. "You're dead to me."

He catches the pillow easily, still grinning like an idiot. "Aw, come on, Nix. Embrace your phoenix identity. Like the bird, you too have emerged from—"

"If you say 'ashes' one more time," you threaten, grabbing another pillow, "I will personally ensure you become some."

"Violent," he comments, raising his eyebrows. "And after I accepted your little craft project."

"It's not a—" 

You start to protest, then stop yourself. 

What the hell would you call it?

"Whatever. It's just a bracelet."

"A bracelet of tolerance," he suggests, his eyes dancing with amusement. "At best."

"Exactly," you say, oddly annoyed that he's stolen your line. "A bracelet of 'you're still annoying as fuck but occasionally tolerable.'"

"A bracelet of 'we haven't killed each other yet, which is honestly impressive,'" he offers.

"A bracelet of 'the apartment lease says I can't legally push you off the balcony,'" you suggest.

He laughs, running a hand through his hair. "Cool. I'll take it."

"Don't make it weird," you mutter, suddenly feeling uncomfortable with the direction this conversation has taken. Why is he being almost... nice? "It's just a stupid bracelet I accidentally made while you were trying to avoid talking about your Instagram."

"Right," he nods, tapping the beads against the table. "Just like how you 'accidentally' bought me a super rare vinyl."

"Shut up."

"Never," he says, shifting Griffin to make room on the armchair. "So, this means you're warming up to me, huh? All it took was some karaoke and a rooftop heart-to-heart."

"I already told you we'll see," you remind him, rolling your eyes. "Don't push it, Rogue."

"Fine, fine," he holds up his hands in surrender. "Just saying, the evidence is mounting."

"What evidence?"

He starts counting off on his fingers. "One, you made me a bracelet. Two, you bought me a vinyl. Three, you didn't ditch me at my own birthday thing. Four, you haven't tried to poison my coffee in at least three days."

"That you know of," you counter, but you can feel the corner of your mouth twitching traitorously.

"See? You're not even denying it," he says, pointing at you triumphantly. "Face it, Phee. You tolerate me."

"The bare minimum bar for human interaction. Congratulations."

Griffin chooses that moment to let out a pathetically dramatic meow, clearly offended that he's no longer the center of attention.

"Someone's jealous," Jungkook immediately turns to scratch his cat under the chin. "Don't worry, G, you'll always be my number one roommate."

You roll your eyes. "Great, I've been demoted behind the cat."

"He doesn't leave wet teabags in the sink," Jungkook points out.

"He literally shits in a box in our bathroom."

"Yeah, but at least he covers it up."

"I'm not having this argument," you declare, standing up from the couch. It's late, you're tired, and this whole day has been weird enough already. "I'm going to bed."

"Night, Nix," he says, voice softer than his usual teasing tone.

"Night, Rogue," you reply, hesitating for just a moment too long before adding, "Happy birthday. Again."

He smiles—that same genuine smile from before. "Thanks. For everything."

"Don't get used to it," you warn, already backing toward your bedroom. "Tomorrow I go back to hating your guts."

"Looking forward to it," he calls after you, and you can hear the grin in his voice.

You close your bedroom door a bit harder than necessary, but you're smiling as you do it. And if your fingers brush against the beads on your wrist as you change into your pajamas, well, that's nobody's business but yours.

It's just a bracelet. Whatever.

goal: 650 notes. can’t believe how quickly kiki nation got the goals back, you guys are amazing and unhinged. 😭❤️‍🩹

if you liked this chapter, please consider buying me a coffee!! ♡'･ᴗ･'♡ https://ko-fi.com/jungkoode

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© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[nearly-magic]

they probably have to memorize all of this for a test or something

There’s good news and bad news. Bad news, you’re in hell. Good news, you’re not being punished. You are the punishment.

[choccy-milky]

Hello! When your Seb x Clora pregnancy one-shot is complete, will it be on ao3 or wattpad? (or both?)

waiting with bated breath btw

not pressuring a finish tho, take ur time Choccy 🥰

it'll be on both ao3 and wattpad!! and omg ik its taking long IM SORRRY, its bc its gonna be way longer than i expected LMAO, i just recently finished my outline and the outline ALONE is 41k words💀and im currently at 8.3k written😩🙏 IM GLAD YOU'RE LOOKING FORWARD TO IT THO🥹💖💖i defs hope to get it finished by this month or die trying...but heres a lil sneak peek in the meantime of impatient seb who cant wait to bring baby celeste into the world LMAO🤰👼

(seb is a freak but so is clora)

[redtsundere-writes]

We need sukuna brutally murdering another servant because they put reader in a bad mood. ITS NOT A WANT ITS A NEED PLEASE

Blood Bath | Sukuna Ryomen

king!sukuna ryomen x femservant!reader

Sypnosis: The king needs to wash himself after defending his favorite servant. Contents: king x servant, kinda fluffy I guess, murder, a bit of humiliation, nudity. Word count: 2255 words. Author's note: Thanks for the request, anon! I was already writing this fic when I received your message, so it was a great add-in! Beginning. ← Previous | Next →

AO3/WATTPAD VERSION

Sukuna left the castle a week ago. He set out for distant lands to conquer villages, eat its people and spread the terror on his behalf. The absence of his presence was noticeable in the magnificent palace. Peace reigned in the spotless marble hallways, the quiet kitchen and the solitary great hall. Despite not having the pressure of everything being perfect, the servants were making sure the castle would shine for the king's return. The servants walked around at their leisure, pretending they owned the place. They ate at whatever time they wanted, lay down to rest on the lawn of the parade ground, and talked loudly about the rumors that have been surfacing about your relationship with the king.

Recently, it had come to your attention that you were Sukuna's favorite servant, but no one knew exactly why. The consensus had concluded that it was because you were his mistress. Sukuna used to lock himself in his room with you for hours at a time and always came out with a broad smile. The truth is that you didn't sleep with him, you just gave him massages, fixed his outfits and sometimes talked for hours. You tried several times to clear up the rumors, but no one believed you.

It was a rainy summer afternoon. You and a small group of servants were cleaning the great hall, the largest room in the castle. Surrounded by white concrete columns that rose to the ceiling, you sternly swept the red carpet that indicated the center. Diamond chandeliers softly lit the place, statues of the king stood tall and the beautiful hand-painted mural raised on the ceiling harmonized the entire room. The drops fell softly against the giant window in which the green outside could be admired.

“When do you think our king will return?” One servant asked the other as they cleaned the decorative torches that rested on steel bases around the perimeter.

“He won't be long, he has to come back to his mistress,” the other one joked. They both let out small, annoying laughs.

Those kinds of comments had become more recurrent as the days went by. You knew they did it on purpose. They raised their voices every time you entered the room or when you were about to go to sleep. None of the other servants seemed to want to intrude to keep what little peace they had. You slammed the broom down on the carpet hard to take out your frustration.

“How disgusting to be that monster's mistress, don't you think?” the other one asked. You could feel her piercing gaze on the back of your head, waiting for you to react to her uncalled-for comment.

“I know! I don't know how she can sleep with someone as creepy as our king,” she replied with disgust in her voice.

Those two had crossed the line. You firmly grabbed the broomstick to confront them about their lousy topic of conversation. You approached them at a steady pace, dragging the broomstick in case you needed it as a weapon to defend yours and your king’s honor.

“That's enough!” you scolded. “I don't sleep with our king! Besides, he may be a monster, but thanks to him, we can eat fresh food, sleep in comfortable beds and live in a magnificent palace! If I were you, I'd stop barking, bitches!” You exploded after such a long time of having to put up with their out-of-place comments.

“Shut up! You're only defending him because you're his favorite whore!” One of them exclaimed, throwing the feather duster in her face.

“Yeah, shut the fuck up, who-!”

A fine cut echoed throughout the great hall. A large splash of blood fell on your face, blinding you for a couple of seconds. The slight gasp of surprise from the other servants left you speechless. You dropped the broom to scrub your eyes. What had happened? You backed up in desperation until you ran into a wall that wasn't there before. After a crack, it all made sense. You looked up to see Sukuna's sharp jaw. Dried blood tainted his skin, his breath was cut short from exhaustion. He was back home after conquering another empire successfully. 

“Does anyone have anything else to say?” Sukuna asked the other servants, who were kneeling before him, giving him a warm welcome.

You knew you should kneel, but seeing the lifeless bodies of what used to be your gossiping companions made your body freeze. Their heads had been cut in half and the rest of their bodies were shattered. What used to be two women were now small pools of blood and bones. Sukuna had erased their existence with just a couple of his fingers. It was a scene you never thought your eyes would see in the flesh. That would be your fate if you did not obey your master's orders.

“This is a reminder that I can get rid of you just as quickly,” he threatened. His thick voice echoed off the walls. “If I hear that you even dare to speak blasphemies about me or one of your companions, I will not hesitate to kill you. Do you understand?” The servants, still kneeling, said, “Yes, my king,” in unison. 

Coming out of your state of shock, you turned around to kneel at his feet. Sukuna looked at your small figure compared to him. He had heard how you had defended his honor in the face of annoying accusations. He knew you were a good servant, but now you had proven to him that you were loyal. 

“Welcome home, my king,” you greeted in a trembling voice. Your body was still processing the murder your eyes had witnessed. 

“Draw me a bath,” he ordered, brushing past your greeting. 

“Yes, my king.”

You ran as fast as possible to his room to get there before him. Luckily, you had cleaned the bathroom thoroughly the day before, so everything was ready for the king to relax properly. You turned on the faucet to fill the tub with hot water, sprinkled scented bath salts, filled the water with bubbles and lit a few candles to romance the atmosphere. Sukuna soon arrived. Without a word, he began to undress as usual. Obediently, you stood in front of the wall to give her privacy.

“Since when?” He asked you as he untied the knots of his garments and let them fall to the floor. You could only hear the fabric sliding down his Herculean body.

“I don't understand the question, my king,” you answered confused, looking at the wall full of green tiles.

“How long have they been bothering you?” Sukuna completed the question while analyzing your figure from behind. He could tell you were nervous in his presence. It was the first time you saw him kill someone, it must have made quite an impression on you.

“Since a couple of months ago,” you answered.

“Why didn't you tell me?” Sukuna entered the bathtub, which was already bubbling. You closed the bath faucet and approached a stool to begin the most complicated task, washing his hair.

“I didn't want to waste your time.” You prepared the utensils: a sponge, a small wooden bowl and glass bottles filled with the hair products.

“You don't dictate what I do with my time,” he replied sternly.

Sukuna stepped into the tub so you could easily reach his head, drowning his torso into the soapy water. With the help of a soft sponge, you wet his pale pink hair, taking care that the water did not enter his ears. The king closed his eyes, letting himself be carried away by the pleasant sensation after a week of consecutive massacres. Untangling his short hair with a wooden comb, avoiding pulling too much so as not to hurt him. You placed the shampoo directly on his head and massaged the product into the roots.

Sukuna hummed happily every time your fingers gently stroked his scalp. You were so gentle with him even though he was the worst monster ever. You scratched, stroked and massaged his skull to your heart's content. While you let the product work, you focused on his broad shoulders. Your hands roamed his upper body calmly and patiently. The king was tired from having fought day after day and night after night to leave his name high as the greatest conqueror, you could tell by how tense his skin was.

“Answer me a question,” Sukuna asked with his eyes closed.

“As many as you wish, my king.”

“Are you loyal to me because you are afraid of me or because I am powerful?” He asked firmly.

“Both. I am afraid of you because you are powerful,” you replied as you took the bowl of water to rinse his hair.

Sukuna smiled in satisfaction with your answer. That's why you were his favorite servant. You are a perfectionist, shrewd and perceptive. You always managed to surprise him in a different way every time. Something no woman had ever managed to do before. Sukuna twisted his torso to face you. Your face and your white clothes were inked with the blood of your companions. He couldn't let you work like that, after all, it's his fault you were stained.

“Take off your clothes and come in,” he ordered.

“What?” You asked, shocked.

“You're dirty. Come in. I won't repeat myself,” Sukuna demanded.

You nodded and started to undress before his eyes. He had seen hundreds of women undress before. He knows what a pair of striking breasts, sexy hips and long legs look like, but even so, he was mesmerized as he watched you unfold before his eyes. Each garment slid down your body delicately, your hairs bristled from the change in temperature and your nipples stood erect at the lustfulness. No one but your mother had ever seen you naked. You had never been with a man, let alone a monster as imposing as he was.

Sukuna held out his hand to help you into the large tub. You sat in front of him and covered your breasts with the glistening bubbles that floated around you. He took one of the sponges and soaked it with soap to gently clean your face. The now dried blood came off easily. His black claws sometimes scratched your cheeks, but you could tell he was trying to be as gentle as possible with your beautiful face.

“It's not necessary, I can do it myself,” you asked, trying to take the sponge from him.

“I can wash my own hair too, but I prefer you to do it. Let me do it,” he replied before filling the bowl with water and wetting your hair.

He repeats the same process as you. The warm water, the closeness of your bodies and his hands taking care of your hair, transported you to fantasies where you had a relationship beyond king-servant. They were romantic ideas of a Sukuna you didn't quite know. A Sukuna who hugged you every time he saw you, who gave you head pats every time you did something right, and who sat you on his wide lap, demanding attention.

Someone knocked on the door, to which Sukuna allowed access. It was Uraume, who had just heard that the king had returned and what had happened with the reckless maids. What they did not expect was to see you in the bathtub next to his majesty, but even so, they decided not to ask details of how they had come to that situation.

“Welcome home, your majesty.” Uraume bowed from the doorway. “Dinner is ready. You must be hungry after the long journey.”

“I'll be there in a minute,” Sukuna answered. Uraume bowed again and left the room.

“They won't say anything,” Sukuna assured you before getting out of the tub. You were about to get out to give him his towel too, but he stopped you. “The water is still hot, it would be a shame to waste it,” he said before taking the towel and wrapping it around his waist.

“It's my job to do it,” you said.

“Your job is to obey me,” he dictated seriously. You sat back down in the tub and nodded. “Good girl,” he said with a satisfied smile before leaving the bathroom.

Sukuna returned to the bathroom and looked in his closet for what he would wear to dinner. He glanced into the bathroom from time to time to observe you. A small naked human wrapped in the ethereal steam of her innocence. He could have any woman in the world. Why was his mind obsessed with your beauty, your words, and your docility? He didn't know exactly, but he was sure you were completely his, so he didn’t have anything to worry about.

You stood alone with your thoughts in the elegant bath. You plunged your body into the water, submerging your head in the bubbles. Heads cut in half, his big hands stroking your hair, brains strewn across the carpet, his gentle touch as he washed your face. The quick, deep images made you feel confused. Your head went back up to the surface as you realized you were short of breath. You brushed your wet hair back to take a deep breath. What were you doing? Where were you? What kind of person were you serving? Sukuna confused you with his actions, and now you didn't know what to do with your poor heart beating a mile a minute for him.

Next →

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Masterlist.

[sweet-as-an-angel]

A Gift for Simon

Warnings: No Thoughts – Only Fluff, No Pronouns Used For Reader Except ‘You’.

Imagine you go up to Simon and you present him with an Altoid tin wallet. “I remember you saying your wallet broke the other day, so I thought maybe you could use this one until you got a new one :-).”

And you pass him a tiny little tin that, initially, leaves Simon both curious and confused. When he opens it, however, his breath catches in his throat, his heart stutters.

It’s perfectly furnished inside, tailored to his exact tastes based on morsels of information you’ve either discovered by accident or Simon has told you. You’ve made a little velvet pocket in the lid, the material Simon’s favourite colour, “So you can put your emergency money in there. I always put my coins in mine in case I need to get the bus home or buy some milk,” you tell him.

The idea of you doing something so domestic and, in some vein, humble, only endears you more to Simon. He should be taking you places; you shouldn’t be using your own money when you have him.

He says none of this, of course.

The other half is decorated with a quote cut out from his favourite book, stuck behind a fresh tube of chapstick and an elasticated hoop for him to put his house key in.

He wonders if you know his lips are chapped, whether you’ve looked at them as often as he finds himself watching yours whenever you accost him, privilege him with your time.

Regardless of how close the two of you are, whether you’re just acquainted neighbours or the closest of lovers, all Simon wants to do is wrap his arms around you and hold you as tight as you’ll allow. He wants to keep you all to himself, keep your kindness all for him, selfish in his endeavour to hide it from everyone else.

He knows it will be his undoing — this act of generosity you have bestowed unto him. But he can’t bring himself to fault it, even down to the idea that perhaps you expect something back from him. He’ll gladly give you anything you want if only you ask.

But you didn’t. You just smiled, bade him goodbye, and left to go about your day.

Not that you’d notice, but Simon held off on getting a new wallet for some time after that. Whenever you asked him, he’d tell you it slipped his mind, that the wallet you gave him is doing a good job anyway. Why put all the time you spent on it to waste, he thinks. And one day, he hopes he can say it, tell you to your face how his heart flurries, stutters whenever his fingers brush over that tiny tin wallet, whenever he holds it, Thumbelina in his behemoth hands. He feels your fingers there, painstaking piecing together a dream into this physical form, gossamer in its beauty, perishable in its disposition. Warm, warmth like he’s never known, and care. It’s visceral, palpable, and Simon holds it in his hand and never lets go. Not so long as he has breath in his body.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

AO3 Wattpad Tumblr Backup Account

[heyimwieeeee]

I don't like ai artwork or ai fanfics or ai taking jobs what i do like is being able to scream gay at a chair in character ai i think ai is fine as long as you don't use it to steal jobs or to pretend you made what it made.

reminder that being against ai also means being against character.ai and not using character.ai and not interacting with character.ai

i've never talked to chatgpt i've never talked to character.ai i have no interest in talking to a chatbot even if it's fun or based on my comfort character. if we want companies to stop using ai we need to tell them we aren't going to interact with it - so don't.

don't talk to robots. full stop.

[gldrushh]

GUILTY AS SIN? | MASTERPOST

"You are both haunted things. Mistakes you didn’t mean to make and aching you didn’t know how to hold. Dolour, guilt, love; they all braid themselves into something relentless. And yet, even in the ruin, you keep finding your way to each other."

⟶ PAIRING: brother in law!jungkook x widowed fem!reader

⟶ GENRE: childhood friends to lovers, forbidden love au, angst, smut, fluff

⟶ W.C: 54.5k

⟶ RATING: 18+ MINORS DNI

⟶ STATUS: One more part to go

⟶ WARNINGS: unrequited love (at first), minor character death, mention of cancer, hospitals,deals with grief and healing, angst, so much angst, complex family relationships, childhood love, tension, pining, yearning (mostly from Mr I can not, not look at you), pathetic man in love, lovesick!jk, buisness guy!jk, emotionally constipated, college professor!oc, rich people not being casual with get togethers, namjin, yoongi mention, everybody knows but her, protective!jk, jealous!jk, smut, comes with body worship, know more in chapter inclusive ones

⟶ A/N: Hi loves! My finals have officially ended (freedom tastes so sweet), and now that I have way too much time on my hands, I decided to finally sit down and put together this little Guilty As Sin masterpost for you all! I am unbelievably thankful for all the love this fic has received. I know I've said it before but it really means so much, especially since I never imagined it. The final part is on its way very, very soon. Can't wait to share it with you 🫶💗 also requests are open for the drabbles for this couple drop in my inbox if you have any love you so much!!

MASTERLIST | WATTPAD | AO3

⤹ CHAPTER INDEX .ᐟ.ᐟ

⤹ PART 𝐈: Drowning in the Blue Nile. He sent me 'Downtown Lights'. I hadn't heard it in a while.

"You are stuck in time, and Jungkook doesn't stop running from it until he eventually does, and you learn that grief doesn’t wait for death, that love isn't all that dignifying."

W.C: 17.33K

⤹ PART 𝐈𝐈: Crashing into him tonight. He's a paradox. I'm seeing visions, am I bad?

"He remembered how to stay—and you learned that some things are worth the mess, that love sometimes comes too late, but longing never does."

W.C: 17.8k

⤹ PART 𝐈𝐈𝐈: They don't know how you've haunted me. So stunningly. I choose you and me Religiously.

"After all lessons are learned. There's only one to live out in practicality. You're not sure how good you're at it."

W.C: 20k

⤹ EXTRAS .ᐟ.ᐟ

⤹ PLAYLIST

⤹ REQUEST FOR DRABBLES

⤹ OLD EDIT & NEW

© All rights reserved to user @/gldrushh. Please do not plagiarize, re-post, or translate. At least not without my consent.

[makeyoumine69]

Patrick bateman x reader at hot springs please!!!

In Too Deep

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Patrick Bateman x GN!Reader

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: NSFW, smut, oral sex (both receiving), penetrative sex, cumshot (a lot of cum), spanking, marking, choking, teasing, pet names, dirty talk, Patrick feasts on the reader as an animal.

𝐀/𝐍: I really enjoyed writing it because I love the concept so much, thanks for sending me this request, I hope you like it!

𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒: [Masterlist], [AO3], [Wattpad].

Thick, white ropes of steam curled around your heated bodies as Patrick's strong hands held you close to his buff chest, the hot water splashing around you as you bobbed up on his hips, whimpering and clinging as best you could to his broad shoulders.

"Oh, God, Patrick," your trembling voice was something between a whisper and a muffled moan as the man squeezed your ass roughly with both of his hands. "Someone can see us."

Amused, Bateman couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of your fear of being caught. "Are you really afraid someone will see you bouncing on my dick, or you just want to play pretend?" With that he slapped your butt and lifted his hips a bit to meet yours, diving even deeper into your swollen core.

Gasping, you closed your eyes and arched your back, grinding harder against his pelvis, his dick brushing along your inner walls so fucking good—its thickness splaying you open like never before. No fingers, no sex toys, no other dicks could make you shake like a leaf in the wind. And Patrick knew it, so as you began to rut your hips more and more desperately against his strong ones, he suddenly lifted his hands to your neck, wrapping them around it in a tight ring.

"Uh," you squealed, biting on your cheek, the shimmering tears forming in the corners of your eyes as Bateman fucked you silly. "Ah–fuck–Patrick!"

Even though you might have been worried about someone catching you a few moments ago, it didn't matter now as Patrick's cock literally tore you open like this, his tip hitting all the right spots inside you with surgical precision, you just couldn't care about anything else but how to survive this ride.

Grunting and cursing, Bateman squeezed your neck harder, his pace relentless and punishing as he made you rock on his strong hips as if you weighed nothing. "Argh–look at you," he murmured through clenched teeth, barely holding himself back from spilling into your tight hole here and now. "Still afraid someone might see us?" That was not even a question, but a crude mockery as he watched you twitching in his grip, absolutely dazed, shattered to pieces, but still not enough. "Poor thing, can't even talk," Patrick mused, sucking on your jawline, leaving a hickey, the hot water around you covered in bubbles and foam from the intensity of your fucking. "Just say you like teasing me, sweetheart."

The lack of oxygen, the high temperature, the overwhelming fullness that his beefy cock was giving you, all of it made your impending orgasm skyrocket. At some point, your voice grew hoarse and you couldn't even hear your own moans, as if the only sense you had left was your bruised inner channel, its nerve endings fried in the uncontrollable fire of lust.

"Fuuuuck, it feels–so–fucking–good," you drew out the words the moment Patrick released your neck, but only to lift you up and bend you over the stone-made edge of the hot springs, forcing your bare chest to rub against it as he positioned himself behind you and rammed back into your warmth. It took you a few seconds to brace yourself and adjust to the new angle as Bateman sheathed himself into you with no mercy; your soft walls encasing him like a glove, sucking him inside, wanting to milk him until the last drop of cum. "I'm gonna–mmhmm–gonna cum," your hands desperately searched for something to cling to, but the surface was too slippery from the water, so once Patrick noticed your feeble attempts to grab onto something, he pressed down on your lower back, bending you even more as he hovered over you, fucking deeper with reckless abandon, making sure you could feel every inch of him, every lewd slap of his heavy balls against your ass. "Pat–Patrick–awwww–fuuuuuck!"

"Give it to me," the man growled, grabbing your hips with renewed force. "I wanna feel you throbbing on my cock."

"Shit, shit, shit!" You continued to jolt until your whole body tensed in a shocking euphoria. "Ohhh–GOD!"

With your eyes rolled back into your head, you finally clutched the smooth stone edge, your legs giving way but Patrick held you tight, both of you barely breathing, the intensity of your orgasm overwhelming—it was like a little death. The sight of you shaking like that, unable to even make a sound, almost brought Patrick to his climax, but instead of just fucking you through your orgasm, he pulled out and, storking his rock hard dick, descended to your great ass to give it several love bites before he began to greedily lap between your legs. Spreading your ass cheeks, Bateman plunged his wet tongue into your aching hole, probing it and it felt so different from his meaty dick.

On the verge of fainting, you turned around and dipped your fingers into his brown wet hair as he used his free hand to tease your soft flesh, playing with your most sensitive spot like a virtuoso—like he knew your every little secret, every little fantasy you ever had about him.

"So–fucking–delicious," Patrick hummed against your tender skin, the tension in his balls becoming unbearable as he continued to pump himself until he erupted into his own hand, his mouth still ravaging your little tight hole. "Oh–fuck–fuuuckk," his voice broke into a throaty growl as he couldn't stop unloading the thick ropes of his cum, his hand sliding feverishly along his pulsating shaft. "Uh, baby, you got a lot to clean up."

Still looking at him half-eyed, you chuckled and swayed your hips. "As usual."

With that, you turned and knelt in front of him, letting your hands wander over his hard abs, going lower to stroke his hips until you cupped his firm ass and pulled him closer before you found his half-hard dick with your lips, slowly taking it in, savoring its salty taste.

 And if anything, you would continue sucking his dick even if someone came in right now.

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