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jungkoode · 2 months ago

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𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 20

˗ˏˋ DIY bracelets ˎˊ˗

"You were not expecting to really enjoy the MoMA exhibition, but Jungkook looks so interested and in his element that his energy is contagious. Even with a IUD in your uterus staging mutiny, and him trying to evade your questions throguh a DIY bracelet shop."

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⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 10,4k

content: working hours at B&N, books, jk being goofy as usual, subway touches (what was that?), jk's genuine interest in photography, uterus pain, kids asking questions (lmao), jk being bff w boundaries as usual, soft conversations, avoiding certain topics, and making friendship bracelets (ew gay???) (p.s. i'm literally queer, shush it.)

✧ author's note ✧

*descends from the sky on a sparkly cloud of serotonin and unresolved sexual tension* GREETINGS, MY LITTLE PSYCHOTIC DAFFODILS. *ducks the knife thrown at my head* RUDE. *throws it back, it lands in someone’s thigh, probably Jungkook’s*

Okay okay okay okay. *deep breath.*

Hello, my beloved kikizens. If you’re reading this… I’m most likely abroad, roaming the earth like the girlboss nomad I pretend to be on Instagram, while in reality I’m crying over the outline of chapter 23 in the Notes app and eating overpriced airport pastries. Yes. I wrote this ahead of time. Yes. I am the most responsible irresponsible person you’ve ever met. Time traveling author note from Past!Kiki, sending love and ibuprofen to Future!You. Let’s hope the plane didn’t crash because, if so, Fuck Me Up Jungkook is now your responsibility. Please keep him fed and slightly emotionally constipated, just as I left him.

NOW. LET'S TALK. This chapter. THIS CHAPTER. We are entering the land of slow burn intimacy and micro-shifts in character dynamics that make me froth at the mouth. I need to scream about it. I am screaming about it. Nix at Barnes & Noble? A concept. Her choosing a retail job because she wants to save someone the way books saved her??? Yeah okay I'm totally fine, I'm just on the floor sobbing about it in a public bathroom.

AND JUNGKOOK. THAT BASTARD. Being respectful?? Giving her space while still being present?? Letting her lead and following her cues like a man who understands autonomy and emotional nuance??? Jail. Absolute jail. He’s so annoying and so HOT about it. I love writing him because he’s cocky and feral and dumb, but also deeply perceptive and compassionate when it counts. Like okay yes he's a little insufferable, but also, he's the kind of man who listens when you talk about your reproductive health without flinching and I think that's worth something.

Also. Let’s talk about the bracelets. Phoenix and Rogue. Fire-coded losers who pretend they don’t care while making color-coded matching jewelry??? WHO SAID YOU COULD BE CUTE. WHO SAID.

Anyway. This chapter is the beginning of a shift. A very soft shift. We’re not in love yet. We’re not even close. We are in that horrible, confusing, liminal space where friendship might be possible eventually but everyone’s still too scared and too stupid to say it out loud. They’re not friends yet. But they’re getting there. We’re watching in real time as they learn each other’s pressure points—what to push, when to pull back. It’s very ugh my chest hurts but also my heart is fluttering kind of vibe. Which is my favorite thing to write. Obviously.

Now. To talk about me, because I love attention: I’ve only been posting for a few months and I’m already overrun with WIPs like some kind of literary hoarder. It’s a problem. I start stories, then my ADHD bitchass brain says “new shiny idea???” and next thing I know I’m drowning in three AUs, an enemies-to-lovers high school AU I wrote at 3AM, and a secret smutty one-shot I can’t stop thinking about. It’s a whole ecosystem of chaos. But I do want to write them all. I do. I just also want to nap. And read. And rot.

So yeah. I think about y’all waiting for updates more than you know. I stress about it. I chew on it like emotional gum. My Spirk fic hasn’t updated in two months and it haunts me in my sleep. But I’m trying to accept that writing is better done when it feels good, not when I’m spiraling in guilt. So. If I ever start something and it takes me ages to finish, just know I do want to get there. I just move at the speed of depression and distraction.

AND A GENTLE REMINDER: this is a slow burn. A SLOW slow burn. Not the kind where they kiss in chapter 5 and you pretend it’s slow because they didn’t bang yet. No. I mean they will not start catching actual feelings for a while. There will be distractions. Other people, love interests. Awkwardness. Denial. You will watch them flounder. You will scream at your phone. You will think “surely they must realize it now,” and I will look you in the eyes and say, “no. no they do not.” Because the point is the journey. The point is the becoming. Not the kissing. (Okay fine also the kissing. But later.)

We are 20 chapters in, and I am being so serious when I say we are maybe… 20% into the full story. If that. I want to go all the way. From strangers to roommates to fuckbuddies to friends to best friends to oh my god it was you all along. I want to write every beat. Every change. Every stupid, messy, human moment. And yes. We will suffer. You, me, Nix, Jungkook, Yeji, Taehyung, everyone.

So I'd say sorry, but let's be honest, if you’re here right now—chapter 20, still with me—I know what kind of sick little freak you are. Masochist. You're not fooling anyone.

And I adore you for it. Thank you for choosing violence with me. Thank you for loving these two idiots. Thank you for reading. I mean it. So much.

Okay. Enough rambling. Go read. Go cry. Go scream. Tell your friends. Tattoo “Phoenix x Rogue” on your ass if you feel so inclined.

Mwah.

(Shameless reminder to support me on Ko-fi if you like my unhinged writing mess).

Edit because apparently I need to make this clear; my stories are extremely slow paced. This is STATED in the author’s INTRO I EXPLICITLY mention you must READ before delving into any of my works. I am tired of messages complaining about the pacing. You are warned beforehand. You chose to read this knowing it’s going to be slow as hell. Nobody is holding you hostage. If you’re bored, you can leave. I seriously don’t care. I am writing my stories because I crave this type of storytelling where everything is narrated in detail and nothing is glossed over. My readers know that and they choose to stay because they want the same thing. 80% of stories out there are fast-paced. I am catering to the people who want this type of organic development. If that’s not your thing, that’s absolutely fine. But you don’t get to complain and whine about something when there’s 100 fanfics out there you can read instead. You don’t get to come for me or my writing—lest of all my readers. I said what I said.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Books have always been your lifeline in a world that feels like it's trying to drown you.

You've loved them for as long as you can remember, though you can't pinpoint the exact moment they became your refuge. It wasn't a dramatic epiphany or a life-changing event. Just a gradual realization that between the pages of a book, you could breathe easier.

Kafka speaks to the part of you that feels constantly out of step with the world (though you'd never admit that to Taehyung—his smug "I told you so" would be unbearable).

Murakami paints surreal landscapes that make your own reality feel a little less suffocating.

And now Donna Tartt, because you're tired of Jimin's scandalized gasps every time you confess to not having read her yet.

You weren't the stereotypical bookworm growing up. No thick glasses perched on your nose, no disdainful sniffs at the mention of pop culture. You didn't turn your nose up at Harry Styles concerts or roll your eyes at school dances.

But even as you navigated the treacherous waters of adolescence—first periods and friendship fallouts, the constant drama of simply existing as a teenager—books were always there.

A constant, even if sometimes pushed to the background.

They became your armor when the weight of expectations threatened to crush you. When disappointment hung heavy in the air, threatening to send you away in a chokehold, you'd retreat into worlds made of paper and ink.

It was easier to face fictional monsters than the very real ones lurking in parent-teacher conferences and college application deadlines.

Now, standing amidst the shelves of Barnes & Noble, surrounded by the comforting smell of new books and possibility, you can't help but feel a sense of belonging. Like you've come full circle. From the little girl who used to hide under her covers with a flashlight, devouring stories long past bedtime, to the woman who's made words her life's work.

It's not always easy.

Sometimes the words on the page blur together, your mind too full of real-world worries to lose yourself in fiction.

But even then, the weight of a book in your hands is grounding.

A reminder that there are always other worlds to explore, other lives to live, if only for a few hundred pages.

Maybe that's why you're here, arranging displays and recommending titles to strangers.

Because somewhere out there is another person drowning in expectations, desperate for a lifeline.

And maybe, just maybe, you can be the one to hand them the right book at the right moment—help them with their very own small act of rebellion against a world that sometimes feels too heavy to bear.

Mark hovers nearby as you arrange a new display of bestsellers, lanky frame, loose shirt and baggy pants. He's the one who picked up your application when you and Yeji came in last week—the one with the kind eyes and the nervous habit of clutching his hands together every five seconds.

Blonde, blue-eyed. You’d dare say he’s not bad-looking. For a man.

"So basically," he explains, voice pitched low like he's sharing state secrets instead of retail procedures, "most days you'll either be on register, floor assistance, or shelving. Today you're just shadowing me on the floor."

Floor assistance, as it turns out, is mostly wandering around looking approachable (but not too approachable) and occasionally directing lost souls to the bathroom or the manga section. You're also expected to straighten displays, check for misplaced books, and maintain what Mark calls "the Barnes & Noble aesthetic."

"Which means?" you ask, adjusting a copy of the latest Sally Rooney that's slightly out of alignment with its siblings.

"You know," he shrugs, hands doing that awkward hovering thing again, "like... cozy but sophisticated. Inviting but not cluttered."

You nod like this makes perfect sense, though privately you think it sounds like the kind of bullshit corporate memo someone got paid way too much to write.

"What about recommendations?" you ask. "Do we have any input on displays or—"

"Oh, totally!" His face brightens. "We each get to curate an employee picks shelf. You can start working on yours next week."

That, at least, sounds promising.

Already your mind is cataloging possibilities—perhaps a mix of classics and contemporary, maybe something unexpected thrown in. Definitely not the usual suspects everyone claims to have read but hasn't.

And just like that, the morning quickly blurs into afternoon.

Your tasks are the same all day: shelving, straightening, and following Mark around as he points out the minutiae of bookselling. It's mindless work, but not unpleasant. There's something soothing about putting things in order, about knowing exactly where everything belongs.

By the time your lunch break rolls around, you've settled into a comfortable groove. The break room is empty except for you and your sad turkey sandwich, the ancient TV in the corner playing a rerun of The Office. One where Jim is pulling some elaborate prank on Dwight. You find yourself smiling despite the mediocrity of your lunch.

The afternoon passes in much the same way—quiet, uneventful, almost peaceful. You help an elderly woman find the latest Louise Penny mystery. You alphabetize a section of poetry that looks like it's been hit by a tornado. You dust shelves that probably haven't seen a feather duster since Obama was president.

And then, suddenly, it's 5 PM.

You glance at your phone, mildly surprised that eight hours have passed without a single customer meltdown or retail horror story. No one has asked to speak to your manager. No one has tried to return a clearly read book with coffee stains on page 47. No one has even approached you with one of those vague "I'm looking for a book with a blue cover about a thing that happens" requests.

In fact, you've barely interacted with customers at all. It wasn't your turn on register, and most browsers seemed content to wander without assistance.

It's been... nice.

Quiet.

The kind of job where you can disappear into your own thoughts for stretches at a time.

You could get used to this, you think, clocking out and grabbing your bag from the locker.

Maybe it won't be the soul-crushing retail experience Yeji warned you about. Maybe you've lucked into the unicorn of part-time jobs—one that pays the bills without completely draining your will to live.

Or maybe it's just the first-day honeymoon period, and next week you'll be dealing with entitled parents who think the children's section is a free daycare.

Either way, as you push through the employee exit into the early evening air, you feel a strange sense of… accomplishment?

Surely, it's not saving lives or changing the world, but you can’t deny it’s satisfying; a day spent surrounded by books, putting things in order, creating small pockets of calm in a chaotic world.

And now, apparently (because God forbid the universe lets you forget) you have plans.

With Jungkook, of all people.

The thought should make you anxious.

It doesn’t.

You check your phone and see his text:

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚊? 𝚊𝚖 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎

You scan the street and spot him leaning against a lamppost, scrolling through his phone, looking unfairly good in a simple black t-shirt and jeans. Your roommate. Your sometimes-hookup. Your... friend?

The word still feels strange, but maybe it's time to try it on for size.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚒'𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚊𝚜 1𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚙𝚙𝚕

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚘 𝚒'𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚠𝚒𝚗

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚠𝚘𝚠 𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚊𝚛 𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚝𝚠

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝 𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚛 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚒'𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚛𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 🙄

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚌

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛?

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚟

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚑𝚝𝚘

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚒 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞 𝚋𝚝𝚠 𝚒𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒'𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒'𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚗𝚘 𝚞 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚖𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚞 𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚝𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚢 𝚊𝚏

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚢

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚑𝚝𝚘

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨��🏻: 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚒 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞 𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒'𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚘𝚔 𝚋𝚢𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞 𝚒𝚗 𝟹𝟸𝟷

You spot him leaning against the lamppost, scrolling on his phone like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders relaxed, black t-shirt fitting just right—not too tight, not too loose. It’s casual. Effortless.

And yeah, you’ve seen him in casual before—sweats, pajamas, even that stupid hoodie he refuses to throw out—but this is different. This is casual street Jungkook in the wild, outside the apartment.

Casual street Jungkook who’s here with you to do something normal and non-sexual and… friendly.

He looks good. But then again, you already knew that. There’s a reason you fuck him despite his infuriating personality.

Even when he says things that make you want to strangle him with his own belt.

He catches sight of you approaching and grins, that stupid lopsided grin that’s all teeth and confidence.

“Hey,” he says, voice light like this is just another day.

You don’t respond. Don’t even look up from your phone as your thumb swipes through apps in search of Maps.

“We have a twenty-minute ride from Union Square to the MoMA,” you say flatly. “The exhibit starts in thirty-five, so let’s go.”

“Sure,” he says easily, pushing off the lamppost with a lazy shrug. “What line?”

“N, Q, R—whichever comes first.” You finally glance up at him as you say it, but only briefly. Just long enough to catch the slight raise of his eyebrows before he nods.

“Okay.”

And then you’re walking side by side toward the subway entrance like this is normal. Like this isn’t the first time you’ve agreed to spend time together without sex as the unspoken endgame.

The stairs down to the subway are crowded—typical for a weekday evening—and you both swipe your cards at the turnstile without a word. There’s a guy pissing in one corner of the station (because of course there is), and Jungkook widens his eyes in a grimace like he’s trying to wipe away the sight of it. You don’t comment, just keep moving toward the platform like nothing happened.

It shouldn’t feel awkward. It’s never been awkward with him before—not even when things got messy or complicated or downright stupid between you two.

But now?

Now it feels like there’s this invisible weight hanging between you, pressing down on every step you take together.

Maybe it’s because he brought up that whole “trying to be friends” thing this morning—friends who have expectations, and expectations lead to disappointment, and disappointment leads to losing control.

Or maybe it’s because now that he said it out loud—now that he put friendship on the table—you can’t stop overthinking every little thing about this outing.

What does he expect from you? Does he want small talk? Does he want silence? Is this supposed to feel casual or meaningful or something else entirely?

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye as you both stop near the edge of the platform. He’s standing close but not too close—hands still in his pockets, gaze fixed on some ad plastered across the opposite wall. He doesn’t look uncomfortable or tense or anything remotely resembling how you feel right now.

Which makes sense because Jungkook never overthinks anything. He just does whatever feels right in the moment and deals with the consequences later (if at all).

It’s one of the things that drives you crazy about him—and maybe one of the things you secretly envy.

The train isn’t here yet, so now what? Do you say something? Ask him about his day? Pretend this is normal and fine and not at all weird for you?

“So…” Your voice comes out hesitant—too hesitant—and you immediately hate yourself for it.

Nice going, stupid bitch.

He glances at you but doesn’t say anything right away, waiting for you to finish whatever thought you’re trying (and failing) to articulate.

“What did… what did you do?” You clear your throat awkwardly, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as if that’ll somehow make this less painful for both of you. “Until… y’know… five?”

His lips twitch like he’s fighting back a smirk—like he knows exactly how much effort it took for you to ask such a simple question—and for some reason that makes you want to shove his head against the next train.

“Not much,” he says finally, his tone casual but not dismissive. “Watched some YouTube tutorials. Tried making sourdough again.”

You blink at him. “Sourdough?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, like baking bread is just a totally normal thing for someone like him to do in their free time. “Didn’t come out great though.”

“Oh.”

You don’t know what else to say to that—to him—so instead you just nod and glance down at your phone again like there’s something urgent demanding your attention.

But then, as if destiny decided (for once) to make things easier for you, the train arrives with its usual screech of brakes and rush of stale air, saving you from having to come up with any more awkward small talk on the platform.

So you step onto the train together—side by side but not touching—and you can’t help but wonder if this whole ‘trying to be friends’ thing is going to be harder than either of you realized.

Inside Jungkook moves instinctively to the metal bar overhead, reaching up to steady himself as the train lurches forward. You follow suit, your fingers wrapping around the same bar just a few inches away from his.

It’s fine. It’s normal. People share subway bars all the time. Nothing weird about it.

Except your hand shifts slightly as the train rounds a corner, and suddenly your pinky brushes against his. Just barely—a fleeting touch—but it’s enough to make you freeze for half a second.

And…

You don’t look at him.

You refuse to look at him.

Because if you do, you’ll see that stupid smirk he always gets when he knows he’s gotten under your skin, and you’re not sure you can handle that right now.

But then his hand shifts too—like, on purpose?—and his pinky brushes yours again.

Softer this time.

Lingering.

Your stomach twists in a way that feels equal parts annoying and… something else you don’t want to name. You glance up at him despite yourself, ready to snap something sarcastic or dismissive or whatever it takes to make this moment feel less charged than it suddenly does.

But he’s not smirking. He’s just… looking at you. Calmly. Quietly. Like this is nothing more than two people sharing a subway bar in a crowded train.

And maybe it is nothing. Maybe you’re just overthinking it because that’s what you do—because every little thing with him feels like it carries more weight than it should.

Still, when his fingers shift again—this time curling slightly so the side of his hand presses against yours—you don’t pull away.

You don’t say anything either, just let your fingers relax against the bar as the train rattles onward.

It’s small. Subtle. Barely even noticeable in the grand scheme of things.

But somehow, in the cramped chaos of the subway car—with strangers pressed against you on all sides—it feels like the quietest moment you’ve had all day.

You don’t look at him again—not directly—but out of the corner of your eye, you catch the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. Not cocky or teasing or anything remotely resembling his usual expressions.

Just soft.

And for some reason, that makes your throat tighten all over again.

You never expected to find Jungkook beautiful.

He stands in front of a massive black and white photograph with his head tilted slightly and dark brown eyes narrowed in concentration.

The lightning inside the space makes everything feel way more thought-provoking than it actually is. All you notice, really, is how it deepens the line of his jaw, the slight furrow between his eyebrows. His lips, and how they move silently, like he's having some private conversation with the image before him.

Stupid, handsome motherfucker. Why does he exist in your space?

You've seen him naked. You've seen him laughing so hard he nearly falls off the couch. You've seen him half-asleep and grumpy at 6 AM.

But you've never seen him like this—completely absorbed, genuinely focused on something that isn't getting laid or annoying the shit out of you.

"The composition is fucking incredible," he says without looking at you, gesturing at the photograph. "See how they've used negative space to draw your eye to the subject? And the depth of field is so deliberate—keeps you just slightly off-balance."

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden technical analysis. Since when does Jungkook know smart words?

"You actually know about photography?" It comes out more surprised than you intended.

He turns to you then, one eyebrow raised. "Film major, Nix. Kind of comes with the territory."

"Yeah, but—" You stop yourself, not sure how to articulate that you assumed his interest in film was mostly about looking cool and impressing girls.

"But what?"

"Nothing," you mutter, moving closer to the photograph. "Just didn't realize you paid attention in class."

He snorts. "I maintain my GPA through pure charm and good looks alone. No actual knowledge required."

You roll your eyes, but there's no real annoyance behind it. "Seriously though, you seem like you actually know what you're talking about. It's... weird."

"Weird that I'm not a complete idiot?" He steps back from the photograph, hands sliding into his pockets. "Gee, thanks."

"That's not what I meant."

He shrugs, already moving toward the next piece—a series of distorted portraits that seem to melt into one another.

"I just like this stuff. Always have."

You follow him, curiosity getting the better of you.

"Since when?"

"Since forever," he says, stopping in front of the portraits. "My mom was into photography. Had this old Pentax she used to carry everywhere. Taught me how to develop film in our bathroom when I was like, eight."

His voice always turns weirdly soft when his mom is involved. It makes you pause.

This is the most he's ever shared about his family, you realize.

You're not sure whether to press further or let it go.

Before you can decide, he continues, "These portraits are using multiple exposure. See how the faces blend together? It's like—when you overlay two negatives, you get this ghost effect. The new digital stuff makes it easier, but there's something about doing it on actual film that hits different."

His enthusiasm is... surprising. And weirdly contagious. You find yourself leaning in closer to see what he's pointing out, actually interested in the technical explanation.

"The photographer probably used a really slow shutter speed too," he adds, gesturing at the blurred edges of the subjects' features. "Makes movement look like this—sort of ethereal, you know?"

You don't know, not really, but you nod anyway.

Because his voice picks up speed when he talks about this, his hands do slightly more animated movements as he explains, and there’s genuine passion coloring his words and it’s…

It's... different. Seeing him care about something so much.

"What?" he asks suddenly, catching you staring at him.

You hadn't realized you were. Heat creeps up your neck, and you look away quickly.

"Nothing."

"Nah, you were looking at me weird."

"Just..." You shrug, aiming for casual. "You're a huge nerd, that's all."

He blinks at you, then barks out a laugh. "Wow. I share my vast knowledge and expertise, and that's what I get?"

"Vast knowledge? Your head barely fits in the room as it is."

"That's it," he declares, turning away dramatically. "I'm not explaining anything else. Figure it out yourself, philistine."

You swat at his arm, fighting a smile. "Oh come on, I was joking. Keep nerding out. It's..." Cute? Interesting? Surprisingly not annoying? "...Educational."

He gives you a suspicious look but seems mollified. "Fine. But only because I'm generous with my brilliance."

You snort, following him to the next piece. "So generous."

And it's strange, this feeling—this easy back-and-forth that doesn't have the usual sharp edges.

For a moment, it almost feels like you could be friends. Real friends, not just roommates who occasionally fuck and mostly argue.

The thought is so unexpected that it—

Pain.

Sharp and sudden, like someone stabbing a hot poker into your lower abdomen. Your breath catches, body instinctively curling in on itself.

Your hand flies to your stomach as another wave hits, this one even more intense than the first.

It's the IUD again—has to be. But this is worse than before. Much worse.

You stop walking, one hand gripping the nearby wall for support as you try to breathe through it.

Just breathe. It'll pass. It has to.

It doesn't.

The third wave nearly brings you to your knees, a cold sweat breaking out across your forehead.

Jungkook makes it several steps before realizing you're no longer beside him. He turns back, eyes falling on your hunched form, and his expression shifts instantly from relaxed to concerned.

"Yo, what's wrong?" He's back at your side in three quick strides, voice pitched low but urgent.

You shake your head, not trusting yourself to speak yet. Just need a minute. Just need to breathe.

"Phoenix?" His hand hovers near your elbow, not quite touching. "Hey, talk to me. What's happening?"

"It's—" Another stab of pain cuts you off, and you bite down hard on your lip to keep from making a sound. "It's nothing. Just—cramps."

His frown deepens, eyes scanning your face.

"Bullshit. You look like you're about to pass out."

"I'm fine," you insist. "Just give me a second."

The lie tastes bitter on your tongue, but the alternative is worse.

Admitting weakness? Letting him see you crumble?

Absolutely fucking not.

Your uterus twists again—sadistic little organ—and you clench your jaw so hard you're surprised your teeth don't crack.

Breathe. Just breathe. You've handled worse.

(Have you, though?)

He's hovering now, that frown cutting deeper between his eyebrows, and you hate it.

Hate how his eyes flick over your face, cataloging symptoms.

Hate how his hand lifts halfway toward you before dropping back to his side, like he's afraid to touch you without permission.

"Ibuprofen," you manage, the word strained but determined. "I just need some ibuprofen."

"Nix, you seriously look like you're about to pass out—"

"Ibuprofen," you cut him off, sharper this time. "Seriously. I'll be okay. Just need. Ibuprofen."

You're not going home. Not happening.

You just got this fucking copper IUD on Wednesday—of course it's being a bitch. Three days of cramping is normal, right? Has to be.

And this is your first real attempt at being normal humans together, plus it's his birthday and Yoongi's expecting you to keep him out until eight. Your goddamn uterus is not ruining this.

A particularly vicious cramp rips through you, and you have to bite down on your lip to keep from making a sound. Jungkook notices, because of course he does. His eyes narrow, jaw working like he's physically biting back whatever argument he wants to make.

Finally, he sighs—loud, frustrated, dramatic in that way only he can be.

"Okay."

The surrender in his voice shouldn't feel like a victory, but it does. Even as another cramp threatens to fold you in half.

"Okay," he repeats, softer. "Let me see if I can get you one. Just—wait here, alright?"

He wraps his fingers around your elbow, not gripping, just guiding, and you let him because walking feels like a monumental task right now. .

Focus. One foot, then the other.

There's a cushioned bench a few feet away. A kid sits at one end, maybe seven or eight, swinging his legs and staring at the floor with the bored expression of someone dragged to a museum against his will.

Jungkook walks you toward it, his hand steady on your arm.

"Hello," he says to the boy, voice gentler than you've ever heard from him. "Sorry, my friend over here is in pain and really needs to sit down."

The kid looks up—first at Jungkook, then at you—eyes widening slightly. He doesn't say anything, just scoots over, fingers drifting to his mouth as he continues to stare.

"Thanks, buddy," Jungkook says, helping you sit.

You sink onto the bench, the relief immediate but not enough. It still feels like someone's playing Operation with your insides, fishing out organs with a pair of rusty pliers.

Jungkook lingers for a second, hesitant.

"You sure you'll be okay if I—"

"Go," you grit out, not trusting yourself to say more.

He gives you one last look—concerned, frustrated, something else you can't name—before turning and striding away with purpose, disappearing around a corner.

And then it's just you, the kid, and the agony twisting through your abdomen.

Great. Fantastic. You can't even make it through one normal human interaction without your body staging a fucking rebellion.

Every time you try to—what? Be a decent person? Spend time with someone who isn't Yeji? The universe laughs in your face.

The kid is still staring at you, blue eyes huge in his small face. You force what you hope is a reassuring smile but suspect looks more like a grimace.

"Your face is becoming white," he says matter-of-factly.

"Thanks," you mutter. "I'm aware."

"Like a ghost," he adds helpfully. "Are you gonna throw up?"

Jesus Christ. This is your life now. Being assessed by a tiny human while your reproductive system wages war against the rest of your organs.

"No," you say, though you're not entirely sure that's true. "Just need some medicine."

"My mom says medicine is for when you're really sick," he informs you, kicking his heels against the bench. "Are you really sick?"

Another twist of pain, and you have to close your eyes for a second.

"Something like that."

"Is that man your boyfriend?"

God, children and their questions. No filter, just an endless stream of curiosity with no regard for social niceties.

You should lie.

Should say yes, it would be simpler than explaining the complicated mess that is you and Jungkook.

"No," you say instead. "Just a... friend."

The word still feels strange. Foreign. Like you're saying it in a language you barely speak.

"Oh." The kid looks disappointed. "He looks like a superhero."

Despite everything—the pain, the frustration, the growing concern that the gyno didn't warn you about this level of copper IUD hell—you almost laugh.

Because Jungkook? Oh he would fucking love that. His ego is already the size of Manhattan; the last thing he needs is child-based validation of his supposed heroism.

"More like a supervillain," you mutter.

The boy's eyes widen further. "Really?"

"No, not really. Just a regular person who's..." You pause, not sure how to finish that sentence.

Annoying? Complicated? Stupidly attractive even when he's being insufferable?

"...helping me out."

You press your palm harder against your abdomen, hoping the pressure will somehow counteract the pain. But truthfully, it doesn't. If anything, it's getting worse, spreading from your core outward until your lower back aches and your thighs feel weak.

This can't be normal.

Well, maybe it is.

You've never had an IUD before—what the hell do you know?

Clearly should've read beyond the first page of that pamphlet they gave you, but you were too busy trying not to think about the actual insertion part.

"I have lots of friends," the kid announces proudly. "But none of them are girls."

He wrinkles his nose like this is the most disgusting concept imaginable.

Despite everything—the pain, the frustration, the knowledge that this day is slowly derailing—you almost smile.

"Girls aren't so bad."

He shrugs, unconvinced. "They like stupid stuff."

"So do boys."

"Nuh-uh. Boys like cool things. Like dinosaurs."

"Girls can like dinosaurs too."

He considers this, head tilted.

"I guess. My sister doesn't though. She just likes her stupid boyfriend." The contempt in his voice is impressive for someone whose feet don't touch the floor.

You're saved from further insights into his sister's love life by Jungkook's return. He's walking toward you with a small paper cup in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, his expression still caught between concern and that strange new softness.

"Got you covered," he says, dropping into a crouch in front of you. "They had a first aid station. Ibuprofen and water."

You take the pills and water with hands that shake slightly, downing them quickly.

"Thanks."

He sits beside you on the bench, close but not touching—some sort of distance that feels both considerate and maddening.

You realize now Jungkook is not one to push boundaries. Not when they’re firm, not when you’ve made them clear. Like when you told him this thing between you two stayed between you two and he just accepted it.

"Should take about twenty minutes to kick in," he says, voice low and even.

You nod, focusing on your breathing.

In and out. Slow and steady. Just get through this. You've handled worse.

(Have you, though? Because right now it feels like your insides are trying to claw their way out.)

"We can go home," he offers, so subsided it's almost comical coming from him. "If you want."

"No." The word comes out sharper than intended, and you soften it with, "No, I'm fine. Just need a minute."

He doesn't argue, just nods like he expected this answer.

Of course he did.

He knows you're stubborn, knows you hate showing weakness, knows you'll suffer through just about anything to avoid admitting you can't handle it.

The silence stretches between you, but it's not uncomfortable. Not exactly. It's... waiting. Patient. And you note how his knee bounces slightly, the only sign of restless energy in his otherwise still form.

"Thanks," you say again, quieter this time.

He glances at you, surprise flitting across his features.

"For what?"

"For not..." You gesture vaguely, searching for the right words. "Making it a thing."

His lips twitch, almost a smile but not quite.

"It's your body, Nix. Your call."

Something warm and unexpected unfurls in your chest at that—at the simple acknowledgment of your autonomy, your right to decide how to handle your own pain.

He could push. Could insist on taking you home, on calling a doctor, on making decisions for you "for your own good."

It's what most people would do, have always done, their concern overriding your independence.

But he doesn't.

Just sits beside you, a quiet presence in the middle of this mess, respecting your boundaries even as his knee keeps bouncing with what you suspect is concern he's trying not to voice.

It's... nice. Weird, but nice.

The kid on the bench has gone quiet, watching both of you with curious eyes. His mother appears suddenly, a harried-looking woman with a museum map clutched in one hand.

"Aiden, there you are! I told you not to wander off." She gives you and Jungkook an apologetic smile. "Sorry if he bothered you."

"He's fine," Jungkook says, easy and casual. "Just keeping us company."

Aiden slides off the bench, taking his mother's outstretched hand.

“They're friends," he informs her solemnly. "But not boyfriend and girlfriend."

His mother looks mortified. "Aiden!"

"It's okay," you manage, fighting back a laugh that would probably hurt like hell. "He's just observant."

Aiden's mother drags him away, his sneakers squeaking against the polished floor as he waves one last time.

And then it's just the two of you, sitting in silence on a bench in the middle of the MoMA like you belong there. Like this is normal.

All the while, the pain persists, still twisting through your abdomen.

Jungkook hums quietly—something soft and melodic that takes you a moment to recognize.

John Mayer. Of course it's fucking John Mayer.

Your gaze drifts to the floor, tracing the patterns in the polished concrete as another thought forms, heavy and insistent.

Should you tell him? About the IUD?

He's worried. You can see it in his eyes, the way his fingers tap restlessly against his thigh, the occasional glance he throws your way when he thinks you're not looking.

But he's not pushing. Not demanding explanations or insisting on taking you home.

Because that's not what he does.

He suggests, offers, hints... but never forces. Never demands.

Just accepts whatever you're willing to give, even when it's clear he wants more.

This morning he talked about being friends. About sharing things. About being more than just roommates who occasionally fuck and mostly argue.

Maybe this could be a first step. A tiny gesture toward whatever it is he's proposing.

But also...

Also what if you tell him and he smirks? Makes some stupid joke about how you wanted him raw that badly?

You know how quickly he covers discomfort with humor, how reliably he turns to sexual innuendo when a moment gets too real or too heavy.

And this moment is nothing if not heavy.

But overthinking it is getting you nowhere, and the silence is stretching too long, becoming its own kind of weight.

So you take a breath, summon what little courage the pain hasn't eaten away, and speak.

"I got an IUD." The words come out soft, hushed, almost hoping he won't hear them. "Wednesday."

His head tilts toward you, and you brace yourself. Wait for the snort, the smirk, the inevitable sexual commentary that will make you regret this tiny moment of trust.

But it never comes.

He just sighs softly, a small shrug lifting his shoulders.

"That's good."

Your eyes drift to him, confusion replacing the defensive tension you were building, because what does he mean?

He meets your gaze, then looks back at the photograph on the wall.

“I mean, it's good you're taking care of yourself. Your sexual health." Another shrug, this one smaller. "That's good, Nix."

Something in your chest loosens—a knot you didn't realize you were holding tight.

It's... not what you expected. Not from him.

Not from anyone, really.

"Yeah, well." You shift on the bench, wincing as the movement sends a dull throb through your lower abdomen. "Not feeling particularly great about it at the moment."

His lips quirk, not quite a smile.

"Pain that bad?"

"Like someone's playing Operation with my insides, but they're losing."

A soft laugh escapes him. "Fucking brutal."

"Pretty much."

Another stretch of silence, but this one feels different. Lighter, somehow. The pain is still there, but it's muted now, less all-consuming.

"Copper or hormonal?" he asks, voice casual like he's asking about the weather, not your reproductive choices.

You blink at him, genuinely surprised.

"You know the difference?"

"I do actually pay attention in health class, Phoenix. Plus, you know. Been with people who've had them."

"Copper," you answer, focusing on the question instead of whatever that feeling was. "I had a feeling hormones would mess with me."

He nods like this makes perfect sense. "Those are the ones that hurt more at first, right? Take longer to settle?"

Again, that surprise. "Yeah. How do you know that?"

"My ex." He shifts slightly on the bench, angling more toward you without actually moving closer. "She had one. Copper. Cramped like hell the first few months."

"Months?" The word comes out more alarmed than you intended.

His eyes widen slightly. "Not like, continuously. Just periodically. Mostly when she got her period. It got better though. Less intense over time."

"Great," you mutter. "Something to look forward to."

"Sorry." He winces. "Not helping, am I?"

"Not really, no."

"Do you..." He hesitates, eyes scanning your face like he's checking for warning signs. "Do you regret getting it?"

The question catches you off guard. Not because it's invasive—it's actually pretty reasonable given the context—but because of how genuinely he asks it. Like he really wants to know what you think. Not to judge, just to understand.

"No," you say after a moment. "No, I don't regret it. I wanted it. Chose it. This—This is just the shitty part. It'll pass."

"And this is something you want? Long-term?"

You nod, a little less certain than before but still sure enough.

"Yeah. I like not having to worry about it. Worth some pain now."

"Make sense. That's... smart." He tilts his head, that thoughtful look you rarely see crossing his features. "Planning ahead."

"One of us has to," you say without thinking.

His eyebrows shoot up. "Ouch. Direct hit, Nix."

"Sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Nah, it's fair." He cuts you off with a small laugh. "I'm not exactly Mr. Responsibility."

The self-awareness surprises you.

"You're not that bad."

"I’m not?”

“Okay I take it back.”

He chuckles.

The pain stabs again, sharper this time, and you can't quite hide the wince. His expression shifts immediately.

"Need to move around? Sometimes that helps."

You consider it. Sitting here isn't doing much except letting you focus on how much it hurts.

“Maybe."

"Think the ibuprofen's kicking in at all?"

His eyes scan your face, and you wonder what he sees there. Probably not the composed, controlled person you're trying to project.

"A little. It's not as bad as before."

"That's something." He stands, offering a hand but not insisting when you ignore it and push yourself up on your own. "We could head to the next gallery? Or go back to the one with that series you liked—the urban decay stuff."

The fact that he noticed which photographs caught your interest earlier shouldn't feel significant. It's just basic observation. Nothing special.

But it does. Feel significant, that is.

"Let's try the next one," you say, taking a tentative step. The pain doesn't immediately floor you, which is an improvement. "Slowly, though."

"No rush." He falls into step beside you, hands shoved in his pockets in that casual way he has, like he's completely at ease no matter where he is.

You nod, trying not to think about the surprise dinner. Trying even harder not to think about the stupid Mayer vinyl you bought him and the fact that all his film bros will be there.

"Thanks," you say after a few steps. "For not being weird about the IUD thing."

He glances at you, something almost like surprise flickering across his features before settling into a small smile.

“Nothing to be weird about. It's your body, Nix. Your choice."

"Yeah, but." You struggle to articulate what you mean. "Most guys would make some gross joke or get all squirmy talking about it."

"I'm not most guys."

"Okay pick me boy."

“And here we go again.” He snorts.

“Hey, you’re the one who said that generic ass shit.”

"Uh-uh, so," he says, deliberately casual as you round the corner into the next gallery space. "How do you feel about Mayer?"

You groan, shoving him lightly.

"I knew it. I fucking knew you were humming that shit on purpose."

He laughs, the sound warm and surprisingly genuine.

"Gravity is a classic! You can hate on the man all you want, but you can't deny the music."

"Watch me."

And just like that, you're arguing about John Mayer in the middle of the MoMA, the pain still there but somehow less important than this stupid debate about whether "Your Body Is A Wonderland" is the worst song ever written or just mostly terrible.

It's strange. Unexpected. Almost... nice

Maybe this friend thing isn't completely impossible after all.

New York smells different right before sunset.

The city air mellows somehow. Still dirty, still chaotic, but softer now. Like the golden hour light filtering through the buildings is actually changing the molecular structure of everything it touches.

Or maybe that's just the ibuprofen finally kicking in and making life worth living again. Hard to say.

Your phone pings as you walk beside Jungkook, the busy street full of that weird liminal energy between work day and evening. People rushing home, people headed out, everyone caught in that transitional space of not-quite-done and not-quite-started.

It's Yoongi, his message simple and direct:

𝐘𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬🎧: 𝙷𝚘𝚠’𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐? 𝚂𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔?

You glance at Jungkook, who's completely absorbed in his own phone, thumbs tapping absently against the screen.

Focused. Unaware.

Perfect.

You send back a quick thumbs up emoji, ignoring the follow-up questions Yoongi's already typing. The less you engage, the less likely you are to give something away.

6:30 PM.

Just over an hour until you need to steer Jungkook to the ramen place for his surprise. An hour to fill without either dying from secret uterine rebellion or accidentally revealing the plan.

You slide your phone back into your pocket and lean slightly to see what's so captivating on Jungkook's screen.

Not that you care. Just curious. Normal curious, not weird curious.

Instagram?

He's editing a photo—one of the abstract architectural shots he took at the museum when you weren't paying attention.

It's actually... pretty good.

The photo highlights the sharp angles of the stairwell, light cutting through the space in a way that transforms something mundane into something almost ethereal.

"You have a photography Instagram?"

He startles, immediately angling the phone away from you with the guilty reflex of someone caught looking at porn in public.

"Yeah, but it's nothing important. Just, you know. Silly stuff."

That's... suspicious. Jungkook doesn't do self-deprecation, not about things he's clearly good at.

He's the first person to brag about his skills, his looks, his whatever. The fact that he's downplaying this is weird.

"What silly stuff?" You raise an eyebrow, trying to peer around his shoulder at the now-hidden screen. "Show me."

"No, seriously, it's no big deal." He actually puts his phone in his pocket, which is basically equivalent to locking it in a vault given how attached he usually is to the thing. "Just a hobby."

"Since when are you shy about anything?" You nudge his arm with your elbow, oddly intrigued by this sudden reluctance. "Come on, I’ll show you mine, you show me yours."

"Not everything has to be an innuendo, Phoenix."

"That wasn't—" You stop yourself, because okay, that did sound suggestive. "Come on, I let you drag me through an entire photography exhibition. The least you could do is let me see your supposed 'silly' photography Instagram."

He's not looking at you now, eyes fixed somewhere to the left, scanning the street like he's searching for an escape route.

Then his face changes, relief washing over his features as he spots something across the way.

"Hey, wanna check that out?"

He points toward a small storefront wedged between a vintage clothing shop and a bubble tea place. The sign reads 'String Theory: DIY Jewelry & Crafts' in quirky hand-painted letters.

"A bracelet shop?" You follow his gaze, genuinely confused by the abrupt change of subject. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, why not?" He's already moving toward the crosswalk, clearly eager to leave the Instagram conversation behind. "Could be fun."

"Since when do you care about DIY bracelets?"

He shrugs, the movement a little too casual to be genuine. "Since right now. Come on, Nix. Live a little."

You narrow your eyes, suspicious of this sudden interest in arts and crafts, but follow him anyway.

Because in all honesty… The distraction isn't unwelcome—you've still got an hour to kill, and arguing about his secret Instagram account wasn't exactly on your agenda for the day.

Plus, whatever he's hiding must be good if he's willing to make friendship bracelets to avoid talking about it.

You approach the shop, and it is small but bright, walls lined with colorful spools of thread, beads in every imaginable shape and size, and an assortment of charms that range from the typical (hearts, stars, moons) to the bizarre (tiny plastic dinosaurs, miniature food items, and what appears to be a collection of famous dictators' faces).

A twenty-something with purple hair and more piercings than you can count greets you from behind the counter.

"Welcome to String Theory! Let me know if you need help finding anything."

Jungkook nods in acknowledgement, already wandering toward a display of leather cords and metal clasps. You follow, still puzzled by this whole detour.

"So this is what we're doing now? Making friendship bracelets?" You pick up a spool of neon green thread, turning it over in your fingers. "Is this your way of making our friendship official? Should we be getting cards and flowers too?"

He snorts, examining a tray of silver charms with unexpected interest.

"If anyone's getting flowers in this scenario, it's me. I'm high maintenance."

"Yeah, no shit."

He glances at you, that familiar half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“We don't have to stay if you don't want to. Just thought it might be..." He trails off, shrugging again in that way he does when he's trying to seem indifferent.

"What? Entertaining? A good way to avoid showing me your Instagram?"

"Both." He picks up a small wolf charm, turning it over in his fingers. "But mostly I thought it might be fun. You know, do something with our hands that isn't..."

He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

"And there's the innuendo. I was wondering how long you could go without making it weird."

"About thirty seconds, apparently." He sets the charm down, moving on to a collection of colored stones. "So, you want to make something or not?"

You consider it.

On one hand, making bracelets seems like a throwback to summer camp or middle school sleepovers—not exactly your usual Saturday night activity.

On the other hand, you've got time to kill, and it's oddly... refreshing to see Jungkook interested in something so innocuous.

Plus, you're still curious about that Instagram account, and maybe if you play along with this diversion, he'll eventually let his guard down enough to show you.

"Fine." You grab a small plastic basket from a stack near the entrance. "But I'm not making anything with your name on it, so don't get any ideas."

"Wouldn't dream of it." His smile widens into something more genuine. "Though I bet you'd rock a ‘Kuko 4-Ever' bracelet."

"I'd rather die, thanks."

You move along the wall, selecting threads in deep blues and purples because they're pretty, not because they remind you of the way Jungkook's hair sometimes looks in certain light. That would be stupid.

"So," you say casually, examining a tray of small metallic beads, "are you going to tell me about this secret Instagram account or what?"

He sighs, the sound more resigned than annoyed. "It's not secret. It's just... separate."

"Separate from what?"

"From me. From Jungkook. It's just a creative outlet, okay? Nothing special."

"But good enough that you don't want to show me."

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and there's something unexpectedly vulnerable in his expression.

"It's not that I don't want to show you. It's just... people get weird about it."

"Weird how?"

"They either think it's pretentious or they make too big a deal out of it." He moves to another display, this one filled with various charms. "It's easier to just keep it separate."

You follow him, curiosity piqued even further.

Jungkook, who walks around the apartment half-naked without a second thought, who leaves his dirty laundry in the most inconvenient places possible, who has absolutely no qualms about sharing the explicit details of his sex life—this same Jungkook is suddenly shy about his photography?

"I won't make it weird," you offer, surprising yourself with the sincerity in your voice. "Promise."

He looks skeptical. "You make everything weird, Nix. It's your special talent."

"Fuck off." You snatch a small charm from the tray without really looking at it—something circular with delicate metalwork. "I can appreciate art without being weird about it."

"It's not really art. Just photos."

"Of what?"

He hesitates, fingers tracing the edge of a tray.

"Mostly urban stuff. Architecture. Shadows. Light. Some nature." A shrug. "Just things I find interesting."

"That actually sounds cool."

He glances at you like he's checking for signs of mockery, then seems to decide you're being genuine.

"Yeah, well. Maybe I'll show you. Someday."

It's not a yes, but it's not a hard no either.

You'll take it.

"Cool." You move to the register, where the purple-haired employee is arranging a display of finished samples. "So how do we actually do this bracelet thing? I haven't made one since I was like, twelve."

"You think I have?" Jungkook laughs, setting his basket beside yours on the counter. "I'm flying blind here too."

The employee—Ash, according to their name tag—smiles.

“That's what I'm here for. What kind of bracelet are you thinking? We've got traditional friendship styles, leather wraps, beaded, charm..."

"Whatever's easiest," you say at the same time Jungkook says, "The coolest one."

Ash's smile widens. "How about a leather cord with beads? Simple but looks great."

"Sounds good," Jungkook agrees, emptying his basket on the counter. "Can we work on them here?"

"Absolutely. Let me set you up at the table in the back."

As you follow Ash toward a small workshop area in the rear of the store, your phone buzzes again. You check it discreetly.

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢. 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚢 𝟾. 𝚑𝚘𝚋𝚒’𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜.

You glance at the time.

6:45 PM.

Just over an hour left of... this. This strange, not entirely unpleasant detour into something that feels almost like friendship.

You slip your phone away before Jungkook can see, ignoring the small voice in the back of your mind that wonders what other secrets he might be keeping, and why you suddenly care so much about finding them out.

Ash sets you up at a small wooden table pressed right against the front window.

"So, what are we making?" Jungkook asks, already rummaging through his selection of beads like a kid sorting Halloween candy.

You don't answer immediately, an idea taking shape as you run your fingers over the threads and beads scattered across the table. Your eyes catch on the small containers of alphabet beads near the edge of the table, then drift to the vibrant collection of orange, red, and yellow beads in various shapes and finishes.

Perfect.

You pull the alphabet containers closer, fishing out specific letters: P, H, O, E, N, I, X. Setting them in a neat line in front of you, you reach for more: R, O, G, U, E.

Jungkook watches, brows drawing closer together as he pieces together what you're doing.

When recognition hits, he laughs—short and surprised.

"Okay, seriously? You're making Phoenix and Rogue bracelets now?"

You shrug, reaching for the orange, red, and yellow beads, arranging them between the letters.

"What? Hell yeah. We already branded each other, might as well make it something to remember each other by."

"You think I want to walk around with a bracelet that says 'Rogue' on my wrist?"

He looks genuinely baffled, like you've suggested he tattoo your face on his ass.

"I don't care what you do with it." You roll your eyes, already threading through the first bead. "I'm making mine."

He snorts, but instead of arguing further, he actually helps you sort through the letter beads, pushing the ones you need closer. Then, to your surprise, he reaches for the same fiery-colored beads you've been using.

"What?" he says, catching your look. "If we're doing this ridiculous twin bracelet thing, they might as well match."

"I thought you'd go for all black or something."

He shrugs, picking out a particularly vibrant red bead.

"Rogues can be fiery too. Besides," he adds with a half-smile, "these are my colors."

"Your colors?"

"Yeah." He lays out a pattern—red, orange, yellow, just like yours. "Warm tones. Bold. Kind of obnoxious if you use too many at once."

"Sounds like someone I know," you mutter, and he chuckles.

Your fingers work almost automatically, threading beads onto the leather cord. You're not being symbolic on purpose. It just looks nice.

When you glance up, Jungkook is staring at his own pile of beads, expression oddly distant.

He's rolling a small sun charm between his fingers, back and forth, like he's trying to make a decision.

"What?" you ask, because his silence feels weird.

He shrugs, the motion feeling slightly too forced on him.

"Nothing. Just..." He sets the charm down, picks up a red bead instead. "I actually had one of these. A bracelet. When I was a kid."

This feels like something—a small piece of himself he's offering without being pushed.

So you keep your tone light when you ask.

"Yeah? What kind?"

"Leather, like this." He picks up one of the cords, wrapping it around his wrist to measure before cutting it. "With these bright beads my mom found at some market. Reds and oranges, kind of like these. I wore it until it literally fell apart."

"How old were you?"

"I don't know. Ten? Eleven?" He shrugs again. "Young enough that it was still cool, not lame."

"And now?"

His eyes flick up to yours, then away. "Now what?"

"Is it lame now?"

His expression wavers, tightening around the mouth.

"Nah, it's whatever." He starts threading red and orange beads onto his cord, precise and quick. "Just not something guys usually wear, you know? Unless they're trying to be edgy or something."

"Since when do you care about what's 'usually' done?"

He laughs, but it sounds different than his normal laugh—a little hollow, a little forced.

"Fair point."

You work in silence for a few minutes, with some accompanying sounds; like the soft click of beads and the occasional muttered curse when you drop one.

A yellow bead rolls across the table toward Jungkook, who catches it easily.

"Thanks," you mutter as he hands it back.

"No problem." He pauses, looking at the half-finished bracelet in his hands. "I lied, by the way."

"About what?"

"My mom didn't find the beads." He keeps his eyes on his work, not looking at you. "I did. She just helped me put it together because I was too small to handle the clasps."

Something about the way he says it makes your chest tighten—like this isn't just a random childhood memory but something… soft.

Something he doesn't share often.

"That's sweet," you say, matching his tone. "You don't talk about your mom much."

He tenses, and you inwardly curse yourself.

"Not much to say."

That's a lie if you've ever heard one, but you don't push. Whatever this is—this small opening, it feels fragile. Like pressing too hard would make him shut down completely.

"Mine would've hated this place," you offer instead. "Too messy. Too handmade. Not enough structure."

His lips twitch, almost a smile.

"Mine would've loved it. She was always into this crafty shit. Had a whole room full of art supplies back when..." He trails off, shakes his head. "Anyway. How's yours coming?"

The abrupt subject change is obvious, but you let it slide.

"Almost done. Just need the clasp."

You hold up your creation for inspection. It's nothing fancy—just a simple leather cord with 'PHOENIX' spelled out in silver letter beads, filled with the fiery colored ones you picked.

But it looks kind of cool, in a childish, summer-camp sort of way.

Jungkook leans forward to look, his expression warming.

"Not bad, Nix. Very on-brand."

"Let me see yours."

He hesitates, then holds out his own bracelet. It's just like yours to match, with 'ROGUE' spelled out in metal letter beads. But he’s added a small sun charm that catches the light when he moves.

"Shit," you say, genuinely impressed. "Yours is way better than mine."

He shrugs, but you can tell he's pleased by the compliment.

“I have an eye for design. Part of my many talents."

"And so humble, too."

"Humility is overrated." He sets his bracelet down, reaching for the clasps Ash left for you. "Here, let me help you finish yours."

His fingers brush against yours as he takes your bracelet, the touch brief but somehow startling.

You watch as he attaches the clasp with surprising dexterity, tattooed fingers moving deftly, and it’s kind of attractive, really.

How good he is with his hands when he wants to be.

"There," he says, holding it out to you. "All set."

“Wait,” you announce, searching through the charms box.

You swear you had seen a rain charm earlier, and you had briefly snickered at it. But now that he’s wearing the sun charm it feels oddly… like yours needs to have the rain one, just to contrary him.

So you pick it up, add it to your bracelet.

And then you smile at him, show him.

He snorts.

You turn it in your hand. It feels solid, real. A physical manifestation of the nickname he gave you—the one that used to annoy you but now feels almost like a strange term of endearment.

Ash then approaches your table, a small fabric-lined box in her hands.

"All finished? Those look great!"

You both nod, holding up your creations for inspection.

"Phoenix and Rogue," she reads, smiling. "And they match! The fire colors work perfectly for both."

"Yeah," Jungkook says, and you're surprised by the hint of pride in his voice. "Kind of the point."

"Perfect timing, then," Ash says, setting the box on the table. "We're actually starting a new community art project. Would you be interested in contributing your bracelets?"

You frown, confused.

"Contributing how?"

"We're collecting handmade bracelets from customers to create a wall installation," she explains, gesturing toward a corner of the shop where several bracelets are already displayed on a corkboard. "It's part of our five-year anniversary celebration. Everyone who contributes gets a polaroid of their bracelet and a discount on their next visit."

"Oh." You look down at your bracelet, feeling an unexpected reluctance to part with it.

Which is stupid, because what were you going to do with it anyway?

Wear it?

That would be weird.

"You don't have to," Ash adds quickly, picking up on your hesitation. "It's totally optional."

"No, it's cool," Jungkook says, already placing his bracelet in the box. "I like the idea."

You glance at him, surprised again.

"You do?"

"Yeah. Creating something that stays here, becomes part of the place." He shrugs. "Better than it ending up in a drawer somewhere, right?"

There's something about the way he says it—like he's not just talking about the bracelet anymore—that makes you pause.

But then he's looking at you expectantly, waiting for your decision, and you place your bracelet in the box beside his, the matching colors side by side.

"For the record," you say as Ash takes a polaroid of your creations side by side, "I would've worn mine."

Jungkook's smile is slow and surprisingly gentle.

“Yeah?"

"Maybe not in public," you clarify quickly. "But yeah."

"Me too," he admits quietly, and it feels like he's sharing another secret—small but somehow significant. "Don't tell anyone, though. Ruins my image."

"What image? The one where you pretend to be cool but actually know an alarming amount about John Mayer's discography?"

"Exactly that one." He grins, the most genuine expression you've seen from him all day. "It's carefully curated."

Ash returns with your polaroid and receipt, both bracelets now part of the store's growing collection.

"Come back anytime to see them. They'll be here as long as we are."

"Thanks," Jungkook says, taking the polaroid and tucking it carefully into his wallet.

As you step back out onto the sidewalk, the city bathed in the deepening gold of late afternoon, you feel strangely light despite the lingering pain in your abdomen.

You reach for your phone to check the time, only to find your pocket empty.

"Shit," you mutter, patting your other pockets frantically. "My phone."

Jungkook stops mid-stretch.

"You lose it?"

"Must have left it in the shop." You're already turning back toward the door. "Wait here, I'll be quick."

"Want me to—"

"No, it's fine," you say, perhaps too quickly. "Just give me a second."

The bell chimes as you push back into the store, Ash looking up from behind the counter, eyebrows raised in question.

"Forgot my phone," you explain, gesturing vaguely toward the table where you were sitting.

"No problem. Take your time."

You move quickly to the table, eyes already scanning for your missing device.

Three minutes later, you're back outside, phone safely in hand. Jungkook's leaning against a lamppost, scrolling through something on his own phone.

"Got it?" he asks without looking up.

"Yeah."

You slip it into your pocket without checking the time.

"Ready?"

He pushes off the lamppost.

"Lead the way."

You start walking toward the subway entrance, mentally calculating the time. It must be around 7:20 now. Perfect timing to get to the restaurant by 8.

"Hungry?" you ask, as casually as you can manage.

Jungkook stretches again, arms reaching skyward in a motion that draws your eyes despite yourself.

"Starving. What did you have in mind?"

"I know a place," you say, already angling toward the stairs. "Trust me."

And the weird thing is, from the way he falls into step beside you without question, it seems like he actually does.

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nerdygirlramblings · 5 months ago

Note

Hello! Ive been binging poly!141 and I keep coming back to your writing for my fix (because by now its basically an addiction😅)

I had this idea that the 141 are together with a civilian reader. And civilian reader works in retail, part time, and is mostly at home. Normally, they would be home by the time their boys came home, welcoming them with open arms, a hot plate of food, and time to rest and relax. But this time, the 141 get home early and realize where reader works: Walmart (or equivalent). Reader has been keeping this a secret cause they know its not cute like a coffee shop or cool. Its just their job. And now the most important men in their life know. Im thinking the 141 found out because they went grocery shopping and happened to come across reader or something similar to that.

I work at Walmart and it sucks🥲 thought that maybe something like this might help😅

Tysm, nonny! So happy to hear you like the writing. I hope this does your idea justice. (Walmart doesn't have stores in the UK, but they own ASDA.)

Also, thank you for my first request! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

pure fluff, bad accents (per usual)

Your boys find out you work part-time at ASDA on a random rainy Thursday in March.

You don't really need a job. All four of your lovers are officers with the British army. Prior to you, they all lived in base barracks. Prior to you, they lived fairly Spartan existences. Prior to you, most of their income sat in the bank, quietly accumulating.

They have plenty of money saved up that they love using to spoil you, when you let them. You know that if you asked, they'd give you everything, but you draw the line about asking them for an allowance like some tradwife. You want some pocket money of your own. Thus, the part-time job at the ASDA in town.

You're a people person, good at handling big personalities. You need to be to keep up with your boys. Between John's need for control, Simon's stoic dominance, Johnny's aggressive enthusiasm, and Kyle's blinding charisma, you aren't some shrinking violet. Within a week of your hire, your manager watches how you weather a nasty piece of work trying to demand concessions you aren't permitted to give and immediately puts you in customer service.

You're nearly unflappable in the face of frustrated pensioners and harried parents and entitled young professionals. Over and over, you're the one they call when a customer is going spare. Which is how your boys find out about your job.

They've been deployed for over two weeks, and you have no idea when they'll return. John had originally said they'd be gone for at least a month, so you aren't expecting them home any time soon. However, they'd come home much earlier than anyone thought, and they wanted to surprise you.

You're always so good about making the house feel like a home, with your bright smile and warm laughter, your home cooked food and soft touches in decor. You make them feel like people, not weapons, and they want to return the favor. This last deployment had been hard, and all four of your boys were missing your sweet voice and tender care. They wanted to show you that they loved and cared for you the way you always showed your love and care for them.

It was Johnny's suggestion to prep a meal for you as both a surprise and a thank you. After debrief, they pile into the car and decide to stop at ASDA for everything they need before heading home to surprise you. It's John who causes the code call.

You hear Susan's voice over the store-wide address system. "We could use a little Sunshine in the floral department." That's your cue. You finish with the pensioner at your till as Jacob, your manager, comes over to relieve you.

You take a deep breath and square your shoulders. In your experience, a Sunshine call in floral is a man angry the store doesn't have the fancy arrangements listed on the website. You wish the signage on the site would be more clear that the beautiful bouquets are online orders only. It would save you having to explain why the offers in store are so limited.

You hear him before you see him, smokey voice grumbling, "But if they show the bloody thing on the site as available, you should have it hear." You'd recognize the voice anywhere. He's not angry, not really, but Susan doesn't know that. Add in the sheer size of him, and Simon looming over his shoulder, it's no wonder she called for support.

You have never wanted to walk away from a situation as much as you want to right now, but before you can make an escape, Susan notices you over John's shoulder. Her little wave is enough for your men to notice, and they turn as one to see you coming towards them. Immediately their demeanor shifts. Simon's back sags as though his strings were cut, leaving him loose-limbed. John stands a little straighter, chin up as if to impress you. They've both broken out in smiles, though Simon's are only evidenced by the laugh lines you know to look for. It's only as you get close do they zero in on the badge on your shirt.

"I've got this, Susan," you say to your co-worker. "Jacob's on my till. Can you cover?"

Susan wrings her hands. "Are you sure you don't want me to stay and-"

"They're nothing I can't handle," you tell her, cutting off her worried rambles. There's a cheeky glint in your eye as you flick your gaze at your men. You clap your hands together and say, "Right, let's get this settled, then."

Susan takes one quick look between you and the now slightly less intimidating men and heads towards the front of the store.

Once she's out of earshot, John's face breaks into a frown. "What're you doing here, love?" He glances at your name on your chest again. "You work here?" He sounds almost hurt by the revelation. You can tell Simon wants to reach for you, and the only thing stopping him is you working.

You hear heavy footfalls behind you as Johnny's Scottish lilt reaches your ears. "Och, Cap! Ye said ye'd only be a moment. Gaz and I had a hell of a time getting the trolley on its lift ta find ye. How hard is it to buy bon..." His question dies on his lips as you turn around. "Bonnie?" He, too, sounds hurt to find you working here.

You can see Kyle over Johnny's shoulder, confusion written across his features. This is not how you wanted your boys to find out about your job, if you ever wanted them to actually find out. You thought maybe you'd surprise them with tickets to Hereford FC's opening game in a few months. And if they asked how you afforded them, you could handle this conversation then, but it's out of your hands now.

And as much as you don't want to have this conversation, especially not in the middle of the floral department, you can't stop the wide grin at seeing your boys again, home and whole.

"Hi, boys," you say, opening your arms. Disappointed he might be about finding you here, Johnny's no fool. He immediately steps into your embrace, and the others quickly follow suit. You're swallowed up by the smell and feel of them. The hug lasts one minute. Then two. Then they all slowly step back.

You can see the questions and cut them off before they get started. "I have another three hours before I'm off. We can talk at home, and I'll tell you anything you want to know."

John nods first. He recognizes your tone. You won't let them derail you for answers now, and they would be wasting their breath to try. "You heard the lady, lads. Let's get home."

They start to walk away when you tease, "Captain? Was there a reason you were arguing with Susan about the flowers?"

He halts his steps and turns to you, flush creeping up his neck. He brings his hand up to rub it as he says, "Er, I, we, wanted to get ya something nice, but they don't have the same ones as online."

You melt a little, watching the way your men shift nervously behind their captain. You smile softly and reach over, plucking a bouquet of rainbow poms from the rack. "These are what I usually get for myself when you're away."

John takes them gently from your hand and passes them to Gaz to put in the trolley. "We'll see you at home, love," he murmurs, leaning over briefly to kiss your cheek. Simon kisses the top of your head, fabric brushing your hair. Johnny pulls you in for another bruising hug and kisses your other cheek. Gaz puts his hands on your waist, drinking in the sight of you, before taking your hands in his and kissing your palms.

You watch them leave, wondering how you'll make it through the rest of your shift.

Three hours and fifteen minutes later, you cross the threshold of your shared home to the most delicious scents wafting from the kitchen. After slipping your shoes off next to the piles of boots at the door, you follow your nose back to the kitchen and the spread laid out on the large wood-topped island. There's a roast and mushy peas and mashed potatoes and stewed carrots and battered cod and crisps and spinach all surrounding the flowers you'd suggested, nestled in the vase you love most, the Caithness one Johnny'd bought you on your first trip with them to Scotland.

At the table, your men sit, plates made for everyone, waiting on you. They've changed since you saw them. Gone are any traces of fatigues and tactical gear. Instead they're all in casual civvies, truly home for the first time in nearly three weeks. Simon stands as you come in and pulls out your chair, smile on his scarred lips. "Come sit, doll," he tells you, not quite an order.

You look quickly around. "Let me change," you say, tugging at your uniform top. "I won't be but a minute." You back out of the room before they can stop you. You hurry to your bedroom, pulling your top off as you go. Once behind the door, you slip from your trousers into comfortable leggings and a large jumper, one of Kyle's you think.

By the time you make it back to the kitchen, your men are more than a little antsy. Simon's smile is a little strained, Johnny is fidgeting, Kyle keeps glancing between you and John, and John is staring at you. Your chair is still out. He waves a hand at it, and gently says, "Come sit, love." It's couched as request, but you know a command from your lover when you hear it.

You take your seat at the table. "Listen-" you start, but John cuts you off.

"Are we not providing for ya, love?" You see the hurt in his eyes, how much it bothers him to think he, they, aren't doing enough for you.

"Oh, John, dear, no!" you reply, putting your hand over his on the table. "It's not that at all."

"Then what?" Simon asks.

You look at them all, the expectant faces waiting to hear how they failed you. "I get restless sometimes. I love you, and I love our life. I'm happy to take care of the house and make sure you're all fed after a long day. But I wasn't built for sitting around doing nothing. I like people; being home on my own all day can get lonely. Especially when you're deployed. I also like having my own pocket money."

John opens his mouth, and you know what he's about to say, so you continue. "I know you'd give me any money I need or want, but I like having my money. Money I earned myself." You look around at them, willing them to understand. "It's only part time. Helps me keep a little busy and have a little extra to spoil you and me with."

Johnny is frowning, but you see Kyle, head cocked, looking at you as a puzzle. "I think I understand," he says softly. "You were making you way just fine before us, and you gave up everything for us."

At his words, the crease between John's brow deepens, and you're sure he's remembering the job you had, that you'd somewhat enjoyed, when you'd first met them. You'd been working at RAF Lakenheath, living in a cozy flat in Cambridge, near The Backs, when the 141 had been coming through the base after an op. An injury had put Kyle in the med center for a week, and while he could have been transported to Hereford once stable, Laswell had worked it out for the whole team to have some R&R near the base.

You'd quite literally run into John one day, rushing to your office, after which he suggested lunch as an apology. You quickly became close with all four, smitten with them from the start. In turn, they fell hard for you. They wooed you over the course of several weeks, stopping through Lakenheath on deployments to spend some time with you. Six months in and you were completely gone on all four of them, so when they'd asked you to move to Hereford, you did without ever looking back. But it meant giving up the life you'd led.

Somewhere along the way, your happiness overshadowed all you'd left behind. After a few weeks, being home alone while your men worked started to feel isolating. You liked being a little busy, and there weren't enough projects around the house to keep you busy enough. You'd always been independent, but you didn't want to be stuck in a job with long hours anymore. You wanted to be home for your men. So you'd found the job at ASDA.

Kyle reaches over to where you hand is still on John's. "I'm sorry we didn't ask how you were coping us being gone all day," he says. He looks you in the eye as he continues. "I understand wanting to do something, wanting to be a little busy, and if this makes you happy, then I'm all for it, doll." He gives you a small smile and squeezes your and John's hand.

"Gaz is right," Simon rumbles. "We were so happy to have you here we didn't think about what you did all alone all day." He puts a heavy hand on your thigh, the warmth of him seeping through your thin leggings. "'m glad you have something to keep you from getting lonely."

"Sorry, hen," Johnny murmurs, just above a whisper. "We didnae think a' ye enough." You smile widely at him.

"Johnny, you think of me all the time. This isn't about neglect at all!" You try to catch his eye, but he's looking hard at the table in front of him. "You did nothing wrong, love," you tell him gently.

He looks at you, blue eyes bright. "Ye sure?" You've never seen him this nervous before, and you break a little.

"I'm sure love."

He smiles then, a little smile, but it brightens his face and shifts the mood in the room. You look at John who's been surprisingly quiet this whole time.

He's smiling, but it's a little sad. "I know ya said we didn't do anything wrong, but we feel like we did. We didn't notice you were bored, didn't ask if you were lonely." He flips his hand over under yours and threads your fingers with his. "Yer giving us a gift by not blaming us, and we'd be stupid not to take it, even though it feels like yer giving us an out. Thank you." He brings your hand to his lips and kisses it softly.

"Thank you. I was worried you'd be mad," you admit.

"Never could make us mad with something like this, hen," Johnny reassures you. "I'm sorry we had to spoil your day is all."

You turn back to look at the food on the island. "You didn't spoil my day. You made it. You're home early, and you made such a lovely spread. I think we should tuck in, yeah?"

Simon chuckles. "Point made, doll," he says, scooping a heaping helping of mash onto his fork. The rest take it as a sign to start eating too.

The room is silent save for the sounds of food savored until John pipes up, "Why'd ya come to florals, love? We might have missed ya altogether if not for that."

You giggle. "The sunshine call, John."

"Yeah?" He clearly doesn't understand.

"It's the shop call for a difficult customer. When I'm on shift, it's my job to handle those." You look at each of your lovers in turn. "Seems I've got a knack for dealing with muppets," you tell them with a smirk.

main masterlist

#nerdygirl answers #cod #poly!141 #poly!141 x reader #tf 141 #tf 141 x reader #kyle garrick #johnny mactavish #john price #simon riley #nerdygirl says

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pseudowho · 1 year ago

Text

Deliverance

Hunting down a monster, you are led to an isolated little town...and into the arms of its enigmatic priest, who harbours a dark secret.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, Vampire!Priest!Nanami, monsterfucking, winged vampire, soft!Dom/pleasure!Dom Nanami, loss of faith/disillusionment, enemies to lovers/forbidden lovers, haematophilia, corruption kink

Very much inspired by Mike Flanagan's exceptional "Midnight Mass" which I highly recommend.

Soundtrack: "Take Me To Church" by Hozier, and "All Around Me" by Flyleaf

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The bridge to the mainland lived most of its saltcured life underwater. It rose, skeletal against the fog, as if the wreck of a ship from some bygone era, only twice a day, at low tide.

You were, by now, well-established into this friendly little town; a much-needed teacher to its handful of muddy-toed children. They did now know of your armory, your deadly weaponry. They did not know of your vow to hunt down the monsters that stalked the night.

And, they did not know how you suspected that the beast responsible for the deaths of at least 20 men on the mainland, may be one of their very own. 20 murders all occurring at low-tide, and only low-tide, could not be a coincidence.

They were all scum, you mused to yourself, all rapists, paedophiles and murderers...so perhaps it does have some sort of moral code. It must be here, you reasoned, fingers tapping the woody shelves of your little school cupboard in thought.

Your hunt was hampered by the timekeeping of this sleepy fishing town; often up before sunrise to take to the sea, and back before the sun broke above the horizon, it was not unusual for its residents to sleep during the day, and rise in time for the sunset. Its little church even held an evening mass, attended by plentiful nocturnal residents, after dinner.

"Hello?" A rich baritone, which was beginning to feel so intimately familiar to you, stirred an illicit want in your belly. He called your name. You could not help but run to him.

"--sorry, I'm-- I'm here! In the cupboard!" You called out, breathless in...what? Your rush to get to him? Anticipation? Something...more?

You flurried round the corner, all eager smiles, flyaway hairs and dimples. Your eyes melted so softly upon each others' forms, both sighing with relief. Neither of you knew how the other stirred within.

"Ke--...Father Nanami. What a lovely surprise. You're not usually up so early."

Nanami Kento cut an imposing figure in his cassock and white collar. He was a big man, with mountainous shoulders, and long, broad hands. You remembered the heat that pooled in your belly, the first time he had rolled up his sleeves to help you to move supplies into the schoolhouse, his forearms so alluringly thick and corded. His size belied an easy grace, and the elegant quick-step of a busy, intelligent man.

"I found myself unable to sleep," Kento admitted, his head bowed and hands clasped as he stepped to you. He seemed paler than usual, as he continued, "I was thinking abo--...just, thinking." He finished weakly. His eyes drew so fleetingly to your fast little pulse, thrumming from your throat, down your cleavage. His mouth dried, a double-edged hunger climbing down his abdomen.

"...thinking?" You offered, slowly closing the distance between you. You ached to remove it completely, your respect for his holy vows the only thing that contained you. Kento cleared his throat, running one strong finger between his neck, and corseting black and white collar.

"...wondering. If you would be attending mass. Tonight. I have miss--...you have missed the past week, I believe."

Ah. Yes. There was rarely another time when the homes of the local residents were empty enough to allow for investigation. You had only a few more to ransack, to find your monster, and you could feel yourself closing in on it. You felt a heavy rock of regret in your belly, and you clasped one of Kento's cool, pale hands in your own. His cock twitched, to feel the burn of your flesh against his, in ways so much less intimate than what he had imagined, alone at night.

"I'm so sorry...not tonight," you frowned, and you hurried to reassure Kento as he visibly deflated, "But tomorrow, I promise you. I'll come. Truly." Kento's face, so angular and strong, softened down at you with the hint of a smile.

His hand raised up for a moment, hesitating, before cupping your cheek. You felt your heart skip a beat, the tips of his little and ring fingers ghosting over your pulse point, while his thumb swiped beneath your eye.

"...chalk," Kento whispered, seeing your pupils dilate under his inherent, dangerous magnetism. He wished nothing more than to lean down and taste you, clutched against him and whimpering in the schoolhouse. You heard thunder rumble in the distance, and smelled the petrichor of an oncoming storm.

"...I can't wait," Kento whispered, stepping back from you, with just one backwards glance before sweeping out under the wind and blotting clouds.

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Your hunt had amounted to nothing. Either, your monster was meticulously careful, or your suspicions were incorrect, and it did not reside on this island. There was just one more place you had not explored, and you resigned yourself that you may be heading home sooner than you thought.

And yet, you felt a rope behind your navel, a red string around your finger, holding you here. You decided to complete your final investigation at the home of the priest, who had become the lifeblood that ran inside you, at midnight. He generally stayed late at the church, completing administration. You would be undisturbed.

Armed, rogue-like, you blended with moonlit shadows until you reached the windows outside his bedroom. You peeked through the gaps in the wooden blinds, and were met with an image of Kento, erotic and resplendent, that seared itself into your brain for the rest of your days.

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Kento didn't need sleep, ever since his God had forsaken him. Yet still, he craved that sweet embrace, to take him away from the twisted torture of what he had become. His resolve to die this way, as some fallen angel, had been unexpectedly fractured by the will to live-- fractured by you.

Kento switched the shower off, the last droplets of water running down his back. His cassock and collar were discarded, all woven lies against the skin of a faithless hypocrite. Kento wrapped a towel loosely around his waist, stepped past the empty mirror, and out into his bedroom.

His gut churned to see his empty bed. It had been weeks since he had fed. Years since he had taken a woman for the last time, before taking his vows. Weeks, since you had begun to consume him, mind, body and soul.

Kento had been losing his faith before the change. He had grown further from God, as countless monsters died beneath his teeth. But it was thoughts of you, spread, penetrated and whimpering beneath him, that took Kento beyond redemption.

Kento shuddered at the aching greed within. He lay back on his bed, hair still damp and floppy, but desperate for sleep to grip him and pull him under. His cock, rapidly thickening and tenting beneath the towel, made him curse, one broad arm flung over his eyes, while the other tried to squeeze himself into submission.

Kento squirmed with guilt, his semi-erect cock gripped in his palm. He thought of you, your fingers dipping into your needy wet cunt, the vibrator on your clit doing nothing to relieve the ache in your soul. He thought of the way you had squirmed and begged, to your god, and to him, to be granted your release. He thought of the way you had sobbed as you came, curled round yourself, your fingers desperately trying to reach the sweet spot that would make your orgasm climb all the way into your belly.

He didn't need to imagine it, Kento thought blithely, his thumb now stroking slick pre-cum under his foreskin, and over the sweet swollen head of his cock. He didn't need to imagine it, because he had seen you, through the gap in your curtains in the dead of night. Watching you, a pale angel in the rain, hunting for the forgiveness of a body he couldn't allow himself to sully.

Kento's hand had begun to masturbate himself instinctually, to the thought of you crying out for him. For him, and he could do nothing but pretend he hadn't seen you fall apart, to the dream of him inside you.

Kento groaned, low and rumbling, his hand gripping tightly around his throbbing, heavy length, longer than his thick fist could cover. Dripping with pre-cum, Kento began to fuck into his own fist to lubricate himself. He moaned in time to the memory of you, writhing and mewling against your pillow.

Kento's other arm reached round above his head, and he sunk his sharp teeth into his pillow, licking at it, imitating how he would flick his tongue against your pert little clit with a ragged moan. He pictured you above him, riding his mouth and nose as the length of his cock fucked down your throat to the tune of sweet wet gags. Kento whispered filth into the dead of night, trying to rut himself to orgasm.

"--take it-- good girl...cum down your throat-- cum in my mouth...shit...fuck you through it soon, angel-- promise, I promise--...ahhhh, shit, SHIT--"

Kento cursed, spitting venom, his balls heavy and sore, his own hand so woefully inadequate. His canines had lengthened, his mouth twisted into a teeth-baring snarl, and he gripped his cock harder. Trailing his other fingers to his mouth, sucking on his fingertips with a shiver, Kento pierced them until he could taste the hot rush of blood, imagining it was you quenching his thirst--

At the window, completely unnoticed, you gripped the windowpane, weak-kneed. Your other hand clapped over your mouth. Kento lay naked on his bed, sprawled and ethereal under strips of moonlight, masturbating with gasps and groans that you only wished you could hear.

Those hands, that you had spent night after night, wishing were inside you. That cock, thicker and longer than you had pictured...and oh. The way he rutted into his fist with such devastating ferocity, left you jealous of his hand. Your mouth watered.

What would he do, if you knocked right now? If you offered yourself to him, spread bare and pleading? Would he forsake his vows for you? Would he turn his back to God, as he stroked his cockhead to orgasm between your wet folds, singing your praises, and spattering hot, thick cum over your clit--

You were drawn back out of your head as Kento convulsed, his anguished, sloppy moan breaking through the windows, shooting through you like a knife. You gasped, delighted by Kento's twitching pleasure.

Kento hit his orgasm with the turmoiled strength of a stormfront, breaking. His final image was of you, cradling his sore cock between your legs, humping him inside you while you whispered to him and he whined into your hair and got lost in the smell of you, god, the smell of you, he could smell you now--

Kento spasmed, crying out as cum spurted in heavy stripes up his abdomen, his orgasm threaded with a tinge of horror-- fuck, he could smell you, you were here nearby, he knew the smell of that skin and that blood and that cunt--

Kento sat up with a jolt and a snarl, still gasping, the power of the hunt crashing through him. His teeth bared, animalistic, he wrenched his window up, sticking his head out into the night.

The smell of you, quickly fading, was being carried away by the wind. And Nanami Kento was losing his mind.

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You could barely compose yourself, walking into Church the next evening. The night had crept in fast; another storm churning over the water, was pulling the moon in with it. You felt overburdened with...guilt? Desire? You could not hide it, you were sure.

You could not hide it, as Kento's rich voice embraced the pews. You could not hide it, as your voice trembled its way through hymns. Kento's stern, impassive face remained unreadable, as you took communion from him. You met each others' eyes, both thinking about the same thing; his finger grazed your tongue, and gazed upon your sweet face, open-mouthed and doe-eyed, kneeling before him.

And despite all this, it was each others' company you craved more than anything more carnal. You found excuses to stay, in the church, loitering as Kento bid the crowds a warm goodbye. As the last person left, finally alone, you turned to each other. You both held your breath.

After a few moments, yours released in a twinkling laugh, and a blush, that had Kento's chest clenching in possessive adoration.

"I...have neglected you, father," you offered, brushing your hair behind your ear. Kento huffed, at first, pinching the bridge of his nose, before laughing. A genuine laugh. Deep, velvety, and rich. You were putty in his hands, and he didn't even know.

"Alas...it is the life of the clergy. Our own needs, go...unmet." Kento grimaced, a forced half-smile. His hands clasped over his lap.

You felt the tinge of bitterness at the edge of his words. You swallowed, thickly. Your fate balanced on the edge of a knife.

"Not...not all of them, surely? You could...you could join me for dinner?" You couldn't miss how Kento's eyebrows raised fractionally, his pupils dilating. Kento felt a dangerous hunger.

"I...I'm not sure-- I shouldn't--"

"Of course, you're completely right--" you flapped, taking a step back, and Kento's hunger gripped you back with jealous need.

"...I shouldn't be long here. An hour, maybe? If...if you'll allow it." Kento could feel himself twist under the need to possess you, one way or another. Judging by the smell of you, you would be wet, supple under his lips.

"Perfect," you blurted, standing up on your tiptoes for one happy moment, "perfect. I'll cook. We can...we can talk. I can't wait."

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A brisk knock. You hurried to the door, biting your lip, briefly abandoning dinner on the stove.

"Father," you cried, damning yourself for sounding so excited, "you're here...I'm glad. I was afraid you wouldn't...anyway..."

You hurried back to the stove, leaving the door open. After a moment, you looked up, seeing Kento leaning against the doorframe, looking at with with something...unreadable, in his eyes. He simply stood, drinking you in as you cooked.

"...Father? What are you waiting out there for? Come in." Blinking, chuckling to himself, Kento stepped over the threshold, closing the door behind him and gently placing a bottle of wine on the table.

"Please. Call me Kento. It seems...silly, if we're having dinner, and a night together." You felt heat blossom through you, at the accidental double-meaning behind Kento's words.

Dinner together was soft, intimate, the food and wine smoothing over an already glossy conversation. You were made malleable by the wine. You were intoxicated by him. Kento looked into you with such knowledge of you, that you were laid bare beneath his gaze.

Sat facing each other on the sofa, Kento had abandoned his white collar, the buttons of his cassock and white shirt undone to his chest. He rolled wine around his glass, his head leaning on one hand, smiling as you talked. The wine made you stupid, and you blurted out;

"Why? Why...did you join the church, Kento?" It was, in part, rhetorical. A cry of despair against the crime of Kento being made untouchable. His answer surprised you, and you found yourself shuffling closer as he talked.

"I ask myself that same question every day. Ever since..." Kento bit his tongue, thinking of the night he was turned, on a missionary trip abroad. Thinking about the day you walked into his parish, setting him aflame with unquenchable burning thirst. Kento cleared his throat, swirling his wine. He felt his primal magnetism drawing you to him like a moth to the flame, and he could not stop himself.

"...I have become...disillusioned, with the church. I am...torn," Kento admitted. Your knees were touching his now, and you leaned towards him with lovesick eyes. Kento felt the thrill of the hunt, feeling the sting of his teeth lengthening. His cock twitched as your breath passed over his cheek.

"...torn?" You felt a quiver of fear now, in the way Kento's eyes darkened, his hand slipping over to grip behind your knee, pulling you into his lap. He set aside his glass. It should have rung alarm bells. You were so drunk, but you had only had one glass of wine. Kento smelled so intoxicating. You were warm, floppy as he pulled you to straddle his lap, cupping your face with both hands.

"...torn," he whispered, his nose brushing yours. Kento's hunger overtook his panic for you, a victim to himself. Kento whispered against your lips, watching your eyes flutter closed, your head heavy and lilting to the side, exposing the pretty thrum of your throat to him.

"...torn," he continued, gliding his tongue up the pulse in your neck, feeling his cock jump against your clothed pussy, "...all because of you...if God has forsaken me, I hope he never wants me back. If only you would let me worship you, instead."

Kento's lips hovered over yours, barely quelling his urgent need to feed on you, until you whimpered his name. Kento snapped, and pulled you in by the back of the neck, crashing his lips to yours with the ragged groan of a starving man.

Your head swam with Kento, clutching his open collar and falling against him, allowing him to devour your mouth with bliss. You murmured against his lips, sloppy and licking, tasting the sweet allure of him, and his grip on the back of your neck grew crushing, his weight now bearing over you to press you back into the sofa, a sharp sting on your lip--

"Ow! I...ugh, sorry...I'm bleeding--"

As you moved to sit up, shocked back out of your reverie, Kento had pushed himself back to the other side of your sofa. One hand had clasped over his mouth. He trembled, and shook, white-knuckles clasping the sofa. You heard a sharp gasp, as if Kento was in pain.

With blood on your lip, you reached for him-- and stopped. Your eyes fixed on the switched-off television opposite you both. You stood, slowly, moving towards the hallway, and your bag, trying to control your terrified little heart.

"I'll just...get a cloth, for my li--"

As you pulled a blade from your bag, standing up to spin around, you were thrown back to the wall, your head cushioned by Kento's hand. You cried out, feeling him bracket you against the wall, his cassock now abandoned, his form seeming to grow and swell before you. Kento's face pressed to your neck, and you felt the hot throb of his growing cock against your belly.

You stood this way, both panting into each other, your knife pressed over Kento's heart, and his teeth pressed to your throat. Your heart broke, fragile beneath Kento's twisting form, and hungry mouth. You hiccuped, your hand and resolve faltering.

"...I never wanted...I wish it wasn't...why did it have to be you?" You sobbed, your arm starting to lower. Kento growled against you, already two feet taller, his enormous chest trapping you in against the wall. You felt the lights blotting out around you, as vast, black, velvety wings unfurled from Kento's back.

"...always...you always knew...just couldn't accept--" Kento gasped, his tongue darting out against your neck, ridged and trembling. His chest burst with pain to feel you sob beneath him.

"I can't do it," you cried, your knife hand lowering again, "just take what you want, because I can't-- I love you-- I'm not strong enough." Kento's teeth gritted, his face crumpling against the soft copper scent of your skin. His enormous hand gripped yours, raising the knife to press to his chest. You gasped and cried out, resisting his pull; a bead of blood sprung up around the tip, pressed to Kento's chest.

"From the moment you arrived," Kento growled, his teeth pressing gently over your pulse point, starving and needy, "...my life...everything I am, has been yours to take. I would know you, blind and deaf...and I would be honoured, for you to take my life as penance for my sins."

You gritted your teeth, completely releasing your grip on the blade. It clattered to the floor. You reached up to trail hands up Kento's enormous, powerful shoulders. Your fingertips grazed the soft base of his wings, and Kento shivered, shuddering into you. He felt a dribble of pre-cum soak his stretched, ripping boxers.

"Then I condemn you to live, Kento," you whispered, pulling his face up to yours. His pupils were dilated, bursting with lust, inky black in pools of crimson, "...and take me. However you want me."

Kento snarled at you again, pressing himself to you, pinning your arms above your head with one thick hand; "You have no idea what you're asking for," he hissed, "I will eat you alive." He felt you tremble, seeing the golden resolve in your eyes. You leaned forwards to his mouth, begging.

"Then eat me...or fuck me, like you fucked your hand to me."

Kento cursed, snapping, lifting you against him. You wrapped your legs around his hips, feeling Kento reach down to shred the clothes off himself, completely absorbed by the need to possess you, to love you.

Flung backwards onto the bed, you gasped at Kento's monstrous form. Eight feet tall, broad and exquisite, his great black wings folded and unfolded against his back. His aching cock dripped with pre-cum, so much bigger than when you had seen him cum into his own hand. His face, still undeniably Kento, stared into you, owning you. Heat pooled between your legs, as he grasped his cock in one great hand, groaning and shuddering.

You crept forwards, still drunk on him, and his nephilim glory. Kento's hand stuttered around his cock as you licked the tip.

"--fuck-- too big for you-- you can't--" Kento uttered a strangled moan, to feel your hot little mouth engulf his cockhead, your lips stretched wide, gulping him to the back of your throat, all hot little licks and sucks. Every fibre of his being needed to buck forwards into your mouth, and you felt two great hands tangle in your hair.

When your hands joined your mouth, stroking down his aching length, masturbating the parts of his cock your mouth could not reach, Kento rutted involuntarily. Moaning, begging and whining your name, his voice ran deep and ragged around his sharp canines.

"--darling, I-- shit I-- so good...so good for me...taking me s--so well, haaaaah...not-- can't last-- like this--"

You hummed around his cock, swallowing down a trickle of salty pre-cum, feeling the gentle pressure of his fingertips against your head. So aware of his size and strength, Kento handled you like a china doll, with the utmost love and affection. Kento moaned with abandon, his head thrown back, his great wings furling and unfurling with divine pleasure.

Swallowing around Kento's thick tip at the back of your throat, you felt his cock leaping in warning. Kento tried half-heartedly to pull you off him, whimpering and moaning with fractured cries of your name;

"--can't swallow-- s'too much-- ohhh fuck, my love-- c-cumming, I'm cumming-- fffuuuck yes, swallow-- all of it--"

You squeaked as his cock jolted and twitched in your mouth, Kento's balls clenched tight as he hunched around your mouth, pressing your head to him. Your mouth and throat flooded with Kento's bitter seed, cooler than that of a normal man, and you swallowed him down with pride. Kento's groans and breaths ran ragged, as you licked him clean.

Kento panted, glossy-eyed as he came down from his high, his cock still half-hard against his thigh. Crowding your body against the bed with his, his fingertips grazed the dress you wore, before ripping it from you with a bared-teeth growl. You felt your bra snapped in the middle, as if it were paper. Your breasts heaved, nipples peaked under Kento's ravenous attention.

Poking his tongue out to tease it over one hard nipple, you felt your clit throb to feel the otherworldly ridges and grooves running along his tongue's sides and tip. Whining as he sucked your pebbled nipple into his mouth, you shuddered to feel Kento's sharp teeth graze your sensitive peak. He savoured you, lathering your nipple against his tongue, until you felt you could cum from that alone.

His other hand rose to engulf your second breast, your nipple rolled so tenderly between two great fingers. You felt a trickle of arousal soak your underwear. Kento could smell it, and pressed his hand to your lower belly, feeling vaguely for the telltale swell of ovulation.

"...made a mistake, angel...letting me take you like this-- nothing of you left, by the time I'm done with you--mine-- all mine-- fuck--"

Trailing kisses down your belly, sniffing you and eager to fill you with his smell, his body thrummed for you. Kento threw your legs over his shoulders, ripping the sides of your underwear and tossing the scraps aside.

His eyes fixed on your pussy, slick and clenching. Kento shuddered, feeling his cock beginning to bound to life again. It flopped, heavy and twitching against his thigh, filling again in preparation to fill you. Kento felt a vague desire to ensnare you, trapping you inside his drunken intoxication, to fill you, and fill you, and fill you, until your belly swelled, oozing his thick, white seed.

"...Kento...please..." Your sweet begging pulled Kento out of himself. Despite his monstrous form, his face softened, his eyes fixed to yours as his tongue, long and ridged, stretched out of his mouth. You saw stars as it lathed insistently from side to side, spreading your folds, stroking back and forth over your aching, pearly clit.

Kento mumbled into your pussy, tasting you, his long tongue fucking into your cunt while his nose nuzzled your clit. Mewling, your hands flew down to sink into Kento's hair, and you felt your hands grasped and pinned against your belly. Kento knew, with a faint pang, that if your fingernails scratched against his sensitive scalp, he would surely spill his seed all over your floor.

Kento draped his other forearm over your belly and hips, pinning you down as you twisted beneath his attention. He lapped, sucked, and nipped at you with the softest bites to your clit, his tongue fucking in and out of you with inhuman dexterity.

You bucked your hips down the bed, eager to feel his tongue sink into your deepest parts, and Kento obliged with a wet moan. You felt his tongue lathe against your spongy spot, pinned down as he devoured you.

"--just there...harder please, please-- god I need your cock in me, please-- fuck me please-- please--"

You begged and pleaded your way to orgasm, your arousal seeping out around Kento's tongue as you came with a jolt and a cry, your thighs clamping around Kento's head, feet tickling against his sensitive wings. Kento continued to fuck his tongue in and out of you, lathering you with his spit, tasting your arousal, desperate to taste more of you.

You reached down, trying to pull Kento up your body. He almost laughed at your casual management of a true to life vampire, about to fuck you into the mattress. Kento allowed it, settling above you, his pupils narrowing at the insistent beat of your throat. Suddenly, and with a strangled growl, Kento knocked your head aside, his teeth grazing at your throat, and his monstrous cock throbbing at your entrance.

You trembled beneath him, heaving and gasping from your high. All of your resolve left you, beneath his tongue, and you uttered words you knew to be true;

"...I trust you, Kento."

Kento pressed into you, with teeth and cock and a husky moan. You felt a sharp pierce at your neck, his teeth just deep enough to feel the hot splash of your blood against his tongue. Kento almost finished then and there, his seed threatening to spatter into your folds and entrance, instead of in your belly, as he had promised himself. Kento drank you, his mouth clamped around your neck, one great hand cupping your head to the side while the other gripped your hip.

With a squeak and a protracted, broken moan of his name, you felt Kento's cock stretch through your wet velvety walls. You squirmed, trying to climb up the bed, feeling Kento growl around your throat and yank you back down.

Kento was enormous, by far the biggest cock you had ever taken, splitting you with a dull sting. Your fluttering hole soothed as Kento began to rut his length into you. His red, leaking tip bullied your cervix, bumping it up against your womb, with inches of him still outside of you.

You uttered strangled little moans, completely pinned beneath his hulking form, feeling him rut as much of his cock inside you as he could fit. With a shiver, Kento denied himself of any more blood at your throat. His tongue stroked your wounds, clotting the blood there, as he fucked gently into you.

Kento's wings caged you both in, and he stared down at where his cock tried to stretch your pussy out with dopey, lovesick eyes. A trickle of your blood ran down from the corner of his mouth, and he was struck with a sudden burst of pride for you. Kneeling back, Kento pushed your knees up to your chest, crushing over you in a mating press.

You writhed, as Kento managed to sink more of his cock into you, groaning which each stroke he watched enter and pull out of you. Your slick formed a translucent white ring most of the way down his cock length. Kento was eager to see it drip down his balls. He gasped down at your prone, fucked-out form, and gently began to press and roll the fatty flesh around your clit, making you buck up into him with pathetic little mewls.

"--fit it in--fit all of me in...if you cum again-- fuck you through it, baby...fuck you through it...fuck you through it..."

Kento repeated this like a mantra, every gradually strengthening thrust into you taking him deeper, your pussy stretched to its limits around his terrifying girth and length. Leaning over where you joined, Kento spat a smooth mouthful of spit, stroking it around his base, lubricating you both, before upping his pace and intensity again.

You cried out, head thrown back as you arched, feeling Kento so deeply that you clasped your belly. Kento planted one hand over yours, his fucks growing gradually more feral as he bared his teeth, determined to finally take what was his, after so many years of miserable self-denial.

"--mine make you mine make you mine--leave it behind...leave it all...for you...shit-- so tight, just--milk it out-- all my cum-- all yours, I swear..."

As you came, your pussy clenching and spasming, Kento finally bottomed out. His head flung back with a cry of success, slamming into you with abandon as he chased his high, desperate to see you filled with his cum. Cursing, and spitting, teeth bared and blacking out the room around you with his wings, Kento came with a roar, and you felt your pussy and belly flooded by him.

His cock jerked long, protracted twitches inside you, spurting thick bursts of cum, with nowhere to go but up, plugged by his enormous girth. You were pliable and dazed, taking it with the sweet relief of his love for you, his seed soothing your swollen inner walls like a balm.

Kento faltered above you, staggered and dazed. Keeping his cock stuffed inside you, manoeuvring himself onto his side, he swept one great wing beneath you, and one above you. You felt yourself cocooned, sleepy and full, reaching into hand up to tangle into Kento's hair. He pressed a lazy kiss to your palm.

"...you're a...terrible vampire hunter..." Kento slurred, fading out into soft snores, just seconds later.

He's not wrong, you reasoned to yourself, wondering and drifting to sleep in his arms and wings, maybe he'll help me.

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