#which is jerky i know

[fandom-hoard]

Is it just me or is there a trend of more and more "poorly written" fics?

I don't mean "poorly written" as in the story being bad or not engaging, I just mean that it'd get a bad grade in school because it doesn't have correct capitalization/punctuation/formatting/ect.

But fanfiction is NOT written for a grade, so authors can write however they want. Just, can anyone tell me if they think fanfiction getting more casual is a trend that's going to keep increasing?

I'm not against reading fic like this it's just that I find it very very distracting and tiring to try and read, but I don't want to miss out on good fics because I grew up with some elitist idea of what writing should look like or something.

[egophiliac]

CROWLEY SSR THOUGHTS

there is zero basis for this, but I can't get this thought of my head

I don't know why I decided to draw it this way

[jessicawwcaww]

Why am I kindaaaa BJ Hunnicutt if he served (cunt not country)

[jackals-ships]

speaking of bones for the Longest time i was like "nah my bones do weird stuff but I don't have the EDS finger joint popping/over flexing/etc" and

anyways jackals lied,

[florida3exclamationpoints]

.

[ge]

my most beloved fave rotmhs hc/au is that yu iseol is chung myungs granddaughter..yupp.. i already imagine shes his favourite of the other disciples but him finding out shes also his granddaughter wuld put her leagues above the rest

[raredrop]

i think more people need to talk about how smollusk basically becomes nice and good after so many runs

just "omg hiii ur here lets fight :)" "that was so much fun okay see u again!"

[theangrycomet-art]

I love your CN Gen 2 au! It reminds me of PPGD!

this ask has haunted my inbox for TWO YEARS.

[squaresaw]

So last month I got hit by a car and died right. Which I didn't initially realize until I watched some guy haul my body into his pickup and drive off. Which, being that it's deep in rural Michigan, I assume means my body will make some venison jerky and maybe some wall decoration, and I'll be resigned to being one of hundreds of deer ghosts floating around Saginaw, which is w/e. But then I find out the guy works at a taxidermy shop or something, and he's actually pretty good at stuffing and mounting deer carcasses, which I come to find out when I find myself face to face with my old body in the shop window. So naturally, I figure since ghosts need to possess something to interact with the living world and etc etc etc the most logical thing to do is to possess my own body, since it's basically a statue of myself. And a little surprisingly, it actually fits like a glove. Like, since it's my body, it feels like stepping right back into place. So I get out of town and back to my herd, eventually. And that's where the trouble starts coming into it, because after I get settled again, I don't know how to explain to everyone else what feels so weird. Like since I can move my body and do everything I used to do, it's functionally the same, like nothing happened. Or it SHOULD be, so I don't know how to explain how it's NOT. But it's just hard to explain it to someone who's never been hit by a truck I guess

[kamitv]

Your best friend Sukuna is also a complete pervert.

The guy just won’t stop jerking off in your bedroom! The first time you caught him, you thought he’d stop considering how that only resulted in you using that filthy mouth of yours to milk him for all he’s worth. And yet… here you are walking into your bedroom to find Sukuna fisting his fat cock again.

It’s funny because now you officially note that not only is he a slut but, your best friend Sukuna is a pervert. As if that wasn’t obvious from the first time.

Standing with his stocky tattooed back facing you, this time unaware of your early arrival into your shared apartment, Sukuna’s busy groaning into a pair of your panties—pressing the flimsy red fabric up against his greedy nose and jerking his cock further into his fist with each inhale he takes.

“S-Shiiit,” This is the only time you ever hear the man stutter. To which he follows up with a whorish moan as his eyes travel to the back of his skull. “I fuckin’ need you-, agh.”

You’d think that anyone in your situation would’ve reacted to this by now but instead you just stand there and watch him for a bit, wondering how long he’ll get off like this until he realizes you’re there.

His cock is lathered in spit and cum, indicating that he’s been in your room for a while now, and you can hear the creamy shhlick that follows his every jerky hand movement. Then comes his groans—you’ve always thought they were the prettiest thing. Deep and husk, an underlining rasp carrying within that throaty sound of pleasure… yeah, he’s always been a slut.

But this? Oh this is a new level for him. Because not only is he getting off to your scent but he’s also lulling his tongue out to press it against the spread of the lacy garment, licking up whatever remains of your taste and moaning at the flavor that hits his needy tongue.

The moan he let out sent a shiver of pure arousal down your spine and straight to your core. His moans are so rare but god does it get you worked up every single time.

And it’s in watching him for a few minutes longer that you realize you had those very same panties on just the other day—something about him licking and sniffing all over something you’d just worn makes your thighs clench together and a puddle of arousal builds up within your current pair.

Sukuna still has yet to realize you’re standing there watching him since he’s lost in his own little world so, he soon tugs your panties away from his face with a very faint whine and messily wraps the fabric around his throbbing cock. Now that was a sight for sore eyes.

His jaw falls open and you can only see just the side of his face but his cheeks are reddened and his eyelashes are fluttering. There’s a vein popping out along his jawline, showing just how tense and needy he is as he starts bucking his hips forward and fucks his plump cock against the fabric of your underwear.

Hunching forward a little, his free hand grips onto your nightstand and he’s letting out all kinds of groans and grunts—searing out a low rasp of your name as his body heats up at just the thought of you.

Sukuna can’t help but imagine what you’d think if you caught him like this, how pathetic he probably seems right now, how desperate. Oh, but he just can’t help it. Ever since you caught him, his perverted side has only gotten worse.

The same panties he’s jerking off with right now are the same ones you wore exactly three days ago. He knows that because you were wearing shorts that day and he couldn’t help the way his eyes fell onto the slutty curve of your ass as a peek of red popped out from your shorts while you bent over to pick something up.

The moment you were out of his sight that day, he jerked off to the thought of you until his hand cramped up. Then there were the flashbacks from when your mouth was on him—the way you looked on your knees, how perfectly his cock slotted into the back of that slutty throat of yours, and how stupidly gorgeous you were with teary eyes and gurgled moans of his names slipping from your lips.

So lost in these same thoughts again, Sukuna doesn’t register the fact that you’ve finally called his name and made your presence known until he feels that soft hand of yours gently press against his shoulder blade.

A whine, crisp and unfiltered comes flying past his lips before he can even try to hold it back and then his darkened-, no, weakened maroon eyes are falling on you and—

“‘Kuna,” You purr, to which he cums into your panties without even trying to hold himself back. “I thought I told you about jerking off in my bedroom?”

His eyes nearly cross with how good his orgasm feels crashing over him, hot ‘n thick spurts of cum gushing from his reddened cockhead before you move your arms to wrap around his waist. Sukuna can’t even keep up with you until it’s too late, suddenly your hands are meeting his tip and you squeeze, preventing him from cumming anymore.

Some obscene sound he didn’t realize he was capable of making exits his whiny throat and his eyes widen beyond belief. “O-Oh my—,” Sukuna just chokes on words, body stilling in an overflow of pleasure for a great deal of reasons, all pertaining to you. “F-Fuuck, let.. h-ha-ah, let me cum,” He’s sputtering out, brain and body malfunctioning.

You flash a pout to mock him, “Should I? Even after you’ve been such a perv? I mean, sneaking into my room again, jerking off with my underwear… I dunno if I should let you do anything after all this.”

His body folds forward a bit but your grip on him doesn’t falter. “Please?” Sukuna chokes, although this time his voice is small—like the word kills him to utter, “I’ll…” He gasps a bit as your grip looses, “I’ll be so fuckin’ good from now on.”

“Promise?” You say in a sly whisper.

Sukuna feels like he can’t even breathe anymore, “P-Promise,” He utters, feeling your grip loosen entirely and watching as he finishes right into your palms. “Fuuuck..”

It’s a big sloppy mess that’s left in your hands as you stroke him through it from behind, going as far as planting these cute lil’ kisses against the dark ink on his back. Sukuna’s head spins and he can’t even begin to fathom the true chokehold you seem to have on him.

He’s never been like this for anyone. Sure, he’s known you for years and you’ve been by his side no matter how much of a dick he’s been to you or other people but, surely that doesn’t warrant the affection he’s beginning to harbor for you.

Perhaps he’s just confusing it with lust. Yeahh, that’s it. Sukuna doesn’t like you or anything, he just wants to fuck you. And okay, maybe there’s a hidden desire deep within to be kinder to you if it means he gets to feel you pressing such sweet kisses against his hot skin more often…

Hell, by the time he finally stops making a mess of your hands, he’s just letting out these quiet pants of pure embarrassment. Glaring off to the side with that brat-like pout on his face, ‘hating’ every second of this.

Especially as you push up on your toes and kiss behind his ear, moving to whisper, “What’s this? Sukuna, are you… embarrassed?”

God, he can’t stand you. Ignoring your teasing entirely, Sukuna reaches over for some tissues to help you clean your hands off and as soon as that’s done, he quickly stumbles his bulky body away from you.

Your best friend is such a large man and yet he jerks off to you in a way that makes you wonder if he’d let you literally walk all over him.

Tucking his indecency back into his sweats, he’s yet to utter a single word to you. Part of him is worried that his voice will come out in a pitch that’s rather foreign to how he typically speaks but, he’ll never tell you that.

No, instead, he just clears his throat and tries to go as far as exit your bedroom.

You scoff, “I know you’re not leaving after all that.”

On instant, as if there was some kind of underlying command in your statement and he was nothing more than some big dog heading to the unspoken heel, Sukuna halts in his tracks. “…And if I am?” He finally manages out, voice an entire octave lower than you expected it to be.

Your arms cross and you frown at him. “So, you come in my bedroom while I’m not here, jerk off with my panties, cum in my hands, barely clean me up, and then leave?”

He’s quiet for a lengthy second or two before returning to his usual cocky demeanor, glancing back at you and smirking. “Yeah,” Sukuna hums nonchalantly—as if he wasn’t moaning like a bitch a few seconds ago & knowing damn well if you told him to get down on his knees for you right now, his body would obey your every word without second thought.

You make this expression that lets him know you’re annoyed but for some reason, that only makes his heart throb weirdly. Then you look away and oh he misses your glaring eyes on him already.

“Unless,” He continues in an attempt to gain both your attention and the control of the situation again. “You wanted something from me?”

Unintentionally giving him what he wants, you spare him another glance—your gaze firm. “An apology maybe.” You say with a shrug of your shoulders.

Sukuna chuckles, “For what?”

You blink. “Jerking off in here after I asked you not to.”

“Oh.” You can’t stand it when he acts like this because next comes the most monotone & emotionless voice he can muster as he mocks your facial expression and murmurs, “I’m sorry.”

Your face twists up even further in irritation and his cock twitches as you scoff, “The fuck was that?”

Sukuna bites back a smile, “An apology, obviously.”

“A bullshit one, yeah.” You bite back, crossing your arms over one another, “Get over here and apologize to me properly.”

He would put it on his own life that he hates everything about you right now because the way in which his body moves without hesitation is concerning. Sukuna’s walking closer to you before he even realizes, soon towering over you and staring down into your eyes as indifferently as he can.

As if the genuine annoyance and frustration on your face wasn’t making his cock stiffen again…

Your best friend narrows his eyes a bit, “What kinda ‘proper apology’ do you want from me—“

“Get on your knees.” You cut off.

Sukuna’s breath hitches but he hopes you don’t notice it (you do). Scoffing, and acting like he hasn’t pictured this very moment before, he slowly lowers down onto his knees before you and when he looks up…

Well, from this angle you get the perfect view of his cock poking up against his sweats, the sight making you smile—he just got off a few minutes ago and yet here he is hard again just because you ordered him around a bit.

You loom a bit closer to him and move your foot in between his legs, tapping the side of his knee and motioning for him to spread his legs a bit more. Sukuna hates the way his thighs part so obediently wider for you, allowing you to have enough space to stand in between them.

A smile sparks across your face, “You look kinda cute from this angle, y’know.”

He groans, “Shut up ‘n tell me how you want me to apologize already.”

Suddenly your foot is felt pressing against his throbbing bulge and his hips shift forward on instinct. You were… lightly stepping on his erection. Sukuna feels like he’s getting high off of you again and you were still barely even doing anything.

“Can you put your hands behind your back for me?” You request next.

To which he mentally says ‘hell no’ and peers up at you as if you were crazy, “What the fuck does that have to do with an—“

“You wanna make things up to me, don’t you?”

His lips seal shut but you can see a vein popping out in his forehead. He’s so annoyed and flustered that it angers him. Swatting his hands behind his back, Sukuna cocks his head to the side and glares hard, “Now what.”

Your hand meets his chin and you tip his head further up before pulling out your phone, “Say cheese!”

His eyes widen, “You—“

Before he can get out whatever string of curses you’re sure he had for you, you’ve taken over thirty pictures of your best friend on his knees, with his hands behind his back, and your foot stepping on his cock—which you felt angrily twitch from the moment you pulled your phone out until suddenly something wet met your skin.

Looking down as soon as you’re done taking as many pictures as you could before he smacked your phone away, you end up scoffing. “Sukuna, did you just…” Your voice dies off as you bring a hand up over your mouth.

His left eye twitches and his entire face is beat red, “I’m gonna kill you.”

“You just came again. From that??” You make fun of him anyway, taking in the mix of different emotions swirling all through his face.

There’s no change in his usual rough tone but his eyes appear as though he might be serious as he says, “I’m giving you five seconds to run.”

You start laughing so hard in his face that you can’t help but stumble back and plop down on your bed, giggling until you lose your breath. The sound of your laughter makes Sukuna want to smash his head against a wall—he hates you so much.

So much so that he soon comes staggering up to his feet and looms closer to you as you writhe in amusement. It’s not until your laughing comes to a stop that you realize he’s just standing over you with a ticked off look on his face.

As you catch your breath, you sit up at the edge of your bed and you’re suddenly reminded of the sheer size difference between you two. Sure, you just had him on his knees for you but fuck is he huge—you almost forgot.

Batting your lashes, your smile slowly fades, “What? Why’re you looking at me like that?”

“You’ve been making fun of me and teasing me all day,” Sukuna rasps, leaning down and pressing his palms into the bed beside your thighs. His face gets awfully close to yours, “You think I like being like this? ‘Think I like the way my body reacts to your every fuckin’ word?”

He sounds angry but he’s.. confessing? In a way?

“I can’t stand it. Can’t stand the way you…” He trails off with a groan as he leans down and presses his face into the crook of your neck. Your head instinctively lifts and you feel him inhale strongly. “The way you smell,” Sukuna finishes, moving a careful hand to your thigh and squeezing lightly, “The way you feel.”

You're the one gasping now, lashes fluttering at the need radiating off of his body as he nuzzles into you, “Sukuna, I—“

“The way you fuckin’ sound,” He practically growls his words out this time, “I know you heard me earlier when I said I need you.”

He pulls away just to look you in the eyes. His other hand meets your vacant thigh and you feel him gently parting your legs, “So tell me, do you still want an apology or do you jus’ want me to show you how bad I want you?”

Scoffing, “I think I have a good idea but,” Your eyes wander off for a second and Sukuna knows exactly where this is going, you did the same thing last time before you ended up in between his legs. “How about this; if I let you fuck me, will you finally stop jerking off in my room?” You end up offering as your gaze finds him once more.

Sukuna merely nods, even though his entire body felt a desperate shudder at the prospect of finally being inside you. Feeling you around him, hearing your moans clearly, watching the way your face twists up in pleasure, and being able to drag his touch all over your body?

He probably would've came again right then and there if it wasn't for his past few abrupt back-to-back orgasms.

And with that, your best friend leans up and trails a hand down to his sweatpants, flashing a knowing smirk down at you, “Depends on how well you take my cock.”

[fyrewalks]

my self control vs my want to finish the ghost pepper beef jerky

[pineyw00dsshesquatch]

I don't get it either, obligatory I am an omnivore, but I'll sometimes be a "fake vegetarian" cuz I love vegetarian options and am picky about meat. I also just love eggs. I'm a big time believer that everyone deserves delicious food, no matter their dietary restrictions, convictions and choices. ESPECIALLY comfort foods.

(i hijack this post for my vegan tamales Texas pasty lady imposter syndrome)

I really love the challenge of making vegan/vegetarian options. My favorite is tamales cuz I think they lend themselves well to meat free/plant based if you know what you're doing. They're also inherently gluten free. People can get weird about vegan tamales, but my cousins and my friend's vegan gf mama love em.

I kinda stall out on fillings tho cuz I feel like I'm missing obvious choices. I don't really like using meat substitute/plant based cheese products cuz they're kinda expensive and hard to find where I live. I would rather go extra steps to make a mushroom chorizo or something like that. But IIII am not vegan and know nothing of the desire for substitutions for dearly missed foods like cheese.

Vegan/Vegetarian tamales I do make are chile sweet potato, bean, and cream cheese jalapeno. The possibilities with tamale fillings are endless, but I keep being timid. Nopalito/cactus is an option that I've never cooked with cuz I'm chicken. Rajas/pepper strips are a common tamale filling also that's meatless. I've heard of people putting carrots in them, too. My internet research has suuuucked on this topic.

If I was in the city, it'd prolly be easier to find ideas from what people are making, emphasis on latiné vegans, but alas. I have a rival/coworker who spent time in vegan kitchens in Austin, but he's one of those people who make it weird that tamales gotta have meat. Even tho neither of us have any literal skin in the authenticity game (we pasty) we just Texan. I'm extra inauthentic, NOT vegan AND pasty. Idk what it's like for actual vegans coming up in Hispanic/Latiné families, but I wanna know what they think makes good vegan tamales.

There's also SO MANY WAYS people make tamales. I'm self conscious about having zero skin in the game, so I always tell people "this is just how IIIII learned" omitting other Central and South American countries, just Mexico is HUGE with tons of regional differences and THEN those all trickle thru the US and what's available and convenient from place to place family to family etc

There's absolutely gotta be big money vegan tamales in California, but my mom in law who taught me the craft calls it "Baja food" so I wanna stick to what's local, but I'm getting desperate at this point as tamale season gets closer.

Part of the reason I try to make good vegetarian food even though I’m not vegetarian is because of the one week my dad was convinced he was gonna go vegan.

You know what he made for dinner that whole week? Steamed vegetables, rice, and canned beans. All unseasoned. Technically a nutritionally complete meal. It tasted awful.

How could a man usually so good at cooking forget literally all of that when faced with the possibility of making vegan food?

I thought there had to be a better way. And it turns out there is. Vegetarian food doesn’t taste bad. Cartoons that depict vegetarians eating a singular leaf for a meal have ruined us. A lot of stuff that meat eaters eat in everyday life is technically vegetarian or easily made vegetarian. Why when faced with one restriction do so many people forget every single egg sandwich or apple pie they’ve ever eaten?

[physalian]

How to make your writing sound less stiff

Just a few suggestions. You shouldn’t have to compromise your writing style and voice with any of these, and some situations and scenes might demand some stiff or jerky writing to better convey emotion and immersion. I am not the first to come up with these, just circulating them again.

1. Vary sentence structure.

This is an example paragraph. You might see this generated from AI. I can’t help but read this in a robotic voice. It’s very flat and undynamic. No matter what the words are, it will be boring. It’s boring because you don’t think in stiff sentences. Comedians don’t tell jokes in stiff sentences. We don’t tell campfire stories in stiff sentences. These often lack flow between points, too.

So funnily enough, I had to sit through 87k words of a “romance” written just like this. It was stiff, janky, and very unpoetic. Which is fine, the author didn’t tell me it was erotica. It just felt like an old lady narrator, like Old Rose from Titanic telling the audience decades after the fact instead of living it right in the moment. It was in first person pov, too, which just made it worse. To be able to write something so explicit and yet so un-titillating was a talent. Like, beginner fanfic smut writers at least do it with enthusiasm.

2. Vary dialogue tag placement

You got three options, pre-, mid-, and post-tags.

Leader said, “this is a pre-dialogue tag.”

“This,” Lancer said, “is a mid-dialogue tag.”

“This is a post-dialogue tag,” Heart said.

Pre and Post have about the same effect but mid-tags do a lot of heavy lifting.

They help break up long paragraphs of dialogue that are jank to look at

They give you pauses for ~dramatic effect~

They prompt you to provide some other action, introspection, or scene descriptor with the tag. *don't forget that if you're continuing the sentence as if the tag wasn't there, not to capitalize the first word after the tag. Capitalize if the tag breaks up two complete sentences, not if it interrupts a single sentence.

It also looks better along the lefthand margin when you don’t start every paragraph with either the same character name, the same pronouns, or the same “ as it reads more natural and organic.

3. When the scene demands, get dynamic

General rule of thumb is that action scenes demand quick exchanges, short paragraphs, and very lean descriptors. Action scenes are where you put your juicy verbs to use and cut as many adverbs as you can. But regardless of if you’re in first person, second person, or third person limited, you can let the mood of the narrator bleed out into their narration.

Like, in horror, you can use a lot of onomatopoeia.

Drip Drip Drip

Or let the narration become jerky and unfocused and less strict in punctuation and maybe even a couple run-on sentences as your character struggles to think or catch their breath and is getting very overwhelmed.

You can toss out some grammar rules, too and get more poetic.

Warm breath tickles the back of her neck. It rattles, a quiet, soggy, rasp. She shivers. If she doesn’t look, it’s not there. If she doesn’t look, it’s not there. Sweat beads at her temple. Her heart thunders in her chest. Ba-bump-ba-bump-ba-bump-ba- It moves on, leaving a void of cold behind. She uncurls her fists, fingers achy and palms stinging from her nails. It’s gone.

4. Remember to balance dialogue, monologue, introspection, action, and descriptors.

The amount of times I have been faced with giant blocks of dialogue with zero tags, zero emotions, just speech on a page like they’re notecards to be read on a stage is higher than I expected. Don’t forget that though you may know exactly how your dialogue sounds in your head, your readers don’t. They need dialogue tags to pick up on things like tone, specifically for sarcasm and sincerity, whether a character is joking or hurt or happy.

If you’ve written a block of text (usually exposition or backstory stuff) that’s longer than 50 words, figure out a way to trim it. No matter what, break it up into multiple sections and fill in those breaks with important narrative that reflects the narrator’s feelings on what they’re saying and whoever they’re speaking to’s reaction to the words being said. Otherwise it’s meaningless.

—

Hope this helps anyone struggling! Now get writing.

[muffinlance]

Some spirit manages to get the gaang and zuko a link that connects their minds. They can share thoughts and their past with each other.

Tweaking this to “and they share dreams” because that’s how I started writing it.

---

“Okay,” Sokka says, wrapping his sleeping bag around himself, and grabbing a comfort Momo, too. “Whose dream was that?”

No one ‘fesses up. But it was kind of a rude question, and also a little rhetorical, anyway.

They all have nightmares with fire.

Having the Fire Lord himself looming over them, while they were on their knees? Not exactly a stretch.

---

“Okay,” Sokka says, “how does Prince Jerkface keep finding us?”

---

“Okay,” Sokka says, “how did he know that seal jerky seasoned just right with honey—not too much, just enough to add a sparkle of sweetness to the depths of savoriness, a perfect balance for the distinguished tongue to relish—was the perfect bait for his Sokka and Sokka-affliated-parties trap?”

“Maybe if you stop dreaming about it, Sokka,” Katara snaps.

...And they all stop.

---

“I’m going to think really really hard about being friends,” Aang says.

“I’m going to think really really hard about that time my boomerang hit him,” says Sokka.

---

Snatching the boomerang out of midair? Impressive.

Ignoring the Avatar to go hit Sokka with it? Repeatedly? Uncalled for.

---

“Sokka. The city is under attack. Right now.”

“Okay,” Sokka says. “But this is a strategic nap, Katara. We need to know what evil things our Evil Other is up to.”

It’s not like the evil fleet part was a surprise, at least. They’ve been dreaming of it for weeks.

---

“Okay,” Sokka says, looking down. “So the ship-blowing-up-thing. Not a nightmare?”

“No,” says Zuko, glaring up with his glare-face all glare-ful but his thoughts mostly full of bruises so deep they’re making Sokka’s ribs ache, and also his legs are going numb.

“Going to get out of the turtle-seal tunnel now?” Sokka asks, still standing over the opening. With his boomerang.

“...No,” the Prince of the Fire Nation says, as he clings onto the edge of the hole, his legs still very much in freezing water.

---

“Okay,” Sokka says, when they have a Fire Prince all tied up in Blankets of Imprisonment. “So. What actually was your plan here? Do not,” he interrupts, before the teenage-shaped bloodhound-leech can do more than open his mouth, “say ‘capture the Avatar.’”

The prince closes his mouth. Glares. And kind of fuzzes at the edges, in the way all of them do when they’re about to fall asleep.

BOOMERANG, Sokka thinks, and Prince Largely Ineffective As An Enemy jerks back upright. His Momo hat chitters a complaint.

“Since we both know your answer is ‘I had no plan, Sokka, ‘plan’ starts with ‘p’ and there’s no ‘p’ in ‘Avatar’’, we’re going to play a game instead. It’s called ‘sleepy prince free association interrogation time.’”

“...What?”

“Battle plans,” Sokka says. “Attack. Fire Navy fleet. Ship numbers.”

Alas, “Fire Nation intelligence” is not something with which the prince’s brain is overly burdened.

“...Are you insulting me?”

“Are you proving my point?”

Elsewhere, Yue laughs in all their heads. Zuko flinches. The prince has a very marked reaction to the laughter of princesses.

---

“Okay,” says Sokka. “So that just happened.”

Commander Mutton Chops is groaning. Kind of flopping. Much like the bag he tried to fireball. Yue picks it up, and gently wrangles a fish back into water. Sokka is still not clear on what the fish-napping was about.

“It’s the Moon,” Aang says. “Or maybe the Ocean?”

Aang’s thoughts are full of a FACE STEALING EVIL CENTIPEDE MONSTER THAT IS JUST ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE THIN VEIL OF REALITY and that is NOT helping Sokka think.

“Okay,” he says again. “So. At least we can all agree on one thing.”

This is a very diplomatic way of saying they all wanted to dropkick Zhao. But some of them wanted to do it more than others.

The prince of the Fire Nation is even paler than normal, and staring across the clearing at his uncle.

“I can explain,” the prince says, while he’s thinking, oh shit treason oh crap uncle wouldn’t hurt me thought that about father too

Sokka wordlessly plucks Momo from the edge of the pond, where he’s been swiping at the spirit-fish, and drops him on the prince’s head.

Everyone needs a comfort Momo, now and again.

---

“A raft, Zuko?” Sokka says. Outloud. Because it makes things louder when you say it and think it. “A raft?”

Aang is bouncing on his toes. “We should go get him.”

The Avatar is grinning. And thinking, really hard and deliberately, as behind them the Water Tribe ship finishes packing, We should capture the Fire Prince.

“Okay,” Sokka says, with a grin of his own.

[cumironi]

SO, SHARPENING KNIVES, HUH? jjk men

feat. gojo, geto, nanami, sukuna, toji, shiu, higuruma

summary. you are mad at your boyfriend because you dream of him with another girl, and at 2am, they find you in the kitchen, sharpening knives...

warning. established relationship! jjk men, non-sorcerer, 23 you & 31 them, fluff, crack, petname(s).

#GOJO SATORU

it’s 2:08 a.m.

the house is dark aside from the dim fridge light that leaks across the tiled kitchen floor. the soft metal-on-metal sound echoes faintly, a slow shink—shink—shink that drifts down the hallway like a warning bell in a horror movie. and that’s what pulls gojo from bed—not the chill air, not the absence of your warmth beside him—but that sound. the same sound that made his brain go, hm. sexy and concerning.

he drags himself down the hallway, shirtless and in some embarrassingly expensive pajama pants with little ducks on them, rubbing his eyes as he rounds the corner into the kitchen.

and there you are. sitting pretty at the counter in one of his oversized t-shirts and nothing else, your legs swinging idly off the stool as you sharpen a kitchen knife with deep concentration. the air is thick with unspoken rage.

gojo leans against the doorframe, yawns, and mumbles, “baby, if you’re planning on killing me, at least let me put on some cologne first. i wanna die smelling sexy.”

you don’t look at him. just run the knife across the whetstone again and mutter, “shut up, satoru.”

uh-oh. first name usage.

he blinks, wide awake now, and pads closer with a slow, cautious step like a man approaching a wild animal with a stick of beef jerky. “okay, okay, we’re using full names now. is this like… a sexy roleplay thing or am i about to be on an episode of dateline?”

you still don’t look up. your tone is flat. “i’m mad at you.”

he frowns, pushing his glasses up as he squints dramatically. “why? what’d i do?”

you pause for a second. the whetstone stills. then, honestly, almost angrily, “i don’t remember. but you pissed me off, and i know it.”

he opens his mouth. closes it. opens it again. “okay. so. you’re mad. but you don’t know why.”

“but i feel mad.”

“so you're telling me my sweet, perfect, sexy college girl with the sharpest eyeliner and even sharper tongue is in the kitchen… at 2am… sharpening knives… because she thinks i did something?”

you glance up slowly, face calm, eyes a storm. “do you wanna find out if it’s real or not?”

he chokes on a laugh. “jesus christ, i’ve never been more turned on in my life.”

you roll your eyes, tossing the knife down onto the counter with a clang. “this isn’t funny, satoru.”

he immediately sobers up. walks over, places both hands on your thighs and spreads them gently so he can stand between them. he rests his forehead against yours, voice low now, soft. “okay. sorry, baby. if i did something—even if i didn’t—you’re allowed to be mad. i probably deserved it.”

you lean into him a little, which is a good sign. but you don’t hug him back when he wraps his arms around your waist.

he starts rocking you gently like a damn lullaby, humming something dumb—probably that tiktok sound of “it’s me, hi, i’m the problem, it’s me,” except he sings it in falsetto.

you snort against his neck despite yourself.

“there she is,” he grins, pressing a kiss to your temple. “come on. let’s go back to bed. or you can keep sharpening knives and i’ll lay on the floor dramatically and pretend you stabbed me for cheating on you in your dreams.”

“…it was a dream, wasn’t it?”

“ah-ha!” he gasps dramatically. “so i didn’t even do anything and i still almost died?”

you finally wrap your arms around his neck, sighing as you lean fully into him. “you were flirting with someone else in my dream. i woke up mad and it stayed.”

he grins, wicked and teasing. “was she hotter than you?”

you slap his back. hard. “satoru.”

he wheezes but keeps laughing, nose buried in your neck. “i love you so much it’s actually stupid. i love that you get mad at me for fake shit. it’s hot.”

“you’re insane.”

“and you’re the hottest nightmare girl i’ve ever met.” he kisses your cheek, then your jaw, then lower. “but like, seriously, if you’re gonna kill me, can you do it while sitting on my face?”

“get out of my kitchen.”

“fine, but i’m taking you with me.”

and he does—scoops you right off the stool, knives and all, and carries you back to bed like some deranged prince charming. you’re still a little mad. but you’re also warm in his arms, and when he presses a kiss to your forehead and calls you his little knife-wielding goddess, you’re not quite as mad as before.

GETO SUGURU

it’s 2:12 a.m.

the moonlight filters through the slats of the blinds, casting pale shadows across the kitchen where you sit at the counter, elbow propped, chin in hand, eyes narrowed at the knife you’re currently sharpening like it’s the damn source of all your rage. the blade catches the light with every pass against the whetstone—shink, shink, shink—a steady, menacing rhythm that echoes through the quiet apartment.

geto had been reading in his study—something thick, philosophical, probably written by a dead white man—when he noticed your absence the moment he came to the bedroom. and the sound. and the vibe.

he doesn’t bother turning on the light when he enters. doesn’t have to. he sees you in the kitchen like some pissed-off housewife from a mafia movie. the kind that poisons the soup when her husband comes home smelling like another woman.

“...should i be concerned, or is this one of your stress-relief hobbies again?” his voice is calm, amused, but low—like he’s testing the waters.

you don’t answer at first. just scrape the blade again. and again.

he steps in, barefoot and shirtless, hair down and tied low at the nape of his neck. his sweatpants hang low on his hips, a little slouched from sleep, and he stifles a yawn as he eyes you from across the island.

“what’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“you.”

his brow lifts. “mm. can’t say i’m surprised. what’d i do this time?”

“i don’t remember,” you mutter. “but i know you did something. i feel mad.”

he blinks. then slowly walks over, rests both hands flat on the counter, leans over just enough so you’re nose-to-nose. his voice is low, soothing, dangerous. “baby. you’re sharpening knives in my kitchen. you’re allowed to be mad at me, but can we at least talk about whether i deserve to be disemboweled or not?”

you don’t flinch. “the fact that i don’t remember doesn’t mean you didn’t do something. you have that guilty little face.”

“what guilty face?”

“that one.” you jab your finger toward his face like it insulted your ancestors. “the one you make when you’re trying to act innocent after being a whore.”

he blinks. then smirks, slow and indulgent. “okay, now i know you dreamt something wild again. lemme guess… i cheated on you with a librarian while you were giving a college presentation and your powerpoint crashed?”

you pause. jaw clenched. “…maybe.”

he hums, walks around the counter, and stands behind you. his arms circle around your waist from behind, hands brushing against your stomach beneath the oversized tee. “you poor thing. had to suffer through my dream whore behavior and a technical mishap? i should be punished.”

you huff. “you think this is funny?”

“no,” he murmurs against your shoulder, pressing a kiss there, “i think it’s adorable. my sweet girl gets so mad over dream-geto being a slut. how much do you love me, huh, if my imaginary crimes piss you off that bad?”

you try to pull away, but he’s already slipping his hands up to your thighs, rubbing slow circles, pulling you back against him. “and here i was, dreaming about waking you up gently with kisses and praise. but no, i wake up to my girlfriend about to reenact kill bill in our kitchen.”

“suguru—”

he cuts you off with a kiss, lips dragging along your jaw, then down to your neck, voice dropping low and rich. “want me to apologize? i will. i’m sorry, baby. i’m sorry for whatever my subconscious did in your dream. and i’m sorry you were stressed. and i’m sorry you were so alone in it.”

your fingers twitch, then relax around the knife handle. the whetstone sits idle. you sigh, soft now, tired.

“you looked at her like you used to look at me,” you mumble, quieter this time. “in the dream. that’s what hurt.”

his whole body stills. then—without hesitation—he turns you around on the stool, tugs your legs open, and sinks to his knees in front of you. his hands are firm around your waist, eyes locked with yours like you’re the only real thing in the world.

“you listen to me, baby,” he says, voice rough. “no one—no one—gets that look but you. no past, no fantasy, no dream. i look at you like that because i love you. because you’re mine. and even if i had to memorize a thousand faces, yours would always be the one i come back to.”

you blink down at him, the lump in your throat making it hard to answer.

he kisses the inside of your thigh. “still mad?”

“...a little.”

he smiles against your skin. “good. keep that knife out. i like my girls mean.”

“you’re disgusting.”

“yeah, and you love me.”

you sigh. set the knife down. and when he lifts you into his arms like you weigh nothing, you let him carry you back to bed.

you fall asleep with your cheek against his chest and his hand gently playing with your hair, muttering every few minutes, “i didn’t even look at her in your dream. i bet she had bad eyebrows.”

“she did,” you whisper. “fucking awful.”

“good.”

NANAMI KENTO

it’s 2:23 a.m.

the air is still, the apartment too quiet, save for the gentle scrape of steel-on-stone echoing from the kitchen. nanami wakes the way he always does—immediately, sharply, like his body just knows something’s wrong. he blinks at the empty spot beside him in bed, still warm, still shaped like you. then he hears it: shhhk… shhhk… slow, methodical.

he sighs. runs a hand down his face.

this again.

he doesn’t even grab his glasses. just gets up, pulls on his robe with the resigned patience of a man already done with everyone’s bullshit, and follows the sound.

and there you are. in his button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up like a mob wife, hair a mess and mood worse. you’re at the kitchen counter, bent slightly forward, sharpening his most expensive cooking knife with a precision that’d make a grown man sweat. your brows are pinched together, your lips in a pout, muttering to yourself under your breath.

nanami watches you for a moment from the doorway, completely silent, and then—

“darling.”

you don’t look up. “don’t talk to me.”

his sigh is so deep, so father of three tired, that you nearly flinch. “am i allowed to ask why?”

you stop sharpening for a second. inhale. then, cold as the blade in your hand: “you pissed me off.”

he walks into the kitchen. calm. slow. quiet, like approaching a sleeping lion. he leans his hip against the counter, crosses his arms, and looks at you like you’re both a tragedy and the love of his life.

“...when?” he asks.

“i don’t know.”

“what did i do?”

“i don’t remember.”

he blinks once. then sighs again, reaches up, pinches the bridge of his nose. “so, let me get this straight—i am currently being silently punished… for an unknown offense… that happened at an unknown time… and may or may not have been real?”

you nod, calmly. “correct.”

“and the appropriate response to this was… weaponry?”

“it was either this or throwing your french press out the window. i made the merciful choice.”

he stares at you. deadpan. “you are the most terrifying woman i’ve ever loved.”

you say nothing. just go back to sharpening. shhhk. shhhk.

he closes his eyes. takes a breath.

then he steps closer, one hand sliding slowly around your waist, the other carefully easing the knife out of your hand like you’re a bomb about to go off.

“i’m sorry.”

you look at him then, eyes narrowed. “for what?”

“i don’t know. but you have a very sharp knife and my only other option was dying at two in the morning in boxer shorts.”

you purse your lips. then whisper, “you were mean to me. in my dream.”

“...oh for god’s sake.”

“you left me,” you mumble, voice quiet now, like it’s stupid but still hurts. “you just packed up and left. said i was too much for you.”

something in his chest twists.

his hand slides up to the back of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw.

“i would never leave you.”

“even if i’m mean?”

“especially then.” his eyes are firm now, voice slow and steady, grounding you like always. “i will take every single mood swing, knife threat, and dramatic 2am dream tantrum. you want to sharpen things? i’ll sit here and read the manual to you. you want to yell at me for dream-nanami being a dick? i’ll write you a formal apology and sign it in blood.”

“you’re such a loser,” you whisper.

“a loser who loves you.” he presses his forehead to yours, tone dry. “and who desperately wants to go back to bed.”

you finally relax, leaning into his touch. “…can i still throw your french press out the window?”

he pulls back. “absolutely not.”

“what if i just threaten it?”

“you are unhinged.”

“you’re in love with me.”

he groans. then kisses you, slow and deliberate, just to shut you up.

when he carries you back to bed—bridal style, with a tired grumble under his breath about dramatic women and sleep deprivation—you curl up against his chest and mutter, “you better not leave me in another dream.”

he kisses the top of your head. “i’ll stay even when you try to stab me.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

it’s 2:38 a.m.

the fridge light is the only source of glow in the dark kitchen, casting this eerie blue hue over your face as you sit at the counter, hunched forward, eyes glassy and distant. there’s a cold can of soda next to you—untouched—and in your hands, the glint of a freshly sharpened blade.

you don’t even flinch when the hallway creaks.

toji appears like a shadow—bare chest, boxers low on his hips, hair a mess, tattoos still visible under the faint glow. he’s scratching his head like he’s just woken up from a nap he didn’t even remember falling into. and as soon as his eyes land on you, sharpening one of his knives with alarming focus, he pauses.

“…the fuck you doing?”

you don't look up. just grit out, “thinking.” shhhhkkk. shhhhkkk. blade scrapes the stone, your rhythm steady and pissed.

toji squints. “uh-huh. are we mad at someone?”

“we,” you hiss, “are mad at you.”

he exhales through his nose, tosses his head back. “jesus christ, again?”

you finally glance up at him, sharp and accusing. “don’t start with me.”

“no, no—i mean, can you at least tell me what the hell i did before you start sharpening my goddamn knives like we’re prepping for war?”

“you looked at her.”

his brow arches. “...her?”

“in my dream.” you slap the whetstone down and rise, eyes burning. “and you said, and i quote, ‘damn, she’s thicker than my girl.’”

a beat of silence.

toji blinks. “...you’re fucking with me.”

“do i look like i’m joking?”

he looks you up and down—your sleepy face, your oversized shirt (his shirt), bare legs, and the murder-ready glint in your eyes.

“…no.”

you slam the knife down dramatically, like you’re giving up murder for now, and fold your arms. “i don’t care if it was a dream. you betrayed me.”

toji snorts. rubs a hand down his face. “baby, i don’t even talk like that.”

“you did in the dream. and you said it with your whole chest.”

he steps closer, the floor creaking under his heavy steps. “okay, so let me get this straight: i got dream-jumped by dream-you, because dream-me looked at dream-ass?”

“correct.”

“and now you’re awake, pissed, and threatening to turn me into sashimi at 2am?”

“correct.”

he whistles low. “that’s hot.”

“toji—”

“no, i’m serious,” he cuts in, wrapping an arm around your waist, dragging you flush to him like you’re not seconds from violence. “you’re insane. dangerously unhinged. sharp object, grudge-fueled, nightmare-fueled rage? it’s doing it for me.”

“you’re so fucking annoying,” you mumble, trying to push him off.

he grins, dips his head into your neck. “mmm, yeah, but i’m your annoying bastard. and clearly the man of your dreams—”

you smack his shoulder. “you cheated on me in that dream!”

“and you’re still thinking about me. sounds like you’re obsessed, sweetheart.”

you growl. he laughs. full-on, chest-rumbling, god-i-love-this-woman laugh, then kisses the corner of your mouth and leans in close. “tell you what. next time i’m asleep, come in and slap me awake. remind me that my girl’s the thickest, baddest, prettiest thing in the multiverse.”

you narrow your eyes. “you’re lucky i love you.”

“nah,” he smirks. “i’m lucky you’re crazy.”

he plucks the knife from the counter, tosses it back in the drawer without looking, and picks you up like you weigh nothing—arm hooked under your thighs, carrying you back to bed while you hit his chest the entire time.

“and if you dream of me saying stupid shit again,” he adds casually, “make me pay for it when you wake me up. i’m not afraid of a little punishment.”

you scoff, curling against his chest despite yourself. “maybe i’ll smother you with a pillow next time.”

he grins, teeth sharp. “make it the fluffy one.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

it’s 2:56 a.m.

the silence in the house is oppressive, like even the walls are holding their breath. the only sound slicing through it is the rhythmic shiiing… shiiing… of steel grinding against whetstone.

and there you are. bathed in moonlight, crouched at the kitchen table like an ancient assassin. in nothing but one of sukuna’s black shirts that swallows you whole, sleeves pushed up, hair a mess. the way you’re hunched over the blade—sharp, smooth, focused—makes you look like a vengeful spirit.

and it’s clear you’re furious.

but you haven’t said a word.

from behind, a slow, amused chuckle cuts through the stillness like a blade.

“...and what kind of tantrum is this, little wife?”

you don’t look up. you just turn the knife slightly in your hand, catching the light on the edge. “don’t test me, sukuna.”

he pads into the room barefoot, shirtless, with nothing but loose black sweatpants hanging low on his hips. every tattoo on his chest flexes as he scratches lazily at his stomach and leans against the doorway, grinning like the devil himself.

“you gonna stab me in your sleep again? because i still have the scar from the last time you got dramatic.”

you finally look up—slow, lethal, eyes burning. “i should’ve gone deeper.”

his grin widens. “what did i do this time, hm? kill your plants? eat the last pudding? or was it another dream me?”

you stand abruptly, knife still in hand. “you were flirting. with some bimbo in a red dress. right in front of me. like i was invisible.”

“...dream-me again. got it.”

“you ignored me!” you snap. “you were smirking and leaning close and she was touching your arm and you laughed and—”

“and what?” he interrupts, voice suddenly darker, stepping forward. “you think i’d actually look at another woman when i’ve got you?”

“you did,” you growl, shoving the knife down on the counter, “in the dream, you did.”

he stops in front of you, close enough that you can smell his skin—warm, a little like smoke and spice. his hand comes up, grips your chin, forces you to look at him.

“then let me be clear,” he says lowly, voice like silk dragged across a blade. “i don't give a shit about anyone else. i look at you, think about you, want you. even when i’m asleep. you think some faceless red-dress fantasy’s gonna replace the girl who sharpens knives and threatens my life at 3 a.m.? don’t insult me.”

you blink. your pout falters just slightly. “you were smirking…”

he snorts, then suddenly grabs your waist and lifts you up onto the counter like you weigh nothing, standing between your thighs with a wicked smirk on his lips.

“you get like this every time you dream about me misbehaving,” he mutters, dragging his hands up your thighs, “but you never dream about me begging for your forgiveness. where’s that dream, sweetheart?”

you huff. “maybe because you never apologize.”

“i do it in my own way.” he leans in, lips brushing your ear. “usually by making you cry on this counter.”

your breath hitches. “you’re such a fucking menace.”

“and you’re so fucking hot when you’re mad,” he growls, kissing your jaw, your neck. “look at you, sharpening knives in the middle of the night. unhinged, dangerous, insane—my perfect little nightmare.”

you slap his chest, but your legs instinctively tighten around his waist. “i’m still mad.”

“good. stay mad.” he kisses you again, slow and messy this time. “dream me’s an asshole, but real me?” he smirks, licking into your mouth. “real me worships you.”

you try to stay angry. you do. but the way his fingers dig into your skin, the way he grins like he owns the world and you’re the crown on his head—it all makes your chest flutter and knees weak.

you grab his jaw, bite his lower lip, and mutter, “if i catch you looking at another dream bitch again, i’ll gut you in your sleep.”

his grin is all teeth. “now that’s love.”

SHIU KONG

it’s 2:17 a.m. and the kitchen is dead quiet—except for the low, menacing sound of metal scraping against stone.

you’re at the table in one of his oversized dress shirts, sleeves rolled up, legs bare, hunched over the blade like a mob wife who’s finally snapped. hair messy. eyes blank. pissed.

a sharpening stone. a chef’s knife. your exhale.

and suddenly—

a groggy voice from the hallway:

“…you better not be sharpening that because of me.”

you don’t even look up. just shhhhhk—shhhhhk.

“i don’t know. am i?” you ask, flat.

shiu appears in the doorway, shirtless, gray sweats low, tie still hanging around his neck like he passed out in it. he leans on the frame, rubbing one eye like this isn’t the fifth time he’s caught you looking like this.

“okay. what the hell did i do now?”

you finally pause the sharpening, slow, steady, and look up at him with narrowed eyes. “you smiled at her.”

he blinks. “...who?”

“don’t play stupid.” your voice is low, dangerous. “the girl with the brown hair. in the blue dress. at that stupid little business dinner you dragged me to in my dream.”

a beat.

shiu runs a hand down his face. “…this is a dream crime, isn’t it?”

“you said she had a nice laugh.”

“oh my god—”

“and then you leaned in when she was talking! and you smirked. smirked, shiu.” you slap the blade down dramatically. “you were so damn charming.”

he groans. hard. walks into the kitchen like he’s been personally wronged and dramatically yanks a chair out to sit across from you.

“okay, first of all,” he starts, pointing a finger at you, “i don't even like women who talk that much. if she laughed at one more finance joke, i’d probably have started drinking hand sanitizer.”

you squint. “then why’d you smile?”

“because dream-me is a fucking idiot apparently. just like real-me, for falling in love with the queen of vengeance.”

you roll your eyes, crossing your arms. “you’re so dramatic.”

“me? you’re sitting at the table sharpening knives like a disappointed italian grandmother.”

“i’m being proactive.”

“you’re being hot.” he shrugs. “deranged, unwell, a little scary—but hot.”

“you always say that when i’m mad.”

“and it’s always true. you should be furious more often.”

you stare at him, flat. “say something charming again. i dare you.”

he leans in, chin on his palm, lazy grin spreading across his lips. “i think you're sexiest when you're plotting my murder.”

you slam the blade back onto the table with a thud.

he exhales, then rises from the chair, walking around the table slowly until he’s behind you. his hands slide over your shoulders, down your arms, slow and unhurried.

“c’mon,” he murmurs into your ear, “you wanna really punish me? come back to bed. take it out on me there. i’ll even wear that stupid tie you like.”

you huff, arms crossed. “the one i used to choke you with last time?”

“that’s the one,” he smirks. “see? you remember.”

you don’t turn around—but your lip twitches. and he sees it.

“you’re impossible,” you mutter.

“and yours,” he whispers back, brushing a kiss against your temple. “now c’mon, before you cut off a finger trying to teach dream-me a lesson.”

he gently plucks the knife from your hand and tugs you to your feet.

“next time you smile at another woman,” you say, letting him drag you down the hall, “i’m putting glitter in all your dry-cleaning.”

he snorts. “joke’s on you. i’ll look fabulous.”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

it’s 2:34 a.m.

your apartment is dead silent. no traffic, no buzzing electronics, just the occasional shhkt… shhkt… shhkt of metal being sharpened in steady, practiced strokes.

and there you are—kneeling at the coffee table, hair messy, lips pursed, one of hiroshi’s crisp white button-ups hanging off your frame. a serious, eerily focused look in your eye as you sharpen the knife like you’re prepping for trial by combat.

the overhead light’s off, but the dim kitchen lamp casts long shadows across the room, catching on the edge of the blade every time you tilt your wrist.

you don’t notice the door open to the bedroom.

and then,

a sleepy voice, cautious but gentle,

“…do i need to hire a lawyer?”

you don’t answer at first. the knife just makes another clean pass on the stone.

he steps into view slowly—disheveled, soft gray sweats slung low on his hips, hair sticking up on one side. he rubs the heel of his palm into his eye, squinting. “or am i about to be the defendant?”

you glance up. narrow your eyes. “you told her she looked elegant.”

he pauses mid-step.

“…who?”

“the woman at the opera. in the green dress. in my dream. don’t play dumb.”

there’s a long silence.

he takes a deep breath. “…okay. dream-me’s a bastard. i’ll give you that.”

“you smiled at her,” you snap. “you complimented her earrings. you said she had refined taste.”

he covers his mouth with a hand, not sure whether to laugh or cry. “i was polite, apparently. can i just say—dream-me is way braver than me. real-me knows better.”

you slam the knife down on the table with a sharp clatter. “you told her she smelled like vanilla and cedar.”

he stares.

“okay. what the hell kind of man am i in this dream?!”

you squint at him, full-blown offended. “that’s my perfume.”

his face softens immediately. “wait—are you upset because dream-me complimented her for smelling like you?”

you go silent.

then murmur, “it’s the principle.”

he exhales slowly and walks over, crouching down in front of you, taking the knife gently from your hand. “okay. i’ll talk to him. dream-me and i clearly need to have a serious conversation.”

you huff. “he’s arrogant.”

“mm.” he sets the knife aside and cups your cheek with his palm. “and he clearly doesn’t realize he’s already got everything he could ever want right here, sharpening a very real, very sharp knife at two in the morning while looking ridiculously pretty in my shirt.”

you glance away, cheeks warm. “you’re not gonna charm your way out of this.”

he smiles gently, thumb brushing your cheek. “i’m not trying to. i’m trying to survive the night.”

you roll your eyes, leaning your face into his palm just slightly. “…you said she reminded you of your mother.”

he chokes. “okay, no—i’m innocent on that one. your honor, i plead the fifth.”

you crack a small laugh, finally. he softens.

“you know i’d never look at anyone else, right?” he says, quiet now. “you’re… it for me. even if i’m half asleep, lost in a dream, at a trial, or just doing laundry. it’s always you. only you.”

“…you should’ve said that in the dream.”

he hums and leans forward, brushing his lips against your forehead. “next time, i will. and i’ll tell her to leave the opera, too. loud.”

you mumble, “good.”

“now come back to bed,” he murmurs, tugging you gently up by the waist, “before you make me sleep with one eye open.”

“no promises.”

he smiles against your hair, “yeah, i figured.”

[sknyuz]

collarless | geum seongje

synopsis — he’s always been collarless, all sharp teeth and no leash—until he joined the union, and you swore you’d never crawl back to that kind of life. but even strays remember home.

pairing — geum seongje x ex!reader

genre — exes to enemies to an even worse, third thing, angst, action, just exes with unresolved tension, hurt/comfort

cw — violence, blood, smoking, tons of swearing, toxic relationship dynamics, emotional manipulation, implied sexual tension, they beat each other up and then make out lol 50% fighting 50% longing (sorry to action haters, just scroll down to the divider for romance lol)

wc — ~2.6k

part of the “i can fix him!” trilogy

notes: badly wanted to write a fic where the reader isn’t a horribly treated s.a. victim with the depth of a kiddie pool and can actually fight back/toe-to-toe against seongje.

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the first time you punch seongje since you've last seen him, he laughs.

he’s leaning against the rusted frame of the garage door, a fresh bruise blooming on his lip, thanks to you, of course. one hand tucked into the pocket of his tracksuit, the other loosely draped over his ribs, his posture is loose but predatory, like a stray dog that’s been used to surviving on its own. his eyes flicker with a dangerous amusement, cold and hungry. “this your idea of a reunion, y/n?” he jeers.

you don’t bother answering—you slam your fist into his jaw, the impact sending a sharp crack through the air, like you’ve hit something wild and untamed.

“fuck off, seongje,” you spit. “the union doesn’t get to sniff around here without a warning. you think just ‘cause you’re one of baekjin’s dogs now, you get a free pass?”

he licks the blood off his bottom lip like he’s savoring it. “wasn’t trying to start a war.”

“then you shouldn’t have stepped foot in my area.”

“didn’t know you were this territorial, babe.” he chuckles dryly, as you ready your stance for another punch, already stretching your neck.

“you always this cocky for a mutt on a leash?”

he smiles, a wild glint flashing in his eyes. “didn’t wanna cause a scene, babe. just need your little bitch boss to pay us back the money he owes. which, if you didn’t know,” he tilts his head, slow and jerky, like a predator sizing up its prey, “is a-fucking-lot.” seongje laughs, the sound low and unnerving, dripping with manic amusement.

the collection wasn’t even a big deal. the union has far more boys than to send their right-hand man for something this small. seongje wasn’t here because the money was urgent. he was here because it amused him to get under your skin, to remind you who he was—who he still thought he was.

he shrugs, that cocky smirk never leaving his face. “had to, didn’t i? baekjin’s orders, y’know. thought you’d have missed me too.” he runs a hand through his hair with a lazy flick of his wrist as he saunters over to you, eyes glinting like he’s daring you to call him out.

then, with a casualness that somehow feels more dangerous than it should, he leans in slightly, his gaze flicking down to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your eyes again. it’s a move that feels too deliberate, too comfortable—like he’s testing just how much you’ll let him play with you.

you don’t need to hear more.

you swing again, remembering how he used to kiss you with that same reckless, chaotic energy. how every touch felt like a battle you never wanted to win.

his eyes darken—knowing. there’s a flicker in them, a sharp edge as he realizes you’re not backing down. and then, before you can react, he steps back to dodge, and steps back in as he throws a clean punch, landing square on your cheek.

you grunt, the impact rattling your head and bringing a ringing to your ears, but you don’t stumble. instead, you lean into the hit, using the momentum to drop low, kicking out your leg and tripping him on his shin. seongje stumbles, a grunt escaping him as he crashes to the ground with a sharp hiss.

“did you think i was gonna fall for that?” you sneer, standing over him, fists clenched.

he grins, his breath coming out ragged but amused. “nah. but i thought you’d make it fun.”

you raise your fist again. “you haven’t learned your lesson.”

but this time, seongje’s movements are quicker than you expect—he pounces, body weight crashing into yours, sending both of you slamming into the concrete ground. The air leaves your lungs in a whoosh, and before you can react, he’s already on top of you, his knee pressing into your side, pinning your arm beneath him.

you hiss through the pain, but even as your body aches from the impact, you narrow your eyes at him as he huffs, already sick of your persistence. “shit, you really want to make pretty faces like yours bleed?” seongje smirks, his grip tightening as he uses one palm to plant on the ground beside your head. his other hand catches your wrist, holding it above your head. “you always fight this hard, or is it just me?” he whispers, voice low and dangerous, as his knee digs into your other arm, restraining you completely.

his smirk never falters, but there’s something else in his eyes now—something dangerous, hungry.

you inhale sharply, then, in one quick, explosive motion, you slam your forehead into his with a sharp crack.

seongje’s eyes widen for a split second, disoriented. that’s all you need. you push him off, shoving him to the side and rolling back onto your feet, each move faster than before.

he blinks, trying to steady himself, but you’re already on him, throwing punches—one to the side of his head, another to his stomach, the force enough to make him cough out a ragged breath. a swift kick knocks his glasses clean off his face, sending them skidding across the gravel.

he looks up at you, his features twisted with annoyance, but also… something else. something almost familiar.

“you were going easy on me,” you murmur, voice low and dangerous, a smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. “didn’t want me to get hurt, babe?” you tease, the nickname slipping from your tongue almost bitterly. “you know… we don’t make out anymore. guess it wouldn’t hurt to give you a busted lip, huh?”

he glares at you, breath coming quicker, the tension between you both palpable now—old history, old fights, and the undeniable truth that things are never just physical with him.

“you never make things easy, do you?” he growls, but there’s a spark in his eyes. a challenge, an invitation.

“you should know by now,” you reply, ready to go again, both of you caught in a tangled mess of unfinished business.

you’re caught in a frenzy of punches, kicks, and curses, both of you battering each other with everything you’ve got. each hit feels like it might be the last, but neither of you is willing to give up.

seongje’s fast, like always, his body moving with a feral intensity that makes it impossible to land a clean blow. but you’re just as relentless. you always have been. you dodge one punch, counter with an elbow to his ribs, and then another to his jaw, but it’s not enough. he’s too quick, and the fight’s gone on too long.

a wave of frustration rises in your chest. this damn wolf doesn’t know when to quit.

you swing again, aiming for his ribs, but he dodges just in time, his body shifting insanely fast, too fast for you to land a proper hit. he retaliates with a sharp jab to your stomach, knocking the wind out of you.

“fucking hell, y/n,” he growls, and you hear the edge of something you can’t quite place in his voice. maybe it’s concern, maybe it’s annoyance, but then—everything goes black.

when you wake, the world is dim, but not like it was before. this is different—darker, colder. the smell of smoke hits your nostrils first, and it’s only then that you recognize it. you’re not at some random street corner or an alleyway. you’re somewhere familiar.

your eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, the shadows of the room taking form around you. and then it hits you: this room. you’ve been here before, too many times. too many nights spent tangled in memories you’ve tried to forget.

the dim light from the fading sunset seeps through a narrow window, casting deep purple shadows across the floor. your head’s throbbing, your cheek swollen, and your body aches with every movement, but none of that matters because you recognize this place. seongje’s place.

he’s standing by the windowsill, cigarette between his lips, smoke curling up into the air. his back is to you, but you can still see the familiar silhouette. his posture, the way his shoulders slouch just enough to give him that casual, laid-back look. the same posture you’ve seen a thousand times in this very room, in these very circumstances.

fuck him, you think, pushing yourself up onto your elbows. you wipe your mouth, feeling the blood on your lip, the cut stinging. this isn’t fair—bringing you back here.

you hear the soft snick of his lighter as he takes another drag from the cigarette, the sound too familiar.

“you’re awake,” he says, voice rough but not unkind. he turns around slowly, eyes narrowing as he watches you.

“you knocked me out,” you mutter, your voice still thick with the remnants of the fight. your hand moves instinctively to your aching jaw. you feel the bruise already forming.

seongje looks almost casual about it, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “wasn’t my intention,” he shrugs, but his eyes flicker down to the cut on your lip, then back to your face. there’s a pause, and his voice drops lower as he adds, “but you didn’t really make it easy, babe—and this was the only way to shut you up.”

you frown, trying to process the weight of his words. what the hell does he mean by that? his eyes catch yours, and for a moment, the space between you feels heavy, charged with all the old history and the years of tangled emotions that you two shared.

you take a deep breath, forcing yourself to steady your mind. “you could’ve left me there,” you snap, trying to mask the vulnerability that’s creeping in. “but you didn’t.”

his eyes flash with something—maybe irritation, maybe something else—but he doesn’t look away. he takes another drag from his cigarette, as if weighing his next words carefully.

“yeah, and leave you with those assholes?” he mutters, his voice low and dark, eyes meeting yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch. “no fucking way.”

your heart skips a beat at that, the weight of his words crashing over you. his tone isn’t what you expected—there’s something more beneath the surface, something he’s not saying. it makes you pause, just for a moment, before you shake your head, trying to brush it off.

“you’re a pain in the ass,” you reply, though it comes out quieter than you meant.

seongje just looks at you, the corner of his mouth twitching up into that familiar smirk. “old habits never die,” he murmurs, and you feel that old tension, that magnetic pull, surge again between you two.

his cigarette is still between his fingers, and without asking, he holds it out to you. you don’t take it, instead leaning in slightly, your lips brushing against his fingers as you take a long drag from the cigarette on his hand, the smoke filling your lungs before you blow it out, deliberately exhaling the thick cloud of smoke right onto his face.

he rolls his eyes at this, unbothered, the smirk never fading as if he’s used to this by now.

“still playing dirty, huh?” he mutters, clearly unfazed, like you’ve done this a thousand times before.

“and you’re still a fucking freak.” you shrug, the tension between you thickening with every word, the unspoken history, stained with repressed feelings, lingering just under the surface.

“a freak you’d kill for,” seongje says, finally facing you, narrowing his eyes as he flicks the cigarette out the window. “join the union,” he says simply.

you cock an eyebrow at him, your lips curling into a smirk, eyebrows quirked in disbelief. “if you wanted to get back together, you could’ve just said that. fucker.”

seongje doesn’t laugh, he just keeps watching you like he’s waiting, gaze a little more intense this time.

you shake your head, something colder behind your eyes now. “i’m not fucking insane like you, seongje.”

his jaw tics, but he doesn’t interrupt. so you keep going.

“you knew it back then, too. it was always gonna be one of us.” your voice is quiet, but steady. “and you knew me, seongje. i just needed to get by. keep my head down, earn some chump change, scrape enough to disappear when i was ready. the union—” you scoff, “—that shit was always too high stakes. too serious.”

you look away, jaw clenching. “i have dreams, seongje. i’m gonna go to college. make something out of this mess.”

you finally meet his eyes again. “so no, i’m not joining the union.”

seongje huffs out a low breath, then laughs—dry, disbelieving. “so that’s also a ‘no, we’re not getting back together’, huh?” he echoes, head tilted like he’s trying to make sense of you, a playful smirk playing on his lips, but his eyes flickered with something else.

you roll your eyes at this. then he chuckles, rubbing a hand down his face. “shit. you’re scary, babe.” there’s something fond buried under the sarcasm, though, something sharp and aching. “you always talked like you were gonna burn the whole city down just to make it to some fucking—loser, nerd, uni. still do.” he spits out.

he looks back out the window, tongue pressing into his cheek.

you can tell he’s pissed. bitter, even. maybe even... jealous? but you reach out without thinking—soft, deliberate—and brush a stray strand of hair from his forehead. your fingers linger just long enough to slip his glasses off, folding them in your hand.

if you were anyone else, he’d have snapped your neck for touching his glasses, let alone getting that close.

but you were you.

seongje doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t even move—just shifts his gaze, side-eying you from the corner of his eye, something unreadable swimming just beneath the surface.

“you always do whatever the fuck you want,” he mutters, but it comes out low, almost like a compliment.

“mhm,” you hum, fingers still ghosting along his skin as you cup his cheek. his skin is rough beneath your touch—calloused and scarred, the faint divots of half-healed cuts from fights and brawls brushing against your palm. it scrapes at your skin, grounding you in a memory you shouldn’t still want. a past drenched in adrenaline and bad decisions, but his warmth still makes your chest ache like it always did.

your thumb brushes just beneath his eye as you lean in a little closer, your voice barely a breath. “and i really wanna kiss your stupid face right now, you psycho.”

seongje’s jaw clenches under your touch. his eyes scan yours, gaze falling on your lips, then back to your eyes, like he’s daring you to do it. like he wants you to. you blink once, his eyes flick to your lips again, and that’s all it takes.

seongje grabs your face with both hands—rough, unfiltered—like he’s been holding back since the second you woke up in his room. the kiss crashes into you, all teeth and heat and the wild kind of need that’s only ever been his.

god, he needed this.

not just his lips on your or his fingers curling into the back of your neck, but you. the only person who ever made him feel anything beyond bloodlust. all the beatdowns, the turf wars, the payoffs—none of that ever lit his veins up like this. like you.

your eyes flutter close, gasping into his mouth as he deepens the kiss, urgent, almost clumsy with how badly he wants more. his hands are on your jaw, your waist, your back—everywhere, like if he lets go, it’ll all disappear. he groans desperately into your lips, muttering your own name against your skin.

you let him kiss you like he’s starved for it, like he’s still the boy who used to beg you not to leave his bed in the mornings, the boy who would let the world burn just to have you. you let him hold you like this means something—like maybe, for tonight, it does.

even though you know you’ll be gone by tomorrow morning, before the sun even touches the edge of the windowsill where you two once sat. no note, no goodbye. you’ve done it before, and you’ll do it again.

because he’ll always choose the union. the chaos. the blood in his mouth and the rush in his fists. because that’s just who seongje is—your wolf with red-stained teeth, always chasing, craving something darker. the mad dog.

but you?

you’ve got places to be. you’re not wasting time here leashed to him like this. you have dreams to run toward. dreams that geum seongje was never meant to follow.

if you liked this, i appreciate a reblog as well :3 it helps my works and writing spread to other ppl very effectively !!

note: just couldn’t stop thinking of love and leashes while writing this, so here u go lol

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