#yeah like. I’ve been trying to write something without thinking too deeply about it and I just…

[spikyiwaizumi]

it is complete bullshit that the better you get at writing the harder it becomes

[jungkoode]

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."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ 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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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[imagine-it-was-us]

love me not pt.2 || Carlos Sainz

Inspiration: Ravyn Lenae x Rex Orange County "Love me not"

Author's note: So this is part2! Had fun writing this one, hope you'll like it!

Pairing: Carlos Sainz Jr. x female reader

Warnings: mentions of nsfw, drinking, ghosting, toxic relationships.

Summary: They started as a spark – fast, reckless, impossible to ignore. One night turned into something more. But when love feels like a push and pull, when you only know how to leave before you're left… how do you stay?

Word count: 2.1k+

Part1

Her stomach dropped, but she knew that the club was packed with their acquaintances so she would never let them see how deeply the situation actually stung. She didn’t storm across the club floor. She glided – controlled, purposeful, a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes still plastered on her face like nothing was wrong. Like she hadn’t just seen his hands on some girl’s waist. 

Carlos noticed her the second she was within reach. He blinked like he was shaking off the blur of lights and drinks. And maybe he was trying to shake some of the guilt off too. One thing that he immediately did though was dropping his hands from the stranger dancing before him.

Y/N leaned in close, lips barely brushing Carlos’ ear, her tone syrup-sweet but laced with venom.

“Can we talk?”

Carlos didn’t say anything. Just nodded, jaw tight, and followed her to the darker side of the club, away from the stranger and curious eyes.

The second they were swallowed by shadows and bass-heavy beats, her façade cracked.

“What the hell was that?”

He didn’t pretend not to know. He leaned against the wall, crossed his arms, looked past her.

“She touched me. I didn’t do anything.”

“Your hands were on her waist, Carlos.” Her voice dropped lower, sharper. “Do you usually hold strangers like that, or is that a new habit?”

He scoffed, eyes narrowing. “Oh come on, it’s not like we were fucking there. Just don’t do that. Jealousy looks awful on you.”

She was taken aback by his comment. “So this is what this is about? You’re trying to make me jealous?”

“Maybe I was just trying to see if you even care. Don’t act like you didn’t disappear last week without a word. Like you don’t keep me guessing every time we’re apart.” 

“Are you serious right now?” she hissed, stepping closer. “I’ve been showing up for you. Every GP. Every late-night call. Every time you needed me, I was there. You think that’s nothing?”

His voice was lower now too, angry in the quietest way. All his insecurities laced his words.

“You’ve been showing up when it’s convenient. I never knew if I was just… a stop between flights for you. You never said what this is. Not once.”

Her throat bobbed, but the words came out steady. “And you did? I didn’t think I had to spell it out. We were–” she paused, correcting herself.”–are something. Or I thought we were. Until I saw you wrapped around her like you didn’t have someone waiting in the corner of the room.”

Carlos looked away, jaw tightening. He hated how much this felt like before—like every time he’d let himself hope someone might stay, only for them to stay vague, unreadable. His ex had once said, “You’re too intense. You expect people to read your mind.” But he didn’t want someone to read his mind. He just wanted someone who wouldn’t leave him guessing all the time.

“And I thought maybe you’d finally tell me you wanted me. Actually wanted us. But you never did.”

She blinked, once. Then again. The lights from the club caught the shimmer in her eyes, but the tears didn’t fall yet.

“I didn’t think I needed to say it,” she whispered. “I thought you knew.”

He exhaled hard, like the wind had been knocked out of him. “Yeah. Well. I didn’t.”

And just like that, the space between them turned to ice. She shook her head and stepped back, a shaky laugh breaking through her chest. 

“You know what? You’re right. We never said what this was.” Her voice broke around the edges. “Maybe that’s on both of us.”

Carlos stayed frozen, watching her like he wanted to reach out but didn’t know how.

Her smile was small, barely there. “I need to go.”

She turned before he could say anything, and this time, she did walk away fast. Tears slipped down her cheeks, hot and silent. He watched her go, back into the neon haze, knowing full well he should’ve stopped her. But he stayed rooted to the spot, jaw clenched and hands curled into fists like holding on to his pride would somehow hurt less than holding on to her.

What neither of them realized was that the events of that night wouldn’t mark the end of their story. If anything, they cracked something open—just wide enough for all their old patterns to creep in like smoke under a door. Unseen, but impossible to ignore.

They didn’t talk about what had happened at the club. But they didn’t stop talking.

Carlos broke the silence two days later with a photo of another skyline – burnt orange bleeding into nightfall, a captionless whisper of connection sent straight to her phone.

She stared at it for too long before replying:  “I do love a dramatic sky.”

And that was the unspoken deal. They would never define it. Never name it.  Because naming it would make it real – and real meant it could break. So they stayed in the blur.

She’d see him in paddocks, sunglasses on, attention split between his engineers and whichever girl he had his arm loosely wrapped around. Blonde, brunette, it didn’t matter. They all blended into the same silhouette she refused to memorize.

She didn’t ask. And he never offered.

So she posted a photo of herself wrapped in some tattooed arm on a rooftop in Paris, captioned with a lyric that wasn’t meant for anyone in particular – except it was.

Carlos saw it. Of course he did. He left her on “seen.” For a whole day.

Then he’d post a blurry shot from a bar, two wine glasses on the table, someone’s nails just barely in frame. She’d block the notification from popping up on her lock screen, but she always looked anyway.

They played the game with equal skill. What they were doing was clearly wrong and toxic and maybe that is why they deserved each other. 

And in between, the pull between them stayed magnetic. Late nights blurred by alcohol and proximity would bring them back together like waves crashing against rocks. They’d stumble into each other in stairwells and hotel hallways, heavy hands and heavier silences.  Neither of them asked, “Is this just for tonight?” Because neither of them wanted to hear the answer.

They didn’t talk about who they were with last week. They didn’t talk about what they were doing. They just crashed into each other, over and over, as if the ache might finally feel like something close to clarity.

It wasn’t just the sex. It was the way he’d linger a little too long after, quietly staring at the ceiling like he wanted to ask her to stay. It was the way she’d steal his shirts, not because she liked them, but because they still smelled like him the next day. It was the quiet check-ins that proved that even though they acted like they didn’t care, deep down they both did.

They called it nothing. But it was everything.

Still, it remained unspoken. Always just out of reach. And eventually, the cycle began to feel almost safe. Like if they never put words to it, it couldn’t hurt them. Like maybe it wasn’t heartbreak if no one admitted their feelings out loud. 

Until the end of the season party. In Monte Carlo. Again.

Almost half a year had passed since the first explosion in that same city. Now the roles were reversed.

Carlos stood near the edge of the dance floor, glass in hand, body tense. The club was loud, bass vibrating in his ribs, but all he could hear was her laugh. Not the polite one she used in the media pen, but the real one. The one he’d heard pressed into his pillow.

She was dancing. Carefree. Electric. Her dress clung to her in all the ways that used to be just for him. And the guy she was with? Just hands. Hands on her waist, too familiar, too comfortable. Like he knew her.

Carlos watched, jaw tight, drink untouched. It was stupid, he knew that. He’d done the same. Hell, worse. But it was different seeing her like this. Not because she was dancing with someone else. But because for the first time, she looked like she actually didn’t need him.

And that terrified him more than anything.

The lights flashed over her face, and for a second her eyes met his. Somehow, it was all he needed to turn this around. 

It took him a couple of seconds to approach them.

“Sorry, mate, I believe she is taken,” Carlos said, his tone as steady as ever.

She crooked her eyebrow, a soft and teasing smile curling her lips.

“Didn’t know we were making declarations now,” she said, voice light, but her eyes flicked with something deeper. There was a flicker of disbelief that he was actually doing this.

Carlos stood close enough now that the guy got the hint and backed off, hands raised in amused surrender. She didn’t stop him. Didn’t even look at him again. Her gaze was locked on Carlos.

He leaned in just enough that no one around them could hear, his breath warm against her ear.

“You’re not taken,” he said, his voice low, roughened by something like nerves. “But you should be.”

Her smile faltered. For the first time tonight, it wasn’t playful. “You don’t get to say that now.”

“I know,” he said. “But I’m saying it anyway.”

She studied him, every line of his face, the flush on his cheeks from drinking – or maybe from dancing with jealousy too long.

 “You said nothing for months, Carlos.”

“And you didn’t ask for anything either,” he snapped, a little too quickly. Then, slowly putting his hands around her waist and pulling her a little closer, he carried on, voice now softer, as if proximity helped calm the temperament down. “I didn’t know if you wanted more. You always looked like you could leave me without looking back.”

Even though her brows pulled together, she still flung her arms around his neck, one palm tangling into his hair like muscle memory.

 “That’s not fair. It takes two to tango.”

She hated how much of herself she’d already handed over to him. In moments, in trust, in all the quiet ways that don’t scream “love” but whisper it loud enough to hurt. Every time she left his hotel room, it felt harder. And deeper. And more terrifying.

“No,” he agreed. “It’s not fair. None of this has been. I’ve been with other people. You’ve been with other people. We pretended it was fine, because neither of us wanted to be the one to say it first.”

She blinked, like something sharp had been said without warning.

“So say it now.”

Carlos hesitated for a split second, then took a breath like it was the only way to get the words out.

“I want it to be you. Only you. I’m done pretending I don’t care when some guy’s hands are on you. I’m done acting like it doesn’t kill me when you smile at your phone and it’s not me.” His jaw clenched, voice thick. “I miss you even when we’re in the same room. That’s not casual. That’s not nothing.”

The silence that followed felt deafening.

Her throat bobbed with the weight of her own unsaid things. She swallowed, voice trembling just slightly when she finally spoke.

“I didn’t want to say it first because I was afraid you’d leave. Because people always do when I start needing them too much.”

“I’m not like the guys you dated before,” he said, eyes dark and certain.

“No,” she whispered. “You’re worse.”

Carlos laughed softly, a little breathless.

“I deserve that.”

“We were both cowards,” she admitted and smiled when she felt his arms gripping her waist even tighter.

He nodded. “But I’m done running.”

She looked up at him, really looked at him. “You sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” he said. Then, after a beat, “Say it back.”

Her eyes welled up. Not from sadness – from relief. And that scared her just as much.

“I don’t want to do this with anyone else.” She minimized the distance between them to the bare minimum. “I’m yours, Carlos. No more games. No more stories.”

The music thudded around them, bodies moving in time, but they were still – a moment carved out of chaos, quiet and private.

She wasn’t sure what came next. Only that she didn’t want to go into it alone anymore.

Carlos rested his forehead against hers, eyes closed like he was holding something fragile.

“You’re mine,” he murmured. “And I’m yours.”

And this time, they didn’t let go.

Next part

[cvntoid]

Omg I am waiting patiently for those roman roy brainworms,,, pls take ur time!! 💝💝💝 are there things youre not willing to write if ever 👉👉 bc im soo into the idea of him getting pegged and im too shy to ask for that from any writers 😭

the only things i won’t write are kids, animals, or shit. i’m open to writing virtually all manner of weird or gross or taboo, just not the aforementioned no-nos. i’ve actually been trying to physically restrain myself from doing a stalking/killing/cannibalism thing with Kappa but i know people get touchy about that, so we’ll see. a little peg action, though? hell yeah anon.

let’s fuck this twink. (inside: strapfucking, anal sex, hands-free cumming, mommy kink, Roman is a soft little overstimulated baby boy, some tortured vulnerable Romey, lil bit of aftercare)

“Just so you know, this doesn’t… like… make me gay.”

“Yeah, Roman. I’d have to be a man for that to be true. I think you’re safe.”

Roman lay on his back, pretty as a painting. He's so smooth and pale. His body hair is sparse, barely existent but for the shadow of stubble on his face. He looks nervous. The difference between the uncertainty in his eyebrows and the way he gnaws on his thumb versus the aching curve of his cock is staggering. The nerves do something to him. The discomfort. He wants the reassurance - he craves it, searching your eyes for it, silently begging.

There's barely a breath between him giving you that hungry, kicked-dog look, the one that wants it, craves it, but is so deeply afraid of what could happen. But he does it. He's slow and hangs his head, and without seeing his face you know for a fact he's squeezing his eyes shut, cheeks pink, pulse pounding from his leaking dick to the tip of his beautiful nose. Oh, yes - you'll break Roman. You'll give him exactly what he wants, what he needs. His body is so beautiful. His utter vulnerability means a lot to both of you - you can't wait too long, lest you risk losing everything.

There's a bottle of lube for this purpose; the prospect of preparing him is delicious. Pushing your slippery finger gently inside of him, so slowly, and it's a long process - lube, finger, more lube, more fingers. Slowly working him open, slicking him up. How smooth he is. How tight and hot he is inside of his body, how secret, how embarrassed he is even though he whines and pushes back. The snug muscles inside of his body clench, relax, ripple like silk against your patient ministrations, and the sight of Roman pushing his own face down into the mattress and white-knuckling the sheets has you ravenous. You’re desperate to be inside of him in a more meaningful way. You want to split this man in half, fuck him into teary-eyed, humiliated oblivion, beyond his clever little quips and digs, beyond the way he ices up without a second's notice.

"Ohhh fuuuuck...." He's so whiny, so desperate. You could eat him alive. "Mmmmhhpleeaaase..."

"Please what?" Pushing a third finger so gingerly inside of him, relishing the way he gasps and shudders, the pathetic, sweet little sound coming from his throat. His shoulderblades wing up, and you count the knobs of his spine, the curve of his body laid out before you. His shaking thighs, his cock twitching and leaking openly under his belly. "Say it for me."

"Please... fuck me...?" Soft. High-strung, so fucking scared.

"Good boy.”

The strap harness itself is comfortable, fitted with pockets for little bullet vibrators. You take a moment to turn them on and re-adjust yourself, caught off guard by how turned on you are already. You push the tip against him, allowing him to know you’re there. Gentle little circles, slow nudging.

You have to catch your own breath as you fist even more lube onto your pretty, pink cock, this particular strap shaped perfectly for him to take. Not too big, not too little. None of that candy-colored bullshit, he’d requested brusquely. He couldn’t meet your eyes then, either, couldn’t even pick out or buy his own toy. He left that particular task in your capable hands, trusting you the entire way. Something realistic. Nothing cartoonish.

“God, Roman… look at you,” you breathe. “Look at how good you are for me. Are you ready to take it? Go ahead and… relax for me… that’s it, good boy, good boy.”

“Oh fuck… Jesus Chrissst.”

He starts to accept you, and you sink so slowly into him. It’s easy to treat Roman with tenderness. His breaths are sharp, gasping and moaning and trying to keep still and be good. It’s the most gorgeous thing you could imagine when he turns his face and you can see him, expression screwed up in an intoxicating mix of pleasure and fear, glossy-eyed and flushed. Finding the rhythm is fun - you pay close attention to the spots to brush over, to how deep he likes it. You watch him clench around you, body pulling you further in. You reach under his body, between his thighs where he’s dripping down on the sheets below.

“Oh, wow - you like this, don’t you?”

“Yes, I - ohmygod, yes.”

He whines when you stroke at him, lazily, wanting to draw this out as long as you can knowing that neither of you are going to be able to hold it long. Despite the strap only being an extension of you, you can almost imagine how molten-hot he is inside, how tight and blissful it feels. Your cunt contracts down on nothing, desperate for release. You lick your lips and lean down, swiping your fingers slowly over the slippery head of his cock and kissing him along his spine.

“Oh!” Roman is near-hyperventilating as you rock into him this way. “R-right there, right - don’t fucking stop - don’t stop doing that.”

His cock is throbbing against your fingers. You reach a little further down, gently holding his balls. So, so gently, circling your fingers around the base of them and giving them the kindest little tug. It has him sobbing out the most beautiful sounds, full of ache.

“You gunna cum for Mommy, Rome? Does it feel good to get fucked by Mommy? Yeah?”

He tenses up and he’s so absolutely hard it has to be painful, balancing precariously on that brink. Just the sounds he makes pushes you over your own, and it’s too close - your body reaches the right point, bright as exploding stars, eyes squeezed together as you hold your breath. You can’t take this from him, he needs the pace, the slowness, needs your words to sink deep into his brain so he can savor them.

“Yes, Mommy,” he whines. You can’t hold it any longer, and neither can he - he bucks himself back on the strap and you’re riding him, riding through both of your explosive climaxes at once. It’s dizzying. He ruts into the open air and on some level, you know it would likely feel better to stroke him, to help him along that pleasure… but isn’t it better this way? Seeing him shoot his load desperately into the sheets just from being fucked in the ass? Cumming while proverbially balls-deep inside of him, the master of both your orgasms at once? He babbles and drools a dark spot where his face is still pressed into the sheets, hair mussed and sweaty, cheeks feverish. Mommy, thank you, thank you so much Mommy.

You tap his ass cheek, murmur to him, and make sure he’s ready before slowly pulling out of him. He collapses to the side like a tired cat, lying in his own cum. It takes only a moment to disengage the toy, to pull the strap off and set things in the sink for a washing. Roman needs a washing, too - you go over to the palatial tub, lined meticulously with Roman’s favorite soaps. All of them are top-notch, brands that are expensive and high-end enough to be beyond your knowledge but for what you see during your time with him. Little windows into his life. His favorite scent of body wash, his favorite colognes. His skincare routine. You draw a bath - the hot water starts releasing steam; Roman can’t enjoy a bath or shower without scalding his flesh off his own bones.

He’s dozing off when you re-enter the room, pulling some clothes on while he remains nude. Nudging him earns you an irritated grunt. Another nudge finally rouses him, bleary-eyed and wiping at his mouth as he sits up. “Fuck,” he mumbles. “M’covered in my own fuckin’ jizz. Gross.”

“That was really fun,” you tease, poking his thigh. He slaps your hand away and rubs his temples.

“Is that the tub?” Upon your positive response, he hums. “Wow… you really are my mommy tonight, aren’t you. Fuck me, bathe me - you gunna cook me dinner, too? Tuck me in for bed?”

“If that’s what you want.” You keep your tone mild, smiling at him as he finally meets your eye. He seems wary, quiet for a long moment as the water runs in the background. He’s back to that vulnerable, scared place, and all you want to do is kiss the furrow between his eyebrows and hold him. He’d never allow that.

“Fuck cooking, we’re not peasants. We’ll get… fuckin… I dunno, we’ll order out. And if you, uh… need a place to crash, I guess that’s okay, too. Whatever.”

“Well, uh, you gunna stand there and watch me like a pervert, or what? Go, like, fuck off. Relax. Have a drink or five. Pat yourself on the back for fucking the world’s most eligible bachelor in the ass, and, like... don’t call any tabloids while I’m in here or I’ll sue, et cetera, ad finitum.”

The need. You nod and rise to your feet with him, rubbing his shoulder for a second before he can shake it off. He stumbles into the bathroom and turns around to glance behind his shoulder. The unspoken words hang in the air, the ones you know he wants to say - thank you, I needed that, I need you. Please stay. Please play ‘mommy’ a little longer, please don’t leave me alone. The moment stretches, and the wall goes back up before he says anything. It’s the way his lips set back into their signature smirk, eyes a little brighter, a little more aware of his surroundings. No more fog. No more vulnerability. Game over.

[joemama-2]

ppl calling him Hinami “Hogwarts” is HILARIOUSSSSS Hepatitis rly needs to drop the delusions though. And as much as I hate cheating, with how complex of a situation this is, Yeah I guess it’s “cheating” but definitely justified (imo). I loved the chapter and I’m looking forward to Hemoglobin getting dumped.

Also, so much emotional growth and so many generational curses are set to be broken in this story which is something I really love about it. Y/N’s mom being horrible and projecting onto Y/N but that being immediately refuted by Satoru is amazing, and Satoru no longer bothering to abide by business and instead, ACTUAL love and family is extremely admirable too. I feel like the second one hits close to home (sadly wo the wealth factor 😔) bc I’ve been so hyperaware of how the strive for wealth has been overtaking true passion. You notice it in small things like when an artist displays their gorgeous work, and someone says “Oh you should sell your art! You’d made so much off of it!” It’s a wonderful compliment, but a subtle reminder in how we’ve so deeply rooted every aspect of life in monetary value. — I can yap all day abt this but me trying to unlearn this mindset lately just makes Satoru’s struggle hit really strong.

And Koji being one of the most significant factor in the issues going on in the story BUT being the most prominent grounding force is so heartwarming. I hope w how I worded this, it doesn’t seem like I’m saying “Koji’s a problem and a blessing” because he’s not a problem at all. He’s the true driving force of growth and bro doesn’t even know it. All he knows is that dinosaurs are cool. And I’d dig up one and reanimate it for him to keep as a pet if he wanted me to 😤

Anyways Ik i was extra in how I described this stuff, I’ve been getting into psych and philosophical stuff a lot lately so if u looked at this like “why tf did this girl write an essay in my asks” that’s why 😭😭 my bad

And my reaction for Satoru and reader’s well deserved night + reader saying “honestly fuck his girlfriend” (UGH PERIODDD) :

HEMOGLOBIN I CANTTTR😭😭😭😭 himari has so many names at this point, but i can’t stop thinking about how it’s close to the arabic word donkey 😭😭😭 love how yall pointed that out

and i love how u pointed that!!! reader is definitely trying to break down whatever has been supposedly “set in stone for her”. and monetary value is something that i struggle w too. a girl be broke out here 😖😖😖. but in the case of gojo and y/n, especially gojo, they’re working towards the goal of just having their family, no matter what.

i said this before but they would both definitely move somewhere far away to settle down (with or without each other). and i think that would be a great idea for them. they both need it. 🙂🙂

and i totally get what u mean about koji!!! bros just living with a cool mom and dad and loves his dinosaurs and spider man. that’s the life right there 💯💯💯. the whole trope of this story is hidden child and while they may be going thru other stuff, koji’s beautiful presence is behind it all 😇😇😇

AND YESSSS, GOJO AND READER FINALLY GETTING DOWN AND DIRTY WE LOVEEE TO SEEEEE IT.

F.H.G all around!!!!!

[nereidprinc3ss]

so um, you’ve probably have been asked this many times but how do you start writing fanfic without cringing at yourself? i already feel silly for reading it. i noticed you have gained recognition outside of tumblr which i believe to be an achievement but i can’t allow myself to go through that.

i work in the finance sector at a big american firm, i can’t have my coworkers knowing i’m writing fanfic. i already get teased for watching disney animated films (which it’s not that bad) how do you deal with this? ik you’re still at college and ofc, this doesn’t mean you’re stupid but i bet you know what i mean? do you have some advice on this?

⚠️me not shutting the fuck up and getting way too personal below the cut

honestly at first i DID cringe at myself. i cringed so much that after posting my first fic in like november i dont think i posted again til january because i was writing and would just get so humiliated despite being alone and no one knowing who i was or what i was doing LOL but honestly the way i got over that was just to do it more because i truly love writing and why would i let feeling “cringe” stop me from doing something i love and that makes me happy? that would be so heartbreaking, life is hard enough, we deserve to do things we love and are passionate about without judging ourselves so harshly

as for not letting other people know well yeah i just don’t tell my friends or anyone ik in real life that i write fanfic lol, they know i love to write and they know im obsessed with spencer reid but that’s as much as i’ve told them! i know it’s a thing that maybe most people would consider “weird” but as someone who has a crushing fear of intimacy this is kinda my outlet lmfao. and it made me feel really insecure and weird at first but then i realized like… i try to be kind and caring and thoughtful, i have a lot of good qualities and the fact that i write fanfic doesn’t actually detract from any of them. it also helped for me to accept the reason why i write fanfic which is (and we’re abt to get real personal) i’m deeply afraid of intimacy of any kind and always have been so writing fiction abt the stuff i’m too scared to do isn’t a bad thing. there are a lot of people who wouldn’t understand it but they don’t have the same experiences as me and i don’t need them to understand it because i know that they never could. like they don’t understand what it’s like to so terrified of being known by another person that you obsess over the hottest guy in your school district for six months bc you want the validation of him liking you back and you do everything in your power to make him like you and then when he actually does reciprocate you immediately start icing him out to the point where he says hi at a party and you ignore him to his face cause you’re so afraid of men😂😂😂😂😂 they don’t get those vibes!!!

anyway basically you just have to remember that you’re doing it for you and it actually doesn’t mean something is WRONG with you if you enjoy writing and the safety and control that fiction offers you. it just means you’re one of billions of people living an entirely unique experience, just like anyone else, and honestly i think it makes you interesting. having hobbies and passions is rlly sexy and cool, regardless of what they are, and you deserve to do stuff you like doing. if anyone else is giving you shit abt it it’s probably because they genuinely don’t understand what it’s like to have interests and that makes me feel bad for them lol

[pouroverpaloma]

Writing Interview Tag Game! Thanks @cinnamontails-ff !

When did you start writing?

I don’t actually remember! I was a desperately weird and introverted kid (surprise) and I read voraciously, all the time, so I also started writing really early. Stories, plays, poems, comics, whatever. I also kept a meticulous diary when I was in high school, and I’m so glad I did because it’s so fucking funny to read now. Teenage Paloma had a lot going on, to put it kindly

Are there different themes or genres you enjoy reading than what you write?

Have I watched Supernatural? No. Have I been an insatiable consumer of Destiel fanfiction for years? Absolutely. I gave a PowerPoint presentation to my book club once titled “All the best romance novels are Supernatural fanfiction,” and I stand by that thesis. I don’t care. Those babes were cooking.

Like, I’m sorry, the soulmate AU trope is never going to get better than Don’t Look Back by @goldenraeofsun. It’s just not. No one is ever going to write an academic romance as compelling as And This, Your Living Kiss by @asecretvice. If you haven’t poked around that part of Ao3 because you don’t watch the show, I beg you to get in there because treasures await ye

Is there a writer you want to emulate or get compared to often?

This isn’t going to make a ton of sense outside of my own brain, probably, but my goal is always to write prose that feels the way Ada Limón’s poems make me feel. She’s really frank without being unserious, and I love the way she creates imagery without telling you she’s doing it.

Also, this weekend, I read a Tessa Dare historical romance while I was on the beach, and I loved it! It was so fun, but not at the expense of the plot, and the supporting characters were so funny without getting in the way. A masterclass in froth.

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

At home, I write in bed with my laptop on my lap and a can of seltzer within reach at all times. Sometimes I go to a cafe near my house, but I’m always worried someone will look over my shoulder and see what I’m writing and post me for cringe on TikTok or something. Which, now that I’m typing it out, is maybe a stupid thing to worry about

What's your most effective way to muster up a muse?

I have a couple recs!

1. Go for a biiiiiig walk. Listen to classical music, nothing with words. Don’t try to think too hard. It’ll come.

2. Read something you find genuinely terrible. You’ll get so mad that you’ll start thinking of ways you could have done it better. For me, this is usually the book Haunting Adeline, which for whatever reason activates every “um actually” in my body at once

3. Type up something deeply unserious that you have no intention of publishing. Chances are you’ll end up loving it in the rewrite and post it. This is how that Rolan fic of mine got made

Are there any recurring themes in your writing? Do they surprise you?

Oh god, yeah, and oh god, yeah. I’ve learned a lot. Some of it’s actually been helpful in therapy, like how I keep writing about overcoming domestic violence trauma. Some of it has been discovering, in a very public way that I can’t undo, that I’m into choking. We do not have the dignity of choosing how enlightenment comes to us

What is your reason for writing?

It’s for fun. It’s all for fun. I am having such a fucking good time.

Is there any specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating?

I love when people talk back and forth with me! And I love love looooooove when people tell me how something made them feel. Or when someone points out a literary device I was proud of. If there’s a quote, too? I’m dead. I’ve died.

Writing is fun, but it’s solitary. It’s so motivating to have people who are willing to step into my little universe with me and talk about it. I’m extraordinarily lucky.

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

I want people to see me as someone who shares their enthusiasm, ultimately. We’re all here for the same reason, and it’s That Fucking Wizard.

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

My voice is really distinctive! My friends have always been able to pick out my writing, even in anonymized settings, and I think that’s neat

How do you feel about your own writing?

It’s been a long way getting here, but I view my writing as a thing I made, that I liked making, that I now have no ownership over. Once it’s out, it’s not mine anymore, it’s the reader’s. And that’s a good thing! Everyone brings their own rich experiences to everything they read. Interpretation is amazing, even for something as prima facie trivial as video game erotica. When people tell me how they related to or analyzed something I wrote, it’s like I get to read my own story again.

:) I’ll tag @lemonstealinglibrarian @lastlight-inn and @toads-treasures , if you want! No presh

[rockinlibrarian]

Post-Umbrella Academy S4 Reaction Part Two: Still Not a Show Write-up, a Fraction of a Fanfic Instead (spoilery)

I mentioned yesterday that I'd been toying with a TUA/Legion Crossover Fic idea, and that the finale of the former (particularly as it reminds me so much of the finale of the latter) has made me determined I really should do it and definitely set it post-Season 4. It's a perfect fix-it for TUA and I can actually work in a bit more fix-it for Legion, too. Anyway, it was stewing in my head all night, and this morning I woke up with IDEAS, and I ended up sitting down and writing 1,334 words-- a whole scene, a chapter basically, but it would be a chapter in the middle, which who knows when I would get to post that as a whole on AO3, and I feel like I need to post this part RIGHT NOW, even though it is essentially the MIDDLE of the story.

The basic overarching premise is that the Hargreeves end up at Summerland, the haven for troubled mutants (Marvel-style) in Legion. Summerland is co-run by a psychologist who's made it her life's work to help mutants reach their full potential, healing the traumas of living in a world that fears them, the traumas of everything being born Weird gives them.

You can, uh, see how this place might be good for the Hargreeves, right?

You don't need to know much more about Legion for this chapter-- there's some references to characters, but primarily THIS snippet is just my two favorite Hargreeves, who also did not get ANY time together this season, having a Feelings talk (AND WHOM I MANAGED TO WRITE A TENDER SCENE FOR WITHOUT IT TURNING NON-PLATONIC, BE PROUD OF ME) (yes for the uninitiated I am a pathetic Fiktor shipper, please see FAQ post to not hate me), so here, have Feelings with me!

PORTION OF A FUTURE MULTICHAPTER LEGION/TUA CROSSOVER. The working title of the Scrivener sheet for this particular chapter is "This willl NOT be Fiktor I SWEAR," but that will not be the final title. ;)

Viktor walked down to the lake, savoring the woodsy sounds and the gentle adagio behind it, when he spotted a familiar figure sitting at the edge of the dock.

Well, relatively familiar. He wasn’t used to seeing Five sit so still.

“Hey.” He sat beside him.

Five shifted slightly, as if to make room, nodded, and said, “Hey,” back, then drifted back into his odd silence.

After a minute, Viktor cleared his throat. “Beautiful here. Ever want to try fishing?”

Five sighed. “I’ve done a lot of fishing, wasn’t exactly a party.”

“Yeah, I guess not.” Viktor sat in the awkward vibes. The vibes. Who knew silence could be so loud?

“Hey.” He paused. “Five. You okay? You’ve been really quiet lately.”

“Is there something I should be saying?”

“Normally you can’t keep your mouth shut, that’s all. But ever since we came here I think the only person I’ve seen you talk to is that Dr. Loudermilk. You’re avoiding everybody, and, granted, I think I hear Diego growling every time you come near and that would put me off, but still, are you okay?”

“Heh.” Five ran his fingers into his hair and held them there, staring into the murky water at their feet. “Guess you didn’t hear about what happened, did you.”

“Um, I guess not?”

Five sighed even more deeply, and lay back on the dock. “So, Lila and I got stuck in an endless timeline-hopping subway system for nearly seven years.”

Viktor laughed before he could stop himself.

“What?”

“Only you! Only you could answer ‘what’s been with you the past few days?’ with ‘Well it’s ACTUALLY been seven years.”

Five finally cracked a smile, albeit a sad one. “Yeah, I guess I can see how that could amuse you.”

“So how old does that make you now?”

He shrugged. “Seventy? Seventy-one? And god I feel so much older than that, Vik. I should have been annihilated in that Cleanse. I should be dead. I should have died so long ago.”

“Don’t talk like that.” He left Five to pick the conversation back up. He seemed to be composing his thoughts.

After another minute, he spoke. “I… know… what Delores was. I know it was all in my head. But she was all I had, and I needed her. I needed her there, loving me, so I loved her. Now, I find myself stranded in time again, but this time with a real human being by my side? A real… friend? I—.”

He broke off, but Viktor could fill in the rest. “Oh.”

“She belongs with Diego.” Five sat back up abruptly, voice harsh. “Not me. I don’t get to be loved. I don’t get to be happy. I am…fated to wander from universe to universe, alone. I can’t even get annihilated from existence properly!”

God. Dramatic, poetic Five. He was in rough shape. Tentatively, Viktor offered, “If it makes you feel any better, I’ve never managed to keep a single relationship for more than a month. And I lived a relatively…ordinary life. I just suck at relationships.”

Five looked up at Viktor from the corner of his eye, smiled from the corner of his mouth. “Don’t we all.”

“The only time I’ve ever felt truly loved was with Sissy.” Viktor poked him. “And somebody made me put an end to that.”

“Now, come on, we were—.”

“I know, I know, we were in the wrong time, it would have wrecked the timeline. It DID wreck the timeline. But still, I’m just saying.”

“So, what, we can start a ‘The Only Person Who Ever Loved Me was an Already Married Woman’ support group?”

“I bet they have one of those here. Along with their ‘I Have Caused Not One But Multiple Apocalypses’ group.”

Five actually laughed— short, subdued, but a laugh nonetheless. “I’ve missed you, Vik.”

“I’ve missed you, too.” Viktor squeezed his knee. “Anyway, you’re not alone, and you’re not unloved. Maybe not in a romantic way. But we do love you, and you do deserve to be happy.”

Five rolled his eyes. “I spent 45 years longing for nothing more than to get back to my family, the people I loved, and when I did, what did I get? Not again, Five, stop harshing the vibe, Five, why can’t you FIX this, Five, are you sure you’re not just batshit, Five? I love my family more than life itself, but they sure don’t love me.”

“We do—!” Viktor caught himself. Tried to see it from Five’s point of view. Realized he’d barely seemed to notice he was talking to one of his family. It felt like a revelation. Melanie would be proud. Viktor gave Five a gentle, sheepish smile. “Okay, when I said I suck at relationships, I don’t just mean romantically. I love you as a feeling, I’ll have to work on loving you as a verb.”

Five echoed Viktor’s smile. “What happened to us, me and you? When we were kids I could talk to you about anything…everything. I spent decades longing to talk to you, and then—there we were in the same timeline again and yet we’ve barely spoken in thirteen years.”

Viktor ducked his head, tutting. “Well, every time you tried to talk to me I brushed you off, and then I ran away to Nova Scotia for six years. And …you, apparently, got lost in an interdimensional subway system for seven more.”

“Intertemporal, not interdimensional. Cary—Dr. Loudermilk— and I have been trying to map out the different subsets of the multiverse and it’s a lot more comple— see, you’re laughing at me!”

“Just because I’m laughing doesn’t mean I’m not listening! I promise. I’m just laughing because…you’re so YOU. I’ve missed you, too. And I do love you. As bad as I am at it.” He bit his lip. “I’m sorry. For not being who you needed me to be. Melanie says— she says I need to work on my anger issues, that I’m too prone to vengeance. That my subconscious need for payback is too liable to slip out with my powers. Like the time I attacked Allison’s voice box for Rumoring me. Payback, you know. And I— I’ve been mad at you for leaving me for so long— so this time I ran off first. Payback.”

“Yeah, but sometimes you’re right. Like how determined you were to save Ben, bring him back, save the world.”

“Only because he saved me to save the world, first. Payback, Just more positive.”

Five gazed at him, steadily, thoughtfully. “Viktor, I’m proud of you. You’ve been making progress with this stuff all along, years before we got here. I remember wishing you had the guts to stand up for yourself just enough to claim the last doughnut.”

“Thanks. And you’ve got— you’ve got a lot of shit to work through, still, and you haven’t really had the chance to make progress. But just knowing you need to is a good start. I believe in you. And I promise, from now on, I will always listen, whatever you need to work through.”

“Thanks to you, too. I guess…I guess I feel just a smidge more hopeful now.”

“So, that girl who’s always hanging around Dr. Loudermilk….”

“Who, Kerry? They’re, like, symbiotes or something.”

“She’s technically his age, right? And that’s about the same age as you?”

“Yes?”

“And yet she also looks like she’s in her twenties. Like you.”

“Uh…huh?”

“I’ve also heard that she’s been known to leave dozens of bodies in her wake.”

“So what are you…? OH. Nah. No. Stop. She’s also off her rocker.”

“Says the man who fell in love with Lila,” he teased, gently.

“Kerry has the emotional maturity of a thirteen-year-old.”

“Says the man who lost contact with all humanity at the age of thirteen!”

“Viktor!” Five laughed. “You are not helping!”

“I am SO helping! This is the first I’ve heard you laugh in days! Or maybe years, on your end!”

Five’s laughed whined to a pause, and he dropped his head on Viktor’s shoulder. “We are so fucked up.”

“Yeah.” Viktor held him, rocking slightly. “But I don’t know, this Summerland— I think here we might actually get better.”

[angelicandsanegirl]

i miss ty so much sometimes it’s like actually crazy that i can go through this blog over a decade and see posts about him but i never get to see him again and it still hurts so much and i wish i had been given some grace to work through it when it happened and idk why some years it’s so much harder his birthday was fine this year but already this week ive been having a very hard time holding it together and i know talking about grief can be uncomfortable for those around it but I do think it’s something that needs to be talked about because I rly had no understanding of what it would feel like or how much it would affect me like it’s been 11 years and i still feel it was somehow my fault i know rationally it wasn’t but it’s always there in my gut and I think I’ve been rly punishing myself for that for quite a long time and i would like to stop doing so but it’s just this very intense guilt and grief and I don’t know where to put it and I feel like he was someone for so long who I could talk about anything with and I know it wasn’t my fault but what if I had done something different maybe he’d still be here maybe i should have just been more open idk but therapy on friday need to do some reprocessing here i think might see if i can get an extra session on saturday too because that’s the anniversary and i think im going to be alone this year most likely idk maybe i should call his mom or something

it is very hard to be deeply traumatized and also want so much to connect with other people like either emotionally constipated or emotional flooding and im at the flooding right now

I just wish I could talk about him and not feel like it’s hurting other people or like im digging at a gaping wound um also I have started writing again which is quite a big thing for me and I wrote this little thing just on trauma and turning 30 and accepting my life where it’s at and #healing and I want to share it but it also feels like too much oh I wish I could stop rambling but if anyone wants to read it um yeah let me know the goal was to be like #thereishope because yes I will say rn is very hard but I do feel quite hopeful about my life it just sucks that I so rarely feel safe with other people idk idk what im saying here I uh had to go fully no contact with my dad again and that’s quite upsetting but it’s for my own good rly I guess I just want to make sure I can be a safe person for others ok

im trying to be more open about sharing what’s rly going on but I need to find a balance but I rly have been a lot happier it’s just some days are harder and I struggle without a lot of control but i think im going to go back to school this summer and I think doing it for me and not for my mom or anyone else is going to feel rly good

[notsocheezy]

Brain Curd #279

Brain Curds are lightly edited daily writing - usually flash fiction and sometimes terrible on purpose.

It was late February by the time the house was ready to be shown to guests, and Dan and Alice had been so absorbed in getting settled in that they barely realized they’d gone weeks without speaking to anyone else. Not neighbors, not family, and especially not the friends who were invited, cordially, to attend this night’s festivities.

The living room was adorned with whatever Alice could scrounge together from unpacked boxes: Christmas lights, streamers, shamrocks, even a jack-o-lantern or two. It made for a festive atmosphere, but a deeply confused one, as though all of 2020 had to be compressed into this one night.

Francine, Alice’s friend, was the first to arrive.

“Congratulations!” She held out a bottle of champagne.

Alice put the bottle on the foyer table and hugged her. “It’s so good to see you!”

“I’m only half an hour away, you know. You could’ve visited.”

“With the amount of time I’ve spent making this place livable? That’s like two weeks.”

Francine entered the house and looked around. “You’ve really been cooped up, huh?”

Alice noticed a clump of cat fur on her sweater, picked up from Francine. She brushed it off and pushed it outside with the air moved by shutting the door. “Dan, could you put this champagne in the fridge while Francine and I catch up?”

“Sure,” he said, carrying a tray of raw meat. “Why not? It’s not like I’m doing something else.”

“So,” Francine opened her eyes so wide that she very well might have been able to see behind herself. “What’s it like owning your own house?”

“Well,” Alice chuckled, “It’s a lot of work but I think it’s worth it just to have the peace of mind.”

“Peace of mind?”

“Everything is clean, everything is orderly, and if I go looking for something, I’ll find it.” She snapped. “Like that.”

“Doesn’t your husband live here too?”

“Well, okay, I guess if I go looking for his ball-peen hammer or whatever I might not find it. But anything of mine, he doesn’t touch.”

“What would you do if he did?”

Alice crossed her arms. “Don’t jinx it!”

“Fine, fine.” Francine laughed. “You’ve got to let me tell you about all this drama back in the city.”

“Spill.”

“You remember Sadie’s ex boyfriend?”

“Which one? The zookeeper or the guy from Finland?”

“The second one. He bought her flowers and she took him back! Can you believe that?”

“No self respect.”

“Not at all! This girl is down bad for his netherlands.”

“Is that the same place?”

“Oh, who cares. The point is he’s a total psycho. You knew about how he was, like, trying to get her to grow out her pit hair, right?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Apparently he sniffed under her arms every day to make sure she wasn’t wearing deodorant!”

“Ewww!” Alice covered her mouth. “What is wrong with him?”

“Same thing that’s wrong with her, I figure. That’s how people end up together. They’re the right kind of wrong for each other.” Francine patted Alice on the back. “Good for you finding your Mr. Wrong, Alice.”

“Heh… thanks.”

Please comment, reblog, like, and follow if you enjoyed - I'd love to know what you think! See you again tomorrow.

[persephoneprice]

sorry for the incoming rant lmao but: for the unpopular opinions thing i agree with the haysilee one (weird coming from me THE treemina haysilee clato girlie). i only like them as a romantic ship in a modern au but canonically they present as allies and friends, haymitch already has a whole girlfriend, and i love the Vibes of tragic district partners that care deeply about each other on its own so the romance aspect would only be unnecessary/a little weird. it's a little how i feel about canon clato and treemina too, interpreting more of a There Are Vibes Here But Idk What They Are thing (even though i like to write these pairs together romantically because i genuinely think they're compatible in that way too.)

if suzanne writes a romantic arc for haysilee in sotr that would be weird to me because the Vibes are good on their own without trying to force something else <33 I like a good friendship dynamic with subtle undertones

i’ve never been super into modern aus but i can see the vision!

i agree! they can have a strong relationship and care deeply about it each while be platonic.

yeah! clato and treemina are a little more interesting to me as a ship- but realistically is it likely? doubt. but still!

also fun fact- when i first, first got into tbosas there was a time i backed the treemina as cousins thoughts.

yes, it would feel a little forced! especially because he’s already established to have a girlfriend.

[clumsiestgiantess]

For the ask game:

A3, 12, and 20 for Alexis and Erica?

B5 and 15 for yourself?

Thanks for all the asks, anon! It took a bit but I’ve finally got everything down!

3(A) Does your character enjoy their size difference with others? Or do they find it a hindrance to their relationships?

(Alright Alexis, here’s your first character ask!  Do you enjoy your size difference with others, or do you find it a hindrance to your relationships?)

A: That’s kind of a tough question…  There are some cases where I like it; it’s such a special feeling getting to hold the people I love in the palm of my hand.  There’s a sort of trust between you and those you care about to do it. Well, the people who are willing to trust you, anyway. I think being this size helps to grow trust between me and the people around me because of how deeply you have to trust people not to make some kind of fatal mistake around you, and vice versa.  And obviously being big lets me get around easier on the road, too.

But sometimes I don’t want to be so big compared to everyone else.  It’s tiring having to avoid contact with everything unless I’m willing to put in the effort to be extremely gentle and cautious.  I want people to trust me, so I’m always trying to avoid issues with my size.  I can’t avoid everything, though, and that makes me anxious, which makes others anxious too.

(So if you had to pick between finding it enjoyable or a hiderence, what would it be?)

Right now I’d say it’s enjoyable, but ask me after a couple weeks of traveling through cities and I might want to change my answer…

(Erica, you really only have this issue with Alexis so I’ll change up this ask for you.  Do you enjoy your size difference with her, or do you find it a hindrance to your relationship?)

E: Uhh, I’d say it definitely used to be a hindrance, yeah.  Recently I’ve been liking our size difference more, though.  She.. I’ve never felt both exhilarated and safe around the same person before.  It’s a crazy feeling, but it makes me feel really good — about myself and her.

(So it wouldn’t have to do with recent.. activities between you and Alexis out in random open fields?)

E: I have no comments on that.

(Th-)

E: Actually, scratch that, I do.  I don’t care what you or any of the people seeing this little interview thinks; it will keep happening, and it will be happening more often.

(Ok, thank you Erica…)

12(A) If your character was a magical being (or a different species if already a magical being), what would they be? How would this change who they are as a person?

I think I’ll answer these myself without the interview, because they would just say what they want to be, not what they would be.

Alexis would be one of those magical creatures that spirit people away to other places — not necessarily out of spite but more like if you get too close you’ll end up in another time and place with the creature still entirely unaware it was approached.  Yes, this is alluding to her abilities, but also something else that I won’t spoil >:)

Erica would be a sort of genie, I think.  Able to do basically whatever she wants — defying anything, even logic itself, that might stand in her way.  However, she’s tied down to the wishes of someone else.  Whether she chooses to do her best to help that person or despises the fact that she’s bound to someone else depends on who’s wishes she’s granting at the time.

20(A) Random fun fact about character please

(Fun fact about Alexis: her birthday is March 15th!)

(Fun fact about Erica: she’s terrified of dogs)

E: Hey!  You can’t just say that with no context!  My neighborhood was filled with mean-looking stray dogs.  I watched them tear a live goose to shreds once and I’ve been wary of them ever since.

5(B) What’s your favorite type of giant?

Favorite ‘type’ is kinda vague, but I’m guessing the types are like planetary-size giant vs normal giant vs minigiant, etc.

And in that case, I enjoy writing with ‘human who’s a giant compared with tinies’ characters the most, so a giant but not necessarily big compared to everything else.  However, in my own daydreams it’s really equally split between heights — it depends on my mood or what I’ve seen recently.  Lately I’ve been thinking about human & survivor scale height difference, so a large minigiant size I guess.

15(B) Do you prefer gentle giants or scary ones?

I prefer gentle giants, mostly because intentionally scary giants tend to piss me off. I feel the need to revoke their tiny privileges when I read/see characters like that (that’s fine by me tho, just means I’m invested in the characters/story).

However, if the tiny still happens to be scared of a gentle giant because of their size/strangeness, or if their gentleness is accidentally scary?  Peak g/t scenario right there.

[belethlegwen]

You are so wonderful and I hope things smooth out for you sooner rather than later. Obviously you should prioritize yourself first (god knows we all have sooo much good fic of yours to reread), but it leads me to a question I’ve been too shy to ask 👉👈 how do you feel about recursive fic about your fics/characters? Would you be ok with us sharing it with you/others, crediting you for the creation of such good characters of course? I have serious Stranding/Rescue brainworms and it’s making me want to write drabble & fluff for the first time in a long time 💕 of course it’s fine if you’d be more comfortable with me not posting it — either way, thank you soooo much for sharing this lovely world & worldbuilding & all the characters within. I will be rotating them in my head for years no matter what 🙇

Hello and good morning! Or afternoon, I'm not sure. I'm drafting this answer over a late breakfast because I got a precious day of sleeping-in and I'm still thinking deeply about it.

Firstly: I want to hug you so tight (if you were down) because this is wildly sweet and flattering, thank you so so much for reaching out at all even just about the works, but the wishes that things smooth out are highly appreciated ;-; We're looking… solid? Right now? But there's still so much up in the air and hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh I won't bore you with it, it's not the reason I'm drafting this out.

ABOUT RECURSIVE WORKS [very long, read under the cut, tl:dr summary at the end]:

I would love it. I would genuinely, honestly love it, with the caveats that you laid out that proper credit would be given (thank you so much you lovely beautiful soul), that it be clarified wherever it is shared that it's based on characters/settings/storylines of the current works, but truly importantly that it would clarify that the works are actively still being written at this time.

That's my biggest hesitation, if I'm being honest. The stories are both at this time unfinished (they are all unfinished, I am a creature with heavy need to process things through writing and, quelle surprise, I am never truly finished processing anything, new shit just needs to get processed, wheeeee) and being that they're unfinished, there's a chance that any recursive work could hit on a scene/plotpoint/moment that I've already got plotted out for the future. I'm not Neil Gaiman or anything, I'm not planning to make money off of this work, so it's not my concern that you or anyone else is gonna turn around and try to sue me for stealing something or whatever-- that's not the problem. I just don't want you or anyone to feel at that point that the effort you put into something was then copied and put in the main work or something.

It's an odd situation. The odds of it actually BEING a problem I know are astronomically low, but I didn't get to where I am today without chronically overthinking everything.

I love that you have a desire to create, and I do not know who you are-- I don't know if you already have projects and characters of your own and just want to branch out with something familiar-but-new, but I want to encourage you to use this energy and focus for writing all the same. If you can put it into your own works, hell yeah, but also: yes I would be flattered if you used my dorks and their silly little worlds. It's just the concern where I'm not finished with the stories yet. I just am, again, overthinking and overworrying, likely, but if I could stop doing those things then life would presumably be easier.

I would be absolutely down for like, experimental works I believe is the best term for what I'm looking for. Characters and stories based off of my works that are wholly new. Want to write a refracted AU about Melinda and Hank in Space? Fuck yeah, yes. Though I mentioned this to Zip and they immediately told me No, We're Doing That One and we laughed about it for a hot minute, so maybe not exactly those names hahaha

I guess another question here is, if you were to put in the effort and the focus and the pride of writing something based on my characters, of a scene you had in your head, and got through the beauty and pain of creation to get it down and then put it out there, how would you feel if something similar then happened in the main work? Not the same, not based on what you did, but that similarity still there and still noticeable at least to you. Like if someone had written (before I had posted them) something similar to Melanie being involved in a Naval battle, even though I have the receipts that that arc was written in November of 2022 and only finished posting in September 2023, I don't know how they would feel to still see that like, a similar idea had been there.

On one hand, personally, I love being in the G/t community and reading other people's works when I have the spoons and focus and time to do it, because I love that something as simple as "small person falls and big person catches them" permeates the ideas so often, and what that can mean to dozens of different creators. Refracting the same light through a diamond and watching the facets all scatter it differently, etc etc. It's beautiful. It makes me happy. But that's a personal thought, and I know how deep and personal writing can be. I know how much the process of creation can mean to the individual. I don't want you to go through that, to write something beautiful even if just for yourself, and then think in some possibility later that because I did something similar I was trying to do it 'better' or whatever. It's not the case, it's never the case.

So, after chatting about this with people I love in this community (I love you Zip and Kelly <3), I think the solution is: If you want to chat with me about the like, basic bare-bones of the ideas you might have just to give me a heads up, and I can let you know if it's something that'll be in the main works soon and if I'd rather you wait on something, or if I'd go 'oh fuck yeah, go ham', I would adore to chatter away with you about it all regardless. I'd love to chatter with you about writing in general! My characters, your characters, whatever. I'm down. Please feel free to hit me up and I'll get back to you whenever I can <3

Let me know what you think! Thank you so much for the sweet message and the ask!

Cheers,

~ Belle

[TL;DR]

When it comes to recursive works I'm interested and open to them provided they're not something major/heavy I'm planning to tackle too soon in the future canon, as the works are still being written and posted. I am always down to receive DMs about writing, and would prefer to get messages about the recursive fic ideas (as vague as you'd like them to be!) just so I can give a quick yes/no on if it's something I'd rather you wait on until I can get it out myself, or whathaveyou. I don't see this being a huge problem, and if you're good for chatting then I'm positive we'll have a good time with this <3

Writing recursive fics for my existing, in-progress works means agreeing to the caveats that credit be given to me and the existing works, and clarifying when posting that the fic is not canon and the works they're referencing/possibly based on are still in progress/being written. It also means accepting that there is a chance that things tackled in your fics may be similar to things that have not yet been posted for said works.

When it comes to experimental fiction based on my characters, settings, or plot: hell yeah go full 50 Shades if you want to. File the serial numbers off of it and/or write something New Enough. It's what I did to Jonathan Swift, please feel free to do it to me hahaha.

Shortest answer: Yes, just send me a quick message first <3

[runningfrom2am]

extremely late chapter 14 thoughts:

1. sejanus as much as i love you- maybe not throw yourself inside the house when coryo is having an existential crisis.

2. i love lennox because there should be at least one person who thinks the right way. i hope lennox keeps him on his toes so he thinks three times before doing anything.

3. “Unless you still didn’t see it that way.” ohhhh… the drama.

4. “the back cover of an old book about a man who hunted humans.” is the book “the most dangerous game”?

5. trying to materialise her morals with her prize must’ve been awful. only having money to hold as you’re in a train for that long with that many thoughts, i can’t even imagine.

6. i truly love the family r has and how even that makes her different than lucy gray. the latter was the oldest in her unit, as far as i know, while r isn’t meant to take care of anyone. also you are doing an excellent job at not casting them aside, as side characters usually exist for a quick second in fanfics.

7. Coriolanus Snow Being Honest To A District Woman? It’s More Likely Than You Think.

8. well, ladybugs bring luck.

9. thank you so much for not making her jump to his arms in a few seconds. she went through hell in that arena and at least half of it could be traced back to coryo. the emotional weight of that isn’t something that will lift quickly. she is bound to him by something greater than her feelings.

10. “I am yours for the walk and especially when I walk away.” MA’AM IS THIS FORESHADOWING IN A WAY?

welcome back bestie!! also i hope you had such a great birthday !!

1. yeah he was not thinking LMAO he was just like “on my way to see my friend !” and lucy gray was like “bro cmon read the room”

2. yes i love him :’) he was ready to swing immediately. i really love writing sibling relationships bc with my brother i’ve had so many different perspectives on it through the years haha, but now it literally doesn’t matter i’m like “this person is annoying” and he’s like “i’ll fight them rn” lol. i really think lennox needs to bring that energy bc r is WAY too gentle for her own good, even after all that she went through. he’s a good kid, of course, raised by the same parents, but he’s not nearly as timid and i love him for it.

and ANOTHER thing ab lennox- him and lucy gray both know more than her parents do, and both are clearly protective of her but she is still willing to give coryo a chance. he sees coryo as untrustworthy and a threat to r even though he knows she cares about him, but lucy gray is more optimistic ab it. idk, i feel like they see the situation clearly but in very different ways.

3. he’s like “shit i came all this way to be shut down didn’t i-“ lol

4. yes ma’am 🫡🤭 i mean i know it’s a short story but i have seen individual prints of it too (i had someone on wp be like “but that’s not a book it’s a short story” like girl i know pls-

5. no literally i would lose my damn mind. like you’re staring at an amount of money that can change your life and trying to convince yourself it is somehow worth it (which i know she could never do) would be actual torture i think.

6. i love her family so much, like realistically i can’t imagine r being the person she is without having a loving and supportive family.

also thank you! i love lucy gray and the covey too much to neglect them. especially maude ivory!! we deserved more of her in the movie!!

7. no literally. especially r’s mom. i think he doesn’t consciously know it either but r had talked about her mom quite a bit while she was in the capitol so i think he trusts her more than he would care to if he didn’t feel like he “knew her”. also i think important to mention that his fathers death also affected her so deeply and even physically.

8. that they do 🤭

9. AH you are so welcome. like as much as that would have been cute or whatever i seriously don’t think that was even an option for her it wouldn’t have made even a bit of sense. honestly, she was more likely to bolt back out the door and make a run for it hahahaha

10. IDK WE’LL HAVE TO SEE

[jills-valentine]

The Pale Elf

ship: fem!Tav x Astarion

tw: smut towards the end

a/n: hello darlings, i jumped into the baldur's gate world and absolutely fell for that evil pale elf and couldn't resist the urge of writing a one shot with him, i hope it's not as bad as i think it is. hope you enjoy<3

summary: you look over Baldur's Gate, wondering what will come next, thinking what you're going to do after all of it is over...

The hum of the cool wind washes over you, as you watch Baldur’s Gate from afar. After all the exhausting travels and growing problems, there you are, looking over your final destination. The Elder Brain hiding somewhere where your eyes cannot reach, yet. The thought of all of this being over still cannot get to you, you don’t quite believe you’re so near to getting rid of the growing tadpole in your brain. Another wash of wind hits your body, this time even colder. Shivers go down your spine, as you wrap your arms around to try and keep at least some warmth.

Suddenly you feel a hand on your lower back.

There he is.

“Are you alright, darling?” Astarion asks with worry in his eyes.

“Yeah, I’m fine, just a little cold.” You reply.

“Well then, good that the finest and hottest vampire walking on this planet just came to your side. Isn’t it?” He smirks, stepping closer to you.

You giggle lightly.

“Subtle and humble. Just like always.” You smile. “But yes, I do appreciate your glorious presence, my love.”

You wrap your arms around his waist, laying your head on his chest. Closing your eyes, you feel his arms embracing you.

“I’ve needed this.” You admitted.

“I know darling. That’s why I came. I felt something was wrong. Do you wish to talk about it?” He asks softly.

“I just cannot comprehend that all of this is going to be over soon. I know the tadpoles aren’t any good, but I cannot quite imagine what life is going to be after we get rid of it. I just can’t handle the thought of travelling without you or the rest, it breaks my heart…”

“I do understand your worries, love. But no one ever said we cannot travel with each other after all this is over. Darling, believe me when I say, I’m not leaving your side at any given moment. You’re not getting rid of me, doll.” His gaze piercing through you.

You get chills from those words. He notices that and smirks again. You feel his hands sliding down your back, stopping at your bum. He looks deeply into your eyes, while giving it a slight squeeze.

A whimper escapes your lips.You quickly hide your face in his chest.

He laughs.

“That was adorable, darling.” He grabs your chin, guiding your gaze onto him. “You truly make me feel things I’ve never thought in 200 years, I would be able to feel. I fear you’re a good influence on me.” He grins.

“And what is that, I’m making you feel Astarion?”

He caresses your cheek.

“Happiness, safety, appreciation and I think…” He stops, a bit unsure about what words are about to come out of his lips. “I think, love.”

Your pupils widen.

“Love? Really? Are you sure?” You can’t quite believe he said that word.

“Listen, darling. I’ve already told you, you’ve ruined my entire plan. I wanted to seduce you, have sex and move on, but from that moment on, you’ve been nothing less but the kindest and most loving person ever, and my plan failed. How could I not fall for you? Impossible.” He exclaims. “I’ve been thinking about this for quite a long time… And yes, I’m sure. Without joking or lying now. All seriousness doll… I love you.”

You feel like the world around you just stopped. You look at Astarion in awe, tears falling down your cheeks. He really said it, and he really sounded sincere, true, honest.

“Oh no… You’re crying? I shouldn’t have said that, should I? Did I hurt you?” He worries.

“No, Astarion… These are tears of happiness, ‘cause you sounded real when you said that. Like you really meant it. And you can’t imagine how much I’m gonna cherish the moment of you saying it. Never believed I’d hear it.” You smile through tears. “I love you too, Astarion. I truly do.”

You pull him into a kiss. Wrapping your arms around his neck tightly, so he can be as close to you as possible.

The kiss is passionate, filled with lust and a hint of longing.

“You’re immaculate, love, such perfection.” He gasps.

You try to guide him down to your neck. He resists.

“Not now darling… Find me after everyone’s asleep, same place. Like always. ‘Cause you will, won’t you?” He pulls you by the collar. You nod. “Good doll.”

—

You wander into the forest, trying to remember the exact route to your place. However, Astarion decided to find you first by suddenly grabbing you from the back.

“By the Hells! You want me to die?” You exclaim. Your heart rushing from the sudden “surprise” of your lover.

He laughs loudly.

“You should’ve seen your face! Oh my, my stomach is starting to hurt.” A wide smile on his gorgeous face.

You can’t resist and smile with him.

“Excuse me, darling. But that was hilarious. Truly.” His mood quickly changes. “But we haven’t come here for laughs, have we, love?”

You smirk at him.

You start to unbutton your shirt while stepping back.

“Catch me if you can, spawn.” You giggle and throw your shirt at his face.

You run in a random direction, making your lover catch you.

“Oh you’ve made a mistake now, love…” He whispers as he runs after you.

It’s like a predator hunting its prey.

You swiftly look back, and you stop abruptly, looking in every direction, as Astarion is nowhere to be seen.

“Shit.” You exhale.

“Got caught, doll.” He whispers in your ear, his hands sliding onto your breasts. “Never run away from me again, understood?”

You nod, feeling your heart in your throat.

His fingertips going in circles on your nipples, driving you crazy. The heat between your legs getting more intense by the moment.

You moan.

“I know you love my touch darling. Make all of Baldur’s Gate hear you.” He says as his hand slides down into your pants. “Don’t hold it in, no need to.”

You never even wanted to hold it in, as the pleasure from his hands working magic on your clit, make you almost scream his name out.

But he stops.

You turn to face him. He’s all naked, his body glimmering in the moonlight, as it was carved by the gods themselves.

He looks you up and down, stopping at the last piece of clothing remaining on you. You get the message and quickly get rid of it.

He steps forward.

He kisses you gently, biting on your lip.

“I wanna taste you so badly, love…” He whispers.

“Do it, Astarion. I’m all yours and only yours.”

You feel a sudden wave of stinging pain on your neck.

He drinks you, as if you were the finest wine, tasting each droplet of your blood.

Your neck is starting to go numb. You grab onto his back, digging your nails in from the, not so pleasant, sensation.

He pulls away, licking off your blood from his lips.

“You’re a gift that keeps on giving. I want you to know that I do not take your gifts for granted. I cherish them all, my love.”

He swiftly picks you up and leans against a tree, to get stability.

“Now I will return the pleasure you just gave me.” He says as he sticks his dick into you.

You moan.

You take it in inch by inch.

Your hips collide as you take Astarion fully.

“Good gods, doll… You’re amazing.” He moans.

He isn’t wasting any of your precious time and starts thrusting back and forth at a quick pace.

Both of you calling out each other’s names in ecstasy. Both in complete bliss.

You feel a familiar shiver at the top of your spine, climax slowly caving in.

“Astarion…” You whimper. “I love you.”

You feel your orgasm washing over you.

“Doll…” His thrusts getting sloppy. “I love agh-” You feel him finishing inside. His body leaning onto yours. “You too…” He whispers out.

You embrace each other, enjoying the mutual moment of euphoria.

“Shall we lay down for a minute?” You suggest.

Astarion nods. He pulls out of you and sets you lightly on the ground.

You both lay down onto the grass. You swiftly lay your head onto your lover’s chest and he wraps his arm around you.

For a moment, you both stay silent, taking the moment in.

“Are you alright my love?” He looks down on you.

“I couldn’t be more alright in my life.”

You lean in to kiss his soft lips, enjoying each other’s presence, trying not to think about the things coming the next day.

[madamemillennialmalaise]

Malaise Moodlog, No. 5: 30 Minutes

The other day, while I was in bed in clogged-nose agony, I stumbled upon a weird video from an account that seemed to be one of those finance bros giving business advice. It was sus at first, but what the hell—I had nothing else to do. I watched it. It was a man writing on a whiteboard, explaining something about mindfulness and how to find the answers you need when you’re stuck.

He said, “Sit still for 30 minutes and try not to think about anything” (or something like that). I was like, well, that’s actually called meditation, but okay… And then he continued, saying, “Try it for 20 to 30 minutes. It’ll clear your mind and give you focus and the answers you need most.”

If you’ve been to actual therapy or checked out mental health videos from professionals, mindfulness is a term that comes up a lot. Being grounded and staying in the present is key to snapping out of anxiety attacks or calming the nervous system. It’s not a one-time-big-time thing. It’s like a muscle—you have to train it repeatedly until it becomes part of your being, just like physical exercise.

I’ve tried it a couple of times, but not with the consistency that would give me mental biceps if it were about physical health. Every time I did, I felt relaxed, but I never really understood where it was going. It always just felt like a pause—and as soon as I stopped, I returned to the restlessness and chaos.

But the way this finance dude said it made it feel so simple that my body just said, let’s do this. Set a timer. Sit still. Try not to think or solve anything. Just sit still.

So I set the timer. I lay still in bed. I treated it like meditation—just without the guided video I was used to. Every time my mind flew off to another thought like, oh look, it’s the popcorn ceiling again… I remember when they installed this… and when they painted it—I’d stop, shake my head, and tell myself: stay in the present, stay in the present, stay in the present.

What do I hear? What do I smell? What do I feel in all parts of my body? What do I see? What do I taste?

Each time I drifted, I brought myself back to the present. I kept breathing in deeply, holding it, and breathing out. I realized that when I focus on my breath, I also focus on the present—and I stop thinking about anything else. Well, duh, this is what the therapists and mental health professionals have been telling you, Ms. Malaise. But yeah, it just finally registered!

I was like, geez, how many more minutes?

I didn’t feel a breakthrough or anything.

Then I realized—this isn’t just about physical senses. I have mental and emotional senses too. So I switched gears and did a roll call on all my personas. After all, they should be joining me in this exercise. They’re all part of me.

At first, I only saw the group I’ve been dealing with these past few years: the ones managing the chaos, the ones needing saving, the ones in distress. We were sitting on the floor, cross-legged, in a small circle, holding hands. And they were all smiling, as if to say, hey, this is the first time we’ve all been together—and we’re not in distress. Madame Malaise was actually resting and relaxing. It felt like our first team-building exercise. I saw them enjoying it.

But I knew these weren’t all of me. My therapist always said that when I focus too much on certain personas and get irritated when others try to speak up, it could mean they feel neglected or invalidated. And that neglect threatens their existence. So they force themselves into the spotlight through brutal mental force.

So I took one big inhale—and widened the circle to include those I may have once threatened. The new personas that came in had blurry faces. I thought, Come on, Ms. Malaise. You know yourself better than this…

…and then, poof.

I saw every version of me—from two years old, to the kid who graduated Prep school in that dress my mom bought (which, to my horror, the teacher's daughter—who owned the school—was also wearing), and I looked lousy in the photo, to the hopeful little Ms. Malaise who was excited about what the future would bring

To the curious 11-year-old wondering what it would feel like to have breasts. To the puberty-stricken teen who had bad skin and thought, when I turn 16, my skin will be smooth and I’ll be drop dead gorgeous. You'll see! It didn't turn out that way, but I did have better skin. To the Ms. Malaises who set boundaries—no relationships, no alcohol, no crazy parties, just study.

To the 20-year-old who lived abroad. To the 21-year-old who desperately wanted a boyfriend and got one. To the ones who began work and were too naïve and too polite.

To the one whose heart was broken. To the ones who went through so much shit. To the brave ones who pushed me when I felt like I couldn’t go on.

Even to the Ms. Malaise who signed the Do Not Resuscitate order—because we all knew my mother wasn’t getting better.

I saw the good Ms. Malaises. The badass ones. I apologized to those I had neglected, the ones I put aside just to survive.

I forgot who I was. I tied my identity to Mother Malaise, and when she died, I thought I ended too.

I only championed the version of me who survived all that crap—never the one who triumphed.

I cried so much. My throat was so tight. I couldn't speak clearly. I stood in front of all of them—apologizing, asking for forgiveness, and forgiving myself. I said sorry for every time I thought they were ugly or unworthy. I pointed out our good moments. I felt so light. So hopeful. It was like euphoria. I felt elevated and elated.

And just as I was thanking them all, asking for a group hug, and promising to truly see them—not to hide or push them aside…

…the timer went off.

The 30 minutes were over.

I had expected an answer to what I should do in life, but I think finance bro might be on to something. Because what I got wasn’t an answer about what I thought I needed, which was what should I do...

…it was a reminder of who I am.

I’m looking forward to the next 30 minutes again. :)