#my brain is whirring with what to do with them in my story

[taegularities]

colour me in: seven | jjk (m)

Summary: At first, it's an argument that causes the unwanted, childish distance between Jungkook and you. And then… open blazers and a lip ring.

➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: est. rel.; fluff, smut ➳ warnings: an argument, cute couple-y things but also they're dorks n cringe sometimes, seven jk (incl the promo pics, laundromat hoodie bf koo, and drenched in the rain koo!!), fighting over food, they're a bit mean to each other, but they adore each other too, brief mention of a rough childhood, sexual tension, taeun being everything, kissing, dumb jokes, period and pms mention!!, a photoshoot!, subtle hints to the future of the main story :'); explicit sexual content: ahh.. making out, dirty talk, oral (f. & m. receiving), brief spanking, face-fcking, light choking, sweet and rough sex, dom jk, big dick jk, whipped simp jk, petnames, multiple orgasms, sex on the couch n on the floor? :'), he loves her a$$ and tiddies, multiple positions, cockwarming!!, mention of aftercare... the ending lol :D ➳ word count: 25k lmfaoo it's oneshot sized yall 😁 ➳ a/n: hi!! welcome back!! this is part of my series colour me in, but you can read it as a standalone-oneshot!! tysm for supporting me and encouraging me, guys, it means so so much. this is also unbeta'd, so pls go easy on me LOL. and since this was a piece of worrrrk.. come and talk to me about it, it makes my day fr fr <33 ➳ listen to: seven by jungkook | full collaborative playlist 🤍

SERIES MASTERPOST | TAGLIST MASTERLIST | WIPs

In hindsight, your argument was blissfully domestic after all. In hindsight, maybe even comedic.

You’ve seen these things on TV and read about them in novels; didn’t experience them growing up because your parents didn’t really fight over such harmless matters. They never needed to lift a finger in their ultramodern kitchen, filled with up-to-the-minute equipment to fill their table.

But Jungkook and you don’t rely on such luxuries. You do things for yourself. So, such a couple-y, casual life leads to couple-y, casual arguments. Requires it. Fighting is healthy; entangles two souls some more.

Which is exactly where you are now. Exactly what you’ve become: A true unit. Quarrelling over trivial, everyday things.

Just to end up folded in half, holding onto the very last of your sanity, biting back more inappropriate screams.

In regards of making up, you’re perhaps not that casual. Because he’s a relentless, brutal beast.

Wrecking you right where everything began.

Monday

The end of the day begins with a giant hole in the middle of your thoughts.

Your previously whirring brain tossed away all thoughts of advertisements and seasonal launches, vacant and dark until your senses shut down everything that wasn’t vital to survival.

Like the lights of the evening as your car passed the streetlamps. The tired faces on the pedestrian zone, the odd wrinkles in your skirt, or the scent wafting from the kitchen when you step out of your heels.

Your mind operates on reflexes and automatic movements; the ball of your palm rubs against your eyelid, realising too late that you’re probably smearing your eyeliner.

A sense of reality only truly returns when you hear a familiar voice call out your name, muffled through the walls between you.

You exit the bedroom with fingers scratching the nape of your neck, tiny steps floating over the floor and past the living room. On the coffee table, you register one or two dishes. Rice, too. Smells so good, but…

As you reach him in the kitchen, you halt at the threshold, eyes scurrying to the few pots and ladles in the sink. He’s diligent and fast; cleans up when dinner simmers. Minimal work left after the meal.

For a moment, you take in the cleanliness of the kitchen, and when your eyes move up to the man himself, you beam.

He’s wearing an apron – baby blue with little flowers and rainbows imprinted on it. His mom bequeathed him with one of her old ones, and he’s been boasting about it ever since.

You saw one with astronauts, moons and telescopes once; you might purchase it for him at some point, not least of all because it includes all the things the two of you love.

A tattooed hand pushes back his mane, messy and pointing in all directions the way it does after his showers. His fingers card through the fine tresses two more times before he turns towards you — an immediate smile, similar to yours, spreads across his face.

The tiny little dimples over the corners of his mouth distract you for a second until you see his hand at waist level, beckoning you into the kitchen and a greeting, sweet embrace.

Compared to the cold outside, his oversized, full-sleeve, white shirt offers a familiar warmth. He always smells the same, musky and fresh; not like cherry blossoms at all, but he reminds you of their softness.

Mixed with the scent of tonight’s meal, you inhale it all, wrapping your arms around him as your eyes close in exhaustion. If he wasn’t swaying you in his hold, you’d probably fall asleep, right there against his chest.

A kiss to your temple, and he asks, “Hungry?”

You’re not sure. You cuddle into the apron and whatever’s visible of his shirt, and mumble against him, “Not too much… to be honest, I was gonna shower and sleep.”

“Oh?” he wonders immediately, traces of disappointment in his voice. “But I made this for you.”

You smile again. “You did?”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll eat, don’t you worry.” You take a deep breath, and then lift your head off his chest without letting go. “In all honesty. I saw the food outside and thought you had it delivered.”

“So you were gonna waste something you thought was restaurant food?”

You laugh. You’re sure you could see his rosy pout even if you weren’t looking straight at him.

“No. It just looks very good… I would’ve heated it up tomorrow. But since yours was a one-person-effort,” you pat his back in pride, watching as strands of his bangs fall back into his eyes, “we shall eat.”

“And it comes from the heart, too.”

“Right. It comes from the heart, too.”

You rub his back once, soon backing away. There isn’t much to do for you anymore, but you still grab a couple napkins, chopsticks and spoons as he carries some water into the living room.

The couch feels soft, true Heaven, when you sink into it. Your heartbeat slows down, your mind at ease; when you tilt your head, your neck cracks.

But clinking your glasses of water with someone who cherishes you enough to step back and forth in a kitchen for hours… It's a comfort that’s incredibly close to a peaceful night’s sleep.

And it’s worth the effort, too. Despite the conversation and your complaints about work, you can’t help but compliment dinner every other moment. Possibly another endearing habit you picked up from him.

But you slow down when fatigue returns bit by bit, your eye twitching when you feel a well-known tickling in it.

You’re careful of potential spices when you lift your thumb and rub your eye with the back of it, fighting the itch. For a moment, you stop chewing, and Jungkook only lifts his gaze to you when the movement against your eye continues, circling motions.

“Hey,” he says, grasping your wrist, pulling it down slowly, “that’s bad for the cornea.”

“Yeah, I mean. It’s not like my cornea's been nice to me, either.”

You resume chewing, swallowing the mushy remnants of the rice. Your attention falls back to the bowl of food, and your chopsticks aimlessly poke around for a second before he asks, “Why? You okay?”

“Mhm,” you say, nodding gently. “It’s just,” you point to your eyes, chopsticks dangerously close to your face, “that eye thing. It might be an infection or something. It’s so bad today that it’s hurting my head.”

You’ve complained about the issue a couple times — back when it was just an itch, you assumed it was the dusty town, perhaps even sleep deprivation. But the itch has transformed into a relentless pain, moving up your temples and across your forehead.

“Again, yeah?” Jungkook asks, following with a tender gesture of tucking your hair back. The pad of his thumb brushes over your eyebrow. “I’ll massage your head before we go to sleep.”

You sigh in relief, tired eyelids shutting briefly as you claim, “You’re the fucking best, you know?”

“Yeah.” He delivers a nonchalant, drama-esque shrug of his shoulder. Unmistakable smirk. “I guess I do know.”

The giggles from when you started dating still remain. You remember annoying the hell out of your friends back then, high school butterflies visible through your stomachs and in your bright grins.

Jungkook’s ears would redden, a smile even in your eyes. You can imagine how irritating the honeymoon phase felt to them — not that the two of you ever snapped out of it.

Even now, you’re drowning in it.

Well, until you’re not.

Because the moment he slings his arm around you, leaning back, his plate and bowl empty, you move forwards. Place your own dishes onto the table, cuddling further into him.

Only, he seems to interpret it differently.

“Aren’t you eating anymore?”

Not the message you intended to deliver. But perhaps… he’s not wrong after all.

Because…

While the evening ended on a gentle note, much needed, you’re done with today by now. Craving a warm bed, strong arms around you. A sweet, soft sleep.

And the meal is worth a thousand culinary stars, but your appetite keeps dwindling, and hadn’t he put so much effort and affection into all this, you would’ve probably headed straight to bed.

So you answer truthfully, “I can’t eat more…”

“Hmm.” He briefly points to your portion. “You just ate half of it.”

Brief silence. It must’ve gotten late, because among the quieter traffic on the main road afar, you hear a couple nightlife bugs chirping, too.

You look between the bowl and him slowly, blinking, unsure what to say. The arm around your shoulder doesn’t match his tone, so it feels a little awkward now.

You mutter, “I’m sorry.”

Because should you force yourself to scarf all of this down now, you probably won’t be able to sleep.

But Jungkook’s hums and insecure voice are making you feel bad — you know he doesn’t mean to. It’s the puppy-doe nature, a combination of forlorn, soft eyes and pouty words.

“Ah… It’ll go bad by tomorrow, but…” he starts, but you cut in—

“Fridge?”

An immediate shake of his head, a click of his tongue. “Not with that one. I mean, we could, but it’s gonna be all dry and unpalatable in the morning, y’know?”

You don’t fully have a right to be annoyed. Neither of you does. But the day’s been irksome, work a mess, paper sheets flying around — on top of that, you finished your blister pack of birth control last Friday.

The period, probably approaching tomorrow and meddling with your busy schedule, is already putting you in a sour mood.

So the current lack of a solution doesn’t help your drooping eyelids and still partly tumultuous mind.

You push yourself forward on the couch, sighing before you suggest, “Okay. Then I’ll eat.”

“Woah,” he immediately voices, dropping his arm. He attempts to pull the bowl out of your reach, but you grip it tight, swallowing a small bite of rice. “I’m not forcing you to.”

“Yeah, but still.”

Another sigh of frustration falls out of you, your full stomach crying, but you pull the bowl to you, another bite ready between your chopsticks. But a moment later, Jungkook pushes your hand down again, every rice corn falling back to its prior place, fortunately never leaving the bowl.

Unbelieving, you shoot an aghast glare at him, to which he responds, “Don’t force it. Seriously.”

A rice corn still sticks to your lower lip, and you pull it in with the tip of your tongue. You place the warm meal back onto the table, half turning to Jungkook, voicing an irritated, “Dude!”

“You don’t have to,” he assures, but he looks clearly offended. Looks away, rubs his thigh, eyeing every object on the table before he adds quieter than before, “You know… That’s happened a couple times in the last few weeks.”

“…What did?”

“I’d cook for you and you wouldn’t finish it.”

“Babe… The last few weeks have been tiring.”

“I know,” his voice grows higher at the end of the syllable, but then calms again after a sigh. “But we refrigerated a lot of stuff, some of which I shared with Joon or Tae the next day. Or threw away.”

“Nah.” The ridiculing smirk you respond with isn’t intentional. You drop it right away, but still shake your head in disbelief, defending, “You know I eat up most of the time, especially when you cook. Just today, I can’t do more than this, okay?”

He gulps. Two fingers scratch his ear, eyes once again skimming over empty plates or remnant-filled bowls. He drops his digits back to his thighs, rubbing once more, and then puffs out a breath between rounded lips before he comes to a stand.

And then, all he does is nod; shooting a simple, “Alright.”

His tone is stern. You recognise the expression — his eyes still big, but different now. Usually filled with warm sparkles, they look pissed now. Not because of his dropping lids or the missing crinkles.

Jungkook doesn’t need to move a lot of muscles to look angry; the lack of the glimmer is just enough. 

His lips are shut, not parted as they usually are when he focuses on something like his art or cooking or cleaning up. He’s exhaling and inhaling deeply through his nose, hands working on the dishes, but the fall and rise of his chest…

“You’re mad,” you conclude.

He looks back at you, the corners of his mouth never moving. His tone remains flat as he tries to convince you, “No. All good.”

Straightening his back, he attempts to walk away, hiding away in the kitchen until you’ve fallen asleep. He and you don’t argue too much — the little, couple-y, casual fights aren’t quite fights at all.

But they do end with a short distance until one is ready to approach the other and communicate again. A good strategy to cool your minds. You wouldn’t wanna discuss such a thing right away.

This time, however, you don’t want him to leave.

You pull him back again, holding onto the cotton shirt, and he protests with a loud call of your name and furrowed eyebrows as you insist, “No, you are mad.”

Your hand pushes against the couch, your body lifting, and you look him in the eye with a frustrated crease between your eyebrows. “Kook, I just am not capable of finishing it right now. You’re making a bigger deal out of it than you sho—”

“Yeah. Okay,” he interrupts, feigning acceptance and understanding, “it’s fine.” You scoff; sometimes, he’s truly as moody as you. “Things are different here, it’s fine.”

…What?

The sentence nearly comes out as a whisper as he finally starts walking away, and you only register it when he’s halfway out of the room. He balances the dishes in both hands, and you follow him to the kitchen.

Ask, “What’s different? Where’s here?”

“I work, too, you know? I get tired, too.”

“Jungkook,” you try again, slamming the hand against the counter; the sound’s muffled by a bright green cleaning cloth. “What are you talking about, things are different here?”

“Just.” He doesn’t seem to wanna talk. Carefully, he places the empty stuff in the wash basin, working on finding containers to dump the leftovers in them. “I get tired from working in the city, too, but I guess I grew up differently.”

…Huh.

You wait.

Let him collect his thoughts until he tells you, “In the countryside, you work for food, so you get used to finishing dinner. I know people around here rely on supermarkets, and honestly, I do, too,” his shoulders rise as he shovels the tofu dish into a box, “and I guess that’s why it makes sense why it’s easier for you to leave leftovers.”

Wow. Some statements in this world you live in are genuinely unfair.

You understood each of his words and lectures perfectly, but you still voice a little, “Huh?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re not being serious.”

“Maybe.”

You blink. Then blink a couple times more. Observe as he closes the boxes and puts them in the fridge with a sigh. And you feel bad, you swear, you do. But that unnecessary turn of events…

“So what, you mean we don’t work for our food, right?” you counter, a hand on your waist. “We might do less physical labour, so that must mean we don’t appreciate what we get, yeah?”

Damn. And what if there’s more to that? What if—

“Or do you think it’s because I’ve always had enough money to not worry?”

Okay. Perhaps a long shot. He didn’t say it, but what if that’s exactly what his thought process was, too?

Your inner panic, invisible on the outside, grows when he doesn’t answer, lips firmly locked as if they didn’t just spew some crisp bullshit. You fold your arms, sucking air through your nose, and then demand, “Apologise.”

And when his eyes lift to yours, you freeze. God, they’re deadly. And his ingenuine laugh even more so as he throws back, “No, you apologise. Especially for assuming things I neither said nor thought of.”

“You were rude. I’m asking you nicely to take it back.”

“As nicely as I cooked for you. World’s in balance again, I guess!”

He throws his hands up, staring at you until he’s passed you by, eyes rolling. His nonchalant, idle movements rile you up more, and you can’t help but participate further in that odd exchange.

“You douchebag,” you call out, shutting the bedroom door as you reach inside, “I’m not a snob. I’d always finish my stuff, you can even ask the cook in my old house. He loved me because I wasn’t a picky eat—”

“Listen,” he interjects again, “I know. It's fine. I’ll sleep,” he points to the bed, “because this tired me out. Just drop it.”

“So you can drop it as you please?”

“Nah, just asking you to rest,” the first word comes out louder than he anticipated, his shrug vexed and vexing. He clears his throat. “And I’m sure you’re tired of this, too.”

You groan.

“And if I want to—”

“It’ll just escalat—”

“Dude, I—”

And once more, he showcases his annoyance when he glares at you from the other side of the bed, shutting you up, blanket already lifted. You anticipate another rude remark, a way of justification or to blurt something he doesn’t mean.

But despite his recent idiocy, you don’t deem him an asshole. Not to you, at least. Which proves right as he takes a breather, one knee hitting the mattress as he finally states—

“Let’s sleep over it, okay?”

The tone still isn’t as peaceful as it could be; you know it’s a tactic to dodge a fight. You might not be on your best domestic side tomorrow yet. But his question is final and his gaze even stricter.

So you reluctantly sigh, eyes still fiery as you breathe, “Fine.”

But it’s not fine. And the turbulent week ahead, filled with chaos for you and peak comedy to others, might just be about to prove it to you.

Tuesday

You chew on your bites until the taste turns bland.

Still distracted from last night’s exchange, you barely register the tart spicy quality of your dinner; a shame because this restaurant is your favourite place to frequent with friends.

Today, you’re toying with your cutlery, catching a glimpse of your grim reflection in the spoon every now and then. Whenever Jungkook’s elbow touches yours, your heart skips a bit, bleeding as much as your eyes want to water.

With how he’s smiling at your friends, appetite never faltering, you could burst into tears — because somewhere inside, you miss him despite the constant proximity.

Perhaps he does, too.

Because you notice when he drifts closer on purpose, casually putting his hand over yours. Seemingly lost in conversations, he rubs his thumb against the soft back of your hand; but when you look at him, you can’t muster a smile just yet.

It’s your ego, your stubbornness. Pieces of you want to stay pissed. You keep your cool, but try to avert your eyes whenever possible.

And when you, obstinate as last night, pull your hand from under his, you register the defeated sigh.

But instead of starting a new topic, he retracts his fingers, putting his arm on his table as he busies his other digits with his meal. When you dare a glance, the pretty curves of his blooming lips tug upwards, listening to Taehyung’s story.

Either hiding the discomfort between you or not feeling it.

Odd, because he’s your constant centre of attention.

“Yeah, I mean. Every job is stressful, you know? But it’s wholesome, too,” Taehyung narrates. You blink the silent pining away, and focus. “Like, one of my patients is an elderly man, a lot weaker than his wife. And she always comes with him, every single time.”

“She just waits for him the entire time?” Jungkook asks.

Next to Taehyung, Eun nods; she’s probably heard the story before.

“I mean, she entertains us, is more like it,” Taehyung explains. “He’s been getting geriatric physiotherapy to regain some strength, so he needs all the motivation he can get. And those two are such… dorks. They bicker all the time.”

You smile. Reminds you of when Jungkook and you first met. Persistent, pointless rivalry.

Perhaps Eun hasn’t heard all of this after all. Because as she cuts her dinner, she asks before stuffing her mouth with a bite, “How so?”

“Like. She’ll tell him to not be a baby and take that last step during gait training.”

From your right, Jungkook’s laugh reverberates like a melody from above, sickeningly sweet and amused. “Sounds like me and you at the gym, doesn’t it?”

Taehyung rolls his eyes, flicking away stray hair with his forefinger, “Yeah, only because you can lift weights that’d break my arms.”

Another chuckle from the side. Even you smile a little.

Your man is strong, alright — and you’ve always admired it, experienced it a couple dozen times.

You’ve yet to see him work out at a proper gym; the home workout sessions barely count.

Ugh. The violent heartbeat beneath your chest picks up on pace again, and you take a deep breath to calm it just a little.

“Anyway,” Taehyung continues, “then she’ll tease him how the neighbour downstairs has much more flexible legs than he does and he’ll argue how she should’ve married him… and then she tells him that she would’ve if she didn’t love his old ass so much.”

When you giggle, covering your chewing mouth behind your hand, he adds, “I swear! It’s the most standard old couple banter if I’ve ever seen one. Thought that stuff only happens on TV.”

Eun, still busy with the remnants of her meal, doesn’t look up but asks, “So they joke around like that? They don’t get mad at each other or anything?”

“They act like they do. Not a sliver of jealousy or anger in them, though. Insane… and adorable. I guess when you’re married long enough, that’s how relationships turn out. And they should, too, you know?”

Hmm…

You side-eye Jungkook for just a moment, but don’t say anything.

You don’t know what’s written in your future. No clue whether he’s a permanent presence in it, a firm part of your fate or not; you strongly hope for an eternity.

You want to picture him and you grey and old. Wrinkled hands, adorned with blue veins holding each other. Weak smiles and crinkles around his eyes, hidden behind glasses, ever-present.

If he’s your future, you hope to laugh about such fights one day. Hope to let people wonder whether you’re actually furious with each other, veiling unbridled affection behind snarky remarks.

Just… right now, you can’t laugh about it just yet. You still feel oddly offended by his words last night, and it doesn’t help when tonight seems to drift towards a similar ending.

Because as you ask for the bill at the end, Jungkook still pays. You don’t think about it too hard, letting him do, staying seated to finish your drinks.

But your exhaustion reaches a new, entirely unnecessary peak when he starts cracking his fingers. On any other day, you’d put a hand over his, reminding him not to and move on.

Today, you’re in a bad mood, and your demands come out accordingly piqued.

“Stop it.”

“Hm?” he voices, looking at you, the warm light of the restaurant reflecting in his dark brown eyes.

“This,” you point to his fingers, “stop that.”

“Why?”

“Because you know it makes me cringe. A bit annoying.”

Eun, still unaware of the tension between him and you, shrugs her shoulders, “I know that irks a lot of people, but I don’t think it’s that bad.”

“Because you do it, too,” Taehyung complains; she mocks him with a sly smirk and a quiet, Yeah, yeah. He adds, “I can’t stand it, either.”

You lift an open palm towards him, nodding, “So you understand.”

“I’ve seen you do it, too,” Eun argues with a light push against his shoulder, “multiple times!”

“But not as often as you. You start and do not stop.”

You immediately agree, “He’s just like that, too!”

To which Jungkook interjects, his voice still calm; but you still hear the growing aggravation in his voice when he starts, “Honestly, I—”

“He actually has a couple habits that are just—”

You blow a raspberry.

Your interruption triggers Jungkook. And your words, admittedly not quite the sweetest, don’t sit well with him, either, because a moment later, he’s leaning forwards again. Looking at you directly before he continues his irritating bone-cracking.

You grit your teeth and repeat, “Stop that.”

“What?” he shoots back. You flinch. “A habit you despise so much, yeah? I don’t get the same intense reaction when I do something nice for you.”

So untrue.

Fucking hell. He’s talking about yesterday again.

You exhale through your nose, possibly resembling a bull ready to attack; Taehyung and Eun shrink in front of you, grimacing at each other. You’d laugh if it wasn’t you trapped in that exasperating back and forth of exchanges.

“Oops,” Eun whispers, yet overshadowed by your words as you defend, “That’s not true.”

“Maybe,” Jungkook says, shrugging a shoulder with an outrageous smirk, “but you never get that angry when I crack them at home.”

“I just don’t say it.”

“Oh? What else do you not say, hm?”

Taehyung dares an attempt, “Guys.”

But you’re too heated, a little stupid, very ridiculous as you spit, “Like, how irritating it is that you smack your lips every other second.”

Jungkook puffs out a breath. Looks to the side, straight into Eun’s direction who sinks a little more. He curls his lower lip in, running his tongue over it, jaw clenched and sharp. If you weren’t so focused on your temper, you’d find it scorching hot.

In a harmless little fight, you’d keep annoying him until he lost it eventually, mounting you and shutting you up in the very tempting Jungkook-esque way he knows.

But not here, not right now.

Instead, he fucks you up further as he sneers, “Right.”

“Or,” you continue, “that you don’t clean up your working space after painting.”

“What?” He furrows his thick eyebrows, ignoring Taehyung’s call of Jungkook’s name. “I mean. You have all your documents scattered on the desk. I might need it, too, y’know?”

“Why don’t you say it then?” you ask, tilting your head with one cocked eyebrow of yours.

“‘Cause I wanna let you work? ‘Cause it’s important for me that you’re able to focus?” He looks away again, tutting; his shoulder moves with his deriding laugh as he mumbles, “The fuck, really.”

Somewhere inside, you feel bad. You know his words are true. But you can’t tell him yet; so you just glare at him.

As silence finally falls upon you, Eun moves towards the table again, glancing between the two of you as she wonders, “What’s wrong with you guys?”

Everything.

“Nothing,” you say.

“…You wanna go?”

You wait. Jungkook doesn’t answer. Looks to the ground. When you don’t respond either, his eyes lift to yours, still big but not as enthusiastic as usual. Intimidating even.

You stay still, so he only voices, “Uh-huh.”

And the couple, enduring your awkward moment, lets you go gladly. You pack up, finishing your drink, and when you leave your table, you notice just how many people were staring at you.

Still are.

You really embarrassed yourself in front of a crowd, huh?

As the daughter of rich parents, owning a huge ass clothing brand, this isn’t something you should’ve done. But you pray and hope that you won’t wake up to a headline, or that journalists won’t interpret your little feud as a reason to break up or some nonsense like that.

Trouble in Heaven, they’d call it. Predictable little cockroaches.

You trudge past the customers with a deep breath in; Jungkook doesn’t seem to care much, because he walks ahead, hands in the pockets of his linen cotton slacks. Doesn’t look around.

Only bids Taehyung and Eun goodbye; tells you to buckle up when the two of you get in your car; curses once or twice when he misses the green light by a second.

And when you’re at home, sighing as the night approaches its end, you shake your head. Unbelievable whatever transpired back at that place. And you thought you were warming up to each other again.

Guess it’s your fault this time.

Which is why you hum when he calls your name, watching you put on your nightwear; bed ready while you still need to take off your makeup.

His question baffles you; more so with the slightly irate tone.

“Will you still give me a good night’s kiss or?”

You roll your eyes. Don’t say anything; grab your skincare products before you get to work.

He sighs once more; you see the shake of his head before you disappear into the bathroom, hear him say, “Whatever.”

But when you come out with a light rosy scent on your skin and jump under your blanket, you still shift towards his slowly drifting body. His arm under his head, eyes closed, lower lip pouting that you target carefully and—

Press the lightest kiss against.

Immediately, you turn around. Imitate his position.

He doesn’t reach out to you as he usually does, pulling you into his arms. But you still feel the petal-soft brush of tender fingers against your arm before the touch retracts again — and eventually, you fall asleep.

WEDNESDAY

The only reason Jungkook accompanied you to the laundromat is because your clothes gathered into a huge mountain. Neglecting your responsibilities at home, you brought two bags, and he insisted on helping you out.

It's late afternoon. Work tired you out, dinner is still pending; you don’t want to be here. And the place is empty; a yawning void. Just you, alone with your tank-top and grey-blue zip up hoodie clad, messy-haired boyfriend.

The retro plastic laundromat seats tired him out, so he’s standing at the far back. His eyes follow the tossing and turning of the clothes in the washing machine, and sometimes, they trail back to you.

And you — you’re sitting in a corner, arms folded, still uncertain whether you should wait for an apology or opt for one yourself.

The distance is childish. You’re way more mature than that.

But your fight is childish, too, and you guess sometimes, even healthy couples fall back into kindergarten routines.

Once the clothes are done and dry, the journey back home approaching, he helps you out. Tramps to you, mutters a little, “Gimme. I’ll take this.”

The bag strap drags his hoodie off his shoulder a little, revealing the flowery tattoo. He doesn’t fix it; lost in thoughts and silent until home. As if he wants to say something, but doesn’t.

In the apartment, he asks, “Dinner or takeout?”

And you, learning and indisputably craving his affection in any shape or form, answer, “We can make dinner.”

“I’ll do it. Get some rest.”

You sigh in relief. There’s solace in your gratitude — today was arduous, much like the preceding days of this week. You bide your time until he’s done, and then help him set the table and clean the kitchen.

The evening passes without any hostility, but ends without many gestures of fondness, too.

THURSDAY

“You don’t need to come, too. I bet you’ve other stuff to do.”

Jungkook adjusts to your steps. He snatched a jacket way too insufficient for the frosty weather, but he won’t hurry if you don’t. Doesn’t stray from your side.

So you walk faster. Then he does, too.

He rubs his nose, shrugs a shoulder and responds, “I’ve nothing much to do today, really.”

“Yeah, but,” you pull at the sleeves of his jacket, urging him to rush through the wind, “you’ll get bored. And I’m a big girl.”

“I know that. But it’ll be fine. Wanna make sure you’re okay, too.”

He nudges your elbow. You can’t pinpoint whether he’s daring an attempt to set things right or is genuinely concerned. Or both. In some way, the tension between you lingers, and you can’t shake off the awkward feeling just yet.

So you only nod, holding off an answer for a moment. Staring ahead, you listen to the soft sounds of the city, blinded by headlights soon passing you by. A bit longer and the first snow will fall.

The consoling feeling of winter days draws closer, feels warm despite the frigid wind. Hot chocolatesque. There’s just something about wool shawls and warm jackets and old, animated Christmas movies.

One thing you miss about living in your parents’ big, fancy house in your very old neighbourhood is the chimney. The soft yellow and orange of the crackling fire, melting the cold over your skin.

Sometimes you’d sit on the fleecy white carpet, protected by a thick, warm turtleneck sweater, watching the dancing flames.

You wonder again — if Jungkook and you are truly written in the stars as one, will you move into a bigger place one day? Save money and expand the comfort of the current apartment, investing in even more soothing walls with a couple little additions.

Not the lush, exaggerated luxury you grew up with. Not necessarily anything snobby.

But casual, domestic things, like a fire side you can sit in front of, drinking tea, slow dancing and giggling in the dark. Lit by the chimney fire; familiarity.

You sigh.

“It’s been long since I went to the dentist, too,” Jungkook then says, and you hum. That’s sudden.

“You should go then.”

“Yeah,” he says, eyes darting from your face to your hands. You unintentionally bury them in the pockets of your jacket the moment he reaches out for you; and when he understands that you didn’t notice, he curls his fingers into fists. “Maybe I can get an appointment now? Do they take walk-ins?”

You furrow your eyebrows. “I don’t know.” Then, upon realisation, you laugh a little and say, “I’m not going to the dentist.”

“What?”

“What?” You stare back with eyes as big as his. “Optometrist, Koo.”

His raised eyelids are nothing new. He’s attentive when it comes to you; recognises, notices and remembers every little thing. But you guess he truly has been tired, too.

And you feel bad for not considering it as much as he considered it. The reason he cooked for you in the first place, right?

You press your lips into a line, stare down to a puddle on the ground; an aftermath of the rain.

“Oh,” he makes, “why did I think we were going to— Sorry. My bad.”

In actuality, you did wonder if he knew. He didn’t ask questions when you told him you were leaving; simply announced he was going with. You were pulling socks over your ankles as his rushing form scurried across the room.

You guessed he’d figured it out. But the fact that he was ready to accompany you without a certain clue where you were heading makes you a little giddy.

Clearing your throat, you clarify, “No worries. It’s about that pain in my eyes. Remember?”

You wouldn’t be mad if he didn’t. Preceding your fight by perhaps a couple minutes, you don’t think the tiny statement still holds any relevance to him anymore.

Right?

Wrong.

“Yeah,” he answers, “yeah, of course. You thought it was an infection.”

“Mhm,” you hum, ignoring the butterfly wing slamming against your insides, “I’m so sure it’s an infection.” You click your tongue. “Itch first, and now it gives me migraines.”

“Yeah, you told me… But. It’s nothing serious, I just know.”

You look at his sculpted side profile.

You know him. Jungkook doesn’t actually know, of course — that’s not why he’s saying that he does.

But because hope is better than pure uncertainty; and he likes trying to manifest. He believes in little miracles like this. Knocks on wood a lot, tries not to voice potential disasters in case they might actually roll around.

So you take the reassurance. Walk to the clinic in silence. Attempt more small talk in the waiting room until they drench your corneas in those odd, blinding eye drops, dilating your pupils.

The brief, quick tests follow; the assistant is young and gentle, and you try your best to be a good patient. She seems to enjoy your temporarily formal behaviour, perfected in the years you grew to be a reputable heir.

You drop it once you’re in the waiting room again, awaiting the final consultation and results.

Jungkook is a restless companion. No matter how irritating, you’re used to the constant swaying and the movements of his legs. One might think he is anxious for you, eyes locking on the head doc’s office door every now and then.

Yet, he wonders, “Are you nervous?”

“Nervous?” you repeat, breathing out a tiny, amused laugh. “Nah. He’s really nice. And it’s just some eye stuff.”

“Well, eyes are important.”

The words come out quickly, but the last syllable dies gradually.

You smile.

Jungkook sometimes reminisces about a time when he’d hide from relatives or eat lunch at the back of class back in elementary school. He tires out the term introvertness, and you repeatedly retort with a certain ambivertness.

At times, he’s loud, flirty, annoying and confident — gives you a hard time believing that he ever averted a girl’s gaze or hid behind his cousins.

But then… there are moments when you see it.

Like now.

The puffy cheeks, the youthful pout, the big, big eyes flashing to the ground. Unsure what to say, unsure what you’re thinking of him.

Until he gulps, keeping his voice quiet and low as he continues, “Have you ever had a private optometrist?”

Huh. Not a question you expected. You guess starting the week with a discussion about wealth makes him think of such things these days.

“Yeah,” you say, shifting in your seat. You can still not see him clearly; his features are blurry, and you squint. “When I was younger. Big, bright places and top notch equipment.”

“Why did you stop?”

“I mean… It's not like usually used equipment, like here, is any worse than theirs. Also, same reason as why I went to a public college. Normalcy, I guess.”

“Odd.”

“…Why?”

“Because,” he draws a sharp breath, staring ahead. “Despite all the normalcy, you’re as extraordinary as can get. Money or not.”

A heartbeat passes. Among the sounds of the quiet chatter around you and the ads in the TV at lowest volume, your breath mingles with the hushed noises like a whisper.

His slowly blinking eyes are genuine, your reflection in his dark brown orbs clear. White dots sparkle like constellations in the sky, bright and plenty. It’s nice that they remind you of the sentimentality in his heart after every single serious or dumb, big or small fight.

For a moment, you keep looking. Your fingers twitch, urging to reach out, but as they start moving off your knee, you hear a call of your name.

Jungkook leans back, clearing his throat, smiles at you as you get to your feet and meet the doctor’s stare, kindly gesturing inside the examination room.

A couple more tests, a friendly conversation, more orders from his side before he gives you a diagnosis and a prescription. 

And when you head out, Jungkook’s still sitting right where you left him. One leg restless again, leaning forwards, arms on his thighs and hands intertwined. His head is hanging between his shoulders; even from afar, you see his lashes move, eyes slowly blinking.

You can’t quite explain it, but you love this point of view — when you can see his parted lips, the lower one pillowy, partly hidden behind his button nose. Cheeks round. You truly do love this watching-from-above-angle.

Even though it clearly suggests he’s bored out of his mind. Beyond done with this place, but still here, waiting for you.

You clutch the strap of your bag again, sighing, and then move towards him with light steps. The back of your fingers reaches out then, brushing against his temple a tiny moment before he detects your shoes and looks up.

“Oh. That was fast,” he says; his eyes are drooping. He had a long morning in the attic. “What did he say?”

He gets off the seat, moving his stiff neck and cracking it a little, hand flashing up to his shoulder. You explain, “I need eye drops. Two to three times a day.”

“Ah. Then we could get them right now.”

You nod, allowing a little smile, telling him as you head out, “My eyes are okay, though. Somehow, my vision has improved, too.”

Jungkook’s lips form an excited Oh, but when he sees your expression, he says, “But you seem bummed about it.”

Ah. Well.

You feel ungrateful thinking that way, but…

“In some way?” you admit. “I’d rather have an infection that can be fixed with antibiotics and won’t come back so easily instead of… you know. Having to constantly rely on eye drops. It just sounds so permanent.”

Another deep sigh; you’re exhausted as well. “And I’ll have to remember to use them.”

“Hmm,” he voices, holding the door open for you. He zips his jacket close as you step out; an immediate breath cloud forming when he exhales. “Set an alarm, yeah?”

“Yeah. Just knowing myself…”

“I’ll remind you then.”

The suggestion is immediate, albeit accompanied by a seemingly nonchalant shrug of his shoulder; jacket’s sleeves adorably pulled over his hands.

“Once in the morning. You set an alarm for lunch and then I remind you again when you take your birth control pill at night. Yeah?”

The bitter feeling of the fight vanishes a little; you try to ignore the residual awkwardness, apologies probably still due. But right now, your conversation follows a different path, so you settle on a soft, little, “Thank you, Kook.”

He always does that. Remind you of your meds.

Your vitamins, your pills, that one nose spray hydrating your nose flora to prevent your mucosa from drying out or whatever your ENT doc told you. He did last night, too.

He always does — even if it means forgetting about his own responsibilities.

You blink a couple times, rubbing your eyelids before you admit, “Still hurts. Can barely see… and the streetlamps are so bright?”

“Lemme look.”

He stops in his tracks and you follow; his hand catches your wrist, pulling your fingers away from your eyes, and you turn to him slowly. You’re still attempting to clear your vision, so he orders, “Stop blinking.”

And once you do, he moves in. Takes your face in his already warm hands, staring, squinting, humming. He looks focused, and you raise your eyebrows, waiting for a conclusion until he finally mutters, “Damn.”

“What?”

He seems impressed. Looks a bit longer. You repeat, “What? Are they red? Swollen or something?”

“Nah,” he lets your face go, already stepping back as if dodging your proximity. “But,” he starts; you stare like a puppy, only breaking when he adds, “they’re pretty as fuck.”

Your playful punch rises as if on instinct.

One part of your relationship that never changed was your bicker, starting with annoyance and morphing into frisky, flirty remarks. You consider it the foundation of what makes the two of you a unit.

You grit your teeth, but can’t bite back the smile.

“Dude,” you scold, and he covers his arm instinctively, evading the punch looming over him.

But you don’t deliver it after all, dropping your hand, shaking your head instead. You say, “If you hadn’t helped me survive today, I’d—”

You steer towards him, attempting another scare, and he plays along with a flinch just before he starts laughing again. Hums and nods emphasise his words when he agrees, “You survived like a true champ. A big girl, you said, right?”

“Sure am.”

“Mhm. …My big girl?”

“Gross. Shut up.”

The atmosphere will stay odd for a while. That’s okay, you guess. At least it allows for a bit of amusement, hard to hide as you smile a little, bite your lip.

You lower your head, veiling your beam behind your hair, but you know he sees. Matches your smile — perhaps even a bit brighter than your own.

FRIDAY

The fast approaching weekend usually eases a week’s tension. But considering the mounting workload you tackled today and the endless Saturday you’ll be dealing with very soon, your muscles don’t relax just yet.

Imprisoned behind the bars of work, your thoughts circle around the schedule for tomorrow. In that sense, you come home late and can’t quite bother with the stress that spread throughout the first half of the week.

Jungkook already scarfed down tonight’s dinner, comfortably laying in bed and balancing the laptop on his stomach. From the sound of it, he’s watching videos of various genres.

Sitting on the living room couch and indulging in a short story for just a bit, you hear the enthusiastic voices of chefs rattling down recipes every now and then. It’s a hobby of his, but you can’t help but feel bad.

He studies those YouTube videos to improve his cooking skills, and you, ungratefully, leave the rest of his effort in the goddamn fridge. You sigh.

If you had the energy and will to talk it out, you’d do it now. You couldn’t all day.

He was still asleep when you left, and after work, you went to a brief dinner with a coworker to dash through details for tomorrow. Looking at the plan, you hope for at least a sliver of fun amidst the photoshoot chaos.

When you returned home, Jungkook was gaming right where you’re sitting now. You showered, only to find him back in the bedroom, with his eyes glued to said laptop. And now, as you approach the bed to end the night, he walks past you with falling eyelids.

He rubs them with the back of his tattooed hand, a tired pout on his face contradicting the seemingly badass image that the ink usually gives him. Hard shell, soft core and all.

“Be right ba—,” Jungkook’s hazy voice informs, last syllable broken by a yawn. “Go to bed, okay?”

His palm moves across your upper arm as he passes you by, and you nod, steering towards the inviting, warm mattress. Its surface melts with your body when you drop. God, you’re exhausted; can barely think.

You don’t think it’ll take you particularly long to drift away; and just when your consciousness slips, you feel an arm around you.

A soft hug, enveloping you. He drops his face to yours, lips gently pressing against your cheek for a moment before he adjusts the blanket over the two of you.

A current of warmth courses through your veins, and you draw a deep, long breath of affection when he cuddles into you. He must be thinking you’re asleep but slowly falling out of dreams, because he pulls you in and rubs your arm.

An effective tactic he usually wields to help you fall asleep. 

He puts a leg gently over yours, his body so close to yours that you feel bits of the combustion of your heart.

Because…

Despite your stupid feud, you’re kind of happy that he’s joined you under the thin blanket, pressing more featherlight kisses against your scalp. Sighs against it.

And you can’t withhold the smile when he brushes over your clothed tummy and whispers, “My feisty little girl.” 

SATURDAY

You remember to unclench your jaw.

The stress hardens your muscles. Your limbs are stiff, eyes unblinking until they dry out. Fingers wrapped around your phone, you hold the device firmly, shutting out the telling vibrations of notifications.

This cannot be.

There are a hundred fires burning around you. Erupted chaos causes panic, and in the middle of it are you, clueless and vexed beyond measure.

It’s one thing cancelling a shoot a couple days before it takes place — and another thing to call sick at the very last moment. You didn’t think the model would ditch you like this… but now that he has, you can’t figure out how to replace the missing piece of the shoot.

Your troubled co-workers call out a dozen names, but you don’t say a word, gazing around with a crease between your eyebrows.

This whole thing needs to be out in the open by Friday, and the photographers and editors need time. So, postponing this to Monday and the release of the ads to another weekend won’t work, right?

No.

You’re at the headquarters of this brand. And you’re one of the organisers of this shoot and project. Every single shop will need to postpone if you do.

Unprofessional. Goes against the schedule.

The complaints are still on full blast when you see a calm movement from the corner of your eye. You move your head to the left, peeking through the glass door, and on the other side awaits—

A wide-eyed man, staring inside, observing the tumult like he’s stepped into the jungle. He’s wearing a white shirt, tucked into jeans, long bangs hanging into his eyes and enhancing the sweet gaze so wonderfully.

Pieces of your stress melts — but you still can’t figure out why he’s standing there.

You walk to the door automatically, throwing a tiny smile when he detects you among the staff. A big hand waves in tiny, and you open to let him in.

“Hey,” you greet, pushing back to where you stood before. He follows. “What are you doing here?”

As you come to a stand, he puts a hand on your waist lightly, drawing close to press a kiss to your temple. Then, he responds, “Picking you up?”

“Wh—”

Oh. Shit.

You were going to go out and celebrate the end of the stressful week. He’d suggested it last weekend because he already knew how hectic today would be.

Ughhhh.

You’re terrible.

Jungkook realises your forgetfulness the moment your expression changes into a guilty one. His curious, innocent look drops with his eyebrows, and he sighs when you say, “I’m sorry, Kook.”

When he stares down at his shoes, you feel a wave of shame; the noise around you fades for just a second as he half sullenly, half disappointedly asks, “Really?”

“I swear… It’s not my fault.”

It’s not an excuse; not a lie.

He looks disheartened; knowing him, stupid argument or not, he was probably looking forward to this. Fuck, you feel bad.

Despite his obvious drop in mood, he doesn’t say anything much. Instead, he nods and assures, “It’s fine. What happened?”

You look around again. From afar, you see a coworker approach. She looks hopeful and you take the crumbs, but you still explain, “Everything should be done by now. We got most of the pictures, but… one of the guys bailed on us.”

“Shit, really? What now?”

You shrug your shoulders, once again racking your brain for a solution. People here are counting on you, but it’s not you who brings the very first somewhat reasonable suggestion of today.

Only somewhat reasonable, though.

Because the coworker approaching ogles at Jungkook like a pirate at a treasure, pupils big and wondering as she suddenly says, “Hold. Did you come up with that?”

You blink.

Then ask, “What?”

“You called him here?”

“What?” you repeat, a confused, little parrott.

She rolls her eyes, “He,” she points at Jungkook with a thumb, “is not allowed in here. Usually. So I assumed you called him as a replacement.” She tilts her head. “And he’s freaking perfect!”

Per—

What? No, no, no. That’s absolutely nothing you planned or permitted.

“No?” Instinctively, you take a step to the side, right in front of his broad shoulders as if to protect him from harm. You argue, “He’s not a model. He’s an artist.”

From behind, you hear, “I’m just an artist.”

“Yeah, but,” she throws back, “you’re art, too. I won’t lie.”

Another step back until your back almost touches his chest. His fingertips graze your hip, as a warning before you stumble over his feet. You can imagine the subtle rosy dust on his cheek; he’s fond of compliments.

As everyone is, you suppose. But. 

“Hey, careful,” you tell her, disguising it as a joke, but feeling the lightest burn in your stomach when he laughs at her words.

She raises her pretty lips to a prettier smile, nodding in reassurance as she promises, “Yes, I know he’s taken.”

Another quiet chuckle from behind you, and you cock an eyebrow before he changes the topic and admits, “Seriously, I’m not a model at all and barely know what these things are like…”

To which she waves off his concerns and explains, “Oh, you just need to look good. We’d put some make up and clothes on you, a few pics and we’re done.”

Sounds easy enough. A bit like an insult to actual models, kind of putting those to shame who ran across stages for years to study, internalise and perfect their movements.

But you don’t correct her because you’re desperate, too. And right now, this sounds the easiest.

Still, he murmurs, “I’m not sure.”

“I understand if not,” she says. Her tone changes, fragments of frustration in it. “It’s just that we’re running out of options.”

Once more, you play out the upcoming week mentally. Postponing the last shoot. Postponing the release. Postponing the seasonal launch.

None of this is your fault, but you’d still be the one to get all the wary looks.

As if on cue, Jungkook squeezes your hip, and you look at him with worry painted across your face. You know he sees it immediately, but he still asks, “Is it that bad?”

You nibble at your lip, putting a hand over his as you say, “Yeah. We do need someone.”

“Is that allowed? Can I just replace a guy?”

“I’m technically the boss here, so you’d just need my permission,” you take a breath and then click your tongue, “I mean, usually we’d just reschedule, but we don’t have the time and those shoots already take hours. And in your case, we’d do all the paperwork, contract stuff later.”

“Would it help you?”

He’s considerate. Even in a stressful moment like this, the gentle tone, the deep care makes you weak. The answer’s already clear, but you still tell him, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. Again, it… might take up to two hours or so.”

“But it’d help you, babe, wouldn’t it? Unless you don’t want me to. Then I won’t.”

You don’t have a single problem with this; in fact, you’d be happy to put him in front of a camera. His genuine thoughtfulness liquefies you — you’re a puddle at this point.

“Oh, I… Jungko—”

Juri intrudes, “I’m sorry,” carefully, she inches closer, nodding over her shoulder, “Just wanna say that we have a lot of designers in our team. They do logos and make the posters and all. Maybe, if they saw you — because the country already knows you as her artistic man from newspapers — they could teach you some digital art stuff.”

“I…” Jungkook starts. He’s probably thinking the same — which he confirms when he adds, “I’m not sure how me modelling for you might relate to artistic stuff. But I already know a lot about digital art.”

Yeah, exactly. Of course he does; what else did he wade through college for throughout these years?

“But,” she lifts a finger, infinite force in one word already, “have you ever tried expensive equipment and all?”

Oh oh. You feel bad.

Is that the group of society you represent? Maybe you guys are a little pretentious after all, dealing and seducing with money.

But he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t dare to challenge her when he steps next to you and says, “I can do it, but not for that digital art offer.” He puts a hand on your back, rubbing lightly and briefly, “For her.”

You fold your arms under your chest; less to show dominance, but more to press against the butterflies. There’s a type of nausea falling in love elicits, deep in your stomach where everything appears so surreal and beautiful that it makes you oddly sick.

The first time your pupils took on their heart shape was the first moment Jungkook practised that effect on you; made you realise what inevitable emotions he was pulling you into.

That effect has not faltered; your guts still twist.

At least, for a couple minutes.

Because the second your coworker-vultures attack him and drag him to the back room, something changes. Nervousness, you guess. You know the clothes that are awaiting him, but stepping out of makeup and into the spotlight leaves you gasping for air.

From afar, he’s leering at you.

Wearing a snow white shirt, tucked into his pants, priorly tousled hair still messy but styled in curls. Yes, you might know your collection — but you didn’t think it’d fit him like second skin.

Why did you doubt it, though? Jungkook could wear a trash bag and still compete against Adonis.

For a moment, he stands still, entangling his fingers, looking around. Then, he’s smiling in uncertainty, awkwardly putting his hands on his tiny waist, waiting for directions.

Juri tip-toes towards you, as if you’re filming a scene in a drama. She pulls the clipboard to her chest, one digit pointing to your struggling man before she says, “He’s adorable.”

You nod. “I wonder how he’ll do.”

“Well, yeah,” she murmurs, half distracted; but then she averts her eyes from him, looking from your nervous lips up to your furrowed eyebrows before she assures, “Worst case scenario, we’ll postpone. End of story. At least we tried.”

“Hmm… Well, let’s hope it won’t be that case.”

Which, you soon realise, it certainly isn’t.

A couple professional suggestions by the director and Jungkook gets into position. The initial movements of his hands and body are a little strange and awkward, and you can’t help but want to pull him from this chaos and wrap him in a fuzzy blanket.

But the seemingly feigned adorable stance soon shifts into something unexpectedly dangerous when he raises his chin. Thumbs in the pockets of his jeans, he relaxes his body, lips suddenly forming a tempting, slight pout.

He doesn’t usually look like that…

“Wow,” you whisper, faintly registering Juri’s fascinated nod from the side.

This is still a harmless pose, you think; one the director dared him to do. But you’re surprised by the sudden confidence, the way Jungkook doesn’t fumble or stutter or question anything.

Some of his softness shines through the moment the photographer gives a thumbs up, a tattooed hand cracking the fingers of the others. Doe eyes back, he leans forwards as if he could peek at the pictures like that, asking cautiously, “That okay?”

He looks different. Why does he look different?

“That was great! Perfect start. I promise the rest is just as easy,” the team encourages him, asking him to monitor the pictures they just took.

Jungkook walks to the strangers in slow steps, chest behind the tight, white top heaving once. On his way, he looks up to you instinctively, throwing the same thumbs up at you with a questioning gaze.

And you, still baffled, smile.

Watch as he converses with the people, his grin wide when he likes what he sees — an instant confidence boost, though you still see the nervousness in his stance. Where was any of it when they clicked the photos?

As if a demon possessed him for just a minute. Dual and dangerous.

Then again, he’s not very different in your daily life. A celestial soul on some days, catering to your every whim, never letting your feet touch the ground.

And a beast on others, inhaling your sounds like a starving incubus, never heaving your body off the mattress.

The duality doesn’t disappear with this very first outfit.

When some music starts playing and they tell him to move freely, filming the sequences for the ads, your eyeballs nearly fall out of your eyes. And you finally realise why he looks so different now.

Because the moment his thumb touches his lower lip, mimicking a wiping motion (much like he does after kissing you sometimes), you see the silver-plated jewellery glimmering from all the way from the set.

Lip ring.

Whose idea…

“What did you do back there?” you ask, near-panicking, your heart dropping into your panties.

Juri flinches, asking, “What?”

“Is that a lip ring? You gave him a—”

You puff out a breath; it’s immensely difficult to be mad at him like this. He’s been looking…

“Shouldn’t we have?” her tiny voice asks; her body shrinks a little.

“I mean. I just. It wasn’t planned.”

“Yeah, but look how amazing he looks.”

You’re seeing it, alright.

The subtle touches, the light tugging at his shirt. Movements just right. He looks all serious, like a beast, hotter than motherfucking hell. Transports your saliva into your windpipe with each look he sports.

Until you actually feel yourself choking and gagging once he leaves and comes back for the next shoot twenty minutes later.

Because why on Earth did they omit the shirt under the grey blazer?

You’re close to dashing to costume and makeup, confronting them to ask why they chose to toy with your sanity like this. Because… the lip ring is still there. His hair is suddenly slicked back. Fingers adorned with rings.

And he looks so goddamn good.

Maybe it’s your fault. You told them you trusted them, and that they were supposed to do as they pleased. And they are… they so are.

All of him, like a strong magnet, pulls you in, but you keep your feet firmly on your spot, cementing yourself in place. There’s something incredibly attractive about the way he presents himself — new, talented.

You’re fidgety, a sexually frustrated observer when he touches his jacket, pulling it open just a little. The inked hand is veiny; you see it from here, too. The light gesture allows glimpses of his chest.

Small, perked, brown nipples. Lines and ripples of his abs firm. Ending in his V-line, hidden behind the peeking underwear and blue, baggy jeans.

Heavy chains are already menacing when he shuts his eyelids and parts his lips. Worse when he leans forwards, hazy eyes staring into the camera as if he’s about to devour the camerawoman.

Jeon Jungkook is a hazardous danger to society. The world will want him — and he’ll only want you.

Fuck.

You’re drooling. Drowning in your own puddle. Crossing your legs.

And when they tell him to sit, ordering to open the button of his jeans and push it down his hips just a bit, the little yous in your brain wreak havoc.

A fire starts in the organised office of your mind, red sirens blaring, and you look at Juri as you ask, “Why is he naked?! Why’s the blazer off his shoulder?!!”

“Because,” she defends, hiding behind the clipboard; it’s not her fault. That’s what the other model would’ve done, too. “Underwear ads!”

You’re aware. You just didn’t think it’d be Jungkook ending up in this position. Perhaps you didn’t think it through; didn’t know what it’d do to you.

But his effect pools in your lower stomach; so intense, you might cry.

“What the fuck,” you mumble when he takes the jacket off, sitting up and improvising all of a sudden. A hand covers his mouth, the blazer thrown over his shoulder. “What’s the point of holding it? He’s not even wearing it.”

“Because,” she starts again, “we’re focusing on the underwear.” Where’s the focus on the underwear? You can barely see it. Are people plotting against you? “It’s okay.” She pats your shoulder. “No one’s gonna touch him, love.”

You bite your lip. You know.

You aren’t distressed because you’re mad. But because knowing that everybody will crave him and nobody will get him turns you on more.

The fact that you’re the only one he’ll look at with those starry eyes; with the hunger in his gaze. The only one he’ll press into your bed, lips close to your ears, whispering endearments and filthy, little promises.

This man wants you, and you can barely handle that truth.

New thoughts and ideas form in your mind, too wild and desperate to be occurring right in this moment. So you mentally whoosh them away, holding on for the rest of the neverending shoot until a round of genuine applause sounds around the big set.

God. Okay. Hours of torture later, and he’s done.

A shy bow. No. This monster might convince anyone else, but you know he’s not as innocent as he gives himself.

He jogs over to you, says quietly enough for only you to hear, “Don’t tell them, but that was great.” You can imagine. He backs away, looks down to his defined abs, “I need to change. And then we can head home, they said.”

You blink, perplexed and still out of words. Which he struggles to interpret, looking over his shoulder and then back to you. Unsure, he adds, “Unless you need to wrap things up.”

When a random shout echoes through the room, you awake, inhaling deeply before you tell him, “No, I. I mean, yeah, we’ll wrap things up, but that shouldn’t take too long. Should be mostly done when you are.”

He nods. Waves, and then steers towards the others, shaking hands and exchanging smiles. Short convos. Then, to the back room. 

You’re too out of your mind and tired to chat much with staff. You go through the next steps, talk about waiting for the editor to be done with the photos, list the leftover things on your to-do list before the winter launch.

And that’s it. You meet Jungkook at the exit to the hallway, relieved when the end of the day approaches. On your way back home, you converse lightly, though he stops when you yawn one too many times.

He lets you rest as you pass shops and traffic lights, and holds your hand when you get off the vehicle. Drags you up the stairs; the climb is arduous. And then allows you to get ready for your slumber in peace.

The second the back of your head collides with the cold pillow, your eyes drop shut. The world spins behind your tired eyelids, adjusting to the darkness and the silence.

A sigh of relief pushes out of your mouth; a profound sense of tranquillity calms your lit nerves. Jungkook, next to you, seems just as exhausted because the yawn as soon as he slips under the covers is long and tear-inducing.

He’s blinking away the dampness of fatigue when you look over to him; you haven’t talked much since you arrived home, but Jungkook uses the moment to say, “I had a lot more fun than I expected to have.”

You’re so incredibly thankful for his last-minute rescue. But you can’t help but think of the muscles and expressions an hour prior. The seductive gaze, the lip accessory, the ring-clad fingers.

Perhaps it’s because of the time of the month, but you feel vexed by how affected you feel.

You control your tone, though the word still sounds monotone when you say, “Good.”

Catching upon it immediately, he shifts slowly, sniffling and head propping up on his hand before he asks, “Did you not like it?”

“Oh no, I mean,” you start, “you were amazing. I just didn’t know they’d send you out naked for the world to see. Thought the plan was to close a couple buttons.”

“The stylists told me. I think it was a spontaneous change because—”

You glance at him when he hesitates. A sly smile spreads across his features, just a little guilty yet amused as he watches your curiosity grow.

“What?” you ask.

“Nevermind.”

“Don’t be mean.”

“It’s nothing!” he exclaims. “We just thought it’d look cool. I thought you’d like it, too, actually.”

You did. That’s the issue. You liked it enough for it to burn into your mind, and now you can’t shake the image anymore.

No matter how many times you’ve seen him butt naked, buried inside you without a gap between your skin — something about his confidence and eyes stirred an unknown level of desire in you.

But you can’t tell him. Because the thing you want won’t be possible right now. You keep your thoughts veiled.

Instead, you unleash your annoyance because God, you hate him for being so hot.

“Right,” is all you say.

“Hey, don’t worry. Even if they ask, I’m not doing this again.”

“Might make you famous, though,” you mumble.

He snorts, fingers sneaking to your tummy, “So what? That’s not my profession. I didn’t study to become a model. Will work on my actual efforts.”

“Okay.”

The single word forces a sigh out of him, and he shakes his head, tapping his fingers against your stomach as he whispers your name thrice. Like he’s scolding you.

And then, “Are you jealous?”

“No,” you spit without hesitation, “of whom?”

You’re not. And you know that just for the moment, he won’t believe you. Which is fine. You’ll tell him the truth once your period’s over for the month.

“Of people who might see me and like what they see.”

Okay. Jerk.

At this point, he is doing it on purpose. You see it in the cocky smile and the jesting tone and the way his fingertips draw circles over your shirt, itching to sneak underneath the fabric.

You know him.

He’s so annoying.

“No,” you repeat.

“You sure? Huh?” Fuck, not that sulky voice. You close your eyes, but he raises your chin, making your head move. “Look at me, angel.”

“Hmm?”

“You said no, but you do look a little fiery,” he tells you. Yeah, if he knew that the real reason doesn’t lie in envy or whatever the world thinks of him. “What? My girl is jealous of people I won’t even perceive?”

No.

But she does feel the tickling, flattering lust pooling in her lower stomach, Jeon, thank you very much.

“Jungkook,” you start, although breathier when he moves closer, towards your neck. “Don’t be annoying.”

Which triggers a slightly mocking tone; he tuts before he says, “Baby bails on our date today. Will fight me in a restaurant. And then I’m annoying?”

Your answer is immediate and as shameless as can be.

“Yes.”

And it makes him laugh. Hot and sudden against your skin, his breath makes you shiver more than the relentless cold outside ever could.

“Not gonna lie,” he begins, “that brat behaviour isn’t too terrible.”

“Shut the fuck up, you just—”

He just what? You don’t know. Your sentence floats between you when his nose raises your chin, freeing the path to your neck before he’s nuzzling it slowly.

You feel goosebumps at the back of your neck, hair standing up, tingles across your body where you didn’t deem them possible. Under the blanket, your legs shift, and he hurries to move one of his between yours.

Hand still on your shirt, he places a barely-there, soft kiss to your neck; his fine tresses tickle your face and you crumble.

You have long forgotten your unfinished sentence, but he hasn’t. Asks, “What?”

You bury your nails into his arm, intrigued by the little hiss followed by a subtle laugh. Growing in volume when you say, “I kinda hate you right now.”

“Oh yeah,” he agrees, stretching the second word, “I hate you, too. Absolutely loathe you.”

You silence. Hold onto him when he French kisses between your neck and shoulder. And then breathe, “Then go away.”

“Mhh. Maybe I should.”

“Maybe…”

And then, out of the blue, his teeth dig into your neck like a gentle vampire, stopping immediately when you wince desperately. A hot tongue soothes the bite, a strong hand pushing you down by your shoulder again when your body lifts off the bed just a bit.

He keeps you in place, moving to your jaw. And when you whimper in lust and want, navigating his leg closer to your core, he curses, “Fucking hell, babe.”

Then, he’s inhaling, fingers wandering from your shoulder to your wrist as lips finally clash.

His body moves half onto yours, slowly gauging your reaction to the kiss as if he’s still expecting the burst of cumulated emotions. But when you give into his gesture, granting him your tongue, his face moves further against yours.

Undecided fingers let your wrist go, getting ahold of a patch of your hair. You hold his arms again until you wrap yours around him, fingers on the nape of his neck as you pull him in.

You tilt your heads in unison, deepening the kiss, drinking him up. Let him open your lips with his, keeping them like that, tips of your tongues playing with each other.

His touch drops to your waist and down to your pyjamas, pushing them down a little, grazing your panties. But then, his teasing palm floats up again and settles over one of your tits, squeezing once and drawing a telling moan out of you.

No bra.

He loves your little habits. You live through them casually, never noticing how badly they empty his mind.

Seems your head is blanking just as much at his touches; because you look delirious, lost, breathing in and out heavily. Jungkook basks in the expression, pushing a hand to your neck.

And only when he presses in gently, trapping you in place, do you seem to wake.

Eyes shoot open, and you inhale deeply, as if saved from drowning; remember every bit of today. The lines of his abs. The lip ring. The jewellery on his fingers.

You could ask for him to go on, to wreck you thoroughly. But of all arguments stopping you from doing so, there’s one damn reason that asks to prevent the mess.

Fucking period. Would create a literal bloody chaos. And you’re exhausted.

The thing is — if you asked him, you know he’d give it to you.

He’s reckless and careless. But you can’t risk the state of your sheets and the state of your mind. You have more work to do tomorrow; also, if you continued now, you’d be tired and immobile tomorrow, you know — and you need to be awake for this.

Fully in your senses.

Ugh. Fuck.

And the last damn day of the red waterfall, too. Thinking about it, perhaps that’s the reason for your agitation this week.

In hindsight, you know you’re never bitchy like that — he didn’t give you the nickname of an angel for nothing, right? Fuck PMS. Fuck mood swings.

Your poor boy, enduring the wrath of it.

But maybe you need to act pissed just a bit longer because—

“What?” he asks.

It’s not the time. So you stop him, pushing him away lightly. Shake your head, calling forth a crease between your eyebrows, turning away just a bit.

He falls back, once again keeping his upper body up by his arm. Inquires, “I— are you still mad?”

Truthfully, you answer flatly, “I’m on my period.”

“So?” he answers, laughing until he sees your lips, pressed into a serious line. “I’m not scared of some blood.”

You knew it. He’d give in if you told him to.

But what you want can’t be received during this time of the month. What you want requires unhinged chaos, carelessness, breathlessness. Craze of many minutes, hours.

You want more than a short, cautious session that asks you to peek at the sheets and the towel you’d get every now and then. You want to fucking lose yourself in hi—

“Let’s not,” you answer, your tone nonchalant, “Just. Let’s go to sleep, alright?”

He murmurs your name, trying again; but when you turn on your belly, giving a last sign to end the night, you hear him groan quietly.

You grimace when his head falls onto the pillow with an angry thump, movements under the blanket agitated as he scolds, “My God. Alright. You wanna be pissed for an entire week, then be pissed. I can’t do more than that.”

Oof.

If he only knew. And something in you tells you that he will very soon.

SUNDAY

Too lazy to work through the preparation process in the kitchen, Jungkook and you quietly decide to spend lunch outside.

The café nearby is a place you’ve wanted to visit for quite some time now. And despite the flaky, dry sandwiches they served, you’re glad time passed quickly, the awkward conversations between you coming to an end.

When you return from the bathroom, the sky above looks grey. Desolate. The weather forecast predicted a surprisingly pleasant late fall day, but the approaching rain is obvious. Which, you anticipated more than the weather forecast did, really.

That’s why an umbrella is leaning against the leg of the table, and you grab it as you watch Jungkook fumble with his wallet, stuffing it into his back pocket.

He gulps down the last sip of his Matcha Latte, dimples above the corner of his lips as he smacks the taste away. Then, he gets to his feet, asks, “Ready to go?”

Absent-mindedly, you nod, glancing to the sky and then back to him again. He looks sweet and domestic; but you can’t quite take him seriously. Not necessarily because of the fight anymore.

It’s been far too many days to still dwell.

But because of the damn lip ring, the open jacket, the gelled back hair. His destructive expressions. Like he could devour you whole.

Jungkook doesn’t stay angry for a long time, you’ve noticed. He always tells you how his temper used to be worse as a teenager, but how he’s learned to control himself.

Agonies of childhood, relationships and friendships taught him patience. And you notice. You truly notice.

Because he hands you your purse sweetly, immediately stretching his palm towards you. A slight smile spreads across his face, and you respond with a weak one of yours. Take his hand and let him lead you home.

You’ll walk the short distance; it shouldn’t take longer than seven or eight minutes.

And as you approach home, the hand holding yours mimics the motions of the one gripping the umbrella — he brings both arms into swing, somewhat euphoric but casual when he says, “The food was so dry there.”

It’s odd, talking to him like that after several days again. But you nod slowly, and agree, “I know. But at least we know where not to go anymore.”

“Yeah. But I mean, great beverages.”

“The milkshake, too.”

He tugs you a little closer, elbows soon touching, “I still think you should’ve gotten something warmer. You get a cold fast,” he looks up with squinted eyes, “and it’s already chilly today.”

You squeeze his hand as a thank you; Jungkook cares for you in little, subtle ways, and you’d lie if you said you didn’t think of it every now and then. You answer, “I feel fine, though.”

“Okay. Hope that stays.”

His palm, soft in yours, shifts until he’s intertwining his fingers with yours, attempting a stronger grip. You lift your eyes from the ground to his face for a second, meeting a gentle smile, and feel more pieces of your heart split.

They wander through your body, along your arm and straight into his chest, merging with his own organ. If you could, you’d push him against one of the unlit lamp posts, parted lips opting for his, breathing into his mouth.

He infested your thoughts and stuck with you, no way to escape the moment you first fell for him. And somehow, he managed to keep this effect intact, digging deeper into your mind and making himself home every damn second of the day.

The desire you’ve been feeling doesn’t just stem from lip rings and talent behind the camera. But you also keep realising that you’re truly this man’s, and that this man is truly yours.

A hard truth to fathom when you’re the subject of interest to one unique Jeon Jungkook.

But you want all of him. Want him over you, around you, taking all of what no other guy will ever be allowed to touch. Want him to show you once again where you belong and that you’re in this for as long as his affection is aligned with yours.

Fuck. Home is too far away.

So you look away from him. Which he interprets in an entirely wrong way.

“Are you still mad at me?” he asks, an inquiry out of nowhere that has your eyebrows kissing.

“No,” you answer.

“You barely talk to me. And,” he halts to wipe away a raindrop. Guess the clouds are gathering. “And I miss you.”

Your ribs might break. He keeps doing this to you.

“I’m not mad, Kook. Was just PMS-ing before,” you try again, adding a nickname for good measure.

“You sure?”

Jungkook is a free-spirited soul, careless to a healthy degree most of the time. There are only a few things that break his composure; familial insecurities, shitty pasts — and then there’s you.

Topping his list of priorities, you’re the only aspect in his current life that pushes him into spirals of overthinking.

And right now, he’s in the middle one, requiring a thousand reassurances. You want to answer. You really do.

But the distraction from above proves too strong the second you open your mouth. In the middle of your walk, the clouds explode, roaring for a moment before a downpour suddenly showers onto you.

The raindrops are thick, the bursting clouds aggressive.

Instinctively, Jungkook opens the umbrella, hastily working on it, and once under it, your steps pick up on pace. You wrap an arm around your body, closing the jacket, hooking your other arm with his and pushing the two of you forward.

“Shit,” you say; you look up, but can barely see anything. Only hear the thunder.

The wind grows colder, grazing the skin of your face incessantly. Despite the umbrella, the merciless rain wets your cheeks, singular drops flying towards you. Jungkook’s hair covers his face, and he shakes them off his eyes.

You gasp when a literal newspaper flies past you.

“Come on,” you encourage, already shivering. “We can talk about it at home, okay?”

But surprisingly, incredibly lost in his own head, he doesn’t give in. He adjusts to your pace, holding the umbrella in a strong grip, sighs and argues, “We can talk about it anytime.”

“Not now.”

“But—”

“Kook, right now’s not the time for this.”

Holy shit.

This man is a phenomenon. And you wish he wasn’t serious, but you know that he is. A full-on simp-y fool, no matter what.

“You’ve avoided me all week,” he yells over the sounds of the rain, sniffling, looking at the storm ahead, “we won’t die. It’s just rain.”

“It’s a thunderstorm, you idiot!” you exclaim back, moving straight forward and past running passengers. You should be home soon. “And in a minute we won’t be able to see shit.”

Jungkook must be made of cement. Broad shoulders, a well-trained body and willpower seem to combat the storm when he suddenly halts in his steps.

Immediately, you grab the umbrella, keeping it from nearly flying away; and when you remain the only presence under it, you ogle back. Watch him stand there in his red-white jacket, getting soaked by Mother Nature.

What the fuck.

You rush back, grabbing his wrist, pulling him forward as much as you can as you reprimand, “What the hell are you doing? Come on.”

“You’ll talk to me if I do?”

“Jungkook, we’ll die here, I—”

You flinch and gasp when another strong wind blows, once and for all ripping the umbrella off your hand and making it fly a couple feet from you. You watch it break through the fog of rain, mouth wide open with a dozen curses on your tongue.

“Fuck,” you exclaim, gritting your teeth, “I will. Just please, okay?!”

He’s so annoying. The way he looks at you, breathing hard, white shirt drenched and sticking to his body. You tug at his arm, forcing him to run when you do.

It takes you two entire minutes, wordless as you wish them to be, to reach his street and apartment. You tremble in the hallways, rushing up the stairs, and eventually take a seconds-long breath when you step into the flat.

It’s cold. So cold — and you had your jacket protecting your shirt. Your jeans and hair are soaked, your socks a sponge, soaked in a couple millilitres of water.

But it’s relieving when you take the jacket and your jeans off, pulling out the oversized, wrinkled shirt from under your pants, covering half your thighs. Jungkook slips out of his boots and rushes for a towel, approaching your heaving form at the door to dry your hair.

You quiver for a couple more minutes, fearing an approaching cold after all. But once settled on the couch, indulging in the comfort of thick joggers and a fresh cotton shirt, you sigh.

The silence still holding on only breaks when you drop your head back on the couch. A warm hand sneaks to your cheek, and when you open your eyes, he asks, “Are you okay?”

“Warming up…” You lean into the touch, though still irritated by his behaviour before. “Thought it’d rain, but that was a surprise.”

“Yeah.” A pause. And then, “Was a little romantic, too.”

Unbelievable.

You roll your eyes at him, head tilting, tongue prodding against the inside of his cheek. Perhaps he’s joking. The goofy smile suggests that he is.

“Was it, yeah? You just—”

You click your tongue. Think back to him nearly offering his soul to Zeus just a couple minutes ago. Standing in the heavy rain as if he was the lead character in The Notebook.

“Don’t be mad now. I’m kidding,” he says. His voice isn’t as soft anymore; frustrated when he tries again, “Talk to me. What’s the problem?”

“Seriously? I told you there’s nothing.”

“Nah, cut that bullshit. You haven’t talked to me or properly touched me all week. I’m trying my fucking best.”

“I know. This isn’t what it’s about,” you defend, shaking your head, getting to your feet, “but about that insane little stunt out there.”

And the fact that he’s been driving you crazy. The week’s distress mixed with whatever he made you feel yesterday; today’s insanity further adding to it.

When he doesn’t speak, you sigh, waving it off, and opt to walk away. But all in vain.

You make it two steps away from the couch before he flashes up, too; filmesque, you gasp at the strong grip around your elbow, getting a tiny second to process the situation before he’s twirled you around.

He probably didn’t intend it, but you nearly clash against him, stupidly losing your balance and stumbling over his and your own feet. You put a hand to your temples, fearing the worst — what if you fall and clash against the corner of your glass table?

But no. In slow motion, he keeps you in his firm hold, preventing the fall, but still letting you gently drop onto the fluffy, white carpet. Your investment. You’re happy about it now because it caught you the way the wooden floor wouldn’t.

Your movements towards the grounds are slow — or at least that’s what they feel like. But when he appears above you, pinning your wrists to the carpet hard, he’s breathless; and you think that maybe the fall didn’t happen as slowly after all.

“Okay,” he says through gritted teeth. From down here, his jaw looks as sharp as a ship’s deck, the Adam’s apple bobbing when he challenges, “You’re gonna fucking tell me what’s going on.”

Oh. He’s mad.

His eyes are burning, jaw flexed. Defined chest rising in anger.

There’s nothing going on. At least nothing that warrants another fight.

But you don’t tell him that just yet. Instead, all your perplexed mind and tongue manage is, “What?”

“I forgave you. We were both shitty that day, you know? But I still did forgive you, and you’re still being like that.” His knuckles must be paling, because his grip is iron hard. “Why?”

“I—”

“I’ll apologise if that’s what you want. I did, actually. I’m sorry, okay? There. But this is just,” fingers squeeze your wrists, and you hiss, “ridiculous.”

Your following grimace, lips twitching, eyes squinting, go through to him immediately. The hold doesn’t hurt or bother you too much, but the leg between your knees does. Jungkook wouldn’t wound you; he knows his limits.

But perhaps he thinks he’s going overboard when he loosens his fingers, pressing his palms against your skin, rubbing to soothe the missing pain.

He doesn’t quite move away, though, still stubborn when you assure once again, “I’m not mad at you anymore.”

“So you keep saying.”

“I’m not,” you tell him, heart racing at the proximity. You close your legs around his knee, irritated by the barrier. “I promise.”

He doesn’t give your gesture much attention just yet; doesn’t know that his body over yours is exactly what you’ve been craving. But he does understand the sincerity in your voice. Finally.

When he moves closer, pupils melting to fluid gems, you let out an intentional, teeny tiny moan that you’re sure he confuses for a relieved sigh. He moves his palms onto the carpet, caging you in; you keep your wrists where they are, but dig your nails into your skin.

You want to kiss him so badly. You miss him so much.

“Then tell me what’s wrong, angel,” he demands again, quieter and softer this time.

“I don’t know.”

With the fury evaporating bit by bit, his eyes look bigger and rounder again. The desperation of the week gathers in them and his expression, shooting all the way down to his tongue; and when he whispers to you next, your heart collapses, “Please?”

He’s sweet… so utterly oblivious to your true thoughts.

But you couldn’t feel more embarrassed about the pictures you’ve been painting and the words ghosting in that mind of yours. He’d do all of it, no questions asked. But… fuck.

“This is so dumb,” you answer, fingertips dragging down the carpet and then up to his waist, “like… you’ll laugh.”

The touch encourages him. His arms are shaking now, holding him up in this position for too long, and the wandering fingers along his sides and chest must weaken him like his lines affect you.

“That’s a good thing,” he answers, closer than ever when he balances his weight on his arms now, forearms touching the carpet. “I’d rather laugh than fight.”

But the closeness remains for mere seconds before he pulls back again, sitting up with a groan. Hands on his thighs, he lets himself fall on bended knees. He watches your still helpless body on the floor until you work on getting off the carpet, letting him pull you up when he offers a hand.

You ruffle through your hair, legs folding. Your pout is more directed towards yourself than anyone else; you totally realise you didn’t need to confuse him the way you did. Stupid period.

“Listen, I just…” you start, scraping your scalp.

His knees bump against your legs when he drifts closer; there’s something about the two of you sitting on your living room carpet like this.

“It’s just that I want to be able to walk tomorrow.”

And that’s it. That’s literally it.

He halts. His hand was moving up, probably to touch your face, your hair, anything soft to ease the mood. But he cancels the tender gesture, fingers falling back to his knee when he absorbs your words.

Silences with cocked eyebrows. Processes the way you lick your lips and look away, tugging at his wide shirt. And then, once he’s understood, he tsks. Chuckles.

And you, immediately on guard, push lightly against his shoulder, unsurprised when he doesn’t buckle, and defend, “Told you you’d laugh!”

“No, but,” he says, sweet crinkles around his eyes, head tilting and bunny teeth giving way to the prettiest smile in existence, “what are you talking about, hm?”

He knows. If only his feigned innocence was as sweet as his grin, too.

Still, you opt to clarify, “That thing you did yesterday.”

“What thing?”

Ugh.

“The whole modelling thing!” you exclaim, raising your hands. His beam reaches up to his eyes; his occasional giggles are killing you. “Stop. Do you have any clue what you looked like?”

He has the audacity to shrug. “They let me see the pics on their cameras. They’ll come out well.”

“Well? Dude, you looked…”

“What?”

“Dangerous. Like you could eat me up.”

Eat me up might be accurate. It’s the description floating through your little mind since yesterday.

“Ah,” he says, nodding smugly. You know he’s about to tease you. Because— “You specifically, yeah? I was just doing what they told me to.”

“What, is me specifically wrong? Anyone else you’d wanna eat up or—”

“You’re really fixating on that, huh?” Jungkook snickers. His tongue pokes the inside of his right cheek in a brief pause, and then he adds, “You’ve got a point. Didn’t think it’d affect you, though.”

Slowly, but surely, he seems to grasp his own power over you. You think he’s reminiscing about yesterday’s chaos and confidence; maybe even viewing it all from your point of view.

Because his smirk, albeit subtle, is sly when he asks, “What was it like?”

“I…” You click your tongue. “You’ll take me apart if I tell you.”

“Why so?”

“Because.” A beat of silence. You swallow to wet your throat. Then. “I’d ask you to.”

“Ah…” Another understanding nod, as though you’re lecturing him on NASA’s rocket science and he’s finally grasping its meaning. “Yeah?”

“I saw you from afar,” you point into a direction arbitrarily, as if he’s still several feet from you and not mere inches, “and I wanted to,” you inhale when a finger reaches out, straight to a vein in your neck, gentle, exploring, “let you do anything with me that you wanted to.”

“Ohh.” His palm covers your neck, as if he’s coddling you. But you know what that touch will morph into, so you sneak closer to him, lean forwards. “Anything?”

“Anything.”

“…Right.”

His thumb moves up and rubs under your jaw, then up your face and to your lower lip. The touch is soft and careful, as though gauging your reaction and searching for permission.

Your shaky, little exhale is nearly unnoticeable, but you know he catches it, and you know he already sees the consent in your eyes. But he still doesn’t lean in. Moves his eyes across your face, to his hand, to your neck and then all the way back to your gaze.

And then, contrasting the loving movements and affectionate gesture, he smiles. Mischief spreads in his stare, and his fingers retreat to the back of your neck, pulling you closer by a miniscule inch.

“So that’s what it was all this time? You’re on your knees for me, is that it?”

“Babe…” You look down, daring a joke. “Quite literally.”

You shuffle in your spot when he laughs quietly, hooking your fingers into the neckline of his shirt. You emphasise, “I mean it. Just… If you must know? I would’ve been okay with handing you all the control, okay? All of it.”

You’re aware you’re acting as though he doesn’t wreck your shit every other time, too. In fact, that’s probably how the two of you started out.

His absolute craze at the frat party, drunk. College nights when you’d confront him about your bullshit — weak excuses to make him press you against his dorm walls. A hand clapped over your mouth, your ass out, dick buried inside until you felt him in your guts—

You’ve always been at his mercy — but you want him to split you in half this time.

“You would’ve?” he repeats. “And now? Still want that?”

You look down again. There’s no shyness in that movement, no averting his beastly eyes — your focus lies elsewhere because you have a theory. Which proves true.

The swelling under his joggers, right there between his legs wasn’t there before.

So you gather your voice, and say, “…Yes.”

“Hmm. Why didn’t you tell me?” His fingernails dig lightly into your skin, and right in the middle of the tension, he pouts for a little moment. “I genuinely thought you were still pissed.”

“I was on my period…” You shrug your shoulders. “It was also late. I was so tired, and—”

He waits.

“I knew that you’d do it if I asked for it.”

“I would’ve.” What’s worse? The confirmation or the tickling breath against your cheek? When did he get so close? “I still would. If you want me to.”

“I just said yes,” you tug at the shirt, eliciting an amused grin as the tips of your noses collide, “you’ll keep asking and,” your heart beats at a million miles a minute, “just not kiss me, is that it?”

Your provocation proves effective just the right amount.

Because he opens his mouth, seemingly snarling — you can’t tell for sure, since his lips clash against yours within half a moment. Determined as his hand immediately flashes to the small of your back, supporting you before you fall backwards on the carpet.

And then he kisses you like a man starved. Like he’s run out of saliva, dehydrated. Seeks your tongue, tastes like earthy Matcha Latte and something you can’t quite define — something that’s so uniquely him.

Your kiss muffles his tiny sound, a mixture of a sigh and a moan, body impatient as he tries to push closer to you, though separated by your clashing knees. You understand — you, too, would let him smother you under his weight if you could.

So you pull your folded legs apart, shifting until they surround him and attempting to straddle him. But he’s plotting something else: his fingers hold your jaw, keeping you in place, and the hot, wet kiss breaks when he pulls away.

You catch a brief glimpse of glistening lips before he moves to trail down your body, leaning in to teeth at your shirt, pushing it off your shoulder and kissing your skin for a fleeting second. And when the shirt shifts back into position, his other hand works on your tits.

Grabs your shirt at its hem, lifting it over your mounds until they’re free, nipples perked, home to him. In a haze, the tip of his tongue touches the right nub, and you shiver.

More so when he whispers, “Am so hard for you, I’ll fucking combust.”

For you.

You’ll repent for how badly you want him in your mouth.

You caress his thigh, sneaking up until you reach the swelling under the fabric. You feel it immediately, firm as a rock, big and fat, so sensitive that he hisses once you touch it.

“No,” he commands, the word barely a breath, “no, no. Don’t or I’ll come like this.”

He says it against your neck. Warm and tickling. You feel goosebumps arise, your reactions slow, but your heart fast. His fingers engulf your wrist, leading your palm to his cheek; you feel the smileless dimple under your thumb when he darts out his tongue to wet his lips.

Then, you close your eyes; the pecks against your neck are exhilarating. The moving touch, down to your tits and then back up to your jaw is one of his favourite games; you move your hips against the carpet, soaked panties sticking against your pussy.

“You’re…” you start, fingers in his fluffy hair as he bites your nipple. You moan, your words shaky, “You’re— more into this today.”

“I mean… after everything you just said to me?” He chuckles, moving up, taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger. His mouth brushes yours.

“And I missed her.” Free hand between your thighs, he taps just over your clit; your lips part. “Too crude to say I can’t wait for her to swallow my cock?”

Well. Fuck.

If it wasn’t him, you’d cringe. But it is him, and the truth is that you’re dying for him to press himself onto you. To wrap himself around you, to wrap yourself around him.

You want him to cut you in half, want to be his little toy until you can barely stand.

“Maybe,” you tell him, “but I promise that she wants it, too.”

That’s it, that’s it.

It’s when teeth meet again, the kiss messy, your arms around his neck. He holds you by your waist, pulling you off the floor a little, readjusting his position, so you can climb onto him.

You tilt your head as far as you can, taking him in, drooling, lips and tongue moving wildly to taste all of him. His digits wander from your back to your ass, pushing between your cheeks and pressing against your clenching hole.

The gesture is short lived, but enough for you to rub against him. The urge to rip your panties and part your folds over his girth is profuse; to dampen his length and empty his balls just like this.

But he clenches his jaw, groaning. Halts your movement with a strong grip before pulling at your hair without breaking the kiss. You move your fingers up and down his arm, and then dash it upwards to bury them in his locks, too.

Only, instead of reaching his mane, your hand hits the glass table on your left; you grunt into the kiss and then move away to exclaim, “Ah, fuck.”

Jungkook must’ve heard the sound because he catches on right away, laughing. Gently, he pushes you off his lap, gets back on his knees and then up. He pulls you with him as he says, “Alright. Get on the couch before you hurt yourself.”

“Couch?”

You’re surprised; not the bed this time, is it?

Then again — Jungkook isn’t necessarily picky when it comes to this; cue flashback to bathroom adventures.

So you still listen. Wobbly legs drag you to the sofa, plumping onto it as you watch him follow. The bulge is huge, hotter than hellfire when he palms it and lets go again.

“Too damn lazy to get to the bedroom,” he declares before dropping back on his knees.

You thought he’d climb over you, push you back across the length of the couch. But instead, he seems satisfied with your helpless position, pushing back the carpet and table some to take a seat right in front of you.

You admire his patience — the outline of his cock presses against its confines. Does it not hurt? His expression doesn’t reveal any discomfort as he adjusts against the hard floor; the carpet barely provides any relief.

But the discomfort doesn’t redirect his focus, his touch heading towards you, urging you to remove your joggers at turtle’s pace. He throws them over his shoulder and onto the table, one leg of them dangling off of it.

Left in your panties, you watch his hands curl under your knees, freeing his way to where you want to ache. Lifts your legs, places them on his shoulders carefully, amused and delighted when your bent limbs drag him closer to your cunt.

His tenacious tongue peeks between his teeth, and he fondles your thighs before he reaches the hem of your panties. They bug him — separate your heat from his mouth; in this moment, a crime to him.

“Help me here real quick,” he whispers, and you raise your ass, letting him drag the underwear off of you.

It sticks to your pussy for a second, obscenely flooded with your gradually building arousal. You think he sees, because he halts for a second, eyes flitting up to you before he says, “I think this’ll be fun.”

“You promise?”

“Have I ever lied to you?”

Well…

You shrug your shoulders, but smile tellingly, eliciting a smirk that decorates his gorgeous face, closing in bit by bit. The cool air evaporates the nearer he draws, replaced by his hot breath.

And then… just to test…

He darts out his tongue, the sharp tip of it tickling your clit. Your reaction, much desired, stirs a new type of appetite in him. Because your chin trembles just once, just for a moment. Lashes flutter, and his heart skips a beat.

As he inhales, but never exhales, you question, “What?”

“Nothing,” he assures, blowing against your sex, “just. So very pretty.”

You look down at him. His shoulders look broader from here. Muscular, hair dark and silky. His lips are colourful, handsome, nose ready to bury in your pelvis. If he thinks you’re pretty, then he’s the definition of true aesthetic.

Slowly, you reach for his hair, brushing through it before you bring his head closer to you, hinting at the obvious, and say, “And you.”

“Not like you, though…”

He waits, allowing the both of you a moment of preparation.

And then… he’s kissing your pussy. Lightly at first, up and down, a hand on your inner thigh that moves closer and closer to your folds.

He sighs once before a digit parts your nether lips sticking together, and then licks a stripe between them. You whine quietly; his eyes close. He’s beautiful like this; in a minute, he’ll look at you again, mouth swollen, and you’ll wish for his touch to last and last and last…

“Please,” you only whisper, but he doesn’t answer.

Instead, his sweet kisses turn into something more. Way more wetness, way more tongue. And before you know it, he’s splitting your legs wider, pushing in to start devouring you.

Your moans are intoxicating. They’re sudden, but not surprising, voiced against the ceiling when your head falls back. The heels of your feet dig into his back, pushing him closer when his knees are already touching the couch.

The movements of his mouth are warm, a waterfall. He eats you out until he’s slurping, drenching you further. He’ll slide in effortlessly, you already know. Will bury every single inch of himself inside you, fill you up for the rest of the day.

And your high — it builds up embarrassingly fast. Perhaps because it’s been a while; or maybe because it’s Jeon Jungkook you’re dealing with. Either way, your lower stomach aches, the knot pressing against your guts.

“Kookie,” you murmur, yet again left without an answer.

He knows not to break his focus this time; knows that you’re close, recognises it in your grip around the patch of his hair. Hears it in your desperate whimpers, louder by the second. Words more unintelligible now.

Your thigh is twitching every now and then, quivering, and he takes it as a sign to keep sucking and swirling. Then flicks his wet muscle over your engorged clit, adding to your exclaims when his nimble fingers glide into you swiftly.

Too swiftly. Two of them are barely enough; and he adds a third. Your cheeks heat up, body sliding down — partly because you’re dying inside, partly because he’s pulling you towards him.

Jungkook knows how to navigate your body, how to direct you towards a rationality-breaking explosion. And he does. He does with the plethora of lustful licks, softly circling around your clit. His nose presses against it every time he shifts downwards, tasting you thoroughly.

“I’m almost—” you voice, and he hums, vibrations torture.

It’s a game to him that he’s skilled at; he understands his moves, and he never loses. Neither today as he clamps his hand onto your waist, fingers pumping in and out of you, curling and digging, massaging your favourite spot.

They turn and twist, two fingers of his free hand settling around your clit and raising it for better access.

It takes probably half a minute longer… and then… then…

Your voice grows in pitch, nearly illegal for a Sunday afternoon, but music to his ears. So genuine and sweet. Corners of your eyes glistening. He holds your legs apart as you start begging, but all he truly makes out is the eager repetition of his name.

He wishes your shirt didn’t cover your upper body; wishes he could see the heaving of your chest, the perked nipples, the sweat on your clavicles.

But for now, this is enough.

The way he sees waves of pleasure wash over you, eyes rolled back, not looking at him anymore. Your lips are dry, your tongue probably, too, and he wants to kiss it wet again.

You moan and wince and keen, body restless. The tug of his hair becomes more prominent and palpable, but the sensation makes him smile. You’re probably barely noticing, too.

That is, until your hold and breathing finally calm down. You keep riding the wave, your head turning in odd circle-ish shapes. He kisses your pussy, helping you through it, only stopping when you open your eyes.

“Well, that was…” he says, lips as swollen as you anticipated, shimmering, “a good start.”

“Every single time,” you begin, panting, shaking your head. You watch him as he gets on his feet, moving in to your mouth. “Every single time I think it can’t get better, and then I remember it’s just the fucking beginning.”

He shifts to you slowly, grazing your lips, and declares with a soft smile, “More to come, I promise. Gonna have so much fun with you.”

“Do your worst—”

One more kiss. Shorter this time, but you recognise the familiar, lingering taste immediately. Neutral, not too bad. Fills you with pride, because he never fails to guarantee that he loves it.

But you can’t wallow in it because he retreats quickly, impatient hands freeing his golden body from his clothes. The shirt falls somewhere next to the carpet, his own joggers soon discarded, landing on top of yours and sliding to the ground together.

He’s a menace when he climbs onto the couch, knees digging in and creating a shift on each side of your body. His bulge, still hidden behind his boxers, floats in front of your face; from this close, you see the droplet of precum darken a spot of the light purple cotton.

“Next stage?” he wonders above you, stroking your hair gently, as if he’s not about to explore the back of your throat. “Want or do I rather not?”

“What do you mean with not?” Your breathing is heavy as you lift your palm and engulf the imprint of his dick. He flinches, hips moving back a bit before they come back. “Get this shit off.”

He chuckles. Brings his hand to your cheek, thumb caressing it and voice clear when he says, “You’re so cute. Being demanding and all.”

But he still listens. Gets off the couch, slides his underwear off, leaves you gaping.

Gaping at the hooked and girthy tower. Gaping at how the slit on top of his head glimmers. Gaping at the moles along the stiff length, staring at the thick veins, at the full, firm balls.

“Tongue out,” he orders; you do.

The ink-free hand pushes his dick down to you, tapping it against your tongue as you open up wide. He feels heavy, hot, the skin smooth. Your head moves forward to swallow more, but he pulls back.

Strokes himself for a couple seconds, thumb spreading the precum over his head. You drool. Watch attentively, as though you’re learning — until he eventually guides it back to you and positions it into your still gaping mouth.

Enters it slowly. Slightly salty. Then says, “Breathe. And don’t overthink it too much.”

Huh.

Well. Damn.

Because…

At times, you do worry about your expressions; about your tears when you gag around him, the coughing fits you get in the middle of it all. So that’s a surprise. Attentive. 

But your mind is blank today anyway; so you nod, moving to lick the underside of the tip, and he laughs, mumbling, “Alright. Have it, babe.”

And you do.

Slowly at first, cautious as you twirl your tongue around him. You don’t notice much discomfort just yet, thankful that he’s easing you into this. A third of his length buried inside, you close your lips around him and hollow your cheeks.

Which is probably when the invisible threads holding him back finally break.

“Okay,” he says, “you got this.”

His knees move in, more inches intruding. His fingers drift to the back of your head, and you dig yours in his brawny thighs. He grows harder in your mouth, impossibly bigger the more you drag your lips along his member.

How gratifying. You’ve craved this for hours and days. What was your argument about again?

Your head drops further back when he shoves himself inside, more and more as time passes. You imitate his prior advances — hum and close your eyes. Bring a hand to the base of his cock, pumping all that you won’t be choking around.

When you gaze up at him to analyse his reactions, he leaves your mind vacant. Because his head is raised, like yours, jawline edged and acute. Mouth open until he meets your eyes.

You hope he’s seeing something just as lascivious and mind-numbing from his perspective. Maybe messy hair, laying against the softness of your shirt. Or a cock appearing out of and disappearing behind pretty lips.

Slowly blinking eyes that shut just as slowly again, and a tongue that falls out and licks along a vein whenever your head moves to the side. Allowing you a couple deep breaths.

He must be perceiving it all, too.

Because a moment later, he gnarls, like a wild animal, and states, “This won’t do—”

—Before putting both hands under your ears, holding your head and…

Ramming his cock into your mouth.

You gasp around him, taken aback and delighted at once. Feel the effect between your legs, hoping to not defile the couch too much.

Head still thrown back, falling further, you already feel the ache in the back of your neck. Your attempts of holding onto the couch prove futile because there is nothing to hold onto, armrests too far away; so you return to his thighs.

But he keeps your body steady, held at the spot between his legs. Your head is a different story: it bounces back and forth, the exhales through your nose frantic as he pounds into your throat before he slows down again.

“Good, gooood,” he drags out, observing the glistening veins as he draws back to his tip and then moves in again. “Doing very, very well. Looks so gorgeous, baby.”

You don’t know what he’s talking about — about you, his cock, the position. Everything? 

He keeps up the gentler pace, allowing you a break. Allowing himself the pleasure of this very image. Pretty lips surrounding a pretty dick.

And perhaps your desperate, little moans, accompanied by rapid blinking, set a fuse loose in his brain.

Because a moment later, Jungkook dares a step further — cock already stuffing your entire mouth, he pushes in more. The fat monstrosity reaches far, your gag reflex not as much at bay anymore as before.

The view seems to spur him on, though, and you can imagine why. If you were him, you’d probably enjoy the drooling mess under him, too. Salivating all over his dick, you feel the gross drop of your spit land on your clavicle, throat constricting as he thrusts in.

And just when you’re about to tap his thighs — very reluctantly, too — to catch your breath, he pulls back, fingers immediately digging into your cheeks to straighten your neck and head. You cough, eyes teary, your breathing quick and uncontrolled.

Like a toy, he moves your head to the left, to the right, a sly smirk playing around his lips until he moves down to you, back arched. Amidst your panting, he presses a brief kiss to your mouth, slippery against the dampness.

And then he says, as casually as he shouldn’t, “You’d look so beautiful in leashes.”

“…What?”

But he ignores your mumbled inquiry, instead thumbing at your lower lip. His dark eyes flit from one facial feature to another, pink lip caught between his teeth. The firm chest rises dangerously when he breathes in.

“Should I come in your mouth?” he asks as if you’d ever say no; as if you don’t know that he’s asking because he won’t. “Huh? Shoot it all the way down your throat?”

“Do it, fucking coward.”

…And just like that, he moves back.

tumblr is cruel and the 1k block limit in the new editor won't let me post the entire thing at once lol so here's the rest in a reblog!!! <3

#jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #bts smut #bts fluff #jeongguk smut #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #bts x reader #bts x you #bts imagines #bts fic #jungkook scenario #jeon jungkook smut #thebtswritersclub #jungkook fic #jungkook imagines #jungkook

[meiishu]

i have a theory on wylan and kaz in shadow and bone (the show)

Contains major spoilers for six of crows book if you havent read that and dont want spoilers about wylans backstory keep scrolling!

Rewatching episode 2 and im at the scene where the crows are at the diner, and kaz is teling the others that they cant just kill rollins. When kaz says “killing him wont clear our names…. and then we wont be able to protect you” he looks right at wylan who flinches back. I didnt catch it on my first watch (interpreted it as him talking to both wylan and nina in general) but now my brain is whirring

I think that, if we get the ice court heist, we are going to learn that wylan struck a deal with kaz for protection when he left his fathers home. If they stick as close to the book as possible for his backstory, then wylans dad tried to have him killed because he was in jan van ecks words “an embarrassment”. So when wylan escapes his fathers hired hands in the books he is protected by kaz *because* kaz knows who he is and decides to enlist the dregs protection on him since he thinks a merchers son could be useful

However

In the show, kaz doesnt run the dregs, i believe he just ran the crow club (evidenced by him first meeting and striking a deal with per husksoll in the early episodes of season 2). He wouldn’t have had the means or the power to just decide to protect this random boy who showed up in the barrel without a reason for it, even if he thought he might be useful someday

So i believe in the show, after he escaped his fathers hired help, wylan found kaz and struck a deal with him for protection from his father. And so in exchange, kaz can go to wylan for the bombs he needs, even though wylan doesn’t *really* want to help because he doesnt like what kaz uses them for. This would set up:

A) kaz knows wylans true identity. Hes always known since before even season one and also this is how kaz and wylan are already on personal terms AND how kaz knows he can trust the things wylan makes for him despite wylan’s reluctance to help

B) wylan’s hostage moment in the ice court heist. Although in the books its kind of surprising to the whole crows that jan van eck actually doesnt miss or care about wylan, the show could deviate slightly from this, or kaz could figure out the truth but not tell anyone and use it as his plan to expose jan van eck especially if jan tries to pull the pity card for his son

C) when it does come out that wylan is a van eck, especially since jesper doesnt know, when jesper finds out that kaz knew the whole time i can see that causing a huge rift between them, especially if kaz planned to use wylan as bait and *especially* if wesper is in an established relationship. Not only would jesper be upset if wylan volunteered himself for this, but that kaz even tried this at all when he knows that wesper is together. It will feel like such a betrayal to jesper. *especially* if the show has kaz almost coerce wylan *into* being bait — although i lean more towards wylan volunteering himself because i feel as though he would do that knowing kaz’s plan. Plus, wylan and kaz working together to one up jan??? PLEASE

Sorry for ranting on main cant help it im in shadow and bone brainrot i need the ice court heist and wylans backstory SO BADLY s&b NEEDS to be renewed

Also i just want to say that i highkey LOVE that wesper will be an established relationship going into the ice court heist. We have slow burn with kanej and helnik and certain scenes will hit so much harder with wesper as an established relationship. I cant wait to see how the show takes their story from here tbh since now we’re very deviating away from the books

#shadow and bone #shadow and bone season 2 #wylan van eck #shadow and bone spoilers #wesper #wylan hendriks #s&b fantheory #kaz and jesper #kaz and wylan #mac speaks #fantheories

[adiduck]

wait hold on i am fascinated with the groundhog day / time loop fic snippet that you posted. it's ice and maverick going on the uranium mission from tgm? would the fic be exploring their training? is ice volunteering them for the groundhog day thing without actually knowing if it works? it's such an good take on the story - really drawn to the idea of a story of maverick and ice exploring their own training for the mission while still having to train the daggers how to fly it (potentially without the same safety net in place??) i would love to hear more about what you're thinking because my brain is just whirring like a little machine trying to wrap my mind around it!

LOL okay so... close. The idea is that younger Ice and Mav--I’m gonna say 1989ish Ice and Mav, so post Top Gun, probably they’ve actually flown together as wingmen for a while--get pulled through MacGuffin Operation Groundhog to TGM era, where they’re going to be the single seaters on the uranium mission. They DO have to complete the training anyway, because they have never seen an F-18 before, and because even without that this is NOT EASY, and the decision of which of them will be team leader is still up in the air. And Maverick--the OLDER Maverick--is still teaching it. Yes, Ice did pull older Mav to teach and younger Mav to fly with himself on Mav’s wing, why do you ask? 🤣

So, the original single seater potentials are there because this means they can have one or two extras around in case something goes wrong--which means Bradley’s there. Which means Bradley has to interact with both older and younger Mav. Lots of potential fun there. Additionally, Maverick strikes me as the sort of person who would not get along with himself AT ALL, and I suspect that Ice would end up feeling a lot of pressure meeting his older self/putting a lot of pressure on his younger self to not fuck up (intentionally in older Ice’s case), but I ALSO suspect they’d be far kinder to the OTHER’S younger selves, if that makes sense. So there’s that tension there too.

Also you know. Ice and Mav are together in the future, but not in 1989, so there’s that LMFAO

IDK there’s... like, I’ve got IDEAS, but I don’t have anything... I don’t know how to explain. I don’t have a plot or theme! It’s just a bunch of “lol this’d be great/cool/so funny”???? hm

Anyway what do y’all think?

#adi is a writer #the process #ask replies #icemav #dropping this in the tag because it's an immediate follow-up #lemme know if this is too spammy for the icemav tag fam! #operation groundhog au

[mistress-ofmagic]

Around the Realms in 80 days- Chapter 20

Pairing: Reader x Loki

Story summary: You have fallen through a portal during the convergence into Asgard and come face to face with Thor, and his brother Loki. With no way to return, you must travel with the two men and their hoard of asgardian soldiers to get back home. Things get from bad to worse when you have to share a tent with the god of mischief himself.

Notes:

Um so hi!! I hope some of you are still out there!!! I'm so sorry for my insane absence but I have been struggling with some health issues and had to have surgery to have my gallbladder removed! Either way I am back now and I really really hope some of you are still interested in reading this story and can still remember what is going on lmao!

I honestly thought at one point this chapter would be short but I always think that and I am always a clown. We have gotten back to the plot more in this chapter after a couple of silly fun chapters so I hope you enjoy it!

Read this story on a03!

find all parts to this story on Tumblr here

The fire demons were attacking from all sides, with you and Loki in the middle. You were surprisingly calm and felt focused on your task, creating forcefields to protect you and Loki from the firebolts headed your way. Loki’s green magic blasted towards the demons, knocking them with force. 

“Impressive shield work, I suppose you've had ample experience dealing with fiery nuisances.”

You grinned at him in the middle of the battle, “my life is basically a never ending bonfire.” 

The demons retaliated with a torrent of flames and you wielded your staff to make your forcefield stronger. 

Loki flourished his sceptre towards the demons, 

“You’re extremely competent with that staff.” Loki said, impressed. 

“That’s what he said.” 

You both laughed heartily. 

“My dear, your quick wit and fiery spirit are almost as impressive as my powers.” 

Loki shot the rest of the demons with two pistols he drew from his holders attached to his tan leather buckled belt.

There was quiet after, and you dropped your forcefield now the enemy had been dealt with. You looked back at Loki, taking in his brown batwing chaps. You had the sudden desire to be as close to him as possible and you both took strides towards each other. Loki gave you a smouldering look, his eyes full of passion, took you in his arms and leaned in…

“Latte?” 

Who had said that? Loki’s lips had moved but a different voice sounded. Had Loki always had that cowboy hat on?

“Latte.” A singsong voice stated again. 

“Hm? Yes please…” 

There was a gentle chuckling which confused you. What had you said that was funny? 

Come to think of it, what was that strange whirring noise? And what was digging into your head?

Your eyes opened slowly and found Thor and Fandral looking at you, grinning. 

Oh god, you’d fallen asleep on the spacecraft. 

Worse still, you seemed to be resting your head on the shoulder of none other than Loki of Asgard. 

He shoved you off, surprisingly not too sharply.

“You have a bony shoulder.” You mumbled, rubbing the side of your head. 

“How did you fall asleep? I thought you were nervous.” Loki asked, almost slightly impressed. 

“It’s a gift.” You yawned and stretched and ignored Loki’s narrowed eyes. “Are we there yet?” 

“Nearly.” Thor answered as he and Fandral shared a look. “Best prepare yourself.” 

They wandered to the front of the helm with Hogan. Prepare yourself? How could you prepare yourself? Maybe you could take a defensive stance or something? 

Unfortunately the more nervous you got, the loonier your brain tended to get and your dream had knocked you off kilter. 

 “Stop it.” Loki said, sharply.

“Wh-i’m not doing anything.”

You refused to make eye contact with him, the dream still far too fresh in your memory. Jesus, what would have happened if you hadn’t been woken up? 

You stared determinedly at the steel floor. 

“I can tell you are ruminating, you are going to work yourself up, as you usually do.” He added at the end unnecessarily. 

Why did he pick now as an opportunity to be kind of sweet? Well as sweet as Loki could be, which was still rather stern and prickly. 

What was that uncomfortable feeling, were you…

“Are you blushing?” Loki asked incredulously. “Like a fair maiden?” He added smugly. 

“No!” You said too fast. 

Loki’s smugness seemed to grow. 

“I hope you are going to be able to focus on the mission at hand.” 

“Ugh don’t be so gross. It’s just a bit warm in here. And besides I’m allowed to ruminate. Is this 1984? Are you the thought police?” You prattled on.

God you hoped not now would be a really bad time for Loki to be the thought police. 

He raised an eyebrow as if to say ‘I told you so’ and you stuck your tongue out at him. 

“Very mature.” 

“Well given that I’m not one billion years old like you are I am allowed to have moments of immaturity, especially before I face certain death.” 

You noticed out of the corner of your eye that Sif was giving you a strange look from the seats opposite you, and it was not exactly friendly. 

You had kind of forgotten about the additions to your Asgardians pals on this trip and the fact that they weren’t particularly used to seeing mortals. And probably not mortals who argued with their most hated Prince. And you had just blushed too which was so uncool. Oh god, you were never going to beat the sycophant rumours. 

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. How do I have signal in space you wondered, starting miraculously at your phone. 

The text was from Oliver, a gif of a cat waving goodbye and the light relief made you chuckle. 

“What has amused you my lady?” Fandral asked, sitting down opposite you next to Sif. He sat with his legs very wide, almost touching Loki’s legs with what little gap there was between the two seating benches. 

Loki rolled his eyes and made an irritated noise which Fandral ignored. 

“Nothing really.” You shrugged it off. 

“Well something has got you smiling.” Fandral raised his eyebrows at you, teasingly. 

“Honestly it’s nothing a text.” 

“What’s a text?” Volstagg asked, biting into an apple. 

“Must you always be eating?” Fandral asked, laughing. “A text is a Midgardian form of electronic communication.” He smirked at you, knowingly. 

You fought back the laughter that threatened to escape you at the sight of Volstaggs confused face. 

“That’s right.” 

“But I wonder, who is sending you texts?”

“Just a friend wishing me well.” You replied hastily. 

“Ah” Fandral frowned. “But there is no need for such wishes, you have Asgards mightiest warriors with you.” He winked. 

Loki scoffed, and seemed to be about to say something when the craft suddenly jolted, as if it had hit an invisible wall. 

Thor took a few strides back to face the party. 

“We’re here.”

                                                                        ***

Surtur was huge. And also terrifying. And had you mentioned the huge thing? You could see why the fire demons had made him their leader.

He looked as though he was made completely from molten rock and seemed to remain ablaze. He had two horns sticking out of either side of his skull which alone must have been about the height of a double decker bus.  His eyes were two yellow fires held in the twisted roots of his skull.

You guessed this was sort of the court for the fire demons. Surtar sat at the furthest end of rocky landscape (fire demon architecture left much to be desired) with a few other important looking fire demons surrounding him who seemed to be swagged out with various pieces of gleaming multicoloured rock jewellery. 

There were more of the demons surrounding, snarling at your group as you walked past. Thor and Loki strode ahead of the party, and you had tried to position yourself in the middle, hoping you wouldn’t be noticed. 

God it was hot. You fought the urge to fan yourself and you felt yourself getting a very sexy top upper lip sweat already. Your outfit was doing nothing to help although you were grateful for it. Stark had kitted you out in head to toe Stark tech. The material was flame resistant, as well as having some other properties that seemed helpful but you couldn’t for the life of you remember what they were now.  

Of course, the Asgardians didn’t seem to have worked up a sweat. 

“Your council seem unhappy to see us, Surtur.”

“My council are unused to visits from Odinsons. As am I.” Surtur spoke with a deep, gravely voice that you felt in your stomach.

“We want no trouble.”

“And yet, you bring the God of trouble himself.” His voice reverberated around the room, encouraging the other demons to laugh, a sound that concerned you. 

“We demand answers. Why have you attacked Midgard?” Loki ordered. 

Surtur laughed again,

“Surely you have not come all this way, placed yourself in danger to lecture us about a tiny world that none of us care about?”

Rude, you thought. 

“Midgard is under Asgards protection. My father stopped the frost giants from conquering Midgard many moons ago and I will stop you from doing the same now if I have to.” Thor stated.

“I have no desire for Midgard.” 

Then why attack at all, you wondered.

Luckily, and also scarily, Loki was on the same page as you.

“If Midgard is so wretched, why even bother attacking them?”

Surtur frowned his great big forehead. 

“Midgard had grown complacent, it was time to remind them their fairytales were real.” He opened his mouth into a fiery grin.

You didn’t buy it personally, but you had bigger problems to worry about. One of the Surtur’s burning councilmen was staring directly at you, his eyes glistening like black coals. 

“Come now Surtur, you can’t think us so foolish as to believe that, when for thousands of years you have left the Midgardians alone? Your attacks on Midgard seemed random; attacking three cities and then retreating quickly? Not the strategic planning of the Surtur that we all know and revere.” Loki played to his ego. 

“The attacks on Midgard were just the beginning.” Surtur leant forward in his gigantic throne. 

The fire demon doing his best to stare you out was continuing to make you uncomfortable. You wanted to ask about the disappearances; after Stark had told you about the attacks you had done some googling and it turns out that a number of people in the cities had gone missing during the attacks. They were presumed dead, their bodies left somewhere in the destruction and rubble but something about it felt off to you. You had raised it with Stark and he had agreed. 

You were stuck between mentioning it but not wanting to draw any more attention to yourself. You thought briefly to how Loki sometimes talks to you in your head, a phenomenon you were not particularly fond of. 

Could there be a way you could do the same with him? You weren’t sure exactly how it worked and maybe it was just one of Loki’s irritating tools in his magical toolkit but could there be a way of reaching him in a similar way?

You focused firmly on the back of Loki’s head. 

Ask about the disappearances.

…nothing happened. 

Next, you tried to imagine sending the words from your head and into Loki’s head, but again 

nothing seemed to happen and you felt a bit stupid. You tried again a couple more times, shouting the words louder in your own head. Finally, you closed your eyes and imagined pushing the thought like a wave, crashing down onto him. 

Ask about the disappearances, bitch 

You tried louder and angrier too, in case that helped. 

You watched Loki closely as he shifted slightly. 

By the Norns, can you stop shouting at me? 

Oh my god, it worked. 

How did I do that?

I left the channel between us open and you figured how to tap into it.Even telepathically Loki sounded irritated, as if he regretted doing so. You however, were very pleased he had.

So I’m not telepathic? 

Fortunately not. 

But I did figure out how to do this. You felt very smug.

Congratulations. Loki sounded sarcastic. 

“What do you mean ‘just the beginning’” Thor frowned. 

You snapped back to the conversation happening not in your head. 

Surtur laughed in response. 

You noticed a shared annoyed glance between Loki and Thor. 

“What about the mortal disappearances?” Loki asked.

“So many questions.” Surtur goaded them, “how does it feel to be in the dark Asgardians?”

He was loving this, it was very frustrating. You wanted to punch his massive scorching face. Although, your hand would probably burn which wouldn’t have been ideal. 

Still you thought, he didn’t deny the mortal disappearances which could mean something. Or perhaps he was simply playing with you all. 

Thor scoffed, “Surtur you old fool, Asgard is still the most powerful realm in the Cosmos, do you really think whatever scheme you have bought into is going to prevail?” 

“Odin grows old, Asgard is not what it was. Perhaps it is time for change. The end of things as we know it and the rebirth of something new.”

“The ‘rebirth’?” Loki took a step forward, “careful now Surtur, that sounds suspiciously like…”

“Ragnarok.” Surtur finished in his deep, slow voice. 

The Asgardians around you shifted, and Sif made a noise of disgust. 

What was that word? You thought you could vaguely remember reading it somewhere but you couldn’t remember what it meant. By the reactions of the people around you, you guessed it was not good news. 

“What?” Sif spat and grabbed hold of her sword. 

Loki’s eyes were hard and steely, and his face pale despite the heat but he replied dryly,

“Ragnarok? A tired prophecy Surtur. Surely you can conjure a more original plan than that?” 

“Puny Gods, you cannot stop this. If I were you I would go home and spend your remaining time with your loved ones.” Surtur chuckled. 

You cursed yourself inwardly for not paying more attention to your books, if only you could remember what Ragnarok meant so you knew what they were talking about. 

Thor looked properly angry, a look you had not seen on him before, “Cease this senseless nonsense, this is your warning or Asgard will have no choice but to engage in war.” 

“You will have your war Odinson and you will loose. Ragnarok has already begun and there is no stopping what the fates have decided. The prophecy must come true.” 

“Then you know what we will do, you have signed your people a death sentence.” 

As Thor’s hammer glowed an electric blue, your heart jumped as you realised that a fight might break out. 

Oh god this is really happening. 

“Thor, let’s think rationally about this.” Loki put his hand on Thors shoulder. 

Thor however seemed beyond reason, and he shrugged him off as he held his hammer up and swung it, preparing to fight.

“You have made a grave mistake Odinson.” Surtur stood suddenly and you followed his flaming body with your eyes, amazed and terrified at the size of him now you could see his full height. 

“Don’t say it.” Loki groaned.

“I make grave mistakes all the time, but everything seems to work out.” 

“And you said it.” 

The air crackled with tension for a few seconds, and then before you could comprehend what was happening, fire demons began their attack. 

After a couple of seconds of standing there with your mouth open like a fish without water, you remembered the plan you Thor, Loki and Stark had come up with before your visit here; if a battle starts to get out of harms way as quick as possible. Luckily, the demons rocky architecture you had been judging earlier made for plenty of hiding places. 

As Loki distracted the demons conjuring illusions, you managed to spring yourself into action, ducking and diving behind a large rock. You moved further over to the left, staying low behind the walls where you could be covered and still keep an eye on the action. Gripping hard on your gun that you felt ridiculously underprepared to use you focused intently on what was going on. The weapon you had been supplied with in case of a worst case scenario, wasn’t outrageously powerful or anything, you doubted you would be trusted with anything too deadly however it could cause some damage if needed. 

You hoped however that you would’t need to use it. What had Loki said yesterday? Take any opportunity to leave or hide.

It was alright for him you thought dryly as you studied Loki fighting off a demon. Despite fighting seeming to you more akin to a nightmare, he seemed to be enjoying himself.

In fact, they all did. You watched Thor wielding his precious hammer that you could never remember the name of with unwavering determination, lighting crackling around him. Sif with her sword gleaming in the firelight, moving with grace and precision striking swift and deadly blows. Even Hogan, armed with his mace stood as an immovable force. Sif and Hogan seemed to have some sort of count on, with who could kill the most demons. 

You watched Fandral and Volstagg bantering as they fought off a couple of ugly looking demons. 

Watching them joke around make you feel more confident, as surely nothing bad could happen if the Asgarians didn’t think this was too difficult a feat. 

Where are you you heard Lokis voice. 

Behind some rock you sent back to him.

Very helpful, can’t you be more precise? 

What am I, a compass? I’m somewhere to your left, I can still see you all.  You replied. Directions had never been a strong point of yours. 

Stay hidden. 

You rolled your eyes. As if you were going to do anything else. Did he think you were going to try and take on a fire demon single handedly? You thought about replying something snarky but decided you’d better just let him concentrate. 

Indeed, Loki seemed very busy weaved in and out of reality, appearing and disappearing, his daggers cutting through the fiery adversaries. You knew that Loki’s skills were looked down on by the other warriors, Fandral had made cutting remarks during your time in Asgard but you still couldn’t understand it. You hadn’t had an opportunity to watch him mid action like this before and it truly was a sight to behold; he was lithe and quick while still strong and powerful, thwarting demons like it was his day job. 

It reminded you of something…then it hit you. This was similar in some ways to the dream you had had on the ship. 

Oh my god now is not the time. You physically shook your head to stop yourself from going any further than that route. 

Turning your attention back to the others, you watched Thors hammer crashed into the demons, unleashing thunderous blasts that scattered through their ranks, as Sif and Fandral sliced their swords through the air. 

Despite the fierce onslaught, the demons fought back relentlessly. Their fiery attacks rained down upon the group, testing their mettle. As the battle raged on, the ground shook beneath their feet as flames engulfed the surroundings. 

You wiped the sweat out of your face, looking around you for anyone who might have found your hiding space. However everyone was concentrated on fighting the Asgardians. 

Loki had told you to look out for opportunities to find out information that you might be able to gather more than others, however given the current circumstances you doubted there would be any chance of that. In fact, you felt a little bit useless crouched here watching the rest of them fight. 

Granted, your skills were never going to lie in hand to hand combat, but you still felt desperate to do something to support them. 

Despite Lokis’ warning to stay out of sight, you decided to take a chance. You stayed low and moved swiftly to the next bolder, dodging an ill timed flame headed towards you. From here, you were slightly closer to the action. 

You had a sudden strange feeling of playing laser tag as a child and how this felt much the same; crouching behind walls and hiding in dark corners. Unfortunately, the stakes were much higher now. 

Your eyes drew back to Loki, watching as he used his magic to push back against the demons. You bit down on your lips hard, as there was a close moment he barely missed a fireball that could have burnt his arm.

Can you be more careful you idiot, you sent your concern over to him before you stopped yourself. 

Worried for me mortal? How cute. 

You wish. 

You were though, worried for him. You knew Loki and the rest were seasoned pros at fighting off monsters but you had never been in a battle situation before. 

Come on, you told yourself, pull it together its not like they haven’t done this before, worry about yourself. 

While you were staring at him, you suddenly felt your back get very warm. You turned quickly, clutching your weapon to find the demon that had been staring at you earlier staring down at you. 

Your heart thumped loudly and you panicked, fumbling for the trigger on your weapon as you tried to half stand; an awkward movement due to your panic and trying to ensure the back of you wasn’t left exposed to an open attack.  

Before you could do anything, the demon surprised you by speaking. 

“Your friends are going to die. There is no getting out of this.”

You stared at him, unsure of how to respond to that. Instead of something heroic or even settling for something normal, you blurted, 

“Why haven’t you attacked me yet?” 

“Are you a mortal with a death wish?” His black eyes glinted at you.

“No.” You chocked out.

God seriously get a grip, you chided yourself, stop acting like such a prat. 

“Leave these Asgardians to their demise and come with me, there’s a greater future waiting for you.”

Now you were confused.

“What are you propositioning? What greater future?” 

“The human race is weak and frail.” The demon hissed. “But they can help make you stronger.”

“Who can?” You graciously ignored the insult. 

The demon just grinned at you, menacingly. 

“Who are you working with?” You asked again. “Who has promised you Ragnarok?” 

“You are on the loosing side mortal. Look at you, useless, cowering while the others fight. But that can change if you surrender yourself to them.”

He wasn’t wrong but it still stung a little. Hadn’t you just been thinking that it would be nice to be able to feel more helpful? 

“We can make you powerful.” The demon continued to press you.

Powerful…

You laughed and met the demons eye, drawing yourself up straight for the first time. Maybe that would have been a tempting offer to someone else. Unfortunately, if he was trying to sell you something he was going the wrong way about it. The thing is, you had never been particularly interested in the notion of power. 

“The issue with power is that it usually comes with responsibility. And I really, really hate responsibilities.”

You took a deep breath in. 

“Tell me who you are working with, or I’ll blast you with this…thing.” 

In a flash, you saw the demon narrow his eyes and lift his hand to throw a fireball at you, which at this distance would have killed you. You closed your eyes, let out a scream and pressed the trigger. 

You heard the blast and a noise that sounded suspiciously like something hitting a rock, and opened one eye slowly to see what you had done. Hitting something at close range meant that the weapon had proved to be pretty impressive, and you saw the demon lying in a heap a few feet away from you.

You shuddered, that was horrific. You wondered if Captain America usually shuts his eyes and screams like a ninny when dealing deadly blows. 

You gipped. 

Oh god I’m going to be sick, you thought, dropping your gun and gripping your stomach with one hand and a nearby rock with the other. 

The adrenaline of nearly dying but besting a demon and the gory sight of seeing it laid on the floor had proved too much. You were embarrassed to find tears in the back of your eyes.

Seriously dude, this fire guy was going to kill you and you beat it. Cheer up a bit maybe. You mentally shock yourself. 

It was then you realised that the demon had managed to burn you before you had shot it, your hand that you had held the gun with, that hadn’t been covered in anything was bleeding and sore. 

You’ll have to process this later you told yourself, trying to push it back into your mind so you could focus on the rest of the fight. Your hand stung but it would recover fine.

After a few breaths you pulled yourself around. You still weren’t overly keen on the idea that you had just killed something but you also had a sense of pride too. You had just beaten a demon for Gods sake! Useless human who? And you had been able to find out something interesting too, these mystery figures wanted humans for something. 

You bent back down and picked your gun up, turning back to face the fight. You looked up and made eye contact with Loki. His eyes took in your grimacing expression and caught the dead demon not too far away from you. 

Everything suddenly fell into slow motion. Loki took steps towards you and his mouth opened, you could see him saying your name but you couldn’t hear it. As his attention was turned towards you, a particularly large demon was running towards him from the left. 

Without giving it a second thought you ran straight towards the fight. 

The demon opened his palms to shoot the flames towards Loki and you weren’t going to make it in time.

You changed your direction running towards the demon and shot your weapon as you leapt straight in front of the torrent of fire that was made for Loki. 

It hit you straight in the chest knocking you forcefully back onto the gravely terrain and you cringed as you felt your head hit the floor. 

Someone was shouting your name but you weren’t sure who. There was a ringing in your ears from the impact nearly drowning out the noise of the battle. You could only focus on your chest hurting; it stung and ached and you were winded. You hoped that your outfit had helped a little in preventing burns but given the pain you weren’t so sure. 

Loki’s face appeared in front of you, a little blurry but still looking furious. 

“What the hel were you thinking?” You could tell he was incandescent but you were struggling to focus on anything other than the pain. 

“You’re welcome by the way.” Your mouth tasted like blood and you winced. 

You felt yourself being taken into his arms which you huffed at and he ignored, and he placed a surprisingly freezing cold hand on your burns. You looked down to see your Stark tech top was ripped and the skin under looked red and inflamed. Where Loki rested his hand, his skin was blue. 

“What the fuck?” You tried to move away, the sight taking you by surprise.

Loki shushed you and held you tighter so you couldn’t move.

“Stop fighting me for once.” He paused, his forehead creased 

“You… I would have been…” He stated, his eyes met yours, his forehead creased. He looked confused and vulnerable for a second.  

“Okay, this is dramatic, let’s not tell anyone about this.” You let your head rest in the crook of Loki’s arm. 

Just as you spoke, Thor realised what was happening and after he had finished off his fight came over to see. The others either hadn’t noticed or were holding down the fort with two of their men now fussing over a human. 

As the adrenaline was wearing off, the pain got worse and everything started getting more blurry. Your body felt heavy and tired.

“If you die I’ll go to Hel and bring you back myself so I can kill you again for being so stupid.” 

You tried to keep your eyes open for as long as you could.

“I’ll look forward to it.” 

Then everything went black. 

Notes: What did you think????? Also yes I had to get the AI's sequence in somewhere it was too funny lmao. I so so hope some of you are out there and reading this and I'm not just talking to myself.

Tag list:

@creationsbyme  @kikster606  @slytherinintj13  @th0rswh0res  @huntress-artemiss  @jannieka394 @stefffrs  @misswimberly @thedistractedagglomeration  @yoongissidebitchh  @purplekitten30 @mischief2sarawr  @johnmurphys-sass 

@lonadane  @imalovernotahater @lokisgoodgirl. @laliceee @dlwrish  @paetonnn  @lovelysizzlingbluebird  @reas-writing  @buttercupcookies-blog @acidcasualties

#loki #loki x you #loki x y/n #loki smut #loki marvel #loki of asgard #loki mcu #loki x reader #tom hiddleston #loki odinson #loki god of mischief

[lastweeksshirttonight]

Lee is re-watching Sherlock for some fucking reason - Season One

I'm well aware that the crossover between "currently popular and loved British comedian in the US updates, thirst, and accoutrements" and "BBC show that went so off the rails that people now like to pretend Andrew Scott's breakout role was the Hot Priest in Fleabag" is limited, but weirdly, returning to Sherlock was one of the few things that was keeping my brain somewhat grounded and whirring during Work Hell.

We're in uncharted territory here. You're gonna learn a bit about the things I do when I'm not tracking John Oliver obsessively. I am nervous about this but hey, I'm guessing most of you knew I don't solely live and breathe John Oliver. (I know. I have multitudes. This is a shocking revelation. Please take time to process it.)

Firstly, a content note - there's going to be discussion about queerbaiting and queercoding villains, and the beginning of this goes into some of James Somerton's absolutely disgusting claims about the AIDS crisis. This post will only be focused on Season One, as that's all I've finished at this point.

Let's go.

(above image sourced from Writing Tips and Memes)

My sudden re-emergent hyperfixation started because of the hbomberguy takedown of James Somerton, weirdly. I don't follow many YouTubers - I like Bright Sun Films because he goes urban exploring, something I've always wanted to do but have never managed to make happen, and also Todd in the Shadows, whose Trainwreckords series is very well-done and expertly researched. Seeing that name, you might know where this is going. Todd dropped a video about James Somerton, who I had never fucking heard of and now wish I'd known about before, so I could scream bloody murder about what an absolute fuckwad he is.

(I don't want to get too in the weeds here, but the things James asserted about WWII, Nazis, and the AIDS crisis are so vehemently offensive that I'm still struggling with them. Claiming that only boring gays survived the AIDS crisis in particular is so vile that I have gotten anger flashes thinking about it almost daily since hearing it.)

Todd recommended watching all four hours of the hbomberguy plagiarism video, and I ran that in the background while working about two weeks ago. Eventually I had to stop doing that because the plagiarism revelations were so distracting and shocking. Todd's video was even more of a goddamn mindfuck, and even the smaller, less offensive things have taken up far too much space in my brain. Californians, does anyone at all deify Bob Iger??? Like... what the goddamn fuck??? Bob Iger????

After watching one hbomberguy video, the algorithm did its thing, and gave me a video called "Sherlock is Garbage and Here's Why". Posting it here for posterity:

Because my brain works in mysterious ways (-cough-ADHD-cough-), watching this... made me want to rewatch Sherlock.

I initially saw Sherlock for the first time thanks to someone I met in my last year of college, 2012. At the time, Michael (a nickname) was my neighbor in the dorms; over the past ten years, she's become one of my closest friends and a true rock in my life. One of the first things we bonded over that I introduced her to was the San Francisco Giants and the ghost I will always be chasing, Tim Lincecum; one of the first things we bonded over that she introduced me to was BBC Sherlock. The show was in the early months of its extended hiatus after Season Two, at the height of its fandom, and we were both completely obsessed. I read all the Doyle stories, took in a truly wild amount of fanfiction, wrote a not-very-popular AU fic, became part of a strange inter-dorm ARG based on Sherlock orchestrated by Michael... it consumed a huge part of our lives.

When Season 3 dropped, I almost stopped watching after "The Empty Hearse". I don't want to get into why it offended me so much before we get to a Season 3 post, but just know my enthusiasm severely dampened there. The rest of Season 3 I think of with blase emotions, especially the ending, which I found just dumb, save one part of it. I recall going to see The Abominable Bride in theatres with my mom (and maybe Michael?), and I think I liked it fine - aside, again, from the ending. But I had no interest in a Season Four, and when it dropped, Michael's long rambling phone calls describing the absolute shitstorm of a plot cemented that I was never going to watch it again.

Until now.

I definitely don't think the hbomberguy video is perfect. His insistence that Doyle canon never had Holmes pull answers to cases out of his ass is... something, lol, as is his opinion that changing the solution to certain puzzles in A Study in Pink disrespects the original canon. (Bro, these stories have been retold a bajillion times, they need to mix it up to keep it interesting.) But he put a finger on something that I'd wrestled with regarding Sherlock for a long time - that the show's writing often teased something big and new and conclusive in the horizon, but almost never delivered. That wasn't an issue in early days when there was less invested in an increasingly convoluted mythic story, or when they weren't fully blowing off the resolutions to cliffhangers, but the flaw in writing a story where you promise something huge on the horizon and never deliver should be obvious.

The first season doesn't trade much in that idea, and going back to it was something I found exceptionally enjoyable!

Before I watched:

I remembered bits and pieces of "A Study in Pink" and the whole plot in summary.

I truly didn't remember anything about "The Blind Banker" except that I found it fairly 'yellow peril'-y when I saw it in 2012.

I mixed up huge chunks of Season Two's "A Scandal in Belgravia" with "The Great Game" in my head and somehow forgot the main plot thrust was Moriarty kidnapping people and strapping bombs to them.

I genuinely forgot Sebastian Moran was a character basically hallucinated into existence by the fandom and didn't appear in the show at all until a brief appearance in Season Three.

In a way, it was like I was watching the show for the first time all over again. My partner also watched the first season with me, and it was interesting to get his thoughts on the show as we watched.

To start, his favorite character is Mycroft. Watching Season One, I had to agree that Mycroft has a depth of character that I'd forgotten about. Mark Gatiss plays him perfectly, aloof and smarter than you but unsure of how to deal with his natural feelings of concern and fear for his oft-spiraling, danger-seeking younger brother - and how those feelings magnify with the influence of extreme danger-seeker (at least in this season) John Watson. The show wants you to believe so badly that he's Moriarty in "A Study in Pink", which I don't think works even if you know he isn't Moriarty - there's a warmth to Gatiss' Mycroft that, even while he's doing incredibly ominous things like shutting off all cameras in a busy intersection, still comes through.

My favorite character is Moriarty. I haven't mentioned this very much here, because why would I, but my favorite character type in media is "theatrical abject shithead". It's why I cosplay Bakugo from My Hero Academia and loved everything about Akechi in Persona 5. Hell when I was a kid, I told teachers that when I grew up, I wanted to join Team Rocket. I love the theatrical shitheads. And boy, is Moriarty some sort of theatrical shithead. I don't DISAGREE with hbomberguy pointing out that, as written, Moriarty is a complete mess of a character, a queer-coded literal terrorist with no motivations besides "I did that because I'M CRAAAAZY!"... but he's my queer-coded literal terrorist, ok? I could write a whole paper on all the harmful stereotypes inhabiting this version of Moriarty... but I can't deny that the flamboyance and violence pulsing just beneath the surface of Andrew Scott's performance was the beating heart of that show for me. Sure, Sherlock and John, at least early on, were a compelling duo, but the show was at its best with Moriarty pulling strings for inexplicable reasons in the background. I love him.

(An aside: watching Sherlock made me remember how hilarious it was to see basically every major actor from the show in one of my favorite movies of all time, 1917, to the point that I actually kinda laughed in the theatre thinking about it.)

The entirety of the first season also is more devoted to actual crime-solving and detective work than I remembered the show being. I think that works strongly in its favor, and as I recall things from later seasons, drifting from that element definitely hampers the show greatly. In particular, while the lazy and uncomfortable Orientalism of "The Blind Banker" is still incredibly glaring, the actual mystery at the core of it is very excitingly tracked and easily followed while watching. The fact that John is treated like an equal (mostly) throughout only enhances my thoughts on that. "The Great Game" is a little more slapdash (and hurt by the fact that the entire Vermeer section would be solvable with a smartphone nowadays), but you can still make connections mentally with most of the cases and deduction/investigation is being shown logically. (hbomberguy cites the Golem as a problematic logical leap akin to some of Season Two's dumbest, and I can't agree. It's a reasonable suspension of disbelief to assume Sherlock knows about assassins and is followed by some more sensible investigation and inspection of the Golem's victim. The sequence of Sherlock fighting the Golem, however, is very, very silly.)

Related to that... the autopsy doctors on this show are fucking AWFUL at their jobs. Like straight-up negligently awful. How in the actual fuck did they not investigate the puncture marks on Connie Price's body? How did they not notice a highly distinctive heel tattoo on three recently-murdered corpses? Is Molly the only vaguely competent person in the mortuary? My partner and I were extremely amused that, while Lestrade and his police force are thankfully shown with much more intelligence than in other Holmes adaptations and BBC!Watson wouldn't think jam is a clue, the writers seem to have shunted the stupidity straight to the invisible autopsy doctors.

The first season also does a good job of making Sherlock seem like an overly intelligent if socially stunted human being, instead of the condescending prickish intellectual Ubermensch he ends up becoming as the show progresses. "A Study in Pink"'s ending being Sherlock throwing aside his deduction of the cabbie's killer when he realizes it's Watson, unconvincingly lying to Lestrade and insisting he's in shock before rejoining the other man and genuinely bonding with him, is remarkably compelling as fulfillment of a promise we get from Lestrade earlier in the episode - "Sherlock Holmes is a great man. One day he may even be a good one." My memory is admittedly faulty, but part of why "The Empty Hearse" turned me off so viscerally was Sherlock's (and to an extent, Mycroft's) insufferable growing smugness, particularly where explaining plans or mysteries to John. We get told often that Watson humanizes Sherlock and that the two have a strong bond throughout the series, but Sherlock gets much more dickish in general as the series progresses. One thing I do remember with stark clarity is that after being utterly chastised at a Christmas party in "A Scandal in Belgravia", Sherlock does visibly treat Molly MUCH better throughout the remainder of the show. So, uh, why did we lose that energy with the show's central pairing?

Speaking of the show's central pairing, the queerbaiting starts SO EARLY on this show. I want to make it clear that obviously the benefit of hindsight and knowledge of how the show ends really colors a lot about the Johnlock relationship now, and as a society, we're more aware of what queerbaiting is and what it looks like, which will obviously alter how I perceive these interactions now. I also want to make it clear that I never really shipped Johnlock outside of just kind of assuming that it would be canon because everyone seemed really convinced of it. (I was an absolute degenerate that shipped John with Moriarty. On top of enjoying theatrical disasters, I enjoy ships with an abundance of chaos and impossibility.) There's some biases at play here.

Even so, we are not far into the episode where John is protesting that obviously he needs a second bed in 221B to Mrs. Hudson, he's not gay! The scene in the restaurant has such an aggressively shippy energy to it (despite Watson's consistent denials) that I actively commented on it to my partner as it was happening, saying "the queerbaiting happens WAY SOONER than I thought!" It's distracting and has aged absolutely terribly. The worst by far is John quipping, after being removed from a bomb vest at a pool in "The Great Game", that people will talk because of Sherlock ripping his clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. Why is Watson's heterosexuality so fragile that he's thinking about gossip rags as he's actively recovering from a near-death experience?!

(Aside: I'm aware that last point is not as effective when you think about the fact that I shipped two characters whose sole canonical interaction was one man kidnapping and forcing the other into a bomb vest. In my defense, a) I love mess and b) John never quips about thinking people will talk because he got kidnapped.)

Moriarty's first appearance in "The Great Game" sees him as Molly's fake boyfriend slipping a phone number to Sherlock, which lead to my partner commenting about how distracting it also was, on top of the queerbaiting, that almost every single person on the show has some sort of deep metaphysical attraction to Sherlock. Those people aren't on the lighting and cinematography team for sure; Benedict Cumberbatch is lit ominously and sometimes demonically throughout the first season, highlighting his antihero and brusque nature effectively. But many, many characters in the show - just in season one, Molly, Moriarty, multiple characters of the day, the Cabbie, and John - are all drawn to Sherlock and his very special brain and his very sharp cheekbones. Signs of a big future problem come through in this way, where the show starts sidelining Watson as our central figure and puts Sherlock squarely at the center of everyone's universe and makes lesbians fall in love with him.

(My partner also laughed pretty hard at how obvious Moriarty's pratfalls were as Molly's boyfriend, noting that the show was pretty bad at hiding who Moriarty was every time it came up.)

Some of the seeds of Sherlock's destruction are sown in this first season, obviously. The big one I haven't touched on is the ending cliffhanger itself. Moriarty has John and Sherlock trapped in the pool, tens of sniper sights trained on them, and says that he can't let them escape. Amazing cliffhanger here! It is not fulfilled on at all, but because Andrew Scott can carry anything on his back (including Spectre, which I cannot start talking about because we'll be here all day), the scene doesn't feel like a total waste and makes you want to hang on to find out what happens later.

But there was so much here that was delightful. All the acting is uniformly excellent, and the overt physical tics that come to define Sherlock's mind palace and mental prowess being showcased are barely evident here. The actual detective work, like I said earlier, is really involving! I don't feel like I figured out the solutions for the mysteries I couldn't recall the answers for too easily and thought Sherlock's deductive reason largely followed and wasn't too obscure. I'm still such a sucker for the show's style - that opening credits sequence is so perfectly put together, the text messages that interact with the scene and at the time made this show feel so fresh and modern to me, filming the character's faces in taxis through panes of glass and obscuring material in "A Study in Pink" to give everything an obfuscating sheen... give me all of it.

The music, too, was something I'd forgotten about and truly ended up adoring. Taskmaster (and The Horne Section's score for it) really owes a debt to Michael Price and David Arnold. So much of Sherlock's score could probably be dropped straight into a Taskmaster episode and I would have to think pretty hard to notice a difference in the show's usual musical palette. I've been eyeballing the vinyl on eBay, to give you an idea of how much I love this score. "The Game is On" is a perfect piece of music, clockwork spinning noises emphasizing the jauntiness of Sherlock as he drags Watson on his latest case before sliding into the more subdued, vaguely ominous thrum of its second movement descending into the madness of the third part, violins shrieking as the action reaches its apex.

Normally, with such a degree of pleasant surprise, I'd be eager to move forward to Season Two. Unfortunately, I know the first episode of Season Two is... a doozy. To say the least. A doozy that may get its own essay because of how doozy-ish it is.

In any case, I ended up really enjoying going back to Season One of Sherlock! Super down to talk further about the show, future write-ups, and my horrible taste in fictional ships and men - shoot me a message, reply to this post, wherever, I'll be here! <3

#not john oliver #bbc sherlock #sherlock bbc #Youtube #too long didn't read - the lee lastweeksshirttonight story #hbomberguy #todd in the shadows #fuck james somerton #3k words on a hyperfixation

[misc-obeyme]

Arsenios's Story: Preview

Since today is Arsenios's birthday, I'm sharing this little snippet from his story that I've been working on. The story still doesn't have a title, but I swear I'll come up with one at some point.

I wanted to share something a little fluffy. I think this is a cute little scene. It's before all the really dramatic stuff happens in the story lol.

Note that this is just a preview and is subject to change in the final draft. As always you can find more information about Arsenios in his profile post.

GN!MC x Arsenios (demon OC)

Warnings: none this is all fluff

A few days later you were in your bed, staring up at the darkened ceiling. Your mind was whirring, your thoughts steadily tumbling over each other. You wanted to rest, to shut your eyes, and sleep. And yet, for some reason, you couldn't.

You sighed. You rolled over in bed and picked up your D.D.D. hoping something there could distract you.

You were going to scroll through Devilgram, but you accidentally opened your contacts instead. You saw Arsenios's name there, new among your list.

Your finger hovered over the send message option. It was late. He was probably asleep, like you should be. And it wasn't like you guys were close enough that you could just text him in the middle of the night.

And yet…

Your mind was a little cloudy from exhaustion, so you went ahead and sent a message anyway. You'd deal with any consequences later.

MC: Hey, are you still awake? Or do you have a normal sleep schedule?

What a dorky thing to say. But you didn't care because you were tired, but couldn't sleep and your brain was not fully functioning. You just needed to talk to someone. Sure, you could have sent a message to any one of the brothers. Actually, you could have just left your room and talked to them in person. Levi was certainly still awake and a good gaming session might even be something that could help. Lucifer might still be awake, too, but you were far more likely to encounter a lecture from him. But for some reason, you didn't want to do any of that.

Your phone vibrated and you nearly dropped it in surprise.

Arsenios: What's sleep? Is that a human thing?

You rolled your eyes. Now you felt a little less like a dork because you were clearly talking to someone who was even more of one than you were.

MC: Ha ha, very funny. So you are awake.

Arsenios: I am now. Did you forget to do your curses and hexes homework for tomorrow? Because if that's why you're texting me, I regret to inform you that I didn't do it either.

MC: No, unlike you I actually care about school. I know better than to think you've done any homework ever.

Arsenios: That's a relief. I wouldn't want to be known for doing homework. So what's up? Everything okay?

You paused for a moment. Was he worried about you? You shook your head. You were being silly.

MC: Nothing, really. I just can't sleep, that's all.

Arsenios: I can do something about that. Hang on.

You read this last message in confusion. You stared at the screen for a moment, not sure how to respond, when it scared you to death by ringing in your hand. Arsenios's name flashed across the screen.

He was calling you?

You swiped to answer because what else could you do?

"Um, hello?" you said.

"Hey," Arsenios said. "Sorry to just call you out of nowhere like that, but I can't help you sleep if you can't hear me."

"What are you talking about?" you asked.

There was the soft strum of guitar strings on the other line.

"Have you already forgotten?" His tone was amused. "I can sing you to sleep."

You stared at the phone for a minute. "What?"

He laughed, a soft rolling sound that sounded like music itself. "My power, remember? If you're having trouble sleeping, it would be easy for me to put a little magic into my song to help you fall asleep. Is that okay?"

Your cheeks heated up and you were glad he couldn't see you. At least he asked this time. You thought about it. It would be nice if you could just sleep right now. "Okay. But if I fall asleep…"

"Don't worry," Arsenios said. "I'll hang up. I won't hear you snoring or talking in your sleep."

"I don't do either of those things!" you said and he laughed again.

"Just get comfortable and tell me when you're ready," he said.

You readjusted yourself so that you were comfortable in your bed, keeping your D.D.D. beside you on the pillow.

"Okay," you said. "I'm ready."

"Sweet dreams, MC," Arsenios said. He started to play the guitar before you could respond. Moments later, he was singing something soft and sweet. You hadn't heard it before, so you figured it was a Devildom song of some kind. It was mellow and quiet. The baritone of his voice easily rising and falling with the notes. It was hard to believe this was the same voice that had been practically growling on stage with the band. Right now it was smooth and gentle, the acoustic hum of the guitar strings mingling perfectly.

Soon enough, your eyes began to drift closed. You felt yourself falling into a restful slumber. It was like you were wrapped up in the song's melody, held close and kept warm. Your dreams were mild and pleasant.

masterlist | Thank you for reading!

#listen he's a bit of a dork when he's not being serious and dramatic #he really has multiple sides to him #obey me #obey me oc #obey me x reader #x reader #obey me oc x reader #misc oc arsenios #misc writes #misc queues

[littledancer9]

Just wanna say love “Unrung”, but is there an approximate possible update date in the future?Love it!😍

Hi! Don’t be shy Anon! It’s good to know people are still thinking about this little story!

For those of my friends and readers not on Discord, I recently had a baby (my first)! I have every intention of continuing to write Unrung, because I love it and have so much in mind for continuing plot. I’m learning to balance new responsibilities and motherhood with my previous hobbies, but I do have a chunk of the next chapter written already.

So if I can focus and write in the next two weeks, I would love to get a chapter up by beginning of March! Feel free to message me here or on Discord any time to chat about this or anything else fandom. It’s great motivation ☺️

Since it’s been almost three months without an update, here is a chunk of what I’ve written for a little sneaky peek:

“Jon…” It sounded so soft, muffled by the wind and the distance.

Like his vocal chords had snapped, he couldn’t warn him, couldn’t say anything.

“Jon!”

Grenn fell and Jon took off running. The snow slowing him down, his clothes too waterlogged. A flash of white and…

“Jon!”

His heart thundered and he flipped over on instinct, holding down the source of the sound. They needed to be quiet. His ears whirring and eyes shifting, attempting to adjust to the dark and place himself. Round eyes blinked back at him and a drop of cold sweat rolled down his temple.

“Fuck,” he whispered, eyes widening at the silver hair splayed out on the pillow around her angelic face. She was terrified.

“Easy, soldier,” she wheezed. Ghost whined at the edge of the bed, pacing and jumping up to see them.

“Down Ghost,” he groaned. He rolled off of her leaving a wide berth between them and scrunching his eyes shut. “I’m so sorry, Dany.”

The sheets felt humid around him and he wiped away the sweat at his brow. He flinched when a small hand caressed his shoulder. He attempted to shrug it off. “You don’t—

Her hand clamped down on him. “Don’t what?”

He let out a weary sigh, throaty and deep, lolling his head to look back at her. She didn’t sign up for this. She lay on her side, opposite hand propping up her head in the shadows. “I’m sorry I woke you up. You should go back to sleep.”

She was quiet, for once. Thumb rubbing at his shoulder joint, only inches away from the phantom pain beneath the snow-capped mountains of his chest. As much as he tried to forget, his body never let him. Chills ran up and down his arms and the weight of his legs felt heavy, like he’d never be able to move his limbs from the bed.

Imagery helped, they always said. Envision what brings you peace. He racked his brain for a peaceful thought, a peaceful memory to bring his pulse down. He popped an eye open when the bed creaked and plastic wrap crackled as a petite figure wormed her way closer to him. A hand on his shoulder became an arm strewn across his chest joined by her soft leg wrapping around one of his. He was too tense, shouldn’t be so close, but he adjusted his arm around her anyway. Her head nuzzled into his collar he could feel her tentative breath against his skin.

He lay still, listening to Ghost pad back to his bed and curl up. He searched for numbness, actively shoving away any memory of Pyp and Grenn in the snow and what came after. He thought of memories of little Arya toddling after him and Robb when they were in high school. Holidays when his dad was still here and whiskeys shared by the fire. And this, silvery hair tickling his chin and shoulder and pale legs wrapped in his.

“Does it…happen often?” He was sure she’d fallen back asleep.

Yes. No. Depends on the fucking weather and the moon cycle for all he knows. “Sometimes.”

She nodded minutely into his chest. Her feet fidgeted by his and he steeled himself for the follow-up. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Another sigh. He rubbed her back where his arm wrapped around her, careful not to irritate her wrapped tattoo. “Not now.”

“You know you can talk to me…when you want to.” She sounded so small, so tired. A tamed little kitten in the night in comparison to the wild girl he was accustomed to.

He leaned down to kiss her temple. “I know. Just go back to sleep, baby. I’m sorry I woke you up.”

“S’okay,” she mumbled into his chest. “I woke you up too.”

#Unrung #my fic #ask me anything #maybe this will motivate me to write this weekend #let us all pray my baby naps so I can conquer the world in between

[t4llhum4n]

Wakey, wakey, eggs and Blake-y (I type at 6pm).

Seriously though, this guy is simultaneously the smartest and stupidest man to ever speak on Redacted's channel. And I want to talk about that.

Well, kind of.

Before I get into character motivations and all that, I wanted to point something out. This? This is how you write a static character and have them still be compelling. Dynamicism is appreciated in characters, sure, but to write a static character who isn't boring? So so cool.

When I go about theorizing for a specific character's future actions, I typically take into account what stage they're at in their development. For example, my thoughts on Hush and how I believe his future actions will play out are based on what stage of development I see Hush being at in that moment. With Blake? It's a whole different ballpark.

Blake's behavior is the constant in my theories about him. His nature hasn't changed at all throughout the course of his story, save for maybe becoming a little more desperate. Even then, that desperation is fueled by feelings that he's had since childhood. Normally, that would become stale in a character (at least in my opinion). Here, though? It's anything but.

Looking into why that is, I can only think that it's because of how his character is revealed to us. We get to see both sides of him, one from "Sunshine" and one from "Bestie." And because of this, we're waiting with bated breath for both worlds to collide. His duality isn't dynamic, but it's still so intriguing. From "Sunshine's" point of view, we're left wondering just how far he's willing to go and how violent he'll allow himself to get. Then, from "Bestie's" point of view, we see a softness that he holds (seemingly) solely for them, and we're waiting for "Bestie" to see his other, darker side.

It's not necessarily Blake as a person that's interesting to me. It's how he acts around others that really gets my character analysis-prone brain whirring. I'm not interested in seeing his growth, because from where I'm standing, it doesn't look like he's going to grow. He's rooted in his obsession with "Bestie," and that, in his own words, is the reason why he's doing all of this. And nothing, not even threats from a being far stronger than him, seems to be able to change that. When his first reaction to a line like, "Watching your lover's death will feel like a mercy in comparison," was a snide, "Charming friend you've got there," I knew any hope for change in this man was lost.

So, with that said, let's talk about the brains on this man. Does he have any? I mean, he must. He got an entire major branch of a multi-establishment political hate group under his thumb, and that doesn't happen on accident. Blake is an intelligent person, no doubt, but he's also (ironically) a very blind person. He doesn't see anything beyond his lover, and he's confident that he will change their fate.

I honestly can not fathom how deep his feelings for "Bestie" are. Call it selfish, but if I were in Blake's place, I would've given up trying to change my lover's fate a long time ago. Instead, I would've cherished and made the most of the time I had with them, until ultimately I had to let them go. Blake, though, is not having that.

This brings up a point of discussion that I really love looking into when it comes to Blake. "Does he want to save 'Bestie' for their sake, or his?" I'm not going to share my stance on that just yet (mostly because both sides make a very compelling argument idk where I stand), but the fact that there's so much to talk about with a character this unchanging is astounding. It's not every day you see a static character who has so much compelling mystery surrounding them. He doesn't grow or evolve, nor does he show signs of ever wanting to, and yet we're still enthralled by his journey.

And the way his obsession is written? It's so good. I don't believe that he was always obsessed with "Bestie." Did he always have a thing for them? Sure. But I really don't think it grew into an obsession until he saw their death, and then he saw that nothing he tried could save them. See, Blake isn't just obsessed with "Bestie." He's also obsessed with changing their fate. Which leaves even more potential for character analysis.

We know that he wants "Bestie" to live. That's the main motivator behind his desire to change a seemingly unchangeable fate. But.. what if there's something else there, too? Can you imagine besting death? Overcoming something that haunted you as a fixed point in a world with no such thing as "fixed points?" The power you would feel getting the better of something like that would be nigh unmatched, and we know that this motherfucker has a god complex.

Blake wants to save "Bestie" so that they can live longer. At the same time, I think part of it turned into a challenge for himself. He's testing himself because if he can pull this off, then he's unstoppable, at least in his eyes. And what he sees in his eyes is the only thing that matters to him.

Could I say more? Yes. Will I? In a future theory, yes. But for now, I'm leaving it here. I really love diving into Blake. Characters with insane amounts of hubris and a god complex to match are some of the most fun to dive into. I hope you enjoyed my little analysis-turned-rant! Writing these is always super fun :D

#it's incoherent. it's messy. but it's also my thoughts :) #god this freak is so fun #redacted audio #redacted asmr #redactedverse #redacted blake #redacted bestie #redacted the balance #unrelated but i just ate the saltiest “meat”loaf (i'm vegetarian) and now my mouth feels like it's creating sand

[definitelynotshouting]

Hey friend, I am absolutely rotating the HECK out of Hunger AU rn. I just binged all of the tagged posts and I'm going FERAL! Watchers being like parasitic wasps? Listeners being like fungi? Absolutely based takes.

I'm very much a fan of the emotional realism going on and I'm so terrified of Angry!Mumbo. Like. Bro doesn't get all that angry that often those folks are the scariest properly pissed.

And I relate far too much to the Search Party tbh. Something about the themes of mental and physical illness, wanting to help but not knowing how, the one you want to help not wanting help at this point, the resentment that causes on both sides of that stalemate... yeah I've been there.

Also, I am insanely curious about the ecological niche that Watchers and Listeners fulfill. Like. There has to be a reason they are the way they are. I'm insanely curious about what the environment they evolved in looked like, and even more curious as to what they provide back to the universe in return.

Like. Irl most wasps are predatory insects, controlling the population of pests and invasive species, but the tidbits you've given us about how they feed on emotions and the groups they feed on put me more in mind of, like, herding dogs. Yknow? Does that make sense? Gathering players together and moving them away from half abandoned worlds to let them dissolve back into the greater code. Maybe interviening in virus-infected worlds or virus-vulrable worlds, encouraging those players to move or perish.

And Listeners, well, fungi occupy so many diverse niches they could do just about anything, really. It's very fun to think about and I am rotating them vigorously, thank you for feeding us so well <3

(May I be 🐸 anon?)

This is such a sweet ask i am so 🥺🥺🥺🥺 abt it, im really pleased that you're enjoying the emotional realism ive committed to for this fic, because thats just such an important aspect for me-- my goal here is to depict a deeply emotional, moving, and messy situation about illness and recovery where no one's feelings are punished or demonized by the narrative. Its just so, so important to me that the Search Party (and later on, the other hermits) get their emotions properly respected and explored. Its not just about Grian, even if he is the ultimate focus-- everyone else deserves varied, emotional responses to an ugly and terrifying situation where theres hurt on all sides. This is the kind of realism i love putting in all of my writing, and the kind of justice i want to do for all characters in stories like these!!

Its a little funny how this au originally started with me brainrotting absently about Watcher biology because i wanted to explore the idea of Grian pretending to be an avian and finding certain aspects of it deeply uncomfortable. And then it just. Snowballed into this!! And now i am chewing on worldbuilding for breakfast DKXNSJDJ im really glad you enjoy the Watchers and Listeners lore!!! I need to make a proper post on Devs (or dev crystals, as theyre actually called), as well as general code structure, bc they are both so fucking cool as well

I absolutely love your herding dog analogy, and its giving me some great ideas because for the longest time i couldnt quite figure out what exactly a Watcher's ecological niche was beyond predator to Players and prey for something else that's extinct. But now im really looking at the connection between Watchers feeding habits and Players' biological need for play (or dreams, if you want to get into the minecraft end poem of it all), and theres something there that i really wanna take some time to tease out before i give a concrete answer. I need to update my hunger au masterlist LOL i am saur behind 😭

Anyway this was such a lovely ask to sink my teeth into!!!! Thank you so much for sending it, and ofc you can be frog anon!!! This was a really stimulating conversation for me so thank you again for getting my brain whirring :D i hope to see you in the inbox again!!

#shouting speaks #asks #hunger au #OUGHHH THIS WAS SO FUN TO ANSWER..... ME WHEN THE IN-DEPTH QUESTIONS HIT #long post #compliments #txt

[cryptidafter]

Trick-or-treat!

Happy Halloween, anon 👻 ! Here's an old WIP (that I don't know if I'll ever do anything with ha):

This post by @deepestbluesky had my brain whirring when I first saw it and I couldn't stop thinking about Gu Xiang literally haunting the story, which spawned this.

"A-Xiang, ghosts shouldn't worry about what humans do."

"But..."

"Enough."

Wen Kexing often spoke as if the two of them shared the same fate but he was alive and Gu Xiang had stopped breathing a long time ago. Her zhuren had always been funny that way. She stood to leave, wondering what snatches of gossip she'd be able to catch downstairs. The innkeeper was an ass but he liked to talk-

"Don't wander. Go back to your room."

She stopped in the doorway, looking back over her shoulder at Wen Kexing's hunched frame. He was crouched on the floor like a cornered animal, poised to snap at the slightest shift in the air. All of his wounds had been patched by her careful hands, the blood wiped away, but there were festering places she couldn't reach. Gu Xiang could recognize the shadows that danced in his eyes, the ones that hung around him like funeral shrouds.

Maybe zhuren was like her after all.

#asked and answered #trick or treat asks #my writing #cryptid's fics

[autisticlancemcclain]

Okay. Kitchen. Snack. Water. Washroom. Ten minutes. Back to project before the delicate (oh my God so delicate) lining collapses. He can do this. He just has to go go go —

Lance’s giggles make him backtrack from where he just speedwalked by the common room. The man is sitting sideways on an overstuffed chair, legs swinging over the armrest, making goo-goo eyes at his phone. Hunk rolls his eyes fondly. Lance has been glued to that phone since the second Keith’s pod blipped out of sight. It’s cute, Keith and Lance, in the way that makes Hunk to vomit a little.

(Nah, not really. He’s happy for them, but you know. Can’t let that kinda cheese slide. He’s gotta tease, at least a little.)

“I miss you,” comes Lance’s sigh. Hunk huffs a laugh, as quietly as he can. Miss him? Keith’s only been gone three days!

Lance has his headphones on, so Hunk can’t hear Keith’s response. It must have been a pretty good joke, though, because Lance bursts into laughter, head thrown back and shoulders shaking. The sound makes Hunk quirk up a smile, and it’s several moments before his mirth dies down a bit, leaving behind a sappy smile and heart-eyes like Hunk’s never seen.

“God, I love you, Sam. I feel like I haven’t seen you in months.”

Lance continues on with his conversation, telling a silly story from training this morning, but Hunk can’t hear him over the blood rushing in his ear. His heart drops to the floor, and he rips himself away from the doorway, eyes wide and horrified, barely shoving down a sharp gasp.

Sam?!

Who the fuck is Sam? Why is Lance — Lance, who cries every time Keith leaves on a mission, who always has a hand on Keith when he’s around, who mentions Keith in every conversation, who brags about Keith to random people — telling some other man he loves him? Telling him he misses him in the months they’ve been apart? Keith only left a few days ago. It’s —

Hunk swallows roughly, gripping his hands together tightly. Lance is his best friend. His closest friend, his oldest friend. He’s known Lance since before they could walk, and loved him that long, as well. Lance is good and kind, smart and brave, and up until now — well. Hunk thought he was loyal, too.

Lance, a cheater. It doesn’t seem real. It seems like a dream, like a waking nightmare. How could Lance be so cruel? How could he be entrusted to deeply with Keith’s heart, how could he know that Keith has trouble with trust, and still do this to him? How could he betray Keith in the worst possible way?

Hunk rushes back to his workshop, heart heavy and brain whirring. He can’t — Lance is his best friend.

But Keith is his friend, too.

———

The situation plagues him nonstop in the days it takes for Keith to finish his Blade mission, and everyone can tell. He completely loses his appetite, except for in the late nights, hours spent overthinking in the dark making him stress-eat.

Lance is the first to voice his concern, of course. Cornering him in the hallway, brown eyes narrow in concern.

“What’s wrong, Hunk?” he asks, soft. He places a gentle hand on Hunk’s bicep.

Before, the gesture would have comforted him. He would have sagged forward immediately, into his best friend’s embrace, spilling everything.

But now… he can’t now, obviously.

He laughs, nervously, shaking Lance’s hand off him and pretending he can’t see the hurt in his eyes.

“I’m good. No worries. Just a difficult project. Nothing you need to stress about.”

He does his best to twist his face into a smile, holding his breath. Lance holds his gaze for several moments, scrutinizing, before he sighs and steps back.

“If you’re sure.”

Hunk nods, not even bothering to make an excuse before scurrying away.

Shiro is the next to approach him, two mugs of tea and a comforting smile, but Hunk makes an excuse and rushes off before Shiro can even convince him to sit down — if Lance’s sad eyes make him squirm, Shiro’s gentle concern will make him crack for real.

One by one, the rest of the team approaches him, all in their own way. Hunk evades and makes excuses. He knows they’re all worried, and he feels bad, but he’s in between a rock and a hard place and it fucking sucks. Obviously, he doesn’t want to betray Lance. He didn’t even mean to find out. But, and he knows this in his heart, what Lance is doing is unforgivable. And he won’t let it slide. He can’t.

———

Finally, five days after Hunk hears the phone call that ruined his life, Keith returns. To say Hunk is relieved would be a gross understatement. He waits until everyone has greeted him. He tries to calm the churning in his stomach as he watches Lance run up to Keith, who catches him deftly, supporting hands on his thighs as Lance wraps his legs around Keith’s waist and leans down to kiss him deeply.

They look so happy. So in love.

How could Lance decide that’s not enough?

Regardless of the pain in his chest and the upset in his belly, Hunk pulls Keith to the side after dinner.

“What’s up, man?” Keith asks, strong eyebrows knit together in concern. “You look nervous. Everything okay?”

Hunk wrings his hands together.

He has to do this.

“No, it’s not,” he whispers. He forces himself to meet Keith’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Keith, I wish I didn’t have to tell you, I wish it didn’t happen, really, God, this feels miserable, I’m so, so sorry, Keith —”

“Breathe, dude,” Keith interrupts. “Holy shit. Take a breath. Just tell me.”

Hunk follows Keith’s advice, inhaling deeply until some of the stirring in his chest settles.

“It was five days ago,” Hunk starts. “I was doing something, I walked by the common room, Lance was in there on his phone —”

Keith face drops immediately, panic clouding his eyes.

“Is Lance — he seemed fine, this morning, is he —”

“He’s fine,” Hunk rushes to assure. “He’s fine, sorry. It’s just —” he closes his eyes. He can’t look at Keith, watch the pain crumple his face. “Lance was talking to some guy named Sam. Told him he loved him. He’s cheating on you, Keith. I’m so sorry.”

Hunk’s expecting a lot of things. He’s expecting yelling. He’s expecting betrayal. He’s expecting Keith’s face to go hard, his walls to slam up. Even for him to quit.

He is not expecting to hear Keith’s laughter. His eyes fly open, as does his mouth, and he takes in the sight of the Black Paladin, bent at the waist, laughing so hard tears form in his eyes.

Maybe… he’s in shock?

“Keith?”

“S — sorry, Hunk, I just —” he breaks down again, and this time Hunk can see the mirth in his eyes.

So… not in shock, then?

“I’m so confused,” Hunk breathes. “I, personally, would be way more upset if I found out my longtime partner was cheating on me, but that’s just me, I guess.”

“No, it’s —” Keith takes a deep breath, fighting down a smile. “That was me, that Lance was talking to. Lance only really calls me Keith when I’m pissing him off. Or, well.” He smirks a little. “When he’s passionate for… other reasons —”

“Gross,” Hunk comments.

“—but usually he has an amalgamation of nicknames for me. ‘Samurai’ is his favourite, but it’s long, so sometimes he just calls me Sam.” Keith’s eyes go soft, the mischief leaving his expression. “He’s not cheating on me, Hunk. I promise. He’s way too loyal for that.”

Hunk feels like a million weights have lifted off his shoulders.

“Oh, thank God.”

Keith grins at him, clapping him heartily on the shoulder. “Thanks for the concern, though, man. Seriously. I appreciate it.”

Hunk musters the strength to smile back. A genuine one this time, even though he’s so drained all he wants to do is collapse in bed for the next century.

“‘Course, man. You’re family. I wouldn’t keep that from you.”

Keith blinks in surprise, looking at Hunk with something like awe. Another smile flashes on his face; smaller, this time. A little crooked, eyes crinkled and kind.

(For the first time in a while, Hunk can maybe see why Lance is so whipped for this man. Suddenly he understands why he was so shocked to hear Lance sighing another man’s name.)

“You’re family too, Hunk,” Keith says. “I’m happy to have a brother like you.”

———

based off this post

#i wanted this to be funny and it ended up not being that 😩 #sorry #vld #voltron #hunk #hunk garrett #hunk has anxiety #keith #keith kogane #lance #lance mcclain #klance #established klance #mentioned cheating #but no one actually cheats #hunk & keith #whipped lance #brown eyed lance #tall keith #bom keith #black paladin keith #angst and humor #resolved tension #my writing #fic #longpost

[regicidal-defenestration]

Mechtober Day 2 - Origin Stories

It would come as a shock to anyone who had met him, but Jonny d'Ville's origin story is true. 

Mostly.

Brian was the only one who actually knew where the line between truth and lie was. Jonny would have blamed the man but, as a mature, sensible, and reasonable space pirate captain, he had to admit it was entirely his own fault.

"How did you do it?" Brian had asked him, screwing up yet another sheet of paper and tossing it to the floor. He'd amassed quite a collection round his feet.

"Mm?" Jonny had glanced up. He'd been absorbed in his work, disassembling a microphone and enjoying the quiet of the two of them alone.

Joints creaking, Brian had gestured at the failed attempts at creation littering the room.

"Write your song."

"You've written songs before, haven't you?" he asked… let's say he had been politely baffled.

"Yes, but -" Brian's fans had whirred loudly. "How did you write your song? How did you-" Then he had gestured again, trying to encompass the entirety of his existence into one motion, "do it justice?"

Jonny had stopped, considering this. He'd never thought of it as "doing his life justice in song form", usually that came second to making a fantastic fucking performance out of it. So: pacing? Easy. Wordplay? Second nature. Doing justice to the truth? Well…

"Jonny?" 

He'd waved away Brian's question.

"'m thinking."

A corkboard, that's what he really needed. Something to stick bits of thought to then link them together with red string and then stand in front of and explain how the connections he'd made did make sense, if you looked at them sideways. Or upside down.

"Thing is," he had begun, slowly, "thing is, you're writing a song, or a story, not a biography. And the story doesn't have to be true, or fully a lie either, that doesn't matter."

A captain of both the ship and of self-control, he definitely didn't shake Brian by the shoulders.

"I'm not lying in my own origin song!" Brian had protested.

"Stop being so boring. Anyway that's not my point- what I'm saying is that you do yourself justice by making yourself into a story you want to have outlive you."

"I'm not lying," Brian had repeated, but this close Jonny had been able to hear the gears in his brain ticking. Brian was listening to him. And thinking - hard, if the whirring of his fans was anything to go by.

In fact, Brian had been quiet long enough that Jonny had collapsed back in his chair and was inspecting the microphone again by the time he spoke.

"One Eyed Jacks," he had said, like a question, waiting for Jonny's careful nod before continuing. "Is any of it true?"

And that would have been his cue to leave! 

Except- 

Except something had made him pause, an arm's length from the door, from the safety of the character he'd built himself.

"Yes," he had said, barely above a whisper. "Nearly all of it."

He had bared his teeth in a facsimile of a grin.

"Only told the one lie in that one, believe it or not."

A beat.

"Can I ask?"

Brian's voice had barely wavered.

A sound that wasn't a laugh and wasn't a sob had torn itself from Jonny's throat.

"That Billy forgave me."

And the door had clicked shut behind him.

#this one also has the fun of an unreliable narrator! #the Mechanisms #mechtober 2022 #writing

[ellieellieoxenfree]

🦴🪐

🦴⇢ is there a piece of media that inspires your writing? 

it's pretty rare that a fandom actually gets me off my ass enough to produce a full work, and it generally falls in one of a few categories: the source material was disappointing and i want to do right by my faves (the flash); the character dynamics were compelling and even though i got a lot of what i love i just want to play in that sandbox some more (doctor who, writing thirteen/master); or these characters are so fucking broken that i need to deep dive into the psychological (and rarely but delightfully, physical) angst of them because canon never quite probes as much as i want it to and that's my sweet spot for creative output. that last one is probably my favorite place to be, and it's where i am with kiseki -- source material that i loved and that gave me an immense playground to fuck with. there's so much rich material to explore.

the throughline of my faves/all of my writing is dissecting characters' trauma and their rocky path to healing (though usually i just like to focus more on the trauma and the healing is very stop-and-start 'good enough for now but nowhere near fixed'). i like character-driven stories with severely fucked-up characters who don't end up intact by the ending, but some of them i just enjoy marinating in without necessarily wanting to write for/about them. there's a certain type of spiky, vulnerable brokenness that usually gets my brain whirring, but i can never tell when that urge is going to get me.

🪐 ⇢ name three good things going on in your life right now

ugh god fuck uhhhhhh

it turns out we have ducks in the pond out back alongside the frogs, turkeys, squirrels, songbirds, and one very persistent woodpecker

i think it finally stopped snowing and now the weather remembered it's spring (i have tempted fate with this one)

i'm making (admittedly incremental) progress on a real book this year finally. it's like the fourth one i've read all damn year, including manga. a wreck.

#asks #ty friend :V

[geraniumplant]

@melpcmene 𝐍𝐨 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐬 ~

I didn't expect you to come looking for me. We've always kinda knew our limits, so I chalked it up as that. Even after three days. Then seven. I should have been able to handle myself. It's what you'd expect from me.

By the third week, I started having this fantasy... You'd come bursting through the walls, berating me with that self-righteous attitude of yours. You'd refuse to shoot anyone even at your own expense. & mine. Then we'd be off on our next adventure, you & I riding off into the sunset. Like always. I so badly wanted our story to end that way. But this was no ending.

Six months. After six grueling months, I started to break. I know, I wouldn't have believed it myself, but that's when I broke. I screamed for you, your name reverberating off the walls & back. Not a speck of sunlight. It was so cold. I remember feeling this chill when my brain was being altered & my mind began to break. Your name is the last thing I remember saying before the darkness came.

Oh, Darling. It was your sunshine I had missed the most.

___

Two years later ~

✞ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ He watched the family as they were escorted out of their home; the man in the front with the woman behind him, two little kids clutching onto her apron strings. Wolfwood had been ordered by Master to shoot if they stepped out of line. Even an inch astray & their lives would be gone, surrendered to the dust & the land that made up this God forsaken town. They were being emptied out one by one, driven from their homes & left with nowhere to go in the vast desert. Why? You didn't ask questions. You only do what you're told.

These people were compliant. The ones who tried to fight were already dead, gunned down like dogs as a reminder of what would happen if they stepped out of line. So far, it has been a quiet day. Until the woman tripped.

"Mamma!"

One of the kids, a boy, squatted down to match the woman's height. The other was left stunned & sobbing, feet frozen to the ground from fear. Just a baby.

"Mamma, you gotta get up!"

Foolish boy.

There is the sound of the Punisher's mechanics whirring & clicking into place as Wolfwood steadies the gun at his hip, pointed toward the mother & the two sons. The father steps out of line, rushing to their side in an attempt to shield his family.

"Please, don't!"

Wolfwood's finger lingers on the trigger.

Why can't he...

"Shoot them, Punisher!"

Another click & the massive gun is fired. No hesitation this time. No mercy. He's perfect dog.

#sorry this is so long #I kinda rambled #tried to set the scene #vauge enough for Vash to step in & save the family #closed starter #no more tomorrows #melpcemene #nicholas d. wolfwood: the wayward man

[p-receh]

Ooooooh love that concept, pls continue :0

Since this au was just in the brainstorming phase and I'm still gathering some ideas and references to this story so bear with me here, anon ^^')

Ehem.

Okay, Imagine that when the heroes thought the galaxy was safe when all the power spheres were secured, when all considered bad guys were gone for good, people were entrusting more to TAPOPS as they will always ensure the safety of each planet. And with all those new generations of heroes are more ready to face the threat than ever.

Nothing will worry them, right?

--- --- ---

Woke up,

Collect the dump,

Mold it into solid cubes using the cube molder tool.

Send it to the big boss at Gogo Ba's Barter Shop,

Get some food, then

Go home.

That's the daily order that he pinned in his brain. Simple for us as trash workers to not do political and complicated things like most Gur'latans to present new game-breaking systems; have no fear of death to survive in the harsh fields of Baraju; ensure billions of living beings to farm supplies and goods in Rimbara; or think revolutionary to manage the logistics and transportations like people of Windara.

No, Gugura is the last nation to end your life and once you move in, there will be no escape. Only higher-ranking citizens were allowed to go in and out of this city. Therefor, why do people visit this nation of scraps? The place barely has eye-catching sights and the only souvenirs for tourists were the bunch of cube-shaped leftovers' irons, woods, and any waste kinds you'll find.

Despite the fact it's a country of all wanted list persons that were mostly thrown by the Cubulus' authorities, Gugura is a fine city for this young teenager to live in. His life was already covered in the present and future. Does that mean he made a bad accusation that made him displaced into this area?

That part was still a mystery to the boy with a single white highlight in the middle of his black messy hair. He never remembered where he was born, his profile, even his name. All he knew, the tag number embedded on his neck was clear enough to remember.

...Or so he thought.

.

'No were to run, _____! Hand over your power watch!'

'Never! Now _____!'

'Wha-?!'

'Teleportation Power!'

'NO!'

'Time Manipulation!'

'____ Hepta Split!'

'You little--!'

.

"#319!"

The sudden high shout erased the boy's dream into reality. "Y-yes sir?"

The cubed helmet soldier pointed the taser gun at the teen's stiffness, "Did I command you to rest?! No sleeping on the job!"

Without protest, #319 hurriedly continued scooping scraps near his feet and throwing them into a mine shaft. It created a whirring sound of gear moving from a cube machine behind him. No need to wait long as it released a perfect solid cube shape from preseed scraps.

The boy peeked at the soldier from his window eye. The man already turned around to inspect the other workers in front of him. It made him at ease for a moment. The boy looked in his pocket and reached out for a small item he found not long ago.

A watch. Just a small, broken ordinary blank watch that he sure it would more useless to bargain for a slice of bread at Bago Go's. He should have put it along with other scraps in the shaft. He was not the kind of collector person unless it was useful and practical for his home. So what was different with this item? He never knew.

But....

That vision interrupts his routine for the fifth time this week. Ever since he found that watch, his peaceful daily work slowly bothered him. He could not sleep normally as that vision--no, nightmares that were done over and over like a broken record. Never once in his life he could shout such a high note while grabbing that old watch in tremor, as if his life depends on it in the next second.

If so, why was he still kept the cursed thing intact?

"....He's now under your supervision."

Hm?

"heh... well I'm in need for someone to replace my spot anyway."

A new replacement?

"You're in luck, Oju Ju! This youngster here is a keen eye for everything you missed, skillful and his snarkiness shows no mercy to command these workers. A perfect discipline for your replacement."

He turned around. A very peculiar shorter soldier who wears round helmet than other common taller and cube helmet ones. A human perhaps? Besides, did the higher ups are now recruiting new generations as well? To this nation? It did not matter to him anyways. Whether young or old, the boy should not underestimate them.

Especially with the new one who he bet from the height was as same as his age.

....

That's all for now!

In short, this is how Gempa and Solar met.

A bit fun fact, Some places like Bago Go's barter station are just a mere name as a legacy to the owners. Some characters are OCs but not too important since...I'm not the oc author. But I still want to interpret the similar traits from their ancestors. Also, I'm still trying to figure out when I use the original ones due to this concept.

Btw I got some inspiration to this au from another headcanon that I found in the same account.

Rough translation:

"What a plot twist indeed if that's the case, can't imagine how painful Oboi felt to join an organization that become spiteful"

Picture translate:

'The Kubulus nation is the creator of the power sphere, right? What if it turns out the purpose of Kokoci's joining TAPOPS is to collect all of them for himself? A bit wild but we can see it from the scene of Amato leaving from TAPOPS, can't we? Perhaps Amato realizes the Organisation's intention is not that pure, hahahah'

Whether it's true or not, it somehow a bit makes sense in a wild way. Oooooooh It would be an interesting twist and more in betrayal than Fang's statement in arc Gur'latan issue 24.

Anyway, apologies if you find any typos or weird meanings in my word choices.

#boboiboy #boboiboy galaxy #bbb #bbbg #yet if know the reference. I salute you #That's also how I imagine when the first time I know Gugura from movie 2 #Now excuse me. I need to learn drawing for this story. #aaaaand learning more of english I guess. #bbbglxs2 #boboiboy au #319 au #menjawab anon

[dreamerwriternstargazer]

Okay so I decided to sleep in today since I haven't in forever and it felt good but can someone tell me why I had the very new nightmare of being the main character in a fairytale adaptation, couldn't identify which fairytale it was, in which a little girl goes into an old granny's house to help her with something Only in Star's Nightmare version, after I finished helping fish a student's backpack out of hell (yes this was random but it happened, though it looked like purgatory but if I stepped a foot inside I would be cursed to remain so more Purgatory I think, and instead I just used a crane to grab it and yank it out of the crack in the ground) I was then invited to this old lady's house whom I helped once in my fairytale youth. ....I'll finish telling this story but it just occurs to me now how this is excellent poetry fodder Anyway I'm wary because I KNOW she's one of the fae folk and to enter into her domain means tricks, and I know she wants me to stay. So I enter and help her, I think she wants help baking things and wants some children to test it on. Some friends of mine, I don't think they're real friends of mine just random people I imagined, came in with me. It was very Coraline-esque, we could walk about this massive mansion house but only I seemed to be on edge and aware of what's wrong, with flashes of the fairytale pages coming into my brain as I remember the last time. I know that I can't alarm her, I know that I can't act aggressive, I must catch her in the act. I explore and find my mum with.... younger me? They're fine moving in and out of this house, my mum's just wandering around. The rooms are odd, I think I go into a children's playroom with one girl but I have this memory of a large dark staircase on my own, then across the hall is the kitchen, like.... the kitchen of Hansel and Gretel's witch. It has a cute little table and tea set in the middle, the oven is all fairytale and vintage, with red heart print on the white door and you can look inside to see the flame and the baked goods. Suddenly the old lady appears behind me. "Don't rock the boat dear," she smiles at me "I was only going to take the tarts out to help."

I do, and they look very cute. Strawberry jam tarts and.... a gingerbread girl? No, a tart in shape of a girl, filled with strawberry jam but unlike the rest it has a pastry topping, so the jam is bursting out of the middle of the girl's chest. I stare at it and touch my chest. And then decide to find my friends. Two people followed me in, a girl and a boy, I don't really know who they are but they're having a fun time, exploring and they seem unaffected, they can't see the darkness around us creeping closer and closer. I tell them we should go downstairs, trying not to make it seem like we'll escape. I remember this from last time, the more you want to escape, the more you show it, the more you can't And the old lady's voice is whispering again "You can't leave" We go downstairs to... a supermarket? Interesting. This doesn't seem bad, we wander around some more, and I realise any time I go into an aisle, immediately it's dangerous, it has some element of torture. I stare down the bathroom aisle, seeing a guy shopping with his head down, black headphones on, and he doesn't seem to notice that the floor has turned into razors and sharp gears of machinery churning up through the floor, surrounded by a black frame. I have to walk through it, I can't, but I have shoes so thankfully it doesn't hurt me. I step on top of the whirring machinery and walk slowly. Don't rush But this is all the ammo I need, this is the proof, it's a death trap, but not for everything, just for me

I start to rush to the exit, the checking out terminals and the large glass turning doors behind them. Oh no. I rushed. I hear her voice in my head again, disapproving, "You are mine, you can't leave" I grit my teeth and start to run through the terminals, she can't touch me, I have proof against her, a memory crops up If you prove it's a fae trap you can't be trapped But this time she doesn't care, she stabs me, just below my left shoulder, or maybe it's her in a goblin form? Gargoyle form? I see this winged creature on my shoulder, claws digging in, and I fall back, right before the doors Shoppers around me staring at me in confusion.

And I shoot up in my own bed My shoulder still hurts.

(This didn't cover it all, but you know how dreams are, there was a more sinister aspect to it I'm sure of it but it's just out of reach, I'm sure wandering about the house was a longer sequence but I cannot remember all the eerie moments, it's quite frustrating, I know there was more than the playroom and I know I was there for a while but I can't... remember. It's like I really was caught in some trap...)

#star speaks #star dreams #original writing #star writes