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bibliocratic · 3 years

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clear the area jonmartin, post-MAG200 content warnings in the tags

They earn their ending. A happy-ever-after beyond the gaze of any eyes.

Jon endures his abdication. This world has no Archivists, has need of none, the thankless crown of Knowing finally unburdened from his shoulders. The blood washes off Martin’s hands with soap and scrubbing and scalding water. They live.

The end. In conclusion. Fin.

Jon’s new scar, the packaging of his skin split ragged from collarbone to sternum, fades like sun-caught paint. A maw of red pursing to a gummy primrose pink, settling into a rough cartography of white.

The first few months are hard. Brimstone flare-up silences and ice-pick shouting, open-handed forgiveness and closed-fist weeping. They drain themselves to husks with anger and worry and grief until there is enough space for better things to grow there in their stead. Jon’s nightmares were a nightly stormfront to bear, sweated sheets and dawn fanfares of panic and dread, but he is learning now, with the space for his ribs to expand, that it is ok for them to breathe here.

Jon digs up the garden with a rusty trowel until it is a bumpy canvas of mulch and soil, dirt tucked under his fingernails and decorated with smudges up to his elbows. He hums while he irons their shirts in front of the television, thoughtless and senseless with tune.

Martin has tried to, but the sound goes down the wrong way.

Martin is happy.

It isn’t the sight as such, that might sit as a film over his vision to tinge his waking sepia. The reddest thing they own is a terracotta plant plot brimming with raggedy thyme that lives a precarious cliff-top existence on the kitchen windowsill. He observes Jon’s face in all its variations, even pained – when he snags splinters in his fingers, when he stubs his toe on the stone front step and swears damnation – and his response is sympathy tempered by admonishment.

It’s not the sensation, not really, that might tremble on his skin. Martin’s palms tend to dryness inside their homely bubble of creaky central heating, hemmed in by boisterous coastal winds. He handles bread knives and butter knives and steak knives and carving knives without the muscle memory of other blades, and he thinks he might be getting pretty handy with his oven experimentation.

It’s the sound. It wakes him, the noise lingering like the echo of a slap.

The slick punch of metal into muscle. A tooth-bared, tense-jawed gasp.

Resurfacing to shocked consciousness, he would be seized by a frenzy, to know, to check. His scattering hand scrabbling for the lamp with such force he hit it off the nightstand to roll in a giddy clatter, throwing off the covers to rapidly pollute both of them with the outside air. Jon would be rocked from sleep, groggy, panicked, and Martin’s words would not come, a train of thought trying to race full steam where no one had laid tracks, so it would be just the two of them, exhausted and upset and amping the other up in misery.

Now, upon his rousing, Martin knows not to turn on the light. He does not check. The aftermath of punch-gasp curls in his ear, and he inhale-exhale-inhales with the ferocity of mantra, and clamps the threatened tears in the clench of his teeth.

He does not wake Jon.

“How did you sleep?”

“Oh, you know me. Like a log.”

He is happy. He is. Why wouldn’t he be?

Jon rumbles like a rusty mechanism with snoring whenever he drops off on his back, and he mumbles accusatory when Martin coaxes him to his side. Martin finds black hairs on his pillowcase, in the shower plug. Jon is a vista of experience since the Eye left him, who gets hungry and tired and grumpy and drunk and silly and fed-up and giggly. Jon searches him out with the surety of magnets, and loves him, loves him, loves him. He seals kisses to Martin’s new landscape of extensive scars. Their disagreements, when they surface, are as meaningful and lasting as stones skipped on water.

Martin wanted this. He wants this. The rhythms of domesticity fading to foam on an untroubled shore.

He is out of practise with happiness, that’s all. It doesn’t come to him like breathing. He needs to till the earth of it, shelter its seeds from a thousand circling crows until it bears harvest.

He just has to try harder.

Night-time.

An episode or two of something simple, Jon nodding off like a capsizing ship before the credits. Encouraging him up in grousing, unwilling increments, rubbing out the nettle sting of pins and needles up his own arm. Check the locks, the light switches. Brush teeth. Pyjamas. Put his phone to charge, read until Jon succumbs to sleep. Click the light off, pushing Jon onto his side so his mouth doesn’t dry. Jon squirming around like a fastidious octopus until he has at least half his limbs hooked over Martin.

The dark creating shadow play. In the absence, Martin colouring in the gaps with lurid shades of disaster.

A creak – the rattle of a door downstairs, an intruder unfastening the back door, transferring their weight upon the staircase. A unfamiliar scent – the recollection of smoke-stench in his nostrils, the acrid promise of gas, the ferrous pungency of blood. The rain will flood their house to drown them. The wind will blow their roof in. Jon hooks his leg around Martin, the skin void of hair where Daisy’s mouth had almost torn it off, and all he can envision is the ways this could be destroyed as he watches.

Bundle Jon close. Ignore the rain, the itch at the bottom of his stomach, the queasy roil of his fear. Drift into unkind sleep populated with its garden of earthly terrors.

Martin is… not happy. Not exactly. And that’s fine. It’s fine.

Jon is happy.

Jon, rubbing at the compression lines around his hips, the accusatory splay of the top button refusing to budge closed:

“I can’t fit into my jeans.”

Martin enfolds him from behind, planting his palms over the slight paunch of Jon’s stomach, filled out through sensible eating and small indulgences and a hunger that will never be ravenous but has restored its human qualities.

“Hmm. It’s a good look on you. Healthier.”

“Or it’s middle age.”

“Or it’s eating things that aren’t tea and meal-deal sandwiches.”

“Or other people’s terror.”

“Oh yes, you’re right, I completely forgot about your subsistence diet of eldritch and unbidden horrors in a luscious wholegrain wrap, forgive me.”

Jon laughs at that. The sound has not yet lost its novelty for either of them.

He shifts, turns, his arms a buoy around Martin’s stomach.

“You’ve lost weight.”

“Must be all the clean air,” Martin quips. “All that healthy living.”

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

Martin wakes up.

When his heart has wound down from the pace of its gallop, he extricates himself from Jon’s grip. It is a laborious task to find the places where they’ve joined in the night and pull them apart, like separating fabric snagged on rosebushes.

He gets some water from the cold tap in the kitchen. Sits heavily on the sofa, the room cossetted by the gloom.

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

His hands shake.

He doesn’t go back to bed.

He isn’t happy, but he could grow to be. He could. He could. He just isn’t trying hard enough.

Some days, he feels like he’s waiting for the ice to give under them.

Check the passers-by as they walk. Anyone familiar, any teeth filed too sharp, anything animal or blood-shot, any eyes that glance too deep.

Check the oven. The gas knobs are angled to off but a leak is not impossible in a house this old, their alarm might malfunction, they might fall asleep and some spark from a plug socket could catch and incite a conflagration.

Check the window latches. The opening wide enough for a body to squirm through, the claws of a Hunter marring the sill. Wriggling infestations that invade through the letter box, the keyhole, the gap under the door where the wind can whistle through.

Check. Check. Check.

Jon is happy. Jon has a job, work friends, a hundred small luxuries that he has struggled to earn. Jon is happy, so why can’t he be? He went through so much less, the blood washed off easily with soap, what the fuck does he have to cry over –

Martin has always crafted his masks from scrap, tongue out in concentration, piecing things together in low light, a make-do-and-mend of his own devising. His early efforts, the paper mâché and glue easily cracked before he learned to shore up his constructions. He has a small collection garnered over years.

The quiet-voiced, muffled-stepped, muted-smiled creation of a Good Son.

The zipped-mouth, no-refusals-no-complaints-yes-of-course-how-high earnestness of the Good Employee, the desperation sanded off the edges so no one could see.

The I’ll-get-the-first-round friendliness, the open-handed, open-hearted, too-naïve Good Colleague.

This new mask forms in increments, in the same way a rising mound of dirt marks the extent of a grave being dug.

He doesn’t mean to. It’s just he’s better at not talking about things. He always has been. And it is an ugly, easy comfort, to slip back into bad habits.

And Jon is happy.

All the things Martin does not wish to permit the light to touch he compresses inside like shaken soda. The rot in him deepens structural, the places where he papers over moulds and fungal speckles with the distraction of their new life. His smile parades simple, contented, cheeky, teasing, and there is a meticulous artistry in each. He sketches interest, paints joy, manufactures irritation out of the clay of nothingness that he allows himself to feel instead of the overwhelming rush of everything else.

I love you, his mouth murmurs, laughs, sighs, groans, and that at least is always true.

The mask of a Good Partner slips on tailor-made.

They find their nine-to-fives. Jon’s job is uneventful, boring, and nowhere near an Archive. He works in a registry office for the council, filing and organising and he’s cheerfully lied on his CV in order to get it. He gets the bus and texts Martin grumpy faces and GIFs summarising his mood when he gets suck in the commute or some idiot parks in a bus lane, he has a couple of colleagues he likes and a greater number that he tolerates, he gets a hot chocolate from this universe’s overpriced multinational chain on his lunch hour. When he gets home, he complains with delight at the mundanity of his dissatisfactions, regales Martin with tales of meagre drama.

Martin gets a cleaning job at a school. It is monotonous, dull and safe. Martin loses track of the time easily, quagmired in his musings. The children are wary of him and his visible scarring but it doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would. The teachers are friendly enough, as well as the other cleaning staff, but he does not make friends. They’ll have to move anyway, if anything finds them here, if the Fears emerge again.

Martin tries not to feel like he’s waiting.

He wants to have a good night’s sleep.

“I’ll have breakfast at the school, don’t worry.”

“There were some leftovers from the canteen, so I’m kind of full.”

“It was one of the teacher’s birthdays, you know, Denise? Heh, might have had a bit too much cake. I’ll pop this in the fridge for later though, it’ll keep till tomorrow.”

“I’m just not that hungry tonight, Jon.”

He feels sharper when he doesn’t eat. It is uncomfortable, a scratched-out, hollowing sensation, but things focus more. He can control nothing else but this, and it feels good, to have this mastery over himself when so much is beyond him.

He drops down notches on his belt and tells Jon it’s all the walking he’s doing.

The world continues to happen to them. He goes to the cinema with Jon and picks at popcorn and encourages Jon’s outraged opinion. He meets Jon’s mildly interesting work friends and plays nice and excels at small talk, and he drinks half a cider that he nurses over the evening because it’s making his head fuggy. His body communicates its sharpness to him and he gains grim satisfaction from ignoring it. He goes to work and goes home and doesn’t sleep and goes to work and goes home and doesn’t sleep.

Martin does his best at living, and his mask doesn’t slip.

“You seem tired,” Jon pries his words out carefully, picking them out of his teeth as one would scraps. “Is… is everything ok?”

“Yeah, sure it is. Why?”

“… you seem a bit down today. Recently. Is anything… is there anything you want to talk about?”

“I’ve just been working too hard. Been a while since I had to do double-shifts, heh, I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“If you’re sure?”

Jon shifts to a different position where he’s sat on the sofa, his legs tucking up under him. Martin endures his questioning gaze with practise.

“Yeah, I’m all good.”

Martin delivers a hand-crafted smile that’s gilded heavily with guilelessness and reassurance. He watches as Jon believes him and hates himself.

“You know… You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but you can – you know you can talk to me, Martin?”

Martin’s eyes focus on Jon’s chest at the point where a knife once sunk in, and doesn’t reply.

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

Martin wakes up.

Jon has twisted over onto his back again, rattling like a chain-smoker’s cough with his snoring. They were quiet that evening, tangled up in their own thoughts, but there is none of that distance in sleep. During the night, Jon’s wormed himself out of the covers with a single-minded determination, his restless legs squashing the duvet to the bottom of the bed on his side, encouraging Martin’s to follow suit.

He’s shirtless, his top chucked off to pile unceremoniously on the floor. The temperature is ripe with a burgeoning summer heat, and Jon tosses and complains if he’s overwarm, and Martin didn’t think he’d get to feel the drudgery of another lived summer. He’s shirtless, and the room is palled in sweltering dark that softens the vague shapes of the wardrobe, the chest of drawers, the knickknacks of the life they’re building together. He’s shirtless, and Martin cannot see where the scar is, the only scar of Jon’s he has ever thought ugly, but he knows it is there. That he put it there. That he could just as easily be waking up alone.

His body pains him to live in it. His stomach tight and bottomed out empty.

He is so so tired.

Martin’s heartbeat does not slow down. His chest constricting, and he swallows, a sharp sound hiccupping in his throat. He stifles it with a forceful sniff but more come as a painful spasming wave, and he has to sit up if any air is to dribble into his lungs.

He should get up. He has to get up, do this in the bathroom, doubled-over the sink, stifling his weakness where it cannot be witnessed. He cannot do this here.

Punch. Gasp.

His burning face is soaked as he bunches up his sleeves against his reddening eyes. A calming exhale drains out shaky, moulds itself into another loud sob. He plants his hands over his mouth, screwing his eyes closed, and this will pass, he’s fine, this will pass…

“Martin?”

I’m sorry to wake you, he thinks to say. It’s nothing, go back to sleep, stop looking at me Jon, I’m fine, I’m fine, it’s nothing, it’s nothing…

His shoulders start to shake.

“Martin?” Jon repeats slowly. And the ice creaks and cracks and Martin gasps and then it breaks, and the force of his damned-up grief is tidal, catastrophic and he sobs into his hands.

“It’s… it’s alright – it’s… it was a nightmare, that’s all, ‘s alright…”

“It’s not!” Martin bubbles out, the words mashed to a wail in his hands. “It’s not, it’s not, it’ll ruin this…”

“Hey.” Jon brings his arm around Martin and he buries his head in the bony crook of his shoulder because he does not want to meet Jon’s eyes. “What do you mean? Martin?”

Jon rubs at his back. Martin’s body betrays him in a hundred ways as it collapses around him. His weeping wrings him out, dry-mouthed and headachy and trembling when he subsides into shivery breaths.

“Talk to me,” Jon says. “Please.”

“You’re so happy,” Martin sniffs out. “I-I want you to be happy, god, o-of course I do. Things are, they’re good, they’re good and we won, s-s-so why does it feel like I’m still holding my breath? I-I go to bed and I’m frightened of every noise, and I wake up and I’m terrified that someone somehow could take this all away, and I can’t sleep, and I-I’m tired, Jon, I’m tired of holding my breath, and it’s all – it’s all so much a-a-a-and I can’t – ”

“Oh, Martin – ”

His words fail him then. Jon holds him up and his arms do not loosen.

“We-we’re going to fix this,” Jon says after a long while. “I promise you, together, we’ll – we’ll talk to someone. You aren’t alone in this. Together, alright, we’ll do this together. We’ve survived – everything else, we can get through this too.”

“I don’t know if I can believe you,” Martin says, too drained to avoid honesty.

“…Maybe not yet,” Jon says after a pause. “That’s OK. I can wait.”

I’m sorry, Martin attempts to say but Jon presses a kiss to his forehead.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Jon says. He strokes Martin’s sweat-soaked hair.

“… Can we talk? Tomorrow? You don’t have to tell me everything, but… I’d like to be there for you, if you want me. If you’ll let me.”

Martin nods because he doesn’t trust his gummed-up throat. Jon takes that as an answer.

Dawn comes in slowly enough but they see it in together.

#tma #the magnus archives #cw racing thoughts #cw anxiety #tw eating disorder #tw ptsd #ask to tag #cw nightmares #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #jonmartin #tma spoilers

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venusguks · 3 years

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Solace in Seoul

— Pairing : Jeon Jungkook x Fem!Reader (Reader x Kim Taehyung on the side)

— Summary : the falling apart of you and kim taehyung, and the coming together of you and jeon jungkook

— Genre/Warnings : plot driven, angst, smut, fluff, sugar daddy/baby relationship, student/teacher relationship w kth, bsfs2lvrs w jjk, unprotected sex, creampie, degredation, oral (f receiving), jk just wants to love you :(, jk is the absolute sweetest really, spit drinking?, praise ( TW : MENTIONS OF FAMILY ABUSE/BRUISES )

ACT 1. | 134340

The first time you talk to Jeon Jungkook again, your mind is elsewhere, absorbed in the lingering absence of Taehyung.

Spring's gentle breeze carried distant laughter and a faint melody from the music club two floors down. The sky carried drifting clouds, the ocean carried rising tides, and you — You carried the weight of the world on your shoulders.

Or at least it felt like it.

The piles of envelopes concerning last two months’ unpaid bills have been devouring your dinner table and heart alike. After receiving the countless of threatening voicemails from your landlord, you'd be naive not to expect a visit—but opening the door to Mrs. Joomi’s bitter scorn didn’t make you feel any less anxious. Juggling two part time jobs all the while maintaining A’s and B’s was nothing easy to accomplish. Hell, living wasn't even easy, and yet, it was like nothing you did was ever enough.

Grief was your composer and you were her violin—her cruel euphony reverberated through your tears when you sat on the cold kitchen floor last night, sifting between your savings that barely made up one month's rent. On top of your midnight breakdown, your dad decided to come home yesterday out of all days and, well, you know how that goes.

The door clicks open, interrupting you from your trance. You don’t need to turn around to know who it is.

Footsteps pad closer until Taehyung is right next to you. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and leans back against the metal railing, facing the opposite direction. It's quiet at first. You've noticed long ago that your relationship with him was one that was filled with silence. “Somethings bothering you,” He’s the first to break it. Neither of you take your gaze off the cerulean blue sky. “You could tell?”

“Of course I can, angel," his voice is cool, gentle, and it carries you away with the wind. "You dozed off through the whole lecture today."

Shame tinges your cheeks with the faintest pink, “oh... I’m sorry. I was paying attention, really, I was just—"

"Love," he saighs, "you have nothing to be sorry about. You could skip to sleep in the nurse's office for all I care. I'm just worried about you."

“What a good teacher you are,” you smile, a teasing one, but Taehyung chuckles dryly. “Trust me, if I was a good teacher, I wouldn’t be doing this," he sounds apathetic, but that doesn't stop you from frowning. You finally turn to look at him, his curls of deep brown swaying. “Taehyung... please don’t say that. You’re an amazing teacher, everyone knows it.”

You hoped he knew how genuine you were. God, you hoped to the moon he knew just how good he was. Taehyung may have already been admired for his captivating smile and his nonchalant energy, but everyone respected him for so much more. He was the type of teacher everyone wanted—the cause of counselor’s headaches every autumn for receiving heaps of transfer requests. Even parents and teachers fawned over him, baffled to see the passing rate in math tests accumulate over the years. It hurt that he didn't see that, and it hurt more knowing he didn't think he was respectable because of you.

The man tilts his head to look at you, smiling softly. “You know I’m only joking, doll.”

“Whether you're joking or not, I still... it just worries me when you talk like that,” you pause, "....do you really feel that way?" Do you really regret this?

Taehyung sighs, and the jeweled rings adorning his fingers are cold against your skin as he tucked loose strands of hair behind your ear. “Worrying is my job, angel, so tell me what's been on your mind instead."

If Taehyung noticed the hurt in your eyes, he chose to ignore it. He always did this. You got it, really, you did. There were boundaries for these sorts of relationships. One step closer would bring him one step back, which was why you never probed him any time he disregarded your questions. But a selfish part of you still felt it was a bit unfair, a bit painful to feel him slip away, to realize he was never there in the first place.

It was strange, how he made you feel. His thumb grazed your lips, his breath was light on your skin—if you concentrated hard enough, you swear you could hear his heart beat. He was only inches away.

So why did he feel so far?

Taehyung was your your lighthouse, your harbor, your shore. Through the snowy December nights where his fingers traced sensuous lines down your bare stomach, to the Spring showers of March where his cold lips brushed your inner thigh—Taehyung had always been your solace.

You knew tangling in sexual affairs with your teacher in return for sealed envelopes was wrong, but how could something so sinful feel so heavenly? The unspoken acts committed underneath draped curtains and moonlight's veil felt too dear to you to be called impure. By your sixth rendezvous, you started to wish the intimacy you shared with him could go beyond silk sheets and star speckled lust.

“I want you to confide in me too,” you said one night under the reluctant shadows of warmly lit candles. “I want to help you too, Taehyung. Please, let me help you.” You could tell he's been agitated the whole week, but you'd been too afraid to ask, afraid of him pushing you away. You didn't know where your courage came from then, all that you wished to be more than a distraction. “I don’t need you to help me," Taehyung growled, and you let out a muffled whimper when he rolled your clit with his tongue, your thighs trembling as you reached for his soft curls. "B-But I care a-about—ahn!" You arched your back as he inserted a finger inside of you, curling into your sweet spot with frightening accuracy. "Don’t need you any way else other than this, doll. Just be good and silent for me." That morning, you woke up to a bed void of the man you loved; a white envelope being the only remnant of that night.

You sighed as you recalled that memory, brushing your own fingers over his, tracing the metal bristles of his rings. “Its nothing."

“Don’t say that, angel. I know it’s not nothing."

“Really, Taehyung, i’m fine. Just stressed is all.”

“Stressed...as in financially?” Your sudden tenseness affirms his assumption, making him sigh. "You could've just told me earlier, angel. Tell me how much you need." A repulsing mixture of shame and self resentment brews in your chest, hardening like bitter dalgona. Dirty, despite money sparking your secret arrangement from the very beginning, that’s how you felt every time it was ever brought up. “Hey, look at me doll," as if reading your thoughts, Taehyung gently draws your face close to his with two hands cupping your cheeks, noses barely brushing. “Don’t ever feel guilty about this. Just treat it as an early birthday present, yeah?"

You couldn't help but frowning, your hands roaming the access of his collarbone. "You already do so much for me, Taehyung...I just...I-I feel bad." You failed to notice how rigid he became then, how his eyebrows dipped with evident frustration. "Y/n, you know that—"

Click!

Before you even realize it, you and Taehyung are off each other. When the blue, paint-scraped door opens, sleeked shoes and lively banter are welcomed by two students, diminishing with a glance at the both of you. "Ah, Mr. Kim, there you are! I was looking all over for you. What are you doing here?" A girl's eyes shift from you to the chestnut haired man. Taehyung easy recollects himself as he pats your shoulder, wearing a professional grin. "I stumbled into y/n here, was just giving her some advice but we’ve finished. What did you need me for?”

"Oh...well, about finals week..." You almost let out a sigh of relief as they continued their conversation, but your breath is instantly caught in your throat when your gaze flickers to the boy right next to her.

You were too startled by the sudden interruption that you haven’t completely processed his presence. You almost wish you hadn’t though, now that his doe, big brown eyes mirror your own.

Jungkook was unmoving, and you could've guessed he was conflicted—whether to say hi or to stay silent. Even if you were in the same grade, it was rare to see his face among the carbon copied uniforms. Class C—1 and C—4 were the furthest from each other, and with being the student council event coordinator, you were either neck deep in documents or tucked in the seclusions of the rooftop.

But due to the proud morning announcements and the hushed whispers of admiration, Jungkook never really strayed too far from your orbit. Referred to as the school's golden boy, Jungkook was loved by everyone. He was friends with members from the fashion department to the swim team to the gardening club—Hell, even the occult club. Teachers and students alike wore lenses of adoration for their school’s pride and joy while you tried your best to look away. He may have been in your orbit, but you were two different worlds, encapsulated by the universe but separated by light years of meteors and stars. Jungkook was a nameless planet to you, as you were to him. You never brought yourself to think about it—never had the time for anyway, so seeing him there, floating with the drifting clouds, even you felt a tad bit shaken.

“—kook...Jungkook, hey, Jungkook! I’m gonna go get my assignment with Mr. Kim. Come with?” He blinks profusely, averting his attention from you to the girl wearing raised brows. “Uh, no thank you. Breaks gonna end soon anyways, I think I’ll stay up here. See you after school though?”

“After school,” she clicks her tongue, waving before disappearing down the stairs. Taehyung lingers for a second longer, his eyes flickering to you. “Well I’ll see you next period, Jeon. Bye, y/n." With that, the door shuts behind them, welcoming an air of awkward silence.

Jungkook is the first to clear his throat, “hi, its been awhile," his earrings dangled with his every nervous movement, and you wondered when he'd gotten all his piercings. "Y-Yeah, its been awhile..." you repeat densely as you watch him take the spot Taehyung left, respecting a distance but not standing too far away. He rests his forearms on the metal railing, his elbow barely brushing yours. “Do you usually come up here?"

"Only during lunch."

He hums, "that explains why I never see you."

You frown, both in curiosity and confusion. "You look for me?"

“I-I don’t!” He sputters too quickly. “I just...its just an observation. We’re in the same year after all, and you’re never with the rest of the student council members.” Your brows raise in amusement, “that's surprising.”

“What is?”

“I didn’t think you remembered my name—honestly didn’t think you even remembered I existed.”

“Of course I remember,” he chuckles, “we’ve been friends for 17 years. How could I forget?”

“14 years,” you reminded softly, “we’ve been friends for 14 years.”

A star in Jungkook’s eyes must have died out when you smiled sadly at him. “Oh...right...” he rubs the nape of his neck, sighing. “This is strange, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” you agree, “strange.” And there it is again. Spring’s momentary silence. You watch as the sun slowly disappears behind sailing clouds. Talking to Jungkook, being alone next to him, was maybe even a little bit uncomfortable. After all, you guys had so much history—where do those film rolls of sun seeped memories go? It was as if they floated all around you, tying your fingers together like the red string of fate. After all those years of suppressing them, it was intoxicating, adamant to be remembered.

“This reminds me of middle school,” Jungkook brings your head back from the sky. “In 5th grade, the highest we could go was at the top of the garden shed. We spent all our breaks there, staring at clouds, complaining about Mr. Lim being too grouchy, or wondering where we'd go after school—what ice cream flavor we’d get at the convenience store. Do you remember?”

"Of course I do," despite yourself, your heart softens to the recollection. It was your secret hiding spot, blocked by the slant of the roof and the trees barricading the other side. The sky, wind, and Jungkook had been your only escape from the problem solving in math and the problem solving you had to do on your own when you were 10, wondering what the budget for that week's grocery would be. “We thought we were so cool, that we were on top of the world.”

“Correction, you thought you were so cool. You even promised to show me your own space ship, remember?”

“God, please don’t,” you groan, covering your face with your palms. You knew exactly where this was going, and you guessed Jungkook still knew exactly how to embarrass you. “You told me you were a space—“

“—adventurer!” You beamed a toothy grin, two hands proudly on your hips. Jungkook looked up at you with sparkling eyes, pupils as large as beloved full moons. “You mean...an astronaut?”

Your smile immediately drops into a disappointed frown. You demanded upmost reverence, so you didn’t really appreciate it when he questioned you. “No, no. Not an astronaut. A space adventure. s-p-a-c-e a-d-v-e-n-c-h-u-r-r. Gosh, Kookie. If you want me to bring you along in my journeys, you have to keep up.” Jungkook only nodded, trying his best to stifle a chuckle. He won the 3rd grade spelling bee, so he was at least 85% confident the word adventurer didn't have a 'ch' in it.

He decided to let it go though. He knew—the same way he knew that you’d certainly cry if he corrected you—that you were afraid of heights. If it took weeks to encourage you to finally climb a roof, he was the certain you wouldn’t be able to handle the height of the galaxy. But then again, he always had a soft spot for you. “I’m building a space ship right now actually! Its called the Bon Voyage. When it's finished, I’m going to Pluto. You won’t believe how big space is. There are strawberries there!"

Jungkook’s eyes widened at your silly declaration, and even then, he felt sad. He knew that being a space adventurer—being able to maneuver gravity and time on your own whims—was only an innocent imagination of escapism, but still. Every single time you’d flinch when a hand was brought up near you, every time you’d pull on your jacket despite it being hot, he wished your imagination could be real. Wished he could make it real for you—keep you safe from earth and all your troubles.

“I’d like to see the strawberries.. with you,” Jungkook smiled softly. You grinned, and it was the most precious thing Jungkook saw as you stuck your pinky finger out. “Then it’s settled, I’m taking you with me.”

“To pluto?” He wrapped his small finger with yours, and you sealed it with your thumbs pressed against each other's. “To pluto!”

Jungkook was in a fit of laughter, and despite burying your face further into your hands, you couldn't help but smile. “I can’t believe you knew I was lying. God, I must’ve looked like a total idiot.” His elbows were pressed against yours now, sending a surge of warmth to your heart at the familiar skin ship. Jungkook must have not noticed, for he only kept giggling, and you certainly wouldn't bring it up. “It was cute, really. The strawberries and everything. It was really cute.”

"Whatever, Jungkook," you rolled your eyes, and uncovering your eyes, you looked at him. Truly looked at him this time. His smooth, unwrinkled uniform. His hair that grew over time, kissing past his eyelashes and swaying with the wind. The tiny mole peeking under his bottom lip, the familiar scrunch of his nose as he grinned widely. The speckled brown of his eyes were so warm, almost dreamlike against the golden sun. Under long years of an uncalled contact, of an untouched hand, of a voiceless wonder—‘how have you been?’ ‘what was on your mind today?’—you saw the Jungkook you once knew, your dearest friend. And with his smile, you found your heart aching and full at the same time.

ringggggg!

The alarm jolts the both of you, severing spring’s heartbeat as loud chatter and footsteps disrupt the moment from open windows.

You only stare at each other for a brief second before you give a half smile, “that's the bell, we should go.” Without waiting for an answer, you followed the pace of the rest of school, but before you could take a step down the staircase, Jungkook takes your hand. His grip isn’t tight or rough. Its gentle, reluctant. You turn around, and the sun is behind him, kissing the back of his head with its golden, stray flakes.

"What is it?" You furrowed your brows. “I...its just..." It takes a moment before Jungkook speaks, cheeks tinged with a faint red. "Y/n I, I miss—”

“Jungkook,” you interrupt in masked panic, averting your eyes as you pulled your hand back. In truth, you were scared. Finals week would be soon and you didn’t think you could handle any more mental strain than you already had, especially not with him. “I-I think we’re going to be late.” Jungkook eyes widen for a second, stricken with dejection. He mumbles, “right...”

You don’t dare to look at him, turning away, you say, “it was nice talking to you again. Bye, Jungkook.”

ACT 2. | DAYTIME SHOOTING STAR

The second time you see Jungkook again, the spring showers are sharp against your skin. You had just gotten off from your 6 hour shift, and where the sunset hues of timid pink and vibrant yellow were supposed to be, the overcast sky was instead. It's been about 30 minutes since you clocked off, but you knew your dad was home, so you decided to take the long way back.

It didn't matter that you were a blur of blue walking in grey tainted streets. Didn’t matter that the downpour soaked your clothes or that cars occasionally splashed you with murky road puddles. You could be anywhere, and anywhere would be better than where your dad was.

Droplets drooped down your eyelashes, dribbling down onto your phone. It’s screen illuminated your color drained face. You stared at Taehyung’s contact, biting your lip nervously.

YOU :

hey taehyung, can i come over? if that's possible of course|

hey taehyung, can i come over? i|

hey taehy/

.../

i need you|

Your thumb hovered over the tempting, blue send button. Press it, Y/n. Just press it. (But would he mind?) He said it was okay to ask for help. (But... what if he's busy right now?) It's okay to ask. (You'd just be bothering him. If you're too needy, he'll push you away, you know that.) Just press the damned—

“Y/n!” A hand reaches your back, and although it was a mere brush, you yelp in alarm, instantly stumbling back. When you're sure you're about to be submerged into a puddle, a hand firmly grasps your forearm, steadying you as the said person pulls you closer to them. The rain stops—or rather, patters against an umbrella now hovering over you. Your eyes flutter from the hand holding you to the hand holding the umbrella handle, and lastly, the holder.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Jungkook half laughs. When you don’t reply, your mouth only agape, he adds, “are you okay?” It takes you a moment before you nod. You were close, as close two people could be under a small umbrella (or was it because Jungkook has gotten really big?), so you take a step back. But before you could feel even one raindrop on your face again, Jungkook pulls you back into him, “I don’t want you getting sick, y/n.”

“I’m already soaked anyways,” you frown, but he only disregards you. “Where are you heading?”

“Nowhere.”

When his brows threatened to crease, you add, “Got off work a few minutes ago, I was just taking a stroll.” Jungkook opened his mouth, and you were sure he was going to say something in the lines of, “in the rain? have you gone mad?” But to your surprise, he doesn’t. Instead, his fingers intertwine with yours. “My homes not far. Come with me?”

"Your...home?” You repeat dumbly, disregarding how warm his hand was—how you missed it, how right it felt in yours. “Yeah, if thats okay with you. If not, then mind if I walked with you?” You pause, taking in Jungkook’s attire. What he was doing in a button down, black trousers, and sleek shoes, you didn’t know—but his dry state save for the few droplets on his clothes meant that he'd much rather prefer to be under a roof. You weren’t sure if he was going to take no for an answer, and being under shelter did sound pleasant. At least, more pleasant than being in wet socks. “Okay,” you say, “take me home.”

When you arrive, you're relieved to discover Mr. and Mrs. Jeon are on a business trip. You missed the Jeons, truly—they were the only family you’ve ever known, but you didn’t think you were ready to see them again.

You remembered Jungkook’s house being an absolute palace when you were a child—modernized with elegance adorned with a scenic garden and a clean landscape—but it still didn’t fail to leave your jaw agape. Expansive was always an understatement. “Here, get changed,” Jungkook hands a towel, an oversized sweater and sweatpants, and of course, fuzzy socks. You only nodded as he led you through the familiar halls to his room. “Just call for me when you’re done, kay?”

“Mm,” you mumbled, still in a daze even after he left. Bittersweet nostalgia filled your nostrils with the scent of vanilla and almonds, a soy candle he still apparently loves. It's only been three years since you’ve last set foot on his grey, hardwood floors, but you still noticed the subtle changes. Instead of pokemon action figures—burnished, golden trophies filled his glass shelves. They were only a few Jungkook was really proud of, otherwise his room would be brimmed with his accomplishments.

Picture perfect polaroids capturing euphoric memories and cheerful grins scattered Jungkook's walls. A refined stereo set replaced the bright blue boom box of your childhood, the one covered with doraemon stickers and scratches. Memories of 4th grades' January flooded your mind, when the blandness of the month was disrupted with color as the two of you jammed to Ego by JHOPE on repeat. Jungkook may have added and taken a few things out, but you found anchor in what stayed the same. His plants that hung from the ceiling were still there, ivies draped with growth over the past years. Kim Namjoon, Jungkook’s long time idol, smiled from a framed poster on his wall. Everything was still polished with his neatness, a habit you had always commended him for.

As you dried your damp hair, a photo frame catches your eye, sitting on the side of his bookshelf. Your breath catches in your throat. You slowly walk to the dainty item, painted white and blue to resemble noon skies. In the corner of the frame ignited a bright, pale limerence. Sparks of vivid blue and tangerine whipped through the wooden confines. You felt your heart thump against your chest. It was a—

"Daytime shooting star!" You gleamed, holding a paint brush into the sky, the handle rough from years of dried paint. It was a hot summer day, a few weeks after the end of seventh grade. Cicadas sung adamant songs through Jungkook's cracked open window as the two of you sat on his floor, blanketed with a fuzzy iron man carpet.

He looked at you quizzically, "a daytime shooting star?" As far as Jungkook knew, there was no such thing. "Yeah," you chirp. "That's you, Kook. You're my daytime shooting star." Jungkook nearly dropped his paint brush then, risking his favorite carpet as he looked at you, wide eyed with stun. You were wearing his t-shirt as per usual, your face smudged with blue paint and an innocent smile. Jungkook hated you for it.

It was always your choice of words—my Jungkook, my Kook, my Kookie, and now, my daytime shooting star—that he swore would be the death of him every single time. He didn't even know what you meant, but he didn't care, because being called yours was enough to kill him.

"Th-Thats stupid," he mumbled as he looked away, a futile attempt to hide his burning cheeks. "That doesn't even make sense." When the air shifted to silence, Jungkook immediately regretted his words. He quickly turned back around, fearing he accidentally hurt your feelings due to his own fluster. Maybe that was when Jungkook realized you really had grown up since the 6th grade, because this time, tears didn't drip down your cheeks. Instead, your eyes were curious and doe as you tilted your head to your side. "Does it matter?"

"What?

“A lot of things don’t make sense, but does it have to matter?” You frowned.

“I-I don’t—”

“I like you a lot, Kook,” and though you weren't at the least bit shy saying so, Jungkook’s emotions exploded everywhere. “I don’t think you need reasons to like someone, but you’re my daytime shooting star, Kook, and that's my reason. Can't I just like you? Does it...does it have to make sense?”

It felt like light years as Jungkook stared, red as he looked into the golden specks of your eyes, glinting from the blazing sun. “I-I don't know,” he gulped, his voice small. He was going to leave it at that at first. He didn't know what to say—what he could say. His mind was as clumsy and berserk as a deflating balloon to your previous words, but when he saw your sullen eyes and mopey pout, he felt an inadvertent panic in his gut.

His eyes shifted to his boom box. Etched on the side of the speaker was Doraemon, giving him a childish wink and thumbs up. Jungkook groaned in annoyance and you looked up, curious as he scratched the back of his head. "M-maybe we could...see it," he mumbled, barely grumbling, but your heart leapt with every syllable of his words. "Someday, together. The—"

“Daytime shooting star.”

You jumped, instantly whirling around to see Jungkook leaned against the door frame with his arms crossed over his torso. His eyes were soft, as if his gaze itself caressed you. “Y-You...” your thumb grazed the flimsy wood. “You still have this.”

“Yeah, and I still don’t have a photo,” he chuckled, making his way towards you. “14 years of friendship and you’d think we’d finally have a perfect picture to put in the frame.” It was pretty silly now that you thought about it. Despite spending a whole summer’s day decorating the item with childlike ambivalence, you never allowed Jungkook to slide a photo in it. No, it couldn’t just be any glossy photograph. You fussed over the concept of a perfect portrait, but nothing ever satisfied you enough, and with each passing year, it must've slipped your mind.

“I don’t get it... We haven’t talked for like, three years, and you still have this?”

"Does it have to make sense that I did?” Jungkook tilted his head, his eyelids lowering to look down at you. You open your mouth to reprimand him for using your words against you, but no words come out. Fuck. You swear it was his eyes—you’ve always said they were full of magic when you were children. It must’ve been that damned spellbinding luster that stole your voice. “What did you mean?” Jungkook takes a tentative step forward.

“Huh?” It came out like a breath.

Maybe it was the dim incandescence of the room, complementing the silhouette of his sculpted physique. Maybe it was the fact that the cloth he wore seemed too thin, too tense around his biceps and broad shoulders. Maybe it was because his first three buttons were left unclasped, teasing the faint outline of his chest. Or maybe it was the fact that you were so used to being in eye level with him—hell, looking down at him in the earlier points of your life. But you realized then, as Jungkook stared at you with a glint you couldn’t seem to quite recognize, how small you felt in front of him. Under him.

“When you said I was your daytime shooting star. You never explained it to me, what you meant,” Jungkook takes one final step forward, and the distance between you is insignificant. You don’t move—didn’t even think you could with your back pressed against his bookshelf. You could only return his gaze, doe eyes wavering beneath his. “What I meant to you...what I still mean to you.”

Your breath hitches, “Kook...”

“Fuck, I missed that,” his voice is low, breathless as his fingers brush your cheeks. “So fucking much, Y/n. I missed you calling my name, whatever you say. Kook, Kookie, Jungkook—I don’t care, just missed your voice, I still do. Don’t you know? Everyday, how much I long for you?”

Your eyes widen at his assertion. Wherever this was coming from, you didn't have the heart to stop it. "J-Jung—"

“—I miss you, Y/n. Any time I'm not around you it hurts and every time I am it hurts even worse.” His voice is so gentle, you fear he could hear the rhythm of your heart beat, palpitating with the heavy raindrops against his window.

“Why....why did you push me away?”

The waves were restless that cold, autumn night—you saw it through the fogged window of the train. Exhaustion tugged your eyes and your muscles screamed with every movement. As the train tracks rumbled beneath you, you wondered if you were even alive anymore, at least, it didn’t feel like it. All that was certain to you was the midnight stars outside, following you no matter where you went.

You didn’t know when the train entered the station, sighing to a stop as the doors slid open with a loud gush. It was probably 2am—Maybe 3, and the carts didn’t hold people this time around. At least you didn’t think it did, you honestly didn’t have the energy to even think about it. You only wondered how further you could go without knowing exactly how far you already went. Your neck ached from your head hanging low, and if it was cold, you didn’t feel it. All you felt was numb. An aching, dull pain eating away at your heart.

It was when you heard rushed heaves and loud footsteps that your eyes widened to see a familiar pair of green converse stop in front of you. You lift up your head to see Jungkook, cheeks red either from crying or the cold, maybe both. His brows were deeply furrowed as he crouched down, his hands gripping your shoulders.

“C-Can you hear me, Y/n? Are—are you okay?” You only nodded. He felt like a mirage, a dream.

You didn’t know what he saw in you that caused the droplets of sorrow to drip from his eye—whether it was the bruises covering your body, or the deep eye bags from restless nights at work—but it made you sad, how he looked at you. You wished he’d stopped. You wished you could be so far away that he didn’t have to look at you anymore.

“You’re, fuck, you’re freezing,” Jungkook quickly pulls his coat off and swathes it around you. “I’m sorry, y/n. I’m so sorry I didn’t get here earlier.” You shook your head, your dull headache being replaced with confusion. “Why are you even apologizing, Kook? H-How did you even find me? Why are you even here?” You had turned off your cell the whole day and gave no indication to where you’d be. You didn’t even tell Jungkook how you were feeling, it made no sense to see him there, holding you.

“We’re soulmates remember? Of course I’d know,” Jungkook tries his best to give a smile. “I’m here because you are. Just—look, lets get you out of here first okay?” Before you can tell him you can walk by yourself, he lifts you up, taking your hand as he leads you out. “The next train back to Seoul arrives in 8 minutes,” Even when Jungkook and you sit down on a bench, he doesn’t let go. He’s shaking, you realize, with his fingers intertwined with yours. It was as if he wanted to hold you tighter, but he was afraid. Afraid of what? Afraid of hurting you? Or afraid of you hurting him if you slip out of his grasp any further?

“How did you know?” You begin again. “I told you I was sick, I called the school too. A-and how did you even know where I was?”

“You called in sick for three days Y/n,” he frowns, “and you haven’t texted me once. I was so worried, fuck, I was so fucking worried when I went to your house to see that you weren't there. All my calls went straight to voice mail, and I saw...I-I saw the shattered beer bottles, the blood. I-I panicked, even thought of calling the police,” when your face goes rigid, he assures you, “of course I wouldn’t though, I would never do that you. But anyway, it took me awhile to guess, and I wasn’t even sure—just started running. I imagined you’d definitely be in a space ship to Pluto right about now, but I took a risky bet on the train station. You know, being much more accessible to us and all.” When Jungkook finishes light heartedly, you give a dry laugh, “you know me so well, Koo."

His small grin falls shortly as silence does, rubbing soothing circles with his thumb on your hand. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet, sad, “You always...you always said you’d bring me. We’re a team aren’t we? You and me, I-I thought...I would’ve been there, Y/n. You know I'd be there for you in a heartbeat. Don't you trust me?”

"Of course I trust you, Kook," you quickly assure him through your thin veil of tears. It hurt too much to know you were the reason for the crack in his voice, for the ache in his heart, for his glazed eyes. You couldn't stand his pity, but you couldn't stand being the source of his grief either. "Then why didn't you call me..? All I ever wanted was to be there for you, all I ever want is to be by your side, y/n. Why won't you just let me help you?”

“Because you don’t understand, Kook,” you croak. “You don't understand how hard it is for me—how hard it's always been. It'll only ever always be like this, and I-I can't just...fuck Kook, I can't just depend on you every time I get hurt. My problems are for me to sort out, I have no one but myself.”

“But you have me, y/n," the tears you fought so hard to hold back falls when Jungkook covers both your cheeks with his hands. The boy inhales sharply, trying to calm himself from crying any longer as he presses his forehead against yours. "It hurts me so much when you talk like that, y/n. You have me, you always have me. A-and it scares me because sometimes it just feels like I don't have you, that I never did and—"

"Jung—"

"You’ve been so distant lately," his breath is shaky and hot against your skin. "....It feels like you’re going to leave me. Please, don’t. Don't leave me behind like this, y/n.” You don't say anything else, too overwhelmed with his heartache beating with yours. In that cold autumn night, all you could do was cry in his arms.

The train arrives shortly.

“Lets go home," Jungkook murmurs sweetly against your skin. He kisses your forehead softly, and when he does, it feels like you already are home.

“Come here,” he grins, standing up with his hand out. You take it. “Have you eaten yet? I can make us food when we get back. What would you like?”

“Honestly? Just ramen.” Jungkook groans as you step inside the desolate train cart. “You know I could cook something way better for us."

"Nothing is better than ramen with eggs, Kook," you chide, giggling when Jungkook rolls his eyes. You take your hand away from him, and Jungkook tenses, only to relax when you cup his cheek once more. “But seriously, thank you, Jungkook. For everything. For worrying, being here for me, for finding me." He smiles, his eyes like crescent moons luminescent with love as he looks down at you, "always.”

"You said you'd do anything for me right?”

“Of course, anything, y/n.”

“Then please stop after this," you keep your small smile even as Jungkook's brows furrowed with confusion. You said it so simply, so plainly that he thought he might have heard you wrong. "What do you...?"

“Nothing will change after this. Nothing. I can't escape from my life, I can't escape from debt or my dad no matter how hard I try—and being the cause of your anxiety won't help me. I don't need a savior, and I don't think you need me holding you back either. We're burdening each other Kook.” With a heavy gush, the train doors start sliding shut and before Jungkook can even comprehend your words, you step out. “Don't have worry about me anymore, okay?”

“W-Wait— y/n—!” He’s quick to run, but it's too late. The doors slide shut, finally severing the thin red string of fate that held the two of you.

The rain falls with your tears as you cry into your hands, guilt washing over you like tidal waves. You remember his face the most, how heartbreak and betrayal etched with the dying fade of his smile. How you left him that day, how you left him everyday after that.

“I-I was just so tired, so tired of everything. I... I'm so sorry I pushed you away. I just didn't want you to worry about me anymore. You were always so good, everything about you, and I was scared I was holding you back and...and it hurt too much to stay knowing I was." Jungkook’s arm wrapped around your waist as his other hand gently pulled your head to his body. You're too stunned to move, but when you gather yourself, you decide you don't want to. You just cry, burying your face into his chest, your hands tightening around his shirt.

"I never once stopped thinking about you, y/n," he mumbled into your hair. "I never once not worried, never once not looked for you, and you—god, y/n—you never once held me back. Silly girl, don’t you know you were the only one who kept me together?” Jungkook lets out a noise, somewhere in between a sigh and a groan as he lowers his head onto your shoulder, "I did everything, anything to keep myself distracted from you. Competitions, sports, art, studies, friends.” His soft hair tickled your jaw as he nuzzled closer into the crook of your neck. “But I couldn’t, y/n, it was always you, it was never not you. Do you know how torn I was, watching you and not being able to talk to you? To hold you, be afraid of losing you even more than I already had?"

The pitter-pattering of the rain against the rooftop fills the voice you can’t seem to conjure. "Did you ever miss me?” Jungkook pulls away, and your eyes lock with his under the blue world. You realize then, by looking at him, just how scared he was. If you pushed him away again, he didn’t know what he’d do.

Reluctantly, you bring your hand to sweep Jungkook's tousled bangs away, brushing your fingers against the shell of his ear. "I did," you whisper, and more clearly, "I-I did, of course I did.” When Jungkook doesn't respond, your hand trails down his neck ... to his shoulders ... to his chest. "Do you hate me?"

Jungkook inhales sharply, "N-no." He could never.

"Your heart is beating so fast.... are you afraid?"

"I am."

"I am too," you lift his hand and place it against your own chest, laying it atop your own heartbeat. Thump, thump, thump, you don’t catch the pink of his cheeks when you’re too busy staring at the sad stars in his eyes. "I was too, back then. I know it's selfish, and i-i'm sorry I hurt you, but I hope you understand what kind of position I was in. I was so young, so scared—I just wanted to be alone, felt like it was a way to protect myself from anything else that could hurt me. I’m different now, I think, more stable—whatever that is," you chuckle dryly. "I can’t promise I won’t push you away, but I won’t leave anymore, really, s-so...."

Jungkook's eyes soften, his lids lowering when you say, "Can you trust me?"

"Of course," Jungkook breathes, “always.”

ACT III. | EPIPHANY

"Just go to sleep already, Jeon."

You've been repeating yourself for the past 3 hours, watching him restlessly saunter around his room. "...swear i’m missing something, I just don't know what..." Jungkook, like the countless of other times, dismissed you as he continued to tap his finger on his chin, mumbling to himself in intense focus. It was only when you’ve finally had enough, groaning and hurling a tissue box at him—which he instantly caught with ease—that he finally noticed your glare. "What was that for?"

"I said just go to sleep already!" You exhaled frustratedly, "you packed your whole room at this point, Kook. I swear you have, like, triple of everything you don't even need—so for the thousandth time, could you please just shut the lights?" It's been a few weeks since that one spring evening, and time started ticking again with Jungkook by your side. It took you awhile to adjust to his company, it was odd—but everything was odd at this point. Odd but comforting when Jungkook started visiting the rooftop every lunch, odd but reassuring when he'd pick you up after every shift, and odd but exciting to spend the night with him before the anticipated field trip to Jeju island. The four days were a granted escape before the tumultuous finals of the upcoming winter. Even you were a bit eager to go, having finally taken a justified leave off work.

"Fine, fine, but if I do end up forgetting something important, I blame you," Jungkook huffs, sauntering to the light switch. “Go ahead,” you roll your eyes, and with a small click!, a satisfied sigh escapes your lips. “Finally,” You snuggled into his pillows, but when the bed dips down right next to you, you realized you had forgotten to ask Jungkook to shut his mouth as well. "Will you sit next to me on the way there?" You squinted to the darkness, raising your brows at the silhouette of his figure. "Jungkook, you're literally my only friend, do you even need to ask?" He chuckled, "but will you? We don't have to sit with my friends if you don't want to."

You hummed, thinking as Jungkook carefully brushed loose strands of hair away from your face, the warmth of his fingers trailing down the side of your neck. You were reluctant about being seen with Jungkook at first, but the choice wasn't left to you when his friends spotted you and him at the library sometime ago. It honestly wasn't as bad as you expected, and more surprisingly, you even clicked with a few with them. Seokjin was one you gravitated to the most, being a truly funny and charming senior that you felt you could look up to. "No, it's fine. I like your friends." Jungkook’s head perked up, and the darkness captures the bright twinkle in his eyes. "Really, you do?" You smile, knowing how happy that must have made him. "Really, I do. Now can we please go to sleep? I'd like to be at least remotely awake for the first day."

“Okay, okay, grumpy head," a bunny like grin appears on his face as pinches your cheek, chuckling when you only grumble in return.

He strokes your hair down one last time before placing a kiss on your forehead. “Good night, y/n.”

"Good night, Kook," the reassuring warmth of his skin leaves yours, and you hear him shuffle in his own mattress on the floor. It's been awhile since you've felt like this, so safe. Though it didn't necessarily matter, being with Jungkook was different with Taehyung, you noticed. When it came to Taehyung, it was as if all your problems could dissipate with his touch. That for a moment, they could just disappear.

When it came to Jungkook, though, your problems were still there. They existed, they were real, and yet, when you with him, it felt like everything would be okay. He was like a breath fresh air, and you felt like you could get through anything—whatever it may be, as long as he was there. With that thought, you slowly, but surely, drifted to sleep.

ringgggg!! ringgg!!! ringggg!!

What happened afterwards came in fragments of fuzzy memories, distorted with exhaustion. It was the phone ringing first, then it was the shuffle of Jungkook rising from his mattress. The ringing, his heavy yawn, the ringing, groggy footsteps, the ringing, the clatter of the drawer—and finally, silence. "Y/n...?" His voice barely reached where your mind was, deep inside the depths of whatever dream dimension you were in. "Y/n," he said again. No reply. "Y/n... Y/n!"

"What?!" You groaned, lazily sitting up with a snarl and a bed head. The ringing starts again and you rub your eyes to where your phone screen illuminated Jungkook's face. "What is it?" You mumble, a little concerned to his expression. "God, is it Mrs. Joomi again? I just paid this month’s rent like a few d—"

"Mr. Kim."

You freeze. The two, single words are akin to iced buckets of water being splashed onto your face, instantly waking you up.

"Taehyung with a heart and moon emoji—but that's Mr. Kim, isn't it? In that photo? That's his first name." Your heart lurches forward. 태형☽<3, displaying a low quality photo of him that you secretly took while he was preparing breakfast. It was once a happy morning, and this was once a happy night—disrupted by its forbidden rays of joy.

When Jungkook finally looks at you through the stark darkness, you can only stare back, your heartbeats filling the silent stun of your dry throat. The bubbly melody stops, and when you don't say anything, Jungkook's voice grows louder, "Y/n what—what the hell is this? Why is Mr. Kim calling you at 3am? Why do you have a photo of him? Why is his contact—"

"J-Jungkook," You nervously moved to sit on the front edge of the bed, attempting to speak as calmly as you can. Jungkook would understand...right? He wouldn't tell, he couldn't. He knows you, your financial situation. It was okay. "Remember when you asked me not to push you away? Well, this is me letting you in. This is me trusting you Jungkook, so please just hear me out." Under the moonlight's glower, you see the bob of his adam's apple rise and fall. "Taehyung, he—"

"Taehyung?" You wince, the acidity of his voice like bitter poison. "I-I mean, Mr. Kim. M-Mr. Kim, he...helps me."

"Helps you?" Jungkook scoffs. "At 3am? How could he—" Suddenly, Jungkook's eyes go wide. "Y/n, you don't mean..."

You nod stiffly, "he gives me money in exchange for....i-its consensual! He helps me," your cheeks heat up, hating yourself for allowing this to happen, having to explain yourself. “A-anyway the point is, you won't tell anyone, right? You understand, don't you, Kook?"

"Understand?! Y/n—he’s a teacher! He's seven fucking years older than us—are you stupid, what were you thinking?!" The sting of his words ring in your ears like a harsh slap across your face. Throughout your years together, Jungkook had barely had the heart to scold you, so you were more than unprepared for his hurtful words. Your shock quickly subdues into anger though, and you stand up, “what I was thinking? What I was thinking?! I don't know Kook, maybe thinking about my fucking electric bill! Thinking about how to pay off debt—how to buy food for fuck's sake! I've looked after myself my whole life, and this is no different."

"Still—This is wrong, y/n! You know that! There are other ways like, like—"

"Like what Jungkook?!" You're in front of him now, pushing at his chest. "Working my ass off in nine to fives? Well I do that, Kook, every fucking day and yeah, a fucking disappointment for me too that it's not enough. You could never know how its like for me, but out of everyone, you're supposed to...! You’re supposed to understand,” you chuckle bitterly, shaking your head as a futile attempt to shake the hot tears away.

"Y/n...” Jungkook’s anger diminishes into a frustrated panic. He tries to reach for you, hold you, anything to keep you from crying because of him—but you turn away, and despite himself, he couldn’t help but feel guilty. He sighs harshly, his voice much softer now, “I just—out of all these years, you could've asked me. I was always there, y/n, and you never accepted me. I know we talked about this already, but the fact that...” He shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I do understand, but I was always here. I was your best friend, why did you have to go to him? Am I...am I that unreliable to you?"

Your own heart sinks for him this time, quickly shaking your head. “No, Kook. I-It's not like that. I'm sorry this has to be so complicated, that i've made you feel small. You are reliable, Jungkook. You're my safe place, my person—always have been. I appreciated you so much but you need to understand how terrible it felt for me back then. I hated being pitied by you. You’re my friend, not a fucking philanthropist."

Jungkook takes your hand this time, "I never wanted to help you because I pitied you, y/n. You were always so strong, I don't think you could ever be someone I could pity. I wanted to help because I cared for you, loved you, and it breaks my heart knowing that you went through such lengths when you could've turned to me."

You sigh, threading your hands over the back of his hair. "It was all just circumstantial, Kook. Taehyung found me at a really low point in my life. I didn't search for it, but he was there and i’m thankful for yim, so please Jungkook, please." Your eyes wavered beneath his sad stare, hoping, pleading. Jungkook bites on his lip, cursing, "look...I won't tell on you if that's what you're thinking. I would never do that to you, i'm just worried. He's calling you at nearly 4am, y/n—shit, h-has he hurt you? Did he ever make you do anything you didn't want to?" Jungkook looks frantic for a second, but you quickly shake your head. "N-no! No, god no, he's never hurt me! You know him Kook, Tae would never hurt me." You miss how you even said Tae or how Jungkook's jaw clenched to it.

"I won't say anything, y/n, at least...not yet. You have to end it."

"W-What?"

"He took advantage of you in a low position in your life, y/n."

"N-No Kook, you don't understand!"

"It's not your fault, y/n, it's completely his. He's the adult here, it was wrong. You have to end this."

"But I can't! The money, Kook, you know I can't."

"Then let me help you," he steps closer. Your hands slide to his chest now, shaking your head. "No, Jungkook, my answer has been no and its still no. I refuse to be your charity case," you scoff. "Then you're not going to be. I'll pay you to sleep with me too."

Your eyes instantly shoot open. What..?

"I'll pay you to sleep with me," he repeats calmly. "Anytime you need it, anytime I want it, and I'm certain I'll be able to give you more than whatever Mr. Kim could." Your mouth only hangs open, words dying in your dry throat.

"What's wrong?" Jungkook asks, taking a step closer. This time, you take a step back. "If you were fine with doing it with Mr. Kim, shouldn't it be fine with me?"

"N-No," your voice is barely a shaky whisper. More clearly, "No, Jungkook. I can't just—we just started talking again. You're my only friend, I won't ruin us just for—"

"I won't let anything happen to us, I promise y/n."

"B-but—"

"You don't have to worry about it, okay? Plus, isn't this situation more ideal? You'd get paid more and you wouldn't have to rely on—"

"I love him!"

Its Jungkook's turn to be silent. "What..?"

"I love him Kook," you croak, heat overwhelming your cheeks.

"Y/n..."

"I know it's wrong, I know he seems like an asshole but he's not. I know him, Kook, and i’m mature enough to know myself too. I made my decision back then, and I keep making it today because...I love him." You can’t help but feel your anguish trickle down your eyes, and you cry into your hands. That’s it then. It’s done. You’ve finally admitted it, yet despite the burden of the untold truth lifting—you felt heavier, worse. By now, Jungkook would’ve pulled you into a warm embrace. He’d hush you with soothing murmurs and delicate kisses on your forehead. He’d trail his fingers through your hair, tell you that he knew, that he gets it, that it was okay. But he doesn’t. He couldn’t. You were crying for another man, and all he could feel was ache.

Your phone rings once more, and from the night stand, you see Taehyung’s figure on the dimmed screen. You reluctantly look at Jungkook, but when he doesn’t say anything, his expression unreadable, you take it. "H-hello?"

"Hey, doll," Taehyung's voice is low. "I’m sorry I keep calling, I feel really shit for waking you up at this time. I know the Jeju trip is in a few hours, but I just needed to talk to you."

"No, no, its fine. I was already awake anyways, um...what is it?" You turned away from Jungkook, nervously biting on your lip. Despite everything that had unfolded between the two of you, it was strange. Taehyung never called you at this time after all—and him saying you guys needed to talk only heightened your nerves.

"It's better to talk in person. Where are you? I can pick you up." You shake your head, despite not him being able to see you. "N-No, i’ll come over...is that okay?"

"Yeah, of course, I'll see you soon." With that, the call ends. You can feel Jungkook’s eyes on your back—its overwhelming, and you’re scared to face the definite disgust and judgement in his them, so you don’t look at him when lift your bag across your shoulder. "I’m sorry, I...I need to go.”

ACT IV | LOVE IS NOT OVER

Jungkook hasn't seen you since last night. You never showed up at the meeting spot, never answered his calls or texts—never even once read the 68 of them.

He was certain you came, though—he checked in with Mrs. Yoon before boarding, but you were always good at hiding, and Jungkook was always an impatient seeker. The whole process of arriving, checking into the hotel, and splitting into groups was a whole blur that ended in him never finding you. After spending hours exploring the designated routes through antique shops, cute cafes, pretty sceneries, and meadows with his friends, he started to fear that you didn't come after all—that Mrs. Yoon had made a mistake.

Surely, he would've bumped into you at least once through the whole trip. And where the fuck was Mr. Kim? Jeju was supposed to be the pinnacle of his highschool experience. He’d be elated with the giddiness of being out with his friends, kissed with the gift of delicious freedom. But it was 7:46 PM now, and even when he overlooked the vast beach dipped with sunset's entrancing glow, he felt anything but. Not when Seokjin cracked his lame dad jokes, nor when Eunha got him to bike through scenic trails.

Jungkook sighed as the strawberry milk clattered to the bottom of the vending machine. He spotted it tucked away from the corner of the museum his group wandered into. He excused himself, relieved that their chaperone actually trusted him to be by himself. He needed the space.

He poked the straw through the carton, leaning against the cold metal as his eyes gazed over the glistening waves. He hated you. Always leaving him like this, always making him restless and unsure.

It was when he looked for the moon in the dusk sky that he noticed a familiar silhouette amidst the shore. It wavered with the wind, and Jungkook instantly felt his scorn. The man's jeweled hand was holding a cigarette between two fingers, overlooking the ocean with distant eyes.

Fuck the sand, fuck his expensive shoes, fuck everything. Jungkook doesn't know when he starts running, but he doesn't stop.

It all happened so past—the sun would have missed it if not for the perfect view she had just over the excited ripples of the ocean. When Taehyung noticed his presence, it was already too late. Jungkook had grabbed his collar, and without a second of hesitance, punched him across his face. Taehyung fell into the sand with a grunt, cursing loudly. “What the fuck?!” He turned to his perpetrator, his glare quickly diminishing into pure shock to see his own student right in front of him, eyes poisoned with resentment and hatred.

Taehyung's emotions came whirling at him all at once. The confusion, then the anger, the urge to scream at him and punch him until he was left bleeding on the shore—then the mediating side of him, understanding that he'd done more than enough to get his ass fired, why the fuck would he...?—then the realization. He sighs roughly, shaking his head as he stands. He isn't up for long though, as Jungkook takes another swing. Taehyung’s cheeks scream with stinging pain, but Jungkook’s on top of him, and he doesn’t stop.

"You fucking bitch!" Jungkook seethed, barely feeling his fist continuously bury into Taehyung’s face. He knew. He knew how much you loved him, he knew Taehyung helped you. He knew you'd get angry, maybe even hate him for the rest of his life for this—But maybe that's why he couldn't control himself. He didn't care if you thought Taehyung was some angel. To him, Taehyung was just a disgusting predator who took advantage of your situation, and deep down, maybe it was more for a selfish reason. Taehyung was a man who touched you, who had you—who wasn’t him. "You disgusting fuck. Don't ever fucking touch y/n again, you hear me?!" Another hit, but Jungkook is too blinded with anger to realize the scary amount of blood drooling down his nose and lips, from the cuts of his cheeks. "I know," Taehyung rasps.

"If you know then why did you do it?! You’re a fucking creep, you’re disgusting.”

"I know," another hit, and blood stains his shirt. Taehyung curses and grabs Jungkook's fist before he can throw another punch, pushing him into the sand. "You dick, I swear to god, I swear to fucking god I'll fucking kill you." Jungkook thrashes under Taehyung, but the teacher buries both his wrists into the ground, his weight holding the younger boy down.

“Sh-Shit, Look, I know how you must feel about me, and I know I deserve this, but I would much rather avoid being seen like this so I'm going to say this quick and you're going to listen."

"Fuck you," Jungkook growls, glaring at the man on top of him. His eyes were unreadable, almost enigmatic, and Jungkook hated every unwavering speckle of deep brown in it.

"I don't regret it," Taehyung disregards him. "I liked her—y/n—and no matter what you think of me, that stands true. You must like her too, she told me about you some nights. I have to admit, hearing about another boy when she's laying in my own bed wasn't very pleasant for me, but you made her happy. You mean a lot to her," Jungkook shut his eyes tightly, cursing as he tried to get the image of Taehyung holding you in his arms out of his mind. "I know you don't think I care about her, but I do, so just fucking listen for a second okay? I know i'm no good for her, but you aren't either. You're too immature, we both know y/n deserves way more. See where you are now? Right under me when you could be there for her? Have you even seen her today? Have you asked her how she's been?"

"What... what the fuck are you saying."

Taehyung sighs, and stumbles back to stand, wincing as the harsh winds slap his bloodied face. He nimbly looks for his cigarette, and before he lights it, Jungkook grabs his lighter. "I said what the fuck do you mean?!"

"I ended it with her," Taehyung glares at him, his voice firm, cold as he snatches the lighter back. Jungkook feels his heart drop. “You...what?"

There's silence, and when the man turns to look at the sun drowning into the ocean’s abyss, he lights the cigarette, "the fireworks are starting soon." Jungkook's eyes widens. Before he knows it, he's already running.

You’ve always loved the fireworks.

His footsteps that were submerged into sand were now padding against the concrete of the sidewalk, his heart pounding in his ears. A few cars must have honked at him here and there as he ran through the streets, unknowing of his surrounding because all he can think of his getting to his destination—you. He frantically reaches for his phone, panting.

You

JK : where are you?

my love : my room

my love : 613, 7th floor

JK : on my way.

ACT V. | HOLD ME TIGHT

At least the fireworks were pretty.

Your eyelids drooped, puffed with drowsy red as you watched the sparkling scene on the balcony of the hotel. Evening's cold breeze teased your bare legs, dancing with the delicate ends of your black, satin nightgown. You were hugging yourself yourself, leaning against the cold railings as sparks of vivid red shatter into memories tainted with heartbreak. The red silk sheets that you grasped tightly beneath you. The red lingerie that Taehyung slid off your skin. The red wine he poured into the pan when you told him you were hungry. You liked watching him the most, you thought as he stood in front of the stove, his eyes trained on the steak. You liked watching him unbutton his top, talk about his day, how he let out loud laughter whenever a funny story would come up. You loved when he unveiled himself for you, when he'd strip off his enigmatic persona bare and let you peer into his soul.

But that's all you ever did, you guessed, all you ever could do. You watched him when he smiled down at you, his cold fingertips brushing your waist, and you watched him as he left.

It must've been 4 minutes into the firework show when you heard the doorbell ring. Sighing, you leave the balcony as yellow ignites the night sky. You open the door to Jungkook, his chest heaving up and down, his hair tousled by wind, beads of sweat sticking to his neck.

When he doesn't say anything, and neither do you, you step aside to let him in. You wonder if he was still angry about last night, how he'd react when you tell him—but with the way he looked down at you, tender eyes dawned with sadness, you already understand you don’t have to. "I know," Jungkook steps closer, pulling you into a hug. His warmth embraces you as darkness does when the door clicks shut. "What happened, I know."

You sighed, closing your eyes. The fireworks sounded so distant compared to his heartbeat. Jungkook must've ran for you, you thought as your buried your face into his chest. Of course he would, he always has. Maybe that certainty is what intoxicates you to murmur, "I'll accept it."

"What?"

"What you proposed last night, I'll accept it," you say calmly, quietly. You looked up at him with wavering eyes, "please...I need you right now."

Jungkook's heart practically lurched out of his chest. He knew he should take a step back, tell you that you'd end up regretting it and to take it back before it was too late. He knew, but the devil on his shoulder was much more insistent than his angel, and maybe... maybe his angel wanted it too—so fuck it all.

Jungkook took your lips in a magnetic dance, drawing you closer into him with one hand on your lower back and the other behind your head.

God, you were so lovely. How your head lolled for him, soft, plush lips jarred open. Jungkook has always been good at controlling himself when it came to you, but when he heard the slightest whimper escape your trembling lips, he felt he couldn't hold himself back any longer.

He didn't seek for permission to suck your lower lip, didn’t even seek permission to slide his tongue inside your lovely little mouth when you gasped. He held your chin, deepening the kiss. More, more, more—he wanted more of you. He wanted to explore your body, wanted to make your breath tremble, wanted to find out what you liked and disliked under bedsheets. Jungkook wanted to know you better than anyone else had. He wanted you, needed you.

“Kook,” You whimper into him as he pushes you against the wall, holding your thigh up. He grinds his bulge against your clothed cunt, sending wild tremors along your nerves. “F-feels so good.”

“Yeah?” He takes your other thigh, and you yelp as he lifts you up. Your surprise quickly washes out with haze when he buries his thick tent further into you. You let out a moan, wrapping your legs around his torso. “I can make you feel even better.”

The explosions of the fireworks are blurred with the palpitations of your heart as Jungkook lays you on the bed, his lips immediately finding home in yours. "Love how you sound for me, love," Jungkook’s wet, needy kisses trail down your neck...to your collarbones...to your breast. “So pretty like this, always so pretty,” his fingers ghost your sensitive nipples, perked from evening's cold. He doesn't waste any time to take one nipple into his mouth, his fingers playing with the other.

His cold hand trails down your stomach, finally pressing it down your soaked underwear. He smirks, feeling the soaked outline of your pussy lips. “Already so wet for me baby? How cute."

His plush lips leave your nipple with a pop, instead latching onto the crook of your neck. Your eyes go wide when you realize what he's about to do. “Wait, d-don’t! Not th—ah.” He doesn't allow you to finish your sentence, swiftly sliding your underwear out of the way before pressing a hard thumb over your clit. “Don't deny me, y/n,” His voice is low over your whiny moans. He sucks on the supple of your skin as he slides one, slender finger into you, smoothly drawing it in and out while he rolls your little bud with his other. “Please, need to show everyone that you’re mine,” he murmurs, licking his work, perfectly tinged with a pretty pink . “Besides...” he trails, taking note of your arousal dripping down his wrists. “You love this, don’t you?”

“N-No..! I...ah, K-Kook, Kookie..!” Your voice fails you, moans escaping from your trembling lips. “Jungkook s-stop..!” Jungkook frowns against your skin, and he lifts his head up to meet your gaze. “Why not?” His eyes are dark. You try to fight the muddle of your mind as his slow, tentative fingers continue to work on your cunt. “B-Because...because student c-council. It's inappropriate, and your friends will ask, a-and... mm!—“

“Taehyung?” Jungkook says bitterly, but you’re too indulged with the knot in your stomach. You moan loudly, your hands finding anchor wrapped around his biceps. “I'm sure you don’t want Taehyung to see, do you?” Jungkook's pace is furious now, and you barely make out his words through the thick fog of your mind. You feel so close. “Don’t want him to know that you're with me, hm? That i’m finger fucking you into my dumb whore."

His indecent words paint a wild blush on your cheeks. You never knew Jungkook could be like this, could be so mean.

"You know what I think..."

Jungkook lowers himself down between your sweaty thighs, quivering with painful pleasure. "''Think my dumb babygirl wants me to clean her messy little pussy up. Would you like that, love?"

"Y-Yeah," you moan, desperately bucking your hips up, "p-please eat me out, Kook."

"Needy girl," Jungkook lets out a sigh, his pants tightening around his painful hard on. You were so pretty like this, Jungkook swore he could cum just by watching you.

You almost cry when he pulls his fingers away, instead squeezing around your squishy hips. You do cry, though, when he gives your pussy a tantalizing lick, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. "Knew my baby girl would taste so sweet," he groans. His tongue circles around your throbbing bud, sucking on it.

"Fuck! K-Kook, I-I can't," you wail, tears falling down your cheeks. Jungkook only flutters his eyes open, watching you with heated eyes as his tongue works on your wet cunt.

"Please, g-gonna cum, please!" Your back arches. Jungkook's hands the only thing anchoring you down.

"Then cum, baby, cum for me." Jungkok's voice is tender, coaxing like warm honey. With his encouragement, your dripping cunt spasms, unfurling your cream all over him. "That's my girl," His attentive tongue takes your sweet release, the embarrassing sound of slurping clouding your brain.

"You were so good for me, baby," He cooes, planting one final kiss on your quivering bud. Your cheeks tinge with a shy pink.

He lifts himself up, carefully laying over you so his forehead is pressed against yours. His eyes search yours under the veil of the moonlight. The fireworks must've stopped along the way, your heavy breaths filling the quiet room. "Tired, love?" Jungkook whispers, and you nod timidly, reaching your arms out to hug him.

Your skin is sticky with sweat like melting ice cream on hot summer days, but Jungkook adores his body pressed against yours. His fingers squeeze your smooth waist, placing gentle kisses on your neck, up your jaw, capturing your lips once more in a slow dance. A thin string line of saliva connects the two of you when he pulls back, and he breaks it off with a gentle graze across your wet lips.

"Think you can continue for me, baby?" Jungkook asks soothingly. "It's okay if you can't, of course. Must've been such a long day for you."

You shake your head, your hand lightly tracing the outline of the small scar on his cheek. You still remember the day he fell off his bicycle, somehow managing to tumble down the hill all the way to the train tracks. It must've been the first time you ever saw him cry.

"I want to."

"Are you sure?" His eyebrows perk up. "Because we really don't have to. I don't ever want you to feel like you have to please me. I know you took my offer, but if you aren't ready or comfortable, nothing has to happen. Believe it or not, pleasuring you already makes me feel euphoric." His words have you melt, gentle as a sweet night's lullaby.

"But I want us to feel good together," you say softly. "Please take me, Kookie. I want you." Jungkook's eyes widen, faint pink blooming on his cheeks, and you watch the stars in his eyes grow brighter with your shy gaze. He lets out a small chuckle, "god, you really don't know what you do to me, y/n."

He places a gentle peck on your lips one last time before rising to his knees, discarding his clothes. You're quick to slip off your nightdress and underwear, and you patiently admire Jungkook's toned physique as he worked to unbuckle his belt. Even the moon was enamored with him, tracing its luminous glow from his broad shoulders to his biceps, wrapping around his slim waist.

Your breath hitches when his dick springs out right in front of you, thick and swollen, oozing pre cum. Jungkook watches you with heated eyes, his hand grazing his dick. "Wow," you breathe, sitting up and replacing his hand with yours. Jungkook's hisses when you stroke his cock, doe eyed to his length that throbbed with neglect. "You're so pretty, Kookie. You're pretty everywhere..."

"I should be the one who's telling you that, darling," he lets out a shaky breath through his smile, his hand finding your cheek. "Now, i’d love for that lovely little mouth of yours to suck my cock, but I feel like i'm gonna explode any minute now, and i'd like to do so inside of you," he chuckles when a furious blush takes your cheeks. You let him push you down, positioning himself in between your legs. He takes his pulsating cock in his hands, sliding his glistening head over your cunt. "Would you like that baby? Want me to cum in this cute little pussy? Wanna take Kook's cum like a good girl?" You feel yourself shy from his words, whimpering, "y-yes please, Kookie."

"Tell me how much you want it, baby."

"S-So bad. Kookie p-please, want you to fill me up."

"Yeah?" Jungkook chuckled, a cocky smirk on his lips that made you tremble. "Think your tiny pussy can even take my cock?"

"Y-Yes, m'pussy wants your cock, p-please Kook!"

"Dirty girl, love it when you beg for me," he pushes the blunt head of his cock into your swelling entrance, already having you see stars by the time he fills you up whole. "You okay?" Jungkook breathes out, his forehead falling against yours. You nodded timidly, "j-just need a little time to adjust."

"Okay, baby, tell me when you're ready." He pecks your nose, letting out a shaky sigh as your walls clench around him. When you do, Jungkook takes your knees, pushing them on either side of you so your legs are spread out wide for him.

He pulls out his whole cock so he could see the flush tip of his cock before plunging back into you. You moan loudly to his even pace, bottoming you out with every thrust.

"F-fuck, been wishing for this forever. Just want to punish this pussy for making me wait for this long."

Harsh skin to skin contact and the squelch of your juices mixing together fills your fuzzy mind. You felt so full, you could practically feel him in your belly. "Shit, you're practically swallowing me. You like this, don't you?"

"Y-yeah, love your cock, Kookie," you moan, his pace growing faster and more unforgiving. "I'm never letting you go after this, fuck y/n. You're mine, you’re so fucking mine. Say it, say you're mine, p-please."

"Yours," you whimper, feeling the familiar tingling ecstasy overwhelm your stomach. "O-Only yours, Kookie."

"That's right, baby, open your mouth." You didn't know exactly why, but you didn't question him. He could tell you to do absolutely anything right now and you'd do it. Your wet lips jar open for him, and Jungkook spits in your mouth, sending a wave of tremor through your body. "Swallow."

You listen, obediently swallowing. "That's my girl."

"Kookie, kookie...m'gonna cum!"

"Again baby? You’re so easy, barely have to do anything and you're spilling." You moan to his words, thrusting in and out of you in a hypnotic pace. "Go on then, baby. Cum for me, make a mess over my balls."

Your whole body tenses, feeling the overwhelming wave wash over you. Eyes rolling to the back of your head, you release around him the second time. "Good girl, baby, so good for me, fuck," Jungkook hisses to your tightening walls squeezing around him, driving himself into your belly until he pours all his cum deep inside of you.

You practically drooled, his load coming out in spurts of thick cream. When he pulls out, your pussy twitches, his cum oozing out. He falls onto your chest, and your heavy pants fill the room.

After awhile, Jungkook lazily pulls you to lay over him. "Okay, baby?"

"Mm," you murmur into his sweaty chest, trying to recollect your breath. You open your mouth to thank him, but a loud explosion takes your voice. In a second, waves of yellow wash the room, then blue, then purple. Your tiredness subdues into drowsy awe. You sit up and Jungkook does too, positioning you on his lap. "I think this is the second show. Timing is fitting don't you think?"

You giggle, and Jungkook sees daylight in your eyes. "Too fitting. I'm starting to think that this was all part of some big plan."

Jungkook rolls his eyes, laughing as he tucks a hair behind your ear. "Silly girl, of course it is." You look at him quizzically. "We're soulmates aren't we? The universe is just celebrating us."

You smile, sighing as you lean into his chest. "Whatever you say, my soulmate." Jungkook's eyes widen. He felt twelve again, dumbstruck euphoria overwhelming his love for you any time you called him yours. His shock settles into a soft smile, holding you in his arms while you watch the fireworks. It takes him awhile to realize your eyes are closed though.

"Sleepy, love? Thought you loved the fireworks."

"I do," you giggle, pushing him down onto the soft mattress. You snuggle into his chest. "Just listening to your heartbeat."

Jungkook blushes. He was going to urge you to clean up, but with you looking so cozy on top of him, he knew you'd much rather rest. He sighs lovingly, stroking your hair. He hasn't felt this happy in awhile. "About your payment, I’ll wire $800 just for tomorrow, but we’ll officially talk about the—"

“Shhhh!” You grumble, burying your head further into him. “Don’t wanna talk about money right now, just let me be with you.”

Jungkook blinks, and you look up to him with a pout. Purple lights up the seoul's night sky, casting an soft glow on Jungkook’s face. He chuckles, thumb brushing your cheeks.

"Needy girl.”

a/n : wooooo this took the longest time to write. its pretty bulky so whoevers got to this point i love you sosososo and i hope you enjoyed my work ! feedback is welcome and super appreciated, reading comments really do make my day <3 i was thinking of making a sequel/continuation for this but im not so sure ,, we'll see. anyways, i hope you have a lovely day my loves ! stay hydrated and healthy, i hope you eat good food today. make sure to take care of yourself too !

#jungkook au #jungkook fic #jungkook fanfic #jungkook smut #jeon jungkook #bts jungkook #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook x reader #bangtan sonyeondan #bts fic #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #bts jk #bangtan #bangtan boys #jungkook scenarios #jungkook friends to lovers #kim taehyung

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alwaysahiccupandastrid · 3 years

Text

How Bad is Sia’s “Music” really?

I watched it illegally (because there was no way I was paying for that bullshit) and found out. It’s not as bad as we thought... It’s worse.

TW for ableism, Sia, drugs, alcohol, just in general a terrible movie, meltdowns, blackface

Literally the first thing you hear while they’re showing the production companies is THOSE stereotypical noises. If you’ve seen the trailer, you’ll know what I mean.

And yes, she does this for the WHOLE fucking movie

What was the need to show her in her underwear? Maddie Ziegler was 14 when this was made, so what was the need??? And why did Sia prolong the scene by having her hitting herself?

Less than a minute in and my reaction was already “what the fuck is this shit?”

So the opening number not only had stereotypical exaggerated facial expression, it has Maddie in BLACKFACE?!? And with culturally appropriated hair?!?

The exaggerated facial expressions are literally constant and I took photos during the film to show it, more later, but I’ll keep mentioning it

ITS LITERALLY THE WHOLE FUCKING TIME SHE IS ON SCREEN

Even her way of walking is fucking offensive, Jesus Christ

The vocalisations just had me cringing so hard, I cannot describe how awful it made me feel

Why do all the neighbours need to be paid off and help her when she goes for a walk? I don’t-

Yes, by about the five minute mark I was already seriously debating all my life decisions. It was that bad.

Kate Hudson really didn’t give a fuck that her grandma died

I will keep saying it but WHY are the facial expressions/vocalisations CONSTANT?!! Literally they do not stop at all. I work with a child who is actually similar to this in that he’s nonverbal and he makes similar noises/faces, but the way they’re in this movie is so over-exaggerated?!? And even the kid I work with doesn’t do it 24/7?!?

Sia, calling your characters Zu and Music doesn’t make them interesting in the slightest. They’re still painfully terrible and one dimensional

Literally ONE minute after being left alone with her autistic sister, Zu calls the mental health service asking if they could “theoretically” “pick up” her sister?!? Like she wants to get rid of her already?!?

“A magical little girl” - autism isn’t a magical power?!? And Music is a young woman, not a little girl?!? Why are you infantilising her?!?

Okay I’m not being funny but this choreography is NOT hard. ANYONE can do it, so claiming that you needed to hire a dancer to be Music because of the numbers is literally bullshit (and even so, there are so many amazing autistic actors and dancers?!?)

20 minutes in and I wanted to give up

So she had her first meltdown because her hair didn’t get braided immediately and that’s... certainly interesting??

The fact that Leslie Odom’s character says “I’m going to crush you now”?!?

AND THEN HE FUCKING PICKS HER UP AND FULL-BODILY PINS HER DOWN ONTO THE FLOOR

“I’m crushing her with my love” - oh fuck you, just fuck you

So Sia lied, the restraint scenes were NOT removed and there was no warning. She’s a fucking POS liar

I have no idea why he’s called Ebo or why he has such a cliche African accent?!? I might have missed out on why because I was busy trying not to bang my head into the table while I watched this film but just... yikes

“He (his brother) liked to be held” - YEAH, HELD. NOT FUCKING CRUSHED

“He is dead now” - IM NOT FUCKING SURPRISED IF YOU CRUSHED HIM LIKE THAT

The constant babying and patronizing of the autistic character is so exhausting to watch. I’m so tired

“Planning on sending her to the people pound but I guess I’ll keep her a little longer” - SHE WAS JOKING BUT THAT WAS NOT EVEN REMOTELY A FUNNY JOKE. NOT EVEN IN AN AWKWARD WAY

STOP THE FACES IM-

^ YEAH, Sia, totally a fucking love letter to the autistic community here ^

So Zu finds this necklace she made as a kid that had a little dog on it, and she says to Music, “He had seizures too, just like you”... MELTDOWNS AND SEIZURES ARE NOT EVEN REMOTELY THE SAME FUCK THIS MOVIE-

It’s like Sia is trying to make the movie funny but it’s really not at all

Is Zu implying that Music is autistic because the mum was a junkie?!?

For real though, the dialogue in general is so fucking awful and cringey. Whoever wrote this should never be allowed to write again

Did she seriously leave her autistic sister alone to talk to who I’m presuming was her dealer or loan shark?!?

Also why is he - a white dude - wearing cornrows?!?

So who is the film really about? The autistic girl or the older sister saviour? I think we all know the answer to that one

WHY IS SHE WALKING AROUND WITH HER TEETH JUTTING OUT LIKE THAT ALL THE TIME

The musical numbers are literally so painful to watch. The overly bright colours, the flashing... my eyes were hurting and so was my brain

Autism representation aside for a second, the musical numbers/choreography are all fucking atrocious. Ditto for the costumes

LIKE WHAT THE FUCK WERE THE PINK OOMPA LOOMPA FRUIT THINGS?!? THEY LOOK LIKE THE PINK VERSIONS OF VIOLET BEAUREGARDE THE BLUEBERRY

I wanted to cry by this point, this movie is far more awful than I thought

“I’m not saying she doesn’t want to change, I’m saying she can’t” - FUCK YOU. Why is it okay for him to assume what she can or can’t do

Can I just say that autistic people aren’t constantly in a coked up wonderland state?!! We don’t see the world as a wonderland fantasy world 24/7?!!

“She can hear you from two rooms away” / *shows her listening through two brick walls to a conversation* — Also, we don’t have super fucking sonic hearing?? WE CANT HEAR THROUGH FUCKING BRICK WALLS?!?

“She can understand everything you’re saying to her” - she’s autistic not fucking deaf

Less than 45 minutes in, there’s another meltdown in the park

“I’m not climbing on top of a small screaming white girl in public” - yeah please fucking don’t

So Zu fucking pins her down with her weight 🤦‍♀️

“She doesn’t know who she’s hitting” - IM SORRY WHAT

EBO LITERALLY SAID “TREAT HER LIKE A BEAR” when talking her through the prone restraint, I fucking CANNOT

“Tell her she’s safe” - NOT IF YOU FUCKING RESTRAIN HER LIKE THAT SHE IS NOT

The fact that she gets up, smiling and happy after a meltdown and immediately is excited to get a snow cone... I can honestly say that after a meltdown, I am in no way happy or smiling. I am often not very verbal and I’m withdrawn/not myself for at least several hours, usually the rest of the day. Fuck this film

This film is literally just about Zu, and Music is there for a plot device to give her character development. That’s all she’s there for.

Love how Sia shoehorned Zu being suicidal in there. You know, just to try and make her more easy to sympathize with (it doesn’t work)

This film is literally just a 1 hour 47 minute Sia music video with ZERO plot

WHY WERE THEY WEARING PILLOW DIAPERS IN ONE NUMBER-

I really did not feel into the side plot with that guy who was fighting but it was still better than the actual movie so...

I am SO DONE with the NON STOP CONSTANT vocal shit. So tired.

LOJ’s only role in this film is to be the stereotypical wise black guy who assists a white woman’s story. There’s like hardly any other depth there

The Ebo/Zu romance is so fucking stupid and pointless and out of NOWHERE. I couldn’t even tell if they were into each other or not

I was already so bored of the musical numbers by this point. They added NOTHING to the plot but they pretended they did, and I was so over it. And it’s not because I’m not “creative enough” or anything to understand, I love musicals and I think it could have been cool if done right... but it wasn’t. They were a mess. It’s just bad.

Sia really tried to pretend her movie was deep but really it’s a shallow mess

So Zu is meeting rich drug clients and says to Music “try not to have one of your freak outs up there” and “if you could try to get it out now”... FUCKING YIKES. It’s not an on/off button, shut the fuck up

YEP THIS WAS THE SIA CAMEO FUCK THAT BITCH

The fact that she just calls “DRUG DEALER?!? DRUG DEALER IS THAT YOU”, fucking end this please-

I fucking hate this bitch I’m dead serious

“We’re gonna send them to Haiti cause there’s been an earthquake. All these buildings fell down, children’s bones were dislocated” - WHY WAS SHE SO CHEERFUL ABOUT IT

“Gonna buy a shit load of pain meds, gonna but them on my private plane” - FUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOU

“Pop stars without borders” - Sia thinks she’s so clever but I would give anything to punch her I swear-

ANOTHER MUSICAL NUMBER JUST STOP IM BEGGING YOU

There’s this awkward conversation/bit with Zu and her drug dealer/loanshark about his outfit that was clearly meant to be funny but was just flat and painful

Yep, Sia really showed Music eating chewing gum off the underside of a park bench. Of course.

Look, the kid I work with does similar stuff by putting literally anything and everything in his mouth but like... why would you put that in your movie?

And there’s no indication before this that Music puts everything and anything in her mouth, she just randomly decides to get on her knees, under the bench and eat chewing gum, like she calculates that it’s there and gets it???

She has a THIRD meltdown after an allergic reaction to a bee sting and her sister just yells at her before realizing... I’m not here for this movie, I feel like I drifted off and was not really there

So Zu got angry because she left the drugs at the park but she’s not that upset that her sister had an allergic reaction???

Zu gets absolutely drunk because a) she lost Sia’s drugs and b) she’s stressed out by her autistic sister... wow, great message, Sia!

She really fucked off and left her sister alone to go clubbing/on a bender

The less said about the musical number here the better

Sia’s movie also checks the box of having stereotypical Asian parents, specifically stereotypical Asian dad being harsh/angry and hitting his wife!

ALSO HE PUSHED AND KILLED HIS SON WTF IS HAPPENING

Less than 3 minutes after the last, there’s a musical number that I think was about this side character going to heaven... another shitty Sia-esque number

The patterns during the number made my brain hurt.

Also there are so many autistic actors who can also dance, and yet Sia chose the neurotypical one because ✨ N E P O T I S M ✨

I just want to know how it was deemed necessary to show the fact the autistic character peed/wet herself? I mean... ??? It’s just so undignified and not at all necessary to the plot. Nothing happens after that, it just moves onto the next scene and it didn’t do anything

“I have no one” - 1) YOUR FUCKING SISTER. 2) GEE I FUCKING WONDER WHY, couldn’t be that you’re a shitty human being?!?

There’s a scene where Music is walking and she does ALL the stereotypical behaviours at once... just YIKES

Zu somehow stopped another meltdown just by grabbing Music by the shoulders and sitting her down???

Aaand yep. Another shitty musical number

Zu really goes to put her sister in a fucking facility and claims it’ll be “better for her” - BULLSHIT. Better for Zu, maybe, not Music.

Ah yes - the girl who the characters have said has problems with routines being changed/change in general... you’re now going to fuck up her routine by dumping her in a facility. Perfect Plan.

The nonverbal autistic girl suddenly speaking to say “don’t go” - you can just predict it from the off, can’t you?

Love that as soon as Music starts talking, Zu is like “fuck it, I’ll keep her!”

Zu really went and crashed Ebo’s brothers wedding... in a fucking bralette... YIKES

“I almost gave Music away” - SHE IS NOT A DOG YOU DONT GIVE PEOPLE AWAY

“We should sing a song” - PLEASE DO FUCKING NOT

Also that kiss/romance montage between Zu and Ebo was the CRINGIEST fucking shit ever

This movie seems to be implying that Music has locked in syndrome or something, like she’s locked in her own head or whatever it’s called, and I just... *sigh*

Oh and now Music magically fucking sings in a room FULL of strangers... this is literally embarrassing, please let this end

I mean it, this movie was fucking painful to watch on ever level

She got a service dog puppy which... okay?

Oh look, it’s the only decent song on the soundtrack but with an absolutely shitty over-stimulatory music video with the credits!

I can only name 5 characters in this film. Maybe 7 at a push, but even then I would be guessing

AND YEP SHE THANKED AUTISM SPEAKS OVER THE CREDITS. FUCK YOU SIA 🖕🏻

Let me reiterate: this is a movie about a neurotypical former drug addict whose character development comes from the autistic character, from having an autistic sister she has to take care of. I’m so tired.

We are NOT plot devices or tools for character development. Not once does anyone in this film treat Music like a human being - she’s treated as a burden, a problem, and then like a pet that they decide to keep. Not once is the film focused on how she is feeling - it’s always about Zu or Ebo. The performance itself was so over exaggerated and it made me want to cry when I watched it because this is how the world sees us, and this movie will make it ten times worse. It’s stuff like this that made me think “I don’t want to be labelled as autistic because people will think I’m a certain way”, that made me wait so long before going to the GP to get a referral.

As I said, poor autistic representation aside, the movie is just so appallingly bad. It truly is one of the worst films I’ve watched. If you’re going to watch it, please don’t - or, if you want to because you want to see how bad it is/to raise awareness/critical posts, at least do it illegally. Do not give Sia your money.

#sia #music #music 2021 #music movie #autism #tw ableism #tw meltdown #tw blackface #anti sia #lol sia

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birdship · 3 years

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(DISCO ELYSIUM SPOILERS)

Wrote this... thing? to sort of explore potentially writing an actual bit of fanfic for Disco Elysium. It's just a short scene set during the time Harry's drifting in and out of consciousness and Kim is taking care of him.

Anyway, here. Self-indulgent gay longing bullshit, but maybe someone else out there will enjoy it?

Very short teaser, since the whole thing is only like 1600 words:

PERCEPTION: The pressure intensifies slightly, and you recognize it is in the shape of a human hand. YOU: Her hand…? PERCEPTION: No. Not hers. VOLITION: Never hers. LOGIC: His, genius. ESPRIT DE CORPS: It’s Kim. Of course it is. You knew it from the moment you saw him, somehow, that this man would take a bullet for you. He almost did. But right now, he’s kneeling beside you, tending to your wound. Gently, so gently reaching into the war zone of your body to peel back the old bandages, soaked in blood and pus, and press clean ones down in their place.

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Well, well! Look what the cat dragged in. You keep slipping away, Harry-boy. Back into that beautiful, dark sea. Where you came from. Where you belong. Even now it presses around you, pale and cold. You’re struggling so hard to keep your head above the water for these precious few seconds of aching consciousness. It would be easier to just… relax.

YOU: Hold on, what was that about a cat?

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: There is no cat, you stupid fuck. Pay attention when I’m waxing poetic about the sweet embrace of death.

It’s hard to pay attention. Then again, it’s hard to do anything. Your breathing is shallow and ragged and you’re so, so tired. God are you tired.

PERCEPTION: You become gradually aware that there is a light pressure on your hip. PAIN THRESHOLD: The first small jolt of pain ripples through you, branching like lightning. PERCEPTION: The pressure intensifies slightly, and you recognize it is in the shape of a human hand.

YOU: Her hand…?

PERCEPTION: No. Not hers. VOLITION: Never hers. LOGIC: His, genius. ESPRIT DE CORPS: It’s Kim. Of course it is. You knew it from the moment you saw him, somehow, that this man would take a bullet for you. He almost did. But right now, he’s kneeling beside you, tending to your wound. Gently, so gently reaching into the war zone of your body to peel back the old bandages, soaked in blood and pus, and press clean ones down in their place.

YOU: His hand…

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: It’s warm, electric, somehow both familiar and new all at once. You ache to lean into it and ask for more, more. How long has it been since anyone touched you like this? INLAND EMPIRE: Has anyone ever touched you like this, really? Right down to the core of you? Feeling the wreckage of you, the sharp edges of your heart? Running their fingers so lightly along the cracks of your horrible little brain? ELECTROCHEMISTRY: I meant literally. His hand is on your thigh. PAIN THRESHOLD: Because there’s a fucking gunshot wound there. LOGIC: Come on, don’t make it weird. ELECTROCHEMISTRY: I’m not making it weird. VOLITION: You’re definitely making it weird. ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Look, all I’m saying is it feels pretty nice, doesn’t it? Being close to him like this. His hands on your body.

YOU: Yeah. It does.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: In the haze of painkillers and recent trauma, your sight becomes clear. Ironic. You’re finally allowing yourself to see something that’s been quietly blossoming inside you over the years. It’s been so hard to ignore, but the alternative is so much worse. You couldn’t look right at it. Didn’t want to. Didn’t think you deserved to. But now, in this moment, lying on a lumpy mattress in the dark, trying not to lose consciousness yet again, with him pressing his hands to your rotting body, desperately staunching the bleeding that never seems to completely stop… Now the world has finally wrung everything out of you. Whatever it was that you had left. And you can do nothing but take the path of least resistance. HALF-LIGHT: You’re keenly aware that you will soon make an absolute goddamn fool of yourself, but are powerless to stop it. The forces are already in motion. PAIN THRESHOLD: Another lightning bolt of pain, worse this time. Agony. You cannot help but gurgle a quiet “fuck.”

The lieutenant glances up at your face with calm concern, thoroughly unsurprised by your outburst. “I know it hurts,” he breathes. “You’ll get through it.”

“Yeah,” you mumble, only half-processing his words.

PERCEPTION: His hand lingers ever so slightly, then suddenly it’s gone. The warm, comforting pressure of his company, gone. SUGGESTION: No! You’re going to be alone again! He needs to stay. You need him to be here. Next to you. For as long as possible.

You concentrate every ounce of willpower you have left on sending your right hand out to fish desperately for his before it’s gone.

HAND/EYE COORDINATION: Your hand slaps awkwardly against the sleeve of his jacket. You can’t quite get a grip on it, but your pathetic flailing is hard to ignore, and he stops to give you a quizzical look. VISUAL CALCULUS: That’s the best we could do. I don’t know what you expected from us. Your eyes are still closed.

“Detective?” he says to you. “Just relax. You’re going to be fine, but you need to get some rest.”

“Wait,” you mumble, “please stay.”

DRAMA: This is quite the sad display you’re putting on here, sire. It’s a crowded field, but this new late entry is a strong contender for the gold in the hotly contested “most uncomfortable moment” event at the Sad Old Sack of Shit Olympics.

VOLITION: Come on, you’re stronger than this. HALF-LIGHT: Don’t drag him down with you, you irrepressible fuck-up. What are you even trying to do? INLAND EMPIRE: He’s drowning. Desperate. Reaching for something, anything, to stay afloat. COMPOSURE: It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Not anymore. There’s nothing to hold onto. SUGGESTION: Wrong. You have exactly one thing to hold onto right now, and that thing is Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi’s fucking hand.

Kim looks at you with a sort of detached concern for a moment, then gives you a small smile and sits back down next to you without another word. There’s nothing to say, and that’s fine.

EMPATHY: He looks exhausted. His eyes are ringed by dark circles and his shoulders have begun to sag with the weight of the case. The weight of death. The weight of you. He’s carrying so much. ESPRIT DE CORPS: He doesn’t want recognition or pity for it. He knows you’re bearing the same load. Don’t you dare apologize for any of it - this weight is shared. You’re in it together. SUGGESTION: Then why do you feel so guilty, watching him stare silently out the window into the impenetrable night, looking at nothing? You have to say something. Acknowledge his efforts to keep your sorry flesh sack shambling forward another day. VOLITION: No, stop. This is a bad idea. You don’t have to be the sorry cop anymore. In fact, please actively try to stop being that.

“Kim,” you say weakly.

“Yes?” he says, his gaze snapping back to you immediately.

“Thanks.”

“No need for that,” he says quickly.

VOLITION: Grateful cop, huh. Well, I guess that’s a step up. Very slightly less pitiful.

“Yeah,” you mumble, “alright. Sorry.”

VOLITION: Goddammit.

Kim doesn’t say anything. Just watches you with tired, searching eyes.

PERCEPTION: He’s sitting on the very edge of the bed, far away from you, his limbs tucked close to his body except for one hand, which rests lightly on the blanket. VISUAL CALCULUS: It’s still close enough that you could reach out and touch it without too much effort. ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Get that sweet dopamine hit, baby! Human contact, the most dangerous drug!

Your fingers brush his hand. He jerks it away immediately, but it seems like an unconscious, automatic reaction.

“Ah,” he says, scooting over a bit. “I’ll give you some space.”

VOLITION: If your goal was to feel like a complete idiot in front of the one person in this shithole that you respect, well, pat yourself on the back. DRAMA: Congratulations, sire, you’ve done it! And what hill might thou plan to die on next? VOLITION: A much steeper one, hopefully. SUGGESTION: Ignore them, try again! PERCEPTION: Finally, your fingers manage to close around his wrist. You can’t see his reaction. Your eyes are closed. You can’t stand to look at the situation you’ve created. VOLITION: Coward. PERCEPTION: His hand is moving, changing position, but not withdrawing. It simply contorts in such a way that your grip relaxes and now it’s his hand that’s resting on top of yours. He is silent, but he’s there. Not moving away. You smell stale cigarette smoke and dry blood lingering in the space between his body and yours. ELECTROCHEMISTRY: It’s too much. This hit, it’s stronger than you expected. It’s fucking devastating, a cold knife twisting its way through your broken body. It hurts. Why does it hurt? EMPATHY: Your eyes are still closed, but you sense that he too is looking elsewhere, similarly unable to look directly at the source of the overwhelming awkward - and quite frankly rather homo-sexual - energy you have brought down upon the room. CONCEPTUALIZATION: Every other human interaction happening inside the Whirling-in-Rags must be going very smoothly right now, because you’ve created a fucking singularity of awkwardness. There’s no more awkwardness left within a 2km radius, you’ve gathered it all right here.

Then, as quickly as the moment began, it’s over. He moves his hand and clears his throat. Probably cleans his glasses. It’s a nervous habit of his that you’ve noticed this past week.

A few minutes pass in silence. Then: “Harry?” he whispers quietly.

You don’t answer. You have nothing to say.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Maybe you were wrong. Maybe this is the harder option. Maybe you’re not ready to look at it. Maybe you’re not ready to look at anything.

“Get some rest,” he says softly. “I need to get back to work.”

EMPATHY: He’s not going to mention this incident. Not now. Not later. Not ever. Not just out of concern for you, but himself. He has no idea how to begin to process it, so he won’t. He’ll tell himself it doesn’t matter, you were just lost in a cloud of drouamine and pain and grief. That you were so out of it that you thought you were reaching for someone else. That vulnerable moment of tenderness could not have been meant for him. But you know the truth. And maybe he does too, somewhere deep down. LOGIC: You are okay with this. You have to be. And so does he. CONCEPTUALIZATION: You’ve glimpsed it now, that radiant thing within you. That bright, unbearable light. It’s so beautiful, so heart-breaking that you can hardly stand it. Maybe a glimpse is enough.

#disco elysium #disco elysium spoilers #fan fic #harry du bois #kim kitsuragi #this scene brought to you by gay longing and touch starvation

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hauntedfalcon · 3 years

Text

living in midnight

for day four of Nile Freeman Week: "Nile & Struggle" plus a fantasy AU in which superheroes exist, Nile isn't one of them, and she doesn't let that stop her. 1700 words, rated M for swearing. content warning for wounds and needles because it's Nile's turn for sapphic patching up, as a treat

the title is from Lianne La Havas’s “Midnight”. many thanks to @flightsofwonder for beta reading <3

read on AO3 or below

Nile opens her eyes to see an unfamiliar ceiling. There is an unfamiliar pillow under her head, and she is recumbent on an unfamiliar sofa. Above it is a window, where streetlights reflect in the sinuous trails of raindrops.

Rain. Knives. Three attackers. She fought like hell, might have broken someone’s arm, but they landed one good hit. They left her for dead in an alley. She watched her own blood run into a puddle.

She bolts upright--and hisses when a wave of agony breaks over her, starting in her abdomen and shooting everywhere.

“Please don’t move,” says a softly accented voice. “You’re safe here. I haven’t seen your face.”

Nile collapses back down to the pillow and touches her face, just to be sure. Her mask is still in place. She drops her hand and forces one eye open, blurry with pained tears, to get a look at whoever dragged her in from the alley.

A white woman. Dark shoulder-length hair. Youngish, maybe Nile’s age. Dressed all in black, much like her--not for stealth but for soft goth vibes. Cute, if she’s honest, but this isn’t the fucking singles bar, get it together Freeman.

“I staunched the bleeding,” her rescuer says, “but I was waiting until you were conscious to do the stitches.”

“Do we have to?” Nile groans before she can stop herself.

A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile. “I’m afraid so. Would you like some fortitude?” The amateur surgeon holds out a bottle of Everclear.

Ugh. Nile takes the cap off and drinks deep, leaving enough in the bottle to sterilize whatever needs to be sterilized. It tastes like ass and lingers at the back of her throat.

Before the alcohol can set in and obliterate her senses, she says, “Can I borrow your phone?”

The woman hesitates. Very wise of her.

“Listen,” Nile says. “We had two leads come in at the same time. Al-Tayyib took one and I took the other, and mine was a decoy, which means...” She can’t, won’t, say it aloud. She hates how feeble she sounds. “I just have to check in with him. Please.”

The woman hands her a smartphone, unlocked. Nile hits the keycode to make the call anonymous, then dials Joe’s shitty flip phone from memory. He keeps it on silent when he’s on the rounds, and he’ll only answer if he’s safe.

Pick up, she wills him, because if she has to hear his stupid cheerful voicemail greeting now of all times, she’s going to scream right in front of this poor woman who didn’t ask for any of this drama in her life. Pick up, pick up, pick--

“Pronto.”

Nile’s gut tightens (painfully, but that’s not what matters right now) at the sound of another unfamiliar voice. The assassin. Joe walked into a trap.

“Where is he?” she demands, trying to sound hard and not like she’s lying on a stranger’s couch with an open wound.

A gust in the speaker. Is he laughing at her? She strains to hear anything that would give away their location: traffic, a clock tower, machinery, anything. There’s nothing else. No hint of Joe yelling in the background, either.

“I will return him to you presently,” says the asshole. Very formal.

“What, after you shank him like your goons did to me?”

“They were instructed not to kill you,” he says in a voice that wouldn’t fog a window in January. “Did you die?”

White-hot rage flares out of her with no place to go. “Where is he, you son of a--” But he has already hung up on her.

Nile resists the urge to growl. If this was her phone she would throw it against the wall. Instead she quickly deletes the record of the outgoing call, and hands the phone back to the woman, who pockets it. “Thank you,” she says tightly.

“I’m sorry to say so,” says the woman as she holds the tip of a curved needle in a candle flame, “but you are in no condition to save anyone right now.”

She blows out a sigh in answer. When she pulls the hem of her shirt up and peels away the medical tape and bandage pad, she discovers that the woman is absolutely right. This isn’t the worst Nile has been hurt and still fought, but it is pretty bad.

And it’s one thing to trash a gang of traffickers while she’s actively bleeding. It’s something totally different to track down a guy who has been three steps ahead of them this whole time, and seems to have removed his sense of morals with an ice cream scoop.

There’s only one thing left to do: say a silent prayer. The way she learned to pray feels insufficiently casual for the circumstances; she wishes she knew more about the format of the rakat. All she remembers is, “God hears the one who praises him,” so she starts on the Lord’s Prayer because praise comes before petition.

In place of, “Give us this day our daily bread,” she substitutes, “Get Joe out of this with his head,” and then she has to hold back a giggle at the rhyme. She must have lost a lot of blood.

The woman wipes the needle down with Everclear. “You know, I met the old Guardian too.”

Nile eyes her carefully. She won’t say Andy’s name in this woman’s presence. She won’t say Joe’s name either, much less her own. She won’t slip no matter how much blood she’s lost or how strong the alcohol is or how fundamentally good and trustworthy this woman seems or how much this is going to hurt. “Not under the same conditions,” she presumes.

“Very similar,” the woman says with another fleeting smile. “I hope she’s well?”

“She’s good,” Nile hastens to reassure her. “She retired.” And she left Nile her nom de guerre and all the weight that went with it.

“I’m glad she made it that long.”

“Probably thanks to you,” Nile says, and she gets a longer smile for it.

Then the needle bites into her skin and Nile whimpers softly and throws an arm over her eyes. She’s hard. She’s tough. This is what she does.

The woman’s gloved hand pinches the wound closed as she stitches. She works quickly, professionally. “I’m really glad you found me,” Nile manages. “I can’t exactly go to a hospital.”

“I think you would be surprised,” the woman says. “You are well loved in this city. People would protect your identity.”

That’s not it. Nile can’t go to hospital because there’s a chance her mom would be on shift, and the only thing worse than keeping her alter ego secret from her mom is the idea that she would find out because Nile came in on a gurney. She can’t do that to her.

A tug, as she ties the thread off, and then a snip of the shears. Nile lifts her head and looks down at a slightly puckered, neatly stitched, no longer bleeding knife wound.

Her laugh sounds brittle, just this side of hysterical. The woman glances at her. “I have work tomorrow,” Nile says weakly.

The woman tapes a fresh bandage over the wound. “Me too.”

No rest for the righteous. “The struggle is real, huh? Sorry for keeping you up late.”

“I will call in if you do,” the woman offers.

But going into the office in the morning might be the soonest opportunity to make sure Joe is okay. Nile pulls her shirt down and zips her bomber jacket over it. “I should go.”

The woman sets one hand on Nile’s arm. “Please stay. You shouldn’t be out alone tonight.”

“They might have been watching when you brought me inside,” Nile warns.

“Then I will need your protection, won’t I?” the woman says without blinking, as if she’s not the one that just saved Nile’s whole life.

Nile cracks an incredulous smile but the woman just gazes at her solemnly.

“Okay,” she says at last. “Okay, I’ll stay. Thank you. And I’m sorry for bleeding on your couch.”

It’s not enough, but the woman just sets about cleaning up her supplies. Nile settles back against the pillow and wills her muscles to unclench.

“May I ask,” the woman asks as she washes her hands, “why you do this? You don’t have superpowers.”

No, and none of the people who do have taken this city under their protection. Flippant, lazy answers parade through Nile’s mind, because she’s not in a charitable mood. Anger issues. No one else is gonna do it. I’m a giant masochist, actually.

But when she opens her mouth, the first thing that comes out is Andy’s answer, from when Nile asked her years ago. “Because there are people worth fighting for.”

Then Joe’s answer: “People who won’t get justice any other way.”

And, finally, one that’s all hers. “I have a responsibility. This is my city”

She’s going to pass out any minute, but beneath her fatigue there’s still a live coal of the feelings that made her put this mask on in the first place. This is her damn city. She spends so much time in the guts of its shitty justice system, and the rest of the time punching assholes, that she sometimes forgets her city is full of ordinary, decent people. Good people. People who will bring someone in from the rain. People like…

“What’s your name?” Nile asks, and then catches herself. “I can’t--give you mine. Sorry. It might be safer if I don’t know yours.”

“Celeste,” says the woman.

Good people like Celeste. How comforting that is.

Her pain is down to an ache instead of a burn, and her eyes drift closed. In the morning, she’ll be out of Celeste’s hair. She’ll shower at her apartment, carefully, and she’ll go into Legal Aid, and Joe will be there, a little banged up but alive. He’ll hug her, quick and tight, and they’ll loiter by the coffee maker and speak in low voices and sort out their next play. And when the work day is over, they’ll go with Andy and Quỳnh down to Booker’s for drinks and darts, and Nile will order a bouquet of flowers sent to Celeste’s apartment in thanks. Everything, for given quantities of everything, will be fine.

Confident in her safety, secure in her purpose, Nile rests.

#The Old Guard #Nile Freeman #nileweek2021

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pangtasias-atelier · 3 years

Text

Taking it Natural

Well I can never fully stick to an outline lmao. But, I did manage a lil fic involving just some simple stuff between Cormag and Artur.

Kink stuff is more on the lesser end, cause I wanted to focus a bit more on dialogue and also wanted to write something on the smaller scale of sizes. Also was just fun to write a shorter, simpler story and also one not set in Askr which I need to do more lol

"I am perfectly fine doing the dishes," Artur lightly hums to himself. He scrubs away at the bits and remnants of the day's finished meal. A few pots and pans already on the drying rack alongside the ladles, said dishes preemptively cleaned before dinner had even been eaten, he washes the clutter of used dinnerware. His back facing Cormag, his partner currently sits at the couch.

"I'll go check on Genarog then," His voice comes out strained. Completely leaning against the couch, Cormag's stomach continues its prolonged harassment towards its owner. His stomach is a cacophony of churning and gurgling noises, the overworked, stuffed gut letting it's discomfort be known. Despite his declaration of performing a chore, he simply remains seated with his head leaning back. His lips are parted as he languidly recovers enough energy to catch his breath.

"I already fed him and made sure he's comfortable in his stable," Arthur places a plate on the drying rack beside the just washed cutlery and glassware. His still soapy hands reach for the next plate to scrub at.

"Ah," Cormag's strenuous breathing remains the same. He keeps his eyes closed as a way to block out any possible external discomfort besides his tumultuous tummy. "Then I'll…" Cormag trails off with a groan. A few extra pants and wheezes come out as his gut seems to give him an extra angry complaint. "Then I'll-"

"You can wait on the couch. I am fine, Cormag," The last plate cleaned and set aside to dry, he dries his hands on a dish towel, the damp cloth adorned with miniature wyverns. Turning around, he smiles as he gets an eyeful of Cormag's sorry stuffed state.

Cormag retiring from being a soldier, he had instead taken up woodworking once he and Artur decided to live together. His new line of work requiring a different, less intensive set of skills, the sudden change of constant routines and fighting to meticulous, long periods of time sitting while carving was a sudden change for his metabolism and appetite. The lack of much activity affecting his physique was only compounded by Artur's task of taking care of the house's chores. Cormag had already been aware of Artur's proficiency in the culinary arts through their occasional picnics back when the two had first begun a relationship, yet the latter's constant practice through cooking everyday left his prowess in the kitchen to something to truly be proud of. Cormag having a generous fill of food every meal of the day, his indulgence of Artur's cooking hadn't moved quite past an extra helping or two every go around. Although, even those generous extra helpings helped plump and widen his waistline to a body type rather past stocky and into fat guy territory.

Clothes upsized just as his body upsized, his maroon t-shirt does a sufficient job in covering Cormag’s sun kissed skin. His compact yet soft pile of squishy fat for a stomach curves outwards as it ever so gently slots itself on top of his doughy thighs. Pressed up against his shirt, the malleable tummy barely covers any of Cormag’s lap, enough space for Artur to be comfortably seated atop him still. The two fleshy legs seem even wider as he sits, the bunched up fat splaying a slightly extra amount from resting on the couch. Cormag’s pants do their best in perfectly covering the two, the waistband even widened as well to not uncomfortably squish against Cormag’s hips. The center of his gut juts out more than his squeezable love handles, Cormag’s rotundness more pronounced. The stuffed mass seems to taunt Artur, his eyes finding themselves often drifting back towards the perfectly rubbably surface. Cormag’s sizable chest makes itself comfortable on top of his stomach, the handful of breasts splaying a bit to the side from the accumulation of fat. His pronounced chest only helps make Cormag seem extra wide, Artur always feeling rather twiggish next to his plump teddy bear of a husband. Though the lightly tanned moobs are offered enough room from Cormag’s spacious shirt to not be so confined and pressed up against the fabric. Cormag’s biceps are no more, the somewhat, albeit nicely, defined biceps coated in a plush, warm layer of fat. The plump appendaged perfect for a nice, crushing yet comforting hug, Cormag’s arms had always been a secret favorite of Artur’s. Cormag rests his arms on the cushiony back pillows, the bottom heft of his arms squishing ever so slightly against the surface. His face at the very center of his arm span, Artur can only see the fleshy double chin connected to Cormag’s lovably wonderful kissable face. Though he can very much hear his love’s taxed breathing even over the angered grumbling coming from his gut.

“Oh, Artur,” Cormag’s arms wobble for a few moments; the two doughy appendages struggle as he tries to push himself up despite his body’s protests. “Give me, hah, a minute,” His rotund body expands with each great, deep breath he takes.

“No worries,” Artur sits himself beside Cormag. His lap calling to him, he’d feel like a monster causing him anymore discomfort. “I’ll wait beside you,” Artur pats Cormag’s thigh.

“Heh,” Cormag lets out a small chuckle, the only response he can give before he has to take a few more breaths to help relieve the heavy pit of pain resting in his gut. “I really ate like a pig,”

The faint warm onset of a blush on Artur’s face blossoms on his face, the healer always getting a tinge of embarrassment whenever Cormag even offhandedly mentions his size or eating habits. “Perhaps. But, I should learn to stop cooking so much. I just think of something nice for us to share and so I kinda just make it,” Artur tosses a noncommittal shrug at the end, a few awkward laughs thrown in as well as if he hadn’t confessed his unique admiration in the way Cormag’s body plumped out. A few extra pounds looking rather dashing on his tall figure which would only look more handsome if those few extra pounds swelled into a dozen or perhaps even a hundred before Cormag was resting at a sizable 300 pounder of a man.

“Maybe. Guess we both should learn some restraint,”

“Perhaps,,,” Artur nearly reaches for Cormag’s aching gut to soothe the beast before thinking better of it. “I have a salve that should help,” Without waiting for any confirmation, Artur goes to the closet full of his supplies. Herbs able to help cure maladies unlike staves, he rummages through the several jars and boxes he has. Though only Artur would consider his neat, organized setup a mess requiring rummaging, Lute always interested in his tidy organizational skill. Having fetched the ointment, he stands in front of the seated Cormag. “This has to go directly on your skin,” He tosses the lower hem of Cormag’s shirt up. Applying a dollop of the ointment on his hands, he wastes no time in getting them all over Cormag’s stomach.

“You’ve never needed an excuse to do this stuff before,” The salve immediately begins to work its magic on Cormag. His labored breathing slowly begins to take on a more natural pace and the evident discomfort on his face washes away. “You sure do know your way around there,” Cormag even shifts around on the couch, his stomach no longer threatening to self-destruct from the slightest jostle.

Artur drops his head in mirthful laughter, Cormag’s surprising silly teasing always getting to him. “I have rubbed your stomach how many times, Cormag?” His hands drift on over to Cormag’s love handles. Standing above Cormag, he grabs on to the chunky handles as he leans down for a kiss.

“Not enough, knowing you,” Cormag whispers as they part.

“Then you truly do know me,” Artur retorts. Cormag’s stomach is no longer a ticking time bomb, so he figures it’d be fine to sit in his favorite spot. He gently lowers himself down onto Cormag’s lap. His soft squishy, tummy rests comfortably against his back.

“If you had this kind of stuff laying around, why use it only now?”

“Well- I,,,” Artur considers his next words for a moment. “I felt bad with how much I stuffed you tonight. I may have gone overboard so-”

Cormag promptly cuts him off with a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “You didn’t force me to do anything. You’re cooking is great. I tell all my clients about your cooking. They kept hounding me about your recipe for those cookies you always make to butter them up,”

“Ah,” Artur turns bright red as he recalls the high praises from all of Cormag’s clients, a few even inadvertently referring to Cormag’s weight upon said praises. “Well, I also didn’t use this because I didn’t want you to feel like I only cared about stuffing you and getting you fatter,”

“I’m gonna have to get up for this one,” Rising up, Cormag makes sure to help Artur up first. “Look at me,” He grabs Artur’s shoulders. Artur shorter by a few inches, he feels miniscule right now. “If I ever have any problems with my weight, you are going to be the first person I tell. We’ve known each other for years before I started gaining weight,” Cormag brings Artur to him, wrapping him in a bear hug. Artur’s arms are ensnared by Cormag’s own doughy arms. Though he knows his arms wouldn’t be able to wrap around him regardless. His feet rise off a few inches from the ground as Cormag holds on to him. Cormag begins to chuckle, his heart always aflutter with Artur in his arms. The ring of laughter catches onto Artur, the two laughing together. They remain like so for a few minutes, neither speaking.

Eventually, Cormag lets Arthur back down. A hefty sigh escapes his lips from the minimal amount of activity. “And if you ever have any problems with my weight, then let me know,” Cormag holds onto Artur’s hands, rubbing the palm of them with his thumb.

“Of course. But I don’t think I could ever have a problem having such a handsome husband.”

“Unfortunately for you, my husband is more handsome than yours,” Artur snorts from Cormag’s reply. His hands find their way to Cormag’s arm for a light slap.

“I guess you win then. But, thank you. Neither of us have done this, so I wanted to make sure we’re going at a natural pace for the both of us,”

“Taking it nice and slow is my preference. Enjoying the travel is just as important as the destination or however you say it,” An idea sparking in his brain, Cormag devilishly grins, his plump cheeks dimpling. “Let’s enjoy the scenic route some more,” Cormag leans slightly down. He gently whispers in Artur’s ears before resting his lips on his partner’s.

Artur grinning, he merely murmurs in hushed agreement as Cormag kisses him, the crackle of joy feeling just as natural as their first kiss, the two ready to indeed enjoy Cormag’s current size and take things naturally, wherever it might lead.

#Cormag is kinda hard to write but I hope this is somewhat close #I just imagine him eing actually kinda dorkish with someone he's comfortable lol #my writing #fat fiction #fat!Cormag #fat!Sacred Stones #maleweightgain #male weight gain

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remember-to-be-gentle · 3 years

Note

what about reader summoning a demon in desperation after losing their job but they summon the wrong one? (Enji? Madara? Dabi? Miruko? Up to u it could be any1)

I made a header for this fic because it kept getting buried in my drafts also this fic is for you demon tail fuckers.

Subject: BNHA, Demon!Dabi aka Touya Todoroki

Title: How Much Does a Pound of Flesh Cost? (NSFW, fem reader)

Trigger Warning: Murder, demon summoning, workplace harassment, non con, cannibalism, loss of virginity/bad women’s anatomy, tail penetration, blood, crying, reader is in pain multiple times

You couldn’t take it anymore. The harassment, the taunting, the rumors. HR didn’t help and God knew if your lazy as hell boss was going to so much as glance in the direction of your problems. So you’d had to turn to other means.

It was a last resort, you’d told yourself that over and over again, only to be used if there was no other option. You couldn’t leave the job, it paid too well and no where would hire someone who quit after just three months on the job. Wiping tears out of your eyes, you drew the last parts of the upside pentagram on your hardwood floors, the chalk coming off in puffy chunks.

The upside down pentagram was ugly, no lines straight or even, but it should work, after all, summoning a demon didn’t require artistic talent, just desire. You grabbed the demon summoning book you’d gotten off Amazon and flipped to the page you’d bookmarked with sticky tabs and dried tears. In broken Latin and probably the worst accent ever, you read the words you’d only spoken in your fantasies and closed your eyes.

There was power in them, you could tell, though you weren’t sure exactly how much power would come from them. And just as quickly as the power had built, it crashed. Terrified your eyes shot open, fear gripping your heart. Had you failed? Did you really fail in your final attempt to save yourself?

And then you saw it.

Him.

The demon in the circle.

He smirked at you from where he laid in the chalk, hair so dark red it was black, eyes blue as the hottest part of the flame, skin either charred in patches or pale and smooth, staples keeping it all together. Two bull-like horns grew from his head and a long devil’s tail whipped about behind him. “Hey, doll,” he said, “what can I do you for?”

You’d prepared yourself for this. Demons were tricky with their words and quick to act, it was best to find out what they wanted before you told them why they were summoned. “Tell me what I have to pay first.”

“Doll,” he groaned, his body rising like a rag doll. His head flopped forward, those burning blue eyes zeroing in on you, “I can’t bill you if you don’t tell me what you want.”

Shit, maybe you didn’t have the edge you thought you did. You swallowed and said, “I want... I want to make my coworkers suffer like they made me suffer. I want them to hurt—on the inside! I don’t want to see them bleed out or anything...”

The demon made a rumbling noise, your apartment shaking with him, picture frames rattling and furniture shaking. “You wish for them experience the same pain you did, pain that’s on the inside...” He drifted closer to you, an electric aura of malice surrounding him, “And you don’t want to see them bleed. Tricky, tricky.” His tail whipped again. “I think I would like my price to be...” He stopped right in front of you and smiled wide, showing off sharp canines built for tearing flesh, “My price will be your mucous.”

You blinked. “My mucous?”

He whipped his tail again, the tip of it suddenly right at your nose. “If you agree to the terms then eat of my flesh and your will shall become mine.”

“Wait,” your mind was steal reeling from his price and now he wanted you bite his tail off? The book hadn’t said anything about this.

“Every second you hesitate,” the demon growled, “is another second of your torment. Eat and be fulfilled.”

“Fine, okay.” He really wasn’t giving you time to think about this. You opened your mouth and he thrust in his tail, hard, the tip making it halfway down your throat, choking you for as heat crowded your face. For several swollen seconds you stayed there choking on his tail before instinct had you slamming your teeth down.

The tail snapped apart easily, the taste of pig skin a ghost on your tongue as the tail dropped down your esophagus and into your stomach. The weight of your deal hung heavily in your belly.

Heat erupted from your stomach, the taste of smoke overpowering your senses, burning your nose until you collapsed on the floor gasping for breath. Tears spilled over down your cheeks, carrying with it the sensation of burning, as if you’d been consumed in hellfire. The weight of the demon’s tail vanished.

When you finally caught your breath, you saw the demon was gone, leaving no trace behind except for the chalk circle that had been reshaped to read D̦̠̝̻̱̦̮̲̫̅̃́͂̈́͢͝͞Ȧ̸̧̫̠̦̬̞͛̽͐͆͜͝B̵̝̼̗̠̺̳̓̈͌͊̔͊́̀͞I̵͎͔͔͍̫͛̊̏͘͜͠.

*******************************************************************************************

With no idea when the demon would come back for his payment, you were left with no choice but to go to work. Your stomach twisted in terrorized knots. You didn’t want to confront them, look them in the eye and know that their hatred wouldn’t vanish without demonic intervention, but you’d used all your sick days and your rent wouldn’t pay itself.

The building was empty, which wasn’t unusual this early in the morning, though it concerned you the security guards weren’t in their places. You got into the elevator and took a deep breath. Alright,

You slowly entered the office and noticed first the silence. No fingers clacking keyboards. No rising bubbles from the water cooler. No idle chatter. No one seated in their cubicle. Nothing. Not even security making their rounds.

As you walked through the maze of cubicles, a terrible stench invaded your nostrils, making your stomach twist. It was coming from the board room. You slowly made your way over, bile lapping at the back of your throat with each step closer, nausea swelling in your skull until you were dizzy. The carpet had claw marks coming from all over the office, as if something had been dragged away. Some cubicle walls were smashed or broken. You kept walking toward the smell.

And then you saw it.

Inside the glass meeting room, surrounding the large wooden table, were all your coworkers. Not a single one of them so much as twitched, their skin was purple and blotchy, nearly black in some spots. Internal bleeding, you recognized immediately, they’d either been beaten so bad their organs ruptured or something inside them had been torn them apart. Either way you needed to get out of—

“Hey doll,” Dabi the demon slithered out from the shadows, his voice making the room rumble like he had in your house, “like what I’ve done with the place?”

You stared at him in horror. “You... you did this?”

“I did,” he floated toward the table, newly regrown tail whipping behind him, “and it was fun, too. Its been a while since I’ve been asked to kill without leaving a trace. You’re a surprisingly naughty girl.”

“No! I didn’t want you to kill them! I wanted them to hurt like I did—”

“Doll.” His voice terrorized you and forced you still, a demonic force so dark and ugly that your nearly vomitted. “You asked me to hurt them like they hurt you. You understand I can’t make them feel anything that isn’t...” He ran a blue fingernail over one of your coworkers darkened faces, “physical.” He wrapped his tail around their throat, shaking their head back and forth. “So I did what you asked, I made them hurt without letting them bleed out. All the bleeding is internal, where it’s supposed to be, and just like you requested.”

“No, no, you should have said something if that was the case! I didn’t want anyone to die!”

“But then you wouldn’t have taken my deal,” he pouted, releasing your coworker to approach you, still floating, “and then I wouldn’t have gotten paid. Besides, didn’t they hurt you so badly you wanted to die? You summoned a demon to hurt them after all, and even agreed to pay my price.”

His payment that’s right it was... mucous. “Why do you want mucous, anyway?”

He ran a hand down your nose and then hooked his finger into your nostril, forcing you to look up at him. Sharp pain erupted in your skin but the deadly look in his eye made you keep quiet. “Did you think this is what I wanted? Oh no, you poor silly, little thing. I don’t know a soul would have use for your disgusting boogers.” His tail whipped forward and slid into your pants, ungraciously rubbing against your slit, “This is the mucous I want. Your hymen.”

You tried to step away but Dabi hooked his fingers deeper, pulling up and making you scream from the pain. "You tricked me! I didn't agree to this!"

Dabi chuckled darkly. "Next time ask clarifying questions, babe." He sharply removed his fingers, letting you fall on the floor. He didn't let you catch your breath, grabbing you by the back of your shirt and throwing you on the table.

Your head hit the solid wood first, hard, marking your teeth rattle and skull bounce, the rest of your body forcing you to slide to the end of the table. A groan escaped your throat and when you tried to sit up, your face was just inches from your dead boss's. You shrieked and tried to scramble away, but Dabi pinned you down, one hand on your back, the other yanking your pants off. “Stop!” You screamed, “This isn’t what I wanted!”

You felt his tail circle your entrance, the tapered point pressing into your clit until you squirmed. It pulled your panties aside and felt the slick that had gathered, far too much for just rubbing your slit. It must have been some kind of demon magic that got him what he wanted faster. “This isn’t about what you want anymore,” he sneered in your ear, “your request is fulfilled, now pay up.” His tail slid inside you, suddenly much larger than you remembered seeing or swallowing, stretching out your insides as the tapered point met your cervix.

But it kept growing.

The tail’s girth continued to swell inside you, breaking your tight rings of untouched muscle as your core clenched around it. No matter how much you wanted to hate it, it felt good all the way inside you, reaching parts of you that had remained clean until now, and then the pain kicked in again.

The discomfort before had been an uncomfortable adjustment, slightly itchy if anything, but now it was searing, your insides feeling like they’d been torn apart and gutted. You shrieked, nails digging into the wood of the table. You swung your hips back and forth as if that would make him remove his tail but it only made the tip press harder against your cervix.

Dabi shoved your hips back down against the table. “Relax, I’m almost done.”

Each swell of his tail was excruciating, tears welling up in your eyes from the pain.

It seemed to reach a maximum painful girth, stuck inside you as your insides twisted. And faster than it had grown, his tail shrunk back down to normal and slid out of you. You could feel blood following after, dripping out of your entrance and onto the board meeting table.

Dabi started to lift himself up and you thought he was done, contract complete, but you heard him unzip his pants and before you could process exactly what was coming next, something new pressed inside you. It didn’t hurt as much as the tail, but it was much hotter, pushing all the way inside you until something warm and squishy pressed against your clit. Your sore insides itched and clung at the object, making you whimper. “This,” Dabi groaned, “is your tip.”

He pulled back and slammed back in, your torn core making you see stars from the sharp pain. His dick. He’d put this demon fucking dick inside you. You screamed and tried to thrash, but Dabi was so much bigger than you. So much stronger. All you really ended up doing was humping his cock and crying.

He simply ignored you and pumped roughly into you, his heavy balls slamming against your clit with each downstroke. You kept crying and thrashing and Dabi must have gotten annoyed with you because he growled, “You’re making this harder than it needs to be. Just stay still and let me take what I want.”

You choked out a sob, failing at swallowing the tears that slid down your cheeks and onto the table. With your boss’s dead eyes staring into you, you did your best to ignore the rough thrusting of the demon you’d sold your virginity to. You’d paid for revenge and lost far more than you’d bargained for.

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lyssismagical · 3 years

Text

dependent and fair

my first ever commission !! Thank you so much @wombatking I hope you enjoy!

tw for broken bones

taglist: @littlemissagrafina @spideyspeaches @romeoandjulietyouwish @c-artara @shadedrose01 @likeaphoenix13 @misskirkstark @you-get-killed-walk-it-off @kitkatwinchester @emo-girl10 @hold-our-destiny @imalivebecauseirondad @spiderman-peterman @dykeragee @maryserrao @heeeyitskay @parknerandirondad @lilacsandlilies4 @loveliestdisappointment @joyful-soul-collector @justme--emily @genderfluid-and-confuzled @fallenstar07 @gyurolls @sdottkrames @you-did-it-sir @not-today-thx {Let me know if you wanna be added or removed}

If there’s anything MJ hates, it’s having to be dependent.

Living with only her father and her three younger siblings, she’s always been a caretaker, not someone to be taken care of. It makes her uncomfortable whenever she’s in a position where she needs help from others.

Her father works ninety percent of the time to singlehandedly afford four children, leaving her to do most of the parental things like cooking and cleaning and helping her siblings with homework.

When she gets together with Peter, they’re definitely a work in progress.

Neither of them know how to accept help, be taken care of, and they both like to take care of others. There’s a lot to learn, but they’re willing to learn together.

As a show that she’s learning to let him take care of her, she lets him take her out to dinner, his treat.

It’s not like either of them really have money to spend on things like dates in New York – neither of them have jobs. Peter’s a full-time superhero and MJ watches her siblings every evening, but May gives Peter twenty bucks, Delmar gives him another ten for cat-sitting, and a grateful civilian gave him fifteen.

Sure, they can only get the cheapest things on the menu at the decently nice Italian restaurant Peter chooses, the salad and the pasta without any add-ons, only water, and a shared dessert.

But they have a wonderful time, and that’s really all that matters.

They have to walk home from the restaurant, no leftover cash to spend on a taxi, but the night is warm with a gentle cool breeze, and Peter wraps his jacket around her shoulders and holds her hand, swinging between them as they walk leisurely through the streets of Queens.

MJ turns down the alley she normally takes on the way home from school, a decent shortcut to cut the trip in half. Peter stops her just as she gets her shoe into the first rung of the tall, black wire fence separating the alley from the street.

“Are you sure this is safe?” he asks. His hand has gone clammy in hers, nose twitching in the telltale way it does whenever his anxiety spikes. She can’t help the small, gentle smile that tugs at her mouth, a smile she normally reserves for only her little sister.

She tries to keep up an impassive, cold expression as much as possible. The idea of showing any vulnerability makes her shudder. But Peter’s always been so open, so genuine with everything he does, it makes MJ more open to trying.

“I take this shortcut twice a day,” she says, it really isn’t a big deal to jump a fence. Especially not when she has a literal superhero at her side. “It’s not a big deal, c’mon, we’re going to miss my curfew if we don’t take a shortcut.”

Peter makes a face, shaking the fence like he’s testing its sturdiness. And then he jumps, casually, easily, right over the fence.

“Show off,” MJ says, starting the slow, human, climb over the fence.

The one thing she didn’t take into consideration, however, is the pair of slightly heeled flats she’s wearing. It’s a little more complicated than her regular pair of old sneakers.

She slips and Peter can’t move fast enough to catch her before she hits the ground, ankle rolling and making an awful crunching sound, cursing under her breath.

Peter, however, does catch her before her legs give out, slowly helping her to the pavement.

“Are you okay? That didn’t sound good. Do you think it’s broken? I should call your dad, or my aunt, or maybe Tony. I should get you to a hospital, right? Are you feeling okay? I-”

“Woah, hold on a second,” she says, cutting off Peter’s rambles before he can devolve into panic when she needs him to level-headed. “Help me up. It’s probably just a rolled ankle.”

He keeps a strong grip on her elbow and waist as he pulls her up off the pavement, but the moment she puts any weight on her bad foot, she’s crumping into his chest, gasping in pain.

“Shit,” she goes like it’s any help at all.

“Let me call your dad,” Peter pleads, lowering her carefully back to the ground. “And then I’ll swing you to the hospital. Even if it’s nothing, I’d feel a lot better if you got it checked regardless.”

She lets out a huff, reluctantly nodding in agreement.

Peter steps a few feet away to call her dad, explaining the situation quickly but efficiently. He promises three times that he’ll get her to the hospital safely, and that he’ll call the moment they have news.

When he turns back to her, he’s already pulling his Spider-Man mask on.

“Up you go,” he says, lifting her into his arms bridal style. “To the hospital we go. Maybe, if we’re lucky, May will be the one to see us.”

“Go slow, okay?” She’s not nervous. She would never admit to anyone that she’s nervous of swinging with Peter. But last time she went, she puked the moment they hit the ground.

“Your wish is my command, princess.”

“Queen,” she corrects half-heartedly, shifting in his grip to make her ankle twinge a little less.

Peter grins, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Of course, my queen.”

She barely remembers the trip to the hospital or the wait to be seen by a nurse, she keeps her head tucked against Peter’s neck, blocks out the pain as best she can.

Before she knows it, she’s seated on the edge of a bed in a hospital room, Peter at her side, hand still in hers, a nurse coming in.

“Didn’t expect to see your name tonight, kiddo,” May says, offering a sweet smile. “Let’s get that ankle checked out.”

X-rays are taken of her ankle, May gets her a cup of water and a few snacks from the vending machine, and she’s told to rest until the imaging is done. When it is, she’s shown the photographs of a clear break in her ankle. Peter looks like he might cry when he finds out she broke a bone on their date, but he doesn’t say anything self-deprecating or guilt-ridden, just squeezes her hand a little tighter and presses his mouth to her shoulder.

May’s the one who wraps her ankle in a cast, gives her plenty of instructions, and then gives her a pair of crutches.

Peter’s hand gets clammier and tighter the longer it takes, and by the end, she’s a little worried she might’ve broken a hand bone too with how much worry is seeping into the grip he has on her. She stays entirely calm, almost careless the whole time, because she knows if she shows pain, Peter will probably fall apart. He’s seen enough hurt, enough breaks, enough injuries in his lifetime, she doesn’t have to add hers to the list of things he blames himself for.

And either way, she doesn’t need his sympathy or his worry. She’ll be fine. She doesn’t need him to look after her.

MJ’s dad is there by the time they’re done, and she doesn’t have to prove anything to anyone. She kisses her boyfriend goodbye and that’s it.

On Monday, she walks – or well, crutching – into school like nothing is different.

Peter’s waiting for her at her locker, empathetic frown on his face. He lifts his wrist, also bound in bandages.

“We match,” he says, lifting an eyebrow. “Patrolling mishap last night.”

“At least you heal in like two days. I’ve got to keep this on for like six weeks.” She struggles to balance her crutches and open her locker at the same time. Peter watches her carefully but doesn’t move to help her for now. She’s already irritable and he knows what buttons not to press.

She balances her books in her arms and then huffs in irritation when she realizes she won’t be able to carry them all and crutch to class without risking falling.

“Will you at least let me take those?” Peter says, already reaching to stack her books on top of his. “I feel awful. I shouldn’t have let you climb that fence.”

“I don’t need help,” she mutters. She doesn’t want to need Peter’s help. “And don’t coddle me. I made that decision.”

“Then let me carry your books because I’m your boyfriend and I like doing nice things for you.”

She rolls her eyes. “Just this once.”

For the rest of the day, Peter persists on doing nice things for MJ, completely unrelated to her injury, he says, like carrying her books and opening her locker and pulling out chairs for her. She doesn’t say anything, if only because she doesn’t want to make a fool of herself when she struggles to do it on her own.

By the end of the day, she’s beyond grateful for the help Peter’s given her without any expectations of anything in return.

It’s simple how nice it is to be taken care of.

She’s spent her whole life being the caretaker, and now, she’s been gifted somebody who will stop at nothing to take care of her.

She’s not exactly sure how she got so lucky, she doesn’t feel like she’s done a whole lot of good to deserve such wonderful karma, but she’s going to do everything in her power not to lose it that’s for sure.

They’re lying in Peter’s bed, door open with May’s voice drifting into the room where she’s humming in the kitchen, when she finally voices her thoughts.

“Thank you.” It’s not as elegant as she thought it would be, but it conveys her gratitude just as well, she can’t remember the last time she said those words.

Peter’s arm tightens around her waist, pulling her in without jostling her leg. “You don’t have to thank me for doing the bare minimum.”

“You put up with my stubborn ass, I think that’s more than doing the bare minimum.”

“I just wanted to help, that’s all. I’m sure you would’ve done the same if it were me.”

She pokes his injured wrist. “Except I didn’t.”

“I’m a superhero, Em. I don’t think it works exactly the same.”

And it doesn’t, he’s right.

He’ll help her take her books to class, find a safer shortcut, take her on a redo date, carry her up the stairs so she doesn’t have to try with crutches, help her in anyway she can throughout this.

And she’ll hold him when he wakes up with a cry of misery, nightmares of how he got his own injury plaguing his sleep. She’ll kiss his forehead and promise him that he’s okay, that she’s okay too, that he’s safe and sound with her. She’ll pull him close when the tears cease and hum to him, the same songs May does, until he falls asleep. And she’ll be there every time after the first too.

Relationships might not be equal. She can’t tend for his wounds because he heals at lightning speed, he doesn’t have to soothe any nightmares, she doesn’t need to help him with his family, and he doesn’t need to her worry about her every evening. But it’s fair. She’ll be there for him in any way she can, and he’ll be there for her in anyway he can.

“Thank you,” she repeats nonetheless.

“I love you,” he says.

She smiles, leans into his warmth the same way she’s been leaning into accepting his help. “I love you too.”

#lyss writes #peter parker #spiderman #michelle jones #petermj #peter parker/mj #mjpeter #spideychelle #spideychelle fic #may parker #ned leeds

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echo-of-sounds · 4 years

Text

adhd pt.2

How Fatgum, Gang Orca, and Midnight would help and support their s/o who has ADHD. Midnight’s are a little shorter than the others. I had a hard time thinking of more headcanons for her.

Warnings: nothing incredibly explicit, but a couple of these talk about sex

Toyomitsu Taishiro

Tai is a friendly guy. He talks to everyone when you're out and about. Sometimes it's fine. Sometimes it's a lot to handle. He wants you to immediately tell him when you’re starting to feel overstimulated or anxious. Before it gets too bad, he’ll carry you to a safe space. And it doesn’t matter where you are, his sweatshirts are yours. Weight can be very grounding and with his size, they’re very heavy. He’ll hold you close and talk you through the emotions.

Any time you lash out, he might try to ease the tension by making a joke. If you’ve ever been angry, you know jokes just make it worse. He’ll give you time to gather yourself when he realizes you’re actually angry. He won’t snap back. Fighting isn’t what he wants to do. Take some time to cool down. You’ll find him waiting for you with a smile. It’s hard to get him angry and it doesn't hurt his feelings when you lash out, but you should still apologize. He would appreciate it.

Feelings overwhelmed can erupt suddenly. When you sit down at your desk and there are five notebooks, scattered pens and pencils, loose papers, and just useless junk everywhere, you feel completely engulfed under them. It’s almost like you can’t breathe. You don’t know where to start or what to do. Tai will set some time aside to help you sort through your stuff. He may not know exactly where everything goes, but he really wants to help. He hates the look on your face when you’re overwhelmed and he’ll do anything to make it go away.

Lack of restraint and risk-taking behaviors are the most concerning to him. Sure, impulsively buying a dumb stuffed animal is one thing. But buying a new gaming system and four video games is another. The costs add up quickly. Or maybe you take another shot at the bar because screw it, you only live once. Then you do that over and over. ‘Just another shot’ turns into ten more. Your safety is always his number one priority and he worries himself sick thinking you’re going to damage your finances, career, or worse, yourself.

If you didn’t catch what he said, he has no problem repeating himself. Though he worries you aren’t paying attention while you’re in public or when something important is happening. He doesn’t want you mindlessly agreeing to something that you don’t actually want to do or potentially getting hurt. Like how you fling your arms out when you’re talking and hit someone or a wall. To ease his anxiety about you, he’ll hold your hand a lot and offer to give you piggyback rides.

He has a little trouble focusing on smaller tasks as well. He would much rather be doing fun activities out in the world. So he understands your trouble. He also understands how you forget to vacuum even though you promised you would. He isn’t annoyed. He’ll remind you when you’re home to do it.

Since Tai is such a big guy he taught himself to be gentle early on in his life, particularly when it comes to sex, therefore he isn’t worried if you have sexual hypersensitivities. He's also great at communication and loves talking. He’ll ask what positions you can’t do and where you don’t like to be touched to ensure your comfort is at its max. During sex, if your attention starts drifting, he’ll let you take over to help keep you focused.

Gang Orca

Kugo’s a clean, organized man. To him, it’s helpful knowing that everything has its place. If you leave bowls and books around or are an overall cluttered person, he’ll pick up after you. Eventually, when your clutter gets to be too much, he’ll create a routine and a to-do list. Before bed, look at the list and look around the room if there are any pillows to put back on the couch or papers to straighten out.

Having physical sensitives is something Kugo can understand. While it’s not to the point he’s overstimulated like people with ADHD have, his skin is still quite sensitive- more than your ‘average’ human skin because of his mutant-type quirk. Whatever you need for self-soothing, he can bring to you when you’re starting to feel overstimulated. Your favorite heavy quilt will be wrapped around your shoulders and he’ll light some vanilla candles.

He’s utterly unbothered by tapping, fidgeting, or restlessness. However, he’s deeply concerned when he notices blood on your lip or fingers. It’s mindless. You don’t hurt yourself on purpose. No matter how many times you explain, it won’t quell his worries. He just really hates seeing you bleed. Out in public, he’ll hold your hand to stop your picking. At home, he keeps a close eye on you and points out your unhealthy habit so you can find a fidget toy or a pen to click. He hopes if he does it enough times it’ll become a subconscious reaction for you to grab a toy to play with instead of your body.

High mood swings and anger are easy for him to take. Your quick snaps go in one ear and out the other- mainly because he knows it's not about him. While he understands the frustration comes at the flip of a switch, he strongly urges you to find ways to deal with your emotions in a healthy way. He’s willing to listen if you want to talk it out. He’s willing to go to the gym if you need to exercise it out. And (if you’re at that point in the relationship), he’s willing to have sex if you need to fuck it out.

Kugo loves listening to your interests. He supports any and all of your studies. Are you currently into a new TV series? He’ll buy you posters and action figures for surprises on your bad days. Or is the Viking culture suddenly fascinating and you need to learn everything about it? He scoops up some obscure book from that bookstore he passes every day. Even though his presents might not be exactly what you’re looking for, his excitement and passion to support you is really cute.

Focusing on smaller tasks is incredibly difficult. You strain yourself then get frustrated then give up. Seriously, that one piece of paperwork should take ten minutes tops to complete. But it ends up taking over two hours because you just can’t sit and do it. Whenever he notices you fussing at the table, he’ll sit down with you so you can go through the paperwork together. Having someone next to you is helpful. They keep you on track and guide the way through the long passages of words and seemingly confusing questions.

He's uneasy when it comes to any sexual sensitivities. It takes him a while to be ready for sex in general, but if you’re hypersensitive, it’ll take him a hell of a lot longer. He’s so scared of hurting you, especially since his fingers are more like claws and his teeth are sharp. He tries his damnedest to be gentle because he’s always scared that he’ll overstimulate you to the point you’re crying. Your sexual relationship will start with oral and fingering, plateauing at that for a while until he convinces himself he won’t hurt you.

Kayama Nemuri

Thoughts that bubble up and instantly spout from your mouth are common. Half the time you don’t even realize you spoke. Nemuri will be a little miffed if you keep interrupting her. She doesn’t want to forget her train of thought. She knows you have difficulty controlling it but she would appreciate it if you let her finish her sentence so she can fully listen to and understand yours.

Fidgeting and squirming don’t annoy her. She’s a Hero and a teacher. She’s become desensitized to all sorts of restlessness. Though she is in the same boat as Aizawa in that, if you’re a clicker or tapper, she’ll ask if you could find something else to fidget with. But she won’t snap at you as he may. She has a serious soft spot for her partner and rarely raises her voice.

However, those times when your anger gets sparked because your lotion bottle broke or you thought you had more of your favorite chips and you lash out when she asks what’s wrong, she’ll get defensive from time to time and might snap back. It depends on how long her day was and how tired/stressed she is. Most of the time she can reel herself back, realizing you’re not angry at her. But if she had a hard day, her retort comes quickly and sharply. It’s enough to make you pause, recognizing how you reacted to her simple question. When you apologize, she will too, wanting to make up as soon as possible.

Her quirk is quite convenient for overstimulation. If you give your consent, she can emit a tiny amount of her aroma to relax you. If you need serious instant relief, she can put you to sleep. But she won’t rely on her quirk every single time. She doesn’t like completely knocking you out. Any self-soothing techniques you use, she’ll read about and work out ways she can provide you with what you need.

Nemuri will have to change her outlook on sex a little bit. She’s very dominant, loves being the active partner, and dips (more than a little) into sadism. But she’s experienced. She’s aware her kinks aren’t always liked. Before you’re ever intimate, she’ll sit down with you to set clear and defined boundaries about what you can take. If pain is something you can’t handle or just don’t want, she’s fine without it. Her love for you is more important than her kinks.

#fatgum #fatgum x reader #taishiro toyomitsu #taishiro toyomitsu x reader #gang orca #gang orca x reader #kugo sakamata #kugo x reader #midnight #midnight x reader #nemuri kayama #nemuri kayama x reader #fatgum headcanons #gang orca headcanons #midnight headcanons #bnha #bnha x reader #bnha headcanons

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fenristheorem · 3 years

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Hello!

I was wondering if you could write headcanons for Lance during episode 26? Maybe the most significant moments in the chapter but from his perspective and how he felt

Hello there! This is such an interesting ask! I've always considered what Lance may have been thinking through episode 26, but I honestly never actually thought too deep on it. I hope at some point Beemoov gives us a long conversation between Guardienne and Lance in ANE that talks about his perspective in that episode...

Also, sorry this took so long to write. Tumblr ate this ask a few times and spit it back out (I guess it didn’t taste right lol) so I’ve been inconsistent on when I could work on it. Then I somehow ended up re-writing one specific part of this three times over so I had to figure out how to combine all of that information and edit it properly. And then Tumblr freaked out on me and deleted some recent edits - twice - but fortunately I remembered what I did so it didn’t take too long to re-write it. This may also be the longest headcanon I’ve written so far lol. The ask had one hell of a journey in it’s making but I think I love it even more because of that. 😂

~Below the cut~

Lance's POV in episode 26:

Oh how enthralling it was to have Guardienne on his ship! Not only was she his ticket to escape, and a prized asset - therefore collateral - for the guard, but she knew how to access the dragons. He would find his people by using her knowledge.

He knew she had spirit, but he considered sometimes that perhaps he should have thought a little harder on ways to get her to shut up and obey him. He certainly loved the thrill of banter and having her break her persona of peace for him, but by the Oracle was she irritating sometimes. Of course, he already knew she was also pretty amusing as well, with her wild thought processes and ideas. She could have been a bit friendlier with his kraken though...

He wasn't sure if he was surprised by how blunt Guardienne was at times. He had chosen the site in the forest because of its tactical advantage, but when she revealed her bad experience with that area, he could do nothing but apologize. She wasn’t trying to provoke him or stand in the way of his plans at the moment - it was a bad memory for her - so Lance understood her distress at staying there and didn’t wish to put her in further distress. There was no way that they were moving camp though.

Lance had her show him the island, and he was nearly surprised when she didn't try to escape. His attention was held by the ruins for most of the time; she could have tried to slip away thinking he was distracted. He was also quite surprised when she didn’t try to throw him off the cliff - it was the perfect opportunity, but she didn’t even seem like jumping at the chance.

Later on, when Guardienne talked with his mercenaries late at night, he tried to get a read on her. She seemed so unhappy stuck on the island with him, and yet she was so persistent on talking to his followers. She seemed to hate Lance, and yet she was so determined to understand why others decided to follow him. This sent his head spinning. Was she interested in joining him? Certainly not. Was she just curious? Most likely, but the typical person in her situation makes a point to not talk to those who hold them hostage...

He wakes her early in the morning, eager to find the gateway to his people, but his excitement drops when he realizes that Guardienne is in no mood to help him. She had been promising her resistance for many days, why did he expect any different?

This pissed him off of course; he was so close to finding his people and now he had to find a way to get her to comply. Threatening her didn't work too well, but she decided to lead him somewhere anyways. They go towards the library ruins and she leads him through a dark corridor that opens up into a room of alchemical concoctions, cages, and blood spattered walls before stopping. Lance knows immediately that she’s mislead him.

He turns on her, raw fury bleeding into him and coursing within his bones until he’s sure he’ll kill her. However, out of kindness and mercy, he gives her a second chance to show him to the dragons.

Lance didn’t know what he was expecting really, of course she would deny him again. So he takes her to the cliff to threaten her - and then those closest to her once he realizes she won’t crack. He really didn’t want to do this, he wanted things to go smoothly with little damage done, but more than that; he wanted to talk with his people.

She finally gives in and takes him towards the Door of the Dragons, but he nearly throws himself at her when they step into the library ruins again. However, she leads him a different way this time, and he can feel it in his bones that they’re heading the right way as they get closer.

Finally he witnesses the first monument of his people: the doors to their realm.

There’s a weight that settles on his chest and shoulders - after all these years wondering, searching, fighting to reach his people, he’s finally made it. Suddenly he’s aware of the blood surging through his veins, his breathing sharpens and the door is all he can look at.

He knows he's trembling as he reaches to brush his fingertips across the etchings in the stone doors, and he knows that she sees that as well, but he doesn't pay mind to it. In that moment, all that mattered is that he's finally among his people - the ghosts of them at least.

He snaps himself out of the awe the grand doors put him in, turning to Guardienne and requesting her to show him how the doors open. She does as told - finally - but the doors don't open...

Oh like hell he was going to deal with her shit now that's he's this close to knowing his people. She wasn't an issue before, but now she's standing directly between him and his people.

He turns on her again, his blood burning hot and arctic cold at the same time, but she's already explaining that they repeated the ritual the same way as last time. But perhaps... the moon could be an issue?

He's impatient again - there's no way they can stay on that island until the next full moon. Fortunately he brought a few toys to help...

Some time later, after many different attempts to open the door forcefully - all failed and leaving not even a scratch on the ancient stone - Guardienne comes bolting into the room screeching like a psychopath. As if it weren't bad enough that the doors aren't opening, now he has her to deal with again...

He's irritated but holds himself well - there's still the battering ram that may work.

Of course, Guardienne cuts in again, spitting wrath at him about his people and how much of an idiot he is. He humors her a bit, playing the hurt card (even though some bit of it holds true in some ways), and finding his own amusement when she thinks she actually hurt his feelings. Goodness she can be so adorable to fuck with.

The Draflayels come when night falls, drifting in the air with musical trills. Guardienne has found herself entranced at the beauty, but Lance seeths. How dare these creatures mimic his people? How dare they act as a replacement for the dragons?

She stops him as he goes to cut them down, saying that they'll show them something important. If he weren't so desperate to speak with his people...

He lets her lead him to the cliff, following the vile creatures as Lance glares at them, and they gather in sparkling clusters around them, singing their songs the whole time. Lance tenses his whole body and trembles - what he wouldn't do to get rid of these creatures - but then Guardienne steps into the cloud of Draflayels and begins... dancing?

He relaxes faintly, suddenly taken by surprise and slipping into hesitant curiosity as she twirls with the companions. She was so... happy, and carefree. How could she be this joyful with these useless creatures? Didn't she understand that they exist only from the sacrificial genocide of a grand race?

But she still dances with them, entranced by their harmony and twirls, and he's entranced by her as he watches her, careless and free, reminding him of the days where he was like that.

Wasn't it tiring? To be so cold and hateful for so long?

Didn't he miss the days where he ran free and proud, fighting valiantly alongside his brother?

Pain sparks in his chest as he watches her, his face betraying no emotions but the clawing agony welled in his chest and left him breathless all the same. He did miss it...

The Draflayels disperse and Guardienne backs away - straight into him. She's startled for a moment as she looks into his eyes, but he makes it clear that he's no threat.

As he stares at her, a different emotion stirs within him - a wistful wishing, whispered admiration, ghosts of jealousy and bittersweet knowing. She was so beautiful and happy, and he wanted to have that again as well, but he never could - not with everything he knows now.

Brilliant blue essence swam through the air, and Lance quickly turned his attention to it. A ghost appeared - one of his people - and spoke in a grand, cavernous voice to him. Guardienne - and all he once wished for - forgotten, he stepped forward to pursue his chosen path.

He had to argue to be allowed in sooner, but Lance regretted nothing when he was finally standing in front of the Door to the Dragons again, this time being welcomed in as family. However, he hesitated as he stared into the grand doorway; what information would he find hidden within this realm?

He allowed himself to spare a moment to think about his family... he would avenge them, with every bit of brittle, exhausted energy he had, he would avenge them. His heart twisted as he fell among them. These dragons were family...

Fafnir shows him around, and he keeps an eye on Guardienne the whole time - she could attempt to run away. But he wants her to like the dragons and their realm as well, so he keeps an eye on her for her well-being also. She did help him after all...

He argues with Fafnir much of the time, not understanding why the dragon is so steady and accepting about the destruction of their race. Fafnir is calm the whole time, a stable boulder underneath the rush of icy water that was Lance's opinions and emotions. He seemed so sure that Lance would change his mind about his quest for revenge, and even as Lance argues that, Fafnir still continues to show them around.

Fafnir mentions his mother not too long after, noting the similarities between them, and Lance is taken off guard. What would his mother think of him? What did Fafnir want him to know about his mother? Was it true that they were so similar? Would he be able to meet her ghost?

They continue their tour, and Lance knows immediately when Guardienne becomes uncomfortable as they step into the lava realm. Every change in her body language tells that she feels like she's drowning in heat, so he provides a layer of cooled air for her. Whether or not she wanted to, she provided him with invaluable help and remains invaluable as long as the guard is after him, so he might as well try to make her comfortable with him...

As she recovers and looks around, pride blooms in Lance’s chest. This may be the lava realm, but she had a right to stare in admiration at one of the realms of his people. The glitter in her eyes and awe on her face were enough to tell him that she thinks the world of the strange realm, and curiosity suddenly sparks in Lance. She hasn’t seen firsthand the power of the dragons; him and his brother are the only ones she’s been around enough to witness anything, and his brother doesn’t know how to evoke his abilities... What would she think about Lance’s abilities? Would she stare at him with the same look of awe and curiosity?

Lance dismisses his thoughts and probes Fafnir for information on his parents again - first discovering his father's element - but the ancient ghost hesitates when he begins to speak of Tia. Silence fills the air for only a moment before Lance yells at Fafnir to answer his rest of his question.

An ice dragon...

Fafnir compares him to his mother again, and once again Lance is taken off guard. Was he really that similar to his mother?

Lance begins to dig further into the reasoning for their sacrifice, and this only leads down a long path of arguing between him and Fafnir until the ghost finally snaps. They're brought to another location within their realm and Fafnir begins to question Lance's decision of partnering with the demon. Lance is nearly surprised when Fafnir doesn't ask who it is, but the solid weight of... shame? lands on his chest and shoulders as Fafnir seems to scold him for creating a pact with the demon.

So Fafnir knew about that then...

This shame was short-lived, though, before Lance quickly jumped to defend himself and explain the wrongs done to their kind and the foolish decision they made.

Fafnir eventually snapped and Lance quieted, feeling overwhelming irritation at the ancient dragon’s persistence. There was a rift forming that Lance could feel - an expanse hollowing out between him and Fafnir as he withdrew from Fafnir’s knowledge.

Lance watched as Fafnir created a sphere, faint images flickering within, and he was told to walk into the sphere if he wanted to understand the dragons’ decision. He hesitated, suddenly unsure if he wanted to understand in the first place. What if all of this was for nothing? Why would his people - upheld with such esteem within himself and around Eldarya - purposefully make such a foolish decision if it wasn’t forced?

Guardienne snaps him out of his thoughts and overwhelming anxiety, encouraging him to step into the sphere to find the answers to his questions. He hesitates further, but follows her as she steps into the sphere. Lance knew she was right; he came here to find answers, and Fafnir was giving him answers.

Lance isn’t very interested in where the sphere takes them to - it’s the dark-skinned woman who appears that catches his interest. She was talking to a man, pale skin and hair, and Lance quickly caught on to what he was seeing.

His mother and father...

Shocks freezes him and quivers through his body as his throat constricts. He calls out to them. Was he finally meeting his parents? Would they recognize him? Would he be welcomed home by them?

Fafnir quickly explains that they’re only a memory - that they can��t hear him - and Lance’s emotions collapse in on himself. He wouldn’t be welcomed, they probably wouldn’t know who he is, he was left without a family because of the sacrifice and it will remain like that. Pain and rejection hits him in a crushing wave; he finally met his parents, but they’re not even aware of him.

Regardless, he follows them as they fly off, desperately seeking just another second with them - just another facet of information that he could learn from them.

At the cliff, witnessing his mother’s own temper, Fafnir once again compares him to his mother. Lance retaliates again, not wishing for Fafnir to speak so fondly of him or his mother. He could barely stand the idea of not knowing her, but knowing how similar they are and yet not knowing anything about her bothered him in ways that left a yawning hole in his chest.

He starts to think things over - his people willingly sacrificed themselves, but certainly his mother must have known better! She must have been forced by her people! Fafnir agrees that she didn’t agree to the decision, but claims that she still did so of her own free will. In a thunderous state of denial and anger, Lance turns and storms off. He can’t believe that his own mother just abandoned him to sacrifice herself for a decision she didn’t agree with. It doesn’t make any sense!

Fafnir chases him down and, despite his anger, Lance agrees to keep exploring his mother’s past.

They follow Tia to the doorways within the Dragon Realm, where she talks with Fafnir. As much as Lance wishes to ignore it, he notices that her aggressiveness does mirror his own.

His thoughts wander about his mother for a bit while Guardienne and Fafnir talk, until Lance finally has enough with waiting and interrupts to continue on.

Fafnir takes them to the Council Room now, where they see discussion of the Blue Sacrifice taking place. Many arguments take place until Fafnir finally tells him that Tia kept looking for another solution - to no avail.

He’s silent now as Guardienne and Fafnir talk again. Everything tells him that this was the only solution, that the dragons had to do this, that there was no better way, but he couldn’t accept it. If that was true then everything he did was for nothing... If that was true then there was no need to avenge their deaths because it was their own choice...

A cavern of something similar to dread forms within his chest as he wonders if he set out to wage a pointless war, almost afraid of knowing if this was truth. He couldn’t be in the wrong, right? They were his people, certainly they could have thought of something else... right?

Fafnir calls out to make sure he’s ok before suggesting a break, and Lance finds himself nearly running from the memories - almost regretting learning everything he knows and hoping to leave it all behind alongside the confused assortment of emotions that nearly breaks his sanity. It was so much easier when he thought they didn’t have a choice...

He flees to the old camp area and Guardienne follows before calling out to him, asking if he’s alright. He’s heavily shocked when she explains that she does care about him, despite the assumption that he hates her.

After everything he’s done, why would she care? Does she think this will stop him?

She avoids his conflicted gaze before he turns and walks away. He needed time to think everything over; the sacrifices, his parents, even Guardienne’s sudden change in demeanor towards him. Nothing makes sense to him anymore.

Lance realizes that she's not following him. He turns and asks if she’s coming or not. One would think if she’s so worried about him, she would actually bother to follow him.

He wanders aimlessly for a while, not knowing where he wishes to go, but eventually finds himself at the cliff when Guardienne asks if he’d like to talk. Lance turns on her; he’s not in the mood for her to play false nice with him. He knows she hates him.

Guardienne contradicts that, though, claiming instead that she hates his actions but has faith that he can be good again.

Was she right? Was there some possibility of redemption? Did he even want redemption? What about everything he’s done to get to this point? Was any of it even worth it anymore?

Confused questions flood his mind in tidal waves until he nearly has a headache. Hesitantly, he begins to open up to Guardienne. If there was some chance that she could understand. If there was some chance she could help him understand...

He seeks her opinion on why his mother left him and Valk to the world instead of sacrificing them, and Guardienne explains that it’s normal that a mother would want her children to reap the benefits of her actions. Lance says he would have rather died.

Guardienne pauses at this, surprise flitting over her features and she goes to comfort him, asking why this is all so important for him.

Why is it all so important? He’s so confused, unfamiliar with these doubtful emotions now sweeping through him. Why was any of this important? What does he do now? Is everything he learned really true? Would his people actually be ashamed of him knowing he’s hurt others in their name?

She offers an ear to listen to his troubles, and as much as he doesn’t wish to confide in her, he does so anyways. He doesn’t know what else to do.

Guardienne is quiet as he explains their birth and the village, and he relaxes and allows himself to soften - just a bit. It was... nice to finally have someone to talk to. It’s been so long since someone actually sought to truly understand him...

This calm is broken when he speaks of the kind people who raised them - and Guardienne speaks up to explain that every world will have good people and bad. Lance turns on her in anger; what would she know about good and bad? She hasn’t needed to hide her nature because of others! She hasn’t needed to learn about the sacrifice of her people for the sake of these people! She hasn’t needed to suffer her whole life the way he has!

He explodes in anger, forcing himself to take a moment to cool off as Guardienne watches with a conflicted expression, and then turns back to her to reveal the horror of the Guard and faeries hunting down the dragons who survived the sacrifice.

He’s nearly happy when she reels back in disgust, refusing to believe that the faeries could have done something that terrible, but it was true all the same, no matter how hard she refused to believe it.

Lance turns away again - he needs to know more. He needs to know why him and his brother were abandoned to this world alone.

He manages to track down Fafnir and demands to know why, but the only response he receives is to follow and see for himself. They go back and forth, Fafnir pressuring him to witness the memories again while Lance argues it. He can’t see it again, he couldn’t bear seeing the past through memories...

Guardienne startles him when she lays a hand on his forearm.

Why was she doing that? Why did she care this much? What’s the reason for any of this?

She tells him that he needs to keep exploring his mother’s past if he wants to understand and find his answers, and while he doesn’t want to do that anymore - he can’t possibly do that again - he knows she’s right. It’s the only thing he can do right now in the mess of emotions he’s feeling. Guardienne promises that she’ll stay by his side the whole time, but that doesn’t help as she was probably hoping it would. Why is it comforting that she’s promising to stay by his side - he should be irritated at that thought!

Lance agrees, feeling more lost than ever, and ghosts back to the past memories alongside Fafnir and Guardienne with no further argument.

The Blue Sacrifice was being held soon, countless dragons sprawling across the land and swooping through the sky as Tia talked with Fafnir... about a pregnancy test. She doesn’t want to sacrifice her children with her. Then she speaks of her sons - that she had seen them.

She’s seen him and his brother before, can name their hair and eye color, and she thought they were... beautiful.

Lance watches intently as the memory plays out but he still has questions. She could have stayed with them if she had the choice, why didn’t she stay with them?

Fafnir further explains what happens after that - his mother and father leaving for a while and then returning to carry through with the sacrifice - but Lance’s thoughts are still scattered, and he demands that he sees his parents’ final moments. He needed to see everything in order to believe this...

They return to the pathway where the sacrifice will take place. Many different races are gathered, paying their respects to the dragons, and Fafnir points their attention to another group talking to his mother. Humans.

Lance is subtly shocked; why were they there? And why are they so close with his mother?

Fafnir says that they’re family; his uncle had fallen in love with a human, and Tia was hugging his cousin.

He has humans in his close family!? And they had children... Him and his brother weren’t the only dragons then! But Fafnir explains that they’re weakened due to the dilution of the genetics.

Lance doesn’t know how he feels about this. Was he nearly happy that he had surviving family - even if they were human? Were they really considered human in that case, or dragon? Should he be happy that those humans can’t compare their power to his because of their weakened genetics?

Lance is confused about himself again, shifting into anger at the realization that he’s thinking this only because of what happened; his closest living family is humans, and they’re only alive because they couldn’t have been hunted down by the Eldaryans. Fafnir tries to compare this to Guardienne and speaks of her angel genetics.

An angel?

Lance is truly surprised at this; she’s an angel? He has an angel in his clutches?

Fafnir seems shocked that Lance didn’t know, but the ice dragon is busy turning to Guardienne, many of his other questions now being answered. A wave of painful anger hits him, and he feels... jealous? That demon got to spend every day around this female angel - of course he’d be interested in her; they could attempt a revival of their race!

He had said to much. Lance collapses, pain wracking his body as he heaves for breath and clutches at his chest. The pact they made knew he had said too much. His vision fades into black and the last thing he hears is Fafnir telling Guardienne to help him bring Lance back to the real world...

Lance wakes... alone. Why was he alone? Where was the angel!?

He bolts up, cold burning anger flooding through his veins. After all he said to her! After he explained his past and reasoning for this war! After she promised she would stay by his side! She goes and tries to run away!

He quickly finds her urgently walking around - probably looking for some way off this island - and he approaches her in blind anger as she shrinks in front of him. He was glad, pleased, that she was terrified. She should be scared!

Lance can’t keep himself from yelling as he advances on her and draws his sword. He’s been so nice to her up until now, but that time is now long since passed. She cringes as he raises his sword... and stabs it into the ground next to her. Why did he find himself unable to do this?

Guardienne quickly begins to explain her reason for leaving, but he cuts her off. It doesn’t matter why she left - there was no way he could trust her on any account anymore. Of course she would try to escape, she’s still a hostage. He feels foolish for ever having believed she could possibly care for him.

He grabs her wrist and heads back to find Fafnir, thanking him for sharing his energy to strengthen him again. The ancient ghost asks if he understands everything now, and Lance admits that he doesn’t, but he does realize something important now - family needs to defend and stay with family, so he needs Valk with him.

Before anything else can happen the energy of the islands shifts - he can feel it and he knows Fafnir feels it too.

They have visitors, and it’s the guard.

Time is up, Lance realizes, and he quickly takes hold of Guardienne and drags her with him to the beach shores to find a horrific sight awaiting.

There are many boats sailing towards the island - too many for the kraken to take on. Lance realizes that he needs defense lines and orders Orion and his mercenaries to hold the guard back. He needs to find a good place for them to be found at if the guard gets past his lines.

Hints of panic start to crack his steady thoughts - they’re surrounded with no direct way off this island, and how the hell does he get his brother on his side!?

The angel; the thing they came here for! She’s his bargaining chip!

But she’s intent on not making this easy. She spits bitter truths at him that he doesn’t want to hear but knows it true all the same, and he turns on her to shut her up.

He paces around the island with her as the sounds of the battle rage on at the shore and she kicks at him, unbalancing him and tearing herself away as he regains his balance with pain shooting up his leg. Lance doesn’t let her go very far, though. He evokes his powers, pulling her back to him and snapping at her as he drags her around again, heading towards to cliff.

The roar of the waves is drowned out as Lance scans the cliff with screeching thoughts, finding no coverage and then choosing to place himself with her at the edge of the cliff. There’s nowhere else to hide, nowhere he can set traps for the guard, nowhere he can keep her while he attempts to fight off the guard - or even better; bargain with them for Valkyon. He can only stand here and brace himself.

Finally they arrive, and Lance calls to them to stop when they’re a comfortable distance away, holding Guardienne to the cliff for leverage. They stop, but his brother tries to convince him to let her go. Guardienne calls back, but Lance is tried of hearing her input and quickly shuts her up. This was between him and the guard, and if she convinces them to not worry about her, he’ll lose his bargaining chip.

As soon as everything is silent Lance begins to speak, calling out for his brother to join him - but he resists of course, and offers the opposite instead. Lance explains that the guard will kill him in no time, and his brother quickly gives in after that; choosing to join Lance as long as Guardienne is let go.

Just as he had hoped for.

He’s not even bothered as Guardienne cries out anymore, and lets go of her as soon as Valk asks - but he’s sure to keep her trapped on that ledge with a wall of energy. He knew if he just let her go they would attack him, so he assured his safety by keeping her at risk.

They say their tragic goodbyes and Lance rests a hand on his brother’s shoulder as they walk away, elated at the fact that he has his brother with him now. Things are exactly as they should have been since the beginning of this war.

He can hear Guardienne arguing with the others as they walk away, and when they’re a safe distance he drops the wall... letting it take the cliff she was standing on with it as it crumbled away to submerge into the surging tides below. She was no longer needed and it would be better if she were gone now, or at very least it’ll delay the guard from following him and his brother as they make their escape.

Lance learned many lessons from that journey - many things that were useful, and some that were... complicated, and he intended to use all of this to his advantage.

I hope you like this! I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again; this ask went through hell and back from Tumblr in it’s creation process, but I love it even more because of the quirks I encountered.

Thank you for asking!

Have a request? Ask them here!

But first, please read the rules list for asks!

#eldarya #eldarya lance #eldarya origins #eldarya lance origins #eldarya lance headcanons #eldarya episode 26 #fenristheorem writing #askfenris

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12timetraveler · 3 years

Note

I’m so sorry about your pupper, I really hope the pain she is in eases soon. To hopefully distract you from that though can I get some cuddle head cannons from the men and women in the camp. :)

I left these in my queue for later so these have been there since like... October? November?

Simbrah is doing better. Well... shes losing a lot of hair still. But she seems to be feeling a lot better so I’m hoping we’re on the upward trend

Anyway, cuddle HCs

Arthur

~ Arthur, sweet, touch starved man that he is, absolutely LOVES cuddles.

~ I mean LOVES them.

~ Any time you’re alone together, he’s pulling you close and cuddling with you.

~ Sometimes you think you’d need a crowbar to pry yourself from this man’s grasp.

~ Fortunately, since you love snuggles just as much, you aren’t that desperate to escape his embrace.

~ On the subject of cuddles in private, you and Arthur are in agreement.

~ Its when you get to PDA that things differ a little bit.

~ some of the gang tease Arthur when they see the two of you cuddling next to the camp fire.

~ Suddenly Arthur is bashful, and doesn’t seem to even want to hold your hand.

~ you slowly try to bring him around, get him to touch you when in public.

~ it’s only when Micah tells him how disgusting it is that the two of you cuddle in public that he seems to snap out of it.

~ now he won’t let you go in public either, if only to irritate the hell out of Micah.

~ sometimes when you’re having a rough go you just walk up to him and hold him, maybe even sit on his lap.

~ he immediately puts down what he was doing and just holds you

doesn’t matter what he’s doing. if you need cuddles badly, you’ll get them

Charles

~ I Hc that Charles’ love language is touch

~ So I think he’s just as cuddly as you are

~ Any time you’re near each other, hes grabbing your hand

~ resting his hand in your back pocket (If you wear trousers)

~ forehead kisses

~ random hugs

~ in the evening, when you’re both winding down for the night, his arms are around you

~ he’ll pull you into his lap and hold you close

~ Just hold you.

~ if he gets too cuddly and you need him to stop, he will of course respect your boundaries.

~ but honestly you’re just as cuddly, and so it doesn’t happen often.

~ Charles is a big, beefy guy.

~ he loves falling asleep with you fully on top of him, pinning him securely between you and the dirt.

~ he holds you close, makes sure the blanket is securely around you so you stay warm

~ but he will be out like a light the moment you settle in on top of him.

Javier

~ Javier is the king of random cuddles.

~ I’m not sure touch would be his love language, but when he finds out its yours, and that you need lots of cuddles

~ the man will not go a single day without holding you at least once.

~ you’ll be chopping vegetables for Pearson, and Javier’s arms will snake around your waist from behind.

~ he sees you drinking coffee in the morning, he comes and stands alongside you and rests his hand on your waist.

~ he’s always happy to hold you close

~ he’s not ashamed of pda, but he does try to keep it a little more minimal.

~ He’s not shy about embarrassing you though, and if he can see you’re feeling down, he’ll have you in his arms, nipping at your neck and blowing raspberries on your skin until you’re laughing and leaning into his embrace.

~ Sometimes, when you’ve had a bad day and need cuddles, but Javier is on guard duty, you’ll go stand with him.

~ You don’t have to say anything, just come up alongside him and rest your head on his shoulder.

~ His arm will be around you in an instant, holding you firmly against him while he keeps guard.

~ The two of you can stand like that for hours if need be. He’s still doing his job, still keeping an eye out for intruders, but keeping you close.

John

~ John is definitely more flustered by your need for cuddles.

~ he’s not really sure what to make of it at first.

~ he’ll always give you a hug, pat your back

~ but he’s a little too shy to really snuggle with you.

~ he just ain’t used to it.

~ give him some time though. He’ll figure it out

~ Definitely not comfortable with pda though.

~ he’ll hold you in his arms in his tent all day and night if you need

~ but he gets super shy if you ask for cuddles in camp.

~ He will sit next to you at the campfire.

~ put an arm around your shoulders

~ quick pecks on the cheek or forehead.

~ but he’ll never be the type to pull you into his lap and hold you tightly if others are around.

~ But the man is touch starved all the same

~ so he adores those private moments in your tent

~ loves pulling your body tight against his

~ nuzzles his head against your chest

~ nearly cries when you caress his cheek.

~ you could not pry that boy off of you if you tried.

~ only the threat of Mrs. Grimshaw barging into your tent looking for you forces him to let you go each morning.

~ John swears he’s never slept better than he does in your arms.

Hosea

~ Hosea certainly appreciates the need for a good cuddle.

~ he’s maybe not as clingy as you are

~ and his love language is probably words of affirmation

~ but he’s more than happy to wrap an arm around you while he reads his paper.

~ Let you sit on his lap while he’s grinding herbs

~ rest your head on his shoulder while he’s writing in his journal.

~ After he and Dutch get into an argument is when he needs a cuddle back.

~ something about holding you is so soothing

~ so when he’s ready to toss Dutch into the lake, he’ll find you and pull you close.

~ he’s not going to waste his time being embarrassed by your cuddly affections.

~ Life is too damn short to spend time worry about what others will think

~ especially when it comes to your loved ones

~ he’ll spend every moment he can with you.

~ Definitely loves holding you in his sleep

~ He’s more of a back sleeper, and his lungs are too weak to let you spend the whole night with his chest as a pillow

~ but he’s more than happy to let you nuzzle into his side and rest your head on his arm.

~ or sometimes he’ll spoon you, burying his face in your neck as you sleep.

~ Hosea doesn’t have a private tent, so pda is really his only option.

~ but any time anyone tries giving him any shit about being cuddly.

~ he’ll just bluntly ask which of them is in a relationship, and actually has a woman to hold and love.

~ shuts them up pretty good.

Dutch

~ Dutch is not the cuddliest man in the world.

~ he’s too stressed out, too busy.

~ begging for his attention isn’t going to get you anywhere.

~ what will work is listening to him.

~ the man has the weight of 20 lives on his shoulders. Of course he needs to talk things out now and then.

~ it’s not even about getting your advice or opinions. He just needs to talk outloud.

~ If you can sit and listen to him, let him talk things over outloud without feeling foolish, then he’ll be more prepared to give you all the cuddles you need.

~ not in public of course.

~ Aside from an arm around your waist, the occasional quick kiss, he can’t be seen participating in pda

~ he has to keep up an appearance.

~ but at night, behind closed curtains, he’s all yours.

~ he does love feeling needed like this, something easy he can do for you that doesn’t involve energy or planning or grand words.

~ he finds it very relaxing to cuddle up with you in the evenings

~ It helps his mind unwind and he falls asleep faster when you’re holding him and he’s holding you.

~ he especially enjoys when your arms drape around his neck and your fingers idly play with the curls on his neck as you cuddle.

~ or when he subtly slips down to rest his head against your chest as he drifts off to sleep.

Kieran

~ Listen the boy is so touch starved and so in need of snuggles that he wont even know what to do with himself.

~ The first time you even hug him he freezes.

~ Kieran.exe is broken.

~ the first time you fall asleep snuggled against him he actually cries

~ like oh my god you are so cute and soft and warm and what are you doing with him?

~ honestly, you’re going to have to initiate most of the cuddling.

~ he’s too damn scared.

~ worried he’s being clingy.

~ but if you start coming up behind him while hes working and giving him hugs, he wil melt.

~ he’s not afraid of pda when you initiate.

~ “They already mock me. May as well be over something good,”

~ If you’re having a bad day and really need some cuddles, he’ll drop everything.

~ walk over to the scout fire where he’s cleaning tack and gently push the tack.

~ he’ll set it aside, looking up at you questioningly.

~ if you straddle his lap and bury your face in his neck, just needing to be held

~ Kieran will hold you close and never let go.

~ seriously, he will sleep in the dirt with you on top of him that night. He’s not letting you go.

Bill

~ Okay but Bill might actually be needier than you are when it comes to cuddles.

~ he’s prickly on the outside, but once you’ve broken through that outer shell

~ the man is a cuddle bug.

~ touch starved as hell.

~ Now he will never be okay with pda.

~ he gets way too flustered.

~ and he’s too scared of the others teasing him

~ he’s okay with a soft kiss and a quick hug when he’s about to leave for a job. But that’s it.

~ but once you’re curling up to go to sleep, oh the man will not be letting you go any time soon.

~ now the two of you don’t really have a tent.

~ so maybe this technically counts as pda

~ but if anyone says anything, he’ll just say you got cold during the night, or some other bs like that.

~ but he’s the one who pulled you close.

~ if you’re having a bad day and need some cuddles, he’ll step out of camp with you and hold you close

~ sneak up behind him and hug him while he’s busy on guard duty. He will become putty in your arms.

Micah

~ Micah definitely isn’t one for pda

~ and he always has a comment when you randomly come up to him and cuddle up against him.

~ But in the end, if thats what you need, he’ll be there.

~ he’s surprisingly warm

~ and his shoulder is actually quite soft.

~ while he’s not the king of cuddling, there’s nothing that’ll calm his temper faster.

~ if he and Arthur just got into a big thing

~ or if a job went wrong

~ or he just woke up on the wrong side of the bed

~ feeling your arms slide around his middle and your face press against his back is a surefire way to make him smile

~ it’s the only time he won’t have anything to say

~ no sarcastic remarks.

~ he’ll just lean back against you and let you hold him.

~ everyone knows you like cuddles, so Micah can save face if anyone says anything by saying you just wanted some cuddles.

~ But you both know you were really doing it for him that time to calm him down.

Sadie

~ will only initiate the cuddles if you’re having a bad day.

~ if she catches you outside of camp crying

~ or sees you sitting by yourself

~ you’re going to be cuddled to death.

~ but the rest of the time, she’s not the one to initiate

~ you have to nuzzle up to her

~ rest your head in her lap

~ hug her arm while she’s on guard duty.

~ but any time you do she’ll just smile at you

~ kiss your forehead

~ and hold you back.

Karen

~ Very soft

~ She’s not overly affectionate

~ if you get too clingy she’s likely gonna shake you off.

~ but she doesn’t hate cuddles

~ and if you need some cuddles, Karens are Q U A L I T Y

~ big boobs = comfy pillow

~ she’ll pull you close and let you rest your head on her chest

~ stroke your hair

~ maybe hum you a song.

Albert Mason

~ Okay Albert

~ fucking

~ LOVES CUDDLES

~ He’s not nearly as touch starved as our outlaw boys

~ I mean, he’s still touch starved, but not quite so severely.

~ he does get flustered easily, so use your pda sparingly

~ you don’t want to set off his anxiety.

~ but once you get into bed with him, the man will NOT let you go

~ he’s gonna hold you forever

~ seriously I hope you don’t need to pee in the night or anything

~ you ain't getting out of his grip any time soon

~ surprisingly strong

~ loves sitting out on top of a cliff with you and just holding you while you watch nature

~ take him out to see a sunrise or a sunset

~ Find a valley with lots of deer

~ take him there and just sit with him and watch nature

~ if you’re having a bad day

~ be prepared for A BILLION kisses

~ like all over

~ he’s going to hold you close and smother your in affection

~ make sure you know just how much you’re loved

~ The cuddliest man in the world ngl

Flaco

~ very touch starved

~ just contact starved in general

~ just know, if you let him hold you

~ he ain’t ever letting you go

~ he’ll make some excuse about needing to keep you warm

~ it’s bullshit.

~ come back from a job and immediately sit down on his lap and wrap your arms around him if you want to see his brain malfunction.

~ he’s practically squeeing at your adorableness.

~ honestly Flaco is the perfect match for a cuddler.

~ he ain’t afraid of pda either

~ you’re practically always on his arm, pressed up against him.

~ honestly it just feeds his ego

~ makes him feel powerful

~ he’s seen too much to let pride overshadow love

~ he just wants you close

~ spends a lot less time sharpening wood into a spike

~ a lot more time just holding you

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 hcs #arthur morgan #charles smith #javier escuella #hosea matthews #dutch van der linde #kieran duffy #karen jones #sadie adler #bill williamson #micah bell #albert mason #flaco hernandez #John marston

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cherryonigiri · 4 years

Text

when and where (oikawa tooru) - part one

Summary: Tooru can’t seem to understand you loneliness, and you can’t understand his desire to sacrifice anything to be by your side again. In which the words ‘opposites attract’ are both your beginning and end. (Inspired by the song/lyrics of Undone by Haley Reinhart)

word count: 1.8k

“Stars fade away, they just crash into space, disappear from my life, like you and I.”

“Tooru,” you whisper. The numbers ‘5:00′ glare back at you in red, reminding you of the sleep that continues to evade you, despite feeling utterly exhausted. Your phone is glowing against the pitch black, the blue light acting as a substitute for the moon, which hides behind wispy clouds. “I miss you.” There is an ache that starts in the back of your throat, winding its way down to your chest where it stays, pushing, prodding, pounding against your sternum. Thankfully your voice doesn’t crack, but the tears are still there, trailing down your cheeks. You’ve steeled your resolve, but your heart is still drowning in the loss that is yet to come.

“I know darling,” he laughs. “I miss you too.” Another light-hearted chuckle. You can hear him shuffling through his bag. Seconds later, after the tap of shoes on tile, keys jingle and you hear the thump of the door shutting. It’s almost evening in Brazil (you know because you’ve long since memorized how many hours are between Sendai and Rio). The sun is probably setting on the beach Tooru just returned from, in complete opposition to the flickering stars keeping watch over your sleepless figure.

That’s how it is between the two of you. Day and night. Tooru was more than happy to revel in his overwhelming brightness - embracing his role as the best setter in the prefecture and his popularity amongst his fans. He always had that smirk, the one that was always plastered on his face that screamed confidence in who he was.

On the other hand, you clung to your shyness - you’d never liked large crowds to begin with, and you were happy with the small, close-knit, group of friends you’d made. You weren’t closed off, but new things were met with caution. Tentative touches and long gazes to determine whether an unfamiliar addition would disturb the peaceful familiarity you’d woven.

The words ‘opposites attract’ made you snort, but you couldn’t deny that you’d been drawn to Tooru’s effervescent energy. (A year after you’d started dating Tooru had admitted he’d found a quiet refuge in his relationship with you.) In the beginning, Tooru had coaxed you out of your shell. Never forcefully, and always done with an observant eye. He ignored his team’s teasing, only inviting you to watch them practice after introducing you to each member individually outside of the university gymnasium. He’d rush you home in a heartbeat the minute you looked overwhelmed or uncomfortable. Like two planets, gravity had drawn you together, pushing you closer and closer with every orbit.

Now it’s different. Gravity is chasing after you, bringing your heart catastrophically close to disaster before flinging it into the distance. Your whispered ‘I miss you’ wasn’t an attempt to impart a fleeting bit of affection, or to reassure Tooru that your heart still beat for him every second of the day (which it did). No, it was meant to hide an unspoken plea that was begging him to return, to once again indulge in hour long phone calls late into the evening; to be present. Of course, you weren’t expecting him to pick up on that. After all, you’d dedicated your time alone to perfecting the art of not letting anyone know of your unravelling.

It started slowly—long video chats in the evening became less frequent, replaced by a dwindling number of rushed phone calls on the train to work. Short texts, snuck between sets and during water breaks, became the norm, erasing your habit of sending each other paragraphs about your days. You knew he felt guilty for missing the small snippets of time that he could spend with you. At the core of his being, Tooru is a caring person: he would run himself ragged and work himself to the bone for someone he loved. It was a double-edged sword; working harder and dedicating more time to accelerate his progress so he could return to you faster meant he was inevitably drifting away.

“Tooru, I can’t do this anymore.” You wince as you throw your plan out of the window, foregoing any kind of verbal cue that would let him know that this was serious. That you were talking about more than having a mundanely horrible day at work.

“Love, what happened today? Was today a bad day? I thought work was going better…” Your boyfriend trails off as you remain silent.

“This. Us. I think,” you gulp down the sob that threatens to erupt from your throat. “I think we should break up.” You have to force out those two words, break up, because saying them out loud makes it real. Makes this whole conversation real. Grounds it reality, in the realization that this is really happening, that your heartbreak is rushing towards you much faster than you ever wanted.

You expect him to protest. To at least exclaim loudly and object to the separation. Maybe a part of you wants him to plead, to experience the same hollow loneliness of missing him. To tell you that, yes, I am suffering just as much, and feeling just as broken as you are. Maybe you are desperate, hoping that he’ll convince you that the exuberance he expresses over the phone is one of his carefully constructed facades.

“Can I at least know why?” You catch the slight uptick of his voice, the crack that he tries to hide from you.

And that’s when your heart truly shatters.

Because, by asking that question, he reveals that somewhere between his last night in your apartment and today, at five in the morning, the two of you stopped inhabiting the same realm of separation. In a way, Tooru had confirmed what you’d started fearing with every passing day: that he was stronger than you’d ever be. That he could bear the weight of being separated by continents and oceans while you were crumbling. You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t endure the pile of missed calls followed by rushed texts of apology. You can’t stand that the only time you can talk to him is on crowded subways where the ever present bustle of other commuters intrudes on your conversations. God, now that you think about it, when was the last time you’d talked to Tooru for more than five minutes?

“We barely talk anymore Tooru,” you begin, hunching over as both the tears and words begin to flow freely. “I—”

“But you know why y/n!” he responds. He’s pacing, the thumps of his feet echoing through the receiver. He lets out a sigh and you know he’s running his hand through his hair. It’s one of his habits that you have memorized. It’s painful how easy it is for you to imagine Tooru; all his little gestures and mannerisms etched deeply and intimately into your memory.

“Yes, I know why,” you hiss. “But the fact that you never told me outright? That hurt Tooru.” It still does. It’s his strange blend of selflessness and ambition that has led you here. You thought you’d be sad, that this conversation would leave you with a heavy heart. Instead, a small spark of anger lodges itself in your chest.

“How was I supposed to?” He retorts. “It’s not like I can ask you to give up your time with me. I’m trying my best to get back to you sooner!” But how can he say that when he’s already left you behind? Instead of extinguishing your anger, he only fans the flames, truly setting you alight.

“Did you ever think to ask me? Did it ever occur to you that I would rather have waited for longer if that meant you could actually have time for us?” Your rage is dangerous and all-consuming, centering you within the bitterness of the isolation that Tooru had forced upon you.

Silence. And then,

“Y/n…” The way Tooru says your name nearly breaks your resolve. “Please, just wait a little longer. I’ll figure something out, I can train more so I can come back in less than a year. I’m just asking you to be patient.” No, no, no. What he’s offering is worse. You want him to make more space for your relationship, not less. In his quest to hasten his return, he’d turned to a method that consumed the time you occupied in his day. Slowly but surely, the space you’d taken up was sacrificed, leaving you with nothing but those five minutes on the train ride to work.

“That’s not what I want!” You shout. Why is his solution to make things worse?

“Then what do you want?” He screams back, his thinly veiled irritation blooming into confused anger. “You’re lonely, so I’m trying my fucking best to go back to you as soon as possible. “Why…” he pauses, as if he’ll regret his words, before plowing on, “can’t you just accept that?”

Suddenly, all the air is knocked out of your lungs with a whoosh. You barely have time to realize you’d stood up in the midst of your argument before you’re sagging against your bed frame, wilting until you’re sitting on the floor.

You’ve given up, because Tooru’s stubbornness has manifested itself as an irremovable wedge between the two of you. Blinded by his belief that all you desire and yearn for is his physical presence, he can’t even begin to see that all you want is to be given a semblance of space within his life. To have a few hours of his voice, rather than the fleeting promise of reuniting sooner. To accompany him, rather than wait for him at the end of his journey. He is unwilling to bear witness to the different kind of loneliness you suffer; unwilling to peer into the parallel, yet utterly different, dimension of suffering that branches from his own longing for you.

“Tooru…” I’m being selfish, “This isn’t working. Just let us go,” whatever we are now, before it gets worse. You’re not sure if he can hear the shaky inhale of your lungs as you try to steady your voice.

“I can’t,” he sobs. “Why can’t you see I’m doing this for you?”

Because you can only see me as the finish line, not as someone who runs beside you. Because somehow, you can only worry about the me you see in the future, not the person who is speaking to you now. “I’m sorry,” you say, your voice still wavering despite your best efforts.

‘No, please, y/n—”

One last reassurance. “Thank you for everything.” I love you.

“Y/n wait, please, don’t do this.” His pleas are tearing you apart. “I can take a break, fly back—”

You refuse to be the reason he halts his momentum. “Goodbye, Tooru.” A broken whisper.

Equal and opposite, two stars crash into each other violently. Flickering in and out, they vie for the chance to exist as they clash against each other, emitting white sparks.

A press of a red button.

Both of them are gone.

#oikawa x reader #oikawa tooru #oikawa tooru x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu fanfic #haikyuu #oikawa angst #haikyuu angst #aoba johsai #seijoh

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zet-sway · 3 years

Text

Spiritual Shrios Summer - Release

PROMPT WORD: RELEASE - | - WORDS: 2686

Rated: "E" for Extremely Spicy - not for children AO3 Link: "Singing Southward" Pairing: Thane / FemShep Summary: "But her blood is singing southward, and that's a good thing, right? A reassuring, human reminder that maybe she's still Shepard - a woman - not just a Cerberus machine."

Full disclosure, this prompt fought me and kicked my ass the whole way. I can't look at it anymore. I hope it's more enjoyable for people who haven't been looking at it for like two weeks lmao. Many thanks to Rosenkow for that excellent playlist that really inspired my Shrios muse.

The heavy thrum of battle is where she loses herself. Shepard would take sweat and the pounding pulse of combat any day over the silence between stars.

Swirling winds whip sand across her face and body. It crunches in the joints between her armor and she hates the sound but it's easy to ignore as she slams another heat sink into her shotgun and charges into the last remaining crawler. It's thrown by the impact, the momentum of her body splits the carapace against her armored fist. The smell of viscera in the air, the humming of biotic barriers. Her body sings. She feels untouchable. The keystone slams the ground again.

The ground beneath her feet rumbles and she hears an unholy sound. A thresher maw. Her battle-lust is broken instantly and she snaps to attention, every sense laser focused.

Her shotgun and fists will be little help to them now. She exchanges glances with Grunt and Thane, waving them toward cover while she hunkers down on point, grenade launcher at the ready. It's not the biggest thresher maw she's ever seen but their size isn't the only thing that makes them dangerous. Positioning is critical when fighting something that can burrow and spit. Her combat HUD tracks its movements through the ground and she directs their movements, their gunfire to its next point of exposure.

But there's a problem. Her visor's sensitive electronics were never meant to be used in a sandstorm.

The maw dives again and this time the data is wrong, pinging across the arena, indicating wildly different trajectories that conflict with the laws of physics. Not great, but there's nothing she can do about it now. Adapt, improvise.

She tears the headset from her face and makes her best approximation of where it's going to appear next, signaling the team. They open fire, it dives again. Then the rumbling stops. Her best is not enough. There's a split second of silence before the beast bursts forth not twelve feet away from her position. Dust and debris erupt in a disorienting cloud and she can tell by the shadow cast over her that she's in deep shit, struggling to find her footing on the fractured, quaking ground.

A scorching heat envelops her and her vision goes dark. There's a shout in her comm, a weight pressed upon her, and the grenade launcher is wrenched from her hands.

Then a burst, an explosion, a blinding flash of light. Acid sizzles against her barrier and it pops, the sound rattling her ears in the darkness.

The orange sun of Tuchanka blinks back into existence as the dust begins to settle.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Thane slumps into the stinking puddle of meat and organs, still clutching Shepard's grenade launcher. His scales are stinging and the pain is growing more intense by the second. Beside him, Shepard is calling in an evac while she rips at the panels of her hardsuit. Her under armor is a patchwork of holes beneath, and her skin is a frightening shade of red where the fabric is being eaten away. Thresher maw bile.

He's never actually seen a thresher maw before, much less fought one - he's more shaken than he would like to admit. Her voice is his anchor. By the time she's done shouting for Grunt to maintain a defensive position, she's torn the suit at the waist and stripped the top half from her body. She uses it to wipe the viscera from his head, chest, and hands before tending to herself.

Her ease of determination has him transfixed. He's trembling from their encounter, but Shepard- he's never seen her more focused. Brows knitted in concentration, voice firm, but calm. Her chest rises and falls with each measured breath. Wearing only her belt, legplates, and a black compression bra, she's slathering herself in medigei, a whirlwind of sand and dirt sticking to exposed burns across the hard expanse of her body.

Her skin is so vulnerable compare to his scales that she should be shrieking in pain. Instead, she seems completely unfazed. Adrenaline, perhaps. Or maybe she's every bit as otherworldly as he's coming to understand she is.

Their evac shuttle arrives and they pile on. Grunt is the first one to break the silence.

"Quick thinking back there, Krios."

Grunt looks at him with the same piercing gaze all krogan seem to have. Thane has always found them hard to read.

"Never thought I'd see a drell dive into the mouth of a thresher maw. You're tougher than you look."

He smiles, then. And Shepard smiles with him.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Doctor's orders: 24 hours rest.

Shepard's armor clatters to the cabin floor and she strides into the bathroom, trying not to itch the scabs tightening over her skin. The burns are superficial - irritating, but not serious. In the mirror, they look worse than they feel. The sting is enough to drown out the other weird pains that live inside her reconstructed body. Her ears hurt. Her tear ducts feel swollen and pressurized. Her fingers are sore. There's a constant ache in her sternum and a soft wooshing in her ear. It's from her synthetic heart, and the abundance of blood it requires. But it means she'll heal faster, too.

The water hisses out of the showerhead and she sets to work cleaning the caked on grit and viscera from her skin. When she's focused on herself like this, it's hard not to think about all of the ways her body has changed.

On the SR1, she'd been in shape, perhaps even proud of her body. She'd thought of herself as a well oiled machine. She watched her nutrition carefully, spent just as much time honing nerves as she did strength and endurance. Her body, a product of her own work and service.

What she sees now is not what she remembers.

Notably, she's about 70 pounds heavier, almost exclusively due to her implants and the additional muscle she's put on to carry them. Adapting to the added weight of cybernetics and artificial bones had been an uphill battle since she rolled off that Cerberus operating table. Even her breasts are one cup size larger, and that one change carries perhaps the most bitterness. Her body is no longer her creation.

She sees herself as though through a stranger's eyes - a construct. The Commander they wanted. Not the woman she remembers.

Her new body is all about performance, both in the public eye and on the battlefield. Miranda had already told her she should be grateful for her various "upgrades." Her titanium fingers that never tremble, her artificial eyes that can see colors and details normal human's can't. Heightened olfaction, improved hearing, even joints with a higher range of motion.

A superhuman.

No, she corrects herself, with no small amount of vitriol.

A supersoldier.

The trouble is, being a soldier is what she wants. Control over her body is as much a necessity as a beating heart, and she demands it of herself every way she knows how. The problem isn't the upgrades. It's the autonomy ripped from her hands as soon as she was too dead to spit in their faces.

But this is the hand she's dealt, so she works with it, even if learning how to use her own body is still a learning curve. Testing her limits, evaluating response times, and sometimes... trying out shitty supplementary tech that can't stand up to a little bad weather.

Outside the bathroom door, the remnants of her visor are crumbled together next to her terminal. Thane had crushed it underfoot when he dove between her and the thresher maw. That split second confusion in the field could have cost her life if he hadn't intervened. She hadn't expected a lone wolf assassin to mesh so well with the team.

She towels off and stuffs her armor back in its locker. The automatic cleaning cycle hums to life, and her thoughts whirl with it.

Thane's opened up a bit more since the night they spoke about Alchera. He has a surprising way of coloring the air with his words. And, perhaps most alarmingly, the more time she spends with him, the time she wants to spend with him. She tries to chalk it up to regular team synchronicity, but there are moments she catches herself wondering him on more than just a professional level. Tiny curiosities slither into her brain. Does he kiss like humans do? The very notion warms her blood.

How long has it been since she'd kissed someone? It feels like a lifetime.

And then - just one impulsive little thought, summoning the things she's not even dared herself to think. Does he fuck like humans do?

Almost timidly, she allows her imagination to wander.

Greeting the morning together in the shuttle bay, the harsh fluorescent lights casting dramatic shadows over his body as he bends through another impossible stretch. All that tension coiled within him, the hard planes of his torso, those absolutely delicious ass-kicking thighs...

For a moment, she feels as though he's close enough to share his heat. There's an old, familiar warmth in her blood - exquisite, tiny shivers flickering just beneath her skin - arousal.

Her eyes drift closed. She owes her XO a mission debrief, and she owes her pilot new destination coordinates. But her blood is singing southward, throbbing between her legs, and that's a good thing, right? A reassuring, human reminder that maybe she's still Shepard - a woman - not just a Cerberus machine.

Maybe those obligations can wait a little bit longer.

Scooting up her unmade bed to rest against the headboard, she tentatively rests a hand against her belly and traces a line from her navel to the juncture of her legs, almost as if she's afraid of what she'll find. Her flesh is reassuringly warm, and she passes over her center, teasing and smoothing back over blood-warmed skin, testing its sensitivity. At least here, her body feels like she remembers.

Thane's unfamiliarity excites her. She's never spared much thought for bunking with another species before, but he's more than handsome. Shepard wonders if drell are as introverted as Thane. Likely not, but his guardedness only intensifies her intrigue. The idea of touching him seems forbidden, like a closely guarded secret. She wants to run her tongue over the darkened skin below his lower lip, wants to trace the ridges down the back of his neck and feel the warmth of the flushed skin at his throat.

Her mind fumbles with the thought of him, unclothed and willing. He could be any number of iridescent shades of green under that tight leather getup - by the tantalizing gradient of color across the firm swatch of his exposed chest, he must be. Those dark stripes down his shoulders are trails she's hungry to travel, winding paths across the exotic unknowns of his body. Her fingers itch to follow them wherever they lead - with any luck, all the way down.

And down to what, exactly? For a moment, Shepard considers pulling up the extranet to satiate her curiosity and then decides against it. If he's not biologically equipped the way she hopes, better to find out later, when she's not vividly imagining the shape and color of his erection. Maybe green? But then, he hopefully isn't packing scales down there. No, more likely a familiar blush of color, like the frills of at his neck, or the inside of his mouth.

Her fingers brush carefully over her clit at the thought of his mouth, those gorgeous clit-sucking lips. An excited chill zips down her spine, settling - picturing him in this exact spot, head bowed reverently between her legs to worship her with his tongue. It's been so fucking long since someone ate her out.

The memory is old and faded - breaking fraternization rules with a youthful dark-haired recruit in the barracks. They hadn't even finished basic yet. Shepard had come harder than ever before in her life, only to later discover that recruit had told nearly everyone that they'd hated every second of it. She wouldn't have been upset if Cerberus took that memory from her.

But there's something about Thane. He's nothing if not a gentleman, she likes to think he'd be wickedly good at this. Warm, firm lips, an agile tongue... those fused fingers edging her on.

She uses her own to test that hypothesis, biting her lip at the familiar slick of arousal concentrated in her core.

There was a time when she'd rather be incinerated than suffer gentle lovemaking. She wanted it hard and fast, pleasure so blindingly hot she'd sneak out to the airlock for a cigarette in the afterglow. But her new body is a labyrinth of unknowns. Sex in this new skin, not knowing her limits, how much she can take. She wants to take her time.

Middle finger first, then following with another, she tests her reconstruction. Maybe she's just imagining it, but she feels a bit stiffer than she remembers.

But in the blurry comfort of her fantasy, Thane is a gentle lover. He's slow and patient, giving her ample time to acclimate both her body and her racing thoughts. Her fingers slip inside as far as they'll reach, leaving her palm to flex against her clit. She sighs, luxuriating in sensation.

It feels so good to be touched.

It's been years, in fact, and the roaring flame of her lust is surprising even to herself. To have him here, moving inside her, filling her with every stroke...

When her hand curls against her inner walls, her eyes roll back and an unholy sound leave her throat. Holy shit. Either this is the pleasure time forgot, or Cerberus spared no expense reconstructing her nerve endings. It wipes every other thought from her mind.

She's lost in the fantasy now. Hopelessly spellbound beneath the roll of her own hand - Thane's hips - languidly pushing the heights of her pleasure in body and mind until she's deliberately edging her orgasm because it seems a damn shame to end it so fast. Her head is swimming, discomfort collecting dust in the rational corners of her brain until her nerves are burning with adrenaline and wanting. Scattered thoughts come in incoherent bursts. All that matters now is the caldera of pleasure between her legs. Her mind. His body.

She can almost feel his voice. The words are lost but the sensations are loud and clear, encircling her, flowing through her, filling her. She wants to feel his desire, wants him to come undone inside her, calling her name, riding the high of his climax and all but demanding she come with him. In her mind, they gasp together, his arms tightening around her, his face buried in her neck, her walls clenching around him.

The electricity of release pulses through her nerves - organic, synthesized, and everything in between. For one sweet second, she's weightless. Then the spots are clearing from her vision and she's floating down from whatever far flung corner of the galaxy her soul's been launched to.

In the silence that follows, the gentle hum of the ship is the only sound.

"Fuck," she breathes out into the empty room. He's gone. The reverie slowly evaporates, vanishing into the metal bulkheads of the hull.

The familiar guilt of indulgence tugs at the edges of her fading euphoria. She hadn't banked on masturbating to her crew, but here she is.

It's just a daydream, no harm done.

But as she gets dressed, she asks herself why it's been so long since anyone's crept into her mind like Thane.

Shepard shakes her head, straightening her back. A little movement to clear the errant thoughts trashing her rationality. Her scabs itch. Her mouth is dry. There are more important things to be doing. Things that will quiet the tiny voice in her head that whispers 'no one wants your weird cybernetic body.'

At least she can still show herself a good time. Small victories are perhaps even sweeter during wartime. Maybe she feels just a little more human than she did an hour before.

#shrios #spiritualshriossummer #thane krios #fshrios #spiritual shrios summer #zet writes things #me in the background screaming like that video of the old man in the mountains with the cowboy hat #ITT: femshep gets herself off #aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

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