#if you don't know much about mind-altering drugs

[not-poignant]

Techniques for writing a bad drug trip:

We're going to be using excerpts from one of my own chapters here from my story Eversion to discuss the kind of writing techniques that will help make a bad drug trip more believable. In context, the character Connor has nonconsensually been given a synthetic made-up highball of drugs that gives him a horrible time, and this does not accurately reflect what bad drug trips look like across all drugs, for example sometimes throwing up on ayahuasca is a feature, and not a bug. What I'll be focusing on instead are the actual narrative techniques that indicate an affected mind and body vs. specific technques for specific drugs.

Beginning Stages:

Firstly, pre-bad-trip, it's useful to depict your character beforehand as being fully - or as close to fully lucid as possible. Have them realising things, actively thinking, describing their surroundings, and doing things in a kind of logical way - show them doing something mundane even, like walking into a room, or a cafe. In this case, Connor walks into a cafe, describes the cafe, makes some mental notes and then has a lucid conversation.

Next, most of the time any drug gives you physical symptoms even before the bad trip part, so describe those. In this case:

Seconds later Connor’s heart began to race

The needle slid free and Connor hardly felt it.

He stumbled over nothing as he passed the group of cyclists, staring at them as his heart beat harder and harder, as sweat broke out over his forehead.

At this point in the story, another character takes over, the person who gives him the highball picks up the conversation because Connor is overwhelmed by the physical sensations and doesn't feel like talking. He stops thinking about his environment accurately and starts to notice things while dropping others. His thoughts are already being affected.

This is when you can start using techniques like time skipping, forgetfulness, memory loss, or alternatively focusing on one thing a lot and a lot of other things a little.

Connor nodded, thinking that he needed to get away, that he needed to go somewhere. He reached for his phone, but it wasn’t there. Where was his phone? His vision slanted, time slipped away from him. He was beneath a tree, throwing up while Gabriel petted his shoulder and waited beside him.

Here we have a strong time skip - Connor goes from looking for his phone, in the next paragraph he's throwing up by a tree. This progression of events has no logic, except for the bad drug trip. Which means we now know Connor is being really affected by what's happening. These two paragraphs also show forgetfulness - Connor needs to get away / needs to go somewhere, but can't remember where. He looks for his phone, but has forgotten Gabriel took it from him. You don't even need the 'time slipped away from him' description, vision slanting or blurring tends to indicate to readers in situations like this that someone is being quite seriously affected by what's happening to them.

Middle Stages:

Then, he was walking, but couldn’t think past the scattered, rushing noises in his ears, looking like black jags across his vision.

He landed hard on his knees and stared down bewildered at the grass. He looked around, vision turning to brightness, cars zooming by too fast and too large, the sky distorted, the clouds inverting. He raised a hand to his head, but another hand – warm and gentle – rested at his temple, thumb gently stroking. Connor leaned into it, whimpering.

We're doing a lot of time skipping now, alongside mental symptoms.

The writing technique itself is changing. In one sentence we cover a lot of choppy subjects - vision turning bright, cars too fast, sky distorting, clouds inverting. It gives a sense of too much information happening at the same time - Connor's senses are overwhelmed.

This kind of choppy information can be delivered in short complete sentences, but I liked one run-on sentence here because it gives that sense of 'and then this and this and this and this and this' which is sometimes how it feels to have too much information coming in at once.

It's also making use of the senses. We have vision and hearing and touch all in the same paragraph. We also have 'too fast' 'too large' - things are too much. Not only that, but describing things as distorted indicates strongly that Connor's already hallucinating and hasn't realised yet.

At this point in your bad drug trip, you should not be using your regular writing style. If your character isn't thinking like normal, you might want to consider also not writing 'like normal' for that character.

(This is the same for when a character is having a flashback, is overwhelmed, or is experiencing something intense for any reason).

He took great, shuddering breaths and then pressed shaking fingers to his stomach. The knot of pain in his thigh was manifesting there as well.

Now, for the bad drug trip to truly be bad, we also have the physicality of the experience. The body comes along for the ride and it often feels like it's dying during a bad drug trip.

Huge shuddering breaths and shaking hands can indicate an overloaded nervous system, also someone who might be going into shock, or who is hyperventilating, or who is literally experiencing respiratory distress. We don't have to know what it is - one or all of them could be true! A person on a bad drug trip, unless they're a medical professional or experienced with bad drug trips, will not know or be assessing what is happening to them as it happens.

He flinched back when he saw black inching out from beneath his knees on the grass, dimly knew it as a hallucination before that awareness vanished and he pushed himself back and away.

Boop a hallucination. Connor was already hallucinating, but now he realises too. You don't need to include this. I was writing a smart, analytical character, and he does know he's having a bad drug trip, so he's allowed little moments of realisation. Your character might know more, or they might know less.

Intense / Peak Stages:

He could feel the way his body pulsed at discordant rhythms, too fast, too slow, never in sync throughout his body. The tips of his fingers were throbbing. His feet felt like stones. He looked at Gabriel’s perfect beard and thought of tearing his face off. It would be brief, brutal, bloody, but then he could just lie down.

Writing emotional distortion here is that Connor feels like behaving violently, which - to this degree - isn't normal for him. The drug overdose is making him vengeful. We know it's part of the drug overdose because the first part of the paragraph focuses on all his physical symptoms. The drug trip might make your character too terrified to function, it might make them aroused (i.e. fuck or die sex pollen scenarios), it might make them giddy. Have some emotional distortion going on on some level. Even if it's extreme anhedonia or apathy in the face of potentially dying.

The hospital was clearly giving him too many sedatives. He didn’t know how to tell them that he had no tolerance, he couldn’t take the dosages that his father was pushing for.

Now we hit full flashback. Connor now believes he's being overdosed with sedatives in the hospital, and is no longer in the present at all. He's not even 'I remember' - he's just there. Flashbacks won't happen with every bad drug trip but they are common to any bad drug trip that is hallucinatory in nature.

Connor stared up at the ceiling of his apartment, and his hands rested on the floor. His heart was beating far too fast, fluttering in his chest. He felt hazy. Every now and then he had to clench his hands into fists so tight that his knuckles ached. A compulsion. He couldn’t stop himself from doing it. He’d feel himself shake, and then he’d stop, and he’d stare upwards. He was lying on the floor.

Connor stared ahead. The corner of his mouth felt wet. He was drooling. His fingers and toes kept twitching against his will.

What Connor is describing now is seizure activity.

Connor isn't consciously clenching his hands into fists, his body is doing that. He calls it a compulsion, but it's not. Feeling your body shake and then stop and then shake again is - in this instance for Connor - active seizure activity.

Not all seizures cause full unconsciousness of the entire brain, for example. Connor doesn't know what's happening to him, but we can tell from the physical symptoms here - heart fast and fluttering, feeling hazy, physical movements completely beyond his control - that he's now in a danger zone.

If you want the bad drug trip to reach 'a normal person would be in an ambulance by now' - this is a good place to be. Focus on strange sensations of the heart, the pulse, shaking, the sensation of overheating or being too cold. If you want, look up the symptoms of shock, or tachycardia.

Aftermath of bad drug trip:

In the aftermath of a bad drug trip, be aware that it can take some time for a person's thoughts to return to normal. Don't write an instant return to normalcy once a person is physically stabilised. Often they show mood shifts that are quite profound. Even a person coming down from MDMA often experiences depression or flatness after a great night out with zero negative memories.

Normal aftermaths/ongoing side effects from bad drug trips include apathy, depression, suicidal ideation, anhedonia, flatness, lethargy, exhaustion (literally, the body physically went through several marathons), pain, and foggy, disconnected thinking (both because the brain went through something traumatic and the drugs take a while to work through the system). GI (gastrointestional disturbances) are common, from 'not going to the bathroom at all' to 'diarrhea' etc. Sometimes these after-effects last days, sometimes they last weeks, sometimes they even last months.

-

So! In summary helpful techniques for bad drug trips can include:

Shorter, choppier sentences to indicate overwhelm

Physical symptoms being 'experienced' - character often doesn't know what's happening except in special circumstances

A progression of physical symptoms.

Focus on all of the senses

Hallucinations and/or flashbacks (one usually happens with the other)

Unusual emotional affect or emotional distortion

Time skips / non-linear time jumps

Inability to think properly

Focusing on some things too much and other things not at all

Realising there is a progression, that must include a heavy aftermath (unless you're trying to be special, or unless it's one of the few drugs that can make you feel unusually euphoric afterwards and then there's still usually a crash after that lmao)

Different drugs create different, known effects, however, people will have different 'bad drug trips' depending on their circumstances.

I'm a little bit afraid this post is going to crash so I'm going to post it now! And for that anon who asked me what kind of writing I used - this is it! :D

#pia on writing #writing techniques #dodgy advice #always use drugs responsibly folks #save the bad drug trips for #your characters #when you want to whump the fuck out of them #there are also OTHER ways you can write bad drug trips #this is just ONE way #but you can use some or all of these techniques #and they will help you a lot #imho these techniques will help in ANY high intensity scene writing #if you ever want to know more pls just shoot me an ask #and i'll do my best #if you don't know much about mind-altering drugs #please do your research

[inkyray]

lazy messy high sex w virgin!reader or bestfriends w chris lol im so high rn so idk if anything im sayin makes sense lol have a gday

2.8k words

a/n: yall rlly fw the virgin bsf trope w chris huh, well you ask so i give!! here yall go enjoy, keep sending requests, do not be shyyy

warnings/content ahead: drug use, weed, mentions of alcohol, high sex, smut, straddling so like cowgirl??, oral male!receiving, virgin!reader(again) x bsf!chris(again), wrote this in literally one sitting so beware for the possibility of it being fast-paced and a bunch of mistakes

NORMAL?

You were confusing to say the least. Everyone knew that every once and a while you liked to get high out of your fucking brain on weed and shrooms. Yet, they knew you were a virgin, which was an interesting combo.

It wasn't the vibe you gave off, in fact, it was the opposite. You were confident with a high sex appeal. People knew because you were open about it, never understanding the whole concept with feeling shameful about keeping your virginity.

That didn't mean you were completely pure, though. Although you have kept your virginity, you had still admitted to giving multiple blowjobs and handjobs, so you weren't completely inexperienced.

You were at home practically doing nothing when you got a message from your best friend, telling you to come over and bring some pre-rolled blunts. You almost jumped at the message.

Putting his ego and sex life aside, if someone were to ask you, you would call Chris a goody-goody, which would really piss him off. In your 10 years of knowing the kid, he'd refuse to do any drugs or alcohol. He was open with the fact he didn't want to consume anything that would alter his brain chemistry. You couldn't do anything but respect him, still offering him some every once and a while.

In that sense, you two were opposites. He was always banging some new girl while you were doing pot with the rappers of LA. But in every other aspect, you two were identical. People, even his triplet brothers, would point out how you were like a female version of him, and how it made sense that you two were so close.

You were practically thrilled Chris had requested such a thing, your mind racing at all the possibilities as to why he'd ask you to bring your stash.

Standing in front of his house, you search for your gifted spare key, opening the place up and announcing that you were here. You had to keep yourself from skipping through his house in pure utter excitement.

You freeze at the sight of Chris in his kitchen, fully expecting him to be in his room. Quickly, you throw him the plastic bag of pre-rolled blunts and joints. The same second Chris registered you here was the same second he caught the plastic bag of weed, catching it with one arm.

"Drive safely here?" He questions, opening the plastic bag. You grin, imagining how high Chris could get, how'd he be. "I didn't drive high, don't worry. I was waiting until I got here." You seat yourself on the kitchen island's stool, leaning yourself against the table as you watch him sniff the bag.

"Mm. Good." He hummed, his face expressionless. You immediately furrowed your eyebrows. "What's wrong?" You ask the moment you felt his vibe was off. He looked up at you, he was great at expressing his positive emotions, his negative ones? Not so much.

"A bunch of bullshit on the internet. People love to wake up and act all fucking dumb." He mutters, throwing the bag against the table, sliding it toward you. "Chris, how many time do I need to fucking tell you." You sigh, taking out a roll and your lighter.

"'Don't take that shit seriously.' Yeah, I fucking know. It's just hard when it's constantly in your face." His tone is aggressive and louder. You take a moment before asking, "Is that why you told me to bring these?" You gesture to the weed.

Chris nods, "Yeah. Before I fucking punch someone." He goes on to tell you about how Nick and Matt left to go do some influencer shit you didn't understand, seeing how the internet had gotten him so hostile, insisting it'd be good if they left him alone for a few hours. "They shouldn't be back until a long fucking while."

You smile, "Should be enough time for us to get high and out of this fucking world, am I right?" You hold up a fist for him to bump. He just stares at it. "Just light the fucking blunt." He groans. You grumble, "Come on Chris, seriously? You gonna leave me hanging?"

He sighs, fist bumping you. You then fist bump the air in victory, quickly going to light the blunts. You bring your roll immediately to your lips, watching Chris as you hesitantly hold his up. You huff the smoke out of your nose. "Are you sure, Chris?"

"I'm sure." He blows in, you watch as the paper burns as air gets sucked out of it. His puffing interrupted by a cough, smoke forcefully leaving his mouth as he coughs it all up. "Don't worry," you say "this is normal for your first time, try holding it in?" You suggest.

He glares at you. "What? I'm not the one who made you cough, tough guy." You shrug.

He holds it back up to his lips, looking at you the entire time as he sucks in softer this time. He manages to hold the smoke in and blow it back out, leaving both his nose and mouth. "Mmm." You buzzed, smoking from your roll. "Good boy." You sang as he blew some of the smoke at your face. You scrunched up your nose, laughing.

"I also brought my bong, by the way."

-

Your back was slumped flatly against his kitchen table, you hadn't bothered to leave his kitchen since you stepped in there.

You watched as smoke painted abstract lines across his ceiling, the light so bright it had your blinking hurt. Chris felt his mind pooling out of his ears as he sat on his couch in the living room, holding onto your bong.

"Should've brought the shrooms." He utters, finishing his blunt. Chris lost count of which one this was. You laughed slowly, "Slow down, druggie."

He turned his head, examining you laying on his kitchen table, "Hm, you comfortable?" You shake your head. "Not at all."

"Then come sit next to me, dumbass." He huffed, you slouched yourself off his kitchen table, feeling the cramp on your back beginning to form. You stretched quickly before plopping yourself beside him.

"You fuck with it?" You ask him, he turns to look at you, glassy blue eyes rimmed with red. It only makes you wonder what you look like. Your brain feels hot, and you direct it to his lips. You watch as he's about to puff some fog out, but quickly sucks it back in mouth and blows it out of his nose. "Heavy." He answers you, his voice a tone louder than a whisper.

He manspreads through his baggy black sweatpants as you sigh. "If I could go back in time to when I first got high like this, I would."

Chris nods slowly. "Like, try something new?" He questions, his voice more hoarse than when you got here.

"Yeah. New and addictive, as fucked up as it sounds. I don't want to regret it. Sort of like the same thing you're doing right now." You pat down the surface of your blunt on an ashtray, getting rid of accumulated ash.

It's a comfortable silence for a moment. There's not really much to say when you could barely feel your mind in your head.

"I have an idea in mind, but you're not gonna like it."

You're immediately intrigued, turning to look at him, raising a weak eyebrow. "Let's be honest, I'll probably fucking like it."

He hums, his voice purring in some sort of acknowledgement. "Let me fuck you?" He gets straight to the point, and you can't even say you're surprised. You back yourself away from him for a moment, taking him all in. You'd be the earth's biggest liar if you said you wouldn't take him right then and there.

"You'd be comfortable with that?" You draw out, watching his pink lips begin to form a response. "You're the virgin here, I should be the one asking you that."

He's right. You raise your gaze back to him. He blinks slowly at you, hair falling perfectly on his forehead as pieces continue to messily look longer than the others. His necklace glimmering lightly under the dimly lit living room as he looks at you lazily through his eyelashes. "I don't think there's any other time I'd like to lose my virginity than right now." You admit.

His smirk grows as he pats his lap. "Come here." You looked at him as you crawled onto his lap, straddling him as he put his blunt out. Sitting on him, his gaze darted everywhere on you, following from your eyes to the slope of your neck, melting to your chest.

"Don't be awkward." He ordered, grabbing the side of your face as he kissed your soft mouth. You kissed him back, your mind immediately going blank as he pulled away. "Already?" You whined before shutting up immediately. He kisses the curve of your jaw, trailing down your neck, giving you sloppy wet neck kisses, leaving your skin glistening with a layer of his spit, unknowingly grinding into his growing erection.

Without a question, he lifts your shirt off of you, you place it off to the side as he looks up at your red eyes. Tugging out your bra, he asks "Can I take this off you?"

You slip your hand into his pants, snapping at the elastic of his boxers. "Only if I take this off you." He grins, "We're getting there, baby." His voice low and jagged from everything he's been smoking, you feel yourself getting wetter, deciding to be the one who dives in for this kiss.

Without really meaning to, you give him an open-mouthed kiss, your lips immediately wrapping around his bottom ones and sucking gently on it, feeling him unclasp your bra as he sticks his tongue inside of you, slipping it off.

His fingers run themselves through your hair before transitioning to your bare skin, his palms sliding down the hill of your boob and grazing the dip of your waist before holding tightly onto your hips, holding you down as he pushes you back and forth onto his crotch.

You rhythmically grind yourself into him as he guides you, your kissing becoming less in order and more messy, more wetter. You both taste like weed, the smell fogging up the place around you and even your minds, every moment more intense and harsher, out of order yet perfect.

With a hand holding your hips hard enough to leave marks in the morning, his other hand uses two delicate fingers to brush down your spine, the tingling sensation sends a small shiver down your spine, arching your back to the touch. That same hand moving to the opposite side of your hips, caving into your leg and groping your thigh as he bites your lip when you went to take a break for a breath of air.

He whimpers your name, clearly more into this than you thought. You scatter off of him and he watches you confused, pressing down to his crotch. You shove his hands away, sitting  on your knees and you lean toward him. "You're so beautiful." He looks down at you as you take his sweatpants off, instinctively folding it and putting off to the side. That's how you knew you were high. "Let me suck your dick." You say in response to his compliment.

He plays with your hair, grabbing small strands and following it until he reaches the edge and they fall out of his grasp, repeating the action. "Thoughtful girl, hm." Chris mutters, he moans when you shove his boxers off and without warning, wrapping your lips around him.

Your tongue swirls around his tip before collecting all the leaking pre-cum from his hole, pressing your tongue in it which makes his hips buckle up. Your boobs graze softly against his legs as you let go for a moment, saliva drooping down his length as you spit at your palm, looking up at him as you begin to stroke him. He throws his head back, loud whimpers of your name slipping from his mouth. You continue your stroking as you bring the tip of him to your mouth once again, bopping your head up and down, matching the speed of you stroking as he grips the top of your head, pulling on your hair. "Fuck– I'm gonna– fuck!" He cums in your mouth and you pull away, strings of liquid managing to connect from him to your mouth as you swallow him down. 

"More?" You question once he's caught his breath, he looks down at you. "It felt like my virginity just got taken away from me." You laugh at his comment, grabbing a joint and quickly lighting it up for a quick puff. His eyes were still bloodshot, but you held the smoke in before you got closer to him, he opened his mouth, his eyes on yours as you blew the smoke straight into it. He sucked in the fog and released it through his nose.

You sat back on him, the only thing keeping your bare skin from touching was the pants you still haven't taken off yet. You brought the joint back to his mouth and he happily took a long drag. "Still a virgin, by the way." You remind him, licking your thumb and index finger, stinging the half-smoked joint light gone. "Right. Here for business aren't we?" He blows the smoke from his mouth, pointing it to his right so it wouldn't hit your face. "Damn straight." You nod.

"Nice tits, by the way."

"Chris just fuck me."

Your pants were off in seconds and you found yourself hovering right over him, hesitant to just fully take him.

"We don't have to." He trails, holding onto your waist, sure you were both high to the point of seeing stars, but he was still considerate. "I want to." You muttered, holding onto his shoulders as you slowly lowered yourself onto him. Your walls immediately clenched around him and it was almost painful, slowly but surely Chris helped you raise yourself as you raised his hips with you, your moans muffled out of your hearing capacity, hyper focused on his noises and the idea of fully thrusting with him.

"Want me to go slow?" He groans, slowly pushing himself farther into you once he is out. "Just do it how you normally would." You drop your head to his shoulder, facing his neck as his thrust become more common, his speed going faster. Your nails clawed at his other shoulder as you kept everything in you not to bite onto him for closure. You would lift yourself up as he pushed himself inside you once you drop yourself back down, following his pace that would only just quicken.

Maybe it was the weed, but you could've sworn you had a warm tear make its way down your cheek, it was painful, but pleasurable, his size definitely not what you were expecting for your first time. You placed damp kisses along his neck and collarbone, feeling your stomach clench harshly. "Chris–"

"I know, baby. I know. Me too." He moans, barely able to utter a few words. You quickly push you off of him, both on que as you cum everywhere. You're thankful he did, not really sure what you would do if you got pregnant from your first time.

You lay on the gray couch completely naked, trying to get your breath in order. Chris does the same, turning to look at you to do so. His eyebrows furrow, "Did I hurt you?" He wipes away your tear with his thumb. "A little." You admit, "but I think it's normal. Right?" You question. "As long as it's not anything you didn't want, it should be normal." He nods, running his hands softly over your cum-covered stomach.

"How are we going to clean the couch from this?" You question, he looks up from you. "We better get to fucking work."

You stand up, your legs shaking as you attempt to put your underwear back on. Chris clicks his tongue. "Sit back down, I'll do it." He stands up, shoving himself back into his boxers, unfolding his sweatpants and putting them on.

You sigh, thinking about a shower and how good Chris felt against you. He manages to come back from around the corner with a towel. You attempt to help him clean. "We're so fucked." You mumbled.

He looks back at you and realizes just how high you two are. This event will definitely give you something to talk about later on, but for now Chris steals one more kiss from you, long and passionate. A different kind of euphoria for two idiots high out of their minds.

"I think you might be the bestest friend I've ever had." He says.

#matt sturniolo #chris sturniolo #nick sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #christopher owen sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #the sturniolos #sturniolo #chris sturniolo fanfic #chris sturniolo x you #chris sturniolo x reader #chris x reader #chris sturniolo smut #matthew sturniolo #sturniolo smut #sturniolo edit #sturniolo fluff #sturniolo imagine #sturniolo x reader #sturniolo triplets imagines #matt sturniolo smut #girls who smoke weed #cannabis #nicolas antonio sturniolo #matthew bernard sturniolo #chris sturniolo fanfiction #fanfic #weed smut

[thehorrorsoftheblackbunnymask]

In prison AU, I feel like darling would be an young cop in training and with not very much experience and that Darling just got out of college and just started the work. The reason why they hired Darling in an such dangerous prison (Probably the most dangerous prison as there's demons and ghosts and insane man) is because just like in the Mental Asylum AU, Darling is very good the job and pretty good at it.

Well those are my thoughts but I would like to hear yours words at the Darling in this AU, If you don't mind😊 .

Something Short (Prison AU Introduction)

Warning: Criminals, death row, rape and sexual assault mentioned, murder, violence, cannibalism, graphic descriptions of crimes, mental disorders, mental instability, sadism, apathy, sexual themes, robbery, drug use, sexual harassment, short tempers, big sentences I'm talking life, massacres and more. This AU is not for the faint of heart.

Yep! I didn't do all of them (I think I left out 2 people, but besides that they're all here.)

I feel like you would be having a paid internship at the maximum security prison due to you being the best cop at the college you're attending.

Here's what you need to know.

Jeffery Woods. A man in his early 30s, arrested for multiple accounts of serial Murder, Mutilation, Kidnapping, Torture, Stalking, Vandalism, Arson, Breaking and entering, Parricide, Drug use and rape. He has the reputation of assaulting, mocking, teasing and harassing guards. Jeff is often in solitary confinement, but that doesn't stop him from his usual actions. Has to be kept away from Jane Elizabeth Arkensaw due to them activity starting fights. He is deemed one of the deadliest prisoners. During your internship, he will be one of the prisoners you'll be interacting to help sharpen your skills. He will by far be one of if not the hardest to interrogate.

Tobias Erin Rogers. A man in his late 20s arrested for Serial murder, Torture, Vandalism, Arson, Stalking, Patricide, Breaking and Entering, Kidnapping, and suspected of multiple accounts of sexual assault but is yet to be confirmed. Currently sentenced to life in jail with possibility of parole after serving a minimum of 30 years. He suffers a handful of disorders and quite often causes trouble for both staff and other inmates. He struggled with controlling his emotions and his impulsive behavior which often leads to himself, inmates and staff to be harmed. Despite this, you will be interacting with him during your internship due to him being able to get a long with staff for a short period of time if he finds them "hot." Warnings, don't get too attached, don't believe most of the things he says, don't give or take anything from him, and don't let his suffering fool you. He has a history of using his suffering against others and actually led to him escaping when he was first sent here when he was 19, and they didn't capture him again until last year when he turned 27.

Liu Woods, also known as Homicidal Liu. A man in early to mid 20s, arrested for Serial murder, stalking, kidnapping, robbery, breaking and entering, assault, and vandalism. Currently serving a a sentence of 50 years but has a chance of parole once he serves 20. Liu is the little brother of Jeffery Woods, and after Jeffery almost murdered him, he developed an alter ego named Sully. Lui is is relatively quiet, observant, possessive and violent. But his violence gets worse when he's Sully. Lui normally doesn't harm guards or prisoners unless provocted, but he has attacked them with no apparent reason on multiple accounts. Liu is one of the prisoners you will be seeing often due to you working mostly in his section of the prison, where most of the pastas are such of Eyeless Jack and Toby. Warning when dealing with Liu, watch your words and actions, DO NOT touch anything of his unless it's a danger to him or others, and don't asked him too much about his past due to it being his biggest trigger in becoming Sully. If you're dealing Sully, be extremely careful, don't make sudden moves and don't anger him. Sully is extremely violent, sadistic but oddly childish. Sully is supposedly a seven year old according to both himself and Liu, so treat him as an extremely dangerous child.

Helen Otis, also labeled The Bloody Painter. A man between the ages for 25 to 35, arrested for Serial murder, kidnapping and breaking and entering. He culprit of both the 1994 school massacre and a murder case in 2003. He is sentenced to 45 years without parole. Helen is extremely apathetic, cold and selfish. Despite this however, he can be polite, a gentleman. All of his murders represent some form of art, using the blood of his victims to create beautiful work at every crime scene. Helen is two faced, meaning that his gentleman front is an act, nothing genuine. Helen doesn't fight staff or prisoners, only attacking if they were to attack him first. He's known to be polite to both staff and prisoners, even flirting with some of the staff members. You'll be using Helen's cases as a way to practice investing crimes scenes, and you'll be interacting with Helen occasionally in order to figure out the motives behind his murders. Warnings when interacting with Helen, don't fall for his manipulation, don't fall for his charm and never allow yourself or him to go off topic.

Eyeless Jack. A demon is what he is. Not a human, not a ghost, but a demon sent from hell. EJ's age is unknown, we don't how long he's been commiting his crimes or even how long he's been around. But, relying on appearance alone, he appears to be a 24 year old humanoid with no eyes. Ej is charged with serial murder, cannibalism, kidnapping, breaking and entering, and stalking. EJ's sentence is life in prison without parole and the judge is consider the death sentence. Ej doesn't talk much, always watching the other prisoners with hunger written on his face. He's often wearing a mask, but when he isn't you can see the Eyeless sockets and if he opens his mouth, the hundreds of tentacle like tongues he has. No staff member is allowed to be alone with EJ due to him in the past immediately murdering and eating the staff members' organs. EJ is known to be cruel, sadistic, highly intelligent and scarily patient, he's a predator. During your internship, you won't be interacting with EJ unless told, and even then you won't be allowed alone with him. But you can't shake off the feeling someone is following or watching you. Is that... Blood?

Laughing Jack. Another demon we holp in or facility. To be honest, we don't even know if he's a demon or an imaginary friend gone real, we really don't know. We don't know his age or how he manifested. Even if we rely on his appearance, we can't determine how old he might be. Jack is arrested for serial murder, torture, mutilation, kidnapping, and breaking and entering. Jack is extremely playful and childish, his main victims being families, but mostly their children, he claims he's a child's best friend, he's also evil, sadistic, cruel, and an overall mystery to us. He is sentenced to life in prison, but even then he has escaped multiple times. You won't be interacting with Jack at all during your internship, due to his case still being looked into and more and more charges are being found for him. But every day he finds you, talking to you, showing you tricks, being playful and entertaining, but you can't ignore the look in his eyes. You don't exactly know how to explain it, but whatever it, his plans for you are far from innocent fun.

Timothy Wright. A man in his early to mid 30s, arrested for serial Murder, Stalking, trespassing, kidnappings, rape, vandalism, breaking and entering, and arson. Sentenced to life in prison with possibility of parole after serving a minimum of 30 years. Tim is quite the unstable prisoner, often seen yelling and cursing and fighting people oen minute, and muttering, pulling at his hair, screaming and crying the next. Tim suffers from both schizophrenia and MPD, and due to us restricting his meds so he wouldn't abuse them causes him to be, uncontrollable. Tim has an alter ego named Masky. While Tim is more calm yet violent and moody and often in some form of distress, Masky is short-tempered, violent, sadistic, and an awful man. Whenever Tim is Masky he claims he doesn't even remember the stuff he did, but he describes it as him blacking out. Tim isn't out often so during your internship you'll mostly be interacting with Masky, not Tim. If your interacting with Tim, don't think for a second he's nicer or safer. Tim can be rude, mean, manipulative and violent, but with Masky it's at a whole different degree. When dealing with Timothy, don't fall for his manipulation, tricks, charms, nothing. In the past he's been known to have lighters, cigarettes, guns and other things just from having one conversation with a guard. If Tim starts become more and more unstable, leave and call a hard to take him back to his cell to calm down. You have to have Strong skin if you're gonna deal with Tim/Masky. He's ruthless, blunt, sadistic and will make you cry and breakdown, all for his amusement. He often fights with Tobias and yells at his 'friend' Brian, who often either ignores him and mocks him.

Brain Thomas. A man in his early to mid 30s, arrested for Stalking, serial Murder, Theft, Kidnapping, suspected of sexual assault but is yet to be confirmed, vandalism, hacking, blackmail, breaking and entering, arson and torture. Sentenced to life in prison with possibility of parole after serving a minimum of 30 years. Brian also has an alter ego by the name of Hoodie. Brian is often quiet, observant and keeps to himself most of time, mostly only interacting with Tim and a few others but tends to be by himself in his cell most of the time. He has a reputation of being a charmer and a flirt with the guards only to use them to get stuff such as phones and cameras. What he needs the camera's for, we don't know. Hoodie on the other hand rarely talks. And when he does it's slightly deeper than Brian's voice. Hoodie is way more hostile and alert than Brian, and unlike Tim, Brian remembers everything that he does while as Hoodie. When you interact with Brian, don't listen to words, don't fall for his charms, and more specifically, don't fall for his blackmail. It's not sure how, but Brian has dirt on everyone who works at the prison, and anyone who hasn't followed his orders became another victim to his blackmail. Brian, just like his co-workers Tobias and Tim, is very sadistic and cruel, and surprisingly apathetic. He admitted that everytime his victims would cry or tell him how bad of person he was, he'd only smile and laugh and told them that he didn't care. When dealing with Brian, don't talk too much, and don't talk too little. Brian is a gather, an interrogator, he knows how to get info by any means.

Benjamin Lawman, also known as Ben Drowned. A man in his between the ages of 18 and 23. Ben is a ghost, or more a vengeful spirit, but he's like a human, being able to touched and seen. Ben was charged with serial murder, kinda of a cult leader, drug use, kidnapping, hacking, vandalism, torture, stealing government files, tampering of evidence, and suspected of rape but is yet to be confirmed. He is also on death row but the judge is considering possibly taking him out if he's willing to help them with tech, but by how things are going so far Ben is stuck on death row. Ben is a sadistic, apathetic, oppressive, controlling, perverted, master manipulator who literally doesn't give a shit about anything. His mugshot was like those teenage dirtbag videos you see on TikTok. Ben is known for starting power outages, corrupting camera footage, sexually harassing staff and making the prisoners in the other half of the prison his bitch just by manipulating them. Ben doesn't see prison as prison, he sees it as a small little vacation, the only thing missing is the tech and drugs. You are forbidden from interacting with Ben due to him being a high level threat. Those who have to interact with him remove any and all tech, including walkies and watches. Ben is held in a special cell, with him cuffed and against the wall. When you walk into his room, his glitched out voice erupted into laughter and he has a deranged smile on his face. He's extremely close with Jeffery and EJ, all them being trialed together and sentenced together. When he heard about you from Jeffery, he paid you a little visit on the camera feed, even walking out of the computer and touching you. They thought moving the computers to a different building would stop him, nope! If you ever were to run into Ben, protocol is to do what he says and get out as soon as possible. Ben loves how hot you are, he mainly wants your ass. Ben wants you purely for his own pleasure, both sexually and physically, he wants to hurt and fuck you so bad, but until he gets the chance to work with you, he must wait.

Jonathan Blake, or popularly known as The Puppeteer. A ghost between the ages of 20 to 30. An evil spirit. Charged with serial murder, Stalking, Breaking and Entering, and Abuse. He's been sentenced to life in prison without possiblity of parole. The Puppeteer is a dangerous and hostile being, in the past having interns and staff who struggled with their mental states to kill themselves after interacting with him only once. Due to this, you'll be getting a mental evaluation to see if you're classified to interact with him during your internship here. The Puppeteer does tend to be quite an emotional rollercoaster, sometimes he randomly enters states of rage and confusion before shutting down. We don't know much about his past, any time we tried asking he'll either be confused or enter a state of rage. If you are classified to interact with him, here's what you need to know. We don't call him Jonathon, he doesn't respond to the name, it's possible he might've blocked out his memories, so we call The Puppeteer, since that's what he responds to. Don't let him get to your head. The Puppeteer is infamous for the mass suicides in the area. He's extremely manipulative and also a charmer, so it's important not to fall for his antics. We does have two confirmed accomplices, but we are yet to confirm who exactly they are, nor have we caught them. One day during your internship you were caught by, golden strings? That's when you saw him. He claims that you were too beautiful to kill, but you would be perfect as a puppet. His mindless, emotionless puppet. Be careful around him, very careful.

#yandere creepypasta #ticci toby x reader #ticci toby x y/n #creepypasta x y/n #creepypasta x reader #ticci toby x you #yandere ticci toby #proxies x reader #yandere creepypasta x reader #Yandere creepypasta #creepypasta x you #masky x you #masky x reader #masky x y/n #hoodie x reader #hoodie x you #eyeless jack x reader #eyeless jack x y/n #eyeless jack x you #yandere eyeless jack #laughing jack x reader #laughing jack x you #ben drowned x reader #ben drowned x you #ben drowned x y/n #jeff the killer x y/n #jeff the killer x you #jeff the killer x reader #Yandere Jeff the killer #homicidal liu x reader

[whereserpentswalk]

You've been bitten by a werewolf. You didn't realize it at first of course. You were upstate on a camping trip and what looked like a distressed and out of place wolf just went up to you, and as you tried to fend it off with a rake it bit you. You assumed it was an escaped illegal pet due to how rare wolves are nowadays, but you were screened for rabies anyway just due to the way it behaved. Turns out it's a werewolf.

You're terrified, terrified that you'll hurt someone, possibly even someone you love. The suggestion that almost every piece of media about werewolves has given you is that you're a danger to everyone around you. The only two methods of dealing with it that you know of are taking drugs with life altering side effects, or being locked somewhere for the night.

Before even the first full moon of the month you look at a form for other werewolves. Turns out a lot of people who are freshly bitten have these types of fears and come there for help. The form explicitly discourages anyone from thinking of themselves as dangerous. There are almost no lethal werewolf attacks, any safety tips they have for you are going to purely center around the fact that humans might hurt you while you're a wolf. Especially for an urban werewolf like you where being caught risks institutionalization, something you though of as neutral but most of the form is very much agaisnt.

Their main suggestion for your safety is to stay with a freind who has space to take care of you, someone who you know well enough so that you'll trust even while in full wolf form. If you can go somewhere forested for the night, though that's more a tip about enjoying being a wolf then being at your maximum safety.

You also probably will be a creature somewhere between a wolf and a human for the nights before and after the full moon, depending on the exact nature of your condition you might experience some amount of partial change for up to about ten days out of the month. When that starts to happen the assumption is that you'll have enough of your mind to be able to be alone, and the suggestion is just that you stay in an area where people are accepting.

Your first night is the night before the full moon. Your half wolf half human for the entire night. Your worried you'll slip away from your identity so much that you'll hurt someone. You don't. Everything is largely fine. You're worried though. So very worried.

The next night you stay with a freind, as they suggested. You don't remember anything. Your freind said that they were afraid of you at first, ready to shoot you with a shotgun you didn't know they had. But in the end you just sort of sat there like a big dog, and trusted them as much as you would when you were in human form.

As time goes on it becomes more casual. You don't think of it as a big deal. You realize how low the likelihood of actually hurting someone is. Some full moons you spend being protected by freinds and treated like a weird pet, other nights you go to the woods, and enjoy the feelings of running around. The nights before and after the full moon, you just treat like any other night, only really having to deal with people's perception of you as a difference.

Over time you learn how people treat you differently. You have to disclose everything to your employer, which makes finding a job far harder. It's harder to rent an apartment. Most first world countires outside America won't let you in. You can't buy a weapon in most states, can't get most insurance. Even the medical system has set you to automatically do not resuscitate. You can't even really date outside the werewolf community now, or occasionally withbrealated communities like witches or vampires, but most normal humans don't trust you.

People who know you worry to much. They suggest every restrictive solution you discarded in the first month. People want you to move "somewhere safer", wherever that it. They want you to take things you know won't cure you, or buy into whatever pseudoscience they've gotten a hold of. People are worried you'll hurt someone even when you're so very sure you'll be fine.

It was never that you were a wolf. It was that everyone else was that everyone else thought of you as one.

#196 #worldbuilding #writing #my writing #my thougts #wolf #werewolves #werewolf #fantasy #urban fantasy #short fiction #short story #flash fiction #mad pride

[merakiui]

it's trey's birthday!!!!! >:) to celebrate, here are a few trey thoughts and concepts.

(cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, gaslighting, mention of non-con, sk!trey, mention of love potion/drugging, brief nsfw, implied somnophilia)

✧ trey using his um to make you think you're free and can go anywhere, when in reality all this time you've been confined to a single room and every "place" you've gone to is simply the result of his unique magic altering your senses. that bakery you visited with him? that didn't really happen. the library? not real. the park? nonexistent. it's just you and trey in this single room and you've yet to figure it out. :)

✧ being trey's friend since childhood and you've always had a crush on him. the two of you have been inseparable, but when he goes off to nrc and you're left in the queendom of roses to attend school there your feelings start to dampen...and very quickly at that. the reason? trey hasn't been around to feed you the love potion he mixed into the pastries. he's been doing it since the two of you were children. it started as an accident when he unintentionally knocked it into the practice batter and you ate it and... he just likes it when you're in love with him. is that so terrible of a thing to want? :< meanwhile, you've always thought your feelings for him were true. ;;;

✧ au in which trey and rook are roommates and you're desperately trying to find a place to stay. isn't it so nice and convenient that your two friends have an extra room open for you to take? :) don't worry about paying rent with money. you can pay with other things.

✧ researcher trey x captive mer darling. maybe you're scared or anxious around humans and he's ultimately the one who befriends you. of course he does so with his own intentions in mind...

✧ trey with a darling who has a fear of men and he helps you get more comfortable around him by showing you he's safe and would never hurt you. he's just so gentle and so trustworthy and so sweet; he's so good at minding your personal space and being so patient and helpful. unfortunately, he just wants you to be more comfortable so it'll be easier to slide into your heart. and maybe he gets impatient and non-cons you instead. :( all of that trust... shattered. but now he has you all to himself and can slowly twist your perception of him in the strangest ways. he gaslights you into thinking that other men would do the same thing, but it'd be much worse and so you can really only ever trust and rely on him. see? doesn't he treat you so softly? you don't have to be scared; he helps you, saves you, protects you. he's good and others are bad.

✧ i never talk about trey's starsending robes, but omg they're so !!!!!!! stargazer trey who is there to collect your wish and you wish for a boyfriend because you thought it'd be a silly and lighthearted wish to make. trey is going to grant that wish if it's the last thing he does. >:D

✧ vampire trey.

✧ trey helping you fix your gag reflex by fucking your mouth often!!!! <3 now when you brush your tongue you won't gag anymore. :)

✧ serial killer trey and his obsession with collecting full sets of teeth from his victims. your teeth are especially fascinating to him, and thus you shall be his next victim.

✧ tooth fairy trey LOL.

✧ dentist trey......... but he's the dentist from novocaine. the sheer gaslighting in this song omg. the "you're bleeding now cuz you never floss" line.......... dentist trey is my beloved. i hope others can see this vision.

✧ OMG WAIT. dentist trey and dr. riddle... the two horsemen of the medical malpractice apocalypse. ;;;;;;;;;;; maybe they're roommates and you see the both of them for annual check-ups, so it's over for you when you wake shackled in their flat. T_T they know your medical history so well; you're in good hands.

✧ trey who takes care of you when you're sick, only to realize he quite likes it when you're so weak and feeble. he intentionally keeps you sick so you'll rely on him and if you think something's amiss he gaslights all of your worries away, minimizing them with a simple, "it must be a rough flu season..." or "don't push yourself so hard; you'll only get sicker." >:( no!!!! trey, you're the one making darling sicker!!!!!! in the same vein that trey is your greatest pathogen, he is also your greatest panacea. for only he gets to decide when you can heal and get better. :)

✧ you often party a lot with cater, so trey's seen you when you're intoxicated far too many times. he tries to be upstanding and honest on the surface, if only to look normal and reliable. but how can he resist when you're right there on his bed, passed out like a corpse?

#meraki mumbles #yandere twst #tw: noncon mention #tw: somnophilia

[split-spectrum]

Water and Rock

Chapter 12

Pairings: Obi Wan/FemReader

Warnings/Tags: (please read updated tags for this chapter <3) explicit content, i.e. SMUT, 18+ only - minors DNI. sex, oral sex, cum play, dubious consent, drug use, hair pulling, very slight violence

Chapter Length: 8K

Description: There are only so many excuses a master and padawan can make to kiss under "extenuating circumstances" before circumstances stop arising and start being created. You are an expert at your craft - a Jedi knight in service as a spy for the Republic. When your former master Obi Wan joins you on a mission, it's clear things aren't the same as they once were. The trials you face together may break your bond, or turn it into something else entirely.

☆☆☆

Thirty-Second Hour

When you sink back into the vision, you let out a slow, albeit shaky breath, to steady yourself. The instant that you can see again, it's clear the effort was wasted. 

He's brought you right back to the spot you'd left - the sudden, choked noise in the back of his throat letting you know he's close- so close. Everything in his body language is telling you he's seconds from spilling into you. 

But no matter how much the drugs may have altered his mind, Obi Wan is still Obi Wan, and he is nothing if not brutally controlled. 

He's dragging it out, you realize. The obscene sound of him fucking you has slowed into a steadier rhythm and you hear the first half of a desperate moan escape you before it's cut off. You watch your own hand fly up to cover your mouth. Your jaw looks tight from this angle. 

Obi Wan doesn't slow down, doesn't miss a beat of rocking his hips, releasing his hand from your throat and deftly sweeping up to uncover your mouth. He pulls your hand away, dragging it down and pressing his grip over yours until you're holding your own throat. 

"No, no," he admonishes next to your ear. "If it feels good, young one, you mustn't be quiet about it."

You hear the whining groan that answers him. You nearly mirror it, in the here-and-now. 

It's beyond you, how he's able to keep his voice so composed while the rest of him is nearly snapping, at the obvious precipice of his orgasm. Every muscle is taut, glistening with sweat as he pumps diligently into your body. Your thighs clench around him, a sign that you're close, too, and he notices. 

The hand he'd been using to hold your hip slides between your legs and though you can't see it, you feel the movement in his thoughts when two of his fingers drag the wetness from where you're dripping around his cock, spreading it over your clit. Your desperate noises turn strangled. 

"There we are," he soothes. "Be a good girl and show your master. Let me feel-"

The vision blurs, the Obi Wan in the room with you breathing unsteadily. You feel him shake his head, dropping the tips of his fingers away from you. "Forgive me, I-"

But you're aching now, and you don't hold back your impulse, lifting your hand to his head, brushing your middle finger gently up from the hair at his ear over to his temple, and resting it there. "Oh, don't stop. Please."

His aura is so thick with desire that when you open your eyes to look into his, you're not sure if the air around you has turned hazy. He relents almost immediately. 

"Let me feel you come," the Obi Wan in the vision purrs, the sound of his voice filling your mind again. The honeyed rumble of his command burns through your bloodstream and coils up hot in your stomach. You're about to come in the vision. You might come now, just from watching. 

Your body shudders on top of him, doing as he's told you, tumbling over the edge hard and fast, and crumbling against him with a mess of moaning and finally a high, keening sound that could be his name. He turns it into a choked whine, tightening his grip around your larynx and fucking into you even harder when your climax starts to taper off. 

Your voice goes quiet, and when your movements begin to slow, he pulls his hand from between your legs and folds you onto your side. His other hand finally releases your throat as you roll, and his leg hooks behind your knee, opening you up for him to reach even deeper. 

"That's it," he pants roughly, your body spasming beneath him and your voice pitching upward again. His mouth is pressed into the nape of your neck, where the marks from his teeth are starting to turn dark. 

One of his thumbs hooks down to brush your nipple, his lips meet your neck in a kiss that you remember feeling, and all at once, you recognize what you're seeing. This is the scene he'd shown you, back on the ship, during your meditation. 

But he hadn't shown you all of it. 

You can see the dazed, glassy look in your own eyes as he bears down on you, his thrusts turning ragged, grinding you into the floor. 

"Obi Wan," your plea comes out guttural, wrecked, and the sound of it it makes your head swim. You realize it's his reaction you're feeling, and suddenly it's like you're floating out of your own body. It's overwhelming and at the same time, not enough. It's you; it's him. You can't tell whose feelings you're having anymore, or whether they're a part of the vision, or something happening right now, in the room you're sharing. You don't know where the line is. You don't know if there is a line. 

"Fuck-" he says, hard and clipped. He leans into his forearm, pinning you down, and you bite the inside of your lip to keep from becoming a whimpering mess while watching the man you'd always known as tender, who'd never accepted anything not freely offered, bury himself into you. Watching him take and take and take exactly what he wants, losing himself in cruelty; in pleasure... 

This time, when Obi Wan brings the vision to an end, it's a slow stop. Like breaking the surface of the water and coming up for air. It's not as definitive and sudden as before. You can still feel it while you're gazing into his eyes. His lips are bright, pink, and slightly parted. He closes them into a hard line, to swallow.

You're so wrapped in the vision and in wanting to feel more of him that your consciousness keeps pressing up against his, at first. To the point where Obi Wan not only cuts off the contact between you, but actually begins to push back. The walls of his mind are rigid once again, and his presence is firmly closed off. 

It takes an eternity for you to gather yourself. You're too afraid to speak. Your hand is still at his temple, resting against the warmth of his face, and you stay there. You're not ready to break your connection with his skin.

"Obi Wan..." His name leaves your mouth before you're ready to talk, and the rest of your mind catches up clumsily as you realize your tone is too breathy and far too intimate. His eyelids dip deliciously, and it nearly sends you over the edge. But you swallow, vehemently tamping down your desires, and force yourself to even out your voice. 

"Thank you," you tell him simply. "For showing me. Now I know."

You shift in the bedding, bringing your noses just a bit closer. 

"Now you know," he says back. There's a long, loaded silence hanging over you. He's trying to remain unreadable, as he always does, but you'd caught that first look he'd given when the vision ended, and it was enough to tell you why he's still lying next to you instead of moving away. 

The wind howls outside, and it's the first time in hours that you've thought about the rest of the world existing.

"Was it... as you thought it would be?" 

His question catches you completely by surprise, and you have no idea how to answer. 

The silence that envelops you is perilous. The kind of silence that threatens to make you into a fool. The kind of fool that would lean in and close your lips over his. And you can't allow that to happen.

Because even as you're coming down from the high of watching him take you in ways you'd never even let yourself imagine, you know - you know that if you were to press your lips against his, he would stop you. He would do it gently, but the disappointment and shame would tear you apart. 

So, you allow yourself to bask in the feeling of this moment for just a little longer before you pull away. You feel numb when you speak, forcing yourself to operate on auto pilot. 

"I don't think there's a good answer to that question," you murmur, almost lowering your voice to a whisper.

His eyes betray nothing, but he smiles softly, and you see the tightness in it. 

"Right," he says. "Of course not."

A thousand words go unsaid. You want to tell him that it was nothing like you'd imagined because you can't allow yourself those kinds of thoughts for even a moment - even a second - or they'd seep into you so deeply you'd never be able to think of anything else. 

"I'm... going to get some sleep," you tell him instead, flatly, breaking your gaze apart from his at last. 

You roll over, putting some distance between your bodies. You close your eyes. But you can't find sleep.

Thirty-Sixth Hour

 

"Fuck-" he says, hard and clipped. He leans into his forearm, pinning you down...

You've seen this before. 

Obi Wan cums, and it fills you, and he fucks you through it. He keeps fucking you until the air has left your lungs, and until the room is silent, and until his muscles drop him to the floor, cock still wrapped inside you. He looks down, watching himself drip down the backs of your thighs. He moves slightly, watching himself ease out of you and then disappear inside you again. He's dripping. And still hard. 

"You-" your voice beside him sounds far away, delirious, blissed-out. Like any words are an afterthought. You can hear yourself panting, and after a long time, you try speaking again. "You... finished inside me."

Obi Wan's gaze flicks up to your face, looking at your closed eyes, your face pressed sideways against the floor. He's still moving in long, unhurried strokes, and after a while, he brings his eyes back to where he's slow-fucking you. 

Your body is still so pliant, so willing, beneath him. The noises you make are warm and soft, inviting him to stay exactly where he is. "I wasn't aware," he drawls, "we were in the midst of making careful decisions."

The filthy sound of him entering you again and again ends when he bends down and presses his hands around your waist, pulling himself out of you with a soft groan. 

"Turn over," he tells you, settling back, pants still around his legs. 

You sit up slowly and your hand wraps around his cock, keeping your connection as you start to turn around. He stands up, looking down at you, and you come up to your knees, bobbing your head forward to spread your lips eagerly around him. The warmth makes him stop still, easing the lower half of his body into your welcome embrace. 

His knees unstiffen for a brief moment while you swallow his cum, cleaning him dutifully with eyes locked on his. It only lasts a moment before he's snaking a hand behind your head. It's not clear at first whether he's pulling you closer or stopping you, but when his fingers tighten in your hair, the message is clear. 

He jerks your head up, your mouth still full of him.

"Did I say, 'get on your knees'?" His hand follows your head as you shake it gently back and forth, gagging on him. "No, I didn't. I told you to turn over."

He releases your hair and drags his hand down to your chin, pressing into your jawbone. "You don't listen." 

He pulls you off, your face pinched between his thumb and his knuckle, shoving you backward and sinking down between your legs all in one fluid motion. He crowds you, aligning his hips with yours, your body half-pressed against the floor and the wall of the ship. You dimly wonder how he could still be hard, but decide to simply attribute it to the drugs, not particularly caring about the cause so much as the effect.

Slowly pressing inside you again, he rubs his thumb tenderly over the spot he'd squeezed on your jaw. "What was all that training for, hm?" 

He pulls back, dropping his other hand to the juncture of your hip, and shoves his cock into you so hard it draws out a yelp, even as his hand gently cups your face. "So disobedient."

Obi Wan ends the vision like slamming a book shut. This time, when your eyes open to meet his, they're stormy, dilated. Dark.

You aren't prepared to mask your feelings when you're suddenly awakened and blinking back into consciousness. You just gaze back at him, not hiding your hunger. Not keeping your energy hidden, but letting it bleed out so that he can feel what he's done to you. The fire is all but gone, dying embers lighting the corners of the room. The air is sharp and icy.

"I'm sorry. That was not-" He breaks off, shaking his head. "I'm sorry."

"Don't-" you tell him, moving closer to his warmth. You try to calm your breathing, and into the cold silence you whisper, nerves raw, "Fuck." The obscenity escapes you before you can think to catch it.

He stares. Then he seems to gather himself and clears his throat. "In my sleep I... failed to guard my thoughts." You're silent, still reeling, and he lowers his voice. "Now you remember as much as I do. Or... nearly."

You're taking careful breaths, drinking in the way his mouth curves when he speaks. "Nearly?"

The muscles in his jaw tighten. "I would... prefer it if only I remember the rest."

Despite his somber tone, you can't help your body's reaction. You want to pull him to you. You want to beg him to take you further into this darkness. You're flushed with heat when you think about the things he did. Imagining him taking it further is driving you to the point of madness.

"I understand," you tell him instead, finding your voice weak. 

"I regret it," he says, more of a statement of fact than an apology. "Hurting you."

"And," you surprise yourself, speaking without thinking, "the rest?"

He doesn't say anything for several long heartbeats. 

"I wish none of it had happened," he says at last, with stark directness. Then his gaze softens. "But, if I could have chosen, it would not have been... like that."

Your heart thuds wildly. Your voice is barely audible. "No?"

His eyelashes dip once, then twice, as he seems to hold back his answer. He looks stunningly beautiful, pinning you under a deadly serious expression. "No."

It's a long time before you can bring yourself to say anything back.

"I should go." 

The spell over him suddenly seems to break, and he tilts a brow, watching you reach for the robe lying on the floor behind you. "Go? Where?"

It's late. Or it's early. But you've rested enough to call this morning, and though there's only darkness outside, you push your blankets to your waist and sit up. If you stay here even a few more seconds, you will try to have him. Looking at him like this - hair a mess, eyes wild - you stand absolutely no chance.

You wrap the robe around yourself, stepping carefully out of the makeshift bed you'd been half-sharing, and you back away slowly. "I think I should meditate," you tell him. "I think I should be... alone."

You can tell he's trying to read your expression in the dim light of the fire, and you turn away, after giving him a curt bow of your head to take your leave. It's so overly formal that your stomach turns in embarrassment. You don't know how else to behave. 

It's cold and dark inside your sleeping quarters, and as you turn the knob to close the door, you heave a sigh of relief. You won't be able to stay in here for long without any heat, but cold and dark is exactly what you need. You sit on your freezing sheets, pulling your legs up and crossing them with a shiver. 

But you know now that it doesn't matter how cold it is. He's burning through you, and it won't stop.

 

Thirty-Seventh Hour

 

When you emerge from your room, you find that Obi Wan hasn't gone back to sleep, either. He's lit another candle in the kitchen, and his hands are busy in the sink, washing one of the cups you'd used earlier. When he sees you walking up beside him, he finishes rinsing and sets it to the side. Then he turns to you, wiping his hands on a towel. His face holds some concern, but it's reserved.

"You don't need to do that," you tell him, nodding to the cup. 

"I thought it best to take advantage of the running water while we still can."

Sensible as always. 

He holds the towel, just looking at you, not making any move to come closer. He looks unbelievably handsome like this - wearing his bed clothes, a simple brown undershirt and pants, with his sleeves rolled up to keep from getting wet. 

"Are you alright?" He floats the question quietly to you. 

You nod, crossing the short distance between you and sitting down at the table to look up at him. "I'm sorry for leaving."  

"I understand. You needed time."

You nod again, not elaborating on his comment. "Can I ask you something?" you venture.

"Of course."

"Back on the ship, when we were... meditating," you begin haltingly. "You showed me such a... small part. Why didn't you tell me you remembered so much more?"

His features are contemplative for just a moment before the corner of his mouth turns up. "You didn't ask."

Your throat feels sticky as you try to push out your next words. "I wanted to tell you... Not that it matters now, but..." you sigh, then try again. "I'm on a contraceptive. I don't know if you worried about-"

"Yes, I know."

That catches you by surprise, and you stare at him for an explanation.

"You told me, later," he elaborates quietly. In your long silence, he adds, more seriously, "I would have spoken to you about it. All of it. I wanted to, for some time."

The pain his words cause you is unintentional, but you nearly wince anyway. While you'd been ignoring him, focused on dealing with your own feelings, you hadn't shown any concern for his. He'd wanted to be open and honest about everything. But you'd kept him alone, instead.

You open your mouth to say something - to apologize, or try to make it right. But he goes on, closing the subject. "But perhaps it was for the best. After all, what could it have changed?" He places the towel on the counter, looking down, then smiles back up at you. "Sometimes talking only complicates a simple matter."

You have no response. Just an aching feeling. Your chance to make this right is long gone, and anything you say would seem empty. Finally, dumbly, you glance over at the wood stove in the other room. "I should make us something to eat."

His smile softens, tapering off. A thousand thoughts seem to be playing behind his eyes, but he only answers what you've said. "Breakfast would be very nice. Thank you."

You stand up and busy yourself with the kettle, picking up the towel from the counter to dry it, and he begins washing another dish. You don't stop him this time.

--

"Would you mind if I borrow these?" He holds up a small pair of scissors, their golden shine twinkling in the dim light, pulling your attention from the simmering water you'd been checking.

You glance up from the fire, replacing the lid on the kettle. Then you look down at the table where he'd presumably found the scissors, sitting next to a plant. "Hm? Oh. Sure. What for?"

He brushes a hand over the edge of his beard. "I've been in need of a trim."

You turn to face him, quirking an eyebrow. "I use those to cut my plants. They might be dirty."

He gives you a smile. "Oh believe me, I've made due with worse." He turns toward the refresher. "Thank you. I'll give them a rinse."

You stand up from where you'd been crouching next to the fire, deciding to leave the water a little longer to come to a full boil, and go back to preparing the jogan fruit. 

As you finish cutting up the last of the fruit, you reach for a plate, and when your fingertips graze its edge, a cool, creeping sensation suddenly trickles down your spine. You stop, staring at the ceramic pattern in front of you. Stretching your mind into the Force, you try to capture the fleeting feeling, but it leaves as quickly as it came.

You stand there another moment, almost wondering whether you should ask Obi Wan if he'd felt it, too. But really, you aren't even sure it was anything in the Force you'd felt. You glance around one more time, and sensing nothing more, you place the fruit down on the plate and head back into the main room. 

Picking up the packet of polystarch portion bread and shaking it in one hand, you use your other hand to lift the lid on the kettle and check for a proper boil. Seeing the bubbles break on the surface, you reach down, using a cloth to move the kettle from the stove. 

...Bright red feathers. Scrabbling claws digging into the crevices of a rocky cliff face at a dizzying speed. A leap, and a blinding light...

Your hand slips, the kettle jolts forward-

...the teal of protective outer scales turn into the tan of a soft underbelly. The tan and brown of a Jedi's clothing isn't far behind. Hands grasp to reach leather reigns, a futile gesture as the creature and the Jedi are now falling, falling... His blue saber's light is extinguished and you can feel his pain and confusion as the explosion of rubble surrounds him, following him down into the endless abyss...

You bark out in pain and jerk your hand away, the boiling water splashing over your skin as the kettle crashes to the ground. Sucking air through your teeth, you instinctively grasp around your wrist and look down at your burned hand. 

Before you can get a good look at it, you hear the door of the refresher swing open and Obi Wan call your name with concern. 

You turn to face him, wincing. "Sorry, it was nothing, I-"

When you catch sight of him, you stop talking. The connection between your mind and your mouth has fizzled out. He crosses the room, trading looks between you and the overturned kettle, clearly trying to decipher what had happened, while you stand speechless, pain in your hand momentarily forgotten. He's bare-chested, presumably to keep his shirt clean while trimming his beard, and he's nothing but angled brows and perfect lines of hard muscle as he approaches you cautiously. 

You take a breath, embarrassed, and try again. "It's nothing, I just got distracted and I dropped the kettle."

His eyes slide to your hand, where you're still holding your own wrist. "Are you alright?"

You pull your hand up, inspecting it properly for the first time. It's a little red, just on the back of your thumb down to the start of your wrist, where the water had splashed. 

You shake your head dismissively. "I'm fine. I'll run it under cold water."

He gently reaches a hand out. "May I see it?"

Your heart is still racing from your... dream? Vision? Whatever it had been. But it doesn't slow down at all when he takes your hand in his, holding you still. He looks back up at you. "You should put something on this."

You make no effort to pull your hand back. "It's just a little burn."

"Burns can be deceiving," he tells you, then turns around, heading back to the refresher. A moment later, he emerges with some bacta gel and a gauze wrap. He's also carrying his shirt, but he doesn't put it on quite yet. 

His hand finds the small of your back and gently guides you into the kitchen, toward the sink. "Don't be difficult."

You try to ignore the way your mind turns immediately back to the same commanding tone he'd used in the earlier vision.

He turns the faucet on for you to run your hand under cold water while he twists off the cap. The cool relief does wonders for your hand, but it does nothing for the heat in your face as he stands in front of you like this, on display. 

His body has always been lithe, almost wiry, but it seems the war has made him a little bulkier. His shoulders are rounded, his ribs lined with lean muscle. You're doing your best to keep your eyes trained on the water pouring out of the sink, but when he turns around briefly to find a place on the counter to set down the cap, you drink him in from behind, trailing your gaze from the lines of his trim waist up to his shoulder blade, where the stark contrast of dark ink paints his skin. 

The symbol there has lived at the edge of your consciousness ever since you first saw it, back on Keoth. Watching his muscles move underneath the tattoo is making you weak in the knees, and your chest rises with a weighty breath when he turns back to face you. 

"Come now, it can't be that bad," he says with a half-smile. The way his eyes glitter in the candlelight sends a shiver through you, and you shake your head again, trying to remain in control of your thoughts, despite the way they're continually running away from you. 

"It isn't. Not that bad," you murmur. He puts his hand out for yours again, and you turn off the water and offer yourself over to him. He holds you carefully, tenderly turning your arm to the side and patting it dry with a dish towel. 

He pauses, holding your hand in his, drawing his eyes up to meet yours. For a moment neither of you speaks, and you both seem acutely aware of how close you're standing, how little clothing separates you, and how tenderly he's touching you. 

He lowers his gaze. "This will sting."

Normally, you'd make a sarcastic comment at that. You're both intimately familiar with using bacta to treat wounds. But he's filling the silence, and you know it, and since neither of you is going to comment on why this silence is so pervasive, you bite your tongue.

He swipes the gel onto his fingers, then gently dabs it across your skin. You try to concentrate on anything besides the feeling of his touch. Your eyes drift to his shoulder again, though you can't see the tattoo from this angle. He catches the glance and you lower your eyes quickly. 

He doesn't say anything for a moment, and you wonder if you've offended him by staring. But when he pulls back his hand to get more bacta gel, you find him looking more pensive than anything. He's using one hand to slick a finger over the top of the gel tube, and he's still holding your wrist with the other. "I've never told you what it means - that symbol of mine. Would you like to know?"

You flick your eyes up from his hand. You nod, half-opening your mouth to say "yes," but never quite getting the word out.

"It's an ancient dialect of Mando'a," he tells you, "When I was very young, Qui Gon and I spent some time on Mandalore. We were still finding our balance as master and padawan, and having some... difficulties."

He slides the cool gel across your skin again in a second layer, two fingers gliding flat over your wrist. "While we were staying with a small band of Mandalorians, I had decided to partake in their clan's tradition and get a tattoo. The design I'd chosen was the symbol of the Republic, as I felt there was nothing by which I could better define myself."

His finger traces along your thumb. "But when I told my master, he was not as enthusiastic as I had expected." He looks down, carefully using his own thumb to swipe away the excess gel from around your burn. "He told me to think carefully about the way I chose to define myself, and the ideals to which I committed. Of course, lacking any understanding of nuance at the time, I believed that he was disapproving what I'd chosen, and it led to a heated discussion."

He looks wistful for a moment, then melts into a smile with a shake of his head, and starts to unwind the gauze. "I said that I would never regret branding myself with the symbol of that which I held most dear. "

He finishes wrapping your wrist and uses the scissors to cut the gauze, tucking away the end, then draws his gaze up to meet yours. "And he, in turn, told me that the Force created living beings for a reason. That reason is simply to live. To experience all that the universe has to offer. Some experiences are worth a stain. Worth a scar." Obi Wan gently removes his hand from yours. "'We all carry scars in the end, but it's up to us to decide which ones are worth having.'"

You shift your arm back down to your side. "But, you got the tattoo anyway?"

He gives another smile. "Oh, yes. The next day, I returned to him with something I was very proud of. I'd gotten tattooed with their symbol for 'regret'."

You look at him in utter confusion and he goes on to explain. "You see, I thought I'd taken my master's words to heart. After our disagreement, I wanted to show him I understood. I now had a permanent reminder that any decisions I made about how to define myself would stay with me forever."

You raise your brows. "...and Qui Gon? What did he say to that?"

Obi Wan picks up his shirt from the countertop, then starts to pull it over his arms. Your eyes dart to his exposed stomach, then quickly dart away. "I believe it was the most disappointment he'd ever shown in me." He finishes pulling it over his head and down his stomach. "Which annoyed me to no end, of course. And we never spoke of it again."

You watch the candlelight play across his features, his thoughts seeming far away. Brushing your hand over your bandaged wrist, you lean your hip into the countertop and look down at the floor. 

His voice is very soft when he speaks again. "It wasn't until much later that I realized how I'd missed his point entirely." 

You look back up at him. "It's still a beautiful symbol."

He meets your eyes. "Yes, it is. And the lesson becomes clearer each day."

He holds your gaze a little longer, then picks up the bacta and the scissors, and leaves to put them away. You stare at the overturned kettle on the ground, and your thoughts linger on his words while you pick it up, and refill it, and while you finish preparing the food. You want to ask him what he'd meant, but you know. 

The way he'd looked at you - you know. 

Through breakfast, you talk about the war.

 

Thirty-Eighth Hour

You exhale, the Force rolling through you, and release your tension from your shoulders down to your fingertips. Your eyes are closed, the hum of your saber the only noise in the room. 

After breakfast you'd tried reading again in an attempt to distract yourself from the unbearable tension plucking at your mind, but had found yourself unable to sit still. After having pushed most of the furniture in the main room up against the walls, you're now standing in your makeshift dojo, practicing lightsaber techniques. 

You run repeatedly through your opening stance, then begin to move through more advanced forms, muscles glad for their use. As you bring your saber upright, you shift your body around it slowly and deliberately. It's a type of meditation you've practiced so much that it's second nature.

Sliding one foot backward, you glide into the next pose and you hear the door to the next room open, Obi Wan leaving the refresher, presumably finished with the trim that he'd started earlier. You can feel him watching you, saying nothing until he crosses the room.

"If that's meant to be 'circle of shelters', your left arm is a bit low."

Your eyelids open smoothly. "It's 'singing fortress'."

"Ah, well in that case, you would want to tighten your stance. Your knees should be aligned with your shoulders."

You drop your blade slightly, reforming your body around it and easing back into the same position, with an emphatically tighter stance. 

"Better. Now, your chin-" You look at him, and the rest of his sentence hangs in the air, then dissipates as he gives a slightly rueful smile. "I'm sorry. Old habits die hard, I'm afraid. I'll leave you to it."

Many years ago, when you hadn't known each other in the same way, you might have tensed under his scrutiny. But not now. For the first time since he'd arrived, his comments had made things between you feel almost... normal. He's always shown his affection, even what could be called compassion, through criticism. 

"Would you like to join me?" you ask suddenly, opening your stance back up, "Whatever guidance you have to offer, I'll gladly take."

It's meant as an olive branch to his intrusion. It is, just for a moment, like you're back in the temple, during one of the many times he'd found you running through exercises and stepped in. It's only courteous for you to invite him. It's courtesy that should keep him from accepting, now. But, surprisingly, it doesn't. 

He looks around. "There isn't much room."

You take that as your answer, tightly whipping your saber behind your shoulder with a bit of flourish. You face him. "Never been a problem before."

The tightness in his face sifts away, his eyes brightening. "True."

You had practiced in many a smaller space than this, although those spaces were designed for training in tight quarters and not surrounded by your personal belongings. Still, your blood is thrumming unexpectedly at the prospect of a spar after two days cramped inside, and you don't much mind if your walls get singed. 

Obi Wan reaches to his belt. Having changed out of his bed clothes, he has his lightsaber clipped back at the waist of his tunic. Unless asleep, even in this setting, he's still battle-ready. 

He illuminates his saber, then eases into a simple opening pose, arms raised, both hands on his hilt. "Perhaps this will do us both some good."

For a moment, you're silent, feeling one another's signatures.

You strike first. 

The burst of light and sound that erupts across the room is cathartic. Green and blue, groaning through the air, then exploding against the darkness. It makes your fingers tingle; your muscles tighten. 

You press in, then let him push you back, testing strengths, listening in the force for the hum of his aura. He winds his wrist casually around in a circle, grinning. "I see your hand has healed nicely."

Buzzing, you begin to circle him. "You'll go easy on me since I'm injured, won't you?"

He mirrors you, winding around the room in slow half-steps. "Have I done so in the past?"

You lunge, a quick swipe, and he crouches, hardly dodging. You'd anticipated the movement, using his shifted center to let you roll your blade in a semi-circle and drive back toward him. He meets it with a graceful side swipe, redirecting your attack to the ceiling. Whipping around, you stab at him and you feel a puff of air leave him as he cracks his blade against yours, pushing you back without so much ease as the first time. 

When you step back, his lightsaber comes crashing over you in ruthless, repetitive swipes. He knocks you back into yourself until your shoulders are tight and beginning to ache from the effort of rebuffing him. Relenting at last, he leaves you to catch your breath. His careful, slow steps around you are no longer playful. 

"Your speed has improved," he tells you. "I can feel you sensing my attempts as the thoughts form. Very good." As he finishes the word 'good', his blade crosses yours suddenly and he presses in until his face and the two blades are inches from your face. "You should be careful, though, when my thoughts are guarded."

He'd closed himself off and attacked so quickly, you'd barely had enough time to counter, let alone anticipate. Your eyes narrow. "You never tried that trick when I was a padawan."

He lets out a soft, breathy laugh. "There are many things I've learned since you were my padawan."

Shoving him back, you roll your shoulder and widen your stance. "I see. So this is new."

With a twinkle in his eye, he lets his shoulders drop into a deceptively relaxed pose. "You know me. I'm full of surprises."

You whirl on him again, and for a long time neither of you says another word, blades and muscles speaking for you. You're well-trained in defensive positions, so you make as many attempts as you can to bait him into attacking, but your few successes are hardly worth the effort. It's clear he's driving the fight from every angle. By the end, though, you're both panting. 

"You've practiced well, young one," he admits, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth as he straightens his back, ready for another round. 

You catch your breath, swallowing. "Not much else I could do with my time."

He slashes, you block. He slashes again. "That's not entirely true, though, is it?"

You take a step back, letting his next swipe pass, then raise a brow. "What do you mean?"

"You chose to come here. You speak as though the choice was someone else's."

You have to struggle to repel his next strike, caught off-guard by the remark. "I know. I know it was my choice."

"If you were bored by the assignment, you could have returned to duty."

"Yes," you say, your voice growing softer, but your returning thrusts becoming more ambitious, more intense. "I could have."

"Then why not come back?" He bats your attempts away with equal fervor. "After a year? Why not come back to Coruscant?"

Your wide eyes meet his. "What?"

He draws back from you, his arms spread, his saber to the side. Still on guard, but not locked into your aggression. "You heard the question."

You take one, then two breaths. Then you lunge at him wildly, pinning him against the wall. "You know the answer."

"Then tell me."

You're panicking, and you know he can feel it. You sink your blade downward in a futile attempt to rend his hilt away from him, but he blocks it easily. 

You force your expression to remain steady as you step away, pulling your shoulders back, hard. "The same reason you came here to tell me we can't work together."

His face drops, and he echoes your earlier heart-wrenched, "What?"

You shake your head slightly, confused at his reaction. When he stares at you, you raise your saber in defense, staring back. "Is that not the answer you expected?"

His saber is low at his side. "I... had thought it was fear that kept you here. I wanted to help you admit it. Face it."

"It was fear." You stand still for a moment, then remember your lightsaber and swing it. "What did you think I meant?"

He parries. Then he stabs at your side, forcing you to step left, where he pulls back his blade to meet your throat. "You told me you'd stayed because you could no longer trust in the Force."

He's won the round, in more ways than one. You've let too much slip. 

You raise your arms and concede the point to him. He backs off, but his gaze is still pinned on you, waiting for your answer. You admit as much as you can without admitting anything at all. "When you said we shouldn't work together - you were right." 

"Meaning?" He presses, and somehow you can still feel his blade at your throat. 

A long, slow, painful silence. You tighten your palm around your hilt until it hurts. "I think I've made my feelings clear." Anxiety ripples from you, the Force crashing around your aura erratically. You flick your wrist, swinging your saber down and behind your back, where you trade hands. Your left arm brings a surprise attack down on Obi Wan, who catches it at the last second. It isn't a particularly impressive move, but you know he wasn't expecting it from you, which made it useful in the moment. "Something I can't ask from you."

It isn't fair for you to turn things on him like this, but your goal isn't to be fair. It's too late to turn back. You can only redirect. He raises a brow, then spins to deflect your left-handed strikes backhanded. "And what does that mean?"

The words are pouring out of you now, thoughts half-formed as you jab and dodge, pulse pounding. "It means you can't expect me to talk about my feelings when you showed up at my door to tell me we'd never see each other again with hardly a goodbye."

He meets you blow for blow with ease, but the look on his face is disoriented. "I never said that."

You match his shocked expression. "You told me this was the last time we'd ever work together."

"The last time that I thought we should work together, yes, but certainly not the last time we should see one another."

It's as if you can actually hear the sound of your final shred of sanity being torn apart. Though your mind is racing in a thousand directions, you try to calm yourself enough to speak as your sabers meet. You hold still, and so does he. "And why did you say it?"

For the first time in your spar, his eyes are pleading for mercy. He says nothing. 

You grit your teeth, holding your blade against his, unable to pull away from the path you're set on. You need to know. "You told me not to pretend anymore. Please, Obi Wan. The truth."

"You already know the truth. Must I say the words?" He bends your arms back, putting more weight against you. 

You step back, put off-balance, and the back of your knee brushes against the chaise lounge. There's no room left for you to back away.

"Yes," you tell him, forcing yourself to keep looking into his eyes, and not to look away. 

He crushes his blade against yours, then relents, finally allowing you to push him back. He doesn't turn off his lightsaber yet, and neither do you. He stretches out his other hand toward you in the darkness. "For all of the reasons we work so well together." He lowers his hand, his body tense; frustrated. "Because you are... resilient, and remarkably clever. And passionate. Obstinate at times, and unpredictable. And because you are beautiful. Because I look at you, and I wonder what could be. Those are dangerous thoughts in the best of times. In battle, they're an unacceptable risk."

"Obi Wan..." you murmur, unable to come up with any other word but his name in reply. 

"But that is my burden to bear. And though I won't allow it to interfere with a mission, I cannot let it be the end of our friendship."

There's absolutely nothing you can say back. You're stunned speechless, but beyond that - to say anything truthful back to him would rip you apart.

Instead, you step toward him, leveling your blade in front of your chest. "You've been holding back."

The earnestness in his face drains away at your response. He drags his gaze down from your eyes to your lightsaber. His tone is guarded again. "Of course I have. Haven't we both?" 

It's obvious he isn't talking about the sparring. 

"Fight me." It's the only thing you can ask for that's real. "It's going to be the last time."

The silence bears down on you, and the room is so much darker, now. You let your emotions show on your face, and you let him feel you in the Force. But you can't bring yourself to say the words. When you meet his eyes, you know he can feel you burning. 

His shoulders come down, and his body takes a new shape. He seems almost more relaxed than before. It occurs to you, then, how much effort he was putting into keeping himself from dominating you. Then, all at once, he shows you why he's one of the most celebrated duelists of your generation. 

His speed is frightening when he lunges at you. It takes all your strength to keep from toppling over. Two of his brutal strikes rattle your arms bone-deep as you struggle to keep your lightsaber upright. You suck in a sudden gasp of air, letting him force you backward. You try to return a blow, but he catches you swiftly, knocking your saber wide and stabbing at you, making you hop back again. 

It's over before you can even fully register what's happened. He knocks you back with two more thrashes of his saber, and you lose your balance when your knees hit the furniture. You fall back onto the chaise in a seated position, legs splayed apart. You're panting and arching your back to get away from him, but he digs a knee into the cushion between your legs and reaches out with a hand to deactivate your lightsaber and pull it to him. He uses his other hand to bring his blade just below your chin. Yet again, he's caught you out. 

You tip your face up toward him, heart racing as much from his close proximity as it is from the duel you've lost. His chest rises and falls in front of you. He doesn't look triumphant. His eyes are penetrating. He's waiting for you to speak. 

You catch your breath. His hand is tightening around his hilt threateningly, but there isn't anywhere in the universe you feel safer than with his blade at your neck. You take your time, staring deeply into his eyes, and you finally find your words. 

"I said you were right that we shouldn't see each other, and I meant it. The boundaries between us are broken. Nothing can set that right. I don't want to set it right. But I can accept that. I can move on. I just can't do it with you." 

The light beneath your chin goes out. He holds your two hilts in each hand and simply looks at you. 

"I understand," he says then, quietly, and leans into you, setting down your two lightsabers on either side of your thighs. 

You inhale his scent, struggling to keep your eyes from closing. "Stars, Obi Wan..."

He knows he's too close. You both know it. He should have stepped back, and his knee shouldn't still be surrounded by the warmth of your body. You're half-lying down, one arm still spread over the top of the chaise, too afraid to shift a muscle. Too afraid for the moment to end. 

Instead of standing up, he stays close, eyes locked onto yours, and says softly, "What is it?"

The finality of it all truly sinks in, and you shake your head slightly, just drinking in every detail of him. There's no point anymore to lie. You'll never see him again. "Even now. I want to kiss you, so badly."

You watch the conflict on his face melt away, into something else. He whispers his reply against your mouth. "Then kiss me."

You blink. You close the gap between you, pressing your lips against his and opening up, giving yourself over to him. 

You don't care that he shouldn't have said it. You don't care that he might stop you. You want his mouth against yours. The feeling is as sweet as you'd imagined for over a year, while making every desperate effort to drive it from your mind. 

He tastes just as you remember, and as he lets you slip your tongue into his mouth, your body shudders with a mixture of desire and relief that leaves you dizzy. 

Please... Please... you silently beg him not to stop you. To let you feel as much of him as you can, and keep the memory of the softness of his lips, the feeling of his jaw working beneath your palm, and the gentleness of the sigh he lets escape when he opens for more of your tongue to slide in. 

He doesn't stop you. He tilts his head to the side, leaning in for more. When he presses his chest to yours, you finally regain enough of your sense to break your mouth away from his. Every part of you is screaming, but you claw back to sanity just for a moment, to breathe a weak, confused, "Why...?" against the corner of his mouth. 

He catches your lips in a searing kiss once more before answering, driving every last thought of stopping from your mind. 

"If this is truly the end..." he murmurs, then pulls back to look at you properly, and his eyes sparkle like sapphires in the dying light of the fire. "Let us be miserable for good reason."

--

A/N: Sorry for the missed promise of an update last week! Holidays really get crazy fast. Thank you, as per usual, for tolerating my schedule. Planning shorter chapters upcoming, in hopes of quicker updates. :) For anyone who has tagged me in recent posts, I appreciate it and I'll respond as soon as I can!

Tag List: @cosmicsierra @projectdreamwalker @guacam011y @thriving-n-jiving @reverieisaway @cursedfaechild @honeymoon7770 @hedvighedvig @cool-ontherun-world @ladytano420 @eddythewitch @immajustvibehere @iwanturkiwi @thegreatwicked

Masterlist // Next Chapter >>

#obi wan x reader #star wars #obi wan kenobi #star wars fanfiction #fanfic #obi wan #fanfiction

[anothertransauthor]

hiya !! this is a bit of an odd request but is there any chance you'd be willing to write pickles x reader , where the reader has shied away from alcohol / substances all their life until they start embracing them after becoming close with pickles ? all good if not , thank you and have a great day !! o7

Oooh i kinda adore this trope ngl. keep coming with these bangers im so excited!

Only With You

Summary: Dethklok's newest babysitter has been observed to be quite the dildo. They never want to drink with them, smoke, or generally party with them in a significant way. Pickles opens his own investigation into them and starts to genuinely enjoy the time they spend alone. Maybe he'll lower their walls, and open them to some new mind-altering experiences.

Warning: obvious drug and alcohol use, as a general pot user I'm going to be as specific as possible. I'm going to make this as fluffy as possible but there might be some suggestive content. Reader has they/them pronouns

Word count: 2345

"What are you? Schome kind of fucking schquare?" Murderface quipped, a mischievous glint in his eye as he nudged Nathan playfully. "Yeah, come on, don't be a dildo," Nathan retorted, his deep voice rumbling with frustration as he batted Will away from him.

Their banter filled the cramped bar, the air heavy with the scent of stale beer and cigarette smoke. Neon lights flickered overhead, casting a dim glow on the worn-out furniture and peeling wallpaper. As the tension between Murderface and Nathan escalated, Toki attempted to intervene, his gentle voice drowned out by Skwisgaar's disdainful remarks about both of them being a "lady dildos." The atmosphere grew increasingly tense, their argument blending with the other patrons' raucous laughter and clinking glasses.

Feeling overwhelmed, y/n glanced around the bar, a headache forming from the noise. Just as they were about to suggest leaving, Pickles came to the rescue, a mischievous smirk on his lips.

"I know a quiet spot; let's dip while they're distracted," Pickles suggested, his voice low and inviting. The air was heavy with the scent of cigarette smoke and distant laughter, creating a hazy ambiance that enveloped them both.

Y/n hesitated, a flicker of concern crossing their features. "I don't know, Charles might kill me for leaving them by themselves," they replied, their voice tinged with uncertainty.

Pickles waved off their concern with a casual shrug. "He'll get over it as long as they don't drive. Then again, they wouldn't leave without me. So therefore, we can hang out in a cool alleyway while they drink themselves to the ground."

With a sigh, y/n bit their lip, their mind racing with conflicting thoughts. Despite their hesitation, the allure of escape beckoned, tempting them to leave the chaos of the bar behind.

After much internal debate, y/n finally nodded and walked with Pickles into the alley. It was nothing spectacular, but the relative quietness offered a welcome respite from the clamor of the bar. The cool wind brushed against their skin, causing goosebumps to rise on their arms.

"So uh...this is where you run off to when they get loud," y/n remarked, their breath forming wispy clouds in the frosty air. "Shoulda known to check the alley."

"Aww, you look for me?" Pickles teased, his voice laced with amusement as he pulled a joint from his pocket.

Y/n watched in awe as Pickles took a long drag, the smoke swirling around him like a halo. The air was thick with the scent of cannabis, earthy and pungent, mingling with the sharp bite of the night air. "For as much as you brag about being rich, you think your lighter could use an upgrade?" y/n teased, their voice laced with amusement.

"Eh... this lighter and I have a history," Pickles chuckled softly, leaning against the cold brick wall. "I smoked my first ever blunt with this Zippo... would you believe I stole it from my dad?"

As Pickles continued to talk about other crazy stories, y/n found themselves drawn in by his easy charm and effortless charisma. They watched as his fingers traced over the worn metal, the flickering flame casting dancing shadows on the alley wall.

"Yeah...I believe it," y/n replied, their voice soft with admiration. "So you've been smoking a long time, huh?"

"For as long as I can remember, y'know, before I got into the other shit," Pickles admitted, nudging a crate beside him. "You've been standing a while; you should sit."

Their body moved instinctively, gravitating towards Pickles as they settled onto the crate beside him. With a sigh of relief, y/n felt the tension begin to melt away, replaced by a sense of calmness in Pickles' presence.

The silence between them was almost palpable, the only sound the soft rustle of the wind and the occasional clink of cans on the ground. Despite their attempts to enjoy the tranquility, y/n couldn't shake the nagging feeling of restlessness that gnawed at their mind.

"Wow..." they laughed awkwardly, their fingers fidgeting with their sleeves. "A whole five minutes without being asked to partake...must be a new record."

"No sense in pushing it; it's a waste of good pot," Pickles remarked casually, his demeanor relaxed and nonchalant. "Besides, the first high will be shit if you don't know what you're getting into."

Y/n nodded in agreement, their gaze drifting down to their hands. "You just make it look so easy..."

Pickles tilted his head, the crimson strands of his hair falling over his shoulder as he regarded y/n with a knowing smile. "Make what look easy?"

"Everything!" y/n blurted out, their words tumbling out in a rush of emotion. "Just...everything you do is effortless. You make it look so easy to talk to people and operate under pressure like nothing affects you. I want to relax, and I want the rest of the band to like me...and I shouldn't be rambling right now, but it's like I can't stop myself because my brain just won't—"

"Shut up?" Pickles interrupted gently.

Y/n blushed brightly, their cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "S-sorry..."

"No...like your brain just won't shut up? I get it. Hell, why do you think I smoke this stuff?" Pickles reassured them, nudging them with his shoulder. "It's not easy being so laid back; it takes practice."

"Practice?" y/n echoed, their curiosity piqued.

Pickles nodded, his gaze steady and unwavering. "Gotta practice not worrying what other people think. I'm fucking famous; who cares what nobody at the bar has to say? It's vain, I know, but it works. It's easy to be friends with people when you can shut off that little nag in the back of your head. You just have to stop assuming people are out to get you."

Y/n nodded in understanding, their thoughts swirling as they absorbed Pickles' words of wisdom. Their conversation flowed effortlessly, the silence punctuated only by the soft sound of their laughter and the occasional drag of the joint. Despite the cold, y/n felt a warmth spreading through them, a sense of peace settling over their troubled mind. As they sat side by side, y/n couldn't help but admire Pickles' easygoing demeanor and the way he seemed to effortlessly navigate through life's challenges. For a moment, they forgot about their worries and insecurities, lost in the simple pleasure of his company. And as they took a hesitant puff of the joint, feeling the smoke fill their lungs and the tension melting away, y/n realized that maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.

Their eyes wandered over Pickles, taking in every detail with an almost reverent appreciation. Each freckle, every smile line, and the faint scars that adorned his skin told a story of a life well-lived, adding to his allure in the dimly lit alleyway. Despite the chill in the air, the warmth emanating from Pickles enveloped them, comforting and reassuring like a soft embrace.

As they sat there, a thought lingered in their mind: why was everything about him just so perfect? His casual demeanor, his effortless charm—it all seemed to come naturally to him, effortlessly captivating those around him.

Caught off guard by Pickles' quizzical expression, y/n felt a blush creep into their cheeks as they realized they had been caught staring. But Pickles' playful demeanor quickly put them at ease, his snicker breaking the tension that hung in the air.

"You see something you like?" he cheesed lightly, dramatically waggling his brows.

"No- I mean yes- I mean- shit.... uh-"

"Relax, I'm messing with you," Pickles chuckled, his voice laced with amusement. "I gotta teach you how to flirt."

"Heh...um, actually, I was maybe wondering if I could try..." y/n trailed off, their gaze flickering towards the burning joint in Pickles' hand.

"Holy shit, you actually wanna smoke with me?" Pickles exclaimed, genuine surprise coloring his tone.

"Well...kinda. Maybe it won't be so overwhelming if it's with you..." y/n admitted, their nerves beginning to dissipate in Pickles' reassuring presence.

"I'll take care of ya, don't worry," Pickles reassured them, passing the dutchie with a gentle hand. "Don't try to show off, ok? Baby hits..."

After calming their shaking hands, y/n carefully placed the joint between their lips, their senses heightened as they inhaled deeply. The taste was harsh, earthy, and unfamiliar, causing their shoulders to tense with each choppy cough.

"Deep breath. You're gonna choke no matter what, you got virgin lungs. 'S normal," Pickles reassured them, his voice gentle and reassuring.

"It tastes like dirt..." y/n grimaced, their discomfort evident in their expression.

"Well, it's weed; it's gonna taste bad," Pickles shrugged, his easygoing demeanor soothing y/n's nerves. "Take one more, then pass it back."

With a nod of determination, y/n took another deep breath, the smoke swirling around them in ethereal patterns. Despite the initial discomfort, a sense of calm washed over them, easing the tension in their shoulders and allowing them to relax fully in Pickles' company.

Pickles extinguished the joint with a flick of his wrist, the ember sputtering out as he tucked the carton back into his pocket. Leaning back against the cool brick wall, he regarded Y/n with a curious expression. "So, short stuff, how do you feel?" he asked, his voice tinged with genuine interest. Y/n raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement dancing in their eyes. "You're one to talk," they scoffed, a small smile playing at their lips. "I feel…slow, but in a good way. Like, I can finally think clearly, funnily enough."

"Yeah?" Pickles raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Yeah...is this how you feel constantly?" y/n returned the question, genuinely curious about Pickles' experience.

"More or less," Pickles snorted, kicking around some cans on the ground with a lazy gesture. "I could get used to this," y/n mused, a sense of contentment settling over them like a warm blanket. "It feels…easier to talk as if a barrier was temporarily moved to the storage room of my brain. This is nice. Thanks, Pickles." "Hey, any time," Pickles replied, a genuine smile gracing his features. "You remind me a lot about myself, actually."

Y/n tilted their head curiously, they scooted closer to Pickles, craving his warmth in the chilly night air. "How so?" they asked, their voice soft and curious. Pickles paused, a thoughtful expression crossing his face as he considered his response. "I used to worry about how everyone perceived me," he began, his voice tinged with a hint of vulnerability. "I was always so…strung up, like the world was out to get me." He chuckled softly, the sound rough and raspy in the stillness of the alley. "I know I'm nothing but a pampered, rich airhead," he admitted, his gaze flickering away for a moment before returning to meet y/n's eyes. "But I know this job keeping us out of trouble isn't exactly the easiest. If no one else is on your team, you can relax knowing that the world's best drummer is." Y/n felt a flutter in their chest, their cheeks flushing as they met Pickles' gaze in the dim lighting. His words were simple, yet they held a profound depth of meaning that resonated with them. "Pickles, I—" they started, their words catching in their throat as they struggled to articulate the whirlwind of emotions. They leaned away slightly, suddenly self-conscious about intruding on his personal space. But before they could retreat too far, Pickles grinned cheesily, his eyes sparkling with warmth. "Geez…you really are the coolest," they blurted out, a shy smile tugging at the corners of their lips. Pickles' grin widened, his laughter echoing off the walls of the alley. "You think?" he teased, a playful glint in his eyes.

The air between them crackled with anticipation as y/n struggled to find the right words, their gaze locked with Pickles' in an unspoken exchange of longing and desire. In that moment, everything else faded away—the noise of the city, the chill of the night air—leaving only the two of them, suspended in time. Pickles waited with bated breath, his heart pounding in his chest as he silently urged y/n to speak their truth. He could see the turmoil in their eyes, the raw vulnerability laid bare, and he felt a surge of tenderness wash over him.

Finally, y/n took a deep breath, their voice trembling slightly as they found the courage to voice their feelings. "Everything about you has always been cool," they began, their words soft and hesitant. "I wish I could say I was jealous, but…I don't think that's it." A flicker of understanding passed between them, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken attraction that had simmered beneath the surface for so long. Pickles' heart soared with a newfound sense of hope, his gaze never wavering from y/n's as he silently encouraged them to continue.

"Oh?" he prompted, his voice gentle but filled with anticipation. He knew what they were about to say, could feel it in the way their gaze lingered on him, and he silently willed them to take the leap. Y/n hesitated for a moment, their mind racing with a new uproar of butterflies. But then, with a surge of determination, they pushed aside their doubts and fears, allowing their heart to lead the way. "How do I say this…" they trailed off, their voice barely above a whisper. "Other than I just don't want tonight to end…" And in that moment, the weight of their confession hung heavy in the air, the tension between them palpable. But before either of them could say another word, Pickles closed the distance between them, his lips capturing Y/n's in a tender kiss.

Time seemed to stand still as they melted into each other, the world fading away until nothing was left but the warmth of their embrace. And as they pulled away, breathless and exhilarated, y/n felt a sense of peace settle over them, knowing they had finally found the courage to speak their truth. "Me neither," Pickles whispered, his voice filled with a mixture of longing and affection. "Let's make tonight last forever."

______________________________________________________________

ok that took a really really long time. now time to go back into my writer whole. Leave more requests for me :DD

EDIT: HI so for some fucking reason in the translation from docs to tumblr, half of the fucking fic was just OMITTED. HOW DID I NOT NOTICE UGHHHHH im so sorry yall if the pacing felt weird. thats what i get for not proof reading before i post but i was SO EXCITED to have another bomb fic doneeeeee.

#metalocalypse #dethklok #pickles the drummer #x reader #pickles x reader #metalocalypse x reader #dethklok x reader #mtl #mtl x reader #dethklok pickles

[alphabetboyluvr]

throttle - jjk | six

one/ two / three / four / five / six / seven / eight / nine / ten / eleven

warnings - heavy on the angst, we finally learn jungkook's true motives, we learn about what happened to his mother, mentions of death, written before we knew jk's birth time so (1) inaccurate saturn placement, general smut, titty sucking, unprotected sex, very intense breeding thoughts from jk, it's angsty!! he dnf :( sad :(, hair dye, showering, fingering, jungkook's time runs out </3

throttle has 3 defined acts - this is the end of act 1

word count - 20k

minors dni // posted to wp late 2021 // series masterlist

It's warm when you wake.

Daylight pours in through the curtains, of which neither of you bothered to close last night, and it rudely intrudes on the intimacy you've fostered together - yet when the man beside you begins to stir, small squeaks signalling that he's now awake too, you don't seem to mind all that much.

His hair is tousled like the waves of Busan's shoreline, lapping against the sand, adding a soundtrack to the sound of his breathing. You love it when he looks like this; serene and secure in the sanctuary of your company.

Last night's tête-à-tête is a distant memory, chalked up to a misunderstanding between the minds of two lovers who aren't yet aligned, but are getting pretty close to it. Rome wasn't built in a day, and nor was any love worth withstanding the test of time.

You're still learning about one another. Prior to last night, you knew nothing of Jungkook's romantic past, and while part of you is smug to have your initial assumptions about him proven right, it also makes your chest feel all heavy, too. Melancholic, almost, but you think it sounds far too poetic.

When you're met with his drowsy morning gaze - all puffy and unable to open in the way his eyes typically do - you can't imagine anyone ever wanting to hurt him. The thought of his eyes turning black when he looks at you, instead of their usual deep chocolate brown, has the chime in your stomach ringing like an alarm bell. You never want that. Ever.

He yawns, and says good morning to you with a smile that seems almost surprised to still see you in the sheets with him. He pulls you a little closer, nestles his nose to the crown of your head and inhales. He'll never get sick of that scent. Sick of you.

You're like gasoline spilt in the forecourts before a spring shower. It'll wrangle with the puddles of rain, which will pour and pour and pour - but still, it'll remain. An iridescent rainbow that refuses to fade.

You'll never wash away, he thinks. Forevermore; eternal.

He knows, just like you predicted, that he'll think of you whenever he passes gasoline puddles. Five, ten, twenty years from now. It won't matter how distant the memory of your laughter becomes, nor if he even remembers the colour of your skin as it blushes after a few too many drinks.

What he will remember is how your hair always smelt like gasoline.

It's a gateway drug to everything you are. One sniff; he's hooked.

Though he doesn't wish for death often, he hopes that when he does go, it'll be in his car. Hopes that an oil slick on a wet road will be the reason why. He'll smile as he thinks of you for one final time.

You'll get your vengeance, love.

But why waste time thinking of the inevitable future, when he could just revel in the present?

He's the first to suggest sleeping in, staying together, for a little bit longer.

"I'll call my dad, see if we can switch to this afternoon instead. You cool to run your errands in the afternoon? I'll take you to that place I wanna show you this morning. Then you're free to do as you please with your day."

A nod grants permission for him to set about altering his plans, and you watch him with curious intrigue as he opens up his contacts and heads straight for his father. You don't even have your father's number, anymore.

It's oddly comforting to hear Jungkook on the phone with his dad. The call is short, more formalities than anything, but you can hear his father's voice vibrate through the speaker.

You're integrated into Jungkook's life, now, you think. You're a part of family affairs, his plans, without even so much as a second thought given.

'Thank you' seems like a strange thing to say, but you consider it.

His openness with you is rancid. So sweet, so sickly; enough sugar to rot even the most frigid of hearts.

It makes you wanna tell him everything; who your father is, and how you can't call him anymore. You think Jungkook would understand, or at least he'd try to - and that would be the most meaningful thing a man has done for you in quite some time (though you're sure Yoongi would disagree, and cite one of the many things he's done for you that have gone unnoticed).

The words you want to say to Jungkook are lost in the feather down quilt, expert seams flawlessly keeping the pair of you pristine. It's like a shield, in a way. The world can't hurt you when you're beneath it. The needlework is exquisite, the finest cotton - Egyptian, you assume, but know better than to ask.

Not because you don't want to know, but because Jungkook hates itches he can't scratch.

He wouldn't have a clue of the sheets origins, but you're almost positive he would ask the reception staff for clarification later that morning, just to be able to give you an answer.

You don't want to trouble his mind with such trivial things. Especially not if it's working as hard as yours seems to be right now. You're counting every thread - two, four, six, eight - just as a way to distract yourself from him.

He's playing with your hair, and asking about your dreams - you didn't have any - and it's getting pretty overwhelming just how much of your brain you seem to be willing to share with him.

Sixteen, thirty-two, sixty-four; you're asking about his, too, and he doesn't hesitate to answer.

He's talking shit about a praying mantis that stalked him as he slept, and reaches for his phone so that you can google what it means together. He doesn't hide his screen, doesn't clear his notifications, doesn't check what he was last searching for to spare himself from embarrassment.

Not that it matters, but he'd been checking to see if Lotte World was open. It's endearing, the way he seems to want to experience life with you. Comforting. Snug.

You lose count of the threads, and you don't care to start again.

"Positive and negative," Jungkook muses over his dream as he scrolls, holding his phone up in front of you both.

His arm is looped around the back of your neck, and you're busy watching the tendons of his wrist flex beneath his skin as his thumb flicks up and down the screen.

There are Seven Natural Wonders of the World, but you think the adjudicators must have gotten it wrong.

They clearly hadn't met Jeon Jungkook.

He's brighter than the Northern Lights; gets you higher than the peak of Mount Everest. More breathtaking than the Grand Canyon, more fire in his heart than Paricutin. Gets you wetter than Victoria Falls, but that's not really what constitutes him as being one of the greatest natural wonders of the world (though it surely helps). He rivals the Great Barrier Reef, and Guanabara Bay; expansive, a facilitator of life, new beginnings.

But the Great Barrier Reef is dying, and Guanabara Bay is the product of erosion. Everest is a death trap, the Grand Canyon too, and Paricutin forced hundreds from their homes. Droughts around Victoria Falls are threatening its very existence, and soon, what once was could be no more.

The only wonder worthy of comparison to Jeon Jungkook is Aurora Borealis. They burn brighter than before, making their way through their eleven-year cycle undisturbed, undimmed. They're magic in the mundane, and so is he.

He hums, unaware of how you're romanticising him to be far more than what he is, and it sounds like he's frowning. You reach over, thoughts absent, and take his phone to continue reading for him.

"To dream of a praying mantis could mean many things," you recite mindlessly. "Firstly, it could indicate that you need to remain calm and assess situations before you dive right in. Be patient. Alternatively, it could indicate that you are preying on others. Have you been calculated recently? Devious? Perhaps reflection is due. There are positive indications associated with the insect, though. A baby praying mantis suggests a bright, wise future ahead. To dream of being attacked by a praying mantis suggests that you are faced with a test that you are strong enough to pass."

You ignore all the bad, because of course you do, pass him back his phone and say, "see? Nothing to worry about."

He locks his phone, and lets it drop down onto the bed. The hushed clunk of it hitting your sheets is drowned out by his voice, all dulcet and dreamy in your ear.

"Wasn't worried, baby. Got you here with me." His lips press against your temple. "I got you."

Hook, line and sinker. Yeah, he's got you good.

But within half an hour he's got you coming undone; got you mewling his name, got you gripping his neck as he fucks himself into you like he always does so well. He's got you where he wants you, got you in missionary 'cause of that one time you lied and said it was your favourite, got your nipples in his mouth 'cause there ain't no way he can have you naked and not indulge himself just a little bit.

Jungkook has you. Has his way with you.

But you have him, too; have him whispering how gorgeous you sound, how much he loves the way you feel.

You have him coming undone.

Perhaps, neither of you 'have' nor 'has' the other.

Perhaps, you aren't commodities to be owned.

If anyone was to own you, though, you think you'd quite like it to be him. You think he'd keep you forever. He once said he would, so it's not like it's a foolish thing to daydream about.

And so you do just that as he weaves through traffic in the hustle and bustle of Busan. You think he's mad for choosing to drive instead of just getting the subway, but Busan is spread out so far that it would have taken a handful of changes to get to where he's taking you.

He's still not told you where you're going. Even when you ask for a dress code, he simply says, "as you are, baby. You're perfect."

He calls you baby a lot lately.

It used to just be when you were naked, but he calls you baby when you're all wrapped up now, too. When he puts his hand on the small of your back, to guide you in whichever direction he wants, and when he pulls your hand to rest on the gear stick beneath his, it's 'baby' that he hums.

In fact, he calls you baby so much that CC has taken a backseat.

The radio drones through the speakers, neither of you connecting to the aux. It's all very grown-up, you think, listening to the traffic news, and whatever is currently charting. It doesn't hit in the same way that your playlists do, but it reminds you of driving to the coast with your parents as a kid. The memories are fond - cherished by you - and it's how you like to think of your family.

Or at least it is, until the disk jockey segues into the morning news. There's the usual mindless garbage, celebrity gossip, upcoming festivals and community events - and then there's politics.

"The Mayor of Daegu Metropoli-" is as far as the broadcaster gets before you change the station. Jungkook doesn't react initially. In fact, it takes him a few seconds to reply, and when he does, it's inconspicuous.

"Not into politics?"

"Not into politics."

You're sharp as you deliver the lie, and Jungkook can feel the blade of your tongue slice his heart. He's deserving of it, admittedly, but you aren't aware of that. Not yet.

He switches the radio back. "I am."

You want to be sick, but you put it down to the fact that Jungkook drives a little faster than he really should do, and that breakfast had been substituted for sex. "You are?"

"Uh-huh."

Silence resume as you listen to the broadcaster. It's an innocent report about cities linking for eco-initiatives. Apparently, Daddy dearest will be visiting Busan just as you're leaving. It's an odd thought. You've taken pride in not keeping tabs, and yet here you are, wondering if you'll pass his car on Monday morning as you leave the city and he enters it. Unlikely.

A possibility, but unlikely.

When you pull your hand back to your lap from beneath his, Jungkook lets you. It's a call for attention. You want to see what he does. Want him to pull it back, want him to question why you've pulled it away - but he doesn't.

Instead, he talks.

"I hate politics," he admits. There's a sternness to his face. An honesty. "I can't name you a single politician who actually seems to care about the communities they represent. They're bastards," his voice quietens. "The lot of 'em."

Only then does he reach for your hand, again. He's the one searching for comfort, now.

There's something about the way Jungkook doesn't look at you, but grips your hand far tighter than he had done before, that has you concerned. It's unlike him.

"I agree," you tell him. "S'why I don't care for it."

He nods, pulling his bottom lip beneath his teeth, as if he's trying to stop a secret from coming out.

You wouldn't mind if one did. You'd quite like to know his secrets - even the deep, dark, scary ones. Especially those ones, actually. His jaw rocks gently, the pillow of his lip being massaged by his teeth, eyes hard on the horizon line.

"Probably should have given you a little warning as to where we're going," he eventually divulges, pouting his lips and letting air squeak through them as he inhales a breath.

Your lift your brows and furrow them slightly. "Why's that?"

The question is answered as soon as he flicks his indicator on. You look to the sign above the highway, and that's when you realise you're going off the beaten track. There's only one destination listed on the reflective sheet of metal: a marine life conservation hub.

Something tells you that you're not headed towards the marine life conservation hub.

Something - or someone- by the name of Jeon Jungkook, and the way as soon as his indicator is flicked off, his hand is holding yours oh-so-tightly, again.

Your eyes follow the trajectory of the road, and the small row of parking spaces covered in fine gravel. You're partway up a short mountain, and you know exactly why you're here.

Mounds of earth rest neat and uniform on the mountainsides, clustered together, decades of tradition lacing the soil. There's a small path that stretches to the upper elevation, where a set of mounds lie perfectly still, small statues and floral arrangements decorating them in the most beautiful of ways.

You know hillsides like these. It's been a while since you last visited one, but the memories of places like this tend to haunt people.

He doesn't reply to your earlier question. He doesn't need to. You already know exactly where you are.

His name escapes your lips, voice quiet, but pacifying. You rub his thumb with yours, which only makes him squeeze your small hand even tighter.

He's silent, but he's hoping you know that he's sorry.

Sorry for a whole host of things. Too many to list. This - taking you to a fucking graveyard unannounced and non-consenting - is what he's currently apologising for in the guise of silent squeezes.

"Your mum?" You ask, as he pulls into a space on the gravel parking lot.

He's only mentioned her once, and the fact that she would have been 'rolling in her grave' at the thought of him being rude to you. You'd clocked it at the time, but had never dared ask since. Figured that when he was ready, he would tell you. Seems like he might just be ready.

Jungkook nods, and when he looks at you, he seems younger. Eyes wider, searching for refuge; finding it in you.

"Mum."

When he makes no attempt to move, seemingly a little frozen in place, it's you who starts to squeeze his hand right back. "You wanna go see her?"

And again, he nods. There's a bottle of soju in the back from one of his many GS25 trips, so you reach for it, knowing that there was no way the pair of you could visit somewhere of such importance without an offering of some kind. He whispers a thank you, as if you've done something of value. It's just soju, and it's his, regardless. You wish you would have known. You'd have insisted on picking up banchan, or something more substantial.

There's reluctance as he leads the pair of you, second-guessing his every step. It's important that he shows you this part of him, although, when he thinks about it, he's sure he could have just explained it. Over a coffee, or on a walk by the river. He didn't need to be so dramatic about it all. The past has happened, and he lives with the consequences.

But that's this thing - the past has happened, and Jungkook is still living with the weight of it like it was just yesterday. The consequences of it rule his daily life. He needs to show you, because simply telling you wouldn't have been justice enough.

His mother's grave is well-kept. Tended to. The flowers - large, white, and glorious, though you're not sure what kind - are wilting slightly, but are fresh enough to put the dead foliage of the winter mountain to shame. The mound above her is small, so you think that perhaps she was, too.

You just can't help yourself, can you? Another assumption made.

Your thoughts are cut short as he reaches for the bottle of soju from your hands, and nods towards the small ceramic dish that's been collecting rainwater. Supplies are low - the winter is incredibly dry, and had it not been for a storm that blew in a few days ago, it would be empty.

"Can you?" he asks, but doesn't finish. You let go of the soju bottle which is now secure in his hands, and head towards the direction of his nod, to rinse off the flat stone ready for offerings - though a cap full of soju doesn't feel like enough.

He walks further ahead, while you tend to the service stone, pouring soju into the bottle cap, and tossing it in the woodland as an offering to the mountain God; a thank you for watching over his mother. It's been too long since he last visited. Things have just gotten so busy, and he's under so much pressure. He can't think straight, let alone do anything that makes any sense and - oh God, the weight of it all - it's all just too much. He can't handle it. Refuses to. If he could scream right, he would - but nothing comes out.

His lungs are heavy in his chest, heart pounding. He doesn't know why he gets like this. He thinks it's the guilt; the fact that his mother would hate what he's become. She didn't raise him to be like this. Vengeance wasn't part of her vocabulary. She was kind, and she was considerate, and she cared so deeply about him.

In a lot of ways, you remind him of her. The acknowledgement of this only serves to make him feel worse.

When he finally turns to face you again, you're waiting by her grave, watching him with curiosity. You've been to many graves, but only ever those of your own family members. Never somebody else's. Traditions vary, and you don't wanna do anything that he wouldn't appreciate.

It had always been the same in your family; the eldest men bowed first, down through to the youngest, and the women watched on. The respect of women wasn't worth anything, you see.

As Jungkook comes to stand beside you, he takes your hand, positioning you directly next to him.

"Will you do it with me?" he asks so timidly that it almost doesn't sound like him. "Please?"

You're hesitant. It's a big ask, not because it's a difficult task, but because you know the first bows are always reserved for those closest to the deceased.

"I never normally do it alone," he adds, noticing your reluctance. "I'm normally with my brother. I just... I don't want to do it alone. I'm no good at shi-" he cuts himself off, not wanting to curse. "I'm no good at stuff like this."

It's a request you can't refuse. You follow his lead, getting to your knees, torso folding to the earth as a sign of utmost respect. He holds his bow for longer than you expect, but you match it second for second. He rises and repeats. You follow suit.

You think it's important that you don't overstep boundaries, not in a place so sacred to the boy beside you, so you let him take the lead. Not once do you move before him, but when he resumes to a seated position, you turn your body to face down the mountain.

It's not tradition, not really, but it feels like the best way to honour his mother; to provide her time with her son, but still offer support should he need it.

"I'm not doing recitals," Jungkook says tenderly, a pain in his chest pinching and soothing when he sees what you've done. "You don't have to face that way."

But you shake your head.

"I do," you reply with so much kindness in your voice that Jungkook thinks it's a wonder he hasn't melted and become at one with the earth, too. "Just pretend like I'm not here."

He wants to laugh at such an instruction. How the hell could he be expected to ignore you, when the way he feels about you burns brighter than the North Star whenever you're close by.

Instead, he just tells you that you're dumb, and sits beside you, facing his mother's grave. You hear him unscrew the cap of the bottle, metal cracking just how it always does upon its first few opens, followed by a small glug.

You twist your head, and catch him pouring soju into the bottle cap, before he places it in front of his mother. He nods towards her, as if she could actually see him once more, then brings his arms to hug around his knees, pulled tight to his chest. The bottle is still in his hand, so he takes a swig. There's a faint grimace as he swallows it back, and then he passes the bottle over his shoulder to you.

It's kindly received, and his actions are mirrored by you once more, a shot finding its home in your throat. The soju is lukewarm, the heat of his clammy hands altering the temperature.

The bottle is passed back and forth, Jungkook silent as he tries to muster the courage to speak up. There's so much he wishes he could say, but so little that feels safe to divulge. It's not until the bottle is halfway done that he seems to have the strength.

"It's been four years," Jungkook eventually says. You stay silent, the words you want to say threading through your lips like cotton through a needle, keeping your mouth shut. Nothing that could be said would make any of this any better for him. "Doesn't get any easier."

Instead, you lean your head on his shoulder. You're still looking down the mountain, and he's facing up towards the peak. His head rests against yours, and there's comfort to be found in his posture. The support he feels from you goes beyond that of physical.

"It was a long time coming, so we had time to prepare," he adds.

He brought you here because he wanted to share this part of himself with you, so he knows he needs to make the effort to actually speak up. Nothing cryptic. No half-truths.

"How can you prepare a kid for that, though? 'Hey Kook, mum's really sick'," he imitates the voice of his older brother. "'Probably won't make it through the winter'. She did, though. Make it through winter, that is. The hospital couldn't figure out what was wrong with her for the life of them. First, they said it was a pancreatic thing, then decided it was liver. Kidneys, bladder - you name it, they tried to pinpoint it as that. Round and round in fucking circles. So much time wasted. Years. I was 14 when she first got sick. 19 when she passed."

He lifts his head from yours and hugs his legs tighter into his chest. He hates this mountain. It's like he's got hayfever, even in winter, as his eyes start to warm a little. Realistically, he knows that it's perfectly apt to cry in such a place, but he doesn't want to. Doesn't want his mum to think he's upset. Doesn't want you to think it, either.

Deep down - although really not that far down when he comes to think of it - he's still just that scared boy, knowing he's going to lose the person he loves the most in the world. Funny, how history likes to repeat itself, even if in a slightly different hue. The colours of grief are always the same.

"She ended up getting referred to a specialist in Daegu," he sighs, knowing that he's about to divulge far more than he should.

He's thought about this alot. Thought about what he'd say to you before he knew you - like, really knew you - and how he'd deliver the lines with such venom your throat would swell and you'd choke on the faux pars of your family, just like his mother had.

But none of this was your fault. You were still just a kid, like he was, when all of this transpired.

You had no jurisdiction over budget cuts or the shift patterns of overworked hospital staff. You weren't the one syphoning money out of the public health sector, and you weren't the one who followed orders to treat common symptoms with the same cheap medicine, regardless of the fact it could have been wrong for the patients.

You weren't the one who decided that those who benefitted from the specialist centre were expendable. You weren't the one who cauterised their funding. You weren't the one who ignored the pleas and cries for help from the families of those suffering.

You weren't the negligent medical staff who mistreated Jungkook's mother, and you weren't the man in charge of the budget who decided that her life didn't matter anymore.

But your father was.

And so Jungkook has thought about this moment a lot. He's thought about how he'd tell you that you deserved to lose just as much as he had. He's thought about how he wouldn't feel a damn thing except for satisfaction when your father got his just deserts.

Now that the time has come, however, all he can do is shrug.

"They were great. The staff at the centre in Daegu, I mean. Really fucking great. Genuinely wanted to help - but you know Daegu," is all he could really muster. "They don't have the money for shit like that. And nor did we."

Daegu's local government did, however, have the funds for a fucking waterpark installation, which opened three weeks after the clinic was shut down indefinitely. "We sacrifice the good of the few, for the good of the many," your father had once told you, and it makes you just as sick now as it did back then.

"Anyways," he tries to downplay it, as if the memories don't haunt him. "Funding got cut. Mum got sicker. It was..." he struggles to find the words to articulate just what he went through. "Dad was always a hard ass, yanno? Do your homework, go to school, you wanna end up with a shitty job? Drop out like me! That kind of stuff. It's only 'cause he wanted what was best for us, he just.... didn't really have a nurturing bone in his body. Just how he was built, I guess." He pauses. Gathers his thoughts. Shrugs. "Mum... Mum was soft. Do you need help with your homework? How's school? You can be whatever you want to be. Didn't have a clue what I wanted to be, just knew I wanted to be like her. Seeing her get sick..."

He stops talking. There's a heaviness that looms over him like a cloud blocking the sun in the height of summer. It's stuffy and claustrophobic, yet there's nothing that can be done to ease it.

"The specialist centre treated her for as long as they could, ran as many tests as they could afford, but-" He cuts himself off. "Well, I mean, we're at her grave, aren't we? Doesn't take a genius to work it out."

He doesn't mean to be so scathing with his tone, the words delivered with a snarl typically reserved for his boxing opponents (or Namjoon when he takes the lead in a drag race), it's just that he doesn't know how to articulate himself. Not when it comes to this topic. He's never shared it with anyone before. Never thought he would.

And especially not with you.

There are parts he leaves out. Just little tidbits. Anecdotes, like the way he spent the night his mother died just driving and driving and driving, only coming to a stop when his tank had exhausted the very last drop of gas - at which point he just sat, grief-stricken, cheeks wet until sunrise.

He didn't speak to anyone for weeks. Didn't do anything except fill his tank up, get out of town, and occasionally train at the club. The force of his fists against another person never helped, though. Even beating the shit out of Taehyung didn't lift his spirits.

How he quite ended up in his current predicament is a little more complicated.

It started the same as any other night he'd crawl through the streets, red tail lights leaving a trail that evaporated into nothingness, thanks to the winter fog. Eventually, he ended up in Daegu. It was a common occurrence.

The shadows seemed darker in Daegu; sinners glowing red in the haze of smog and winter frost. It felt like home in a way. Somewhere to hide when he no doubt sold his soul to the Devil.

Sometimes, he'd drive in circles around the affluent streets, just hoping, praying, to see the Mayor out for an evening stroll. Of course, it would be an accident when he put his foot to the floor, full throttle, wheels turning in the Mayor's direction. A freak mishap. A car fault.

And if he were to suffer the same fate as Jungkook's mother? Oh, well what a fucking shame that would have been.

He never did see the Mayor, though. Of course he didn't.

But he did, however, spot Kang's. The light had still been on, drawing him in like a moth to a flame. He knew Kang's, thanks to his club in back in Busan, and he wanted to fight. Wanted to pummel any fucker who voted the Mayor into power. Wanted to break their nose; have them swallowing their teeth.

Of course, seeing a jumped up kid - who, as Namjoon put it, looked 'fresh out of nappies' - with a vendetta against the most powerful man in the city had the older boys amused. Truth be told, they laughed in his fucking face. Told him he was in the wrong place, 'cause there ain't no way any of them would be caught dead voting for that pompous fucking twat.

Jungkook learnt a lot that night; learnt that he wasn't alone in his fight, and that other people had lost unfathomable amounts of their lives, their livelihoods, and their loved ones, as a result of your father, and his wasteful, inhumane policies.

Though not a single one of those boys shared the same story, they all shared the same callous, complacent antagonist.

And they all wanted vengeance.

That wasn't the only thing he learnt that night, mind you. It was also the evening he learnt your name.

It'd be romantic, if the situation had been... well, anything but what it was, really.

He learnt who you were, what you meant to the Mayor, and just how you could be the winning ticket for their vengeance lottery. A plan was devised over a few too many Soju's, and before he knew it, he was playing the long game. They wouldn't initiate the plan for years. Sleeping dogs had to lie, dust had to settle.

There was another election; your father reinstated to his position. Only after then did you stop making public appearances with him, and the rest of your family. You didn't seem to be part of the in-crowd anymore. Didn't really matter to the boys. All that mattered was that you had fewer eyes on you, now. You faded into obscurity; Jungkook into obsession.

See, he's like you in a lot of ways. He makes assumptions, too. Had this whole idea of who you would be mapped out in his head. Pin by pin, you realigned his red string; tied it around his pinky and linked it with yours.

"Dad isn't who he used to be," Jungkook finally admits. His Mother's suffering may have ended with her passing, but his Father's seemed to only begin as hers ended. She passed a baton, Jungkook thinks, and his Dad is still running the race. "Doesn't really talk all that much. Loves to fucking gamble, though. All of her life insurance is gone. Half of my salary goes to the loan sharks that he owes from a bad spot he got himself in a few months ago. S'why I needed to come, had to check that everything was okay and that he hadn't got himself into too much trouble. Nasty fuckers, sharks are."

"How bad is it?" You ask, knowing that sharks are more like parasites. "The sharks, I mean."

"Um," he pauses, and shrugs. There's no way you'll be able to understand what it's like being in financial difficulty. Not a fucking chance. "Pretty bad. They were hounding him to the point where he just locked himself up in the house, wouldn't answer the door for weeks. My brother's just had a kid, he can't afford to help, so I'm stuck footing the bill for the interest Dad's having to pay. 'Bout half my salary. I'm gonna be paying them off till I'm six feet under. Bastards raise the interest whenever they fucking feel like it. I'll never be able to pay it all back, not all of it, and Dad's too fucking out of it to get himself a proper job. Whole situation is fucked."

That's a tiny little lie. Should everything go to plan, he'll have the money he needs to pay the sharks off within a week or two.

Should everything go to plan.

See, this isn't about vengence. Not now. Not anymore. This about surviving the sharks - but Jungkook has blood on his hands, and it makes him so much more tempting.

When you lean your head on his shoulder, comforting and reassuring all in one gesture, he swallows back a sob.

He's sharing all this because he wants - no, needs - you to understand why he made the choices that he did before he knew you. He needs you to know that the guy who is going to fuck you over next week isn't the guy who's been, well, just fucking you for the past couple of months.

He rests his head on yours, hair interlinking, silky and smooth, as if you're one.

The way that he feels about you oozes from him like the blood of a fresh wound; red and hot, sticky and sickening. Yet he knows that he'll never let the wound heal. He'll pick at it like it's a scab, because he'll never want to lose the feeling that the potential of a happy ever after with you gives him.

His body relaxes a little, spine curving, posture sloped. There's no need to remain poised; no need to be anything other than the imperfect version of himself that you seem to like so much.

"I'm so sorry that this happened to you," you whisper, eyes closing to hide the foot of the mountain you're sitting on. It feels so wrong you being here. Feels like you're intruding; encroaching. Perhaps you're the parasite.

The weight that's lifted from Jungkooks shoulders presses itself against your sternum. It cracks your ribs and impales the snapped bones into your heart. It's quite aggresive, you think, for a secret.

They say a problem shared is a problem halved, so if this is only a mere fifty percent of the pain that he's endured, you don't even want to imagine his reality. Now is not a time for pitying yourself, or lamenting the fact that it was your father who ruined Jungkook's life by proxy. You're sure it wasn't your father's intention, but you also know that he wouldn't have cared had he known the impact that his choices would have.

So much is left unsaid. Nothing you can do nor say will erase the hurt caused by the man who provided for you. A private education, wanting for nothing, your heart's desires fulfilled all came at a cost. Jungkook is just one of the many receipts; ripped at the edges, ink faded, paper creased in such a fashion that it can never be undone.

The guilt will weigh on you for eternity.

There's a part of you that wants to tell him. Wants him to know who you are, where you come from, how you ended up here - but you're convinced as soon as he knows, he'll wash his hands of you. Especially now. It feels kinder to just stay silent.

And so you do. You let him process his grief, and follow his lead when he decides that enough time has been spent by his mother's side. There's little chatter as you make your way down the hillside, his hand outstretched whenever you come to a rocky patch, just in case. It seems he doesn't want you to fall.

He also doesn't mind the silence. In fact, he quite likes it. He knows you're probably uncomfortable. Burial sites aren't exactly on the itinerary list of many romantic getaways, and he's not deluding himself about your actual reason for staying silent.

You make assumptions. He knows this, and wonders if you just assume he knows who you are.

But if he tells you - for definite - that he knows, and that it's okay, and that it doesn't change a single thing about the way he feels for you, it'll be game over.

For him, for you, for God knows who else.

By keeping you in the dark, he thinks he's keeping you safe until he can figure a plan that really will ensure your safety.

The drive to the nearest subway station is silent, too. You lie about your errands, and tell him that catching a subway would be easiest, simply for the fact it is closer to you than any of the bus stops.

You just want to be out of the car.

It's not that you don't want to be with him; it's that you do. It feels wrong to lie to him, deceiving him.

Opposites attract, or so they say, but they're wrong. You're birds of a feather, apples that have fallen from the same tree, left to rot in the height of a Daegu summer.

Your day is spent without him, and yet you're utterly consumed. He's in every shop window, his laugh rattling in the exhaust pipe of every shitty car that drives past. There's no escaping Jeon Jungkook. He's not the kind of guy you can just forget.

In fact, you're so consumed by him that all you want to do is head back to your hotel and lay in wait for his return. You don't know when that will be, and refuse to text him when he's spending much needed time with those closest to him, but the idea is so tempting that you find yourself sprawled on the sheets for hours regardless.

Your day is wasted, but you think that days without him are wasted, anyway.

It's nearly seven by the time he gets home. There's a hum as a keycard is tapped outside your door, the metal of the lock grating against itself to bid the intruder of your heart a welcome entry. Your eyes move to the door, because of course they do. Watching the man you... enjoy spending time with come 'home' to you is something that you never realised you would enjoy so much.

You wonder if it's the highlight of his days, too.

The location never matters, for it's in his eyes that your find your home - though 'home' looks a little different when his eyes are all puffy and bloodshot, his dark irises acting like a curtain. The window is covered. He's hiding his soul from you.

Hard to notice, though, when his cheeks are wet, and you mistake that as his biggest vulnerability.

"Hey," you whisper, legs unfolding as you stand and walk towards him. The door shuts by itself, Jungkook not caring for it. He doesn't even toss his bag down; just kind of stands there. Sniffs. Shakes his head, goes to speak, but chokes on his words and how big they feel in his throat. "It's okay, it's okay," you reassure, a hand on his cheek, the other on his collarbone. "You're safe. What's up?"

He leans into your touch, jaw tense, eyes resting shut. It's been a long time coming, and he knows it. Wonders how the fuck he hasn't already broken. He wasn't made for shit like this; for lies and deceit, especially not when it's someone that he really cares for the will suffer the consequences of his actions.

All he wants, all ever seems to want, is to be in the shower with you. Doesn't even care about stripping bare. Wants to be saturated with the promise of purity; in the way he feels for you, how you feel for him, and how your life could be together.

There's nothing inherently sexual about his desire, though he knows he wouldn't be able to resist to the eroticism of having you naked and wet - it's just not his intention. He simply wants to be close to you. Wants to care for you. Wants to wash your hair and rinse you off; ease the burdens of everyday life.

He forgets that water isn't strong enough to cleanse him of his sins. It will run black, always, because of what he's done; what he will do. Like ink bleeding from his tattoos, he'll still be left with scratch marks of the choices he's made; scars in the place of his missteps.

No answer is given to your question. Instead, he sobs a little harder. Hugs you, now. Drops his bag to the floor and holds you so tight he's afraid you might break.

He'd rather this, though.

Rather his affections for you be the breaking point, and not his sheer cowardice that will no doubt shatter your perception of him.

Your arms wrap around his neck, feet strained to the very tips of your toes, your hand in his hair. You've never been good with those who cry; never known how to comfort. It's not your fault. Just how you were raised. Nannys and au pairs were all well and good, but they never had a mother's touch. Your scrapes and scratches got bandaids and banana milk, but never any kisses better.

There's a curious softness to the way your hold Jungkook. There always has been. You've never really understood it; the need you feel to nurture him. Perhaps part of you always knew - could always tell - that the loss of his mother had been more profound than he could articulate.

You don't want to mother him. It's not your job. Maternal instincts aren't your thing - but the way you care for Jungkook is so pure, so unadulterated, that you find yourself wanting to ease him of all his pains.

And so even though it's not your job, you'll kiss his wounds better, just so that someone does. You'll fulfil his needs. Be everything he needs. Why would he ever want for another when he could simply just have you?

Your lips press against his temple, willing him to heal. Whatever's wrong is clearly bottled up inside, and a small part of you hopes that your lips could draw the venom from within. It's fruitless.

"Tell me what you need," you say softly. You're not a mind reader. Life would be much simpler if you were."What do you need?"

He thinks it's a stupid fucking question. Doesn't understand how you can be so oblivious to it all; but also doesn't realise how much of an impeccable liar he is. It's a learned trait. He wasn't born to be like this.

He was born to be soft, to be gentle, just like you. Under the bravado of your sarcasm and vulgar language, you're nothing more than a heart in search of its place. More fool you for thinking his ribcage would be a fitting dwelling for it.

And so Jungkook tries a little softness back.

"Need you," he finishes his sentence with a slight hiccup, his irregular breathing throwing everything out of whack. "Need to know you'll stay."

It's cruel, the way he makes you promise the idea of forevermore, when he knows full well that come next week, that heart of yours? The one sitting comfortably in his chest beside his own? Yeah, come next week it will be in his hands, blood coating his fingers as they dig into the muscle and tear it apart.

How beautifully unaware, you are.

"As long as you need," you whisper back. "I'll stay for as long as you need me, Kook. You don't need to ask. You know you don't."

And that's the kicker.

It's what has him in such a sorry fucking state.

Your hairband around his wrist, and the scrunchie on his gearstick, had been the catalyst to his tears; you're his demise.

There's a dusty footprint on the dash, right by the passenger seat glove compartment. It's yours, small and insubstantial, from the drive back from the beach the day before. Anyone else and he'd had tapped their legs, made them put their feet down.

In fact, he did with you, too. He'd tapped your leg, and was met with refusal, so instead he had just wrapped his hand around your ankle, and kept it there until he need to change gear down from fifth. He knocked it straight into third, and as soon as he was off the clutch, his hand eased off the stick and wrapped around your ankle once more.

It's gonna be you, it's gonna be you, it's gonna be you.

When he's cold and alone in the weeks to come, it's gonna be you he thinks of at night.

When he spills a couple drops of gas onto his clothes at the pump, it's gonna be you he thinks of when the scent of it makes him feel all lightheaded and nauseous.

When he gets into the ring at Kang's and is perishing just to feel a little rush, it's gonna be you that he thinks of.

It's gonna be you.

Far sooner than you realised, and for far longer than he can even imagine.

"Shit," he hisses, pulling away from you and heading towards the window. His back hunches as he leans on the ledge with one hand, pinching the bridge of his nose with the other. He sniffs back the evidence of his upset and shakes his head. "Sorry. Just been a long day. That's all."

You perch on the side of the bed, understanding that space is needed. You're not good with comfort, but you are good with recognising the needs of others, at least.

"No bother," you shrug, not that he sees it. "We don't have to talk about it."

"Nothing to talk about," he says as he turns to face you. His features are all red and puffy, the friction of sleeves against his cheeks tarnishing them in flecks of crimson. A weak smile is plastered on his lips, and he knows it's not convincing. "I'm good."

And so you pretend that you are convinced, for the simple fact that he wants you to be. "I know. Was just saying. If you did wanna talk, you could. If not? We can do something else."

Jungkook's mind jumps to fucking away the upset. Seems like a good distraction.

But he also knows that if he fucks you right now, he'll cry. He won't mean to, but he'll feel the way you pulse around him, and he'll start thinking about your heart, and then his nose will be nestled in your hair, and he'll be thinking about all that he stands to lose, and then he'll break the fuck down; buried in your pussy, suffocated by the adoration he feels for you. It's a grave he's dug himself.

He pouts as he shakes his head, bottom lip protruding as if he doesn't give a fuck what you do. "Not fussed. What do you wanna do?"

You hold out your hand to encourage him to walk towards you, and he does it without a second thought. He kicks his shoes off by the foot of the bed and takes your hand, climbing onto the mattress with you.

"Not fussed, either," you hum all rather pleasantly, pushing a few strands of his hair back and out of his face. The blonde is growing out, and there's a warm band where the toner has faded. It doesn't look bad, but you also know there's nothing better than fresh hair to boost a mood. It's your classic hot girl in crisis mood. He might not be a girl, but he's hot as fuck, and seems to be in a crisis, so maybe it could help. "Why don't we dye your hair?"

There's a grin on his lips, his brows lifting as he pushes your hair behind your ear, too. "Dye my hair? You saying you hate it?"

"God, you're so dramatic," you laugh - and that's the exact reason why he's so bloody dramatic. He loves to hear you laugh.

"You do hate it?!" he cries, feigning pain. "You think I look like shit?"

"The shittiest," you confirm, though the way you're smiling at him says otherwise. If your smile was anything to go by, he'd think you love his hair.

He'd be right.

But maybe it just went with the territory; a byproduct of loving him for everything he is.

The thought of you loving him flashes in his mind like a weather warning: Storms ahead. Take cover.

It's replaced by mindless banter; you telling him how ugly you think he is, and him pretending like his feelings are hurt. There's a tussle between the pair of you, just for an excuse to be touching one another. It's inevitable that you end up on top of him, holding his hands above his head to stop him from tickling at your sides. He lets you take this role of dominance, even though he could overpower you if he really wanted to.

He wants you in charge; wants you calling the shots.

"Let's dye my hair," he agrees and seals the deal with a kiss. "You gotta do it too, though. Yin to my yang."

"Matching hair?" You raise a brow as your hair hangs delicately around your face, tickling at his.

"Matching hair," he nods, because fuck it. He's never gonna get to do the couple shit with you. Never gonna get you a matching pair of sneakers, never gonna switch the sim card ports in your phones. If this is his only chance, he's gonna take it. "You'll do mine, I'll do yours."

It's a fair trade. One you can't argue with - and so you simply smile. "Alright, fuck it. I'm in."

────────────

"Forgotten something?" you hum, as Jungkook makes a u-turn on your way out of the city. You're not really surprised, nor concerned about his change in direction. You trust him. Wherever he goes, you'll follow.

The blue of Busan's endless harbour darts past you, teasing you, mocking the freedom you think you have. You're shackled, cuffed to the armrest, a prisoner of the way your heart beats a little faster, a little harder, whenever you're inside his Pony. It never eases. It's just like that chime in your stomach, which only gets louder with every rev of his engine.

You're sad to leave the city. Had never cared much for Busan before. You care for him, though, and that's what makes the difference.

"No," he says with a small smile, one that he's trying to hide. There's excitement in his gaze, celestial entities sparking in his midnight eyes.

"Hotel's a little further up," you add.

"I know," he smiles again, simple and pure. You're a bad listener, he realises. Stubborn. Believe your own assumptions, even when presented with contradictory evidence. It's a flaw, yet he can't help but find it endearing. "We're not going there."

He glances over towards you and catches the way your face changes as you recognise the road you're heading down.

He loves that little thing you do with your brows; the way they furrow for just a second as you try to figure out what's happening. It's a common occurrence, brief confusion, and it only ever flashes over your features for a moment or so, but it's undeniably one of his favourite expressions of yours.

You're holding it now, brows still pushed together as a grin rests on your lips in disbelief. He flicks his indicator, and it's all but confirmed: you're heading towards your bucket list hotel, the one you've dreamt about for years but never fancied booking alone.

It's been mentioned between you once, maybe twice - and he remembered. Maybe it's the bare minimum. Maybe it isn't as much of a big deal as you think it is - but your heart swells like proofing dough in a baking tin, waiting for heat to transform it into its final form. Soft and warm, it'd be everything he needs to survive.

And yet the only thing you can articulate is, "fuck off."

He takes it all in good humour though, because he knows you, and he understands that you're overwhelmed with an abundance of delight. It trickles from every part of you, your happiness infecting him like some sort of disease. A glorious cause of death he thinks it would be, to perish from your pleasure.

"Can't," he grins. "The booking is under my name. You need me here, Little Miss Clutch Control."

The change in his tone from factual to flirty has you all hot and bothered. You didn't expect such a lame term of endearment to get you feeling like this, but something about hearing it in full glory really gets to you.

The car pulls to a stop, but neither of you get out. You continue talking, bantering, existing next to one another. You're prolonging it, the anticipation that makes your hands all clammy, feet tingly. He's the one to break from the cautious climate between the pair of you, when he says, "if you go check us in, I can bring our bags."

They say that you should never meet your idols; that the disappointment of them being just like any other human breaks the infatuation.

The same can be said for a hotel.

You've dreamt about this moment for so long. The room is gorgeous - not quite the top floor, but close enough - and it looks exactly how you always imagined it. White marble coats the floor, the walls, the ceiling, too. It's grand and demure, but it's cold. The bed is flush to the floor, and there's little else to look at other than the view which pours in. It's blue. Cerulean. Sky and sea, with nothing in between.

It's everything you expected, and everything you wanted.

But what you want isn't always what you need.

You find yourself missing the old hotel. Just a little bit. You miss the intimacy you felt in the previous room with Jungkook; the warmth, the limerence you shared. It's hardly surprising. That room saw your fledgling romance crash and burn, but it's also where you patched each other up and promised not to let it happen again. A lot was learnt beneath those sheets. On top of them, too.

Still, every inch of you - your face, your body, your posture - is draped in delight. You're radiant.

The hotel really doesn't matter. It's the effort that he's gone to which has you so enamoured. It's more than you think you deserve.

But most of all? You can't believe that he actually cares so much about your desires, your dreams, your wants, that he tries to turn them into realities.

"Gone to a lot of effort for 'just a friend from Daegu,'" you simper into his lips as he joins you by the window, watching a ship seep across the ocean.

He smiles. Pecks you once. Twice. Holds it a little longer. Withdraws. "My best fuckin' friend," he growls, a little frustrated with the way he knows you're gonna be using that against him for months (if you make it that far, that is). Pinkies beneath your jaw, thumbs on your cheeks, he kisses you again. "Stop saying shit like that, C."

"Or what?"

"Or," he laughs tenderly against your lips. "I'll be left with no choice but to show how much your... 'friendship' really means to me."

The worst part of it all is that Jungkook actually believes it. He really does think you're his best friend.

It's a shame. He always thought that once he found his best friend, then that would be it. He'd settle for life. Loyal like a dog, is Jungkook, yet he'd always anticipated his mating habits being like those of a wolf. After all, what's a soul mate if not your best friend?

Big, big shame.

For now, though, his focus is on the present. There's a future outside of these four walls, and he'd love for you to be it.

And so he behaves in such a way that he convinces himself you could be. You; his, eternal. No sharing. No take backs. In this shit together for life.

Comfort comes in the form of his smile, and the way he makes you feel so secure in yourself. He laughs at all your jokes, reciprocates humour that matches your own. Tells you tales of childhood, and has you thinking maybe one day you could have little terrors of your own. You ask him what he'd call his kids - and proceed to tell him that his hypothetical son, 'Manta Ray', would 100% hate him. He asks you what you'd call yours. You list your girls names. They're pretty. Standard. Nothing remarkable. For a son? You look at him, lashes low, smile saccharine, and simply say, "Manta Ray."

It's that statement which has Jungkook determined to fuck you raw tonight; fill you up, toy with the idea of what it could be like to get you pregnant. It's far too soon for any of that, but the thought of it gets his balls all tight, cock twitching in his sweats. He thinks about the way your body could change; all shapely and swollen because of the semen he's fucked into you. He thinks about your tits, and it's when he thinks about tasting your fucking milk that he knows he has to stop. He's way too far ahead of himself, all horny and engorged, wetness seeping from his tip.

It's inevitable that you'll end up naked at some point.

But it's not just because he's like a dog on heat, right now.

See, your dream of staying in this specific hotel comes in two parts.

The first is sweet; innocent pleasure found in the harbour view.

The second is far less innocent. It's still about the view, but more so about how much you wanna get railed in front of it.

Jungkook wises up to this pretty quickly, without complaint.

It's impossible not to - primarily because he's reclined on the bed, legs spread, cock hard as he strokes his thick shaft, watching you strip for him by the time night has fallen.

He takes in the sight of you under the silver moon; ethereal in the way she beams on you. The curves of your body are accentuated by the shadows, his lips desperate to devour every inch of your skin.

You're made for the moonlight, he thinks, made to be more than just a being of the sun.

He's always thought he belonged to the night, but maybe he was wrong. Maybe he belongs to you.

It's not long before he's taking in the rest of you in; your scent, the way you sound, the tremor of your sternum as you laugh while he dapples kisses down your body.

You're celestial, laid bare, your soul for the taking. His lips are tender against your skin, as if he knows he could steal it. Keep it forever.

He's trying not to. He doesn't want to keep you, not like that, and not forever. He wants you to find happiness after him - but selfishly, he never wants anyone else to hear your laughter, not when it's coated in syrup, sweet enough to devour.

It's all very conflicting.

He can't wrap his head around it.

Can't make sense of any of it - but he can wrap his lips around your swollen pussy, tongue teasing as his fingers find their home inside you. He can make you forget the world, and that's exactly why you'll never be able to forget him.

His name is lodged in your throat as you come undone for him; a block of ice that melts with the heat of his limerence as he kisses through your post-climax comedown.

Body heavy on top of yours, his cock digs into your thigh as he ruts a little, unable to stop himself. He tries to hold back, but your tongue is in his mouth, hands are in his hair, and you're moaning.

The sound of your desire vibrates against his lips; has him shifting his hips until the tip of his cock is kissing your soaked entrance.

You tell him that you want him. Need him.

He shakes his head, and smiles, though he doesn't find much happiness in the admittance that comes with the gesture. "I'm no good for you, CC."

"Bit late for that, don't you think?"

His lips press into your throat; travel down to the hollow of your collarbone, skirt the tops of your breasts, and then he kisses right where he thinks your heart might be.

"You're so good for me," he whispers, lips brushing against the skin of your bare chest. You're more than he's ever deserved; more than he'll likely ever experience again. There's a fear - a very valid one - that this could be the last time. Part of him doesn't want it to happen. It will all feel so final, he thinks. Alternatively, perhaps it would give him closure - but what about you?

He's trying to do right by you, but it's so gut-wrenchingly difficult when all he wants is to give you what you want, instead.

He's slow as his hips begin to pulse, pushing ever so gently against your entrance before he retracts. He repeats this; once, twice, three times. Asks if you're ready. Waits for your nod. Feels his heart ache when you do. Sinks into you, slowly. Sheaths himself within your walls. Whines as he hits your cervix, balls ghosting your perky little ass as he does so.

Full capacity, you're stuffed with his cock, and yet he pushes just a little deeper to hear the way you gasp.

It won't take long to have him unloading himself into you. Doesn't even thinks he needs to fuck you. Your throbbing walls could milk him, even if he stays entirely still on top of you. He knows he'd make you so filthy, cunt throbbing, plugged with his fingers because he wouldn't want any of his creamy load to escape your pussy.

He knows exactly how he'd fuck you, how he'd position you afterwards, how he'd keep you reaching Nirvana again, and again, and again, just to increase the chance of fertilisation.

Jungkook is losing his fucking mind.

He's always been thankful for your birth control, because he loves to fuck you raw, but he hates it now. Wishes your body would just let you mother his future children. Doesn't give a fuck about anything else.

You're it.

He thinks you're fucking it.

His lips wrap around your nipple, mainly to stop himself from saying things he can't take back. Doesn't imagine you'll react too well to him growling about how much he wants to see your belly all round, tits engorged and leaky, body destroyed (though he'd argue it was beautiful) thanks to his insatiable cock and need to keep your pussy as his.

His mouth is warm; wet and gentle but firm with its movements. He's doing it with intent. You know why. You know what he's thinking about, cause you're thinking about it, too; how you're built for him to ruin in the most beautiful of ways, and how it's only fair he should reap the rewards.

"I know, baby," you husk, fingers stroking his hair as he groans against your soft chest. There'll never be another him. Ever. "It's cause we're good for each other."

There's something going on with him. He's always fucked you well, fucked you right. This is more than that, you think.

You aren't an idiot - but as vulnerable as he may seem, now doesn't feel like the right time to ask. You've dated men in the past who grew irate when sex would be interrupted by matters of the heart, and you've been conditioned to not 'ruin the moment.'

Jungkook wishes you would. Wishes you'd tell him to stop, tell him that he shouldn't do this, tell him that you don't want him - but you do, you do, you do.

There's movement; your hips working against his own, your hot walls milking his length.

He knows he shouldn't let himself indulge in such a ludicrous fantasy. You'll never get the picket fence. Never get the rose garden. Never take the kids to basketball practise on a Sunday, and fuck in the car as soon as you get a moment of peace together.

On the contrary, you think he should indulge in these little dreams - but there's hesitation, and it confuses you. All of his movements stop. His forehead rests against yours. He's inside you, still, but not how he was.

"You wanna stop?" You ask with a voice so tender that Jungkook just wants to melt into you. His lips find yours, pressure controlled, restrained.

One hand is supporting his body above you, the other holds the underside of your jaw. There's no further discussion, just mewls; groans of want, need, desire. Your legs wrap around his thighs, encouraging him to follow through on the pleasure that the hardness of his cock is promising.

He could do it. Make you his. Fill your sweet little cunt up so well like he always does. Have your back arching, body at his disposal. It'd be so easy.

Or at least, it would be if he wasn't getting soft.

It's not you. Fuck. God, no. Nothing to do with you. He's just so inside his head over everything - the way he feels, the fact he knows you arent built to last - that he's finding it hard to focus. That family he thought of? The happy one he could have with you? It'll never exist.

Jungkook can't think straight, let alone keep his prick straight.

You can feel that his cock isn't as firm as it was, but you think maybe it's just a blip. Maybe Jungkook trying to make himself last longer? You're not really sure of the mechanics involved in that, but it seems plausible.

You move your hips to give him a little encouragement, your pussy stroking against his shaft ever so gently. You're wet - so fucking wet - for him, and it gets him even more wound up.

Why is his body not responding in the way he wants it to? Why won't his head just let him fuck you like he wants to fuck you? Unfair, he thinks, so unfair.

You don't mind the fact he's not rock hard. He's only human. It's natural for things to not always go right, and it's not like he'd be the first boy you've ever known to have performance issues. It happens to everyone at some point or another - yourself included.

"What do you want me to do?" You offer, because you think it will help; think that by showing you don't mind helping out, it will make him feel more comfortable.

But he knows you've noticed and it's fucking mortifying. This never happens to him.

Then again, he's never fucked a girl he likes as much as he likes you. Naive of him to think he could trust his body not to betray his mind at such an important moment. Only fitting, really, considering that it's his mind that will betray his heart when it matters most.

It's a cycle, and Jungkook's struggling to get to grips with the pedals. He'll fall off, crash and burn, if he's not careful.

"Shit," he hisses as he bridles his hips and pulls himself away from you. His back meets the mattress with so much force that your body shakes, cold and alone without the weight of him on top of you. He lies next to you, staring at the ceiling, cock limp, jaw tense. So fucking embarrassing. "Dunno what's wrong with me."

You tell him that it's normal, nothing unusual, and that you don't care - but it's not normal. Not for him, and especially not when it comes to you. He's been a walking boner since the moment he met you. Hard as a steel pole for weeks. In fact, if anything, he's barely soft these days.

"Just give me a moment," he says, though he doesn't move. He's trying to focus.

He breathes, in and out, slowly, his eyes glued to the ceiling, tattooed hand draped across his sternum. In, and out. He remains flaccid, cock resting shamefully against the top of his thigh.

This is, he thinks, hands down the most mortifying experience of his adult life.

You don't give a shit, but he's so uptight; lips pressed shut, eyes hard, as he seems to look anywhere but your direction. It gets you feeling all insecure. You didn't think you were the problem at first, but now it's starting to feel like you are.

The awkwardness is uncomfortable, and the fact that you're naked is even more so.

You're both on top of the quilt, so you can't even hide. Instead, you have to reach down the bed for the closest piece of discarded clothing - Jungkook's flannel shirt.

It's about now that he wants to die. Not like a brutal, slow death (the kind that he knows he deserves). He just wants to be zapped like a fly with an electric bat. The kind you see Ajummas with during the summer, wafting them around in the air, tasing everything they come into contact with.

He rubs his palm across his face, and when he's done, his hand comes to rest over his pathetic cock. The worst part of it all is the minuscule trail of precum that has oozed from the tip of his cock and onto his thigh, tangled in his leg hairs.

He could have fucked you. Could have fucked you so well.

But instead, he's watching you get dressed - although he isn't even doing that. He can't even bring himself to look at you.

He had asked for a moment, so you decide to give him just that. You head towards the bathroom unannounced, and Jungkook wants to tell you to stay, but he can't get any words out.

Door locked, closed, metal threaded through a loop, you're alone - and you fucking hate it. You're embarrassed and ashamed and confused. Your acceptance of his performance issue was genuine, but it doesn't stop it from hurting. You think his desire is dwindling, and you don't know what you'll do if it burns out completely.

You breathe. Take a second to reset yourself. Everything is fine. Everything is okay. Jungkook is just having issues. It's not me, it's not me, it's not me, you tell yourself, though you don't really believe it, and then you head back towards the bedroom.

When you return, Jungkook's got his underwear on.

He's sat with his back to you, facing the sea view, legs crossed, knees raised for his chin to rest upon. There's a crease in his stomach, his posture pathetic and feeble.

You'd never tell him, because you know that he trains so hard at the boxing club, but you sort of like it when torso creases like this. It makes him seem human. Soft; his hard exterior subdued, just for you.

The bed shifts as you walk across it and plonk yourself down beside him, mirroring the way he sits. There's a tugging in your chest, like your heart is clawing against your ribs, begging to be let out so it can go and sit beside Jungkooks. You tell it no, that it has to stay put.

But then he inhales a sharp breath through his nose, and you can hear he's torn himself up over what just happened. Your head rests on his shoulder, and your heart pacifies. His bottom lip is beneath his front teeth, the pressure so great that it feels as if he could burst through the skin. He doesn't ease up.

Silence remains. You can hear the waves crashing through the double glazing, and you wonder why you find such peace in something so hostile. The sea could kill you without a care in the world, and yet you'd let it, if meant your final moments were as peaceful as this.

"I'm sorry, CC," Jungkook eventually whispers. His voice shakes, and your lips press a gentle kiss onto his shoulder.

"You don't have to be."

Oh, but I do, babe. You'll never know how sorry I am.

You continue, knowing Jungkook won't clarify any of his misgivings. "C'mon," your head knocks back. "Let's sleep. Check out is early."

And so he settles into the sheets with you. Doesn't really say much. Just spends an eternity looking at you. Such a sight to behold; a work of art framed by the sea view.

That's the thing about works of art: you can see all their imperfections up close.

You've an eyelash that sticks out straight, while the rest of them curl. There's a small scar just below your ear from a childhood accident. He must have pressed a thousand kisses against that spot and never realised before.

He's never paid much notice to your piercings - lobes, double; helix, single - but he notices now that the stud in your cartilage has a stone in it. Opal, he thinks, but isn't sure. He wonders why you chose that one. Doesn't think you chose it just because it's pretty. You put too much weight on intangible things like fate and karma to have not chosen something specific.

You'd had a field day when you found out he was a Virgo, but he didn't have a clue what you meant when you said, "Saturn in your seventh house? Curious."

He was even more confused when you apologised for the fact you have Mars in your seventh. At the time he'd made some juvenile joke about sticking his seven in Uranus, but he wishes he'd listened more carefully, now.

It was the first time you'd shown belief in something other than the power of peach teas to remedy a bad mood, and it was significant. Not to him, admittedly, but to you. In turn, it made it important to him.

There's very little he actually can say about you - concrete things, like your childhood hangout area downtown, or the career path you had dreamt about. He knows how you laugh, what kind of humour gets you, but not what makes you sad. Doesn't know how you grieve.

How much of you does he really know? Or has he just been infatuated with the idea of you?

After all, you're everything he was hardwired to hate. Perhaps he's fooled himself. Maybe the wool he's been pulling over your eyes is over his, too.

He's the one who's been knitting, though. The crochet is a product of his own making. He's only got himself to blame.

But of course, neither of you are to blame. Not really. This was never meant to be more than what it is. You're just a friend from Daegu, after all.

It doesn't feel like that, no, but for all intents and purposes, that's what you are. You aren't his girlfriend. He's never asked for more, and nor have you. Keeping things simple has only served to make everything so much more complicated.

"Hey," he whispers quietly, just to get your attention. He's embarrassed, and it shows in the way he's nibbling down on his lip, but he doesn't want to be. Deep down, he knows that there's no shame to be found in what happened, and yet he can't help but think maybe you like him a little less, now.

Maybe that would be good. Maybe you should like him less. Actually, he's certain that you should.

But he doesn't want that. The idea of you looking at him with anything less than utter adoration has his stomach in knots. He's so used to it now; the way your pupils widen, lashes flutter. It's juvenile, and he knows it doesn't mean as much as he thinks it does, but he's convinced that your eyes don't lie.

He and you both are nothing but spinners of yarn; the tellers of tall tales, romancers of wrong-doings. Rumplestiltskins' of sorts, spinning gold where there once was straw.

You murmur a noise, but your eyes are still shut. It isn't enough for him. Needs to be greeted with your eyes; to be welcomed home. And so, he tries again, thumb stroking your cheek, the side of his head nestling into his pillow as he shuffles in a little closer. "CC?"

A delicate breath huffs from your nose as you smile, curiously smitten with how tender his voice sounds. Part of you is tempted to feign sleep a little longer just to have him addressing you like that again, but you find your eyes open - and once you're looking at him, it's borderline impossible to stop.

"Morning," you smile, even though the moon is still peering in, checking in on the lovers she's nurtured to a point of no return.

"Morning," he smiles back. The clock on the wall behind you read 2:24am. "Missed you."

"Been right here," you counter, as if the chime in your stomach isn't ringing like Jungkook's phone always seems to do whenever he's getting lost in you. His thumb strokes at your cheek again, then pushes your hair behind your ear. He wants to see all of you. Every inch of your skin, every fleck of colour in your iris, every strand of hair; wants it all. The hollow of your collarbones, the slope of your shoulders, the curve of your chest beneath his flannel shirt. All. Of. It.

"Too far away," he pouts.

"Too far?"

"Too far," he doubles down, still stroking hair behind your ear just because he can. Your head nestles into the pillow as you figure out what he's after. 'You' is the simple answer, but what exactly he wants from you is unclear.

"I can be closer," you whisper.

All he does is nod. He doesn't want to ask for what he wants, fearful of repeating his earlier mistakes - and to be honest, he doesn't really want to fuck, anyway.

But Jungkook hasn't fucked you in a long time. Sure, he's been sleeping with you - having sex with you - but he can't qualify it as fucking. It's too brash. Too careless. Inaccurate.

The way he fucks himself into you lately is deliberate; a facilitator of the way he feels. And he's not gonna call it what it is, because the term makes him uncomfortable, but it's undeniable.

Jungkook fucks you like he loves you. Kisses you like it will be his last, touches you like it's still the first. He's tentative. Tepid. Tactful.

More than anything, though? He's absolutely fucking terrified.

The fear doesn't leave; not when your body grinds against his, not when you end up on top of him, not when he's kissing you like he means it, stroking your skin as if you bruise like a peach. It never dilutes. Never ceases.

He can be rough, if he wants to be - but he doesn't.

He wants softness, with you, always.

And he'll only have himself to blame when he loses it all.

────────────

There are 38 boxes of hair dye facing Jungkook, and he thinks they all look the same. 

You had been in Daegu for less than a minute when you reminded him to swing by an Olive Young to pick up some hair dye - and how could he ever refuse any of your requests?

It's so simple making you happy. A peach tea from a drive-thru on the way home, no complaints when you change what's playing through the aux after 20 seconds because you get bored, the way his hand squeezes your knee at red lights. Making you happy is the easiest thing in the whole wide world - but of course it would be.

There's no hardship that comes with your happiness. Everything Jungkook does is second nature, as if he's been doing it his whole life, and not just a few months.

"See, this one is ashy," you say, and he pretends as if he understands. It's been twenty minutes now, and no conclusion has been reached. You thought it would be easy, an in and out job, but Jungkook is full of surprises. It's not like you mind though. Learning his ways - how he behaves when no one else is watching - is a luxury that very few are able to indulge in.

He catches your gaze occasionally, and the way you marvel at him without even realising it. It makes him smile. Make him blush. Has him scared you're gonna start noticing his imperfections.

You won't - and even if you do, you'll file them under 'endearing habits' or 'cute quirks'. He's nothing short of perfection as far as  you're concerned.

Foam or serum? Powder or liquid? He didn't remember it ever being this hard before.

But of course, it wasn't. He wasn't actually the one who had dyed his hair blonde. Namjoon's sister had; a trick to foster intimacy with him when he wouldn't reciprocate her longing gazes after casual fucks.

He hadn't told you that, obviously. Didn't have a death wish - but he did remember that, for a short period of time, her attempt at faking closeness seemed to have worked.

It was a moment of madness for Jungkook, one too many sojus and he'd been seduced; a couple more and all of his clothes were on Naejeon's bedroom floor. He did as he always had done with her; took her from behind, spanked her ass when he was done and offered to drive her home after the alcohol had worn off - but he'd been foolish and gone back to hers that evening. While he was still a little bit worse for wear, he'd agreed to let her do his hair. He thought it'd be fun. She thought that maybe he'd realise there was more between the pair of them than just a good time after dark.

It wasn't long, and it wasn't love, but Naejeon had him reassessing whether or not it was just fucking, through the simple means of hydrogen peroxide coated strands of hair.

As much as he lamented the time he had spent with her towards the end of their arrangement, for a while she had been good for him. He'd become kinder, more gentle, and it seemed you were the one who reaped the rewards.

"And ashy is..." he carries his words on, as if the answer is on the tip of his tongue, but you know him well enough now to know that they're not. He's overwhelmed by the choices, simultaneously wishing he could pick without a care in the world, but also worrying about making the wrong decision.

"Bad."

"-Bad, yeah, that's what I was gonna say," he bullshits, but you don't mind the white lies all that much. He goes to say something, then cuts himself short. "And why is it bad again?"

It's the fourth time you've explained colour theory to him. "It's bad because you need a warm tone over the blonde, otherwise it will go green."

"I like green," he speaks with a small pout, not realising the green his hair will go isn't the same green as the trees in May. It will be murky, and grotty, like the streets in April rain.

"So do I," you smile. "But not for my hair. How about this one?"

His eyes follow your hand to one of the thousand boxes: a deep crimson red. It's not a shade he was expecting, nor one that he thinks will work on your hair. You know it won't, so you add "we can just bleach a little bit first. Like the underneath layer, or something."

His head tilts, a dimple forming as he tries to imagine what it will look like. You can see he isn't sure, and that he feels a little hesitant. He wants to do this. Wants to reinvent himself with you - an artist fixing up an old oil painting, filling in the cracks, restoring it to its former glory - but he's scared that what's done cannot be undone.

Ironic, really, that it's his hair that he's scared of. Consequences have meant little to him as of late, and yet here he is all pouty, huffing through his nose a little bit because the poor baby can't decide.

It makes you laugh how childish he can be. He just needs a little push you think; a helping hand.

"You trust me?"

The question is asked so flippantly that it would seem unfathomable for the trust between the pair of you to be broken. Flirtatious in your tone, he knows this is all just fun to you. Maybe he should loosen up. Maybe it should be fun for him, too.

Yes is the answer to your question - not that he'll give it to you. Words are dangerous. They can be used against him.

"I think you're mad," he tells you, but there's a smile that he just can't hide. It rests on his lips, crooked and glorious; sun breaking through a storm. It's yours, you think. Mine, all mine. "Get the bleach, you little fucker."

"See," you grin back, all big and pleased, and Jungkook thinks he'll never be able to smile without you. "You do."

You do as you're told; grab the bleach, get in line. Jungkook stands behind you, kisses your hair, tells you he likes it enough as it is, but that he's excited to do this with you. And then he's whispering some bullshit about how he wants kombucha, but the one he likes is sold out, as per usual.

When you go to pay, his card is already in the machine. It's on him. Everything during your trip has been. There's something charming about it; chivalrous. You've never needed a man with a white horse, but you got yourself a boy with a red Pony regardless.

Scarlet in colour, his car screamed danger when you first met him, but as you ride in the passenger seat, feet on the dash, hand beneath his on the gear stick, you feel safe. There's a world out there around you and yet none of it can penetrate the metal body. You like to think it's bulletproof.

It's an old car. A heap of shit, if you will, especially by today's highway standards. You had made a point to pay your respects a little longer at the road safety shrine at Haedong Yeonggungsa when you visited in Busan. 

A bullet would tear through it - but how lovely it is to pretend that you could be invincible together.

You ask if he fancies doing his hair at your place.

It's the first time you've ever offered.

You asked if he trusted you earlier that evening, and now you're the one showing him that you trust him.

This is bad. Really bad, in fact. In too deep; six feet under. He's sinking, buried in the way that he feels for you, but thinks that it's just his guilty conscience that's tickling at his tummy.

Your apartment isn't too dissimilar from his; a little one-room, cheap and drab, but brightened by your personality. There are photos on the walls, pictures with friends, postcards of art, memories of times you barely remember, now. Your bed is sort of hidden, a shelving unit separating it from the rest of the room. The first thing he notices about it is how many pillows you have. Plushies, too. He looks bewildered, but you simply shrug and smile. "Never take me to an arcade."

Your statement only serves to make that an insatiable desire of his. He's obsessed with the idea of you in front of the machines, neon lights glowing in your eyes, lips parted as you aim for yet another ridiculous plushy.

In fact, it's all he wants to do now, go to an arcade with you. Considers saying fuck it to the hair dye, and heading downtown instead.

But you usher him into the bathroom, and say, "c'mon, buddy. I gotta bleach mine first before we can put colour on."

Perched on the closed lid of your toilet seat, Jungkook watches on in awe as you get to work on your hair. The way you called him buddy plays on loop in his head. He thinks it's a joke because of the fact he told Taehyung you were just a friend, and he'd be right to consider that. He realises, rather quickly, that he doesn't ever want to be just a friend to you. Impossible, he thinks.

Mindless chatter takes hold as you paint bleach onto your hair. It's only on the underneath layer, and it washes out to be the most god-awful orange, but it's fine. All you need is a base for the colourful dye to stick to.

You've done this before, he assumes, but doesn't like that he's picked up that trait of yours - so instead, he asks about it.

"Shoulda seen me in high school," you smile. "Rebellion was my middle name."

It's said in jest, but Jungkook wonders just how true that is. You're the black sheep of a family you're pretending doesn't exist.

"Did it win?" He teases. "The rebellion?"

He likes the idea of your defiance being nurtured at an early age. You've always had fight in you, or so it would seem. It's something he finds attractive, the way there's bite behind your bark, and yet he appears to have you tamed.

You don't look at him as you smile, putting on a pair of latex gloves and reaching for the tub of crimson dye. The plastic container fits into your palm like it was made to be there. This new identity? The one that matches Jungkooks? Made for you.

Painting the dye onto your hair without much care, you shrug. Consider telling him about your family. Stop yourself at the last minute.

"Rebellions endure," you tell him, all matter of a factly and as if you know what you're talking about. You don't. You're a sham. Wouldn't know rebellion if it bit you in the ass. Stupidly, you think that disowning your family counts as an act of rebellion - but you did it all so quietly that no one even noticed. Rebellion would have been publicly denouncing them - also would have saved Jungkook a whole lot of hassle, that's for sure. "There's no winning. Just perseverance."

He doesn't agree. Thinks that life is a rotating door of winning and losing; a turnstile in the subway that will let anyone through given they can pay for the fare. That's what life boils down to for Jungkook; who has money, and who can spend that money.

The ones with the wallets always win.

Give it a week, and his wallet will be fat enough to run with the big boys - and yet he's never felt less powerful in his whole entire god damn life. He's watched girlfriends fuck about with his friends, his family disintegrate, his mother die. You - and your stupid fucking smile, the way your eyes always land on his lips before they meet his eyes, the smell of your gasoline tainted hair - trump it all.

He's a loser in this game, whether he 'wins' or not.

There's no winning without you.

There's a clamminess to his palms, a beating in his chest that goes a mile a minute, far too fast for a healthy heart. You're a comedown short of a cocaine upper, and Jungkook knows that his addiction has grown out of hand. Cold turkey is going to leave him in tatters, but he can't seem to ween himself of your body, your touch, the way your pinky loops with his. He knows what this is. Knows that the way he feels is far too much for what you are.

You catch him looking, his stare stern, and hard, and it has you smiling. He looks so serious - angry, almost - but you know he isn't. He's just thinking. Contemplating. He does it when he eats, too, and he's never angry when his belly is full. When you smile, the furrowing of his brows eases, and he begins to smile, too.

"What?" He questions, his eyes so fond that you can't believe you get the luxury of a man like him looking at you like that. Lucky bitch, you think. Luckiest in the whole wide world.

"Nothin'," you grin back, and he rolls his eyes. He looks so pretty, a strand of hair hanging over his forehead as you wait for the dye to process. His will be brighter than yours - just the tips of his hair where the bleach once was, but you think he'll look so pretty with a little colour against his honey skin.

He won't be able to hide the way he's paired with you. You've always scoffed at the couples who walk down the street in matching shoes, matching clothes. You think it's cringe. Vomit inducing. Gross.

But you're also so smitten that your lips are constantly curved into a smile, eyes fond as you look at him. You're absolutely infatuated.

So is he, but chooses to downplay it. Has a smirk on his lips as if he isn't obsessed with every little thing you do. "This is so dumb. Can't believe we're doing this."

"You suggested it!" You protest.

So hot, he thinks as you whine. He just wants to have his way with you, right then and there on the spot. Feels like he can never be close enough to you.

"So? Didn't think you'd agree," he smiles as he sinks his lips onto yours and forget all above the fact he's supposed to be careful.

Within half an hour, he's spraying you in the face with the showerhead, when he should be rinsing your hair instead. He laughs when you squeal, not caring for the fact you're both still fully clothed. A kiss is gifted and received, then given back, water from the shower hitting you both.

You're both in black, so the running red dye doesn't matter, despite the grout in your tiles turning pink.

"This doesn't seem like the most efficient way to rinse out hair," you husk against his lips, but he ignores you. Presses your back to the wall, and supports his body with a palm on either side of your head. The shower is clamped beneath one of his hands as the head sprays directly onto the wall, but he doesn't care.

"Yeah you're right," he agrees, his showerless hand cupping one of your breasts and squeezing it through the fabric of your soaked shirt. "Would be far easier if you weren't wearing this."

You laugh now, 'cause he's just so bloody predictable. A one-track mind, but you're glad he's thinking like this again. He's so much more himself when he isn't in his head over things.

His shut down yesterday has scared you; left you thinking that maybe he didn't want you anymore. The way his lips are on your neck, rough, teeth present, not caring about the crimson water running down your throat, suggests otherwise.

"You're a menace, Jeon Jungkook," you whisper, voice airy and light as it dances around the room, weaving between the droplets of water that pitter-patter on the ground. A menace; a maverick. Both could be true. When you look at him and see the way the dye is dripping down his skin, too, you think 'masterpiece' may be more apt.

He holds the showerhead over himself, letting the water run faster, more freely. The red feels never-ending, as if he'll be forever tainted by the colour of your love.

He then does the same to you, deliberately aiming straight for your face just to fuck with you. He loves how cute you sound when you squeak, body instantly shifting to defend itself.

"No, no, no," he koos, pulling the shower away and hugging you close just so that you don't retaliate against him. 

The way his clothes stick to his skin is uncomfortable, but you love the way his muscles feel beneath the drenched cotton. His chest is strong, arms even more so. Needless to say, he's obsessed with the way you look too: his shirt over your shoulders, water collecting in the fabric and forcing it to stick to the contours of your curves.

Reaching for the taps, he knocks the temperature down a little bit. 

"I'm sorry, baby," he whispers, pressing a kiss into the side of your head. The shower pours onto your feet, but you can feel it travel up your legs. There's a shift in your position as Jungkook says 'You should lift my shirt a little bit."

You feign naivety. Pretend like you don't know what he's going to do. "Like this?"

It's inched just a little further up, resting just above the lace trim of your underwear. You're a tease; Jungkook your favourite victim.

He nods. Swallows. Rests his lips ajar as he struggles to breathe. "Just like that, C."

The heady nature of the steam fogging up the bathroom fails to hide the fact he looks nervous; intent on succeeding where he had failed the night before. He watches as your lips part, brows furrowing. 

The way your chest heaves isn't lost on him, but he finds himself lost in you, and the way you look at him when he begins to hit just the right spot with the steady stream of water. You grip onto his arms, rising to the tip of your toes. A moan husks in your throat, and he smiles.

Crown of your head to the tiles, you let your head tip back, eyes closing. Your showerhead isn't something you often indulge in for pleasure by yourself, favouring your hands or a toy instead - but there's something so deeply erotic about the way he's watching your body respond to the water that he's controlling.

Occasionally he'll dip his hand down to your clit, not wanting the showerhead to take all the responsibility for what Jungkook knows will be his favourite part of the day. It's noticeable, the way a little extra moan will escape your lips whenever he uses his fingers. It's ego-boosting. Cock-swelling.

Your nails begin to dig in deeper to his muscles, no doubt leaving a print on his skin. Your whines, sultry and slow, take dominance over the running water which has been soundtracking your build-up.

"That's it," he keens, finally slipping his middle finger into you. He curls it, and the way you silently gasp has him smirking. He's still got a firm grip on the shower, his wrist moving in small circles to make sure he hits all the right places. "You gonna come for me, C?"

You're not there yet. Just a little further. A little more. A little - oh, fuck -deeper. You wanna tell him yes, yes you will, but all you can do is nod. Your eyes are shut, too embarrassed to look at him when you know you're going to finish in record time. The way you moan is sinful, and it only gets worse when you feel his tongue circle one of your nipples through the soaked shirt. He sucks, and lets it go with a pop.

"Keep-" you try and speak, but it's lost to the pleasure that's running down your spine.

He laughs. "Keep what?"

The question is answered by the way his lips wrap around your other nipple in place of a question mark. His tongue works at the swollen bud through the shirt, massaging it just enough to have your hips grinding against the pressure of the water, riding on his finger.

It's when he adds a second finger that things really start to become out of your control. Nothing you're saying makes any coherent sense. His replies are simple hums that vibrate against your chest as he sucks on it.

The thing that tips you over the edge is his third finger. The sounds you're making are lewd, and filthy, reserved only for him.

"The way you take me, baby," he grits against you, amazed by everything you are. "God, you take my fingers so well, don't you?"

"Kook-" you try, but are cut off with his lips against yours. His tongue is in your mouth, your hands in his hair, heart pressed against yours - and then you're unable to think, let alone kiss back. Your moans melt into his mouth, onto his tongue, and he devours every single one of them.

"Shit," he moans right back. "Yeah. Fuck my hand like that. Like that, CC. Coming all over my fingers aren't you?" His teeth graze your neck. "Filthy fucking slut."

The hands that are in his hair drop to his throat, and squeeze. His eyes are on yours as you ride out your high, but it's a warning you're giving him. He knows this. He likes it.

"Not like that one?" He teases, jaw hanging slack in a crooked kind of fashion that makes him look like he's from an 80's movie. You shudder a little, the ends of your orgasm still washing over you.

On the contrary; there's nothing you'd enjoy more than being bent over his leg and having him call you nasty little names while he leaves handprints on your ass. You're just fucking with him. Know that he'll take the graze of your nails as an indication you wanna fight. And you do. Just in such a way that you end up fucking, too.

You're still shaking as he withdraws his fingers. He looks at them, how they're coated in your juices, and debates who should get the honour of licking them clean. His eyes are on yours as he licks a stripe up his index finger.

"Fucking hell," he husks, lips wet from your mess. No one's ever tasted as good as you before. He doesn't think anyone else will ever compare.

He was gonna be strong about this; gonna take a sample and then give you the rest - but he just can't help himself. He sucks on his fingers - index, middle, then fourth - one at a time, before all three are in his mouth.

If you were breathless before, then you think you might have stopped breathing altogether, now.

He stares at you. Sucks. Withdraws, but only a little. Pushes his fingers further into his mouth. Closes his eyes. Groans. Moans. Grunts. Begins to withdraw. Opens his eyes. Releases his fingers with a kiss at the tips.

His eyes look down your body, then up to your eyes. "Where were we again? Ready to shampoo?"

The visual of him sucking on his fingers plays on repeat in your head. You need to see it again.

It's almost embarrassing how paper-thin you are when you shake your head, and say, "rinse and repeat. Gotta do that again."

He raises a brow. "Which part, C?"

There's a playful nature to him, pleased and protected in how easy he finds it to get you coming undone. He feels safe, now. There's security to be found in your eyes; a sanctuary, a dwelling, a hearth. Somewhere to curl up on the cold nights. A place to congregate. Someplace to call home.

You'd give him a key, if you had one. Put it on a chain around his neck. Maybe you'll just match your door code to his, instead. Cute couple things. The kind of shit that makes you roll your eyes and gag a little.

Ironic, really, when you think about it, as you wash the remainder of the dye from his hair. He reciprocates, but you don't think he's done it properly. It's only now that you pull his shirt off your body and let it fall to the bathroom floor with a loud slap. He sits on the closed lid of your toilet, still fully clothed, drenched, ruby red hair framing him perfectly. 

It suits him, even now, before it's styled pristine in that rugged kind of way he manages to perfect so effortlessly. He watches as you run the water through your hair, and you're surprised when you glance in the mirror to find him looking at your face. You thought his eyes would be elsewhere. 

In all honesty, they had been - you just caught him at a good moment.

Smiles are exchanged between the pair of you without your consent. Funny, how everything with him is involuntary, but in the best possible way. You don't have to think about happiness, it just comes.

"You look like a mermaid," he tells you, cheeks dimpled and bright. You cast your eyes to your legs - which are very much legs and not a tail - and give him a questioning look. "The hair," he clarifies. "I mean the hair. Bet you'd look fit as fuck with a tail though."

"My lord," you groan, tilting your head back in jest. "I'm dating a dude who's into fish?"

"Dating, eh?" Jungkook's ears grow red and hot, but he hides them well.

He wouldn't mind it if you were dating. Would quite like it actually.

You ignore him for a moment, caught out in the admittance of how you view the relationship between the pair of you. You don't feel embarrassed as such, you just didn't want to be the one to elevate the status of what you are.

"Not anymore," you say. "I prefer men who like girls with feet."

"I'd let you give me a foot job any day of the week," he protests almost too quickly. You reach over to knock the tap off, so Jungkook reaches behind himself to pull the towel down from the rail. He stands as it falls, opening it up for you to wrap around your body.

Gestures like this are normal for Jungkook; thoughtless thoughtfulness. You notice it often, and you always say thank you, but he just shrugs. He doesn't see it as a gesture. He's doing what he wants to do, and what he wants is for you to feel comfortable. He wants to ease your burdens.

Perhaps it's guilt. The knowledge that he's about to be the biggest burden you've ever encountered.

Or perhaps it's the language he speaks when words aren't enough.

Perhaps, just maybe, he's in lo-

The moment is cut short when Jungkook's phone begins to ring in the kitchen. You usher him out, tell him to get it, and head to your bed. Flopping down, still wrapped in your towel, you listen in to the conversation - "Jin? Yeah. Yeah. Back in Daegu. Tonight?" - and notice the way his posture changes. His back grows tighter. Voice becomes agitated. He's whispering, but is seething. You sit up, eyes trained on him.

He glances over to you, brows hard, eyes narrow. He looks away. Looks back again. Looks like he might fucking cry.

"No Jin, tonight is a bad idea. It just is, alright! No- Fucking hell, would you listen to me alright? Jin, she- No! No."

He looks at you again, eyes wider than the full moon peering in through the kitchen window. Divine feminity washes over him and berates him for his choices - but you mistake it for the sheen of a good man.

It's guilt that glitters in his eyes when he looks at you. He thinks you're gorgeous, but knows you must be a little bit stupid, too. 

How the fuck did you let him in this far? Why didn't you see right through his facade? Why didn't you just cut him off? 

God, he adores your brain - is absolutely enamoured with it - but fucking hell.

A beautiful fool is what you are, and to play a fool is to lose.

He wishes you never agreed to go on that fucking date. He only asked in the first place because he couldn't bring himself to let you get hurt, but it's gonna be so much worse now. Infinitely more destructive. Physical pain you'd have gotten over. Maybe even forgiven.

But this?

Jungkook's standing on dynamite. If he even takes one step toward you he'll catch the tripwire that will strike a match on the wick, and everything will be in fucking tatters.

It already is.

And all the while, you're reaching into your wardrobe to find him a pair of sweats big enough for him.

"I don't care what Joon says!" He hisses into the phone as you finally find the pair of sweats you had in mind. They're far too big for you, but hopefully they'll do the trick for him. "How far am I? From Kangs? 'Bout half an hour."

You close your wardrobe and look at him, head tilted, brows pinched together. He's barely a five-minute drive from Kangs. Ten tops. You figure he must just want more time with you before his boys steal him away.

"Jin?" He says into the phone, but is met with what must be a response he doesn't like. "Jin? The fuck man! Just listen to me! Please! Plea- fuck."

His words are interrupted by the crack of his phone hitting the steel sink basin in your kitchen. Shoulders hunched, he rests his palms against the counter, his breathing accentuated by the way his back is moving.

You're not scared, but you are cautious. You know he boxes. Know he has the potential to lose his temper.

If only you knew how well he's controlling his emotions in this moment. He should be given an award. A medal. A plaque. Jeon Jungkook, Container of Emotions, 2022.

Or perhaps 'Liar of the Year' would be more apt.

"You good?" You asked, edging towards the kitchen, sweats in hand. "Here, change into these. You'll catch a cold, otherwise. I'll put the heating on tonight."

Jungkook shakes his head. Stays silent. Sniffs. Is cold when he finally growls, "no, you won't."

"It's fine," you promise. Your heating bill is never that expensive. "I don't mind."

"C-" He begins, but cuts himself off.

When he turns to face you, his eyes are black. Just like they are in your nightmares. You always thought you'd die if he ever looked at you like this. The way your skin crawls has you thinking you might.

"What?" you speak so quietly that Jungkook wants to set himself alight on the gas stove top behind him.

He closes his eyes. Hangs his head in shame.

"You trust me, right?"

Something about his tone, his demeanour, has you frozen.  Your kitchen light is off, bathroom too, and there are shadows on his face that obscure his intentions. 'No' echoes in your head, but you can't bring yourself to speak it into existence. 5 minutes ago, it would have been an unequivocal, unwavering 'yes.'

He tries again. Eyes wide. Still focused on the floor. Petrified. You mistake them for being honest. 

"Tell me you trust me, C."

"I-" you choke on your words, heart lodged in your throat. He refuses to look at you. Heat gathers on your lash line, and it confuses you. He confuses you. You don't understand what he's asking of you. He's in your home. You invited him here. Is that not proof enough?

"C," he demands an answer. His eyes are on you now, finally looking in your direction. They're black, and they look right through your skin, as if he's watching the way your heart beats beneath your ribcage. You find yourself cowering into a shadow of the woman you are, and it's just another thing he adds to the list of reasons to hate himself.

You're meek and pathetic when you nod in response and say, "of course I do. Why would you even ask that?"

He's never seen you timid. Never seen the way you used to be before you left your family and became a human in your own right. There's something deeply unsettling about the way he's managed to revoke you to this version of yourself, and he knows this just as much as you do. 

He sniffs back a sob. Turns away from you. Rakes his fingers through his damp hair, and turns to face you again. Jungkook is struggling to survive inside the vessel of his which has been taken over by a fucking monster.

"Yoongi," he speaks quickly, not wanting to waste time. "Your co-worker, right?"

You nod. Say nothing.

"He lives around the corner, right?"

There's no reason for Jungkook to know that. No feasible reason at all. You can feel your pulse. You're panicking. Why does he know that?

"Take the fire exit and go to his, okay?" He says. "And fucking stay there until you hear from me, alright? Don't leave his place. Stay with him."

He expects you to nod. Expects the pathetic demeanour that's masking who you really are to agree with him. Yes, Sir. No, Sir, Three bags full, Sir.

But you stopped letting men tell you what to do a long fucking time ago. You don't take orders from any man - and you especially don't take orders from boys.

You stand straighter. Taller. Raise your chin, and look at him through your nose. For a second, you almost forgot who you were.

"What the fuck is going on, Jungkook?"

The question is stern. Sterile. 

Fuck.

He's so taken aback by the way you address him that he feels winded. Cannot breathe. Will die.

"You said you trust me-"

"Yeah, and you'd never given me reason not to trust you before now, but what the fuck is this?" You gesture between the pair of you. "You say jump, I say how fucking high? Nah, fuck that, Kook. What's going on?"

He paces, pushing a tense hand through his damp hair, before rubbing his face with his palm. The red runs through his fingers like a warning sign. Danger. You better run, too.

"C, you just gotta trust me-"

"Trust?"

You laugh now. At him. Trust? When he's behaving like the sketchiest dude you ever met? You think the fuck not.

"I don't trust you," you spit, and rightly so - although you know you're being reactive. You should be calmer. Evaluating the situation, considering why he's asking this of you - but you've seen red, and it clouds your better judgement. "It's earned, not owed. Either you tell me what's going on, or you get the fuck out of my house."

"C-"

"Do not try and reason with me, Jungkook," you assert. "You tell me, or you go."

And that's when he realises. 

That's when he knows there's no coming back from this.

"I can't," he whispers, the crack in his voice so painfully tortured. "I can't do either of those, C."

"You're gonna have to."

"C-"

"Kook."

"Plea-"

No, you think. You told him not to try and reason with you. What does he think he'll achieve? You'll magically say yes?

Incorrect.

"Get out."

"I can't."

"I'll even open the door myself, if I really have to."

"C-"

"You've got thirty seconds."

"C-"

"Twenty."

"You gotta just-"

"Ten."

"You're not even giving me a second!"

"Five-"

"Fine."

"Four."

"You want the fucking truth?" He shouts.

"Three," you smile. Yes. I do.

"You really want the truth so fucking bad, do you?"

Oh, you big fucking baby, you taunt internally. Men. Always too good to be fucking true. Always have to do something to go and fuck it all up. 

You toy with the possible answers of what the truth could be. Fucking someone else? The other woman planning on showing up for a fight? Maybe the mother to a child of his, or something like that. He seems to be good at running from his responsibilities, so it would make sense.

"Two."

He pauses. 

And then he thinks fuck it.

You want the truth? You'll fucking get it.

"I know who your family are, C. Know all your dirty little secrets. Everything. And I also know that if you don't shut the fuck up and listen to me, you're gonna get real fucking hurt tonight. That's why you have to trust me. You have to get out of here. Something bad is gonna happen thanks to the past you keep trying to hide, so I need you to trust me. I don't want you to get hurt."

Bull. Shit.

This might all make sense to you one day. 

But for now, all you can focus on is the audacity that the man in front of you has.

You reach over to your front door, and open it wide. His time is up. 

"I don't fucking trust you. Now get out of my apartment before I call the police and have you arrested for breaching the peace. Clock struck one, Cinders. Time to flee before I find out who the fuck you really are."

He looks at you, helpless and confused. This isn't what he had expected. Not in the slightest.

"C-"

"One. Now fucking leave."

────────────

#jungkook fanfiction #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #jungkook ff #jk ff #jungkook masterlist #jungkook fic #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook x oc #jeon jungkook smut #bts fanfic #boxer!jungkook #mafia!jungkook #throttle #byholly #jungkook fluff #angst #smut #jungkook x y/n

[yaut-jaknowit]

If it's okay, can you have a trans male reader who needs help with changing the bandages after top surgery? And/or needing help. Since you can't lift you're arms up, or you'll rip out stitches

Its fine if you don't wanna do this request, I just thought it'd be wholesome in stuff

Coarse Hands Morph to Soft

Pairing: Mai'tuiudh (male Yautja) x FTM!Reader

Word Count: 2145

Summary: After your surgery, your movements are restricted. Even putting on a shirt is more difficult than it should be. Mai'tuiudh is here, at your side, to be your arms. He's there for you, through thick and thin.

Author Note: I want to state that Mai isn’t being transphobic or anything of the sort. I hope that I nudged towards his thought process enough. He just doesn’t understand. His mind works on the prey/predator/hunter lifestyle. A wound weakens you, makes you stick out and easy food. So he doesn’t understand why purposely hurt yourself to become more like prey. I do like to make my art semi-realistic.

Masterlist

Ao3

At first after the surgery, your mate was both confused and concerned about the whole ordeal. Mai’tuiudh didn’t know how to think about the fact you willingly changed your body. It puzzled him and his hunter brain. Why alter your body, putting yourself at risk for injury and infection? This made you look weak, something a predator would take advantage of.

Altering your body in this extent wasn’t part of his culture or society. When you had told them what type of surgery was happening, he freaked out and fretted over you. But you had sat him down and explained everything completely to him. He knew you preferred to be called by masculine pronouns. It only took him a couple of days to rewire his brain to do that. He still loved you nevertheless.

His concern wasn’t the fact you weren’t wanting to look feminine anymore. But now you’ve come home, weak, shaking, seeming drunk on Cn’tlip. Your friend leaving you to his caring hands for however long it’ll take for you to recover.

That first day, you slept off the drugs lingering in your system. You awoke to find Mai sitting on the end of the bed. A tablet in his hands, back bent at what had to an uncomfortable position. He thumbed the screen, scrolling through the words appearing.

You raised a fist to rub at your eyes but immediately hissed at the pain stinging. A reminder of what you did yesterday. Despite the pain, you smiled, eyes closed with content. It finally had been done.

It taken years of fighting, arguing, and dismissals to find the right doctor who ask if you wanted to this once. Then boom, a date was scheduled, and the surgery was completed.

The bed groaned under the shift of weight. Mai moved to sit at your side, hands cupping your cheeks. “Are you okay?” he questioned. Your eyes slowly peeled open to find your mate hovering over you. His burnt orange eyes were sealed on your face. They flicker between your own orbs. You laughed softly and lifted a palm to hold his lower mandible.

Yet, he sat to far up to reach. Unfortunately. Oh, how would you ever survive without him. “Yes, Mai. I’m alright. Not used to my limited motion now,” you explained and turned your head enough to lay a kiss on his palm. The Yautja’s shoulders sagged. He leaned down to pressed his forehead against yours.

Mai’tuiudh stayed there much longer than necessary but neither of you were complaining. His warmth left once he sat back up. You go to make the same move, albert slower and less delicate. A massive hand was place on your upper sternum. “Stay. I be back,” Mai demanded firmly before slipping off of the bed.

Amused about this new, different side you’ve never seen from Mai, you waited under the sheet for the Yautja to return. His years as hunter silenced his steps despite weight twice your own. He moved about the apartment, just showing up when he passed the open bedroom door. Just a flash of his navy blue skin.

In a reasonable time, Mai returned, arms full of supplies. Stuff that hadn’t been in your apartment before. An accusing look was thrown at the bad blood but he brushed it off.

The items were set at the foot of the bed. He shuffled through them. A water bottle was set on the nightstand next to you. “I’ve been up night, scanning information about… this. You need rest. No moving arms. Can’t shower. Bandages must stay clean. Nausea is possible. Have fizzle… drank and dry, crunchy squares. Those help,” he spewed out and motioned to everything he’s gathered while you slept.

Even though you knew he stole these things, your heart warmed at his determination. Your eyes sparkled while looking up at him. “Mai, I, I can’t say thank you enough.” His acceptance despite not understanding everything mentally was soul-stirring. Your eyes began to water. He stayed up to research the care needed after your surgery. He wanted to help you, protect you.

A grunt sounded from the blue Yautja. His head shook side to side. “No thanks. My mate needs me, I be there for him.” Your arms moved within their limited space towards him. Mai understood what was asked of him and crowded your space.

His weight was minded as he straddled your waist and didn’t dare put any other parts on you. This allowed your arms to reach for his sides. Just enough to give him a half hug. The Yautja purred thickly in his chest and tapped his forehead to yours.

The moment didn’t stay long. Mai untangled from you and stood back at the side of the bed. “Rest. Eat. Stay here,” Mai gave you his three conditions and pointed a firm finger tipped with a black claw at you. You couldn’t wipe the smile off of your face.

“Okay.” Not any arguments from you. He was your caretaker. He won’t let you lift a finger. Not while he was around.

His gaze stayed on you, knowing how you liked to sometimes defy him. This time, you stayed. He grunted and slowly walked backwards out of the room. Those orange orbs of his never leaving you until the wall physically blocked it.

You laid in bed at his order, unable to untense the corners of your mouth. Maybe the recovery won’t be so bad while you had your lover around.

.

After the first two weeks passed, moving became a little easier. For you, lifting your arms higher than your shoulders was still forbidden. Mai was right there for you. He rarely left your side if it could be helped. And when he had to leave the confines of the apartment, it was only to go on supply runs. Then, Mai’tuiudh would be back within arms reach to ensure you healed quickly. His hunter’s mind fretting over how much you looked like prey now. More than usual.

The surgeon had given the go ahead on changing the bandages yourself. This would be your first time. Said doctor specified to have someone here to help you change them. It required you to lift your arms a hair higher than what you’re comfortable with.

Mai didn’t mind. He preferred it to be him. As his years as a bad blood have gained him many, many wounds, he was well equipped to simply change your bandages.

With your butt on the counter, you gazed gingerly at the hardened, navy blue face of Mai’tuiudh. A shirt still hung off of your shoulders, too big for your body. The perfect size. His massive hands were gripping on your thighs while the Yautja peered into your eyes as well.

You leaned up carefully and placed a chaste kiss on the bottom mandible closest to you. The counter offered only an extra couple of inches to reach him. “I can’t thank you enough for your help, Mai.” He chittered quietly, mandibles clicking to each other after the kiss. He rubbed his forehead to yours, eyes closing almost all the way.

His fingers drifted up to graze against the hem of your shirt. A silent ask. You reached down yourself, an action you wanted to do. Your eyes clenched shut, thoughts on the verge of running wild when you felt a hand cup yours. No, you didn’t want to deal with this by your lonesome. There was someone here willing to do anything for your comfort alone.

Together, in tandem, the two of you began to peel the shirt up to reveal skin to the cool bathroom. Once you reached the limited range of your arms, you halted, grasp falling away. But you gazed up into Mai’s burnt orange eyes and quirked the corners of your mouth up. The tiniest of nods given to him.

He finished the rest of the way for you. The shirt carefully pulled off to reveal what you’ve done to your body. This wasn’t the first time he’s seen the bandages but this moment… it felt different. You were going to go further than before after the surgery with him.

His blue form pulled away, his warmth being stolen away. You released a whine and looked at him with doe eyes. He chuckled and rested those large hands of his on your hips. “Can touch wounds now?” he questioned patiently. Mai waited for you.

The lump in your throat was swallowed down. “Yeah,” you barely whispered above your breath to allow him. All of this was just soft, ginger movements and words combined into one. Not even the creaky bathroom fan could disturb the moment growing between the two of you.

After his release, Mai stayed where he was for an extra few seconds. His hands left your hips to cup at your ribcage. He didn’t move when you flinched, lungs seizing up. It was an uphill battle to take another breath afterwards. But, during this whole time, Mai didn’t move. He let you control the pace, being the one in control. Your heart swelled.

Your head dipped. Mai let a hand start to pick at the corner of the tape. It peeled up after the third try. In its bony cage, your heart thundered like a storm in your eardrums. Sharp talons pinched the tape and began to pull it off of your body.

Goosebumps prickled along your skin in reaction. The peeling didn’t hurt, not the way you would’ve thought with a bandage. Instead, it felt strange. That’s what you attempted to focus on instead of what was hidden now underneath. You knew it would take time to learn that the scars would be okay. Only a reminder of what you were once before. This was for the better.

More tape on the same side was removed in the same fashion. Mai took his time with each strip. A hunter knew patience. If they didn’t, they no longer breathe. It was a virtue. A necessary skill to be engraved into each Yautja that comes to life.

Once that side was completed, the tap and soiled bandages in the garbage, Mai’tuiudh stopped. His now free hand returning to its place to cup at your sides.

Slowly, you grasped at his other limb and rested it upon the last bandage to be removed. Mai took the silent permission to continue his pathing.

After the last tape fell away with covering, you shutter at the new cool air brushing against the sensitive skin. “You okay?” he rumbled and placed his foreheat to yours once more. It was a position he found himself in a lot. Not that he was complaining. Just a sign he truly cared about you.

“Yeah,” you hummed, eyes closed. Thankfully, he had you sitting on the counter, back to the mirror that hung off of the off white walls. Your throat bobbed with a heavy swallow. “Does…” your voice died off but Mai waited for you. “Does it look bad?” You don’t know why you wanted his reassurance. This had been something you’ve been fighting for for years. A change, a huge change like this was hard to come to terms with immediately. Like getting a new dog after your last one passed.

One of his thumbs glided across the skin underneath one of the open wounds. “The scars will show your survival,” is his answer. Right. Scars. His culture loved scars. Not that you minded his scars. Though, some did worry you. How did he survive if it looked like his guts were spilled.

“I don’t think I’ll ever accept the scars,” you spoke truthfully to your mate. Said Yautja tensed before making a chuffing noise.

His warmth was stolen away as the hunter stood up to his full height. He towered over you. Predator and prey. “Was this battle?” he asked, voice hardened the best it could with his alien accent.

It took a moment to release what he was getting at. You whispered a ‘yeah’ to him. “Your scars show battle has been won. You won this fight. You survived. Be proud. Wear scars proudly!” Despite being a bad blood, the Yautja still followed some of the codes grounded into his mind as a child. Some morals and thought process like when it came to scars.

If your mate accepted and fought for you, that’s all you needed in life. He didn’t understand a lot of things, like the need to change your looks in this sense. But guess what, he accepted you. He asked questions and went on his way. You smiled up at him with adoration shining brightly in your eyes.

“Okay,” you agreed. Mai’tuiudh leaned down and licked your cheeks, hands grasping at the sides of your head. Everything would be okay. You had your mate at your side, a place he deserved to be.

#predator #yautja #yautja x reader #yautja x you #alien vs predator #predator x reader #yautja x human #predator x you #predator x human #x reader

[thestobingirlie]

Somewhat tangentially related to that other ask but I wish fandom would just acknowledge that Eddie is also bully in his own right and just because he's antagonist towards jocks doesn't mean they deserve it by virtue of being jocks (no matter how much fandom likes to pretend it's warranted because Eddie is bullied himself- this is nowhere near canon and I'd go so far as to say it goes against canon if we're basing it off of Eddie's own behavior) and beyond all that; like the other asker and yourself said Eddie isn't just antagonizing jocks! He openly scorns band kids, geeks and pretty much everyone that isn't his specific brand of nerd which is not about academics so much as nerdy interest like fantasy and "non-conformist" music.

I put that in quotations because Eddie is actually probably the one that buys into the whole high school hierarchy spiel more than any other character on the show; by setting himself up as such an anti-establishment non conformist (all within the high school setting mind you we see nothing to make me believe his ideals go beyond that setting and it makes sense to me considering he's a Peter Pan archetype stuck in a state of arrested development- but I digress) because he sets himself up in such a way that his entire persona is built off of the abject refusal to adhere to societal expectations he's by and large helping to perpetuate them. He's cosplaying this attitude more than living by it because the societal norms still very much dictate how he views himself and how he approaches others.

Ironically Steve is the real deal in this regard by shucking what others expect from him and living his own life the way he wants it divorced from the excepted norms he used to let dictate him as late as mid s3 while changing the things he didn't like about himself behaviorally while still retaining his core personality and interests without the need to revise himself fully.

But because he doesn't have an alt style or interests that go against the mainstream, fandom refuses to see him in this light. He also doesn't let his new friends change his own interests nor expect them to change theirs for him.

I guess this rant makes me sound like I don't like Eddie but I do! I think fandom Eddie is entirely separate from canon Eddie however, to the point where his only recognizable qualities are his interests and aesthetic. Fandom really seems to martyr him in that regard and fully drink his kool-aid which is hilarious because it's largely performative with no substance lmao (even the "woe is me hunt the freak huh 🥺" falls flat narratively when a whole ass dead girl was found in his home).

I think the duplicitous nature of his personality and his hypocrisy (while still fully being a good guy! If you ignore the whole uh selling hard core drugs to a 17/18 year old girl who clearly never did them before thing) I think it's this dual nature and slightly shady actions while still having a caring heart and good intentions is what makes him a good character and we don't get to see that hardly ever with the way a laaaarge portion of fandom worships at his freak alter.

god, beautifully written. i agree with every single point. honestly, you anons just know how to word exactly what i’m feeling.

yes! eddie pretends like he rejects societal ideals, but he just reinforces them to the next generation. he’s built his life on being the freak, he plays it up to get attention, and to rile up his classmates. i honestly think eddie won’t know who he is post high school. which is, like you said, ironically the way the fandom tries to portray steve. but we see that he’s much more secure in himself and his life than eddie. does he have everything figured out? of course not, he’s 18!! but he knows a hell of a lot more than eddie.

but because he isn’t a nerdy outcast, the fandom would have us believe that he actually hates his life and who he is, and secretly doesn’t want to be a jock. fanon steve is honestly way more like canon eddie than i think the fandom wants to admit.

(and yeah, chrissy is found dead in his home. people aren’t just witch hunting eddie for no reason lmao)

all this is what makes canon eddie an actual interesting character!!! and the fact he (and steve) are entirely stripped of these characteristics is one of the reasons that i just can’t vibe with the fandoms rendition of steddie.

#steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #stranger things #asks #anon

[aerkame]

Hi this is the person who had a lot of finfolk Howdy feelings. This turned into a wall of text so i completely understand if you decide not to post it

So this might be a bit of a ramble, and I don’t know much about finfolk lore. So I apologize if something doesn’t line up with the original lore, or I accidentally say something that conflicts with something you’ve previously mentioned.

Im imagining that Reader is a puppet from the port town on the mainland—the one that the neighbors commonly visit.

The mortal most likely meets Howdy for the first time during one of his trips to his restaurant. They had taken to going there on their lunch break and soon become a regular. Howdy is probably going by an alias and has shifted into another, smaller form (by his standards. he still towers over Reader) Still, he's outgoing by nature, and strikes up a conversation with the mortal.

They both find that they enjoy each other's company. Sometimes they can't talk for too long (the restaurant is busy. the mortal's work keeps them late. Howdy leaves for Home) but when they do meet, they find that time flies by.

Reader does take note of how he (very stylishly) keeps his arms and hands covered and how he's averse to touch. They assume it's a sensory thing.

Eventually, Reader opens up about their plans for their future. Specifically about their wanderlust. They talk about all the places they want to travel to-- major coastal cities, island nations-- places that, if they went, he could follow.

But, during another visit, Reader expands their list - backpacking through the country, hiking in the mountains, riding camels in the desert. And Howdy finds himself feeling very... possessive.

The more Howdy speaks to Reader, the more Reader opens up, and with that they begin to vent. They start to talk about an annoying thing their friend did, workplace drama, family gossip...

(this can be interpreted in two ways.

Either Howdy hears these minor annoyances and gossip, and builds them up into signs of a dangerous situation. Further justifying his possessiveness over Reader.

OR Reader really isn't in a good place on the mainland, but they just brush off any abuse like it's nbd. Meaning they're also not likely to catch onto any red flags Someone Else might be raising)

Whenever Howdy returns Home he gives updates on news from the mainland. That news can span from anything from major world events, any possible treats to them and Home, to simple gossip.

The neighbors start to notice Reader coming up often in these little updates. He mentions them more and more with each visit. And eventually the neighbors' eyes start to drift towards Wally.

Howdy was starting to sound like Eddie after he met Frank.

Maybe it was time to have a chat with Home...

Wonderlust is my new favorite word, next to sublime. Also I wanted to write only the aftermath of the neighbors asking Home for permission because I am already writing an x Howdy and I don't want to ruin that sweet sweet angst/romance. >.>

TW: Mentions plans of kidnapping and drugging, anything in Finfolk nature is a TW really.

It was no secret to everyone at this point that Howdy had eyes for you. The only problem was that you lived on the mainland and you were making plans to leave soon. Sure, it would be easy to just track you down again, but it would be better to have things done more quickly to attract less attention on things. It's hard having to keep track of witnesses and making mind-altering potions. Plus, they hate having to go through all the effort of pretending to be police or other government officials.

The rest of the neighbors seemed fine with you in all honestly. Having met you in person themselves in one form or another, they think you'd be a fine addition to their little island. All they needed was the approval of Home.

But of course, it wasn't difficult at all to get Home's approval. He already knew this entire time having watched you from his crystal baptismal font as the water kept rippling from place to place looking for your location. He's sure your adventurous nature would love what the peninsula and it's waters had to offer. They had surrounding reefs, caverns filled with crystals, and many more smaller islands nearby, all full of colorful creatures that don't exist on the mainland or anywhere else.

Now it was just a matter of getting you back home that needed to be taken care of. One of the neighbors could simply kidnap you in the dead of night, but you having a late-night job made things complicated. Either Howdy would need to invite you somewhere isolated where no one would be to do this or they would have to play things out slowly and wait for an opportunity.

No one wanted to wait however, from what things sounded like, things weren't exactly safe back at your own home and it seemed to be getting worse over time.

So, Howdy returned back onto the mainland with Sally and Frank.

Frank did his usual routine of shifting into a new person and taking on the persona of a police officer (Who would of thought he made for a pretty good cop huh?) and Sally went in with the disguise of a sweet florist that worked just down the street from where you lived. No one would even bat an eye at what took place here.

Howdy or Sally may or may not have had involvement in the death of the person that hurt you…oh well, it's not like anyone would remember that guy anyways! Literally. Not even you would remember.

Howdy was the only one to go in without a disguise, or at least staying in the form you knew him as. He had invited you to his restaurant as a treat, as a date really. You happily accepted.

It was so nice, so peaceful, and you were so easily tricked.

All it took was just a single touch to your hand and everything started to feel numb as your body gave out under you. With bare hands, Howdy carried you to the back of the restaurant to make a B-line for the back door. Not a single customer batted an eye, and not one employee or waitress gave the scene a second thought.

You awoke to bright rays of sunlight on your face. Sitting up, you found yourself in what had to be the softest and largest bed you've ever been in. Everything still felt so...tingly? Numb? What happened?

"Ah, I'm so glad you're awake minnow!"

I wanted to mention that the waitresses and employees at Howdy's seafood restaurant are cute remora dogs and shark dogs. Most of the customers tend to be sea-dwelling creatures like sirens, mermaids, etc.

#welcome home #welcome home finfolk au #welcome home howdy pillar #howdy pillar #welcome home howdy pillar x reader #howdy pillar x reader #x reader #finfolk #au

[lailoken]

ok this is prolly a Dumbass question. but a lot of witchcraft ppl seem to use plants like datura, belladona, aconite, for their psychoactive properties in witchcraft- Are there any witchcraft people that just skip the whole plant foraging/gardening/obtaining bit and decide to just do shrooms or acid, or benadryl/dph i guess if one happens to just like deleriants? dph is rlly bad for health (is so bad) but tbh so is datura,.. though dph you can usually get at a convenince store. Or is it not considered spiritual if it’s a synthetic?

(I dont mean this to be offensive btw i think occult things r cool and im faded than a hoe rn. Coolio blog)

I'm sure there are practitioners who attempt to undergo Poison Path work using only synthetic drugs, but I don't really know anything about that, and so I can't speak to it very well.

I do, however, believe that working with the spirits of plants is at least as important to the process of such work as the psychoactive effects. I can grasp working with the spirit of Belladonna, but I have a much harder time envisioning myself trying to work with the spirit of a drugstore antihistamine. I also believe it's meaningful that many entheogenic plants (such as ones you listed here, including Psilocybin Mushrooms) have a longstanding traditional record of religious/cultic usage by initiated masters in their respective cultures. For these reasons, among others, I would not consider using synthetic, storebought drugs.

I also think there is a big difference between someone who messes around with party drugs and likes the idea of trying to get a bit spiritual with it, and someone who conscientiously dedicates themselves to Poison Path work. Altered brain chemistry can help the mind to see past certain filters and preconceptions, and it can also help one to look inward, but if there isn't a thoughtful, purposeful, and spiritual framework behind using an entheogenic substance, then it seems likely that it's mostly about getting high.

Finally, I want to add that, while substances such as datura are definitely dangerous, they are often used with far more reverence, caution, and frugality when approached by a serious practitioner. My husband is Oathbound to the Tutelary Spirit of Datura, but only once, under extraordinary circumstances, has that included using the plant entheogenically. He undertook the ritual with fearful respect and the utmost care, and it was an extremely meaningful experience for him, but it's not one he's likely to undertake again anytime soon. As he puts it, "She is a harsh teacher." I think part of the reason so many of these plants (particularly poisonous varieties of Ranunculaceae and Solanacea) are as harsh as they are is because they demand commitment and humility (along with self-defense, of course), which is why you pretty much hear only horror stories from most folks who attempt to use such substances lightly.

#anonymous #ask #poison path #entheogens #drugs #witchcraft #traditional withcraft #magic #spirit flight #flying ointment #Datura #Belladonna #Aconite

[beatrixstonehill2]

Welcome to My Blog

Hello, I'm Beatrix. I'm a trans woman that writes a wide variety of dark and sometimes uncomfortable erotica captions. If you do not like my content or find it triggering/unappealing, I understand. A few basic ground rules for interacting with my page:

Minors, do not interact.

I don't RP

Do not attempt to bang me. Like seriously. Don't get in my DMs trying to meet up with me, or flirt, or get to know me. If someone aggressively humps my inbox, I will block them.

I do not do direct, unsolicited requests. But if you leave me an ask or DM with your ideas, critique, general suggestions, I might end up doing those suggestions. But if you fill my box with twenty pics and say 'caption these, but with x, y, and z' fetishes, I likely won't respond. If I ask for pics you want captioned or you ask, and I say 'yes', then I might consider doing it.

I do like chatting about fantasies and caption ideas, but that's pretty much it

I'm really busy. I have a crazy schedule and go days without posting or responding sometimes. It's just how it is.

I read every ask, but I don't publicly respond to them all. When I get five or so asks I tend to reply in bulk. Asks I don't like the ideas of I don't tend to reply to, or if you send me a Unibomber manifesto in my asks, I won't reply to it. Brief requests, general thoughts, funny quips about my material. I usually answer those publicly, but I do read everything

I'm trans, and I have fantasies involving trans women having to detrans for humiliation purposes. But I have zero interest in detransitioning, just an FYI. I don't mind teasing you about doing it, though.

My page covers lots of kinks, with a general focus on women being forced into humiliating, body-altering situations for others' amusement and sexual thrills. This includes extreme pregnancy, weight gain, breast expansion or reduction, being forced to transition or detransition. My blog has themes of body modification, free use, cnc, morbid weight gain, a litany of bodily fluids, occasional dark endings, bdsm, immobilization, being forced or coerced into undesired/downright bad situations, IQ/intelligence lowering, bimbofication, inflation/pregnancy resulting in 'bursting', drug use, and a partridge in a pear tree. If any of this offends you or is not your cup of tea, you might want to mosey on down to a different fetish blog. My niche is extremity. And I like pushing my ideas to be crazier and darker, without much warning. If you like fetish content to be Thai Street Spicy, welcome aboard.

[wizardfrog69]

hi!!

could i have fyodor, dazai and nikolai with an s/o who has hyperactive-impulsive adhd headcanons? thanks

Ofc you can :) thank you for your request!

'•.¸♡ hyperactive-impulsive adhd ♡¸.•'

Hyperactive-impulsive adhd!gn!reader

I don't know much about adhd so if I get something wrong or if you would like for me to add something please say so and I will try and do my best to talk about adhd in this.

Fluff

Masterlist

Enjoy!

Feat. Fyodor, Dazai, Nikolai

Fyodor

Fyodor's a man who definitely seems like someone who would like to have things organized and plan ahead so when he fell for someone who did the opposite it forced him to alter his ways a bit.

He will constantly remind you to take care of yourself while also doing the bare minimum to take care of himself.

If you plan on doing something which potentially could be very dangerous and could put your life at risk he'll either go with you or just not let you do it.

He cares for you but whenever he wants you to not do something it sounds more like a demand than an ask or suggestion.

If you do something on impulse he'll understand that you didn't do it intentionally and if you feel bad he'll tell it that it isn't your fault and to stop feeling bad.

He doesn't mind your stimming just try not to stim verbally next to him as it'll annoy him

Dazai

Dazai always knows whenever you forget something, be it your medication, to eat, or simply your phone, whatever it is, he always knows what you forgot he'll always remind you.

Whenever you get distracted he'll just kinda observe what you are distracted by for fun.

If you struggle with impulse control then he will try and keep you away from stuff that may trigger your impulse control. Obviously, that isn't always possible but he will try his best to keep you from buying a dozen ant farms.

Nikolai

He will love all your hyper-fixations, no matter what they are.

You like bugs? He'll love to hear all about them! You suddenly want to visit every temple 'cause they look cool? Road trip with Nikolai!

He loves seeing you stim and he might join you from time to time if it's something he would enjoy doing. (he doesn't love all stims because some are harmful, he doesn't like those ones)

If you have a mental health thing he will help you and will try to cheer you up whenever you feel down (or more down).

༺♡༻ 𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 ⋆ 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊 ༺♡༻

I'm a fucking dumb ass. I swallowed a fucking button. I sorry if I got some adhd stuff wrong, I don't know alot about it :(

I took a drink and my fucking face is warm but I don't get to be drunk so now I just have to have a warm face for sometime.

ALSO I FOUND ROSE LIQUOR OR WODKA I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I FOUND BUT IT IS ROSE FLOUVOURED ALCOHOL AND IT IS IN A WODKA BOTTLE! :) It taste amazing, don't drink tho kids, it isn't good especially if you are young and your brain is still developing but when you're an adult you can do whatever you want.

Unless you are American then just wait like 3 more years and you're good.

Have a wonderful day/night and stay away from alcohol, drugs and country music.

-love, Az

#bsd #bsd x reader #bungo stray dogs #fyodor x y/n #fyodor x reader #bsd fyodor #fyodor dostoevsky #fyodor fluff #fyodor headcannons #fyodor headcanons #fyodor hc #fyodor hcs #dazai fluff #bungou stray dogs dazai #dazai x reader #dazai osamu #bsd dazai #dazai hcs #dazai x you #dazai headcanons #nikolai gogol bsd #nikolai imagines #bsd nikolai gogol #nikolai gogol #nikolai x reader #nikolai headcanon #nikolai headcanons

[entomjinx]

Uta is NOT a Mary Sue

I wrote this on twitter for a "what's a controversial One Piece opinion" post, but I definitely want it here too. Also I apologize for any typos, as I'm physically incapable of not making at least one.

Uta, by definition, is not a Mary-Sue despite how people seem to believe so due to her past, abilities, family, and how she's introduced into the story.

Definition: The term "Mary-Sue" comes directly from whether or not the character in question is 2 dimensional, depicted as lacking any flaws, which makes them unrealistic, and the rules of the story tend to bend to them second they would stop the character. Other notable things about Mary-Sues is that they are typically free of any weaknesses, they're innately virtuous, and typically attractive.

So let's break this down bit by bit.

Right off the bat, I will say she's attractive, but so are most characters in One Piece. If attractiveness is all it took to make a Mary-Sue, then everyone would be a Mary-Sue. It's the same with the fact that she has a unique design.

Uta has several very clear weaknesses:

One: her devil fruit is stamina based. If she falls asleep, they all return to their bodies. If she dies, they die with her. She has to die to take her opponent down like that, and it is therefore, a weakness.

Two: she doesn't fight much outside of the song-world. This could be because of a lack of training to fight, as shown by her unwillingness to harm someone's body. Instead, she has to have unconscious people fight for her.

Three: If they can't hear her, they're unaffected. There is a whole scene depicting marines in headphones to block her voice, and it works until they're knocked off.

Four: she's not omnipotent while in the song-world. Several people were able to hide from her and the things she created.

Five: she can't alter a person's will, only their form. Sunny, Bepo, and Blueno fought against her after their bodies were changed. The people from the audience still called out for Uta to stop.

I could continue, but I think these get the point across.

She's not virtuous; she's morally gray, like most characters in One Piece.

She wants to start a new era, but the way that she plans on doing so removes people's freedom and will kill them. That's not virtuous, even if she believes it is. It makes her similar to a cult leader. Even if they somehow had everyone's best interest in mind, wouldn't call a cult leader virtuous, would you?

Everything above covers how she has character flaws, but I'm going to add a few more.

She begins to panic when things don't go how she expects them to. That's why the audience gets turned into stuffed animals and such. If they won't stay themselves, then she has to keep them there.

She was eating wake-shrooms the whole movie. Those are literally in universe stimulant drugs. Another point against virtuous and towards character flaws.

She didn't seek help for the things that were bothering her, which ultimately led to her crazed idea. Her isolation led to her being so independent that she probably didn't know asking for help was an option.

And finally, the big one: is she a two dimensional character? Definition first: a 2 dimensional character is a character with little to no character development. They're too simple, and show little to no serious thought. The have no real dimension to them.

Guys, the whole movie is about her. We see how her trauma changed her from loving being a part of the red haired pirates to not being able to stand pirates at all. How her lack of outside help and isolation only made everything worse, and what ut eventually turned into. We see her realize she was wrong the second she's able to process a fraction of what she's done, which if you pay careful attention to the movie, you know that not all of it was fully her. Parts of it were the wake-shrooms, which make people slowly go insane. (How many shows was she using one or two on, I wonder?). Some theories even believe that Tot-Music was still affecting her mind after the first summon, but I digress.

She just needed help.

There's so much more I could put into this analysis, but I've made my point. She's not a 2 dimensional character.

To address some of the concerns I know will come up:

"She's the daughter of the strongest Yonko." Being Shanks' daughter doesn't make her a Mary-Sue anymore than being Garp's grandson and Dragon's child makes Luffy one.

"She's Luffy's childhood friend. He was supposed to be alone." Being friends with Luffy doesn't make her more of a Mary-Sue. If anything, it adds more depth to both characters, as it helps explain why Luffy wanted a musician so badly. It also explains part of his hatred for loneliness. He had one friend who went missing and he never saw her again. ("Being alone is more painful" -Luffy's flashback post Marineford) -She was adapted into that spot of the story very well. "Luffy's never mentioned her before." Luffy never mentioned Ace before Alabasta either. In case you haven't noticed, Luffy doesn't really talk about things unless he's asked directly or has a direct reminder.

"She's so overpowered that she almost killed 70% of the world at once." Yes and? Kaido regularly attempted suicide. Big mom steals people's life spans. Luffy has a god devil fruit that the government renamed because they couldn't get a hold of it for 800 years.

All of them are objectively stronger than Uta in terms of strength. She had to become popular enough for most of the world to listen to her, and then strategize exactly how this would play out. There's also the fact that some people may be immune because of Haki (gorosei)

She had a plan and it was effective because she blindsided everyone with it. That's a talent and a half, and it wouldn't work more than once.

It also has nothing to do with whether or not she's a Mary-Sue and I think it's silly to bring it up, but I know how people are.

And finally: nothing is stopping you from continuing to dislike her. You don't have justify disliking her by calling her something she isn't. If she doesn't vibe with you, she doesn't vibe with you. Everyone has things they dislike, and that's perfectly normal.

If you'd like to know what an actual Mary-Sue looks like, then I recommend trying to read just five chapters of "My Immortal," with the main character Ebony Darkness Dimentia Raven-way, the Mary-Sue of Mary-Sues. Everything is so exaggerated that it's easy to spot.

If you genuinely want to discuss any of this, then I'm down to talk about it, but if you're here to hate and didn't even bother to read everything, then I'm not interested.

Thank you to everyone who made it this far, and I hope you have a good day <3

#uta one piece #one piece uta #film red #one piece #uta op #uta #monkey d luffy

[nyahctrl]

𝜗𝜚 Satoru with a s/o who likes to get stoned

authors note: last thursday when i had ‘an experience’ i do not want to romanticize. i thought about how gojo would react to his s/o being high (because he doesn’t use any mind altering substances) so here i am ft. the notes from my phone i tried to use (i barely formed words) / tumblr doesn’t let me posts blogs with pics so excuse the lack of aesthetics

cw: drug use (mari🍃nna), insecure reader, nickname use princess

"Babe?"

"Yeah, princess?"

"Do you think it's weird how you have a girlfriend who likes to get high?"

— Let's be honest, he's probably used to being around high people because of Geto and Shoko (you can't tell me they don't stone occasionally)

— Satoru overall perception is that you're cute when you're high, because you never talk this much about your feelings with him, especially your feelings for him

— For when you're hyperactive, he probably gonna have a lot of fun, hearing you bubbling and trying to get 194829 things done but not doing shit right. Trust, it's documented in his camera roll.

— If you're rather chill and relaxed he totally enjoys cuddling with you and just watching you looking in the distance or taking 3 minutes to finish one thought. He is totally curious about what you think but wouldn't push it. (especially if you get high to destress from something)

— At the occasion of you having a bad trip he's totally there for you and those are the times he especially doesn't condone you consuming things, when they make you feel like this. But also in general if you would ask him, he would probably be anti-substances for you. Satoru understands the double blade of it, but as for something like mariXXnna, he would rather tease you out of it than having a real intervention. (No confrontation babe)

— He also wouldn't 'initiate' anything sexual or even go for it when you're beyond normal comprehension

— He loves hearing you talk about the most nonsense things. You wanna explain him your personal playlist? Why you sorted those songs that way? What each song personally means to you, which is just crazy specific. He is all ears.

— Your personal sandwich maker for your cravings, doing insane combos to impress you and asking for your opinion, being absolutely honored when you praise him like he created one of the seven world wonders (it's just a sandwich but he knows you eat everything up in that state)

— Now that I think about it, Satoru is probably the most quiet when you're high and babbling because he feels like he can hear you without any barriers of shame, that could stop you from expressing your true thoughts (and he will use anything you told him later to tease you and then he won't shut up, trust)

"- like isn't it useless, am i not crazy for taking it and you're judging me like what if you find me weird and you're normal and i'm weird and you see me as usless and stop loving me-" he finds it cute how you're so worried about all of that when he couldn't care less unless it's harming you in any way.

— (I have no idea if it's just me) but when you tend to be overly insecure about your feelings/expressing your anxious feelings, he will not stop reassuring you. Especially when you ask him 18 times if he knows you love him and that your love is sincere etc.He does take your insecurities as a validation of your love for him though.

"Oh my god, do i act like a drunk person? So i may sound like that. WTF i'm so insecure I have to stop. I'm sorry. I love you. Now I'm being quiet. You won't hear me talking. Omg am I more serious when I'm not high. Am I a drunk person?"

— His personal fave moments are when you start to explain for 15 minutes how much you love him and you start to go in so much detail that it's getting ridiculous. He would while all of that hug you from behind and look at you with the most soft look in his face just nodding and chuckling because you make it for real sound ridiculously.

no reposts on other platforms

#gojo x reader #satoru x y/n #jujutsu kaisen #jjk satoru #jjk x reader #jjk x y/n #jjk x you #gn reader #gojou satoru x y/n #gojou x y/n #gojou x reader #jjk gojo #satoru x reader #satoru x you #gojo headcanons #jujutsu kaisen x reader #tumbr is lacking #double drabble