this would have gone toward the beginning of the chapter, when Jungkook goes to bed after that opening scene where he's dancing around the kitchen listening to music and then trying to sing like a wren! some bits of this got pilfered and moved around to different parts of the final version of the chapter. i still like this scene a lot, but i think ultimately the trajectory of the chapter was cleaner without it?
Jungkook makes them breakfast — eggs and a spicy cucumber salad — and they eat at the kitchen table, still half-dressed. Then he pads off to bed, sliding under the covers just as Namjoon is getting dressed for his day. He kisses his boyfriend goodnight and heads to his office on the other side of the house.
Namjoon sits down to write, but the ideas don’t come easily today. The remnants of his dream linger, the sorrow clinging filmily to him. The wound of Hobi's loss is familiar, but he always had Taehyung, her child, as a balm. Living proof of their love.
And now he may have lost him too.
A familiar pit opens in his stomach, yawning and endless and dreadful like the contemplation of death or the ever-expanding universe. It’s too vast for his human body, his tidy life. It makes his chest tighten and his eyes hurt, his whole body squeezing in on itself like he needs to hide from a predator.
“Hyung?”
Jungkook stands, sleep-rumpled, just inside the perimeter of the office. He’s avoided this room since, months ago, he stood within it in the middle of a rainstorm and kissed Namjoon so gently. As if he’s not sure he’s allowed back.
“What is it, baby? I thought you were asleep.”
“I tried,” Jungkook mumbles. “I’m so tired, but I can’t sleep yet. I don’t know why. Will hyung come sit and keep me company until I fall asleep? Please?”
He pouts, eyes going extra big in a way Namjoon is sure is intentional.
Namjoon doesn’t even try to deny him.
“Okay, but I’m bringing my laptop so I can work.”
Jungkook grins crookedly, and Namjoon follows him back across the house.
It’s beginning to heat up as the sun rises; the floorboards are newly warm beneath his feet. The house is waking to a new day, and Namjoon is busy putting his boyfriend to bed. Jungkook walks confidently back to Namjoon’s bedroom, not even glancing across the hall, as if it’s natural he’d be sleeping in Namjoon’s bed. And Namjoon supposes he’s right. He claimed his space long ago now.
Jungkook burrows under the covers of Namjoon’s bed while Namjoon himself sits in a chair by the window, laptop perched on his legs.
“Comfy?”
Jungkook, who has finally ceased his wriggling with a happy little sigh, nods. His eyes are already drooping.
“Sometimes I just can’t get my brain to be quiet, even though I’m sleepy. You can keep working on your chapter, I just wanna — say the thoughts out loud, to someone else. And maybe then I can sleep.”
Namjoon wonders if Jungkook has his own thoughts too vast for his body, black tendrils at the corners of his mind. He wonders if he’s okay. It’s not just Namjoon in those photos circulating online. They’re in them together.
“Okay.”
So Namjoon types, mostly focusing on the words in front of him, but Jungkook’s raspy, sleepy voice as he mumbles about this or that filters through occasionally — snatches of talk about his friend’s military service, the differences between dog breeds, bowling videos he’s been watching on YouTube. A few times he giggles, low and flirtatious, and Namjoon’s stomach squirms, threatening to distract him from his work.
But the chatter slows steadily, gaps between thoughts growing longer and longer, and eventually Namjoon thinks Jungkook must have drifted off. And maybe he did.
But some time later, when Jungkook asks, “Have you talked to Taehyung-hyung?” Namjoon hears him perfectly.
He looks up sharply, but Jungkook’s just watching, eyes half-lidded. Waiting for an answer.
“No. Have you?”
Jungkook shakes his head.
“Are you mad?”
It’s so similar to what he’d said last night. Doesn’t it make you mad? Hurt me, I deserve it.
“Do you want me to be? Because yesterday it seemed like you wanted me to be, and now this too. Who do you want me to be mad at? You? Taehyung? Myself?”
“Anyone? I’m mad,” Jungkook admits. “I’m mad at that person who took those pictures and posted them. I’m mad at whoever sent them to Taehyung like it was gossip or something. I’m mad at Taehyung for getting so upset when I wasn’t trying to hurt him. I’m mad at you for not even trying to explain it to him. I’m mad at you for not choosing me. But you, like — it’s like it’s nothing to you.”
“It’s not nothing to me. It’s my fucking life. It’s my career. It’s my family.”
“I know, I didn’t mean —” Jungkook huffs, wriggling closer to the edge of the bed. A hand dips out from his blanket cocoon, reaching out with fingers wiggling in offering. Reluctantly, Namjoon takes it. Stupidly, it does make him feel a little better. Less raw.
“I just meant you’re not showing me anything,” Jungkook continues. “I want to help. I want to know if you’re hurting. That’s what — that’s what boyfriends are supposed to do, right? Be someone to talk to.”
“I guess.”
It’s been a long time since Namjoon dated anyone like this. In a boyfriend/girlfriend kind of way. He might be out of practice, he realizes. The relationships he’s had since Hobi have been exclusively long distance or low-intensity. He always had more pressing priorities — Taehyung, his career, even the intensity of his friendship with Yoongi — and he preferred partners who were the same. Maybe it’s one reason things have always felt so strange with Jungkook. He’s simply not used to anyone being so top of mind, so impossible to ignore.
“You’re doing it again,” Jungkook points out. “Thinking and not telling me.”
“Sorry. Just — give me a second.”
He feels this impulse to rationalize it, explain it away. He can even feel the words forming on the tip of his tongue, the way he’d explain how anger is difficult for him. How he’s used to redirecting and defusing it. But it all feels like the way he might explain something to Taehyung — to a child.
Parenthood makes you prone to secrets. Suddenly whole categories are off limits, spoken of only in code or behind closed doors, kept away from a child who’s not ready for them. Some of the complexity of the world becomes unspeakable, almost.
When Hobi died, Namjoon lost his partner in those secrets. He had no one to speak them to. He’d begun to lock certain things away from anyone, to keep them secret even from himself. It’s a tough habit to break.
“I do feel angry. I’m furious and I’m sad and I love you and I hate myself. I tell myself it’s for loving you, but I think maybe that’s an excuse. Maybe it’s just rage. And I don’t have a lot of places to put it.”
Jungkook hums, eyes blinking sleepily. “I hope you find somewhere to put it. And... it’s okay to put some of it into me. I want it.”
He smiles, eyes closing.
“I’ll try my best. Now sleep, honey.”
Already Jungkook’s breathing is heavy, his hand drooping from Namjoon’s hold.
Namjoon looks at the core of messy emotions that always swirls at his center like an unruly star. Jungkook has a point — he did use to put it somewhere. He used to be able to let its light out through his writing, turning that terrifying ball of fire into a distant sun, helping new things to grow on the page. He thinks about his own anger, his confusion, his grief. And he thinks about his characters and the problems Yoongi said he should give them.
The cursor blinks back at him. And Namjoon begins to write anger.
tags: canonverse, manhandling, internalized homophobia, set in 2016
summary: jungkook's testing what he can get away with. all hoseok wants is not to get caught.
ch 3/?: 7.8k (22k so far, wip)
“What do you want from me, Jeon Jungkook?” he huffs. He tries to shoulder Jungkook away playfully, but the boy doesn’t budge, barely even sways at the shove. When did he get so heavy, anyway?
Jungkook looks up at him under his lashes, fingers still hooked up into his shorts, poking dimples into his thigh.
“You know what.” His voice is quiet, still deep in that artificial, posturing way, but this time it sets Hoseok’s heart tumbling in his chest, traitorous.
additional tags: hurt/comfort, supernatural illnesses, fluff, yoongi’s giant capable furniture-building nail-bitten sexy as hell hands, ot7 are all in love as per usual, minor jinkook
summary: Hoseok comes down with a mysterious illness. Yoongi seems to be the cure.
this is a very old fic but i keep neglecting to post abt my fic on tumblr oops 😭 thanks to @hobikenobi for reminding me 🙏
what the hell do you expect? emotional transparency?
ship: hoseok/jungkook (hopekook, koobi, junghope, no one can decide what this ship is called lmao)
word count: 9 chapters, 60k, complete
rating: E for sexual content
additional tags: canon divergence, body swap, sharing a bed, sexting, slow burn, cuddling & snuggling, gratuitous depictions of ot7 breakfasts, jeon jungkook is bad at feelings, and yet he continues to have them! will cruelties NEVER CEASE, you know how jk says “hyung” and everyone turns around?, in this fic that happens when hoseok says “baby”
summary: What would Hoseok do what would Hoseok do what would Hoseok do what would — Jungkook puffs out his cheeks, makes a weird high-pitched noise, and darts across the floor to like. Pet Jimin. Into the ground? Or something?
“Are you feeling okay, Hobari?” Jimin mumbles from where he is partially smothered beneath Jungkook’s chest. He sounds confused.
Well. 0 for 1. Clearly Jungkook needs more practice at the whole Convincingly Impersonating Jung Hoseok thing.
(Alternatively: Jungkook and Hoseok switch bodies. Feelings, as they are sometimes wont to do, spring forth.)
i never post abt my fic on tumblr but angel asked me to so i gotta!
takedown
ship: namjoon/jungkook (namkook)
wordcount: ch 1 (wip): 8.1k
rating: E eventually but not yet
additional tags: increased age gap, hot dad kim namjoon, author kim namjoon, jock jeon jungkook, midlife crisis, namjoon oscillates wildly between extreme horniness and self-flagellating psychoanalysis, jungkook’s tattoos, summer romance, cut to me wallowing delightedly in all namjoon’s feelings of shame
summary: Namjoon’s son brings his best friend home for the summer. Namjoon proceeds to have several existential crises.
put this up like 2 weeks ago and forgot to put it on tumblr but luckily tumblr is basically a personal archive for me at this point so i can DO WHAT I WANT! anyway i started another wip bc i have no self-control and also it was hopekook week on twitter!
how good it felt:
ship: jungkook/hoseok (hopekook)
wordcount: ch 1/? (wip): 6.8k
rating: E
additional tags: canon compliant (set during 2016 from fire era through bst era), coming of age, manhandling, angst, u ever think about how boy meets evil is about overcoming internalized homophobia?, bangtan learn to love each other on purpose, jk BIG STRONG GRABBY BABY
summary: He’s never bothered, really, to catalog the way he touches Jungkook, or the way he touches anyone. He touches like talking, like learning to have a conversation: bring something up, see if it leads somewhere productive, adjust, rinse and repeat. Practice. If he touches Jungkook one way and he flinches when Hoseok doesn’t want him to, he doesn’t touch him that way again. It’s easy. Not worth examining.
But now that he’s noticing, now that this idea is rattling around in his brain, he’s noticing how many ways he doesn’t touch Jungkook, and how many conditions are necessary for the ways he does.
summary: namjoon's son brings his best friend home from college for the summer. namjoon is unprepared for this event to turn his entire life upside down.
My darling. Please tell me your thoughts on grumpy recluse Derek whose cat keeps luring Stiles. Fluff or porn. Follow your porn heart. <3
I switched it! Also, I don’t even know what happened here. This kind of got away from me.
“What do you want from me?” Derek growls.
The cat on his porch doesn’t answer, of course, because it’s a cat, and maybe Cora’s right, maybe solitude is making him a little unhinged. Instead, it rolls over onto its back, tucks its paws into its chest, and gives him a look that says pet me. Derek is actually mildly impressed by this obviously calculated display of cuteness.
The catcontinues looking up at him expectantly, and he snorts, raising an eyebrow.
“You’re gonna haveto do better than that, cat.”
He walks past itto get the rest of his boxes from the truck.
——————————-
Two hours later,Derek sets down the paint roller, wiping the sweat from his forehead, and turnsto get a beer from the cooler. Even with all the windows and the door open,he’s a little lightheaded from the paint fumes, so he honestly wonders if he’shallucinating for a few minutes when he sees the cat curled up on the sofa inthe middle of the room, sound asleep amidst the boxes and plastic sheeting.
“You don’t live here,” Derek hisses at it. Itdoesn’t even open its eyes.
——————————-
“Cora,” Derekcan feel his voice rising into a whine. “It won’tleave.”
The sun is lowin the sky now, glancing off the ocean and casting long shadows over the dunesjust beyond the porch, and Derek is actually kind of worried, because the catis well-fed and glossy, and it clearly belongs to someone even though there’sno collar, but it doesn’t seem to feel the need to get up from where it’s madeitself at home in his living room.
“It’s not funny,Cora,” he snarls into the phone. “I don’tknow what to do.”
She howls withlaughter.
He hangs up onher.
He crosses theroom and gingerly scoops up the cat from the sofa, where it’s still dozing. Hedeposits it back out on the porch and closes the screen door, then makes avague shooing motion.
It meows at him.
“Come on, kitty,go back home.” He tries to make his voice as gentle as possible. The cat meowsagain, insistently, and paws at the screen.
He could justwalk back into the house and assume it will find its way home, but he feelsweirdly responsible for the cat now, and he kind of wants to make sure it’sokay, especially since he’s pretty far from any other houses. Moving out herewas kind of a compromise on his part; Peter has been bugging him recently to becloser to the shipping company, even though he mostly works remotely, so thebeach house, which has been sitting unused on their private stretch of beach foryears, was a good way for him to continue living like a hermit while beingclose enough to civilization to hopefully get his family off his back.
But now there’sa cat, and it came from somewhere, and he’s unreasonably invested in itswell-being.
He stands therefor a few minutes, unsure what to do, and he and the cat just stare at eachother through the mesh of the door.
“God damnit,” hegrumbles, finally, and closes the door behind him as he steps out onto theporch. The cat immediately walks off a little ways onto the beach, then stopsand sits, looking back at him as if to say youcoming?
He sighs andbegins to follow the cat, because apparently he is an actual crazy person. Corais never going to find out aboutthis.
It’s actuallypretty peaceful, and he lets himself get a little lost in the faint rush of thetide and the low golden glow of the sun and the warmth of the sand under hisbare feet. They’ve almost reached the jetty marking the beginning of the publicbeach when the cat turns and walks up the steps of a little cottage. Derek pauseson the beach, suddenly very aware of how little he’s thought this through.
It seems likethe cat lives here, so that’s a good thing, and his job should be done, right?But it would have seemed to anyone else like the cat had lived at Derek’shouse, too, from the way it just sauntered in and made itself at home. Shouldhe knock on the door and check?
He is unpreparedfor actual human contact, today and every day.
He’s stillstanding awkwardly on the beach, weighing his options, when the door opens in responseto a loud meow from the cat.
“Oh my god, I hear you, everyone from here to fucking St. Louis can hear you!” A man shoos the cat into thehouse, then shouts over his shoulder back into the house, “Scott! Do we have any burlap sacks?! The cat’s asking for adrowning!”
A faint voicefrom within the house calls back, “Underthe sink, next to the PVC pipes!”
Then the man’sgaze falls on Derek, and he’s suddenly very aware that he hasn’t bothered tochange, and is standing there barefoot and sweaty and covered in paint, wearinghis rattiest pair of jeans and a threadbare tank top. He resists the urge totry to smooth down his hair.
The guy looks alittle stunned for a moment, staring at him with his lips slightly parted, andDerek just stares back, because apparently he has forgotten how to be a human,but then the guy seems to remember himself and he rubs a hand along his chinawkwardly.
“Oh, hi, thatthing about the burlap sack was a joke? Wow, uh, is it better or worse if Iadmit that I didn’t see you standing there? Because like, if I did see youstanding there then I’m the kind of person who thinks strangers enjoycat-drowning humor, but if I didn’t then I’m admitting that I am that personwho just has entire conversations with his cat? I swear that at least Scott isreal! You heard him reply to me, right? I’m not some complete nutjob who onlytalks to his cat and has imaginary people living in his house!” He turns hishead slightly, not breaking eye contact with Derek, and shouts behind him, “Hey Scott! You’re a real person, right?!Tell this guy on the beach that you have corporeal form!”
There’s noanswer from the house.
“Scott?!” theguy bellows. Still no answer. “You’redead to me, Scott! You hear me?! Dead to me!”
He turns back toDerek. “Scott is real, and he’s an asshole, and he’s dead to me. Uh, I’mStiles?”
This is the partwhere Derek is supposed to say something back. Oh god.
“Derek,” hemanages gruffly. “I just moved in down the beach. Your cat—”
He trails off, butStiles’ eyes widen in a kind of recognition and he picks up the thread.
“Oh my god, didhe, like come into your house?!” Derek must have made some kind of affirmativegesture, because Stiles continues, “I’m so sorry! He does that? He acts like heloves me, you know, but I know I’m not special and it’s just a ploy to get meto feed him, especially when he just fucking goes home with strangers all the time! Pickles, you’re a fucking whore!You hear me?! A harlot!” He appears to be addressing this last part to thecat (whose name is Pickles, seriously?), as he kind of shouts it to the air ingeneral, though the cat has long since disappeared into the house.
Derek moves upthe porch stairs to approach Stiles, because he should shake his hand, right?That’s an appropriate gesture? He should have shaken his hand when theyintroduced themselves, but now he’s already moving, and oh well, there is justgoing to be a really belated handshake happening.
“Hi, Derek, gladto meet you. Thanks for chaperoning Pickles, he’s a menace to society. Listen,Scott and I are making tacos tonight, do you wanna come in and have so—Ezekiel! How many times do I have to tellyou, those are not for you! For shame, Zeke.”
Ezekiel appearsto be the rather large tortoise who is currently nibbling on Stiles’ toes, andDerek might stare a second too long at his bare feet, following his calves towhere they disappear into his rolled-up jeans, but he catches himself beforeStiles, who is still berating the tortoise, notices.
Stiles retreatsback into the house, leaving the door wide open. “Sorry, Derek, I’ll be rightback, just, like, hold that thought. I have to put Zeke in time-out.” Derek canhear his lecturing continue as he lures the tortoise somewhere deeper into thehouse with a piece of lettuce that he seems to have just happened to have inhis pocket.
Derek rocks alittle on his heels, waiting for Stiles to return. There’s a large, colorfuliguana perched on top of a bookcase, staring at Derek. He stares back. He canhear water gurgling from somewhere further back in the house, and he’sbeginning to think it wouldn’t be entirely out of the question to just assumethat Stiles has an entire pond hidden back there somewhere.
Stilesreappears, bare feet slapping slightly against the floor.
“So, Derek, whatdo you say? Are tacos an appropriate payment for the return of our waywardcat?”
Stiles pusheshis sleeves a little further up past his elbows, and his forearms are strongand capable, veins visible just under the skin, and Derek’s throat goes alittle dry. He suddenly realizes what a bad idea it would be for him to go insideand have tacos with these neighbors, because now that he’s really looking,there are slight spots of color on Stiles’ cheeks and his hair is sticking out inevery direction as if he’s just been pulled directly off of whatever dick he wassucking and there’s a man named Scott who lives with him, and fuck, even Derekisn’t enough of a masochist to want to get to know beautiful frenetic neighborboys who talk too much and keep lettuce in their pockets and don’t wear shoesand live with their committed boyfriends.
So he frowns andshakes his head and Stiles’ face falls a little in response. Derek feels likehe should say something. Should he explain? Give an excuse other than I already like you too much?
“Sorry, I shouldprobably finish unpacking. But—thank you for offering.”
“Fuck, I get it,moving’s the worst, you just gottapower through, no distractions, eyes on the prize—all that shit. Sorry Picklesdistracted you.” He snaps his fingers, then fishes a sharpie out of his backpocket, and then there are warm fingers on Derek’s forearm, and Stiles isscribbling something on his skin. “Hey, I know, take my cell number and if heshows up again—which, fair warning, he will probably do, I think he thinks heowns that house?—you can just text me and either Scott or I will come collecthis sorry ass if he’s bothering you too much, okay? It was awesome to meet you,Derek—welcome to the neighborhood.”
Derek just nods terselyand walks back down to the beach, heading home—he looks back just once, asStiles is closing the door, just in time to see him flail and yelp in surpriseas a small, brightly colored bird comes to land in his hair.
Derek bites backa smile as he walks away.
——————————-
Derek never usesthe number Stiles scribbled on his arm, even though Pickles shows up at hishouse almost every day for the next couple of weeks; he finds he doesn’t reallymind what seems to be the cat’s pattern of coming in, napping for a while, andthen taking off again, and he actually leaves the front door wide open mostafternoons just in case the cat shows up.
Nevertheless, hesees a lot of Stiles—this might be because Derek takes up jogging along thebeach most mornings, because exercise is healthy and because he likes to stayfit, not because he wants to see Stiles.Almost every day when he jogs past their house, Stiles is out on the beach,feet bare and pants rolled up to mid-calf, often wet up to the knees from wherehe’s waded into the surf too far.
Derek isn’t surewhat he does out there, but he’s usually either crouched down or walkinghunched over, examining seaweed or digging up mollusks or, a few times, juststaring very intently at a wet patch of sand. When Derek jogs past, Stilesalways waves, and occasionally he’ll stop Derek to talk for a couple ofminutes, always seeming to start every conversation mid-thought withoutpreamble, as if they’ve been talking for the past twenty minutes and not thepast twenty seconds.
One weekendmorning, midway through his jog, the skies darken and it begins to pour in thatsudden, blinding way it sometimes does during hurricane season. He’s neverreally minded the rain, so he just keeps jogging through it, but he’s surprised,when he jogs past Stiles’ place, to see him perched up on the jetty, seeminglyunaware of the downpour, peering at something down in the rocks.
He happens tolook up as Derek jogs past, squinting at him through the rain, and he nods ingreeting, scrambling off the jetty to meet him. He’s got something cupped inhis hands, and he sidles right up to Derek’s side, so close that Derek canalmost feel his body heat through the cold of the rain. He opens his cuppedhands, head bowed, and Derek doesn’t see anything until Stiles shakes his handsa little, side to side, and suddenly there are little lines of flashing bluelight in his hand, forming the vague suggestion of an oval, illuminating thebit of living jelly cradled in his palms.
Derek givesStiles a quizzical look, and Stiles, seeming to understand his unaskedquestion, shrugs and shouts over the din of the rain, “Because it’s pretty!”
There’s rainrolling down his face and his eyelashes are stuck together in heavy clumps and,looking at him, Derek forgets to feel cold.
Stiles jogs tothe edge of the surf, dipping his hands to release the comb jelly back to theocean, and then he’s back at Derek’s side.
“Do you want tocome inside until the rain stops?” He gestures behind him at the house andDerek thinks he might follow him anywhere.
He nods.
Stilesdisappears as soon as they get inside the house, and Derek stands in the hall,dripping water onto the floor until he returns with towels and dry clothes forDerek. Derek retreats into the bathroom downstairs to change into thesweatpants and soft cotton tee Stiles handed him, and when he emerges Stiles iswearing something similar, hair fluffed and sticking up in every direction fromtowel-drying it.
“Come on, youcan hang out in the kitchen until the rain lets up.”
Stiles leads himinto the kitchen, through a room which was probably originally intended as aliving room but now contains only an enormous, shallow, noisily gurgling tank whichappears to house a variety of anemones and seaweed. Stiles flips on thecoffeemaker and leans against the door jamb, running his fingers through hishair.
“Sorry we don’thave a proper living room or anything; our house has kind of been taken over byanimals? I work for the NOAA doing marine ecological surveys and research and stuff,and Scott’s a veterinarian, so between the two of us we’ve amassed kind of azoo, I guess. Hey, you haven’t met Scott yet, have you?” Derek shakes his head,a little rueful at the reminder of Stiles’ boyfriend. “You’d like Scott,everyone likes him—he spent the night at his girlfriend’s last night, though,so he’s left me here alone with all the beasts.”
Derek’s surprisemust show on his face, because Stiles gives him an inquiring look, and hesupposes he needs to explain himself again.
“I just assumedthat… Scott was your boyfriend?”
Stiles snorts inamusement. “Fuck, no, man!” Then his eyes widen a little, and he ducks hishead, rubbing a palm over the back of his neck. “Wait, so you thought Scott andI were together all this time? Would it—shit, would anything have gonedifferently if you had known we weren’t?”
Derek clears histhroat and nods, and in the next second Stiles is pressed up against him,fingertips resting lightly on Derek’s waist, breath ghosting over his face. Heruns his hands up Stiles’ arms, and his skin is cool to the touch, stillslightly chilled from the rain, and he smells like seawater and clean laundryand he’s pliant and loose under Derek’s hands, so he raises a hand to hischeek, puts his palm right at that spot of color. Stiles barely has to move fortheir lips to meet, soft and warm and electric, and he sucks in a sharp breaththrough his nose before pressing against Derek further, eager and improbablyalive.
Derek was led tothis house by a cat named Pickles, and now he’s standing here in the kitchenkissing a boy with soft hair and hard hands and warm blood, and there’s atortoise named Zeke nibbling on his toes, and the rain is beating against thewindow, and the boy’s fingers are in his hair, and everything is all right.
