#Advertising Week session

[awek-s]

I think employers are getting more and more delusional if im honest

[taegularities]

colour me in: photograph | jjk (m)

Summary: With both your and Jungkook's careers peaking, the future feels promising and bright. Yet, amidst the glowing hope, one single phone call dims the light in the rooms of your shared home.

➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: fwb/f2l, fake dating; angst, fluff, smut ➳ warnings: work-related stuff, new gallery/art/fair stuff, stress and feeling overwhelmed, death of a pet, tears, sadness/grief, doubts, tender moments, talk of jk's future and his art, support, surprises, (talk of) a break up oop, mention of children (i guess that's a warning lol), explicit sexual content: let-out-some-steam-sex, car sex!! a cmi first!!, dom!jk, big dick!jk, he's actually insane, lots of fingering, bit of overstimulation, (multiple) intense orgasms, kissing, manhandling, smacks on pussy/ass, sum hard sex, they're half clothed, playing with his bawlls; the ending.. <3 ➳ word count: 19.4k ➳ a/n: happy bts month and 3rd anniversary to cmi! get ready, it's gonna hurt for a whiiile now :') i know it's been quite long, but i hope you guys are still around. so as always, come and talk to me about this 🤍 ➳ listen to: photograph by ed sheeran | full collaborative playlist 🤍

SERIES MASTERPOST | TAGLIST MASTERLIST | WIPs

“Jungkook?”

“Babe?”

“Jungkook,” you repeat solemnly, lifting yourself off the far end of the mattress. “I hate surprises.”

There’s light static in the foot previously tucked under your bottom, tingling when you limp to his distracted, pajama-clad self. He’s immersed in the sketchbook you gifted him for his birthday, embellishing yet another page but never showing you what you’ve been begging for.

Mid-stroke, he chuckles, side-eyeing you; you’re still sulking from the conversation before. “Nice try, munchkin. No lies in this household.” Because you love surprises and that butthead knows. “Now sit your ass back down. Wait a bit more. If you’re a good girl.”

You pout again. Leaning in, you press your fingers into where his dimples usually emerge, moving his face back and forth until he whines, and tell him, “You’re a mean man, you know?”

“Stop,” he protests, grabbing your hand when your fingers dig in and removes it from his slightly crimson cheeks. “Learned it from you, apparently.”

“Ah… how fucking dare.”

Your joke slips past him as he pats your thigh twice and places the sketchbook on your pillow. You move aside for him to jump off the bed; the day has passed languidly for most of its part, but Jungkook doesn’t know laziness when it comes to hunger.

It’s snack time anyway — a possibly unhealthy comfort after the diligent workout sessions he powered through this week. But they say couples who munch together stay together, and you’re all for increasing your odds.

“Okay, sushi or dumplings?” he asks, fetching the phone he left on the work desk earlier. “Or both?”

You’re more indecisive than him. Wrong person to ask. “Either is fine. Both reduce stress.”

“Why? Are you stressed?”

“I mean… it’s why people snack sometimes, no?”

“You didn’t deny it, though. What’s up?”

You emit a deep breath, combining anxiety about life and relief about being able to talk about it. As he orders whatever he’s craving, you tell him, “Work’s just been chaotic, which wouldn’t be news if I wasn’t the one responsible for fixing it all.”

You shake your head a little, click your tongue and then continue, “I mean, it’s not that anything needs to be fixed, but with the season changing, the collection does, too… and… of course we need to advertise every single sock and glove.”

There is no need to repeat the current situation to him; perhaps you just need to spell it out again, to torture yourself or maybe, to raise your own awareness of how important this thing is.

So of course he’s calm and reassuring when he says, “But you were so excited about it?”

“I still am. Just nervous as hell, too, because I’ve never taken the lead before, really.”

“No? You did do a hell of a job at Charmante, though.”

You smile weakly, hiding the little sigh and admit, “Yes, but those were never my projects alone. Back when I started here at Novaura and they were doing the autumn launch, I was still just learning and watching. It looked so difficult then, too.”

“Only because autumn to winter fashion is such a jump. Listen,” his eyes lift, the phone thrown back on the bed and a moment later, himself as well. His hand lands on yours, rubbing energetically. “It just means they trust you!”

“Yeahh,” you drag the word, and then nod, “yeah, no, sure. Like, so many people do that all over the world and they manage, so I should be fine.” Jungkook hums. “As long as the models don’t leave us hanging — one of them still hasn’t answered.”

You pause for dramatic effect, an expression of your gathered frustration and fear of failure. But when you look at him, eyes filled with support but a slight distraction in the far back, you digress, “But you have your own stress to deal with right now.”

His eyes flit to the ground and he presses his lips to a line as if to disagree, and then actually does, “I don’t know if I’d call it stress. Just nervous, like you. First big thing for me, too.”

So was the exhibition months ago, and he mastered it so easily. But there are a dozen reasons he’d rather forget about these long nights, no matter how victorious he came out of them.

Despite the exposure he received, he doesn’t talk about it, except once, shortly after you found each other again. Poured how it still sometimes hurt to think about the dread that so overshadowed his excitement, bringing to light every other insecurity he’s ever lived with, too.

But. A healthy number of amazing results followed all that anguish — like, the guy scouting him, or you coming to the exhibition after all. 

Okay. Anyway. Your turn to offer some peaceful words before any of you can enable any approaching nightmares of everything that can go wrong.

“You know,” you start, “I could easily give you my very personal and totally unbiased opinion if you let me see.”

You lower your head to throw an ominous through-the-lashes glance, and you probably look like an idiot enough to make him laugh like this. But then, all earnestly, he explains, “No. If I’m able to land this job, I will show you something far bigger. And—”

He stares up to the ceiling, forming an imaginary rainbow with his hands, all theatrical. “And the stuff you want to actually see is part of what will be one day.”

“Dramatic poetry.”

He shrugs. “I might’ve flicked through your anthologies.” A similar pat as before follows on the back of your hand and he rushes to the table, returning with his turned on laptop. “But know what? I can show you a few of these at least.”

The display lights up bright once he’s typed in his password, directly offering a look at the folder containing the pictures he took on your vacation. Random ones, some of them already edited — he likes doing this.

There’s crystal clear water and the horizon behind it; or random alleys. Very artsy stuff, but carrying an obvious signature note. And the edits add to the specific tone that is so easily distinguished from what other people create.

“Does the guy want photographs, too?” you ask, scooching closer.

“Just for the portfolio. I don’t need to exhibit any just yet… maybe someday.”

As he opens a picture the screen froze on before he shut the laptop, you exclaim, “Oh, this was right after the slippery soccer game! When we were having dinner at this fancy hotel restaurant.”

“Right,” he zooms in, dragging the mouse across faces, “you didn’t like the dessert there.”

“But I liked the main course,” you tell him with a slight lift of your shoulder, watching until your face jumps into your eyes, “look at me here. I fucking hate you for catching this moment of all.”

Your expressions are contorted, left cheek filled with a bite of the tart. You aren’t focused on the camera, not posing or smiling like the rest is; entirely distracted by the attack on your tastebuds.

“Oh, I love myself for it,” Jungkook counters, zooming further into your knitted eyebrows. You hit his shoulder a little, and he fakes a devastated exclaim, “Owh. Bully.”

“I look like the grapes offended me and my ancestors.”

“Probably did.”

“Probably.”

You laugh, basking in the post-vacation glow, although missing the moments the pictures are refreshing in your mind. You take over the keyboard to move between them, dwelling on one or returning to another when you recall a story to it.

Jungkook, with the computer on his lap, leans back, listens to your tales and adds his own. Talking about the conversations held before, during and after all these many seconds were captured.

And at some point, as time passes and the delivery service rings the bell, you finally prepare to move from one activity to the next; Jungkook gets up to open the door.

But just before disappearing, uncaring of who awaits, he turns around again, one look thrown down to where you sit so calmly. Looking like the same girl chomping through her lunch in the empty skatepark, legs dangling underneath the summer sun as he teased her out of her mind next to her.

You have changed — but you haven’t. You look happier, at least.

If he could, he’d stare at the glow a little longer.

But instead, he remembers the food waiting outside and with it the certainly impatient supplier, and he leans into you slowly. Digs two fingers into your cheeks, much softer than you did to him before, and closes the space between your mouths.

The kiss is a mere peck, but feathery and sweet, finished in a moment. But it’s delightful, how giddy you still look when you ask, “What was that for?”

His shoulders rise again to a shrug, thumb brushing along your skin. And then, he backs away and leaves with a last statement that is so simple that it really shouldn’t stir your stomach the way it does— “Nothing at all. Could just do it all day.”

Jungkook looks around the dimly lit hall.

Very natural how the gallery collector chose an artistic museum-café for the first meet-up, surrounded by tiny shops offering bookmarks and puzzles of popular pieces.

Of course, the mere reason for this was the collector’s professional visit before Jungkook arrived, coinciding with this meeting only because the guy’s calendar was — as he claimed — already filled to the brim.

Fine by Jungkook. If circumstances offered a way to get into one of his favourite museums for free, just because the man vis-à-vis allowed him in, he wasn’t going to say no.

And the café is of the extraordinary sort — not at the end of the exhibition, behind some souvenir shop, right next to the exit. It’s situated in the middle of the first floor, surrounded by a couple entrances that lead to different eras of painted magic.

The exhibitions are showcased in rooms as brightly lit as the one Jungkook presented his own work in, but the hall housing the café-restaurant in the middle resembles a castle. Lights warm as candles, ceilings high, walls an art of their own.

And amidst all the wonder, there’s him, nervous and fumbling as the gallery collector, Mr. Paik, takes in each page of the portfolio with eagle eyes. Jungkook would run if he could, come back when the man has formed a verdict.

But instead, Jungkook slurps his flat white and waits, eyes bigger than ever as he stares through his growing bangs. And then, Paik finally nods a bit, forefinger tapping at a random spot on the page before he says, entirely unrelated, “You have some good connections, don’t you?”

“I— uh,” Jungkook sits up, uprighting his torso, naming the one person Paik already knows of, “I have Kim Namjoon.”

“Okay. Really, he is more than enough, too.” He shuts the portfolio, only to open it again to one of the first works. “You do have exceptional talent and are in good hands with Namjoon. A convenient combination if you ask me.”

“I think so, too. I have a lot to thank him for.”

“Mmhm, this is incredible. It takes people years sometimes to work their way into a gallery. And that without open calls or random submissions — I mean, possible, but rare.”

“I really am thankful, sir,” Jungkook says, voice a bit livelier. This is what he’s been wanting to hear all those years; it pumps a vast amount of energy into his soul. “Honestly. I can barely believe I was even part of a group exhibition, either.”

Paik laughs, multiple little crinkles of age collecting at the corners of his eyes. He puts a hand on the table, fingers brushing the saucer under his cup.

Then he asks, “Why’s that? Your awareness of detail is great. You can surely work your way up if you give your best, and people will definitely see how much you love doing this, too.”

“I am certainly intending to work hard. Thank you so much.”

A burden falls off Jungkook’s chest and lightens the space. Of course, this is just the beginning and the true trials are still ahead. But this is still a more than opportune way to start out; to find a footing in this area of work and then climb up to success.

The moment paired with the coffee leaves Jungkook hyped to the bone, but he attempts his best to remain composed. Not that he can hide much of his telling smile, and the man in front of him sees through him quickly.

He asks, “Excited, yes?”

Jungkook sighs in relief; his pupils are probably enlarged as hell. “I can’t even find the words. To tell you the truth, I was so anxious about this for so long. And I really want people to feel the same way you did just now. It has been a goal for the longest time.”

He’s probably rambling — so much to staying calm. But perhaps it’s just right, to show his humane side, to actually manifest into words all that his hands bring to paper. Artists are vulnerable; why not show all of it instead of stashing his heart?

“I will help as best as I can,” Paik says, and Jungkook half nods, half bows, ready to nearly tear up until the collector’s next words freeze him on his chair, “we could start out with an art fair. There’s one at the end of November, so in around a month? Not long before the gallery showing. Do you want to come?”

…What?

Let’s see…

That’s in nearly three weeks. No time left at all. Everything is happening so fast that it appears downright unbelievable, too good to be true — never for a second did Jungkook expect for opportunities to fall into his hands like this.

Insane. Insane. Insane. 

“No?” Paik asks again, and Jungkook soon notices that he’s supposed to answer, that he hasn’t said or done anything yet, other than to ponder his luck in his head.

“D-do I want to—” he stammers, aware that his conversation partner is amusingly registering each of Jungkook’s joys.

“I mean, it’s not that easy. You’d have to present your stuff and create new things — if you want. And select pieces you could sell. The competition can be tough, but I wouldn’t be worried—”

Oh fuck.

Half his heart is thrilled about the chance; the other half dreads the moment, finding artworks he can give away. And if nobody purchases it? Or even fails to find their way to his booth? And can he do a lot in three weeks at all?

“You can also just come and look around, without being one of the showcasers, too!” Paik tries to comfort, but—

Isn’t this what Jungkook wants? To show the world pieces of his himself, what he loves, what he’s always done?

Wouldn’t it be thoroughly stupid to say no?

Paik tries again, giving Jungkook some space to think about it. He comments, “I’ll give you some time. But I suggested it because you bring exceptional talent to the table and I know I’m not the only one wanting you to grow quickly.”

“Yes… yes, I can barely wait either,” Jungkook starts, nervously laughing, “but is that even possible? Can I afford to rush it…?”

“Are you really rushing it, though, if you’re doing what you enjoy? Then again,” Paik pauses, thinks about it, “you’re not wrong. I wouldn’t make my hobby a chore. If you feel like it’s too stressful, you can take your time. I’m sure you can make it big either way, no matter when.”

“You are too kind, Mr. Paik.”

“Honest,” he corrects with a soft, likeable smile, “take it easy.”

“Yes. God, I’m just perplexed because—” Jungkook puffs out some breath, blinking. His nervously shaking hands curl into fists, thoughts all over the place. “I’ve always wanted this. My own studio and everything.”

“But it’s too much at once?”

“No… yes. I mean, I want this, but I just can’t believe my luck.”

“You underestimate yourself. You can reach your goals with ease.”

Jungkook offers a vibrant smile, mixed with a bit of concern but with elation, too. When you love something too much, the fear of losing it grows even bigger. But maybe he should focus on what’s in front of him; and right now, it’s a huge ass break just to happen.

“Okay. You know what — I will give it a try. Why not?” Jungkook says, coming way too close to cursing, too close to throwing in words of strong eagerness. “I can already think of so many things. A couple old pieces can be refined by then as well.”

“Remember that you can opt out anytime, I won’t mind. You still have the gallery showcase.” Paik leans forwards, hands folding on the table. “But Mr. Jeon… I wouldn’t worry too much. You are already at a level of ambition that often bears great results. Don’t let any of it falter.”

His words tattoo themselves into Jungkook’s hearts. Somehow, he reckons this is a memory that’ll stay carved in his mind, repeating even if he fails; on loop when he succeeds — many years after today, he’ll remember these joys.

Crazy.

Jungkook’s tense muscles calm as some ease and confidence wash into him, and with a heart full of aspiration and a mind filled with ideas, he says,

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Once the high-reaching waves of delirium have ebbed down and Jungkook calms from soaring, he finds himself in smoggy hesitation. Or maybe, it’s not really that — more so growing portions of panic.

The more he thinks about it, the more his mind whirs. Yes, no doubt, he’s got half a dozen ideas already; he was certainly not lying about that. But — he’s not the only artist in the world. And he definitely won’t be the only or first one to attend the fair, or to be part of a gallery.

So much is at stake, so much to give. He has never considered failure an option; aside from you, art has always been the one thing he’s been sure about, the one skill he’s confided in and understood to the core.

But with all that hope and support comes fear, too, and Paik, while indescribably kind, has awoken pressure in Jungkook he had never put on himself before.

Hours later, as you meet him on your way back home, he doesn’t seem nervous to you just yet. You wait in front of the entrance of the building that holds Namjoon’s studio, car parked not too far. If you’d known he’d be rushing here even on his day off, you’d have told him to take the vehicle today.

Conveniently, you finished just a little earlier than he did, driving all the way to this corner of the town. It’s not particularly close to your work. But despite his retelling of the meet-up with the gallery guy today, you had an odd feeling about Jungkook.

He sounded enthusiastic first; then, different. Not necessarily worried, but his voice had changed and he was in a hurry, pushing the conversation to, “Later.”

“What’s up?” you ask the moment he finds you.

There’s ease in the kiss he presses to your cheek, melting relief in his doe-brown eyes. But you don’t know…

Given the news, you feel like he’s lacking the fitting glow.

“Nothing new since the afternoon,” he answers, light crooked smile as he finds your hand to hold, “what about you?”

You shake your head. “No, I mean. Are you okay?”

“Huh? Struck one of the biggest deals of my life. Is there any other way to feel?”

That’s it… considering the fact that this exact thing happened, you sure cannot hear the excited tremble that such an opportunity usually elicits. He isn’t properly looking at you either. Smiling and swinging your arms, yeah, but staring ahead and sighing, too.

“Tired,” Jungkook responds, a tell-tale answer to Jungkook-esque anxiety and scarily common in human conversations these days, “just really tired. There’s a lot to think about in the upcoming future.”

“Hmm, yes.”

You let the thought marinate, for a moment even browsing your brain for ideas you can deliver additionally to the ones he already has. And he’s distracted, too, walking the rest of the way to the car mostly in peaceful silence.

But when you get in, insisting on driving, especially after his admissions of exhaustion, you prod again, “You know, this is a huge thing. I felt out of my mind when I started at Novaura. It’s okay to feel nervy or something.”

You push the key into the ignition, watching as he nods, a surprisingly steady voice telling you, “I know. Of course, that’s normal.”

Yet, as the seconds pass and the motor roars, you feel him grow uneasy on the passenger’s seat. It’s not until you pull out of the parking lot and near the first traffic light that he finally fesses up.

“I feel really fucking weird.”

You turn to him. The day is darkening and the red traffic light colouring his face extra bright. In it, he looks particularly concerned and frightened, accompanying his words with a deep exhale. He rubs his chin for a second.

And when you dig, “Weird how?”, he says, “I’m just unsure about what I got myself into.”

“Into something you will love to do.”

“Yeah, I mean — I just get why people say it’s dangerous to turn your hobby into work. He said exceptional talent today and my God. It’s very scary, landing amidst many good artists that I might not be able to compare with.”

You hum, checking for pedestrians before taking a right turn. You chew over his words before you ultimately tell him, “You don’t need to compare, though, do you? I thought that was never really the objective.”

“No, but… in the end, competition is crucial.”

“Oh… Jungkook. It’ll all turn out just right.”

It’s all you can do at the moment; wrap your words in honeyed support, extra sweet as you operate the wheel. But he’s distracted; staring out the window, blinking slowly, a hand on his cheek — he looks magnificent even like this, nearly animated.

“Hey,” you start, overcome with bits of guilt that you can’t help better. At home, you’ll prepare a loose schedule for him, boost motivation. You pat the back of his hand resting on his thigh, tell him, “Be yourself. Present what you love. People see passion, so whatever you do, it’ll be enough.”

Jungkook’s eyes widen a fraction; Paik said something similar.

“Present what I love.” He tries out the words, inhales the crips air blowing in from the open slit of the window. Then — displays his signature smirk. “So shall I take you with me?”

It’s only that he meets your eyes again when yours narrow, playfully judgemental and incredibly amused. The humour he finds in every situation…

The palm previously touching his skin lifts and pushes at his shoulder, and you say, “You’re disgusting.”

“It’d be a win-win moment, though. I can just bring you anywhere,” he still jokes, though bits of light remorse resonate in his voice, too. You get why when he says, “After all, I’ll have to be away from you for a little, too.”

Ah… that.

“Well, I mean. Busy times are ahead anyway. I’ll drown myself in work,” you say.

“Yeah. I don’t know. God, this is… stressful.”

You move into your alley, a reflex when the pace slows and you carefully turn into the garage. Jungkook and you abandoned the random parking lots outside that are almost never free and opted for a paid spot in the garage instead.

Big advantage. It’s inside and not a 5-minute-walk away, warmer in the winter, cooler in the summer. And many lots are free because not everybody needs a car or a parking space.

So… it’s often empty…

Right. Mostly empty. Right now, just him and you.

An idea pops into your mind.

Or rather, a tempting reminder. An old joke, indecent, said in excited moments that you forgot about for a while. Life got hectic.

But… hm.

You let the engine die, taking off your seatbelt, but you don’t leave the car just yet. As Jungkook, lost in thoughts, targets for the handle to strut up to your apartment, you hold him back by his elbow. Tug at the jacket.

“Kook.”

He looks back. Big, big eyes. You almost feel bad for thinking what you’re thinking, because there is no way that huge ass pupils like this could ever give into anything but innocent. If you didn’t know this man and the things he does to you, that’s what you’d assume…

“Can I tell you something?” you inquire.

“What?”

He sits back down, fingers falling off the handle. The questioning look turns more curious, but not worried — you don’t look like you have anything evil to confess. Your cheeks heat up.

“I was missing you today,” you confess. How lame — but a start. You shrug a shoulder to yourself. “Like, can’t-work-properly kinda missing.”

“Yeah? Well, welcome in my head,” the tip of his forefinger pokes his temple, “I miss you all the time.”

You keep staring. Wait for the right moment, ponder whether it’d be better to just leave him be tonight. To let him go up, shower, eat a comforting meal and drop into the mattress. But you’re already riled up at your thoughts; already closing your thighs.

It’s just this dumb joke you have, to execute a specific idea on any day that you might need to. When the days are gloomy and the time is right and you feel like experimenting, distracting yourselves.

Suggestions uttered in steamy moments are usually whatever, mostly just a product of brave craze. Yet, it could be a temporary remedy.

Jungkook’s eyes follow your confused thighs. Whatever he sees, it lights up his gaze a bit. Opens his eyelids. His eyes move back to yours and he blinks again, asks you, “Do you want something? Need something?”

He inches closer. Just enough for you to feel his breaths, fingers pinching your chin. But there’s no lewd intention behind this yet. The touch is pure and modest.

You don’t think he’s caught onto you enough to initiate what you’re willing to give, but it’s still something… he doesn’t seem the least bit surprised when you say, “I’d just— love a kiss right now.”

“A kiss?” He laughs. Of course he knew. “Sure that’s not because you knew I needed one?”

“You’re not the only one who has needs an—”

Your words are cut off as they often are; the impish smile stays as his lips meet yours, but he’s still careful, loving, vulnerable after the week he had.

But for now, you don’t say anything — can’t do it anyway as he moves his mouth gently, kissing you sweetly, not for too long but still enough for your tummy to react. So you hold back a bit less when you part, starting, “This might sound sudden—”

You wait. Then, he asks, “But?”

“But… Do you want to… leave it out somewhere? The stress.”

Just a little, he backs away. Perhaps he didn’t expect to hear this already. Maybe he thought you’d promise more, promise a tender night once your door had closed. But you’re feeling like taking a risk today.

“Huh?” he voices.

“It’s what you think, I think—”

“Like now?”

“Like now. Like here. I mean it.”

“…Seriously?”

You nod just once.

He hesitates. Sure he does — is there anyone in this world who wouldn’t give it a thought, so exposed here, a bit hidden but in a garage open to at least some neighbours anyway? Yes, there probably is.

But Jungkook is… an enigma right now. You don’t know what he’ll say. Give in because he digs adventures like this? Lowkey one to enjoy risks, too, to feel the thrill of you under him, trying to compose yourself, to not be too loud; to give you everything in a space that requires caution?

Or maybe… he’ll just shake his head, roll his eyes and leave. Declare you a fool, laugh at you for suggesting it at all. Tease you with it even at a ripe age.

Damn it, you can’t read his expression.

So you wait. Wait for seconds that feel like minutes, watching him cock an eyebrow, look around, lean back, sigh. As if he’s thinking about it hard; harder than work. As hard as his pants stir.

Well.

Then—

“I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“What?”

“You offer that I let out my stress on you,” he repeats, and you nod, “obviously I won’t hurt you, but… I don’t know how hard I’ll snap.”

Oh, fuck… the liquid is pooling between your legs. The everlasting, old effect of his…

You’re quick to let him know, “I don’t mind.” You draw closer, a hand on his knee, inching up until you feel just the beginning of his stiffening member. You withdraw, put a kiss to the corner of his lips. “I honestly don’t.”

“Not even if somebody walks past?”

You toy with the hem of his jacket. “Don’t give a fuck.”

“Angel…”

“Yeah?”

“Sure?”

“Kook—”

“Okay— Okay. Just, you… You’ll tell me if it’s too much?” Shit. That’s it. Your eyes expand; you can’t believe he surrendered. You guess your effect on him is just as apparent. “Because I might…”

“I know. Yes, of course I will.”

“My God,” he whispers, fingers to your wrist, but so featherlight that it doesn’t affect anything. “Nobody who might know me once I’m famous better see me causing… a scandal already.”

You let out a gasp, faux-offended — the two of you have already learned to laugh about the news articles in the past that concerned you. Now, it’s whatever. But the timing of the jest is just right.

Because his grip tightens suddenly around your wrist, and the frisky gasp you let out turns into a real one. Morphs into a tiny shriek when he pulls you into him, dropping another quiet F-bomb and then commanding, “Back seat. Now.”

He doesn’t need to tell you twice. You get out of the car and back into it at a speed that is nearly embarrassing; especially considering how leisurely he strolls back, a hand through his hair, jacket zipped open.

It’s cold outside, but you feel warm somehow. Well, if you get sick because you were stupid… you won’t mind this time. You could squeak in electrified anticipation. 

But not a sound escapes when he finally gets in, luring you into the corner and against the seat before a hand grabs your face and brings his mouth back to yours.

Again, for just a second. He doesn’t make too much of a fuss today, doesn’t say too much; it doesn’t happen often, but sometimes, like now, he does go straight into it with an incredibly determined mind.

And he probably doesn’t have anything to say anyway. His eyes are too foggy. Or at least, nothing except commands. Such as, “Turn around.”

You take off your shoes and your jacket, try to get into position… It’s not easy. Not in such a confined space, not with both your bodies here; not even when he leans back. He’s a big man, after all…

“You tell me if it gets uncomfortable,” he mutters, still soft when you get your knees onto the seat.

But your feet graze his hands, too close to his body; Jungkook fixes the issue fast. Grabs one of your legs and places it down, foot attempting to steady on the car’s floor. The other leg is squeezed along the back of the seat, next to his own leg.

It’s not too comfortable, but not bad enough to complain either. You can still endure easily; it’s not a chore to do so anyway when he leans down, grabbing your jacket and throwing it into the passenger seat. Or when his warm hands crawl beneath your top, raise it, lips just barely brushing your skin.

He wants to do far more than this, but the space doesn’t allow as much; you know that under different circumstances, he’d let his tongue wander down. But he can’t lean back more than this, so he lets the fingers do their job.

Tugs at your jeans, following the hem, unbuttoning them once he reaches the front. 

He circumnavigates along your skin until he’s caressing your ass, allowing another chaste touch just to return to the spot that was covered under the jeans’ button a second ago. The movements are scarce, with an unspoken purpose that you can’t decipher just yet.

Possibly to his own pleasure, to take you in inch by inch, to feel the heat in his already alight fingertips.

And then, without a word or a warning, he yanks your jeans down, bringing the baggy material way to your knees. Your panties are still in place, unfortunately, still a probably irritating obstacle to the delirious hazard behind you.

But you guess he contains his urge to run wild, instead asking with a voice drenched in syrup, “Feeling cold?”

“Surprisingly not…” you tell him, lifting the hand once you notice it’s clinging to the car’s door handle. Nah — would be awkward to fall out half naked now. “Even if I was, I’d take the fever for this.”

Jungkook clicks his tongue, cursing under his breath; you can nearly feel and clearly see him shaking his head without even looking at him. He says, “You’re impossible. Then again,” he sighs, “if you just knew. My view is definitely worth the cold.”

“Shut up. Do something.”

It’s supposed to come out as an order, but you end up sounding as though you’re pleading instead. It must entertain him as much as it embarrasses you because he, clearly helped by the abundant sarcasm in his mind, responds, “Yes, yes. Certainly.”

At least he keeps his promise — happily obliges when he presses a finger to your nub. Not too harshly — it doesn’t hurt when he rubs the cotton panties against your skin before he moves to push them aside.

And you’re neither surprised nor ashamed when his digit slips right in, a smooth one fell swoop motion, prying out a satisfied sound. 

You need to feel all of this. Need to be more comfortable. So you press your forehead against the door; immediately feel it when he pumps his fingers in and out slowly, follows the slight changes in your position.

He doesn’t stop. Continues until his movements quicken just a tad, but then slow down again. Initial instinct tells you that he’s already toying with you, using your devotion to him to tease you towards insanity.

But that’s not true. He’s still too hazy-brained to really think further than this mere touch, admitting to you, “This… is not easy.”

Oh… yeah. You’ve been kneeling here awkwardly; didn’t really think about how strange it must be for the almighty sex god sitting behind you, too. Besides…

“Wouldn’t have guessed,” you tell him; push his ego, “was already pretty fucking nice.”

He laughs, more so lovingly than mischievously. You told him to not hold back tonight, but you know Jungkook — in the end, even he can’t resist your charms. There’s an unspoken and spoken adoration between the two of you and he can never help but showcase it like this.

He attempts to provoke, “You’ll love anything I do, though, no?” 

“You say it like you’re any different.”

“Shut up,” he instantly imitates, landing a couple faint slaps to your ass as he shifts. “And get up.”

And you listen instead of opting for snarky remarks. The faster you indulge, the quicker he’ll deliver. Fuck, you want him to.

The kisses don’t end for the night when you very briefly face him again, half turned to him with an arm backwards around his head. Your lips lock only for a moment before he takes a proper sit in the middle, tugging you up to him.

It’s funny, how he’d never kiss you months ago, no matter how many hints you left and no matter how badly his body urged for it; and now he’s never capable of stopping. Back then, his mind warned him to stay back; that it’d only throw him into this endless pit of madness and falling in love if he gave in.

In truth, he already had. Found out better late than never.

The entire process of moving in here, entangling your limbs and trying your best in barely a square meter, is draining, but you find a solution quickly. Granted, said solution is messy and forces your head against the ceiling for a painful second, but…

Once in his lap and between his legs, everything seems irrelevant.

And you hope he didn’t notice anyway. But of course he did. His laughter reveals it; you tried to brush off how you rubbed your head, to hide it behind your heavy breaths, but Jungkook is attentive. So you join in, surrendering to the playfulness amidst the ardour until it dies in your throat.

Gone and faded when he puts a hand around your neck, pulling you closer; your back is secured to his chest.

And goddamn, the kisses are wet. Sloppy, dirty, landing on more free inches of your skin when he lifts your head, other hand busy roaming over your tits — then further down, down your body, your top, your stomach, once again past the panties that fell back over your drenched pussy.

And the aching clit… begging and swollen. Just waiting for him to come back.

You let out a sigh and sound so lustful, it surprises even you.

And Jungkook, warm, heavy and hard under you, holds you tight, muttering to himself, “Okay.” Waits, breathes, licking his lips before he shortens, “‘Kay.”

You lean forwards when he cups your pussy, and then sit back — or rather, you are forced back as he tugs you in, greedy and fucked out of his mind. You grip his thighs when he sneaks closer to your awaiting hole, brushing over your leg, and then right back in. 

God, the calculated movements…

Rounding the clit… gauging the wetness… stuffing you more and further and better. 

And you feel it all. Every nerve lighting up, walls tighter around him now before relaxing again. Your lower tummy builds up the knot, and you let your head fall back onto his shoulder; only, it’s just your cheek that lands against his, free to be kissed.

“Spread them more,” he whispers against your jaw, nibbling at the earlobe. “These…”

He repeats when you don’t register. Then you take another moment to understand what you can spread, stupidly mistaking his order to hold apart your nether lips; but you soon realise that you’ve decreased the angle your legs stand in.

“Wha—?” you question, even though you’re aware of what to do. You just… you want to feel his piping hot breath against your aflame skin again.

“I said,” he starts, a harsh grip around your thigh pulling it to the side. Your heart rate increases. “Spread.”

Ah…

You’re already so sensitive even without any orgasm, and the sensation keeps you moving, legs shutting involuntarily. And he keeps parting them, pumping harder — but apparently, he wants to focus on more than on actually holding you in place.

You grin. Your mistake.

But you guess this route distracts him from daily issues just as much.

Especially when you let your legs fall over his own, dangling, keeping them there and spreading to your maximum abilities. He can take you out now. And he does. The squelching sounds, lewd, louder even in this car than in your spacious bedroom, make it clear.

Because now he’s using two fingers at once. Knuckles deep. Massaging the right spot inside with ease. The way he knows what he’s doing nearly renders you jealous — but then you realise he had plenty of time to practice on you, too.

There’s a reason for his extensive knowledge of your body, after all.

Like how you want his fingers inside, a thumb on your bud or his hands around your firm nipples. How you love the nasty fantasy of him spreading your cum over your tits, just as he is now when you release your high, screaming into the car, arching your back for seconds.

You attempt to get in between, to quicken the orgasm, to shift until nothing’s left in you. But Jungkook is eager to take over the work; pins your intruding hand to your thigh when you try to touch yourself again.

One more, “Stop this, will you?” is dropped before he is back to your clit, overstimulating you to whimpers.

Are you a masochist for loving this? Did he make you like this? Maybe — probably. You won’t complain. You will take it… want to take it. His angel, yes?

You turn to look at him. You barely see him properly from this proximity and in this light, but you do recognise a hooded gaze meeting into your own eyes’ daze. He closes the distance to steal another kiss, but then he stops; keeps staring at you instead.

He prefers this sometimes. Mouth agape. Forehead close to yours. A sweet voice asking, “What? I can stop whenever.”

Whether it’s a threat or a reassurance, you don’t know. You’ll take both; either does it for you right now.

“No,” you protest, “I told you to let it out.”

“But…” The sly smile returns. The switch from caring boyfriend to reckless devil is rapid, absolute madness. “But I do enjoy tormenting you.”

You tsk, “Then, do whatever the fuck you want. You know what I want.”

“Right… Do it then,” he begins, his voice almost imperceivable. “Take a seat.”

What an ass…

Not in the back seat, obviously; he has most of it occupied already, manspreading as he is. No, he’s talking about that throne of yours that you keep claiming on the regular. The one that…

You clear your head. If you don’t focus on lifting, you won’t be able to. Willpower.

And while moments of giddy weakness do pass, you manage to separate from him by a few inches, keeping an eye on his erection as he hurries — struggles — to take off his pants. It’s a hassle; you bump your head again, too, swearing, “Fucking hell.”

He doesn’t laugh this time. Too busy to rid himself off his boxers, letting the divine cock spring out, towering, veiny, big and fat. It grows by the second when you sit down again, settling between your ass cheeks, twitching.

Your slip is the last hurdle. Which you do try to remove before that pain in the ass — not literally, though you wished it was — brings his fingers back to where you ache for him, gives you some more, still overstimulating and edging when you say, “Bit more — just a bit—”

You’d rather have something else inside, but Jungkook is resolute today, and you will not be one to have a problem with it. Not with him, not ever.

You clench your jaw as you crawl closer to your high again, raising yourself and pumping him in retaliation before he finally gives up around a minute later and a strained voice quite literally demands, “Sit the fuck down.”

“…Pleasure.”

And that’s it.

He impales you so deeply; you never get used to it, always think it’s ending when it doesn’t. Hear the absolutely, devastatingly sinful moans he lets out, see the heavenly attractive face he makes when you look at him.

Your breaths are stagnant when you move back up and slap down onto his legs. Keep giving until something snaps in you after a mere minute already.

This orgasm he built was an intense one, and you awaited it, already knowing you’d wave the white flag very fast already. You’re surprised it took this long at all; you had anticipated to come undone the moment he entered you.

But it still makes your legs quiver. Strains and then relaxes your muscles, numbs you inside out, your body uncontrolled as you unwind in waves. How does he manage to do this each time? How do men usually not?

If you weren’t proud and possessive, and if privacy wasn’t a construct in relationships and the entirety of the world, you’d suggest for him to give a crash course to men on how to help a girl out. At least one guy does it fucking right.

Oh, anyone being fucked like this is just—

You exclaim in lust as you keep bouncing, his fingers pinching your nipples, teeth digging into your shoulder. He remembers that he’s the one supposed to let himself go tonight, and soon reverses, delivering smacks to your pussy before he parts your legs again.

And then… starts hammering from below.

Reflexively, you look down.

You still can’t recognise much in the dark, but you do see the hardness driving into you and out of you. His thrusts are wild, his balls bouncing — you cover them with a hand around them, massaging them and playing until he loses it.

“What the fuck—”

You love it when he expresses such a thing. Cursing, whispering it. It disturbs his rhythm, but that doesn’t mean the ramming stops. Still deep, still fast, still accompanied by low-pitched, guttural, exhausted sounds.

You soon hold onto his legs again, keeping yourself from falling to the side. Then again, Jungkook is well wrapped around you, and he won’t let you go anywhere just now. Not until he’s done with you, and you’re done with any feeling in your body.

What if you just stayed here tonight, told him to keep doing this over and over again? Would he do it…?

You’re so desperate, aren’t you?

“Oh, God… angel,” he only murmurs, biting harder into your shoulder before he moans against it. “Mmh— I love you. And this pu— oh, fuck—”

He can’t talk anymore. Too fast down there, a jarring pace, chasing his peak now at all cost. You’re permanently thirsty for this very moment; when you’re already all wet around him, spilled and filthy, waiting for him to lose control with only one goal in mind.

Seriously, anyone being fucked like this is lucky. You cracked a jackpot in the middle of a hundred concerns.

Crazy how you ran from them by letting him rail you on his small dorm room table, the front of your torso pushed down onto it or cheeks touching the cold of his door. He’d always find a way to bring you to tears of longing, but you didn’t think you’d ever find deeper affection in this passion someday.

But there is. So much of it when he kisses your neck again and then your jaw, raising your legs, keeping them up. Shooting his cock far up into you and pounding you breathless like a doll; all at the same time as he whispers, “I love you, baby. I love you.”

It is never a confession he misses. Like clockwork, always present. Words that don’t convey just yet what he feels but all he can still revert to.

This is what he meant by not holding back. He wouldn’t just stop fucking his craving into you, but all he’s grown to feel, too. And shit, do you love him, too—

He said he didn't know what he’d do. But he does.

Because despite the craze he’s delivering, he’s still somehow careful around you. Even now; always. Even while spreading your pussy wound. Injecting it into his words when he asks, “You… good?”

“Yes, yes,” you yell out; how could you hold back, lower your volume now? “Yes— Kook—”

“I know, yes, m-me…” A pause in between to catch his breath; he’s so fatigued but keeps going. “Me too.”

You call out again, and his hand flies up, leaving your body to shut your mouth. Unrelated, he admits, “Wish I could stuff a-all your holes.” Then shakes his head. “I dunno what sounds you’d make—”

You don’t know either; you can barely imagine it. Imagine anything. And you’re so permanently intrigued by this statement — he keeps saying it. Keeps teasing you. You’re still waiting for this fortunate day.

“You go– got me good last time,” he says, referring to the empty countryside house and the charm you bewitched him with, “my turn now.”

Indeed it is. He’s still not done.

Not at all as he pulls out suddenly, much to your demise, and throws you onto the seat and says, “Ass up. Bit like before.”

He sniffs, and as you look over your shoulder, you see him pushing back the hair and the shirt up to his chest, abs visible even in the faint lights of the garage. You are more than surprised that nobody walked past your car yet.

Or maybe, you just didn’t notice.

Who cares anyway…

You just want to focus. Not on them, but on how he pushes himself back into you, harsh from the start, leaning in with a finger in your mouth again to swallow some of your sounds. He pulls up your ass, pushes down your torso.

Your body is his leverage as his hands settle on your back, his cock shooting back and forth. Pelvis slapping against your ass, loud and aggressive, balls deep…

When he comes, your wrists are in his grip somehow. He’s kissing your shoulder again, endless loads of seed filling you up. His movements are irregular, too, sounds staggering on top of yours, thrusts slower but still deep until he’s… done.

Breathing heavily, he tries not to collapse over you, not getting enough air. But he doesn’t dare to open the windows or the door, either. With all the sweat, the two of you would be sure to get sick, and neither of you can, in hindsight, have it right now.

So you wait. Let him and yourself take a moment, reluctant to let him fall out of you just yet. This is somehow… nice. How he stirs and shrinks, keeping your body warm.

You turn your face to plant your cheek to the seat, and Jungkook, letting out a tiny, tired laugh, says, “Why did you even do your make up today?” Unserious question, really, because he’d never oppose your love for make up. But— “Guess it won’t be difficult to remove it today if I’ve already smeared most of it.”

“Oh fuck…” you say, trying to lift your body with your elbows, but you fall back due to his weight on half of you, “we’ll need to properly clean up the car this weekend.”

“Can’t even think about it right now.”

“Right. So… shall I stop doing my make up from now on?”

“No. It’s up to you,” he immediately answers — but then, like the ass he is, he says, “as long as you’re okay with having it ruined every day.”

You reach for his knee, slapping it as you say, “Sex maniac.”

“I’m not a sex maniac,” he protests, “it’s not about sex but about you.”

You understand — there were times when it was different, for both of you; no matter whether with each other or with others. Sometimes, sex does stem from pure lust, a consensual passing of time. 

But you always sensed that the two of you were far more than that. Maybe not a couple-to-be, but certainly more than a way to pass time. Perhaps the night at the frat party so long ago already felt different, too…

“If you say so,” you tell him, wiggling your butt. He’s already soft, but you still utter, “Wish there was a camera to see what’s going on back there sometimes.”

“Mmmh. It looks pretty fucking good,” he says, pulling out, the panties back at their place as he traps the cum inside for now. “I’ll film it next time.”

“Seriously, man…”

You sit up. You already feel the liquid running out of you when you put your jeans back on; it’s somewhat disgusting, but a symbol of healthy obsession, too. It’s fine.

Besides, you’ll be up in your apartment in a jiffy.

“Truly, how do we clean this up…” you wonder as you look around, not able to see much anyway.

But he argues, “More importantly right now, how do we get to the apartment to clean you up?”

You wave him off with a hand. “Find a way. I can’t move and it’s your fault, so you figure it out.”

A hearty snicker follows, and you can’t help but lift your lips to a smile, too. He kisses your hair, and says, “I am somehow super proud of myself, hearing that.” He leans down, grabs a heavy piece of clothing. “Put this on.”

Your jacket. It’s getting colder by the minute now.

“Up, up, then.”

And you do tumble up. Slowly and cautiously, muscles already aching and everything sore — he’s loving it. “Seeing you like this… I guess it wasn’t a bad idea after all.”

“Not at all,” you agree, “honestly, both routes are fun. My turn next time.”

“Sure. You’re all hot and sexy and make me feel hot and sexy until,” the key turns in the lock, opening the apartment door as he grows quieter, “my mother comes in and sees the clothes lying around the next morning.”

You gasp in indignation, instant embarrassment flooding through you as you think back to the fervent night and the whimsical morning. You whisper, “Did she?!”

But as always, Jeon Jungkook is a jerk.

“No. I’m kidding.” You reach for his arm, whining his name, but sighing in relief, too. “Sorry! But. They probably still knew, you know? Why does a couple ever leave a party early, really?”

You think for a second. Then hum in agreement, letting go of him as you shrug, “To fuck.”

“And now we know it’s valid to do so. Because we fucked fucked.” No shame whatsoever. No filter, either. You laugh. “Alright. We’ve still got time.” He hangs the jacket on the racket. “Hungry?”

“Yes and no. I’m famished, but also more than satisfied.” You walk in with a yawn. “A snack maybe? Full dinner in a bit?”

“I know what snack is code for.” He winks; you roll your eyes. “Okay, okay — wanna watch something in the meantime?”

“Sure.”

As you enter the living room, he looks around, asking, “Where’s the laptop?”

But you’re already taking a turn to the bedroom. Off to grab your clothes, take a quick shower and press a dent into the mattress. You repeat, “Don’t know. I’m not moving anymore. You get it.”

“Brat.”

But he still does.

Still cuddles into you with food, preparing tea and bringing your favourite snacks, tucking you in properly with all the effort left and right. He’s tired and probably still — or again — nervous, and yet he spends the rest of the hours watching some show you started until he starts obsessing again.

Over your heart, over your mind, over you. Barely a mutter when his cheek lands on your chest again, taking in your fragrance as he breathes, “This helped… still does. You always help.”

“��I just want you to know, baby, that… I’ll always believe in the best outcome. You’ll rock this.”

“I’ll rock this.” And as you whisper an exactly, he chuckles quietly. Moving further into you and your soul before he adds,

“Why do I never get used to you?”

You don’t respond — only smile, running your fingers through his silky hair.

But you know the answer.

For this is exactly what happens when the soul keeps falling in love with someone. Over and over again.

“You do know that we’re supposed to meet up with them in like,” you drop your eyes to your wrist, pulling back the sweater to unveil your watch, “forty minutes, right?”

“And you think they’ll complain about some extra time alone?”

You launch a blank stare, not a single blink as you watch him shrug a shoulder. He sports a smirk that you would’ve clenched your jaw to months ago, but today, even if you won’t admit it right this second, it amuses you.

He laughs when you stand there unmoving, like a stick figure silently reprimanding a lethargic boyfriend. You hate to break, but when the contagious chuckle infects you, too, you feel a wave of relief and serotonin ripple through you violently.

Jungkook hasn’t left vacation mode just yet; while the work for the art fair and gallery is still ongoing and he diligent, you catch him slouching ever so often, doodling away at times. You’ll confess, the grey outside is tiring; different from the sunnier countryside you left behind.

There’s a sort of post-bliss blues that even you can hardly shake off.

“You can’t deny that, can you?” he utters amidst his melodious laugh, and you roll your eyes, taking two big steps towards him — much like two days ago.

“I don’t have to deny it to still teach you the importance of punctuality, right? Get up,” you say, smacking his hip — and he uses the chance to lift his arm from under his head, reaching for you, but… failing. “Uh-uh. Enough with your tricks. Get up.”

Last night still wasn’t enough — is it ever? You’re not surprised; neither by his thirst nor by your own inner, involuntary reactions. But no time. It’s rude to let people wait.

And you know exactly what Jimin would say — tease — if the two of you arrived at the double lunch date with him and Yoongi late again.

Jungkook’s voice turns half into a yawn, half into a sigh, tired when he responds, “Yes, ma’am.”

This should do.

But since everything good comes in three, and just for good measure, you add another laser-glance, shooting at him in warning to lift his ass and meet you ready once you are, too. A playfully sigh breathed, you amble to the bathroom, make up awaiting on the sink from when you put it there this morning.

This shouldn’t take long; you’re opting for the minimalistic approach today.

As the hues colour your lips and fill your lashes, you hum a random melody you can’t quite identify. It’s quiet in the apartment until it isn’t — and when Jungkook’s voice chimes, your hand halts mid-mascara-stroke, assuming he’s calling for you.

He’s not; you understand this much when he greets the person on the other end in his liveliest tone at first, volume decreasing as the conversation continues. He’s soon hushed enough for you to not really make out proper words anymore. Hums here and there — Jungkook doesn’t seem to say much at all.

Perhaps it’s Yoongi, or Tae, telling a story. Narrating recent occurrences, the delights and pains that emerged and shrivelled on the vacation that you weren’t part of anymore.

You don’t ask just yet, decide not to disturb.

You finish up whatever is left of your routine, setting the make up and ruffling through your hair, adding volume. When the talk he’s indulging in still remains when you deem yourself ready, you let out a breather and step back into the bedroom.

Still in the same clothes and with the untamed hair as his crown, Jungkook’s gaze is lowered, fingers barely curled into the sheets. He’s sat up now; you see his Adam’s apple bob when you walk in. Instinctively and immediately, you blurt, “Now what did I tell you just a moment ago—”

But the jest dries in your throat and then fades, as dead as Jungkook’s eyes when he looks up at you. Or maybe… maybe they’re not dead.

More so — in disbelief. As if he hasn’t really fathomed what he’s just heard, mind sprinting in circles, attempting to understand.

His chest isn’t moving as it should, and just in general, his body emits inner trouble. Distress. When he lifts his pupils and shifts them towards you, it looks as if he’s hoping that your presence could reverse reality, as if you’re pulling him out of the inevitable quicksand.

But you can’t. You get it; see it right away.

Because the watery gaze and the gap between his lips, this expression, are new to you, no matter how many of his aches you’ve mended. And you guess it has something to do with what his conversation partner just said.

Something that certainly wasn’t part of today’s agenda at all.

They informed you that it happened sometime during the first few hours of last night; not entirely out of the blue, but sudden enough to cause a stir in the house. Neighbours saw the lights, posed questions the morning after.

Ria is a light sleeper, often alarmed when it comes to Gureum.

The whining tugged her forcefully out of her dreams, a bit more defeated and pained this time until exhaustion stopped it altogether. When Gureum’s soul threatened to leave, Ria pulled him into his arms just in time, seated in the middle of the printed carpet.

The shock was too intense to not wake the surroundings; she was nearly hysterical as she drove to the small town emergency vet clinic in a hurry, right in the middle of the night. Her eyes were too blurry to see the numbers on her phone, not clearing for so long until the first call finally chimed in your city and lit up Jungkook’s phone.

Recounting the last hours and the visit in the clinic. Asking what to do. Telling him what the vet had suggested. Revealing how saying goodbye and letting him rest was the kindest option according to the doctor.

Hearing as the Jeons thought and spoke about it, losing part of their hearts, and then after an hour, with a weight on their burdened chests — gave in.

You already know that Gureum’s whimpers weren’t new to the family, albeit less dispirited before — everyone was aware he’d been sick for a while.

It was just that — Jungkook expected far more time. Didn’t think his recent goodbye required any form of final words as the two of you left the town. You guess the tears he shed this morning inhabited not only deep grief, but inevitable, cruel regret, too.

He was already talking about a return during the holidays, how he’d crouch and wait as his forever-puppy charged towards him. The same fluffy face squished between Jungkook’s palms.

The plan shattered like a mirror.

You cancelled the double date as soon as he opened his mouth, barely a word properly announced. Swallowed and eaten amidst the rush of overwhelming emotions. You saw the endorphins decrease in his eyes in real time.

It was more than enough to remain within these walls and offer most of the solace you could possibly summon. He’d need some of the quiet now. Basic human reaction; what good would it do to force himself out the sheets if his body refused so fiercely?

You told him. And then he broke down harder; now that he had no reason to veil the red-rimmed eyes that the tears caused, he let them out in waves, in bursts, unafraid.

Unbelievable, how a singular second could change the course of the day and, possibly, the upcoming week. You knew the moment you saw his face. He didn’t need to verbalise his shock — but when he told you what was going on, your heart still splintered.

The circumstances hit you like a brick, but you figure that they smashed into him like a truck.

And you’re uncertain whether you’re doing this right. Cannot figure out how to properly comfort him, to siphon off the torment. Will pulling him in, hugging him into you serve as a bandage enough? Or uttering the right words to clear the overcast mind?

You wish you were as good with your words as you are on paper.

As good as he is when you, or anybody, is hurting. You wish you could undo this morning.

But you can’t, and the underlying, rooted affection will worsen all that’s already broken.

Because loving somebody who’s gone like this is different from losing them to the world and to time and space and distance. This very love isn’t reciprocated anymore because there is no beating heart left to feel — and you can’t alter what the reality confronts you with.

You just keep loving because you remember and as long as you remember.

And because you feel that if you didn’t, you could impossibly ever honour their once cherished existence. As if forgetting could erase them out of history, when it of course never does.

You know it; once Jungkook has allowed to let him feel it all, you know he will, too. Because the only way to truly brighter days has always ever been through the misty pain. For now, you can only hold him, be here.

Mourn with him as his voice breaks through the silence that befell the late night, muttering, “How does any creature lose a fight against nature when it loved it so much before?”

His voice is so fragile and small; so is he. He’s probably only half expecting an answer when you whisper, “Nature gives and then takes…”

He nods against your clavicles, shrinking on the couch. Half on your body, eyes drooping.

“I read somewhere that… that nature needs to keep a balance for the world to stay intact. But,” he sighs through the exhaustion. The tears have dehydrated him; you throw a glance at the half drunk water on the coffee table. “But pets should be an exception.”

You guess that if this wretched world, separated by hate and misery, could come together and agree on one thing, it’d probably be this very request to exempt all that’s innocent.

You wish the universe and souls worked like this.

“I know.” You halt, mind travelling to what you remember of the Maltese, and then say, “Talking about nature… You once mentioned something about snakes, didn’t you? We never got to the end of the story.”

Your eyes drift to his profile. His muscles are still somewhat weak, keeping the corners of his mouth south, but you think you recognise a little smile nevertheless. And then, he nods again, just before recounting a memory in detail, surprisingly fresh and sharp.

He tells you about how Gureum would detect random snakes in the meadow or fields sometimes, follow them. Dogs are generally curious, but Gureum seemed to have, as Jungkook jokingly deducts, close to no awareness of the dangers around him.

You chuckle.

“And then, with time, he got used to me telling him not to touch or chase the snakes,” he continues, “and I remember him running towards me one day, with an incredibly weirdly shaped snake between his teeth and… I almost died.”

“Holy shit—”

“I kinda flipped just looking at him.” This time, he shakes his head. “Except, it wasn’t a dead snake, just a really damn strange looking, thick orange-brown stick. But I was already scolding him and he did not like my tone.”

“You can be scary. When you tell me to unplug the toaster after using it and stuff?”

Jungkook snickers lightly, joining your sound, and explains, “Gureum wasn’t used to it, though, that spoiled little ball of cotton.”

“Yeah, but… I would’ve gotten half a heart attack, too. Must have been terrifying for the first few moments.”

“But,” he intervenes, “I shouldn’t have been mean. I remember the way he looked at me, all disappointed.” He sighs, and you feel the breath against your skin. “And then he avoided me. Pissed and pouty in his basket on our way back. He— he didn’t look at me until I apologised with a snake toy I found in a shop. Boy loved that.”

“Oh, I saw the toy.” You recall the old and ripped plushie half buried underneath the rest of Gureum’s toy, scattered on the ground under the TV. “Looked all vandalised.”

“Yeah.”

There’s another stillness in the room as the soundwaves die, broken only by your breathing and your eventual hum. Jungkook slowly lifts his head from your chest, staring directly into your eyes, as if to read what you’re thinking — just like you are.

His pupils glint a bit less than usual, eyebrows calm yet sad — he blinks when the dryness burns, and then asks, “You’re trying to say something.”

It’s the same old; but people are different. You don’t know whether he wants to hear it. Sometimes, heartache demands distraction. Other times, sympathy and empathy; to just listen for a bit.

You want to give a healthy mixture of both without making him feel like you’re pitying him, because you’re not.

But you know Jungkook; even with you, he sometimes forgets that he’s thoroughly loved and rightfully so.

So you voice your sincere fondness still, “I am so sorry, Jungkook. And… I wish I could do more.”

His father said something similar on a later phone call today.

I wish I could do something about it. I’m sorry, Jungkook.

And—

Come over. We will talk and eat together.

Sorrow really brings people together, it seems.

He’d visit soon, Jungkook said. Needs some time alone, under the blanket, processing the truth for a bit until he can face actual conversations with people who witnessed the same individual for so many years.

“You might not believe me…” he starts, weaker again. His voice is barely a whisper; he’s so fatigued. “But I don’t expect more than this. You’re enough.” A little pause, and then. “I will also finally call a therapist… might be the right time. We were talking about it anyway.”

You were. You have been for a while. The promise to not let issues interfere with daily life anymore, to heal individually as well as together. So you nod right away, the first to support the idea.

“You have my back, Kook.”

“I know, angel.” He gulps. Close to cuddling back in, but you cradle his face, keep looking at him. He looks surprised for the tiniest moments, but his expressions relax quickly; followed by a question, “And you?”

And you?

You don’t know. You want to lean into his suggestion, but you’re still afraid. Fearful of what you might dig out of the depths of your heart through conversing with the therapist alone.

You’ll do it, pinky promise, but…

“I’ll still wait just a little,” you admit, and he nods, accepts it. “Besides… I want to support you first. Just a bit longer. Then I’ll go. Cross my heart.”

“Good… okay. Whatever you think is right, okay? I’m here, too.”

So typical. An anchor, no matter the turmoil in his own chest.

“I love you. I really do,” you tell him, obliterating any chance for him to respond just yet.

Instead, you pull him. Look at him, misty eyed, and press a tiny peck to his dry lips. He sniffs, parting his mouth and asks, “What was this for?”

And perhaps he’s anticipating your answer, head tilting to the side, another small glitter flickering when you tell him, “I felt like it. Could do it all day.”

And it works — even if for a fragment of a second. The smile appears, but it never really creeps up far enough to his eyes.

You guess that’s what happens when somebody’s soul keeps falling in love and then loses what it loved.

Sometimes, a busy mind is an oblivious mind.

Not that Jungkook ever forgets as the hours of the day pass, but at least work will keep him briefly occupied for now. Motivation wanes when the focus resides elsewhere, of course, so it isn’t super ideal that he was hit by the news at such an important time.

Then again, working isn’t too bad either. It distracts him.

And Namjoon, no matter how well he usually matches somebody’s energy, will do him some good, too. Will cheer him up, push some courage and artistic inspiration into him.

The upcoming trip, the one that will leave you alone in the empty apartment for a bit, is fast approaching, though still a while after the gallery event. But Jungkook and Namjoon are already discussing details, settling on spots that might ignite some painter’s fires in them.

Namjoon said this is all about getting Jungkook to a place that can evoke colours he doesn’t even know, arouse a side of his talent that might help him later on; if — no, when — he rises to the top.

And since you’re done with your meetings today, most chores taken care of for the soon-to-come launch, you allow yourself an afternoon off and meet up with your best friend.

The group has already been back for quite some time, and while you’ve gathered some intel on the latest, downhill occurrences, you want to be there properly. 

This is what you know: Apparently, soon after the two of you left, the conversations got heated, and eventually, as the distress reached its peak, Taehyung and Eun broke up. Ever since, they have been coping — or however well their hearts permit.

You regret your absence the moment Eun opens the door. You were attempting your best to juggle work and the emotional burdens of every hour, bringing solace to Jungkook and finding a moment to meet Eun for an extended period of time.

Eun has been holing up in here for all these days the way you did back in the summer. You are somewhat the worst friend; especially when her quiet voice welcomes you in, her hug not as tight as usual, the bubbly girl even physically worse.

Dark undereyes. Sad and distant gaze. Half a smile, as if fearing that you’re pouring all your sympathy into her, pitying her. She doesn’t enjoy this type of attention, but she also knows that you’re you and that this level of care can’t be changed.

Pity? No. Sympathy? You’d lose part of yourself if that one was lacking.

“I missed you…” you start as you sit down, waiting for her to join as she places a glass of water in front of you. You shift, unsure where to start. “Eun—”

But she’s quick to interrupt, “Listen, I… I know I’m supposed to talk about this.” She’s barely looking at you. “But I’ve thought about it over and over again and I don’t even know what to say anymore.” Shake of her head. “None of us is at fault. I can’t even be mad at him.”

“No… I wanted to say that, too. And that means you’re just as little at fault.”

You wait — because whenever words fail, stuttering and hesitating, wheels whirring in a fragile mind… that’s when even more tumbles out a moment later. And your instincts prove true.

She begins, “But…” Waits; and then spills, “We still fought the way we did and then, when the vacation was over… he was crying and I was, too, and we just felt so fucking sorry the entire time—”

Her voice is already shaking and breaking. She must have practiced this a hundred times in her head, but no preparation is ever enough to keep the affliction inside. It always pours, like rain, inhabiting a story in each drop.

Everyone who has ever loved might understand.

You give her some time as she attempts to hold it together in the middle of her lively and bright living room — but then you place a hand on her knee, assuring that there’s no need for restraint. So she pulls in a trembling breath, eyes so watery that they keep overflowing.

It reminds you so much of him days before.

The tears leave her in streams, collecting abundantly. And her nose reddens; your heart drops. Eun is the last person to ever deserve heartache of such calibre.

She cries until her face grows hot, cries until the sounds echo painfully. You hold her to your heart, trying to piece hers together for a bit, so aware that the one able to do this isn’t in the room with you right now. Rather trying to mend his own.

It’s already bad as it is, and you nearly wish he could spawn in here, tell her he’ll reconsider, make her happy as he’s supposed to. Of course it’s counterproductive; but how could higher powers even split these two in the first place?

It’s brutal.

And it’s worse, much meaner, thinking of the world as a vile place when her blurred speech inquires, “How d-di… how did you cope… when Jungkook and you broke up?”

You don’t quite know what to say. You don’t know because there’s hardly any advice to give. You were a mess. Which is what you honestly admit, “I barely did. You saw me — but you helped make it easier.” You put a cheek to her head. “So I’m here, too.”

“I know. I know… it’s just—” The next breath is sharp, the kind where it hitches and the sounds become high-pitched, mixing with hints of panic and pure sadness. “It’s kind of worse that he didn’t do any— anything wrong.”

She moves her head to and fro again against your chest, furious, “I can’t even rely on anger or just— do my best to hate him because none of us did anything to actually hurt the other.”

Her voice, usually so composed, gains on volume with each word. Probably a way to keep herself from whispering; to keep her sentences from breaking.

“This doesn’t have to be a bad thing,” you tell her, “it can serve as hope, too, you know? That not everybody is just shitty, and that there’s somebody who’s as great as him with the things you want, too.”

“But I want him.”

“Oh… babe…”

It’s this childlike yearning, the burning ache that hurts the most. You know what it feels like and you know there’s no easy way to overcome it, regardless of who one’s surrounded by. Naturally, she feels that way; you wish it had come differently.

She speaks on, “I should’ve known! That man isn’t just good with kids because he’s a social butterfly!” There’s some of the anger she spoke of; somehow, it stabilises her voice. “I should’ve known that he wants his own some day, too. Men, they usually do and it’s just me being so—”

“No,” you immediately react. “You are not wrong or anything at all for not wanting them. Even I…”

You pause. Actually, you don’t really know. You realise that you and Jungkook never got around to breaching this subject, despite cracking occasional jokes about it. You do remember how giddy you felt during the slippery soccer game…

“It’s just that,” you opt for instead, “it’s not so easy to think about and even worse to talk about.”

“And of course it’s easier for men. They don’t know what it feels like. The fear of pain and committing for the rest of our lives and never knowing how a husband might change…”

She’s letting it all out; maybe she needs to. Maybe she hasn’t been able to do so until now. You wonder how much she has said to Jimin so far. He might understand the two of you better than anyone else, having known you all your life, but… he’s still a guy, after all.

“What did he say when you told him? Tae?” you wonder, trying to come up with your own ideas. As far as you understand Taehyung, you don’t reckon he ever responded with anything too insensitive. “Did he dismiss your feelings?”

And you’re right. Because—

“No!” Her body moves to upright itself. “The bastard was perfectly nice. I can’t even hate him!” she exclaims again, majorly upset. “He said he accepts it, but it might become hard to stay because he really fucking wants them.”

You can almost hear the speech marks. And then, you also hear the absolute drop in volume as she sighs; tells you, “He asked about adoption…”

“…Shit.” The word comes out as barely anything. You hush it to yourself. “And?”

“I said that I just dunno if I’ll ever be able to live or enjoy such a life… that it’s not just about the physical pain… that just—”

She doesn’t speak on. So you add, “That’s okay. That’s seriously okay.”

It becomes quiet in the room. You take a look around. See the curtains, neatly bound in the middle, red ribbon around white sheer drapes. And you see the decorations, the pretty flowers, the lunch on the stove.

Eun does everything so thoroughly in her life. She’s always been calm and organised and a role model for anyone ready to dare a fresh approach to everything. She’s unique, your friend, a sarcastic but warm ray of light.

She doesn’t deserve to cry. It’s ridiculous.

Doesn’t deserve it how frail she sounds when she says, more to herself than to you, “I want him in my life so bad. He’s the one guy for me.”

The phase of pure hope. Denying that it’s over, that he’ll appear here in the morning, that a miracle will make the issues go away.

But… it did happen for you. So you try, very carefully, “He might find his way back to you. Sometimes love endures.”

“And sometimes it doesn’t.”

“I know, but… Either way… you will be okay,” you say. Eun hopes, yes, but that doesn’t always go hand in hand with optimism. You need to give her space, give her time; find a balance between the things she wants to hear and what’s realistic. “With or without him, you will be okay. In the worst case, I’m here. I told you.”

It’s an attempt at a joke, and you seem to succeed, bringing out the lightest chuckle and a sniffle before she jests, too, “With or without Jungkook?”

You laugh. “You were the first love of my life. We’ll get there somehow.”

The faint twinkle in her eyes lifts your spirits, urges you closer to her. Your palm rubs her right arm, providing warmth to eliminate some of the frost in her heart. Then again, maybe you’re wrong — post-break up haze creates unpleasant heat after all.

The hot cheeks from made up scenarios and the jealousy that follows; the knot in the stomach that the pining calls forth; the tightness in your chest, breathing soon a myth.

No, she needs another type of warmth — one you can offer with the cold only.

So you get up to scour her fridge, humming on your way to the kitchen island as you say, “You never run out of ice cream, do you? You keep it stored the way others store potatoes.” You hear a weak, lovely laugh. Bend down to the freezer. “Coming in handy now.”

“Clichée remedy, huh?”

“Gotta be clichée for a reason,” you tell her before you plop down with the box and two spoons, taking off the lid to scoop directly from it. Vanilla and strawberry. “Here.”

You hand her one spoon, and she inspects her reflection for a while, as if she’s seeing it for the first time in a while. The utensil seems odd to her, like a new invention — but when she snaps back into her body and shovels in just lightly, you recognise the stare.

Because she looks just as you felt. When every mundane and basic daily achievement appeared like an uninvited stranger; or a chore to get done with, a challenge to survive.

She has something to say; you recognise it in the gulp and the clearing of her throat. Steadying her voice, giving herself a moment for the vanilla to cool her down.

Then, in a now gentle but defeated tone, she recollects, “It was… really weird. We broke up in the middle of everything and then spent the rest of the time there just— fighting and making up. Out of the bed and… back into bed.”

You don’t down your own bite yet; the sugar needs to awaken her happy dessert hormones first. Instead, you ask, “Have you heard from him ever since?”

She pokes the still somewhat solid ice cream, slowly melting. “No… Just whatever Jimin tells me.” She shrugs a shoulder. “Which, apparently, isn’t much either, though. And I hate myself for being this way, but not knowing what he’s doing and where he is drives me nuts.”

“I know what you mean,” you say, eyes following the spoon brought to her mouth and then back to the box. You’re just glad she’s eating at all; you understand that appetite is scarce when the tummy is already filled with dread and hurt. So you speak up again, “Hey. Come over for dinner sometime?”

Eun hesitates. Not the obvious type of rejection, but rather a weighing of options, thinking ahead, evaluating her emotions and what she’s able to withstand on days like these.

You already know what the issue might be before she says it; you realise it too late, but you guess you’d feel the same if you were her.

“I will,” she starts, fillers taking over the silence. “Uh… Well, once I’m able to look at Jungkook again without thinking of… him.”

“…I get it.”

“Which makes me feel horrible. I would love to offer him some comfort, too. He texted a few days ago, you know?”

You do.

As you strolled the aisles of the nearby market, he mentioned it for a second, summarising the already compact yet sweet message inhibiting his support. He was going to pick up some peanut-chocolate snack for her, too, but you reminded him of her allergy.

The chocolate-covered popcorn that is sitting on the table in front of you instead is the substitute that he chose a minute later; but you won’t tell Eun that. She already feels a plethora of negative emotions, guilt not being the last of them.

It’s already obvious when she asks slowly, “I meant to ask… How is he?”

Well, since you’re being honest.

You chew at the inside of your cheek, thoughts wandering to the man who’s trying his best to keep himself together. Smiles at your jokes and jests back, teases you a little to fabricate an illusion of wellbeing.

But you’re not stupid; you’ve grown to understand his inner workings, so you admit, “Not too well either. This took him out a lot more than I would’ve guessed.” You breathe out, deflating a bit. “It hurts to see. He’s living and all, almost his usual self, but. Doesn’t feel the same yet.”

“Mmh. So when I come over,” she says, spoon falling to her lap; perhaps the actual hunger is coming back in pieces at least, “we’ll just grieve our losses together, I guess.”

You nod, light pats to her knee, promising that, “It will stop hurting. For sure.”

But you don’t know.

No. Undoubtedly, pain always lessens, even when it doesn’t fade. Memories ensure a fraction of whatever stays back.

But… none of this will stop now.

You are aware of it, considering the moments these two shared, no matter how little time passed ever since they grew the way they did. And, considering each second you analyse Jungkook’s face, realising that he, too — the ball of sunshine — will experience rain for a bit longer.

No pain will subside just yet.

You saw it in the way his face dried up the last few days. How he remembers more and more of him. And how your eyes got stuck on a piece of paper just this morning, laying on top of a sketchbook and underneath a frequently used graphite pencil.

It was a drawing; Gureum sticking out his tongue, staring at whoever stared back at him. Only a couple strokes of lines and curves, but so insanely real, too.

For a bit, you couldn’t remember where you’d seen these very elements before, in just this order and shades, but then, as the day passed, you saw it in your mind, just in front of you.

A little photograph of Gureum, secured in Jungkook’s wallet for as long as you’ve known.

Never talked about it much. Never paid much attention to it at all.

But now, you keep thinking about it. Maybe less because of how cute you found it, or because of the fact that Jungkook is able to love this much.

More because the pain of losing somebody really is striking — because an essence remains in a photograph forever, affection stored in it, deeming something or somebody eternal.

That’s probably why human beings feel nostalgic about them. Why the concept was invented at all.

Because even when the fear of forgetting lingers — once a moment is immortalised, one never truly ever does.

Jungkook’s fingertaps synchronise with the ticking of the clock, like a pendulum, when you let him in on recent events. All with Eun’s permission, of course.

You’re surprised Tae didn’t open up to him about it much yet; perhaps there’s something about the rumour that girls feed and boys eat information. Or maybe he’s caught in his own emotions, dealing with them alone — it’s all fresh, after all.

Jungkook was the same — he dodged his friends back during the summer while you divulged your mind to Eun.

“I should call him,” Jungkook says. “It’s a bit selfish of me not to.”

He shakes his head a little, embarrassed, and you know why. Taehyung phoned him just yesterday, hearing of the current situation, speaking out his condolences. He didn’t mention Eun even once.

But you can’t blame Jungkook. He’s grieving in his own way, and you’re overly certain he won’t neglect Taehyung for his own misery for longer than his heart can bear. It’s okay to seek time alone in moments like these — it’s true for both.

“You can do it tomorrow if you want,” you tell him, bringing a hand to the nape of his neck to rub. “But don’t strain your brain.”

“No, no.” He leans back on the bed — he’s been spending most of his free time here now — and stares at his darkened phone. “I’ll call at noon.”

The phone falls to the side as he tilts his head and kisses his lips, and then, he adds, “It doesn’t sound right. Them breaking up.”

Certainly, it doesn’t. You saw them during the holidays; saw the invisible bond forming. But then, as you left, you saw something break, too.

“I know,” you agree, repeating Eun’s words, “and it’s hard to intervene or give advice because neither of them is wrong.”

“Mmh… and neither should be pushed to believe otherwise if they know they’ll stick to their perspective.”

“Yeah. I mean. I don’t think either of them tried to convince the other. Which probably hurts more — having to accept a choice while still being in love.” You push out a stuck breath. “It’s just unfair. I might sound crazy, but I still keep hoping they’ll find back to each other.”

“Nah, it’s not crazy. That’d be how it’s supposed to be. But I dunno.” He shrugs a shoulder, less hopeful than you. Makes sense. You don’t understand Taehyung as well as he does. “I’ve always known that Tae wants to be a parent someday.”

“And I’ve always known Eun doesn’t want it.”

“Some dilemmas are just cruel.”

He lets the ticking clock burn some more seconds, accompanied by quiet sounds of the passing cars down the street. You know he’s contemplating something when he stops blinking, and you’re about to ask when he beats you to it, “What about you?”

“About me? What, having kids one day?”

“Mmhm.”

“Hmmm,” you replicate.

You’ve thought about this, so it’s not like you don’t have an answer to it.

It’s just that it barely even satisfies you — you’re not quite sure how Jungkook will digest it. You remember when you locked yourself into Eun’s bathroom, terrified of his reaction and of the two lines appearing on the test.

But he was supportive. And you think he’d want this with you at some point; if you were honest, the times that you painted such pictures as you mused on a possible future, you didn’t hate the thought.

“Honestly?” you start, shifting. “I grew up not wanting to be a mother. I saw the void at home and how dark everything felt the moment I was alone. And… I didn’t want to do this to someone, too.”

Typical fear of adopting abusive behaviour and becoming the culprit.

Jungkook’s hand floats to your knee, brushing over it with warmth, “Why did you think you would?”

“Because sometimes, we forward trauma instead of processing it and learning from it.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of that.”

“But sometimes,” you sigh, mentally switching from left to right, “I catch myself imagining what I’d be like nevertheless. And then I think I’ll want it one day. I really don’t know.” Your eyebrows twitch to kiss. “It’s scary. Talking to Eun scared me ‘cause I don’t want the same thing to happen to us.”

“It won’t.”

Short and precise. Determined and convinced.

Two words alone often suffice; you’re lucky, sharing a space with somebody who communicates with you on the same wavelength. It’s rare, this kind of understanding and love.

You feel instantly relieved.

Yet, you make sure, “It’s just because I know you want this.”

“I want you more. And,” he pauses, tongues his cheek, collects his thoughts to form the sentence, “really, if we settle on either decision while staying together in the process, I’m fine.”

The creases on your forehead deepen. As you said, lucky. But you never expected this level of purity; maybe Jungkook is written by an actual supreme being and you’re met with its manifestation.

Or really, maybe he jumped out of a 3D printer.

You ask, “You’d give up such a thing for me?”

“Like… I won’t lie, I’ve always wanted this. But… it’s your decision.”

See? This is why you deem yourself to be at just the right place in your life, so ecstatic that your heart knew to trust him, to trust this, and to not withdraw when you were hurting.

Your voice lowers, “Is it?”

“You’d be the one hurting,” he says, so matter-of-factly, not to sound smart or feminist. “I’m not going to leave because you decide to avoid pain.”

You chuckle, joyful and bright amidst the colourless days. “Yet, I might decide to go for it anyway.”

“Then I’ll definitely accept it, as well.”

He’s laughing again. It hasn’t been more than a couple days, but he’s never topped this period of time without genuinely laughing before. It’s a tender sound, and authentic, even though it’s still weaker than you are used to.

Obviously it is.

Jungkook is a deep empath; overanalyses and overthinks and overfeels. This day was bound to happen at some point and his heart was bound to break like this.

Some things in life are inevitable after all.

“I love you,” you tell him, a cheek falling onto his shoulder. You close your eyes for a moment, hear his serene breathing. “I’m not letting someone like you go anyway, so just… don’t leave.”

You’re attempting a joke, easing the moment with something as sugary as can get. But it barely takes him a heartbeat to respond, “I was thinking the same about you.”

“Oh… no—”

“It’s just even scarier now, you know, losing people I love.”

Your immediate reaction is speechlessness. You want to let his truth sink into the room, so you can bubble wrap it; just so he knows he’s safe and sound and that his fright, while still present, will crawl beneath the comfort you provide.

One day, he might not see it anymore. He might not dread such an outcome anymore.

“Sometimes these things are out of our control,” you tell him, “but I think some people are capable of promising to stay and actually do so, too.”

“You too?”

You look at him wordlessly, let your eyes speak. Smile at him, take his hand into yours. You don’t think you need to say much and that he understands; and he doesn’t pose a follow-up-question, so you assume you’re right.

Because he squeezes your hand, tells you he’s okay when you ask how he’s doing. Falls into easier and more casual conversation with you, one that allows less heart and mind and more lightness and relief.

As minutes pass, the atmosphere enlivens just a little, enough for you to hope. But maybe, you think, it tires him out, too. Because when you suggest watching a movie to kill the hours until it’s bedtime, he rejects your suggestion; instead, he declares, “I’ll lay down a bit, I think.”

So he does. With a tiny groan and a heavy body falling into soft feathers. And you still sit at your spot.

Watch him fall into a slumber quickly, much until his breathing evens out, peaceful and quiet. Blurry so far, your eyes clear when you, once again, detect the messy desk and the same drawing of Gureum on top of it.

It somehow stands out in the chaotic stack, like an intense presence blending out everything else.

The face on there, the lines and the inspiration behind them feel like a ghost, smiling at you; one he’s desperately carving into his mind, etching it into his memory — how he sounded, how he barked, how he whimpered.

An utter proof for the adoration one holds, beyond a lifetime, reserved even in the absence of a loved one. And these ghosts remain, whether somebody left your realm or just brought in a distance, alive but breathing from afar.

You know, because you recall how much Jungkook haunted you when he stole pieces of you and disappeared from your life for weeks. When he’d return in dreams and thoughts and fears, but never in person.

You couldn’t hear him and couldn’t see him — but somehow, somewhat, he was still always there.

In hindsight, you knew you loved him back then, too. Of course you did; the moment one questions their own feelings, it’s already over, isn’t it? If you had to wonder whether you were in love with him, hadn’t you already lost?

Affection contains such intensity, anyway; an ache stuck in a heart like claws and a breathlessness that doesn’t ever drain your lungs when you’re not in trouble already.

How insane.

Truly, denial often only remains for a moment and turns into transparency very soon. Today, you know with utmost certainty that you loved him.

But that’s exactly why this hurts so fucking much, looking at him.

Locking into his puffy cheeks, the strand of his hair covering half his eyebrow and sticking to the corner of his eye. He always looks so much younger like this. You wipe the hair back; he doesn’t move. Still slightly turned away from you, mouth a little ajar.

So you keep going.

You look at the wall in front of you, hands busy grazing his dark tresses. One of his arms and its fist lay on the pillow beneath his head, the other under the blanket, probably pressed to his heart.

It’s a human way of pushing against the unease.

When your thumb ghosts along his skin, over the apple of his cheek, he does stir. Not too much, only letting out a small puff of air before he turns under the sheets with his eyes still shut — and he stretches out his right arm to drape it around your hips.

You lift your arms a little to give him the space, and he seems to try to adjust until his sleepy brain decides that you are sitting too upright, your hips too high for his arm. But this doesn’t deter him; he doesn’t pull back but lowers his limb to your lap, just above your thigh.

It’s an interesting play, how a drowsy, unconscious mind still registers so much of its surroundings or its emotions. How he’s still acting and reacting according to the life he lives.

And you keep staring. It reassures you somehow. Fills you with soothing consolation.

And he feels the same, you reckon. Because in the middle of it all, he sighs.

Hm…

In a dry desert that exhausts his heart and body with each of its terribly draining attributes, you so proudly feel like his oasis.

Your eyes water, but you breathe in, keep it inside.

You gulp, tugging at the blanket a little to cover the rest of his and your legs; then, you relocate, sliding down on the mattress bit by bit, carefully.

It takes you a matter of seconds until you hear a faint protest, “Mmh, no…” and you hurry to utter an immediate, “I’m still here. All good.”

He relaxes. For a moment, you see his eyelids crack open a slit, and move further with a light smile until you’re lying next to him, forehead at the height of his mouth. You feel the hot breath when he lets out another one of solace.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you add, “just wanted to lay down, too.”

He nods, but barely. Your hand glides over his chest and then slowly rounds his torso, back to his shoulder blades. You want to hold him as close as possible and want to wait with an ear to his cotton shirt until his heartbeat winds down.

It’s warm in this room and under the blanket; the fall outside does nothing for you. But you don’t move.

Jungkook buries his lips in your hair. He’s vulnerable; possibly more than you ever experienced him to be in front of his father, or even without you. Those were different kinds of stitches tearing open.

Right now, he’s scared.

This is the main finding for you at this time — it feels like nothing is happening, but in this silence, his mind is crowded.

Jungkook knows very well that you won’t leave; but he also thought Gureum never would. Just like you, you imagine, he has realised several different ways to lose somebody, and it probably terrifies him.

He’ll swarm around you more often now, you know.

Minutes pass and his eyes shut again, but you know he’s awake. More so when he sniffles; doesn’t cry, but still strays a bit from his peace.

You’re groggy when you open your eyes, too, whispering a, “Jungkook…” as you take in his somewhat asleep, somewhat awake state. He’s aware that you’re here, knows where he is, but his brain is foggy, too.

His words, despite all, however, are still clear as day when he reluctantly, quietly says, “This sucks.”

“I know…”

Another break, another sniffle. Then—

“I love you.”

And that’s it.

You answer, but it drowns in his repeated sniffles, eyes and cheek dry when soon against your scalp. But the actual torment under his chest is more than evident in how he holds you.

You can’t help but revert to more promises, no matter how unoriginal they might be. Is that important as long as you mean them, anyway?

So you mutter, “I will always come home to you.”

Jungkook doesn’t nod. He doesn’t answer. Only presses against the small of your back and then moves his palm to the middle of it, keeps it there at last. He doesn’t need to speak his thoughts anyway, as little as you needed to before.

Your presence is enough. You will never become a ghost.

Talking to his parents and his brother in the past weeks helped immensely.

Somehow, the conversations killed pieces of Jungkook’s denial; and somehow, the revelation of the one he’s been hoping to return to actually being gone, led to a sense of acceptance. Easier to… well, perhaps not move on.

But easier to cope.

To realise that life needs to go on and that this way, dwelling on the past or reliving moments won’t hurt anymore one day.

And working towards his life goals didn’t hurt either. The fair is coming closer, and so is the gallery showing. He’s been working hard; and life is normalising.

You’re back to teasing and fighting and pouting and making up.

It’s nice to see.

When Jungkook comes back home from another day at his parents’, the apartment is empty. The silence is surprising, given the fact that you weren’t supposed to be absent for so long. As far as he was concerned, you were going to greet him when he came back, already here.

And he certainly returned later than he thought he would.

As he slips his shoes off and places them neatly on the side, he calls out your name to double check. Maybe you’re asleep. But you don’t respond; you’re a light sleeper. And on further inspection, he soon detects that the bedroom is vacant.

Jungkook fishes out his phone and dials immediately; you’re already on top of the list, so the five seconds save him some headache. And you picking up nearly instantly only adds to that relief.

“Hey! You home?” your voice chimes, and he relaxes, exhales, falling onto the edge of the bed weightlessly.

A hand dangles between his legs, arm propped up on his thigh, and he asks, “Where are you? I would’ve picked you up if I’d known you’re still out.”

“No, no, it’s okay. I wasn’t too far.”

“Where was that?”

You groan on the other side of the line, as if heaving something of significant weight, your breathing a tiny bit stagnant. He prods, “Are you okay? I can come help if you’re nearby.”

“No, I was just out, doing some shopping.”

“Sure? It’s cold as hell, too.”

“Yes, baby. I’m a big girl, I promise,” you chuckle into the phone and he joins in, nodding without you seeing, “but I’ll talk to you when I’m there. I want to show off my haul a bit.”

“Ah. Thought you hated surprises.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

The grin emerging on his face feels good. Feels freeing. You have an undeniable effect on him and he couldn’t be more enticed by its mystery.

“Alright. I’ll wait then,” he says, and you agree quickly, muttering goodbyes before the call cuts.

Hm. Okay.

Maybe he should take a shower in the meantime, prepare the ingredients for tonight’s dinner. What was it again you wanted to eat today? Risotto? Lasagna? You wanted either in some of the upcoming days. Italian, that’s for sure.

“Both not easy,” he comments to himself, snickering quietly; who would he be if he didn’t yield to your every wish? 

The shirt flies into the laundry basket, the water under the showerhead warm and comforting compared to the dropping temperatures outside. It was raining again; while it has stopped, the wind still whipped his face — so you better hurry back to him carefully.

He hears the door open and fall back into its lock as he washes off the last of his shampoo, a hand sliding across his face, down to his neck and his chest. You don’t exclaim his name or announce your arrival the way you usually do.

Suspect, but probably nothing bad.

It’s okay. He’ll do it instead.

And you answer just as casually when he does. More cheerful than ever even, giving back a, “Take your time! I’m here.”

You’re a handful some days when you scare him like this, especially at such times that his mind makes up scenarios constantly.

Your absence can be mind-numbing — and since meetings often exceed the time you promised and the phone ringing is incredibly unprofessional, he does worry a little too frequently.

It’s not your fault, either.

Usually, you do exploit your position as the manager, allowing yourself a moment to message him back or let him know when you’ll be home. But sometimes you’re… gone, like this. And he hates the feeling he once lived through when you disappeared for so long, hiding at Eun’s.

“Seriously,” he starts as you meet him at the threshold to the bathroom, pushing him back inside, “will I ever not worry sick about you?”

“Sorry,” you begin frivolously, moving into him instead, reaching for his lips, “I got caught up with stuff, but…” Another peck, a hand still on his damp chest. “I’m here now.”

Jungkook isn’t too sure whatever came to possess you in these very hours between the morning and now, but he’s not opposed to it. He revels in the touch of your palm grazing his skin, down to the belly button, lightly tugging at the towel as a tease.

“Woman,” he whispers between kisses, the words growing quieter, “you’ll drive me crazy one day.” His hands come up to cradle your face, to look at you. “You scare me and then you come home to do this.”

“Mmmh, I guess so.”

You let him kiss you, let him open your mouth and push the tongue through — but the temptation doesn’t last long. Because he notices your hesitation, not because you’re unsure but rather… something else.

You want to say something. So he lets you.

“What is it?” he wonders.

“Just exasperated. Just want to show you what I shopped.”

Right. You said that already. You stepped into the apartment, dizzying his head so badly that he almost forgot.

“You have a weird way of showing that you’re tired,” Jungkook remarks, the last word dying as you push a hand beneath the towel, squeezing his ass just a little before backing away. “Honestly, babe.”

“Yes, honestly… come.”

Mysterious, this behaviour of yours. You’ve brought home stuff you needed or wanted several times, but you never seemed as enlivened by it as you do now. And you certainly never made much of a secret out of it as you are now.

And it’s not hard to guess why.

If it was a small object or a dress or a book or a plushie stuffed in one of these environment-friendly paper bags, he might not have noticed right away. But…

But what you decided to march back with today is an entirely different level of unexpected riddle. Or at least, a riddle until its eyes meet with Jungkook’s.

They’re…

They’re round and expressive. Curious and a little shy. Carry the same innocence and dark, serene night in them as Jungkook does. And the— the puppy is blinking slowly, eyes flopping a tiny bit; lets his head fall to the side for a second.

He’s so small. Alert yet gentle. A careful, dark brown Doberman watching a half naked Jungkook with peculiar interest.

Then to you, already a little used to you, and then back to some random spot again.

Maybe he’s taking in his new home. Maybe he’s trying to understand his surroundings. Probably not yet falling in love as quickly and furiously as Jungkook already is.

Certainly not having the same liquid collecting in his eyes as in his owner’s.

What did you…

Is this yours? His? Taken in to babysit? What— 

You stand on the side, hands folded, waiting with your lower lip trapped with your teeth. You’re giving him a moment with the pup, Jungkook knows, removing yourself from the equation to permit the love to unfold.

But how could he ditch you anyway? How, when right now, he could crush you in his arms?

A month has passed since Gureum left. Life went on, but moments of yearning always returned — you saw it all in his eyes. The realisation that Gureum would never come back, and that nobody could replace him.

And of course you know; this right here — you aren’t trying to replace Gureum, but trying to bring new happiness and a new start into Jungkook’s life.

He mentioned this once or twice over the weeks, casually stating how he urged to love someone the way he loved his childhood companion. You put his wish into motion so quickly.

If this moment is what he thinks it is, then he doesn’t know how to digest it for now. How to swallow the mix of longing and relief, of missing somebody and meeting someone new.

The Doberman is a symbol of healing and affection. Of how you care, and of how Jungkook will once again be able to adore the same as he used to. Still does.

“Babe?” he only calls.

There’s nothing more he can murmur right now anyway. What, a thank you? Crying in the middle of the room? Kissing his appreciation into you? None of it will suffice.

“Yes?” you respond.

“There’s…” His open palm lifts, a finger loosely pointing to the focus of his attention. “There’s a dog on our couch.”

You laugh with a tender heart. “Yes. There is.”

Should he move? He doesn’t dare to. Only wipes away the dark, wet curls off his temples. Looks for a bit; watches the still figure barely fill the dip in the cushions, as if he could vanish the moment Jungkook speaks.

You are a bundle of excitement next to him, and the little thing is unbothered, not even looking when Jungkook is teetering between disbelief and wonder.

And then… just slowly, cautiously, surely, he steps forward. Courageous once you say, “Yes, say hi.” A hand already reaches midair before it retreats; should he sit beside him or drop to his knees? Pick him up and place him on his lap?

“Where did you get him from?” Jungkook asks, voice still delicate. “How long did you plan this?”

He’s wondering about a lot of things. How you picked him out of all the dogs you saw. How you chose the absolute manifestation of sweet honey, ogling up to him now that Jungkook lets his fingers reach the soft fur along the back.

He chuckles, breathless and full. Tells the newest member of the household, “So cute. You’re so freaking cute—”

Then, he picks him up, secures him in his arms, a paw on his tatted skin as he gets used to the moment. Trying to understand who he belongs to.

You finally dare to step closer; the dog already recognises your scent a tiny bit, staring at you, paw reaching for your hand when you stretch it towards him.

With kind excitement, you answer Jungkook’s questions.

“So, I was searching for a bit and then… one or two weeks ago, I spoke to a colleague at work about someone she knew who was looking for people to adopt puppies. Gave me her number and all.”

You’re distracted for a moment, delighted when the pup nudges your hand for more pets.

“And… the lady she suggested was repeatedly gushing about his eyes and all before she gave him to me?” you say, the back of the hand brushing along his back. “And on my way back I kept looking at him and realised how right she was. They reminded me of yours.”

Jungkook laughs, and you shake your head with a beam of your own, telling him, “It’s true! They’re this dark brown and huge and round and… I dunno,” you lift your shoulders, pupils flying up to your boyfriend’s, “I’ve always said you have starry eyes.”

You have; the admission is never new, but always heartbeat-increasing.

To be compared with something as gorgeous and celestial as the night sky…

“…And so,” you continue, “I thought.” You cradle the puppy’s face, but this time he retreats, rather leaning into Jungkook’s arms now with a soft whimper. Already fond. You say—

“Bam.”

It’s a simple syllable. A soft, two-letter sound. But something clicks into place immediately.

Jungkook feels it unwind inside him, as if it makes sense, as if whatever is happening is just the right thing. Just fitting to his timeline and life. This is nice. This is lovely. Worth remembering.

The ache, the doubt, the weight that followed him all these days… it all lightens, just a little.

No, Jungkook will never replace Gureum. But he can try to be a family with another one of the world's true angels; remember who he once knew as Bam’s lost brother.

Bam…

Bam. Short but just right, isn’t it?

“Bam,” he repeats, blinking away the tears, “hi.” His chest rises when he breathes in. Falls when he says, “Is it weird to say that I feel like I love him already?”

Is it?

No… of course it isn’t. No emotion that ever emerges out of a gut feeling is ever weird, is it? All it ever is and remains is real. In which sense Jungkook doesn’t need to question his emotions; can trash the question whether the newfound adoration only feels like love.

And as you watch from the other side, you so bittersweetly realise that you were oh-so-right.

Because some things don’t have to be explained. They don’t have to be questioned at all. A lot of times, things just are.

And a lot of times, when one has to ask whether they are loving… they already are.

a little (late) tribute to real life gureum, mixed with all that happened and has been happening in their lives. i guess this truly is a slice of life thing that keeps on hurting, but keeps on giving, too. idk – at least that's how i felt as i wrote and edited it. i really love them so much, y'all :') also, this was supposed to be the original banner, but i discarded it bc it spoiled too much lmao:

how did you guys like it? it's been so long, i hope it didn't disappoint. i would definitely love to hear what you think – this is truly what keeps me and this lil series going!!.. would make my day!! so leave a like/reblog/talk to me pls <3 love you!!

[lotties-ashwagandha]

DIVINE REASONING (part one of ???)

(adult) lottie matthews x reader. 1.1k words.

after the crash, lottie turned to the divine. you turned to the scientific. either way, years have passed, and neither of you have let it go. in which you were a yellowjacket who survived the plane crash, and now you are a celebrated therapist. but when you arrive at lottie’s wellness center under unusual circumstances, it seems you are the one that needs offered help. read part two here.

They always pump the air conditioning up too much in the summer. You never say anything, because you’d feel like a real asshole, but every day you compare it to freezing to death.

It’s a good thing someone else already took that for the team.

“I just didn’t think it was a good idea to stay with her,” Bianca shrugs, “given what you told me about boundaries and everything.”

It’s a lie and you fucking know it. Bianca has told you the same thing about her ex-girlfriend four different times this month. By next week’s session, they will be back together.

You tilt your head to the side, hearing the muscles of your neck crackle softly. It only brings you temporary relief — you can feel her gaze cutting into you. After clearing your throat, you nod. “That’s a good practice of setting boundaries.”

Bianca sits up straighter. She looks proud of herself. You want to tell her not to get too high and mighty before she caves again and the whole thing crumbles, because Bianca has about as much self-control as a squirrel.

You look at the clock — two minutes left. Good enough, you think, and stand. You try your best to offer her a smile, one that seems warm and genuine, but you know it’s lacking. “You’ve done some great work. Remember what we talked about last week, being consistent in your self-awareness.”

Bianca nods vigorously and saunters out.

You take a deep breath — not because you are a pillar of strength and mindfulness, but because the air is too crisp and clinical that it’s suffocating.

Your office has always been a place of refuge. You have personalized it to a degree that sometimes you forget you’re a therapist, and the sun comes in just right in the mornings so that your desk is bathed in golden light that would usually make work feel recreational. Yet over the past few months, you’ve been fading. You have been burning out in the way you try to help your clients avoid. You’ve taken up smoking again, you are the therapist that people side-eye when they see you enjoying a cigarette a little too much in the back parking lot. It helps more than you’d like to admit, though, and you have started to understand why smoking was recommended for anxiety back in the day.

Hell, maybe you need therapy with the way things have been going.

Bianca didn’t shut the door after leaving. One of your colleagues raps their knuckles against the doorframe. You smile softly, and you don’t have to turn around to know that it’s Mila.

You stand, meeting her at the door.

“Bianca,” Mila smiles teasingly. “She told me as she walked out that things were over for her and that girlfriend…”

“I am legally bound to silence,” you say. “Bianca certainly is not, and you know what else she’s apparently not bound to?”

“What’s that?”

“Accountability.”

Mila nods, chuckling lowly so that no one else lingering in the hallway suspects the two of you. Colleagues might not be as good of a label as best friends.

Mila tosses some of her auburn hair over her shoulder and then presents you with a stack of fliers she had been holding. “By the way, did you bring these in this morning?”

You take one off the top of the pile. “No, what are they?”

“It looks like an advertisement for a wellness center. Self love, healing, growth… looks a lot like a cult to me, but if you brought them in, I was going to keep them displayed. No one else has claimed them.”

You examine what’s contained in the flier, the images of groups of guests clad in only purple and lists of goals for how the Sunshine Honey Wellness Community aims to pursue every effort to make individuals the best versions of themselves. ”I’ve never heard of these people before.”

“Want me to throw this shit out? What kind of psycho would sneak cult brochures into a mental health clinic?”

You shake your head, and you’re about to respond when you flip over the brochure and the words fade. It’s been over a decade since you last saw her, but you know. You would recognize her even if it had been centuries.

“Are you okay?”

You reach out and take the rest of the brochures from her hands. Your motions are aggressive, and you bump into Mila instead of stepping past her, but you can barely breathe.

You step out of the clinic and look for a number on the back of the brochure. You dial it before you can think this through, before you can escape from the choir of memories screaming at you as they emerge from the back of your mind — they scream as she did at hundreds of reporters when the plane landed, they scream like the people you killed with her in the woods all those years ago.

They scream like you want to when Lottie Matthews picks up the phone and introduces herself and asks in a very extravagant way how she can help you, oh woeful caller.

You can’t speak. You stand there with so many things to say to her, to scream, to cry and sob and wail about. You are silent. The only thing you can manage is a strangled breath.

Lottie is the woman you once believed was a prophet. “Hello?”

You hang up the phone. The fliers, too, escape you. They catch the breeze and scatter around the parking lot.

—

You go straight home after that, denying the rest of the day’s responsibilities and trying to pretend it had been a normal day at the office.

You can’t fall asleep that night, though. You were thinking about her all evening, unable to shake her voice from your head.

Lottie had sounded so centered. So controlled. You could tell why they believed in her as a leader. She was commanding, but soft — she sounded like the sort of person you could lay your heart and soul out bare to and she would handle them with care. She did not sound like someone you had murdered and tortured with.

Your thumb hovers over the button to call her back. It’s late, you shouldn’t call. She probably wouldn’t answer. You wouldn’t be able to speak anyway.

You hit the button.

She answers immediately.

You lie there in bed and wish you’d never called, because she greets you just as cheerfully as the first time and you are just as terrified.

Lottie waits a moment. The silence is patient. Then she sighs heavily and speaks.

“Listen… I know it’s you.”

this is a little series I decided to start bc my best friend and I are both writing fic series to challenge ourselves and give us inspo for non-fanfic related projects :P if you’re into the last of us and love joel, check out my best friend’s series on ao3. even if you’re a dirty little lesbian like me who doesn’t love joel, go and give kudos anyway because she deserves it.

yellowjackets taglist: @webism @ahauandthesun @chaithetics @szczurkanalowy @marleymarleymarleymarley @aphrodyk3 @ludasgf @pnsteblnme @il0veb0ttomsthem0vie

I’m still working on requests btw, hoping to post something else this week as well :)

[iteh3xael]

“Back in the eighties dungeons were becoming a thing in New York. Guys would pay a lot of money to come there and have some dominatrix tell them what to do. I was making leather pencil skirts for a lot of the doms, with holes in the back so that guys could kiss their ass. One day I was fitting a dom named Asia, and I told her: ‘I bet I could make more money than you without wearing stuff like this.’ She bet me I couldn’t. It was all a big goof. But then I started really thinking about it. Asia was making $150 a session, and that was real money. So I did the same thing I always do when I get an idea. I just ran an ad in the back of the Village Voice. Most of these girls were advertising how young they were. So I used the word ‘mature.’ And I figured out how to write ‘Jewish Guys Welcome’ in Yiddish, and I put that at the bottom. It was some of the easiest money I ever made. I never let them touch me. All I had to do was be a bossy black woman. And I could do that easy because my mother had been such a bitch. I’d pretend to be a school teacher, or a nanny. It was the dumbest shit. I just kept inventing crazy scenarios. And the crazier the scenario, the more money I made. One time I heard about a dom on the Upper East Side who charged $3,000 a week to kidnap a guy and lock him in her basement. I didn’t have a basement, but I knew a limo driver named Dean who liked to hustle like me. So every time I got a call from a new client, I’d say: ‘You want to be kidnapped, don’t you?’ And he’d start stuttering like: ‘Duh, duh, duh, duh.’ And I’d say: ‘Listen to me closely. Stand on the corner of 5th and 18th tomorrow at 3 pm. Don’t be late.’ Then I’d call Dean and tell him the plan. It was always easy to spot the guy. He’d be the one checking his watch and looking scared as shit. So we’d roll up in the limo, grab him by the collar, and pull him inside. Then I’d lock the doors and start telling him what to do. Everything went down in the back of the limo. Dean just rolled up the partition and kept his eyes on the road. At the end I’d give him $100, because I was getting $250 for that.”

[hypnobeauty]

A Chance Encounter - a cho hyun-ju x reader fic (part 4)

summary: a story about how you and hyun-ju met and the following years of your relationship. part 1 / part 2 / part 3 cw: no use of y/n, reader is afab, fluff, slowburn, pre-squid game, slice of life. a/n: hello! i lied, forgive me; i said we'd get into the relationship this part, but i love me a good slowburn. i try to keep the chapters around 1,000 words so it's not too boring, so we end up having more parts. this one is a little short but the next will be bigger. enjoy xx as always, comments are appreciated ♥ taglist: @strayteez3staner @dekiruxxx @jeongteen @sunnysurvives @3leni @etta-huracan @honeyhyunju @basoressia - comment if you’d like to be tagged.

part 4. a table by the window

“i don’t have much time,” you said, checking the watch on your wrist. “i need to be back at the office in…” you squinted at the numbers. “thirty-two minutes.”

hyun-ju smiled faintly, her fingers brushing the side of her coffee cup. “that’s more than enough.”

after she’d stopped you on your way out of the café, you’d followed her to the table by the window. the golden afternoon light softened the angles of her face, catching on her cheekbones and the delicate curve of her nose.

“your nose looks beautiful,” you said, meaning it. the words were out before you could second-guess them.

her hand lifted to her face instinctively, touching her nose with a soft laugh. “thank you.”

“i just wish you’d let me know you were okay,” you said, the words coming out quieter than you expected.

*

the silence from hyun-ju lingered longer than you expected, turning from a question into a quiet ache. at first, you checked your phone constantly, convinced that each buzz or notification would be her reply. but days passed, then weeks, and your hope started to wane.

for hyun-ju, the silence wasn’t intentional—it was survival. every time her phone buzzed with one of your messages, her heart leapt, and she’d reach for it instinctively. but then the doubts would creep in: what if i say the wrong thing? what if she’s just being nice? what if this doesn’t work out?

she’d type out replies, erase them, and set her phone aside, the weight of what she wasn’t saying pressing down on her chest. but the silence didn’t mean she wasn’t thinking about you. in fact, you occupied her thoughts more than she cared to admit. she replayed your conversations in her mind—the way you’d made her laugh, the easy way you spoke, the warmth in your voice when you said she deserved kindness.

more than once, she caught herself imagining what she’d say if she had the courage to text back. she’d want to thank you for being so thoughtful, for seeing her as a person when so many others didn’t. she’d want to ask about your life, your friends, your favorite things. she’d want to tell you how much it meant to her that you didn’t flinch at her truth.

you told yourself you weren’t upset—after all, you barely knew her. but the truth was, her absence left a hollow space you couldn’t quite fill. there was something about her that stayed with you, something you couldn’t shake.

sometimes, you’d catch yourself wondering why it mattered so much. poor ha-neul had been filling up her shoes as best friend dutifully, recovering from her surgery with you yapping in her ear about the situation.

you’d known ha-neul since college, a whirlwind friendship that started over shared ramen packets during late-night study sessions and grew into something solid and dependable. now, working together in the same advertising agency— you as a graphic designer and her as an advertiser— , she was the closest person in your life, a friendship filled with unwavering support and never stopping banter.

so when ha-neul teased you about hyun-ju, it didn’t bother you as much as it might have coming from someone else.

“if you like her, you like her. it doesn’t have to be a big deal,” she said one day as you walked back from a coffee run. it was a simple statement, but it stayed with you.

you hadn’t thought much about dating women before. the truth was, you’d always admired women—sometimes in passing, sometimes more deeply—but you’d never let yourself linger on those feelings. boys were “easier”. in college, there was a girl in one of your classes, a sculptor with messy hair and calloused hands, who had a smile that made your stomach flip. you’d convinced yourself it was just admiration.

then there was your coworker at your first internship. she’d always leaned a little too close when she talked to you, her laugh warm and easy, and you’d caught yourself wondering what it would be like to hold her hand. but you hadn’t let yourself think about it for long.

it was easier to dismiss those feelings, to chalk them up to fleeting crushes or passing thoughts. you never questioned it too deeply, brushing those emotions aside before they could take root.

some of it, you realized, had to do with other people’s opinions. growing up, it was easier to follow the expectations placed on you—to keep things simple and avoid any sideways glances or pointed questions. the world had a funny way of making you second-guess yourself before you even had the chance to figure things out.

but hyun-ju wasn’t a fleeting moment. she wasn’t something you could brush aside.

at first, you told yourself it was just her kindness that drew you in, or maybe the way she seemed both strong and soft at once. but the more you thought about her, the more you realized it was something else. she’d made you laugh, made you curious, made you want to understand her in a way that felt new and exciting—and a little scary.

unknown to each other, both of you wanted to reach out but didn’t know how. both of you felt the weight of what wasn’t being said. and in the quiet spaces of your lives, both of you found yourselves thinking about each other: on your commute, you’d glance out the window, wondering if you’d ever run into her again; on her walks to the grocery store, hyun-ju would imagine what it might be like to bump into you, to have a reason to talk to you without the pressure of responding to your messages. you kept her number saved in your phone, the unanswered texts a reminder of something unfinished and she kept her phone close, always expecting the next buzz to be from you, even though she hadn’t replied to the last.

by the time a month had passed, the silence between you had stretched thin, hyun-ju holding onto the hope that it wasn’t too late and you resigned to the way the situation had ended. for hyun-ju, the café was just another stop in her routine, a quiet moment to sip her coffee and crunch numbers for her next surgery. she wasn’t expecting anything to change. for you, the café was a small indulgence in the middle of a long day, a chance to take a break and treat yourself to something sweet and forget the lingering questions in your mind. neither of you knew that the moment you’d both been waiting for was about to arrive.

*

hyun-ju smiled faintly as she cupped her drink, her fingers brushing the edge of the warm porcelain. “i… really am sorry. i didn’t mean to make you feel ignored. i wasn’t sure how to…” she paused, exhaling sharply. 

you tilted your head, studying her face. “it’s okay. i get it, kind of.” you softened your tone, glancing at her. “but it would’ve been nice just to know you were alright. i… worried about you.”

hyun-ju’s gaze darted to you, then back to her cup. “i wanted to reply,” she admitted, her voice quiet. “but every time i tried, i’d just… freeze. i overthink everything. so i’d delete it and try again. and again.”

“that sounds exhausting,” you said gently.

“it is.” she chuckled nervously. “my therapist keeps telling me to stop overthinking, but that’s like telling water not to be wet.”

you perked up at the mention of therapy. “therapist? how long have you been going?”

“about a year,” she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “i started right before i came out. it was… rough at first, but it’s been helpful. she’s great—tough but fair. keeps me from spiraling too much.”

“that’s awesome,” you said, smiling. “i’ve always thought therapy was one of those things everyone should try at least once, even if their life isn’t falling apart.”

“right?” hyun-ju said, her lips quirking upward. “sometimes i just go to vent about how my friends are driving me crazy.”

you leaned forward slightly, curiosity tugging at you. “you must have good ones if they’re worth venting about.”

“i do,” she said with a small smile. 

“you work out often?” you asked, glancing at her arms, where her muscles shifted under the sleeves of her grey shirt. you hoped you weren’t being too obvious, but it was hard not to notice.

“pretty regularly,” she said, shrugging. “it helps me clear my head.”

you nodded, still trying to appear casual. “yeah, i could… kind of tell.”

her brow furrowed, then she caught the direction of your gaze and laughed softly. “it’s not that serious.”

“sure, it’s not,” you said with a grin, taking a sip of your drink.

“what about you?” she asked. “what’s been going on in your life?”

“let’s see…” you began. “oh! ha-neul had her nose surgery a few weeks ago, so i’ve been playing nurse-slash-therapist for her ever since. she milked it for all it was worth.”

hyun-ju chuckled. “that’s what friends are for, right?”

“absolutely,” you said. “we’re lucky we could work remotely during her recovery. it was a lifesaver. we’d crash at each other’s places and work on projects together, though it was mostly me fetching her tea and reminding her not to poke her face.”

“she’s lucky to have you,” hyun-ju said, her voice warm.

“and i’m lucky she puts up with me,” you replied.

the conversation flowed easily now, each question and answer peeling back another layer. but when you glanced at your watch, reality hit.

“oh no,” you said, straightening in your chair. “i’ve got to get back to work. i didn’t even realize how much time had passed.”

hyun-ju’s expression flickered with disappointment, but she nodded. “i don’t want to keep you.”

you stood, slinging your bag over your shoulder. you hesitated at the table, something unspoken hovering between you. “maybe we could meet again sometime?” you offered. “i feel like there’s still so much to talk about.”

hyun-ju’s eyes widened slightly. “you mean… like a date?”

you grinned. “only if you want it to be.”

for a moment, you thought she might backtrack, but to your surprise, she met your gaze and nodded. “okay. yeah. let’s do that.”

your heart did a little flip as you smiled. “great. i’ll see you soon, then.”

*

your walk back to the agency wasn’t as cold as it should be; you actually felt reinvigorated and with more energy to finish your day. but your return was later than intended, slipping into your desk chair with a cup of cold coffee in hand. ha-neul noticed immediately.

“you’re late,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “and that coffee looks sad.”

you shrugged, setting the cup down. “got distracted.”

she narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “distracted by what?”

before you could answer, your phone buzzed on the desk. you glanced at the screen, and your lips curved into a smile as you read the text from hyun-ju.

"hi. there’s a traditioal korean restaurant near my place. would that work?"

ha-neul, always curious, leaned over before you could stop her. her eyes widened as she read the message, and then she turned to you with a grin so wide it almost hurt to look at.

“oh my god!” she squealed, grabbing your arm and jumping up and down like a kid. “is this really her?”

“ha-neul, calm down,” you said, laughing despite yourself.

“calm down? are you kidding? you have been yapping about her for a fucking month!” she said, laughing as she hugged you. “tell me everything!”

“later,” you said, still grinning as you typed your reply.

"sounds perfect. i can’t wait."

[cumikering]

Gym bro Soap x reader

4k | fluff After a month away, Soap came back to a pleasant surprise (part 2)

Your new building was a little far from everything. Sure, the walk to the bus stop was longer, but it meant fewer speeding cars or drunk people yelling in the wee hours of the night.

But it wasn’t what sold you on the studio flat. When the polite landlord took you there for a viewing, you passed the gym, tucked away at the end of the building. It wasn’t fancy – probably why it wasn’t advertised it in the first place, but it had all the necessities. You couldn’t ask for anything better for the price.

You weren’t into body building, but it was high time you made exercising a habit, especially now that you had no excuse to skip working out anymore.

In comfy shirts and leggings, you started going. Some days were easier, but you managed to visit the gym at least twice a week. You were proud of yourself for sticking to your commitment despite the circumstances.

See, you didn’t expect much, but the other gymgoers didn’t return your smile even when they would chat and giggle amongst each other. Needless to say, it wasn’t the most welcoming feeling. It didn’t take long for you to learn to keep your head down and stay out of everyone’s way. You started going in at odd hours for a little peace and quiet, so you didn’t feel judged and silly for even trying.

So one early Sunday when you pushed the door of the empty gym open, a relieved smile bloomed on your lips only to drop when grunts and heavy breathing greeted you. You paused in the doorway, spotting a man in a hoodie on the reclining bench.

Maybe another day.

You began your session: warming up on the elliptical before heading to the dumbbell rack. But oh, the only other man there, the same grunting one was there reracking his massive weights. Your steps slowed.

He was huge. He’d taken his hoodie off; his black undershirt didn’t leave much to the imagination. His shorts couldn’t hide his muscled thighs either. He had an interesting hairstyle - a mohawk, as if he didn’t command enough attention without it.

You spun on your heels; you could do something else meanwhile. You made your way to the pulldown machine only to realise the rope attachment was missing. You scanned the room, discovering that it was on the ground next to the cable machine… Which the man was now using.

Well, you certainly didn’t want to disturb. What if he was using it? You contemplated before he let out another strained grunt. That was a territorial display, wasn’t it? A stern warning for you to not bother him. You decided to use the bar already attached.

You’d never used this attachment - always in popular demand, but at least you’d seen people using it. You did your best; a set of 8 was a good start. As you shook off the strain in your arms between sets, you noticed the man walking over in your direction in the mirror.

Was he still using the machine? Or was your technique atrocious? It was a little heavy for you, but you controlled the negative, not letting the weights fall back and slam. Oh dear, you must have done something, judging by the frown on his face.

“How many sets left have you got on this?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to jump in,” you squeaked, jumping off the seat.

“No, no. If you’ve got sets left we could work in together.” He gestured for you to sit back down.

You didn’t know where to look. He had such clear blue eyes, trimmed dark stubble lining his shapely jaw. He was far more muscular up close; his wide shoulders only emphasised his tapered waist.

His hips canted as he casually shifted his weight. “And whilst I’m here, I can spot you too if ye’d like.”

With his frown gone, coupled with his Scottish accent, he appeared far more sociable.

“Oh…” You slid back into the seat.

He pulled the bar down for you. “I like a wider grip,” he said, pointing further down the curved bar. “But ye should see which grip is most comfortable. Lean back a bit. Keep yer chest up, and pull.”

You did as instructed.

“Nice an’ slow on the way back. There you go.”

You grinned. “Oh, that’s a lot easier now!”

“Let’s do a set of ten. That’s three… Four…”

After your last rep, he helped you with the bar again as you got off the seat. “Thanks so much!”

“Am Johnny by the way.” He full stacked the machine before grabbing the bar and taking the seat. “If you need help, feel free to ask.”

You would have loved to return the favour, but with the way he made his set of twelve look like nothing, he probably didn’t need the help.

You did two more sets after each other before you headed to the cable machine. He showed you his favourite exercises there, adjusting the height and weight for you. He didn’t make you feel small about making mistakes, instead encouraging you and helping you.

After your session, you thanked him again for his help.

“Don’t mention it. It was my pleasure,” he answered with a smile before taking a swig from his water bottle.

“See you around, Johnny!” You waved at him.

When you walked back to your flat, it dawned on you that it was the first time your workout didn’t feel like a chore. It was then you realised why people preferred having a workout buddy.

It was silly, but Johnny’s little crush on you made him feel like he was in primary school all over again. Because… Well, he wasn’t sure you were even aware of his existence before that Sunday morning.

He saw you first last month after he got back from a mission. It wasn’t often that he saw a fresh face in the gym so you didn’t go unnoticed, especially not when you looked like that. You always had your head down, as if you were trying to be invisible. You might have been to others, but not to him. Sometimes between sets, you’d smile at your phone, maybe even let out a small laugh. The little he saw intrigued him.

It was irrational - he was a grown man. He could just talk to you, but he didn’t, content with simply admiring you from afar. He wasn’t your type anyway. A sweet, quiet lady like you wouldn’t like a brash man like him. And so over the weeks, if he was lucky enough to encounter you, he’d steal glances.

Johnny always preferred his workouts at an idle gym, so when he went on an early Sunday, he didn’t expect anyone to walk in on him and his ratty hoodie. He was supposed to have a run after and didn’t bother wearing anything nicer than the hoodie he went to bed in. But when he realised it was you, he ripped it off immediately. He’d never let you catch him looking like he was allergic to the shower.

He didn’t know what came over him – maybe because he was feeling ballsy with his deployment coming up later that month. But before he realised what he was doing, he was walking over to you, armed with the absurd question of how many sets you had left. It was just as well no one else was there so there would be no witnesses to the devastation, but it wasn’t one. Far from it, in fact.

When you smiled, his stomach flipped – his first time seeing it up close, and directed at him. And that smile remained for the most part until you excused yourself back to your flat.

He swore to never leave his flat looking less than immaculate. It was a good decision, because two days later, he saw you again. He made a beeline to you at the pulldown machine as you finished your set.

“Hi,” he said, helping you with the bar.

“Hi, Johnny.” You smiled up at him. “Thanks.”

Catching you wasn’t hard after that. You told him your schedule and he tried his best to match it even when you didn’t always show. This went on for another week before he finally mustered enough courage to make his move.

“Want to grab dinner after this? Am leaving fer a trip tomorrow so I’ve got nothing in the fridge anymore.”

That wasn’t a lie, but why did he make it sound like he usually cooked his own food? He hated cooking.

“Oh, sure. I was planning on getting something too. What were you thinking?”

He made you choose the place and insisted on paying, mumbling something about you picking up the bill next time. While you appeared to be timid, it was evident it was only because you needed the right company. Over the meal, he enjoyed listening to you talk about your interests. You shared a similar taste in films and recommended each other a few titles.

When he revealed his hobby of sketching, you lit up. Upon your request, he showed you some of the drawings he’d made on his phone.

“Oh, these are wonderful!” you cooed, admiring them. “I used to draw when I was younger, nowhere near as well as you though.”

“Maybe we can sketch together.”

“I must be really rusty by now.” You let out a small laugh, handing his phone back to him. “Unless you want to teach me?”

His eyes sparkled. “Of course.”

The conversation drifted to the best restaurants in the area before he told you he was SAS. He vaguely mentioned that he dealt with demolitions, and that he’d be gone for about two weeks. You seemed impressed by this, and he found it adorable how you kept rewording your questions, as if they were going to offend him. He reassured you you could ask anything and he’d tell you what he could.

At the end of the night, he walked you to your door, and you wished him all the best for his mission with the kindest smile. He promised himself he’d be back soon to see it again.

As Johnny drove to base the next morning, still buzzing from the night before, he kicked himself for forgetting to get your number amidst his excitement.

But maybe it was just as well he forgot.

Countless times he’d been described as a mutt by people on base – too eager and impatient. Gaz had told him he pushed women away with his unfiltered enthusiasm. It was a concept he’d never been able to completely grasp: why would you want people to not show you how much they liked you? He knew he preferred that over someone who played games.

But over the years, he’d been rejected and left hanging. Perhaps there was some truth to what Gaz said. Surely, he was willing to accommodate you as to not put you off. He could be patient and match your pace.

So the morning after he came back, he trimmed his stubble to a presentable length (unfortunately he couldn’t do his own hair so the mohawk was still overgrown). He told himself to not look like he missed you too much as he entered the gym. Alas, he couldn’t hide his excitement from the sheer occurrence of seeing you.

“You’re back!“ You grinned before your gaze dropped to his neck.

The tan lines from his throat mic must have looked apparent. It was a recurring problem.

“I am. Hi,” he said, searching your face. He’d missed you.

After a warm up, he picked up a pair of dumbbells.

Next to him, you smiled. “Looking big, Johnny!”

He paused. Was he, even in his oversized shirt? Oh, you were going to make him blush.

“Ye got plans today?” he asked between sets.

“Just need to do my weekly shopping.”

“My mates told me about this place. S’not too far, think you might like it. Also I can give ye a lift. I need to do some shopping myself.”

“Oh, that would be nice. Thanks so much!”

“I feel I should have got yer number so I didn’t hav to ambush you like this.” He shrugged, pulling out his phone.

You laughed, typing your number in. “Don’t worry about it. I got no plans,” you said as you handed it back.

After his shower, Johnny flexed in the mirror. While he was away, more often than not, he would lose weight. Perhaps you meant to say he had more muscle definition, but it didn’t matter. You noticed. You shouldn’t have given him that compliment because he’d spend days thinking about it with a toothy grin.

You emerged out of your flat wearing a shirt, leggings and canvas shoes while he wore a sweater with jeans and boots. Okay, maybe he was a touch overdressed for a quick lunch and a shopping trip, but you looked so sweet in your casual attire, he couldn’t help but smile.

“I watched some of the films you recommended. You have good taste,” you quipped over lunch.

He grinned. “I’ll be sure to recommend more.”

“And I drew again last week. A castle – a bit ambitious, I admit.” You chuckled.

“How did it turn out?”

“Could have been better, but I enjoyed the process. I think it’d be nice if we could draw something together, and maybe you can give me a few pointers.”

You didn’t have to ask twice. “I’m free this afternoon.”

After the trip to the supermarket, Johnny invited you to his place to sketch. Accompanied by tea and biscuits (something he never ran out of due to his chronic sweet-tooth), the event stretched into hours as you chatted and laughed. You were a good student - following diligently and learning fast, but if he was honest, you weren’t half as bad as you said you were in the first place.

As the sky darkened, you excused yourself back home for dinner. He could have offered to cook, but he decided otherwise as he didn’t want to come off too strong (mostly because he wasn’t ready yet to reveal that he lacked the skills to).

Johnny didn’t mean to, but ever since, he made sure to go to the gym the same time you’d be there. You kept each other accountable with your workouts, reminding each other of the agreed schedule. Not like he needed the prodding - getting to see you was all the motivation he needed, but anything for an excuse to talk to you, right? Besides, it was nice when you texted him, letting him know you were heading to the gym. If he let himself fantasise, it was as if you missed him.

You’d workout together two to three times a week. You’d tell him about your day and he’d listen with a grin because why did it feel so good just to be around you? You’d ask about his day in return, and he’d talk about his mates, mostly the silly stories so he could watch you light up with that melodious laughter.

On the days in between if he couldn’t physically wait to see you again, he’d borrow some milk or eggs. If you didn’t have any either- well, I think were due for our weekly run to the supermarket anyway. Don’t worry, he’d help you carry all your shopping like always. What use were his muscles if they weren’t to help you?

Sometimes when the mood struck, you’d sketch together on Saturday afternoon after shopping. It also became a ritual to take you to dinner before his deployments. He didn’t like to show it, but he still had nerves to be calmed even after many years in the job.

When he came back – he didn’t realise it at first, but he hung around at yours as long as you allowed him to stay. Before you, he preferred to lock himself in his flat when things were fresh. It was then he noticed that he’d been falling asleep thinking of you, especially when he was away – his much needed tranquillity in the chaos. He found himself doodling you in his down time.

However, as well as things were going, it didn’t seem like they were progressing. Working out, shopping and the occasional takeout from down the street in hoodies and sweatpants seemed to be the most he could get.

Of course Johnny adored any minute he had with you, even if it was doing mundane activities. There was something weirdly intimate in seeing the everyday you, that you didn’t need anything grand to enjoy each other’s company. It made him warm and fuzzy inside, but he wanted more. You were more than a gym buddy, or someone who lived in his building. He didn’t want to imagine things with you – he wanted them to be real.

Was he not good enough for you? Was he not your type? Did he annoy you with his excuses to see you? He just wanted to feel useful.

“I can drive ye t’yer friend’s later,” he said as he helped to rerack your weights.

“I can’t let you do that.”

“I don’t mind. Will be on my way out fer lunch anyway.”

Later when you answered your door in a pretty dress, he tried to not gape. He’d never seen you dressed up as you were usually in your oversized shirt and leggings when you worked out, or anything comfortable for the shopping trips and humble meals. Still, in any state, you couldn’t get any cuter in his eyes.

When he pulled up at your friend’s, he turned to you. “Let me know if you want me to pick you up, and maybe we can grab dinner after? There’s a place I’ve been meaning to try nearby.”

“I appreciate it, really. But I don’t want to bother you, Johnny. You’ve been way too nice!”

“Is no bother. Got nothing to do today.”

It was his go-to excuse. Innocent, open-ended, welcoming. It served him well - you were always so grateful for any help from him.

He grinned when you nodded. He needed to show you off, especially when you were so cute that day. Later, you thanked him again for picking you up and insisted you pay for dinner, which he agreed to.

While the restaurant had lovely décor and beautiful, warm lighting, it was crowded that Saturday night which meant the service was slow. It didn’t matter though if he could sit there and watch you smile. Oh, you were so sweet in your outfit, your glossy lips pink and soft. If he asked nicely, would you let him hold your hand?

A voice calling for you interrupted his daydreams. You looked up at the figure approaching before a grin broke out on your face.

“Bella! Hi,” you squealed and jumped out your seat to giver her a hug.

He knew Bella. You’ve mentioned her over the months, one of your cousins. You were going to catch a film with her next week.

“What a lovely dress.” She gave you a once over, rubbing your arms before turning to him with a friendly smile. “And who’s this?”

“Oh, this is Johnny, my friend.”

He tried to hide his eye twitch as he forced a smile.

“Ah, nice to meet you.“ She clasped her hands in front of her. “Right, just wanted to say hi. We’re still on next week, yeah?”

“Yes, of course. See you soon!”

She wrapped an arm around you for another squeeze before heading back to her group of friends a few tables over.

With a giggle, you said something about Bella living nearby, but Johnny barely heard it. The fleeting exchange sent a twinge of irritation to his chest.

Friend? If he was fair, he shouldn’t have expected anything other than the generic introduction. Things had been respectful and platonic so far, which he was fine with, so why would you describe him as anything other than a mere friend?

Okay, so you took things slow, perhaps you were even a little oblivious. It was fine - it really was! It was just he wasn’t used to any of this. Much like fireworks, the crushes he’d had were usually explosive with him charging on and ending as fast as they started.

Not you though. You lingered, hiding and burrowing in the nooks and crannies of his chest like an infection. Not like he wanted you to leave, he wished you never would. Whatever this was, he’d been enjoying it, even if it was just the simple act of doing chores with you every Saturday. In fact, it was the highlight of his week. You had grown to be more than a muse, a constant company in his lonesomeness.

Sergeant John Mactavish, a sniper and demolitions expert, had an abundance of patience - usually. He thought he could play along, but perhaps he wasn’t as patient as he thought he was.

When the bill came, he swiftly sent the waiter away with a wad of cash.

“Johnny, you said you’d let me pay!”

“We’re friends. It doesn’t matter who pays,” he said, shoving his wallet back in his pocket. It was immature, but the sarcasm couldn’t help but bleed through.

He didn’t miss the way your gaze dropped. He walked you to your door, but you didn’t say much the rest of the night.

Johnny’s infuriation hadn’t dissipated by Monday morning. If any, it had thickened and hardened and stuck to his teeth.

He couldn’t believe it. Did you earnestly not realise how foul the F word you used was?

He headed to the gym on base the first chance he got – his sanctuary. The frustration that crawled under his skin was the infamous forbidden pre-workout.

“Gaz,” Johnny called as he laid on the bench, in position for a bench press. “Can ye give me a spot, mate?”

Kyle made his way over with an amused smile, standing over him by the heavily loaded bar. “Going for a PR, eh?”

“Aye,” he grunted, gripping the bar, his thumbs tucked back.

“Oi, oi! The fuck you doing, mate!” He smacked his hand.

“Need to feel something,” he said as he repositioned his grip, before puffing his chest up for the set.

Kyle pushed the bar down, preventing his teammate from lifting it off. “Not from the bar crushing your fucking windpipe though, is it?”

Johnny’s arms flailed to his sides. He sighed as he stared blandly at the ceiling. “I think my heart is broken.”

He grimaced. “Did you get dumped? I didn’t even know you were seeing someone.”

“Ah don’t think… she even sees me as a man.”

“Friendzoned then, innit?”

Johnny had never been friendzoned, because no such thing existed. The term was for cowards who couldn’t take rejections, and he was no chicken. A no was a no, and he never took it to heart.

“Ye know I hate that word.”

“No, no! It’s a good thing. It means there’s still hope.”

His blue eyes sparkled, the first since the dinner. “Wait, really?”

He nodded. “You just need to be clear with your intentions. Be physical, flirt, give her compliments.”

“I thought I’d been doing all that! Also, wasn’t it you who told me I was always too eager?”

“Sometimes when you’re too polite, birds think you’re just being friendly.” He shrugged. “You might need to be a bit bolder to get the point across.”

Was this his green light? He’d waited forever to finally wear his heart on his sleeve.

“If that doesn’t work either, then what’s left is to just be honest. But if she’s not interested, you have to be ready to walk away.”

Poor Kyle – his words fell on deaf ears. With the silly grin on his face, the Scot had stopped listening as he fantasised about shamelessly flirting with you. Oh, he was going to have a mighty good time.

Masterlist Possessive best friend Soap

@tiredmetalenthusiast @sofasoap @astraluminaaa

[star-anise]

are we talking about broke therapists yet?

I've been out of things for a couple of years now, which is why I'm willing to talk about it, and maybe the pandemic has helped things a little, but holy shit the counselling and psychotherapy field is not equipped to help its practitioners in the gig economy.

Of all my interests and talents, I pursued a degree in psychology because being a therapist is supposed to be a safe, stable, well-paid job. Every therapist I met who was registered before 2008 worked and lived under that assumption. And oh boy are all the fee structures--registration, supervision, continuing education, conferences--set up for that scenario.

After getting my Master's, I struggled like hell to get a job. It was especially bad because to get my license, I needed a supervisor to take me on. To take me on, most supervisors wanted me to already have a caseload and client base. To get a caseload and client base, I needed a job.

Friends: Every single job I heard back on wanted me to have my license before I could even land an interview.

Professors and career advisors and professional development specialists all advised me very earnestly to just keep cold-calling people on the supervision list, and it began to feel a lot like my parents' friends telling me to hit the bricks and hand out resumes. That's what worked for them, right?

I finally got a supervisor who agreed to take me on, and I'd be able to use her clinic for advertising and workspace, and we were doing the paperwork to send in with my registration, when she called me up and said, "Is this job going to be your only source of income? If you're trying to depend on getting clients and building your practice for your basic needs, this is not going to work out. This has to be something you're doing on top of a basic salary. Okay, so you're not working anywhere else right now? I'm sorry, I can't move forward with this."

Even once I landed a supervisor and a job building my own private practice, I struggled. I have ADHD and am not great at self-promotion, so trying to do all my own advertising, scheduling, bookkeeping, billing, and records management (on top of counselling) was an enormous strain. One my bosses, supervisors, and other senior professionals watched with a slightly critical eye, but consoled me about because in their early days, their clinics had had business managers, receptionists, filing clerks, and accountants, and getting used to doing everything online yourself was a bit of a learning curve, wasn't it?

I counted my pennies very carefully, because I had to pay my supervisor roughly $180 for their services every 6 hours of in-person counselling I did. This meant that to break even I had to charge my clients an average of about $30 (plus room rental and service fees) an hour--and my clients, being people with complex trauma, were frequently poor, disabled, unemployed, and had no health benefits, so even $10 or $20 a session was a lot for them.

Maybe it would have been easier if I could have taken some of those nice comfortable organization positions where they find clients and funding for you and you work 40 hours a week and get benefits and a pension, but I had to be disabled into the bargain, so working 40 hours a week just isn't possible for me. I start passing out from stress and exhaustion. Older colleagues gave me serious-faced advice about approaching my employer and asking them for some flexibility and accommodation in my schedule, and I tried to explain across the gap between us that employers simply did not hire me if I made the slightest noise about the workload. They weren't going to invest in me as a person; they were hiring 40 units of work a week, and if I wouldn't do it there were a dozen applicants after me who would.

At one point I broke down enough to email my licensing body because the Annual General Meeting/Professional Development Conference was coming up, and I wanted to attend, but I could not produce $500 to do it with. Was there some kind of way I could attend anyway? I felt ashamed to have to ask, and then absolutely mortified when the response came from the organization president, who needed to personally sign off on me being too poor to attend the single most important event in my profession's calendar year.

I honestly felt so ashamed all the time at how I was apparently failing to be a successful therapist, failing to be rich and successful, and every time I mentioned it around mentors and bosses, I could feel myself shrinking from a person to a problem to be solved. My closest therapist-friends and I have reflected on how much more difficult, poorly-paid and underworked, our various career starts have been than we were ever warned about. About the classmates and coworkers who couldn't get disability exceptions when they fell behind in their registration requirements, or burned out and left the field, or dropped their registrations and took up as life coaches, or moved their whole family somewhere exceptionally remote or rural because it was the only good job available, or worked for some godforsaken app skirting the bounds of malpractice like BetterHelp.

I like those conversations, because I feel less like an absolute fuck-up in them. There's less "Hey Lis, you were so talented in grad school, I really admired you, what are you doing now?" "Oh, I, uh... am professionally disabled, so I get government benefits, and I... sell embroidery patterns on Etsy now."

My own therapist kept asking if and when I felt like going back to being a counsellor, and I finally told him: I don't, actually. I don't want to go back and do it like I was doing it before. It was a profession I loved to the depths of my soul, and it profoundly did not love me back. I can't even imagine what would have to change, in me or it, to make it have a space in it that could fit me.

All of which I was way too scared to admit to at the time, because the more I let people know I was struggling, the more they hinted that maybe I just wasn't in a place in my life where this was a job I could do, and I needed to take a little break and wait to come back until money and disability just weren't issues for me anymore.

Eventually my cups of doubt and exhaustion did overflow, and I quit. I'm here now, living a much different life. And at the very least, all my years of helping people in bad life situations set me up perfectly for my own. I already knew what form to fill out for financial assistance, which student clinics to access for mental health support, and which government agency would, if pressed, cough out pharmacy coverage for the genuinely destitute. It gave me that much.

I hope this is just me being in extraordinary circumstances, sitting at the intersections of a few different shitty life situations that most people skip right past. Because it's on one level comforting, but another deeply infuriating, if I'm not, and I've just missed it or we've just all been too afraid to admit it to each other.

[thewertsearch]

Alright, there’s a lot going on in this room.

First of all, it’s clear that the Betty Crocker Corporation has supplanted more than just Skaianet. This woman's been stamping her name on chests, cutlery, computers, calendars, and even Fetch Modi, so her company is more like an unholy fusion of Skaianet, Google and Amazon.

I'd give it a week before she pulls a Musk, and rebrands this abomination as 'C' - assuming she hasn't already done so.

Second of all, I initially thought this wall of blue hunks was advertising Jane's tastes, but upon closer inspection, each of them bears a signature in the Pen-Pal's color.

His older self did have a strange fixation on blue women, and apparently it's etched into his DNA.

Your name is JANE. As was previously mentioned, you are poised for an ELITE OPPORTUNITY to test the SBURB ALPHA. It is so elite in fact, you are the only of your kind invited to playtest!

Jane is the only member of her 'kind' to be given a copy of Sburb, which implies that there are other kinds of people on this version of Earth. Crocker is confirmed to not be a human, so maybe the planet is also populated by whatever kind of creature she is.

Though you guess that probably comes with the territory of being the HEIRESS APPARENT TO A BAKED GOODS EMPIRE. You don't suppose it hurts that you are said empire's NUMBER ONE FANGIRL, either!

She practically worships the Crocker megacorporation - and even worse, she's being raised to lead the damn thing. Jane might actually be starting out as an antagonist to our original heroes, completely unaware that she's being shaped into a weapon against them.

In short: Jesus Christ, Jane. We need to get you out of here.

You fancy yourself a SKILLED PRANKSTRESS, if by no other measure than lineage.

I guess Nannasprite's mischievous nature wasn't derived solely from the jester doll.

It's sweet to imagine Jane learning the prankster's arts from her Grandpa John - but I am extremely worried for Grandpa John right now, so I can't even enjoy it.

You once dabbled in AMATEUR BOTANY but found it TOO FRUSTRATING, because your VEGETABLES KEPT DISAP-actually you know what, you DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT.

Growing pumpkins is every horticulturist's first mistake.

You are also pleased to contemplate FRIGHTENING FAUNA, though saddened by their regrettable FAKENESS ATTRIBUTE.

Flora and fauna. I was waiting to see a little of each Player's personality before making Title guesses, and Jane's evoking Life to me, just as her pervious incarnation did.

Now, that would break the apparent rule that Scratch-swapped Players preserve the session's original Aspects, but that rule hasn't been confirmed yet. Plus, Life might just be my Aspect, so I'd love to see it become more prominent in the story.

But none of that's on your mind now, because you are PSYCHED about this SPECIAL DATE, 11.11.11 [...] a date exhibiting just the sort of numerical gimmick corporations love to exploit for their big releases, or for launching MAJOR REBRANDING INITIATIVES. In the case of your CHERISHED MULTIGLOBAL EMPIRE, both such events are slated to happen today.

Wow, so Betty Crocker is already operating on multiple planets?

The more we see of this Earth, the more obvious it becomes that it's nothing like the world our heroes left behind. Everything has changed.

[logoleptic-since-06]

Lessons in Love

In which Satoru Gojo seems to fall for Megumi's new tutor.

MDNI

Summary: You look for a private student to tutor for some extra money and end up as the private tutor of Megumi Fushiguro, a high school student and the adoptive son of Satoru Gojo.

CW: Non-Sorcerer AU, not proofread, Satoru is a single parent, kind of bratty Megumi, mentions of death

Part 1

"Hello, is this Ms. Y/L/N?"

You put down the pen you were marking papers with. "Uh yeah, that's me. Who's speaking?"

The feminine voice waves through the phone, "I'm Yui, I saw your advertisement for private tutoring online. Are you still looking for students?"

Your attention is now fully on the call, the half-marked exam sheet almost forgotten, "Yes, yes, I am."

"Great," Yui replied, "Are you open to tutoring a 9th grader?"

"Yeah, any grade from 5 to 10 is okay."

"Alright then, could you give me some information on how you conduct uour sessions?"

"Alright so, I'm a teacher myself, so I am free any time after 5 PM. I can come by your house for two hours, thrice a week."

"That sounds perfect. When can you start?"

You glance at the calendar placed on your desk. "It's the start of the month today, I can come by your house at around 6 PM, if that's okay with you."

"Okay then, I'll text you the address. The student's name is Megumi Fushiguro. If the security stops you, just tell them you are his new tutor."

And that's how you end up in front of the 5-Star hotel. Your student lives at the penthouse of this hotel. If extravagance had a look, it would be this place. With long iron gates securing the entrance, the high technology security, and the almost shiny exterior make the place look like something straight out of a wealth-centric movie. 

As you step into the penthouse, you are greeted with a kind looking woman, "You must be Ms. Y/L/N. Megumi sir is in his study room."

She leads you to the room and knocks at the door. "Come in," a voice grumbles from inside.

As you step in, you are greeted with a teenage boy with dark messy hair. He sits up straight on his chair when he spots you. He gestures at the chair next to him, asking you to sit. You have dealt with multiple brats in your teaching life, but something about him screams spoiled to a whole new level. Maybe it's the private school effect.

"Hi," you plaster a smile on your face, hoping it masks your insecurity, "I'm Y/N. You new tutor."

He gives you the slightest nod, "Megumi."

You sigh. This isn't going to be easy.

---

Two hours, 4 subjects, and the littlest conversation later, the tutoring session comes to an end.

"So we can end the session for today," you tell him, packing up your things, "Can I talk to your parent?"

"My parents are dead," he says bluntly, taking you by surprise. "You can talk to Gojo. He's... my guardian. He should be home by now." He gets up from his chair and leaves the study room, causing you to follow him subconsciously.

Soon, you find yourself in the lavish living room, a large chandelier hangs at the centre of the ceiling, beneath it is a long velvet couch, and on top of the couch is a man sitting.

Not just any man.

The most beautiful man you have ever laid your eyes on.

His white hair falls on his face- the same face that seems to carry the most charming smile known to mankind. His eyes... his blue eyes so bright even the Sun would be jealous. He gets up from the couch and approaches you, offering his hand.

You shake it almost hastily. Such pretty hands... wonder what it would feel like around your neck-

FOCUS.

"I'm Satoru Gojo," his smooth voice ripples through the air, breaking the silence.

"I'm Y/N Y/L/N. Megumi's new tutor."

His smile doesn't fade as he tilts his head sideways, "So I've heard. You'd spoken to my assistant earlier this morning, yes? Yui?"

"Oh," you say, remembering the previous conversation, "Yes, I had spoken to her."

"Great. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

"That wouldn't be necessary-" Megumi begins, but shuts up immediately as Gojo flashes his dimpled smile at him.

"How about you go back to your room, Megumi?" Megumi rolls his eyes subtly and leaves you both alone.

"Please, have a seat, Ms. Y/L/N." He tells you, gesturing at the velvet couch. You oblige politely.

"So, Yui tells me you are a teacher?" He asks you.

"Yes," you inform him, "I teach at a middle school."

"Ah, I see. And you are capable of tutoring a high school student?"

"Yes, yes, I am. I've been teaching since I graduated college. It's been almost 4 years now."

He nods thoughtfully. "Megumi can be... difficult at times. He's a smart kid, and he took a few advanced classes. But now he's struggling to keep up."

You nod. "Yes, he's told me that."

"Good, good. So you'll be here thrice a week for a two hour session, am I right?"

"Right."

"And Megumi is your only student?"

"Right."

He gives you a cheeky smile. "Relax, this isn't an interrogation. I'm just making sure." 

You hope with all your being that there's no blush crept on your face as you chuckle nervously. "Yeah, of course." 

He checks the time before continuing. "It's late. Will you able to get back alone?"

"Yes, it won't be a problem, thanks for asking." 

"Do you live far?"

"A little."

"Allow me to drop you off."

"What?! No! It's fine, really."

"I insist."

"You really don't have to, but thanks."

---

And that's how you find yourself in the passenger seat of Satoru Gojo's car.

A/N: This is the first time I'm sharing any of my writing online, and I know this isn't even that good. But I'm trying to get back into writing actively and I thought sharing it would motivate me further.

Divider by @saradika-graphics

[bigwishes]

Terms and Conditions

Levi arrived at the train station late at night. Nobody else was on the train on his way home let alone on the platform when he got off. Levi took his ear phones out of his pocket ready for for his walk home but to his disappointment realised they were dead. He sighed folding up his earphone case shoving it back in his pocket preparing for the quite walk home in the dark. As Levi approached the station exit he heard what sounded like arcade music and saw flashing lights out of the corner of his eye. Tucked away in a small room was a table set up, arcade music was playing in the room as cheap disco lasers spun around. On either side of the table were posters of chiselled abs with the words "FREE TRANSFORMATION BECOME THE ULTIMATE MAN" written over the top in what looked to be a rushed photoshop job. Levi had been thinking about getting a personal trainer for a few weeks now and he didn't want to pass up on the chance for a free session or two, even if the trainer was this bad at advertising. He looked around for any information but all he could see was a QR code taped down to the middle of the table. Levi scanned it and it took him to a website just as corny and asked him to upload his 'before' photo. Shrugging it off he scrolled through his photos and selected one he had taken on a night out a few weeks earlier.

Once uploaded the website brought up a page 'TERMS AND CONDITIONS'. Levi began reading but after the first sentence assumed it was the basic bullshit all websites have, he tried to skim read it but after realising that the terms and conditions document was over 400 pages long he just speedily scrolled his way to the bottom ignoring all of it until a large blue button labelled 'ACCEPT' showed up. Levi pressed the button and his phones web browser instantly closed. Levi tried to do the whole process all over again but the browser couldn't even open the website anymore. Rolling his eyes in disappointment it became clear whoever was running this program was struggling to get their career off the ground because they were so bad at marketing or even basic tech. He put his phone in his pocket and left the station to head home and go to bed.

The next morning Levi woke up and felt groggy, his body was sore all over like he had just done a week long boot camp and he felt slightly heavier. He stretched and felt like his shoulds and quads were much tighter than usual. He put one hand on his shoulder to try and help stretch it but it felt larger, bulkier...

Looking down he saw that his shorts had split open in the middle of the night and out of the shredded fabric poked strong thicc smooth muscles. his abs were more defined and and his arms were pumped up with definition. He had always been fit but somehow over night had transformed into a complete jock. He covered himself up and took a picture, surely this was all just a dream.

Whilst trying to find his gallery he came across a new app on his phone labelled 'Ultimate Man' when he opened it he was saw just a page that looked like it was written in the notes app with a few sentences on it.

"congratulations on embracing masculinity, through your free transformation we are going to turn you into the ultimate man! get ready to embrace manhood big guy"

Levi cringed at the terribly written message but whoever was behind it clearly was doing something right, even if they came off like an idiot.

Suddenly Levi began to feel warm and could feel his heart pumping. But it didn't feel like exercise or even anything strenuous it just felt like he could really notice all of the blood in his body moving around. Levi felt himself get hard and he looked down under the covers. Even his dick looked bigger. He opened up his browser app and went to his favourite website to look at videos and images of hot guys. On the home page happened to be an image of a buff Olympic swimmer climbing out of the pool, instantly Levi moaned as he came without even touching himself. He looked down at his twitching manhood, it continued to drool over his bare abs. He cleaned himself up and put a pair of shorts on and tried to make his way to the kitchen. It didn't even take two steps before Levi moaned loudly again and his knees locked together causing him to fall to the floor. He felt his underwear fill with warms and he felt his dick pulse and twitch, he took a breath thinking it was over before it fired off again.

Levi squirmed on the ground moaning unable to stop as his body forcefully went through cycles of pleasure. He didn't even have the strength to sit up. His shorts had become drenched and were stuck to him but it didn't stop. Levi tried to take them off but his hands never even made it to the waist band he simply stopped and massaged his throbbing pelvis as waves of pleasure were sent up to the rest of his body. He didn't know what was happening and couldn't even think he just laid on his bedroom floor squirming in pleasure as he was forced to come over and over again.

After a few hours it finally stopped. Levi was stuck on the ground panting like a dog in summer but after a few minutes he was able to pick himself up. He pulled off his shorts now 3 shades darker and coated in a layer of sticky gloss. He went to put them in the wash basket but ended up just dropping them on the ground next to his bed and by the time the loud wet *shlop* of his shorts finished echoing around the room he had already forgotten about wanting to wash them.

Levi put on a basic black shirt and another pair of shorts, both felt so tight it was almost like a second skin. He passed the mirror in his hallway once again he looked bigger, more defined and the imprint of his dick stood out like a sore thumb. He was still hard and his sorts were so tight every second step made him wince in a mix of pain and pleasure as he had become so sensitive down below.

Levi went to make breakfast and realised it was almost lunch

"fuck I really need to get to the gym"

he thought to himself, forgetting that he didn't even have a gym membership. Mindlessly Levi started to make his way to his car and drove to the closest gym. He was panting like a dog the entire way as the vibrations from the car gently stimulated his manhood but to him it felt like the best pleasure his dick had ever received. He felt his shirt and shorts become tighter, a few tears began to form around his thighs and the shirt started to ride up revealing his abs, it was almost like his clothes were shrinking. His toes curled as his shoes felt tighter. Finally he arrived at the gym.

Levi needed to take a moment after parking his car, he was still panting and he couldn't help but rub his groin which alone was enough to make him feel like he was edging. After almost half an hour of sitting in his car trying to collect himself he finally got out and made his way to the gym entrance. His car somehow looked smaller to him, and all his clothes felt like one wrong move and they'd all rip off. He tried his best to pull his shirt down to his waist but there was still a few inches of skin that could be seen. His shorts where the worst, he could see in the reflection of the gym windows how they hugged his thighs forming a nice V shape and he could feel how they rode up his ass, like he'd put on a pair 6 sizes too small.

Levi opened the door and went to the reception desk as his body began to feel warm again. He rapidly dinged the bell on the desk a few times before hearing a slight click noise, looking down he noticed the top of the bell had caved in and he gritted his teeth with a slight look of embarrassment on his face. A receptionist walked over from the other side of the desk and took one look at Levi, without even thinking he said,

"forgot you member ship again big guy?"

the trainer sighed and buzzed the small plastic gates open, Levi was confused but didn't question it, he quickly walked through the gates feeling desperate to work out. As he walked he felt his thighs now rubbing against each other, he felts he biceps and pushing past his pecs as his arms swung, and he felt the monster python in his pants creep slightly further to the elastic in his underwear.

Levi set up the cable machine almost by instinct. He began pulling the weight and didn't even realise he had it set to the most weight possible, and it didn't even feel like anything.

His shirt felt tighter and tighter as the sleeves pulled up above his biceps and the waist pulled up almost to his pecs, by now it looks like he was wearing a crop top. Levi struggled to pull his shirt off and was stunned by the amount of mass on his body. He could barely pull his eyes away from the mirror as he watched himself workout, he was hypnotised by the way his biceps moved and the way his pecs bounced with each movement.

Levi felt himself get heavier and heavier to the point simply moving between machines now had him out of breath, his shorts were now so tight and pulled up they practically looked like a thong. Finally Levi stopped working out feeling the enormous weight of his size falling on his. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and stared at the freakishly massive man in the mirror.

He took a step back whilst flexing and felt something bump up against his ass. He turned around expecting it to be a bench but it was one of the gym staff.

"hey man, watch where you step hahah" the staff member laughed

It took Levi a minute to get the joke, he thought the staff member was sitting at first, but his eyes widened as he realised he was in fact standing. Levi scratched his head trying to work out if this guy just happened to be short but it was hard to work out when half his view was blocked by a massive shelf of his muscles that were his pecs. It was him finally realising he was half barefoot that finally made it click in his head. He looked in the mirror at the remains of his size 12 shoes torn to pieces and bits of fabric and rubber barely around his enormous feet.

He walked through the gym to the changing rooms trying to gauge how large he had become when he saw the weight station people used to track their stats. As he got closer to the station he watched the plank of wood used to measure height get smaller and smaller until he found himself in front, looking down at the number 8FT that was barely up to the bottom of his pecs. Levi stepped on the scales and watched the digital numbers rapidly shoot up until it began to slow around 700lsb. Levi took a deep breath as he moved his mass off the scale back down to the ground, even the 3 inch drop was enough to make small things on shelves near him rattle and shake.

Levi caught himself moving towards the changing room in the mirror, he thought he was walking normal but in reality he had a ridiculous wide waddle that took up the entire walk way. As he walked through the doors to the changing rooms a large thud caused everyone in the gym to turn their heads. Levi, not used to his new size had smashed his head into the door frame but it felt like someone had flicked him rather than walking face first into metal, as he took a second to recover he saw that the door frame had actually bent slightly from the impact.

The massive giant sat on the wooden bench alone in the changing room, it comedically bent in towards the centre, his massive weight almost causing it to bend to the ground. Levi scrolled his phone to find the app hoping there was a way to size down. He opened the app he saw a few notifications but clicked the latest one.

"Congratulations, you are almost the perfect man, one final step and you will be the optimal man! FINAL STEPS: Intellect deletion protocol and Personality Rewrite"

Immediately after reading those words Levi's head felt funny, felt almost blurry, all the embarrassment about turning into a literal giant went away, all the worries about clothes fitting him were gone and new feelings started to come in. Levi looked up into the changing room mirror and smiled.

He flexed his massive bicep

"OOOOOOH YEEAAH THATS NICE"

he rose his second arm to flex his other

"FUCK IM SO BIG, BEING THIS HUGE IS AMAZING"

He stood up once again feeling his insane weight

"Oh fuck, im so heavy, but damn, so big" He said as he struggled to reach across his own body to reach his bicep

His phone pinged loudly and Levi opened it to the app, but it looked like gibberish, he couldn't make out a single word, he scratched his head with confusion, Suddenly an audio file played

"Congratulations on becoming the Ultimate Man, we are currently offering a one time special offer for only the manliest of men, increase size by an additional 2 feet and 130 pounds, to claim say "I'm a manly man"

Levi's eyes lit up with glee, he didn't understand a single thing it said other than the words 'increase size' without missing a moment he yelled at his phone

"FUCK YEAH, IM A MANLY MAN"

He watched as his hands became thicker, watched as his dick print started to look like it was gonna rip through what was left of his clothes, his head turned to the mirror and he flexed his hulked out frame with all his might watching as it started to expand even bigger.

"FUUUUUUCCCKKK YEEEEAAHHH MAN" He screamed panting, completely out of breath as the giant before him got bigger and bigger and it was almost too much for him to even move......

[anonymouspyt]

The Studio Session 💌

Word Count: 4.9k

Warning(s): none

May 18th, 1987. Los Angeles, CA.

"All my Children will be back in a moment." the smooth tone of the voiceover boomed from the sound waves of the 1981 19-inch Hitachi-CT color tv. The commercials swiftly interrupted, flooding the screen with bright, attention grabbing advertisements.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Your legs were crossed and the base of your foot tapped lightly against the edge of the coffee table in your cousin's apartment. You were sitting on the couch, reading a magazine. You could hear your cousin laughing and your eyebrow lifted as you lifted your head up from the magazine. The current commercial faded into mere background noise as you focused in on your cousin, who was talking on the phone.

You'd just arrived in town last night, visiting from Georgia. Your cousin had always told you that anytime you wanted to come to L.A., you were more than welcome to stay with her, so you decided to take her up on that offer.

"Alright, I'll see you soon. Bye Michael." Your cousin, Siedah said with a light giggle and hung up the phone. She looks over at you with a grin.

You look over with anticipating eyes. "Soooo.." You grin at her before continuing, teasingly. "Was that Michael, Michael?"

Your cousin chuckles before answering you. "Yes Y/N, that was Michael Jackson on the phone. He wanted to touch base with me and make sure we were still on for our studio session today."

Suddenly, your interest piqued when you questioned her again, "Oh yeah.. it's that new song you're working on with him, for his upcoming album right?"

Now having your undivided attention, you recalled the moment she told you about the collaboration over the phone last week. It was just the other day when she was heading into session with Michael and Quincy Jones. Michael was still looking for someone to appear on the track, I Just Can't Stop Loving You, and what Siedah didn't know at the time was that both Michael and Quincy had decided to let her to be featured on it. They let her know once she got settled in the studio. She was so surprised when they gave her the news, you couldn't have been any prouder.

"Yup, the very one!" she replied, standing up and walking over to the coat rack to grab her black leather jacket. Siedah looked at you as she slid her arms in the jacket before she added, "We're meeting in West Hollywood within the hour. I gotta get going before traffic hits."

"How long does a studio session normally take?" You ask her curiously with a hint of nervousness.

Siedah shrugged as she adjusted her jacket on her body. "You never know how long a session is going to take. Hell, I never know. It could be a hour.. It could be 3 to 5 hours. Maybe even overnight.."

Still holding the magazine in your hands, you dropped it in your lap, reacting instinctively, and looked at her. "Overnight?!" You paused, taking in her neutral reaction. "What the hell am I supposed to do until you come back?" You said, frustration creeping in your voice. You weren't exactly thrilled to be cooped up in your cousin's apartment all by yourself in an unfamiliar city.

"I don't know cuzzo.. but hey, there's plenty to do out here to pass the time." Siedah said casually, trying to make light of the situation. She takes a step forward to look in the mirror and  fix the collar on her yellow blouse. "You can catch a cab and go see a movie at the TCL Chinese Theater, head down to the Pier in Santa Monica, or you could even go to Disneyland. There's so much to choose from!" she added.

You sat there and listened to your cousin throw out these suggestions. They weren't necessarily bad options but they weren't great options either. You thought it over briefly until another thought comes to mind. The wheels in your mind began to turn and, a mischievous grin slowly curled at the corners of your lips as you looked at her.

Siedah assessed your current disposition and looked at you crazily before questioning you. "What?"

"Let me come with you."

She furrowed her eyebrows at you and asked a follow up question. "Come where?"

You give her a duh look, your tone matching it's expression. "To the studio." To make it clearer for her, you added. "Let me come to the studio with you." Your cousin looked at you with an unconvinced grin for a couple moments.

It's as if she considered it for a moment, but then she hesitates before saying, "I don't know Y/N.."

"Oh come on, it's not everyday that your super talented cousin gets to work with THE Michael Jackson!" You try to say in a more convincing tone.

"I don't know Y/N.. Michael normally likes to keep his studio sessions private." Siedah said while grabbing her purse from the coat rack.

You got up from the couch and walked over to her, shaking her shoulders. "Come on Sid, pleaseee! It would be so much fun!" You pleaded. She looked at you, still unconvinced that she should bring you along. "I won't say a word, I promise. If he doesn't want me in the studio with you guys, I'll sit outside in the lobby.." You lifted your hands in surrender, shrugging your shoulders. "The least he can say is no, right?" You added on as a last ditch effort.

Your cousin looked at you for a few seconds more and breaks the look with a grin. She groaned playfully, "Alright, let's go.." You squealed and hugged her tightly. "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" "Yeah yeah, hurry up Y/N! We gotta go!"

You let go of her, looking at her excitedly. "Let me go put on my boots and I'll be ready. Give me two seconds!" You dashed off to the spare guest room she'd allowed you to use while you're in town. Kicking off your house slippers by the door, you open the closet door and grab your black leather stiletto ankle boots. You could hear your cousin fussing at you while slipping one of them on from the other room, "Y/N, Let's go!" Her footsteps echoed towards the front door, and you could hear the jingling of her car keys as she pulled them out of her purse.

"Okay, okay! Keep your pants on!" You sassed as you reached for your black Chanel handbag with the double flap and gold-tone hardware.

"Yo ass is about to get left!" Siedah retorted while unlocking and opening the door.

"Alright, I'm coming! Damn!" You hop out the room with one heel on and the other in your hand. Using your free hand, you throw your purse strap over your shoulder and slip the other heel on your foot.

You walk over near Siedah to look in the mirror at your outfit, adjusting the gold chain embellishments on the sleeve of your blazer so it will hang properly. You can feel Siedah's eyes burning the side of your face. Turning to face her, you teased, "Whatcha waitin' on? Let's go." you chuckled on the way out. Your cousin just rolled her eyes as you passed her by, leaving her to follow in behind you and close the door on the way out, locking it behind her.

𝄞𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ 𓈈⭒♬ ﾟ.𝄞𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ 𓈈⭒♬ ﾟ.𝄞𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ 𓈈⭒♬ ﾟ.

The tires on Siedah's car come to a halt as she pulled into a parking spot next to a meter along the sidewalk. She turned the car off and reached in her coin purse to gather up some quarters. Once she had them, she looked over at you and placed the coins in your hand. "We're here." she said before getting out the car.

Holding the quarters tightly in your hand, you got out the car and took a good look at the building. "This is it?" You questioned your cousin, closing the car door and stepping onto the sidewalk to insert the quarters in the parking meter. It wasn't anything how you'd imagined it to look.

With a beige stucco finish, the studio has an industrial appeal to it. The studio has brown metal slatted louvers covering the long windows and the address number "8447" was cemented in brass above the doorway, simple but distinctive.

"Yup! This is it— Westlake Studios." Siedah replied, walking around the car from behind to step up onto the sidewalk. She continued walking until she reached the dark double doors and pressed the red button on the intercom next to it. "Mike Jack, it's Siedah. Let me in!" she said in a joking manner, taking her finger off the button. Your heart started pounding as you walked over to meet Siedah by the door. The magnitude of the situation trickled into your nerves like a thief in the night: You're about to meet Michael Jackson.

Shit.

The sound of the buzzer caused you to jump back a little. As soon as the door clicked, Siedah took the opportunity to open it, ushering you inside.

When you walked in, there were a plethora of different records plastered on the gold wall. From Luther to Chaka, so many legendary artists have their plaques displayed, almost like it was an official badge of honor. It was inspiring to see the records so up close in real time— so surreal.

"Siedah, you made it!" A smooth, velvety voice suddenly filled the room.

You turned over your shoulder and you see Michael Jackson, walking over to us. His broad shoulders are on full display with his black patched embroidered varsity jacket. Your lips parted ever so slightly as you saw him approaching, as if your body is already falling apart at the seams because of his presence.

Siedah hugs him as soon as he makes it over to her. "It's good to see you!" she hugged him warmly. A light chuckle escaped his lips when reciprocating the hug, giving her a light two pats on the back. "It's good to see you too." You observed their hug and couldn't help but think, he looks like he gives the best hugs.

Michael lets go of the hug and looks directly at you. "Who's this?"

When your eyes met his, you could've sworn your heart stopped beating for a few seconds. You've seen plenty of men with dark brown eyes in your lifetime but none of them compare to his. Hypnotic in their wake, the look in his eyes feel like a quiet invitation to draw you closer to him, an invitation you actually don't mind accepting..

Your cousin quickly remembered you were there and replied, "Oh, where are my manners? Michael, this is my cousin, Y/N L/N. Y/N, this is Michael."

He grins slightly and holds his hand out, "Hello.."

You place your hand in his large one, returning the smile. "Hi.."

Michael shook your hand gently. "It's very nice to meet you, Y/N." he said politely.

"Likewise.." You grin a bit wider when he says your name. It rolled off his tongue a little too good. If there was anyone else observing you, they'd might call you starstruck, but you couldn't help but stare at him. You thought to yourself, 'Let me let go of this man's hand before I get caught up...'

You cleared your throat slightly as you pulled your hand away, placing it by your sides. Siedah spoke up, "She's visiting me for the month and she was wondering—"

"She was wondering if I could sit in on your studio session today?" you cut your cousin off so you could ask Michael yourself. You spoke with confidence as you looked at him.

Michael just stared at you. It's almost if he was trying to size you up. Your gaze never faltered as he continued his assessment, studying you from the top of your curls down to the points of your boots.

He chuckled, clearly surprised by your sudden attitude, though it didn't seem to bother him in the slightest. "Okay, I don't see why not."

Siedah looked at him in shock, "Forreal?" This was surprising for her because Michael hardly ever invites people in the sessions with him. If you aren't working on his project specifically, you could not come in. And yet, here he was inviting you. He shrugged casually. "Yeah, it will be great to hear feedback from someone who's outside of the team." He flashed that charming Jackson smile to seal the deal.

"I won't mind giving it either.." you stated, referring to the feedback, of course.

Michael nodded, his smile unwavering as he turned his attention back to you. "Good."

You returned the smile as you continued looking at him. Siedah cut through the obvious tension in the air, saying, "Perfect! Let's get this show on the road, shall we?"

Michael looked at Siedah, grinned, and bowed sheepishly. "Yeah, of course!" he laughed, a bit embarrassed. "Follow me." he added, turning around. He veered towards the right, guiding us down the hallway. Your attention was now fixated on the occupied studios as you passed them by, more platinum plaques lining the walls with every step. It gave you goosebumps to know that you were walking down the hall where so many hit records had been made.

When we made it down to the end of the hall, you and Siedah stood on either side of Michael as he opened the door. You were met with a lacquered coated brown sign mounted on the olive green door with 'STUDIO D PRIVATE.' in gold brass lettering.

The minute he opened the door, your jaw dropped in awe. It was revealed that this particular studio spanned three stories. Though private, the atmosphere was incredibly welcoming. You took the opportunity to look around when you walked in. His own platinum plaques adorned the walls and his movie poster for Captain EO was pinned on the column right next to the studio entry way. To your right, a bathroom was tucked in the corner. If you didn't know any better, you might have mistaken this as an apartment rather than a studio.

"Watch your step, please." Michael warned quietly as he took a step up to lead you and Siedah in the control room. Upon entering, Quincy Jones was sitting infront of the sound board, chewing an apple. Bruce Swedien was sitting to his right, adjusting the knobs on the sound board.

Siedah walked over to both of them, giving them a hug. "Hey guys." Quincy patted her hand as she draped an arm around him and the other around Bruce.

"Hey Sid, you ready to rock today?" Quincy asked your cousin, tossing his apple hull in the trash. Michael stood near the doorframe next to you with his arms behind his back.

"You know it!" Siedah let go of them both and walked over to put her bag down in the single seat sofa in the corner. She took off her black leather jacket and yellow blouse, revealing a black midriff underneath. After tossing them next to her bag, she sifted through it to grab her water bottle, taking a couple sips to get her voice warmed up. Siedah decided to stay in the corner, clipping her locs with a duck pin out of her face as she continued to warm up.

Bruce turned over to see you standing next to Michael, causing him and Quincy to exchange looks before looking back over there. "Oh? Well who do we have here?" Bruce questioned, narrowing his eyes at Michael. Michael's cheeks grew hot and takes a couple steps over to the side, creating a bit of distance between you two.

Siedah walks back over to you and hugs your waist, "This is my cousin, Y/N. Y/N? This is Quincy Jones and Bruce Swedien, two of the most legendary record producers in the business!"

You wave at them both, "Hey, it's good to meet you both. I love your work. Both of you, I'm a huge fan!" You marvel at them as you walk over to shake their hands.

"Ah, thank you sweetheart." Quincy grins and looks over at Michael before looking back at you.

Bruce pats your hand and chuckles before answering, "Thank you, you're too kind. So Y/N, can you sing?"

"I can.. uh, I can carry a tune!" You grin bashfully. "But I'm only here to watch the session, if that's okay with you guys."

Quincy smirks a bit looking over at Michael. "If it's okay with Michael then it's okay with us! Are you okay with it, Smelly?" he said teasingly. The nickname caused you to look over at Michael with raised eyebrows and an amused grin.

Michael took note of your reaction to his nickname and smiled embarrassingly, shifting his gaze between you and Quincy, "Oh yeah.. I'm okay with it. Make yourself at home, Y/N."

You grin at him, walking down the two step staircase next the sound board to make your way to the white plush sofa that was sandwiched between the board and the window looking into the live room. You set your purse down as you looked over at him, "Thanks, I think I will." Though you said it politely, there was a subtle hint of flirtation beneath the appreciative comment.

As if the message was received, he sends a small grin your way. He now turns to Siedah who was coming his way. "Okay, let's get this party started!" she cheered.

Michael grins at her and says, "Alright, whenever you're ready Miss Siedah.." He gestures her to follow him in the live room and she does. He then walked over to the light switch to dim the room a bit, leaving a single spotlight over the two music stands placed in the center of the room and the tube condensers mics suspending from it's boom arm. He comes back over to Siedah, placed his hand on the small of her back as he lead her to her designated spot. They grin at each other and he pinched her elbow before making his way over to his spot.

Quincy pressed the mic button on the soundboard to cue them in, "Let's take it from the second verse." In the background, you could hear the audio from the tape machine distorting as it sped up.

"For this take, I really want you two to dig deep. I want to be able to feel the intensity of these lyrics— take me and listeners on the journey with you. Let's make it romantic, yeah?"

Both Michael and Siedah shuffled through their sheet music to pick up where they left off from the first session. Michael slipped his Ray-Bans wayfarers out of his pocket and put them on. Once adjusted, he glanced through the glass of the control room and gave a thumbs-up. Quincy acknowledged the gesture with a nod.

"Alright.. we're rolling..."

Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack.

The metronome struck in with a vengeance as the beautiful melody blared out, filling the room of its romantic energy.

𝄞𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ 𓈈⭒♬ ﾟ.𝄞𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ 𓈈⭒♬ ﾟ.𝄞𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ 𓈈⭒♬ ﾟ.

Exactly two hours have passed and you were starting to get the impression that little moment you and Michael shared before he started to record with Siedah was nothing more than just common courtesy.

It appears what you misinterpreted as attraction between you and Michael, that interpretation should have been more directed towards him and Siedah.

The subtle glances at each other, the laughing in between takes, Michael's boyish grin when your cousin would speak to him and not to mention, he'd throw cashews at her forehead during the recording— it was a lot to sit through. It felt like you were intruding ontheir private time together even though there was a barrier of glass separating the three of you.

Michael would periodically glance through the glass in the control room as Quincy gave them feedback between takes throughout the session. His sunglasses added an extra layer of being guarded and reserved when receiving direction.

You couldn't help but sigh to yourself as you looked at him. His never shifting focus is to be expected but it almost felt as if you weren't even there at all— completely disregarded.

Soon enough, the session was over. Siedah and Michael were still in the live room but had stepped away from the music stands as they were off to the side talking about something. Michael had his hands in the pockets of his varsity jacket while focusing on her talking. She must've said something funny because you could see them both laughing from afar.

You watched them laugh and even though you felt a pang in your chest, your stoic expression remained intact. Your poker face was impeccable.

After a few more minutes, they came out of the live room to come into the control room. Siedah came over to you directly and Michael went over to Bruce and Quincy to go over a few things.

You looked at your cousin as soon as she came over by the arm of the sofa. "Sooo how was it sitting in on your first professional session?" She asked you curiously.

"It was cool. I really enjoyed it." You nodded at your cousin with a feigned smile before continuing. "The song is truly beautiful. You guys sound good together." You said that genuinely because even though you were a bit salty, you were not going to deny the obvious.

"Thanks cuz, it was really fun! Mike's pretty cool to be around.." Siedah beamed.

"Seems that way." You looked at your cousin. She grinned at you before walking up the staircase to grab her things. Returning to the couch, she placed the items in the empty space next to you. You watched her as she slipped her yellow blouse back over her black midriff and adjusted her locs in the process.

You hesitated to address the elephant in the room. It weighed on you, unsure if asking the question would change things between you and Siedah. You noticed Michael walking Quincy and Bruce out of the control room. It wasn't until you heard the door of the studio open and close that you saw an opportunity. "Can I ask you something?" you blurted out.

"Of course. Anything." Siedah reassured as she stood infront of you.

"Are you and Michael like...." you began, trailing off. "..together or something?"

Siedah busted out laughing, a little louder than she anticipated. "Girl, hell no!"

You looked at her like she had truly lost it. "You could've fooled me."

"Girl no, we're just friends. I know what it could've looked like but I promise you, it's nothing more than that."

"I don't know Sid, it really looked like you two had something going on." you said almost reluctantly.

"Y/N, we don't okay? Michael is just.. like that. I can't really explain it but when he's comfortable around people, he tends to get a little... overly friendly. He means nothing by it, I swear." Siedah explained as you continued to look at her.

You looked at her, confused. What does she mean by 'He means nothing by it.' You paused before asking, "Siedah, why are you telling me this?"

Siedah froze, looking like a deer in headlights and walked over to peep out the control room to make sure the coast was still clear. After a moment, she returned to you and grinned, "Michael likes you, Y/N."

You furrow your eyebrows at her. "Wait what?"

"Yeah. He kept asking me about you throughout the entire session. You didn't notice that man staring at you the entire time?" Your cousin asked bluntly.

The realization hit you like a ton of bricks. When Michael was looking through the glass window periodically, he wasn't looking at Quincy or Bruce. He was really looking at you.

"He was not." You said, looking at her in total disbelief.

"Yeah. He was. I kept trying to get him go in there where you were so he could ask you out, but he kept chickening out. I'd tease him about being a scaredy cat, and he'd just laugh it off. He may not seem like it, but he can be really shy at times."

You were truly caught off guard by this admission, hanging onto every word your cousin said as you sat on the couch. Siedah looked at you with a knowing smirk on her face.

"What?" you spat, shooting her a side-eye.

"I know why you wanted to know, Y/N." Siedah taunted you, folding her arms as she stares.

You roll your eyes at her, "You do not." you grin, amusement in your tone. Of course, she does. She's your cousin she knows you inside and out.

"I saw that look you in your eye when you meet him. You not foolin' nobody!" Siedah grinned. "You know you think that man is finee."

"Okay, whatever." You wave her off, despite her being correct.

"Uh huh, y'all would be cute together, cousinnn. I'm rooting for you." Siedah joked, throwing a playful wink your way. You couldn't help but laugh. After laughing with you, she continued, "Anyway, you ready to go?"

"Yeah, let me go to the restroom first then I'll be ready." You responded as you got up, watching her throw her purse over her shoulder.

"Mkay, imma head out. See you at the car?" Siedah questioned on her way out of the control room.

"Yeah, I'll be right on out." you responded as you walked out the control room with her.

The two of you parted ways. Siedah went straight for door to exit the studio while you continued on to use the bathroom conveniently placed next to the control room. Once inside, you sat there, processing everything you'd just heard. Michael Jackson is interested in YOU. It was something you honestly couldn't believe, but the longer you sat in there, the more you realized it might not be as far-fetched as it initially seemed.

After washing and drying your hands, you stepped out the bathroom and headed back to the control room to retrieve your purse. Just as you reached it, the studio door opened again.

You were in the middle of putting your purse strap around your shoulder when Michael walked back into the control room. The two of you silently stared at each other for a moment, the door closing breaking the silence.

"Oh h-hey.. I thought you left.." Michael spoke up, looking at you.

"I was about to. I came back in here to get my purse." you responded, resuming your motions as you adjusted the strap around your shoulder. He quietly nods in response. The room fell silent once again but the energy was different this time.

He put his hands in his pant pockets and leaned against the end corner of one of the pillars by the sound board. Behind those Ray-Bans, he was absolutely checking you out, he couldn't help himself.

Michael watched you walk away from the couch, heading towards him. He knew that you were about to leave. His mind was screaming at him to say something, to do anything, just to keep you in there with him— even if it was just for a few more minutes.

"So.. what did you think of the song?" Michael asked, breaking the silence once again. He had been waiting to hear your opinion all day.

You took the step up to be right at hip level next to the sound board, not too far from him now. "I liked it a lot, the song is really beautiful." you responded honestly.

Michael slinked off the pillar, he spoke smoothly, "And what if I think you're really beautiful?" he stepped forward closing the gap in between you, looking down at you. "What then?"

You felt your breath hitch at the sudden change in his demeanor. You were not expecting him to be so forward.

"I... I'd say you have great taste.." you responded while looking at him.

He chuckles a bit before licking his lips. "Well, I guess we both have great taste then.." he flirted with ease, tilted his head a bit while looking at you.

"I guess so." you grinned. "Where was all of this energy earlier?"

Michael returns your grin, "I guess I was just waitin' on the right moment." He takes off his glasses for you to see his beautiful dark brown eyes. "The moment feels right, wouldn't you agree?"

"I'm starting to think you might be right. So what's next, hm?" you ask him, a playful smirk etched on your lips.

"Well, that depends on you. What do you think should happen now?" Michael said with a charming smirk.

You stepped up to him, leaning forward to adjust the collar of his shirt, which was tucked into his varsity jacket. "Well, I think maybe you should do like my cousin said and ask me out." you retorted, maintained eye contact with him as you watched his cheeks turn red. He hadn't expected you to find out about that.

Michael grins wider before nodding impressively, "Okay.." He bites his lip while looking at you before continuing, "Let's make it official, how's Saturday night?"

"Saturday night it is." you grinned, smoothing your hands across his varsity jacket before stepping back, letting your hands fall.

Before you got too far from him, Michael caught a hold of your hand gently. "I'll be waiting, Miss Y/N.." he whispered as he brought your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss there.

You blushed as you watched him lower your hand. Slipping it out of his grasp, you clutched the strap of your purse and said softly, "Bye.."

Michael flashed his charming Jackson grin in your direction once more. "Bye." He watched you leave, his gaze lingering until you were out of sight.

[pursued-by-the-squid]

iv. cop out

pairing: gi-hun x gn!reader x in-ho

word count: 6.5k

ao3 | masterlist

1 Year Later, May 2024

“I have my final exam next week and no classes today, so I’m gonna be at the library for a while. Let me know when you want to do dinner.”

The voice message goes through with a little hum and a chirp, showing that it’s been delivered to Gi-hun before you have the chance to turn the screen off. You scan the apartment a few extra times, patting down your pockets and double checking your backpack for your charger because you are not doing a repeat of last week and leaving the study session early because your laptop died. While you’re at it, you snag a few bags of chips, some fruit, and refill your water bottle to keep you energized for the rest of the day.

Hefting your backpack onto one shoulder, you grab your keys and open the door, only to catch the tail end of a piece of paper as it flutters to the floor. Huh, it must have gotten caught in the door jamb. Knowing your luck, it’s probably an advertisement or some weird pastor coming to proselytize, so you have every intention of tossing it in the trash later. You nudge the paper with the toe of your shoe so it slips inside – it’s a later problem and you are very much trying not to be late for your bus – only to stop when you spot something familiar.

There are numbers on the back, a phone number, though you don’t recognize it. But there’s something about the typeface and the background they’re stamped on… Kneeling down to pick it up, you turn the card over in your hand and are instantly flooded with nostalgia of the worst kind. The businesswoman, the ddakji, Gi-hun in all his righteous anger. Three simple shapes shouldn’t have this much power over you, but the instant you see it, you’re awash with fear.

Trembling hands go scrambling for your phone. “Pick up, pick up, dammit.”

You dial a second time and he answers after only two rings. “[___]-?”

“It’s them,” you gasp, your throat raw from the effort of holding your screams in. “The ddakji people, t-the business card! I opened my door and there was a card jammed in there.”

Even from across the city, you can sense the change in Gi-hun’s mood. It permeates the air until it’s vibrating between the atoms separating you both. “Are you safe?”

A quick scan of the surrounding hallway confirms that you are alone. “I’m okay. I’m still at my apartment, I haven’t left yet.”

“Lock your door and stay inside until I get there.”

“Okay,” you nod, already dragging yourself to your feet to follow his instructions. “D’you want me to–”

“Listen to me,” he grits out, and it’s achingly familiar to the night he had first come to your apartment, all his hardened edges and quiet desperation. “Grab whatever you need – clothes, homework, anything. Just be ready to go when I get there.”

Your breath stutters in your chest for a second. “Ready for what? What are you talking about?” As if you don’t already have an inkling nudging at the back of your mind, as if this is all just a bad dream that you can talk yourself out of.

“I’m getting you out of there.”

It should have been me.

But he was the one who put you in harm’s way, wasn’t he? Thinking he could swoop in and save you from a life of poverty and misery, patting himself on the back all the while because he had done a good deed. He had done what Oh Il-nam could not and helped someone who couldn’t help themselves.

The tires lose their traction for a few moments, accompanied with the high-pitched scream of the brakes when he slams on them. He very nearly takes out a street sign and another vehicle, but he doesn’t. Neither does he care. There is only one thing in the forefront of Gi-hun’s mind and until he sees you with his own eyes, safe and unharmed, he will not rest. He can’t. Because it should have been him.

He barges into your apartment minutes later with his pistol drawn, his heart slamming itself against his ribcage, his throat so tightly constricted that he thinks he might actively be choking, and your name is already breaching his lips.

“What are you doing?” he hears you screech. Immediately drawn to the sound, he turns his head, searching and searching until finally he sees you, curled up into a ball on your sofa with your things gathered around you just as he’d asked.

You had said that the apartment was empty, that there was no way anyone could have gotten inside while you were sleeping, and he knows that’s probably true. He trusts you’ve been using all the proper safety precautions. But that doesn’t change the facts – you are not safe and you never have been.

“Where is it?” he demands, already stuffing the pistol into his coat pocket as he surges toward you, but you cower before him. You’re afraid of him. You don’t know, you don’t understand, not yet, and he doesn’t have time to explain it to you. “The card, [___].”

“I-I tore it up,” you stammer. Your eyes are wide and wild and so painfully afraid, and it guts Gi-hun to the bone. “It’s in the trash–”

His fingers close around your wrist and pull. “Good. We need to go.”

And while you do stand at his beckoning, you don’t allow him to pull you further. Your feet dig into the carpet until you’re able to tear yourself free, and Gi-hun wishes that you would’ve chosen any other time to fight him, any other place except here and now.

“[___]–”

“You’re scaring me.” And he can see when he looks in your eyes that you mean it with every fiber of your being. “Why do you have a gun?”

Because the only power these monsters respect is the power of a bullet. But you don’t even know what kind of monsters you’re running from, do you? He never told you.

He never wanted to.

Gi-hun swallows the despair lodged in his throat. “I’m trying to keep you safe.”

Your eyes flicker from his face to the ominous swell of fabric in his pocket, the gun that presses into his hipbone. “Okay. So, why do you have a gun.” This time, it isn’t a question.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” You don’t actually think he’s capable of that, do you?

“I… I didn’t think you were,” you answer, but he can see the uncertainty on your face, tainting your trust until it grows murky like blood in the bath water. “But you can’t just run into someone’s apartment with a gun in your hands. What if someone saw you?”

His teeth grind painfully together when he grimaces. You have so many questions, and you have a right to each of them, but now is not the time! “It’s alright. I’ll explain in the car, yes?” Your hesitation is reasonable, he has to remind himself. He can’t blame you for it. But oh, how badly he wants to shake you, how badly he wants to drill into your skull that every minute of hesitation is another mark on your death warrant. “Now, [___].”

He doesn’t let his shoulders unwind from around his ears until after he has you in the car, your bags stuffed into the back seat and the boot, your apartment far, far behind the both of you. You don’t look at him and Gi-hun tells himself, pretends, that it doesn’t bother him. You don’t understand yet, but you will. He’ll take you to the motel and tuck you into a room where you’re safe from the recruiters, from the game runners, from the world, and he will make you understand why this is so important, why you have to trust him.

Your head tips back when he pulls to a stop in front of the motel. Your confusion is as blatant as your uncertainty, both growing steadier and stronger with every passing moment. “What is this place?”

He shoulders one of your bags, a reusable canvas tote overflowing with clothes. One leg of your favorite trousers, the dark ones you always wear when it’s cold, is hanging over the side between the loops of the handle. It slaps harmlessly against his ribs when he walks.

“Pink Motel,” he offers. The gesture feels as useless as he does.

You furrow your brows at him and finally, he sees a glimmer of something other than fear in your eyes. He’s not terribly fond of you being angry with him, but he supposes it’s better than the alternative. Like your tear-stained face or your bloodied, lifeless body.

“Yeah, I see that.”

The padlock on the front doors clicks open. He decidedly doesn’t notice how your movements suddenly still when the security chains shudder and clank against the metal, heavy in his hands and even heavier in his heart.

“I just mean… why are we here?” The midday sun casts a shadow on your face. He tries not to notice that too. “How is this safer than my place?”

If he didn’t feel so guilty about being the reason you’re in danger in the first place, Gi-hun might have found it in himself to smile. He doesn’t, of course, but he thinks about it. Because there is some twisted piece of him that festers deep within the rotting cavern of his ribcage and it delights in knowing, in protecting, in providing, even in circumstances such as these.

He offers you his hand to help you up the single step. “I live here.”

“You don’t have an apartment?” You’re trying so hard not to sound surprised and to instead be polite about asking.

He guides you through the empty lobby, across dusty floors and rubbish leftover from an unfinished renovation, to the elevator, his hand hovering over your back. Not quite touching except in the spaces between moments when he thinks he can get away with it.

“The motel is mine,” he says, waiting until the elevator doors close to do so. He stares at the floor numbers, watching them tick by like seconds counting up, like money pouring into a display case, and he reminds himself to breathe. “I’ve been searching for the recruiters from here, keeping track of things.” Keeping track of you, too. Another fraying thread in the tapestry he has tried to weave out of bloodstained won and bullet casings.

“How long?” It seems a strange thing to ask until he realizes what you’re really wondering – how long has he been living out of an empty building where the lights rarely come on and no one is allowed entry except by the virtue of their discretion?

Since I met you. “A few years.”

Your knuckles tighten around the straps of your backpack. “Why?”

The elevator dings. The doors open to reveal a long hallway, painted in shades of pink and maroon and almost-black, dimly lit, and he suddenly realizes how just miserable he’s made his life. He hadn’t thought much of it before. But that changes the instant the light hits your face.

You don’t belong in a place like this. For as long as he has known you, Gi-hun has seen only hope and vitality in your eyes. You are the very thing he’s fighting for, the part of the world that he wants so desperately to protect from the predators running the Games. Bringing you here dampens that light. The illumination is cold and the walls are barren – a far cry from the warmth and welcome of your cozy apartment.

There’s no hope for a rundown old motel with no lights on inside, he thinks, with no guests to keep it warm, no hospitality to speak of beyond a few worn mattresses, a single functioning bathroom, and an entire armory tucked into the cracking walls. Yet this is all he can give. This is the only thing he can offer you.

It has to be enough. It will be.

“Sit,” he says, though he doesn’t even give you the time to respond. He grips you by the shoulders and directs you to the edge of his bed, pushing you down until your legs give way and the mattress accepts you with an undignified squeak.

“Gi-hun–”

He stops you with a raised hand, palm out and definitely not shaking. Not at all. “Do you remember what I told you about the recruiters?”

There’s a lump in your throat that bobs when you swallow and it makes Gi-hun feel uncomfortably warm, so he distracts himself, allowing you both the distance to think. The wooden chair by the coffee table is pulled out so he can sit across from you. His fingers curl around the slope of his knees while he waits.

The red glow behind the frosted glass of his only window casts a strange sort of halo around you from behind. “You said they were dangerous. That you were tracking them or something, right?”

He nods. “Yes. Them, and the people that they work for.”

“What kind of people do they work for?” The light from the bathroom, a faint yellow-orange, glints in the depths of your pupils. Like starlight, perhaps, or fire. Or the glow of a plexiglass pig, half-full with stacks of won and shining obnoxiously in the back of his mind whenever he sleeps.

Squeezing his eyes shut is the only thing he can do to keep from screaming.

“The recruiter I met was different. A man.” Tall and broad shouldered. He had smiled once or twice, in a way that wasn’t entirely threatening, but then he’d seen him after the airport. Then the smile had changed. “They approach people in need of money. Gamblers, fraudsters, unemployables – the vulnerable. They let you play a bit of ddakji, let the money sit in your pocket, and then they give you a card and tell you to call the number you see. That you can play even more games for even more money.”

If only he’d known then what he knows now.

“All that card will bring you, [___], is death.” He can feel it still – the blood on his hands, the marbles in his palm, the glass beneath his bare feet. And he can see them all, even with his eyes wide open. “They take you somewhere no one can find you and they make you kill other people for money. Every death is worth something. Every life is a dollar amount.”

Sang-woo’s face swims before him, filling the space that your body takes up in his vision. The knife in his throat, the rain in his face, the pain – the pain. That could have been you. If he’d never stepped in to save you from your own debts and student loans, would the recruiters have found you? Would you have found yourself trapped inside those arenas as he once was? Would you have died alone and afraid?

“I watched 455 people die before my eyes. My friend… My friend killed himself. He almost killed me.” He killed Sae-byok. Ali. The glassmaker. And perhaps, if you had been there, Sang-woo would have killed you too. He’s grateful that he’ll never have the chance to prove himself right or wrong. “I won’t let the same thing happen to you.”

Silence hangs between you for a long few minutes, thick enough to suffocate. In your eyes, Gi-hun sees the same horror he had once felt reflected back at him. You’re doubtful, of course, wary. He understands it. That had been him too, three and a half years ago.

He takes your hand in his, the one that’s been clutching at your bag like it’s the only lifeline you have left, and he smooths his thumb over the bones that shift beneath your skin. “I am trying to stop the Games. That’s why I live here, why I track the recruiters, why I told you that it was safer not to know me at all. I was afraid they would hurt you.” They haven’t yet, but tracking you to your apartment and shoving a recruitment card into your door jamb is a step too far. “But I can protect you here, [___]. Do you understand?”

You don’t respond and Gi-hun doesn’t like that. You can be quiet sometimes, yes, but rarely ever with him. He doesn’t want you quiet. He wants you alive, he wants you curious and clever like you always are.

He squeezes your hand and ducks his head down to catch your drifting eyes. “[___].”

Trust me.

Your head shakes after a moment, your expression distant in all the wrong ways. “I-I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you understand.” Say you trust me. Because he’s doing this for you. Don’t you trust me?

Long eyelashes flutter in Gi-hun’s shadow as he leans in, his silhouette falling across your face. “I’m trying to.”

He tries so hard to make his space comfortable for you, the effort is clearly carved into every line on his face. He gives you his room. He lays out the cleanest sheets and blanket that he has – you’re at least 75% sure they’ve been washed within the last month – and carries the rest of your things in from the car. He switches his pillow out for yours, though the difference in theme and color between your bedding and his is enough to make both of you laugh, and that is blessing enough. He crawls behind the bedframe to plug your charger into the wall. He encourages you to arrange the bathroom to your liking and swears that no matter how desperate he is, he won’t wake you in the middle of the night if he has to take a leak.

He tries and you love him dearly for it, but it’s impossible to turn this place into a home when it feels like the entire world is falling out from under your feet. You lay in a strange bed that night, your mind ablaze with images of ddakji games and bodies scattered in a formless void. You picture a faceless man, his unnamed friend, bleeding out and Gi-hun crying, screaming for help. You picture greed and rage mixing until they become indistinguishable from one another, and then you think of the man you’ve come to know these past few years, and you find the broken pieces of his kind heart and anxious mind suddenly come into focus.

455 people. How could such mindless death go unnoticed by the police? 455 people all worth a handful of cash. You’re not even sure how much money could go into such a thing, but if the cash flow Gi-hun has been supplying you with is anything to go by, it’s a lot. Hundreds of millions of won worth, maybe even more. And anyone with the power and money to design modern day gladiator games of that scale would surely be able to bribe whichever police department or federal jurisdiction they pleased.

And Gi-hun wants to stop it all.

It’s hard to imagine Gi-hun stopping much of anything apart from a crying college student in a back alley on Christmas night. But then, you’ve never seen him hold a gun before today. The gun changes things. So does the calling card.

You turn over onto your side, placing the expanse of the room behind you so you can stare at the red glow emanating from the other side of the window. You try very hard not to think about the blood of 455 lives. Instead, you focus on the things you can feel, the things you can sense, the things you know to be true beyond a shadow of a doubt.

You are alive. You are as safe as you can be, for the time being. You are in a strange place and a strange bed. It smells faintly of Gi-hun. You don’t usually like the smell of sweat and stale cologne, but in the midst of such uncertainty, you find that the familiarity of his scent is soothing. Pleasant, even. If you close your eyes, you can almost pretend he’s in bed with you. Not that you would ever want to, of course, because that would be weird, but is it so wrong to crave the comfort of an arm around your shoulders or the warmth of another soul after the day you’ve had?

You’re in the middle of trying to decide whether or not you should be chastising yourself when your phone buzzes. Glancing over your shoulder, you just catch the tail end of a name in your notifications before the screen goes dark again, and your heart leaps into your throat.

Rolling over onto your opposite side, you unlock the screen and read through the text. ‘Missed you for coffee earlier. Everything alright?’

Shit. You were so distracted by the business card and Gi-hun coming to whisk you away that you hadn’t even thought to warn Young-il that you weren’t coming. ‘Sorry, had a bit of an emergency at home. I hope I didn’t make you wait too long??’

‘Not at all.’

Your phone vibrates again a moment later, and you curse yourself for the way your face flushes and your pulse quickens. He’s just being polite, that’s the only reason he’s asking. That’s all this has ever been – polite – and truthfully, you’re not even sure you want it to be more than that, but sometimes his attentiveness makes you feel a bit gooey inside. He has this uncanny ability of always sensing when you’re upset and knowing exactly how to make you feel better… It’s endearing, to say the least, and a welcome distraction.

‘I’m okay, promise.’ You pause for a moment to find a believable excuse, Gi-hun’s earlier warning not to tell any of your friends about your temporary relocation ringing in your ears. ‘Family drama, you know how it is. I’m really sorry I ditched you though :(’

‘Will I see you tomorrow?’

The words turn over and over in your mind until the screen finally goes dark. He wants to see you – to make up for the lost time? To check on you? Yes, you want to say. I don’t want to be trapped in here like a rabbit in a cage. But then you think of the card wedged into your doorframe and the gun in Gi-hun’s hand, and you think of the 455 lives lost so that he might live, and you think that maybe the outside world can wait one more day.

‘Probably not, unfortunately. Next week might be better.’ Next week, you might have the courage to go outside without fearing for your life, among other things.

Young-il’s response warms your heart more than it probably should. ‘Keep me updated. If there’s anything I can do to help, please tell me.’

Well unless he can magic away the impending threat of a series of death games, there’s not much he can do to help you. The thought is still appreciated.

You sleep fitfully, waking every couple of hours in a dead sweat, heart racing, and terror in your bones. There’s so much you don’t understand. Too many unknowns crowd your mind and leave you restless, shaky, and paranoid. Did Gi-hun kill people? He must have in order to make it out of those games alive. Does he feel guilty for it? Is that why he chose you, to atone somehow? Old anxieties from the first year of your friendship are starting to creep back in, tinted in shades of violence. You trust Gi-hun, really you do, but the gun, the padlocked motel, the wall of security cameras blinking at you from across the room – none of it inspires any confidence.

Normal people don’t do this kind of thing. Normal people don’t burst into your apartment with a pistol in hand and wild, blazing eyes. Normal people don’t stalk strangers in business attire. Normal people make you feel safe, they take you out for coffee and smile when you crack a joke.

But perhaps you lost the right to normality the day you decided to accept several thousand won and a phone number from a stranger.

It’s been years since he last shared his bed with anyone. There was the occasional winter night where it was too cold to sleep alone and he’d crawled under the blanket beside his mother, huddled together in their shared apartment like children. Before that, he’d shared a bed with his wife. Sometimes Ga-yeong would climb in to sleep between them and he’d soothe his hand over her face, chasing her nightmares away with promises of her favorite dumplings and a bad scolding for the monsters in her closet.

After the Games, it was a concept that made little sense in the context of his new normal. He knew he would never share his bed, let alone his life, with another soul for however long he managed to stumble through this mortal coil. So sharing a bed with you is… difficult. Strange. Not that he is truly sharing the bed with you – it’s yours now, for as long as you’re here, but the memory of that bed is all him. His sweat and tears have stained its fabric for years now. The ashes from a few of his cigarettes have burned spots into the edges. His dreams have overpowered him in that bed. His anger, his fears, his carefully constructed plans all formulated on that bed. And now you’re sleeping on it, unconsciously sharing every piece of him that has soaked into the mattress.

Some invisible hand squeezes around his heart. The sudden need to shift the waistband of his trousers confuses him, but he’s careful to turn his back when he does. The last thing he needs is for you to wake up and catch him doing something inappropriate while you sleep. Not that he’s actually doing something wrong, because he’s not. It’s muscle memory, he tells himself. A remnant of a life he can no longer live come back to haunt him at the most inopportune of moments and nothing more.

He takes the opportunity to study the security cameras, as had been his original intent, and is pleased to see that everything looks normal. No pink soldiers laden with guns, no game runner and no sleek limo parked out front. No recruiters breaking the door down to get at you.

Gi-hun sighs. He’s content to have you under his eye because it means he can keep you safe, but it comes with a price he’s hesitant to pay. The recruiters are still out there. Jeong-rae is a capable man, of that he has no doubt, but paranoia prickles at the base of his skull when he isn’t out on the front lines himself.

But he can’t just leave you here. Locking the front doors wouldn’t be enough to convince him that you would be safe in his absence and he isn’t about to padlock you in like a prisoner. He can’t give you a gun, either, not yet. He’s not even sure you know how to use one and you may not want to learn.

Then he remembers you sitting in the car yesterday, your backpack clutched against your chest, your face pinched with confusion. He swallows the pressure rising in his throat. He could always take you with him. He isn’t terribly fond of welcoming you into his world because it’s not meant for someone like you, that’s the entire reason why he’s kept you at arm’s length for so long, but the longer he ponders, the more he realizes that a compromise needs to be reached. The recruiters are his priority, but so are you. Can he truly manage both?

“I want to show you what I do,” he says when he extends the offer some hours later, already far beyond his usual starting time. He hadn’t had the heart to wake you any sooner. The offer is also the most blatant lie he’s ever told you. It’s the very last thing he wants to do, but he knows that making you choose between glorified house arrest and a chaperoned car ride isn’t going to endear him to you. “So you can understand.”

Your responding frown is remarkably unencouraging. “Is it dangerous?”

“No,” he lies. The handgun tucked into the back of his waistband burns against his spine.

This time your face shifts and it makes something in Gi-hun’s stomach twist. “Do I have a choice?”

“You are not a prisoner here,” he says, and that, at least, is true. He would never force you into anything you didn’t want. If it came down to your safety, though, he thinks he might be inclined to be more persuasive than he usually is. He doesn’t want to think about that, but the potential of your betrayal lingers in his head and his heart. “I’m sorry if I made you think that you were.”

How he wishes he could turn back the clock and do things over. He wouldn’t have rushed you with a gun in his hands. He wouldn’t have frightened you. He would have made sure none of this ever happened. Until he learns to bend the shape of reality to his will, however, he will settle for this – your hand within his, warm and pliant and safe.

It takes you a few minutes to come out of your shell, but Gi-hun is grateful for the effort. He’s unaccustomed to your shyness. He much prefers you when you’re like this – asking questions, eyes alight with curiosity, daring to smile in the moments when you think he can’t see.

“Four cell phones is a lot, you know. I really think you just need one.”

Gi-hun feels the corner of his mouth twitch. “I’m trying to be thorough.” He flicks the ash off his cigarette and watches it catch on the wind for a moment before taking a long drag.

“Thorough is… certainly a word.”

You think he’s obsessed. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that out and maybe you aren’t wrong. Maybe this stopped being a mission a long time ago and it’s turned into something more severe.

He flicks his cigarette again.

An obsession. A gamble, even. Perhaps so, but it’s a gamble he’s willing to take if it means he can sleep at night, if it means that you and every other vulnerable person walking the streets of Korea are safe.

“So… you do this every day?” There’s a notable vulnerability to your voice, like you’re hesitant to ask and even more hesitant to know the answer.

“Most days,” he nods.

“And you haven’t found them yet?”

Ironic, isn’t it? The recruiters always seem able to find him at their leisure, but Gi-hun can pour millions and millions of won into his search and still turn up empty handed after two and a half fucking years.

He scans the five screens displayed across his dash, checks and double checks each chat box, surveys the map of the subway system that he’s sure, by now, is burned into his retinas. Nothing. Time is running out and still, there’s nothing. If you hadn’t awakened to find a business card stuffed into your door, he might almost think that the Games have ended. Too little funding, maybe, or too few players, but he knows that’s a fool’s hope. The Games are alive and he has to put a stop to it.

“What will you do when you find them? The recruiters, I mean.” Your foot taps lightly on the belly of the car.

Honestly? He isn’t entirely certain. Sometimes he fantasizes about drawing blood – one life in exchange for the 455 lost. Sometimes he thinks he’ll use them as a hostage. He could get the game runner’s attention and demand something. Sometimes he thinks about meeting his recruiter on the squid game field, defeating the man who had doomed Gi-hun to either a brief existence or a tortured one, and finally exacting his revenge.

Right now, though, he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t even know if there’s a point in hoping or fighting anymore.

“I want to find the ones responsible for the Games,” he says finally. Smoke burns in his lungs and the sun warms his skin until he’s sweating, and he’s glad for it because it means this indecisive, in-between existence isn’t some kind of waking nightmare. “I’m going to put a stop to this, one way or the other. And their recruiters are the only way I know how.”

You can’t seem to find anything to say to that, and Gi-hun doesn’t know what more he can add that hasn’t already been uttered. Silence settles between you, uneasy perhaps, but not entirely unwelcome. It allows Gi-hun the chance to think, to plan and plot and strategize. With you by his side, no matter how temporary, he finds that the drive to continue fighting comes a bit easier. The memories don’t weigh on him so heavily.

He will find them. It’s no longer a question of if or when. If it takes the rest of his life, he will fight to uncover the corruption and the greed and the sick, twisted desires of men far less tortured than he is. And until that day comes, Gi-hun is going to protect you. He’ll even teach you how to protect yourself so that when he dies with a bullet in his brain, you can keep fighting for all the things he sees in you, all the light you bring to his windowless world.

“Like this,” he instructs, twisting his arms so you can see the shape of his hands and the gun nestled between them. “Keep your finger on the outside of the trigger. If you keep it inside, you might fire before you’re ready and hurt yourself.” He’d learned that lesson the hard way when he almost shot his own foot off about a year ago.

Your mouth is twisted in concentration, your eyes laser focused on his hands as you attempt to copy his position. Your trigger finger carefully shifts and then the butt of the gun is readjusted so it fits more snugly in your palm.

Gi-hun nods approvingly. “Good. How does it feel?”

“Heavy.”

His chest tightens. “Too heavy?”

“No. It’s just different, is all.” The light glances off the cool, matte black exterior as you tilt your hands one way, then the other. “I thought it’d be lighter.”

You’re probably fine – in fact, he knows that you are, but he can’t help the spike of anxiety, the burning need to make things perfect for you, easy for you. “There are smaller ones,” he says as he drops his weapon, already turning his attention to the makeshift arsenal and the array of pistols, revolvers, and derringers on the wall.

You shake your head as he passes. “I’m okay.”

A derringer might be better suited for you. It’s much lighter than the pistol already in your hand, so the recoil won’t be as intense.

“Gi-hun. Gi–”

He steps back into the bathroom, toggling the light switch as he surveys the variants. Which one would fit in your hands just right? The derringers are small, yes, but he worries they won’t be powerful enough to stop an advancing attack. A revolver instead, then. He’s just about to pick one when he hears your gun go off.

His blood runs cold, then violently hot. He damn near trips over himself, nearly throwing himself through the wall, in his rush to find you, too preoccupied with the thought of you hurting yourself because you were too impatient and too stubborn to wait for him, too preoccupied to think of anything more than the gush of your blood and the panic in your eyes.

He sees the smoke trailing from the mouth of your gun, then the slight wobble of your hands. He calls your name, and then you fire three more rounds, each one carefully aimed and measured between by the steady rise and fall of your chest.

Four shots in total. Two of them made it onto the target and close enough to the center of each shape that Gi-hun might have been mildly impressed were he not already struggling to breathe. You, on the other hand, are elated. It’s clear in the way your shoulders unwind and your chin tilts up, how your eyes flicker excitedly in his direction.

“Can I try again?” you ask, and he’s bowed over by the weight of your breathless enthusiasm.

In the years he’s known you, not once could Gi-hun have ever guessed you might actually enjoy this. But you do. With every round fired, your aim grows sharper and your confidence stronger. Pride settles within your chest and flares out across your shoulders. He has to correct you a couple times – “feet like this,” he’ll urge you with a quick demonstration; “shoulders back,” he murmurs, tapping you lightly on the upper curve of your arm ��� but you take to each direction with a nod or a hum and you transfer it into a hundred rounds buried in the splinters of the far wall. He's never been prouder in his life.

It becomes a new habit, even after you’ve convinced him to return you to your apartment and your scent has faded from his bed. You go about your life, doing whatever it is young people like you do in the summers between courses, and he goes about his, tracking a man who doesn’t want to be found, but the weekends are yours and his. He picks you up in the morning (or early afternoon, more often than not), buys you a cheap cup of ramyeon from the corner store, and drives you to the motel so you can practice your aim.

He doesn’t have to keep correcting you by this point, but he still does sometimes. He likes being close to you, likes watching the way your hair shines in the light and your jaw sets in determination, how your body stills when he touches you. He likes it so much that he thinks about it when he can’t sleep (which is most nights), or when he’s out on his watch and can’t focus (which is most days now), or when he studies the photos Jeong-rae sends him each week to confirm that you are, in fact, alive and safe within the walls of your apartment.

For so long he had feared tainting you, carving your kindness from your bones if he so much as looked at you and you caught a glimpse of all the death that hides behind his eyes. What would happen to the too-trusting and unassuming college student he met on the street, crying to an alley cat about your troubles, if he let you see the misery that’s been eating him alive? The violence?

But you aren’t tainted. It’s strange to say it, but Gi-hun thinks he might actually prefer the person you’ve become. Fear doesn’t come to you as readily. You still won’t accept any weapons from him, and he still hesitates to offer them, but you’ve become familiar enough with their presence to no longer worry over what-if’s and might-be’s.

So no, he hasn’t tainted you. Perhaps he has somehow managed to make you stronger. And perhaps he can learn to be okay with that.

[suiana]

Hiiiii :3

I just bing read all of your stuff and to be honest, the student council president totally has my heart <33

Like, omg?? Imagine having the top student at your school wrapped around your finger?? The idea makes me so happy. Like, i can imagine if you start/ are in a club he'd probably give whatever funding you asked for (but idk if he would be too jealous to let you be in one tho, he might make it disband to have you all to himself. Or not! Lemme know what you think)

also i luv your work, im so excited to see what you write this year 💛💛💛

(yandere! student council president x gn! club leader reader)

"man there's no one coming..."

"then i suppose i am simply invisible, hm?"

you sigh, turning your head to stare at the student council president beside you. his face displays a gentle smile, but you know it is nothing more than a facade.

"you're different. you follow me around everywhere."

you mumble, groaning as you bury your face in your arms. that's right, he did follow you around wherever you went. said something like how he needs to keep an eye on you or something...

seriously, he might've been the reason your club has no people now! you know how scary he can get towards others. but he wouldn't do that, right? he's not that crazy... plus he's the one who approved of your club in the first place! he wouldn't do something like that! erm actually ☝️🤓

"yeah but that's only because i need to make sure that you're safe..."

he hums, caressing the back of your head with a tender hand. you only grumble in response to his words, finding no comfort in his touch.

after all, your club was on the verge of disbandment just a month after it got approved. initially, the club had lots of members, all coming to each club session. but as the weeks went by the numbers slowly dwindled and now you're left with no one. well, apart from the damned student council president of course.

you had always wanted a club. but now that you had one it was on the verge of disbanding? how could you feel happy?

"ugh safe from what? there's literally no one around me to even talk to now..."

"hm..."

he hums while watching you grumble to yourself, resisting the urge to smile. why? because it was precisely his plan to isolate you from others. but he wouldn't want to do it in such an obvious way, no not at all! you'd hate him!

instead he played the long game, agreeing to your silly little idea of starting your own club. at first he didn't want to agree. why start your own club when you could join him? you could be like, his honorary assistant or something. besides, being around others would only poison you. they're filthy pests.

but then he saw the way your eyes twinkled at the very idea of having your own club and... he decided to indulge you a little. you were just way too cute to reject!

he had expected maybe one or two people to be interested in your club but who would've known that your idea would've interested half of the school population? he was horrified. he could tolerate a small group of friends but half the school cohort?

so he did what any reasonable person would do and... slowly destroyed your club. come on, what else could a man in love do when his love was being threatened? of course he had to get rid of the competition. you could've fallen for one of your club members if he had just stood by and allowed such treachery to occur!

threatening your club members, forcing them to quit... it was all necessary to ensure you'd never leave him. not like you'd ever want to leave him anyway. he made sure you wouldn't have any hard evidence of him doing anything to threaten your club.

i mean, he's nice and sweet, isn't he? he allowed you to start a club, joined each and every one of your sessions, and even helped you advertise your club! how could you ever hate him?

really, he's just a nice president who's a little bit touchy, is all :) he's doing all this to protect you! so when will you realize that the presence of other people will do you no good?

[tavolgisvist]

Paul and drums

Our kid was first in a group with John called Quarrymen, and apparently, I’d forgotten the set of drums fell off the back of a lorry, as we say in Liverpool, and landed up in our house. So I was learning drums, and one of the Quarrymen came back and said, ‘I remember you’re coming down the house, and it was great when you played drums for us.’ I said, ‘Did I?’ I’d totally forgotten. But then I realized why I forgot. It’s because I broke my arm in a scout camp, and this hand dropped. It was dead, paralyzed. So it took several years to get it back, and at that time, those drums that I was learning on, first of all, my brother, no wonder the drums on the band on the road are good. That’s where he learned it from my drums. But I couldn’t play anything then. So I’d forgotten that I was even the drummer, and Ringo got the job.

(Mike McCartney)

Mersey Beat Founder and Editor, Bill Harry wrote a guest column for Beatle Fan Magazine in 2019. He stated “For their August 7, 1961 gig, the Litherland Town Hall classified advertisement in the Liverpool Echo carried the message: ‘Hear Pete Best Sing Tonight.’ Best had been talked into performing the song “Pinwheel Twist,” which Paul had written for him to sing. Pete recalled in a conversation with Spencer Leigh: ‘Paul wrote the song and asked me to do it. He coupled it with Joey Dee’s hit “The Peppermint Twist.’ I used to get up and do the twist onstage and Paul played my drums. It was a little novelty act and it went down well with the fans. When The Beatles performed it, Paul took over on drums, George played Paul’s left-handed bass right-handed and Pete sang.”

(Source)

I used to get on Pete’s case a bit. He’d often stay out all night. He got to know a stripper and they were boyfriend and girlfriend. She didn’t finish work until four in the morning, so he’d stay up with her and roll back at about ten in the morning and be going to bed when we were starting work…

(Paul McCartney, Anthology, 2001)

In Hamburg, one week Tony Sheridan’s drummer got sick, and I drummed for him, for the extra cash, for a week . . . I can hold quite a good beat.

(The McCartney Legacy Volume 1. 1969-73 by Allan Kozinn and Adrian Sinclair)

Q: When did you first play drums? A: My first recollection is in Hamburg. You’d get behind the kit to try and show the drummer what you wanted. That gradually grew to messing around on other people’s kits, which were lying around because there were a lot of groups playing in the places we played. You picked up the simplest beats very naturally. I remember one evening when Tony Sheridan’s drummer didn’t show up, so Tony said, “Come on, man, sit in!” I said, “No way! I can’t do this.” And he said, “Yeah, you can.” So I did it and then I was thinking, “Well! I’ve actually done a professional drumming gig!” Later, with The Beatles, there was a period where John, George, and I operated as a trio and picked up little bits of work. I remember playing in an illegal club in somebody’s basement on Upper Parliament Street in Liverpool’s Caribbean Quarter. One day this guy called Lord Woodbine, who ran the club, asked if we’d come in and accompany this stripper called Janine. We said, “Wow! Yeah, man! There’s a job.” He even paid us money. Q: It sounds like you would have paid him for that gig. A: Exactly [laughs]. So she came in and said, “Okay, I need you to play Ravel’s Bolero.” We said, “Oh, gee. Sorry, luv. We don’t read music. But we’ve got ’Raunchy.’ That might do.” I had somebody’s old drum kit, and I sat there with a broomstick between my legs, with a microphone tied to it so I could do a bit of vocals and drum at the same time. It was hilarious.

(Paul McCartney, interview with Robert L. Doerschuk for Drum!Magazine, 2005)

“Sometimes after a lunchtime session in the Cavern, we would spend the afternoon in the Mandolin Club in Toxteth. Paul was showing Pete the drum pattern that he wanted on a particular song. Pete tried to do it but he didn’t get it. He did argue quite a bit with Pete, and Paul was a frustrated drummer, which is unusual as so many drummers are frustrated front-liners. He always made for the drums on jam sessions at the Blue Angel – Gerry Marsden would be singing and Wally Shepherd would be playing guitar.”

(Ritchie Galvin in Best of the Beatles: The sacking of Pete Best by Spencer Leigh, 2015)

Q: When Ringo joined the band, that must have interrupted your emerging career on drums. A: Yeah, I was completely redundant. We loved Ringo so much. He was our favorite drummer in Liverpool, and when he joined the band, it was an explosion: Every song sounded new and fresh. He could pass what we felt was the true test for drummers, which was to be able to play “What’d I Say” — the cymbal work and the toms.

(Paul McCartney, interview with Robert L. Doerschuk for Drum!Magazine, 2005)

We did do a few little bits and pieces together before we all went our separate ways. John and I and Yoko did ‘The Ballad of John and Yoko’. He enlisted me for that because he knew it was a great way to make a record. ‘We’ll go round to Abbey Road Studios. Who lives near there? Paul. Who’s going to drum on this record? Paul. Who can play bass? Paul. And who’ll do it if I ask him nicely? Paul.’ He wasn’t at all sheepish about asking. He probably said something like, ‘Oh, I’ve got this song I want to record. Would you come round?’ And I probably said, ‘Yeah, why not?’

(Paul McCartney, The Lyrics, 2021, about Dear Friend)

Steve Miller happened to be there recording, late at night, and he just breezed in. ‘Hey, what’s happening, man? Can I use the studio?’ ‘Yeah!’ I said. ‘Can I drum for you? I just had a fucking unholy argument with the guys there.’ I explained it to him, took ten minutes to get it off my chest. So I did a track, he and I stayed that night and did a track of his called My Dark Hour. I thrashed everything out on the drums. There’s a surfeit of aggressive drum fills, that’s all I can say about that. We stayed up until late. I played bass, guitar and drums and sang backing vocals. It’s actually a pretty good track. It was a very strange time in my life and I swear I got my first grey hairs that month. I saw them appearing. I looked in the mirror, I thought, I can see you. You’re all coming now. Welcome.

(Paul McCartney in Many Years From Now by Barry Miles, 1997)

I really had to ask myself, “Do I want to give up music, or keep going?” I got a four-track Studer recording machine, like the Beatles used for Sgt. Pepper, put it in the corner of the living-room at my house in London and tried a very simple technique of just plugging directly into the back, not going through a mixing desk. It’s a cool way to record because it’s pure. If, say, I was doing a drum track, I’d play the drums, record it with one microphone, listen to it back, move the mike a little if there wasn’t enough hi-hat or cymbal, and then re-record. Then I’d add bass by plugging the mike into track two and overdubbing while listening to track one through headphones. I’d do that with all with four tracks. It was very hands-on, primitive way of working. <…> It was funky, and still sounds good to me.

(Paul McCartney, “Wingspan” documentary, 2001)

We did not see Ringo until the next night when he arrived at the session. He walked in and went straight to his drums…fiddled with them, then fiddled with them some more. “Somebody did something to my snare drum,” he said irritably. “Paul was here last night. He played them,” explained John. “He’s always fucking around with me things!” It sounded as though Ringo were back in Liverpool and all of them were still teenagers and nothing in their lives had changed. I realized then, that no matter what might happen among them, this was the way they would always relate to each other.

(May Pang, Loving John, 1983)

(Krla Beat, pic by lisamarie-vee)

So, I got into my studio in Scotland and started working, doing the drum track. I normally start with the drums. I sometimes use drum machines, but I like to redo it with real drums. I enjoy drumming. Then I put some bass on it. I was just doing an experimental thing. I was messing around and experimenting. Slowing down tapes, or speeding them up.

(Paul McCartney, The Lyrics, 2021, about Coming Up)

Paul and I were in England, having dinner together [along with our wives]. I told him I was making an EP, and I said, “Why don’t you write me a song?” He wrote the song [Feeling the Sunlight] and put bass on it, he put piano, he put the drums on — and I had to take the drums off. [Laughs.]

(Ringo Starr, interview with Rob Tannenbaum for AARP, Nov 2023)

George was the first one to make a solo album [Wonderwall Music], and I was the drummer. John started the Plastic Ono Band, and I was the drummer. Paul likes to play drums himself, or I would’ve been on his albums too.

(Ringo Starr, interview with Rob Tannenbaum for AARP, Nov 2023)

Q: As strong as you are on bass, keyboards, guitar, and as a singer and writer, is it frustrating to play your drum parts at a more limited level? A: That never intimidates me, though it probably should. I just have so much enthusiasm when I do things that I don’t even consider it. I’m lucky, because some people would wrack themselves with doubt, but when I came to this project I was like, “Man, let’s just have a bit of fun!” It didn’t occur to me that I was some idiot jumping on the kit. I know that a lot of drummers can play rings around me, but as long as I keep it simple and don’t get too flash, I can play with a steady, swampy feel, and that’ll do the job.

(Paul McCartney, interview with Robert L. Doerschuk for Drum!Magazine, 2005)

@i-am-the-oyster, I hope you will enjoy :)

+ this

[am-i-interrupting]

Affection | Vox x Fem!Reader

Summary: Vox and Valentino get into it. Vox looks for a way to get payback and stumbles upon you. He didn’t expect you to actually care.

Warnings: sex work, a bit of a mommy kink

He was used to the petty yelling, the constant spats, even the object throwing. What crossed the line was when he had to replace his screen.

Vox and Valentino got into a lot of arguments, normally started by the latter instead of the former. This one was bad though. Vox didn’t even want to think about it but it was all that was on his mind.

He was angry.

He was angry because it was easier to be angry rather than something else, something more vulnerable. He didn’t want to and couldn’t afford to be vulnerable right now. He had to hold onto this anger so he didn’t go crawling back to Valentino.

Currently, he was at his desk, looking through documents about ads that were just waiting for Vox’s stamp of approval. He stumbled upon yours and he paused.

He recognized you. Why?

He copied your name into a search bar and looked at your Sinstagram profile. Flipping through the pictures, he found one of you at a bar and that’s when he remembered.

Valentino tried to contract you and you’d basically laughed at him. You’d tossed back a shot and then turned to Valentino, asking if he needed you to pay for it since he was clearly so desperate for new recruits as he was only preying on people too stupidly drunk to realize how bad of an idea it was to say yes. Oh, he remembered Valentino seething that night.

He approved your ad but he couldn’t get you out of his head. He opened the closed tag again as he actually read through your ad.

You were advertising music. Which, when say side by side with your Sinstagram made sense as he saw a picture of you with Verosika Mayday. There wasn’t really anything interesting on the advert.

He scrolled up to the top of your Sinstagram in order to look at them in order from most to least relevant. That is when he caught sight of a link in your bio. He clicked it.

He was brought to a website. He wasn’t sure what he expected but he did raise an eyebrow nonetheless. It was an escort sight. A home page that had you and several other people scantily dressed with a description of what every person and the services you offered.

Maybe he was being more vindictive than he thought because he immediately clicked on the tab that sent him to your page and booked a time with you.

It was far out, months away in fact. He honestly had forgotten about it until he got an email the week before asking if he was still available and inviting him to a pre-session consultation. Not willing to back out and have it potentially mess with his image, he made the time.

He logged into a video call several days later and was greeted with you in the middle of putting on your makeup.

“Well, hello, Mr. Vox,” you said with a soft purr. He replied with a formal greeting of your name. “You’re a busy guy and I’m a busy gal so I’ll keep this quick. This is just a little meeting for boundaries. I know it bothers some people to make them in person so I’ve found this to be an easier way.

“I’ll go first. No hickies, no bruises, no scratches, no cuts, no burns, just no marks. It might be pretty and fun in the moment but it costs me later. Not everyone enjoys having sex with someone who’s clearly had it with someone else not long before. It may be part of my work but people do like an illusion.

“I don’t do bondage where I’m the one tied up. It’s nothing personal, just a safety issue. On the topic of safety, if you bring in anything that could be used as a weapon. I’m done and you’re leaving. All I need from you is that pretty little body of yours and payment. I’ll provide the rest.

“On the topic of payment, I know you’ve already made your upfront payments for this little consultation. The rest can be brought when you come in cash. Any questions so far?”

He surprised himself by saying, “Not so far, no.”

You we’re far more thorough than he thought. He’d bought time before but it was never this professionally done, even by Valentino’s standards. Granted, with Valentino’s sex workers, there was really only one rule, payment upfront. He didn’t give a fuck about anything else.

You though? You had clearly given this a lot of thought on all parts.

“Good, I’m glad,” you said. “Those are my hard rules. Everything else is a little more flexible. So, tell me, what is it you want from tonight?”

“To have a good time.”

“Of course, we all want to have a good time, Vox, but I’m talking specifics. Don’t be naive,” you said. “I have full confidence you know better. Maybe it’d be easier if I told you what I’m best at.”

The lid of your lipstick clicked closed. You looked at the camera, looking at him directly on his screen by proxy, for the first time.

“I can do just about anything your cold, dead heart desires but I enjoy specific things more than others. I’m a bit of a dominatrix, I’d you will. I enjoy the power and control of giving people what they need instead of what they want. How does that sound to you?”

“It sounds to me like a very overlord thing to do,” he replied.

“Not there yet,” you said. “So, is that the role you prefer to play?”

“It’s one I play often.”

“Yes, I’ve gathered that but do you prefer it?”

Vox didn’t know why he didn’t just say yes. He should have. It went with his image to say yes and that’s why he was still agreeing to do this even though he and Valentino weren’t on the worst of terms right now.

He hadn’t crawled back to Valentino yet. It’d been one of their longer spells away from one another. Five months without even falling back into bed once.

Perhaps that’s why he said what he said. He was pent up. He hadn’t had time to unwind and the person he normally would go to for that he was still upset with. That’s the reason he’d go with anyway.

“It’s the role I play most often,” he said.

“But is it the role you like?” you asked. When he didn’t answer you smiled, a more genuine one than any flirty or sarcastic one you’d shot his way before. “Stubborn, I’ll keep that noted.”

“I am not—“

“You’re proving my point. Now,” you stood up and rummaged through a drawer he couldn’t see, “pick a set for me.”

For the next several hours, Vox felt like he couldn’t focus. He was nervous. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been nervous over a one night stand.

He left early, leaving his assistant with double the workload but he didn’t care. He just needed to be out of the building.

He took Vark out on a walk to pass time but it still went by so slowly. It took what felt like days for it to finally be time to leave.

He’d call it considerate that he left without his usual suit jacket, waistcoat, and tie but in reality, he felt so hot, constricted with them on.

He traveled through the cameras and arrived at the address he’d been given, not a single person having seen him.

He knocked on the door and that sense of security was promptly shattered when it opened and he heard someone say, “Holy shit!” in response to seeing him.

He glared at the offending person as he stepped in. He recognized them from being pictured on your website. They quickly spun around and continued doing whatever it was they were in the process of.

He was led to a room which when opened revealed you inside. You were wearing a shear robe that gave him a peak at what was hiding underneath.

“I was promised secrecy,” he said. “Not to be gawked at by the employees.”

“So you don’t want to be gawked at me?” you asked. You smiled at your own joke. “Everyone here is under contracted lock and key to not say a single word about what goes on inside these walls. You’re image will be fine.”

“Contracted?”

“You said I had the makings of an overlord,” you replied. “Why are you suddenly surprised that I have contracts? Don’t worry, I assure you they’re much more ethically sourced than your co-worker’s.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Speaking of,” you said as you took several steps towards him, “why are you here? I’d imagine you could have any of Valentino’s contracted cash free. Why waste it on me? I’m not exactly cheap.”

You held out your hand and he reached into a pocket to retrieve the other part of your payment. You swiftly began counting it.

“You fuck one of Valentino’s pets, you’ve fucked them all,” he said. “They’re all too scared to be any fun after a while.”

“As much as I know that’s a true statement—“ you put the cash in a drawer of the bedside table— “I don’t believe it.”

He felt his eye twitch. “And what exactly would you—“

“Why don’t you take off your shirt and lay on the bed?” You walked towards him and ran your hands up his torso. “Or I could take it off for you.”

You began unbuttoning his shirt and for some reason, it made him drop all his irritation. When you finished, you bent down and licked all the way up his torso. You kissed and nipped at his collar bone.

His hands went to your sides but you spatted them away. The shirt fell to the ground.

You looked up at him, like you were daring him to kiss you. However, when he went to do just that, you stepped away.

“On the bed face down, mister,” you told him.

He huffed. Despite his mind telling him to grab you and pull you in for a kiss, take you and remind you of who exactly you were messing with, his body followed your instructions.

The mattress dipped as you straddled him. Something popped open (he tensed), a bottle clinked as it was set on the table, and then the sound of you rubbing your hands together went through the air.

Your hands, warm against his skin and slick with oil, began to rub up and down his back.

“Why are you here, Vox?” you asked. “I’m not stupid. I keep up with the news. Did you think I wouldn’t notice that the day you made an appointment was the same day you updated your status to single again? It’s still single now so what happened?”

“Nothing happened,” he said.

“Uh-huh, and the fact that you visibly tensed as soon as I mentioned Valentino is just a coincidence,” you said. “Everything you say in these walls stays within them.”

“You’re the one who made the contracts,” he said. “You’re not under them.”

“True, but—“

You began to apply pressure with your thumb, grinding your thumb and hand in circles along his back.

“Oh, fuck.”

“—I also made them,” you said, basically repeating his words. “It means I place value in confidentiality.”

“Or covering you’re own— oh, fuck, right there— your own ass.”

“I could be.”

You leaned down and he felt toy trap his entire torso beneath you. He liked the feeling. He liked the feeling of you over him.

You got close to his face, “But I think we both know I’m not.” You moved back and he mourned the feeling as soon as it was gone. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. You’re just very obviously tense and not just physically.”

You punctuated your sentence by rolling the palm of your hand at the base of his neck before squeezing it lightly. He couldn’t hold back a moan at the feeling of some tension leaving his body.

You continued on like that in silence for a while. You were working out the knots in his muscles and he was basically putty beneath your hands.

He’d never been treated like this before. He had couldn’t remember the last time he felt loose. There was always some kind of feeling of unease he constantly carried.

He didn’t even know he needed this because he’d never known that he could have it.

You leaned to once again lay over him but this time he could feel the entire weight of your body instead of just your warmth. You wrapped your arms underneath his shoulders and placed a kiss to his neck.

“Are you alright to continue?” you asked him as you nuzzled against his shoulder blade.

“I—“ He tried to search for some witty or snarky remark to make but all he could come up with was, “Yes.”

You cooed at him and slipped your hands out from underneath him to rub his back as you got off him. “Using your words, what a good boy,” you said and he hated, hated how that made him feel so warm inside. “Can you turn around for me? Yes, good.”

He closed his eyes and refused to look at you. You laughed but it didn’t feel mean. That didn’t make him feel any less embarrassed, however.

You did a wider, full handed version of the back massage you’d given him to his front as you began to roll your hips against his. He couldn’t hold back a whine.

“Oh, so pretty,” you said. “Such pretty noises from such a pretty boy.”

“Fuck,” it came out weak and pathetic.

Well, it was fitting then because that’s how he felt, weak and pathetic. Such simply praise shouldn’t be so effective.

“How does that feel?” you asked. “Come on, be a good boy. Tell me. Tell me how to make you feel good, baby.”

You were kissing on his neck and shoulders now.

“Good,” he choked out.

You hummed against his skin.

He could feel his fingers flex. His arms moved. He stopped them. He wanted to touch. He should be able to touch. He should be able to do what he wanted. He was the fucking Vox, overlord and creator of the biggest tech company in Hell. He shouldn’t need permission to do something.

You grabbed his hands and brought them up to the knot of your robe.

“You can touch me, baby,” you told him.

A whine forced its way out of his throat no matter how much he tried to keep it at bay.

He opened his eyes and you were so beautiful, grinding against him like you were made to. He could feel his cock straining against his pants. He wanted them off.

He settled for untying your robe. It fell to reveal the deep blue set he’d chosen for you earlier that day. It was sheer enough to show off your nipples through the cross crossed pattern of the bra. There was a silver chain that draped between the cups and further framed your breasts. Some traps went around your torso as part of the garter belt which held up your similarly colored stockings. You looked gorgeous.

You laughed and guided his hands up to your waist. Then up to your tits.

“I love the way you keeping whining for me,” you said. “You’re like a little pup.” Your eyes honed on his neck and your hand followed your gaze. You pressed on his neck, just enough to add some pressure. “That neck of yours looks like it was made to be collared and leashed.”

“Oh fuck.”

You leaned closer to his face. “Would you like that, baby?”

His fingers twitched around your breasts. He rubbed his thumbs over your clothes nipples as a silent apology. “Please.”

“Oh, such good manners.” You applied more pressure to his neck, not enough to cut off his air supply. He arched into your touch. “But not tonight. Some other time, I promise. I’ve got a feeling I’ll be seeing you plenty, baby.”

You went to nip at his neck. His hands wrapped around to your back to hold you in place. Your own traveled down his torso and to his belt.

You undid it. You pulled down his pants but not his underwear. You slipped from his grasp.

You put your hands on either side of his bulge and ran your fingers over it. His legs spread open further as he tried to push up but you quickly put an end to that little action.

Your hands on his hips, you hovered your head over him. You licked a stripe onto the fabric. You began to suck him off with the barrier of his boxers.

He knew he was whining. His eyes wanted to screw shut but he kept them open, too transfixed by the visage before him.

Your own eyes were closed. Your hands, perfectly constraining his boxers, were wrapped around his hips. The tips of your perfectly manicured hands were digging into his skin. Your tongue lulled out and lavished him.

He could cum from just this alone.

However, as soon as the thought came to him, you pulled away.

“No, no, no, please, please, let me come,” he said, words flowing from his mouth before he could stop them.

“Aw,” you said with a chuckle, “begging so soon? How sweet. Don’t worry, baby, you’ll get to come soon. I’ve just got to see that little dick of yours first.”

The small bit of degradation mixed with all the praise made him twitch.

He’d never gotten any negative comments on his dick before. Rather the opposite, Valentino had tried several times before to talk him into at least faceless camera work but he didn’t want to think of the moth right now.

You pulled his underwear down to reveal his cock. It was length, a deep blue like the rest of him except were it was flushed vibrantly at the tip. He was already leaking pre-come. Milky white against his flesh.

You leaned over to lick it up. His eyes rolled back at the simple action.

Your smirked before you took him all your mouth at once. You slowly pulled up and let your teeth pull at the hood of his tip.

“Shit, shit, shit!”

He thrusted up into what was now just air as he twitched, his whole body convulsing but he didn’t come. He was on the verge though.

You shushed him as you stroked his inner thigh with your nails.

“Be a good boy for me and hand me the lube,” you said before you began sucking on the skin above his pelvic bone.

His hand went to your hair as he closed his eyes and moaned. It took him a moment to open them again but you didn’t seem to mind. He didn’t feel rushed.

When was the last time he hadn’t felt rushed while having sex? He couldn’t even remember. It was always about getting back to work as soon as possible or Valentino’s quick hits. It was never really about him. It was about getting rid of his boner or Valentino’s as soon as possible.

He liked this. He liked this feeling of. . . being cared for?

God, he was so fucking pathetic. He could feel tears filling his eyes as he reached for the lube on the bedside table.

“Are you alright, baby?” you asked. “Do you need to stop.”

“Fuck, please don’t.”

“Okay, we don’t have to stop. We can keep on going,” you said as you poured some lube into your hands. “You just keep on being a good boy for me, alright? You can cry if you need to, baby. It’s okay to cry, you know.”

That permission made it worse. He felt his face flush as tears began to stream down his face. This was pathetic. He was pathetic. He shouldn’t be crying. He’d rarely ever cried. Much less during sex, especially sex that he was enjoying.

“Can you bend your— oh, such a good boy,” you said.

You hooked his bent knees over your legs and pulled him into your lap.

You wrapped your hands, covered in warm lube (when was the last time someone had took the time to warm up lube before touching him?), around his cock and began slowly twisting your hands up and down. He couldn’t stop the weak thrusts.

“I’m sorry,” he said, repeating the phrase like a prayer.

“Shhhh, baby, it’s okay,” you told him, petting his thigh. “You take what you need. You’ve been so good for me. So good. You deserve it.”

“Fuck.”

He threw his head back against the pillow and then looked down at you. He immediately met your eyes, so soft and understanding. It made his stomach queazy.

He watched as his dick slowly was covered then revealed by your hand. It curved around him so perfectly, glistening with a mixture of lube and the pre-come he was leaking. You twisted your hand in just the right way.

You covered his cock and then revealed the head. You thumb lingered and smeared the pre-come at his tip. The point of your nail ever so gently grazed his hole and that’s what did it.

The lights flickered in the room as he spasmed and came. His screen went blank as he blacked out.

A few seconds later, he came to with you by his side with a glass. You tilted his head up and cupped your hand under his lips as you forced him to drink, any water that spilled was dropped in your hand.

You grabbed a cloth and wipes at his screen.

“Are you okay, baby? Was that good?” you asked and he could only mutely nod. “Good.”

You went to pull him into an embrace but stopped and looked down at your body. “Do you wanna clean me up or do you want me to do it?”

He followed your gaze and saw his come covering your torso, a bit of it even clinging to your bra. He leaned to lick it off you. You reclined onto the thrown of pillows and let him, stroking his shoulders and arms as he did.

He licked up to your bra and then was met with the rough contrast of the lace-like fabric compared to your smooth skin. He reached around and undid the bra. You let it fall and he licked where the come had been. Then he began sucking on your breasts.

“Oh, fuck,” this time it was you.

Spurred on, he reached down between your thighs and began stroking. You were wet, so fucking wet. His fingers slid through your folds with no hint of resistance.

He rolled your clit between two knuckles.

“Oh, so good for mommy,” you said as you continued petting him. “So good.”

He whined at both the praise and the title you had given yourself.

He began stroking you with a different purpose now. He needed you to come. He looked up at you, still sucking on your tit. He needed to see it.

Your breath quickened. Your pets turned into a tight hold. It was your turn to whine as your head rolled back and your mouth lulled open.

“So good! So good for me, baby, just like that,” you said right before you became incoherent. You groaned and moved up into his touch.

He went back to the tower feeling better than he could ever remember. The set you’d worn tucked into his pant pocket. You insisted, saying you had plenty of other sets. Who was he to refuse?

“Where the fuck have you been?” Velvette asked.

“Out,” he said as he walked passed her, in no mood for her screeching.

“For over two hours with your location turned off? You didn’t even answer your fucking phone,” Valentino said, voice raising to nearly as yell towards the end.

“Yes,” Vox said as he continued walking.

He heard Valentino laugh as he must have seen the lingerie set in his back pocket. “Were you really so busy fucking a hole that you couldn’t answer me? I hope they were good.”

“Better than you ever were,” Vox said before he closed his bedroom door, unwilling to let his lax mood be ruined.

A few months later, Vox was still going to see you. Absolutely hooked and you both knew it but so were you. You didn’t even made him pay but he still slipped money into your pocket or your bra so he wouldn’t have to face the fact that he was getting attached.

That was all thrown out the window when you released a new song. He wasn’t even halfway through watching the music video before he disappeared and found you, pulling you in for a bruising kiss and you knew exactly why.

The imagery in the music video was obvious. Pink smoke trying to creep into your studio only to be blocked, a deep blue body, TV screens everywhere. Then there were the lyrics:

I can give my babe affection without any type of infliction

You were just an intermission but I’m the center of attention

I’ve got him collared and leashed right where he needs to be

He’s down on his knees begging me with please

Better than any of his fantasies

Yeah, I’ve got his attention without infliction

[arliganzey]

Delta Squad Week Day 1: Dinner

For the @deltasquadweek event, I'm kicking off day 1 with a squad gossip session. Enjoy. <3

Title: What Should We Drink To? Rating/Warnings: M (alcohol consumption) Word Count: 2.5k Special Guest Appearance: Bardan Jusik Summary: Delta Squad's hunt for rogue Kaminoan scientist Ko Sai has led them to Tropix Resort, a fabricated luxury beach resort on the planet Dorumaa. General Bardan Jusik has tasked Delta with an important mission: eat dinner at the resort restaurant. Read it on AO3

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Tropix Resort, Dorumaa System, 479 Days After the Battle of Geonosis

“Real swell of General Jusik to take us out to dinner for all the trouble,” Scorch said, scrolling the holomenu. He couldn’t understand half of what was on it.

“I don’t get it,” Sev grumbled. “We didn’t do anything.”

Boss sat uncomfortably in the middle of the semi-circle booth with his arms folded, the squad seated on either side of him. Earlier that afternoon, General Jusik dropped a bag of civvy clothes in front of them and told them to get dressed and have dinner ‘on him’. 

“It reeks of bribery,” Boss said.

“You’re the one that agreed to it. I’m blaming you if we get court martialed,” Scorch said, still scrolling the menu.

“By who?” Fixer asked. “Sergeant Vau? Zey? We’re trapped in some spy games we aren’t supposed to know are even happening.”

“I bet this goes straight to the Chancellor. It’ll be the gallows for us,” Sev muttered.

A lovely Twi’lek server approached the table. Every staff member at the Tropix Resort was a beautiful, Rutian Twi’lek. They were so blindingly pretty that it became difficult to notice after a while, like staring into the sun.

“Hello, gentlemen,” she said smoothly. “Are you…” Her gaze paused on Sev and Scorch whose facial scars were most obvious to a civilian. Being a fabricated luxury resort employee who dealt mostly with venture capitalists, bankers, and wealthy heiresses, she seemed momentarily thrown off from the script.

Boss, Fixer, and Sev stared back at her with equally disrupted thoughts, as this was the first time any of them had been directly addressed by one of the women working here. Scorch smiled.

“Hi,” said Scorch, looking for her nametag. “Aleena. How are you?”

“I’m doing well. Thank you for asking,” Aleena said, her bright blue eyes blinking until her thoughts reset. Four men who looked like mercenaries on “vacation” probably meant trouble. She smiled back at him, nervous.

Scorch turned on the charm, leaning on the table and grinning up at her. “Can we have a pitcher of Hurricane Punch?”

“Yes, of course. What flavor?”

“Muja fruit.”

“Frozen or on the rocks?”

Scorch did not hesitate. “Frozen. Please.”

“Can I get you anything else?”

“We’d like to do the sushi boat,” Fixer announced.

“The what?” Sev asked.

“Sushi boat,” Fixer repeated for his brother, pointing to the menu holoimage in front of Scorch.

“That is a great choice,” said Aleena.

“Better make it two,” Boss said.

The whole squad looked at him. Aleena became perplexed once more. “Two… sushi boats?” she repeated.

“Yes, please. We’re pretty hungry.”

Aleena did not make a habit out of arguing with guests. Based on the advertised image alone, one sushi boat seemed to be enough for at least six people.

“Of course, sir,” she said finally. “It may take a while to prepare,” she said carefully. “Is that… all right?”

“Not a problem,” said Boss.

“Can we get an order of cheese sticks? Please,” said Sev.

The server’s lekku shivered at the sound of Sev’s voice. “Yes, an order of cheese sticks. Anything else?”

“Nuna wings,” Scorch chimed in. “‘Volcano style’,” he added in a deep, intense whisper as required by the holomenu font which was doused in flames.

“I’d like the chopped vegetables and dip sampler too, please,” said Fixer.

Aleena recorded the orders, the tips of her lekku still quivering a bit. “Very well, gentlemen. Will that be all?” she asked hesitantly.

“Yes, thank you,” Boss said before Scorch could order a second plate of ‘volcano-style’ wings that nobody but him would eat.

Aleena bowed her head and left.

“We are so going to jail for taking a bribe,” Scorch said.

“Supermax for sure,” Sev said.

“At least we won’t be hungry.” Fixer took out his datapad and started tinkering.

Boss took a deep breath in an attempt to relax. Tomorrow would start the work of excavating the site of what might have been Ko Sai’s secret lab, which was now buried underwater in an apparent explosion. The squad could have started hours ago. But General Jusik didn’t seem to be in a rush, even with his boss General Zey breathing down his neck and pressure from the Chancellor himself about the urgency of recovering the Kaminoan scientist.

None of it added up.

“Do you think Omega squad makes this a regular thing?” Boss asked, thinking out loud now. “They’re tight with Jusik. I reckon he takes them out to dinner for a job well done.”

“Kal’buir takes all his boys to the drive-thru for kids meals,” Scorch said. “I bet they got the toys to prove it.”

Fixer snickered, and even Boss grinned.

“Think he takes Bard’ika too?” Sev asked. He might as well join in.

“For sure,” said Scorch. “Bard’ika’s got the most toys of them all. Who’d have thought Skirata would have a jetii favorite? Ordo must be horribly jealous.”

“Ordo likes Bard’ika too,” Fixer said.

“What’s not to like?” Sev said. “He’s smart and cunning all while looking like an innocent schoolboy. Zey doesn’t even suspect he’s practically one of Skirata’s private army.”

Boss stared at Sev. His conjecture, which was meant to be a joke, started to sink in. Even Fixer put his datapad down.

“You don’t think…” Fixer said.

“All those private com calls,” Scorch said.

“Could be a girlfriend,” Boss tried with no certainty at all.

Sev and Scorch made noises that almost resembled giggling.

“Jusik has been talking to Skirata about this mission. That has to be it,” Fixer said, lowering his voice.

“And we were specifically ordered by Zey not to tell Skirata about hunting down Ko Sai,” Scorch said.

“That’s treason,” Sev hissed.

“Shut up,” Boss snapped. “It’s none of our business.”

“What if we can’t find Ko Sai?” Sev asked, gripping the edge of the table like he was about to get up at a moment’s notice.

A droid rolled up to the table and caused the squad to snap to attention so it didn’t look like they were whispering secrets. Sitting up ramrod straight and ceasing all conversation only made them look even more conspiratorial. The droid paid no mind, dropping off four cocktail glasses and a pitcher of ombre pink-orange-yellow alcoholic slushie. It rolled away.

Scorch started pouring the drinks. “Then Sarge kills us before the Chancellor can. You think the old chakaar would let a pruny politician have us killed by firing squad? No, he’ll do it himself.”

“They wouldn’t waste the ammunition on a firing squad,” Fixer cut in. 

“We’ll get sent out of an airlock,” said Sev.

“Stop,” Boss ordered. “Nobody’s getting executed. We never even had this conversation. Is that understood?”

“Yessir,” the other three chorused.

The Twi’lek server returned with the appetizers and placed them down on the table. “Can I get you gentlemen anything else right now?”

“Not right now. Thanks, Aleena,” Scorch told her, flashing another smile.

“All right.” She smiled back and left.

When Scorch looked back at the squad, they were all glaring at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Fixer said, and went back to his datapad while nibbling at his plate of vegetables and dips.

Boss dragged a hand over his face before taking a drink of frozen punch.

Before long, a second pitcher of slushie punch was ordered, and one sushi boat arrived. The squad agreed the chef was calling their bluff — see if they can make it through one boat before they bother with another. 

Well, they’d never had to feed four very hungry commandos.

Delta squad dug in. The table was silent except for a few mutterings of can I try that?, was it spicy?, pass the hot sauce, but otherwise the commandos’ mouths were occupied with sushi roll after sushi roll.

When Aleena came back to check on them, half the boat was gone. She said nothing, simply staring in awe as the spectacle of four men inhaling dozens of rolls of sushi. It captivated (and kind of disgusted?) her.

“Uhm,” she said after a moment when nobody noticed her. “How is the sushi boat?”

“Wonderful.” Boss delicately patted his mouth with a napkin and smiled at her. “We’ll need that second boat.”

“And shots,” Scorch said.

“What?” Fixer asked with audible disdain.

“A round of rum shots,” Scorch clarified with a beaming smile.

“Okay,” Aleena said, smiling back at Scorch even though Fixer was staring at him like he might hit him. “Four shots…?”

“Four shots,” Fixer grumbled, not wanting to argue while the pretty Twi’lek was watching. Aleena put in the order and left the table.

Sev hadn’t looked up from his plate throughout the exchange.

A few minutes later, the droid delivered the shots and Scorch handed them over to his brothers. “What are we drinking to?”

Boss shrugged, holding up his shot glass. “General Jusik.”

“To General Jusik, may he find manda or whatever it is he’s looking for.”

They raised their glasses and drank.

Scorch nearly choked on the burning liquid as he brought the glass down to reveal a skinny blonde man with a scraggly beard standing in front of their table. Had he heard? He definitely heard.

Jusik seemed unbothered. Well, not any more bothered than he had been all day.

“Looks like you’ve managed to find something to eat for dinner,” he said with a mild smile and indicating the picked over sushi boat.

“Want some, sir?” Sev asked.

General Jusik, weariness under his eyes, nodded and sat down. He still looked like a ticking time bomb that might break down and yell or cry.

Boss wordlessly put a few sushi rolls on a plate and handed it to Scorch to hand to Jusik. Then he looked expectantly at Scorch to do… something about the general. He looked downright morose.

“Try the punch, sir.” Scorch passed a glass to him and poured. Jusik took it and sipped. They’d all shared stories and drinks before and after the Triple Zero mission, and there was something a bit nostalgic about it, although the absence of Skirata, the Nulls, and Omega made it a lot less festive. So did the news of Fi’s injury—the last they’d heard from Omega, he was not responding to stimuli.

“It’s good,” Jusik said in an effort to perk up. “Thanks. What’s in it?”

“No idea, sir. Some kind of alcohol.” Scorch grinned.

Jusik shrugged and drank a little faster.

“It’s rum.” Fixer went back to his datapad, less casually tinkering and now looking like he needed to be working on something.

Boss ordered a third pitcher and decided to venture straight into uncharted territory. “Sir, any news of Fi?”

“No. Nothing new.” Jusik went from looking slightly stable to definitely about to cry.

“He’s in good hands.” Boss did not sound convinced. “Head injuries happen. The medics know what they’re doing.”

Sev finished his glass. “‘Nother round of shots,” he croaked at the server droid as it passed by.

Nobody expected Jusik to protest or scold them for the amount of alcohol circulating around the table, and he didn’t.

“It’s best not to think about it,” Scorch said. “There’s nothing we can do.”

That roused Jusik enough to look at him, his eyes wide and a bit wild. “That’s not true. We’ve been sent out here on a fool’s errand, when I could be helping Fi.”

The squad froze. So did Jusik.

“Say again, sir?” Boss said.

“Nothing. It’s nothing. We’ll sort it tomorrow.” Jusik shrank into the booth, looking like he regretted sitting down with them.

Scorch felt… bad for him, but more than that, annoyed that the general knew something the squad didn’t, and probably should. He could tell the synapses fired for the rest of the squad too. Jusik was lying to them, but it was hard to stay mad. The way the general cared like no one else in command did…

Jusik was, above all else, infallibly likable.

“With all due respect to General Zey,” Jusik said carefully, “you should be tasked with something more important than a man hunt. It’s a waste of your skills. But General Zey thinks you’re capable of accomplishing anything, for what that’s worth. It’s why he wanted you on the job.”

The squad went back to eating, but more like picking at their food, in an attempt to get Jusik to do the same. He seemed stretched to his limit, which said a lot for a Jedi. 

They couldn’t stay mad at him. Even if Jusik was playing spy games, the squad knew Vau was aware, and Vau wouldn’t let anything happen to them if things went sideways. Jusik was trying to assure them Zey wouldn’t give them any trouble, either, but they were all less sure of that.

“Aw, the general really likes us,” Sev said cloyingly.

“Aw, shucks,” Scorch said.

“Warms the heart.” Fixer glanced over at Jusik, unsure if the banter would make him lighten up. He always seemed so eager to impress, to feel included, to do things right. Well, this was how Delta handled everything, so he could either keep up or shut it out.

“Yeah…” Jusik sensed the teasing and smiled again. “I’m not just saying that.”

“We know,” Boss said. “We don’t want to let him down. Or you.” Mostly you.

Jusik nodded, and the shots arrived, which he took upon himself to distribute. It was almost apologetic.

“What are we drinking to?” Scorch asked.

They all looked at Jusik. It was his lot as the commanding officer at the table to make the toast.

“To Fi,” Jusik said quietly.

The commandos raised their glasses, nobody looking directly at each other, afraid that they’d see their own fear reflected in their brothers’ eyes.

“To Fi,” Delta squad chorused, and everyone drank.

It became apparent that 1700 was an early hour for dinner. As the evening progressed, the restaurant filled up, and so did the bar. When the second sushi boat was demolished, and a fourth pitcher of slushie completed, Delta squad and Bardan Jusik faced the imminent next step, which was to go back to the transport to finish planning the mission.

A mission no one seemed to have any hope of completing.

“I wanted to see the aquarium by the bar,” Jusik said suddenly.

“Yeah. Looks nice,” Sev mumbled.

The commandos’ enhanced metabolisms made the copious amounts of alcohol consumed seem like nothing more than a couple of drinks. Admittedly, they managed to feel a small buzz, but not enough to impede their judgment. Only enough for them to realize the mission was a lost cause, and like Jusik said, they’d sort it in the morning.

If Vau knew, he’d kill them. But Vau wasn’t here. He was probably part of the reason why the whole thing went to osik.

Jusik paid at the control panel next to their table and motioned for them to follow him to the bar.

“Guess that’s an order,” Boss said.

Scorch slid out of the booth, followed by Boss, Fixer, and Sev. “We love following orders. Let’s go.”