#High-Performance Fire Testing | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wonfie · 17 days ago

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NOT YOURS !

‎ ꗃ 𝗐𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗁𝗒𝗌𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅

𝑓─── fwb!jungwon ㅈ f!rea ✶ smut ⏜ bartender!reader barowner!jungwon rough sex petnames degradation jealousy use of handcuffs, blindfold fwb2??? ✿ 𝐜𝓲𝐞𝓁 ｡

消息 ⦂ finally here.. (i hate it) not worth the wait imo this was a disappointment 💔 8.5k words of pure ASS writing

REBLOG4 𝗞𝗜𝗦𝗦 𓏼 ◜ ᴗ ◝ 𓏼

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈 : ACT LIKE MINE

THE MUSIC thrums through the floor, a relentless pulse that shakes the air and sinks into your bones. the club is a living, breathing beast, its veins made of neon, its heartbeat the bassline that drowns out thought. strobe lights cut through the haze like blades, catching sweat-slick skin and glinting off half-empty glasses. your dress—black, tight, barely there—clings to every curve, the hem riding high enough to turn heads, to invite stares. you move through the crowd with purpose, hips swaying to the rhythm, each step a deliberate invitation. you’re not here to blend in. you’re here to be seen, to be wanted, to feel the weight of eyes on you like a second skin.

you sense him before you see him. jungwon. not hovering, not chasing, but there—always there. his presence is a tether, a pull you can’t ignore. from the shadowed booth across the room, his gaze locks onto you, sharp and unyielding, cutting through the chaos of bodies and lights. his arms are crossed, one leg stretched out, his posture deceptively relaxed, like he owns the place. because he does. his lips are pressed thin, his expression unreadable, but those eyes—dark, hungry, burning with a cold fire—tell you everything. he’s watching, waiting, and you know he’s not going to move until you make him.

the dance floor is a crush of bodies, a sea of heat and motion, but you carve out your space in the center, your drink in hand, condensation slick against your fingers. sweat beads on your skin, catching the light as you move, your body swaying in time with the relentless beat. jungwon stays back, leaning against the wall now, talking to someone—a friend, a business associate, it doesn’t matter. his eyes never leave you. you feel them like a touch, like a hand sliding down your spine, and it makes your breath catch, your chest tighten with something you don’t want to name.

you’re playing a game. you both are. he’s the master, the one who sets the rules, but tonight, you’re rewriting them. you lean into the stranger beside you—dark shirt, flashy watch glinting under the lights, the faint scent of sweet liquor clinging to him. you don’t care about his name or his smile, but you let him think you do. you laugh at his half-heard jokes, tilt your head back, let your lips graze the rim of your glass in a way you know jungwon hates. it’s a performance, every movement a silent dare, a challenge thrown across the room. you want him to see. you want him to react.

the stranger’s hand brushes your arm as he hands you another drink, and you let it linger, let his fingers graze your skin just a second too long. you feel jungwon’s gaze sharpen, feel the air shift as his patience frays. you don’t look at him—not yet. you sip your drink, slow and deliberate, letting the cold liquid slide down your throat while your body moves to the music, hips rolling, hair falling over your shoulders. the stranger says something, leans closer, and you smile, all teeth and no warmth, because this isn’t about him. it’s about the man watching you, the one whose control you’re testing, whose limits you’re pushing.

then you feel it—his hand on your wrist, firm but not painful, a quiet command that stops you cold. you turn, meeting jungwon’s eyes, and they’re darker than the club’s shadows, burning with something that makes your pulse race. “we’re leaving,” he says, voice low, clipped, leaving no room for argument.

“but we just—” you start, voice teasing, testing him one last time.

“now.” his grip tightens just enough to remind you who’s in charge.

you glance at the stranger, who’s watching with a mix of amusement and awkwardness, and you flash him a quick, mocking wave. “boyfriend,” you say, your smile sharp and wicked, before letting jungwon pull you through the crowd.

outside, the night air is a shock against your flushed skin, the low cut of your dress leaving you exposed to the bite of the cold. you wrap your arms around yourself, heels clicking against the pavement as you trail a few steps behind him. he’s already on his phone, calling the car, his jaw tight, his movements sharp. when the sleek black sedan pulls up, you slide into the back seat beside him, the leather cool against your thighs. he doesn’t look at you, just stares straight ahead, knee bouncing, body taut with barely restrained energy.

you watch him from the corner of your eye, the city lights streaking across his face in flashes of neon. you want to say something, to break the silence, but the words feel heavy, trapped in your throat. you’re wet already, and you hate how easily he does this to you—how a look, a touch, a single word can unravel you.

“you’re mad,” you say finally, voice soft, testing the waters.

he turns his head slowly, eyes narrowing, unreadable. “mad?” he echoes, the word sharp enough to cut. “no.”

you raise an eyebrow, skeptical, but his lips twitch into a low, bitter laugh before you can press further. “i’m embarrassed,” he says, and the admission catches you off guard.

“embarrassed?” you repeat, surprise flickering through you.

“you looked pathetic,” he says, voice like a blade, precise and vicious. “pressing up on some guy like you didn’t have anyone. like you were begging for it.”

“he wasn’t touching me—” you start, defensive, but he cuts you off, voice dropping lower, darker.

“you wanted him to.” it’s not a question. “don’t lie to me.”

you open your mouth to argue, to deny it, but the words die on your tongue. he’s right. you were playing a game, pushing boundaries, and you both know it. his eyes darken, not with anger but with something fiercer—hunger, control, a need coiled tight beneath his skin.

“you wanna act like that?” he murmurs, leaning closer, his voice a dangerous whisper meant only for you. “don’t fucking complain when i treat you like you don’t know how to behave.”

you say nothing. you don’t need to. because he’s right, and because you want whatever comes next.

the car pulls up to his building, and jungwon is out first, slamming the door without a glance back. you follow, heels unsteady on the pavement, your stomach twisting with anticipation. the elevator ride is a study in silence, the air thick with it, your shoulder brushing his just once. he doesn’t react, doesn’t move, his hands loose at his sides, but you know better. you know the calm is a mask, and beneath it, he’s deadly.

the apartment door barely clicks shut before he’s on you.

the space is too quiet after the club’s chaos, the city’s hum a faint drone through the thick glass windows. jungwon doesn’t speak, just watches you, his gaze heavy, predatory. you shift in the tight dress, the fabric warm from the night, your bare legs pressing against the cold floor. your wrist still tingles where he grabbed you, the memory sharp, electric.

he steps closer, and the distance between you shrinks to nothing, the air charged with unspoken words. his breath is steady, slow, but you can feel the danger in it, the promise of something raw. his finger traces your jaw, light but deliberate, sliding down your neck, sending a shiver through you that feels like it could break you apart.

“you don’t listen, do you?” he murmurs, voice low, calm in a way that makes your knees weak. his hands are on you now, quick and impatient, dragging the dress up over your hips to reveal the thin lace beneath. “you think just ‘cause they’re out there, i won’t fuck the attitude out of you?”

you gasp, heart pounding as the cold air hits your thighs. “won—wait, i—”

you don’t finish. he’s already bending you over the counter, one hand covering your mouth before you can say another word, the other gripping your hip with bruising force. he doesn’t wait, doesn’t tease—just pushes in, rough, a sharp stretch that steals your breath. you squirm, but he holds you still, his pace relentless, your legs trembling under the onslaught.

it’s not playful. it’s not angry. it’s possessive, primal, like he’s staking a claim. he fucks you like he’s proving something, each thrust deep and unforgiving, but his voice stays low, lips brushing your ear when he leans forward. “be good for me, baby.”

you moan behind his hand, loud, unfiltered, and he tightens his grip, muffling you instantly. “you want them to hear you getting ruined by me?” he hisses, his breath hot against your skin. “you want them to know who fucks you like this?”

your body shakes, your moan turning to a whimper as he slows just enough to let the pressure build, the stretch becoming unbearable, addictive. his teeth graze your neck, nipping just below your ear, and the heat between your thighs pools, your body betraying you as it clenches around him.

he feels it. groans. “fuck,” he breathes, voice raw. “you’re so wet it’s disgusting.”

he pulls out suddenly, and before you can catch your breath, he flips you around, lifting you onto the counter like you’re weightless. your wrists reach for his shoulders, but he catches them, pinning them to your sides, his gaze hard, unyielding. “don’t touch me unless i tell you to.”

you nod, dizzy, drunk on his voice, his presence, the way he looks at you like you’re his to break. “bed,” he says, and you slide off the counter, legs shaky, walking ahead of him, feeling his eyes on you like a predator stalking prey.

you hear the clink of his belt hitting the floor, the soft thud of his jacket following. slow, methodical, deliberate. he’s not rushing—not when he’s like this. every move is calculated, every step heavy with intent. you reach the bedroom, and your eyes flick to the drawer by the bed, the one with the handcuffs, the blindfold, the small black box you’re forbidden to touch without permission. he follows your gaze, and without a word, he pulls it open, setting out what he needs with the precision of a surgeon—cuffs, blindfold, and something else, something you can’t quite see.

“on your knees,” he says.

you drop to the bed, hair spilling over your shoulders, hands trembling as you kneel, waiting. he takes your wrists, locking the cuffs behind your back with a soft click. the metal is cold, biting into your skin—not painful, but a warning, a promise of what’s to come.

he stands back, his breath heavy, and you can feel his eyes on you, taking you in. “look at you,” he says, voice low, almost reverent. you bite your lip, feeling the weight of his gaze, the way it strips you bare.

“do you feel good about what you did tonight?” he asks.

you nod, hesitant, knowing it’s the wrong answer but unable to lie.

his head tilts, eyes narrowing. “you shouldn’t.”

he grabs the blindfold, slipping it over your eyes without warning. the world goes dark, the fabric tight against your face, and your breath stutters. every sound is sharper now—the creak of the bed, his steady breathing, the rustle of his clothes. you hear him move, feel the mattress dip as he kneels in front of you. his knuckles brush your jaw, then your lips, and you flinch, oversensitive, hyperaware.

“open,” he says, pressing two fingers to your mouth.

you part your lips, letting his fingers slide in, your tongue curling around them instinctively. he exhales sharply, a sound that sends a thrill through you, and you suck, slow and deliberate, pulling a soft grunt from him. then he’s gone, fingers pulling away, leaving you empty, wanting.

you whine, soft and needy, and he laughs—low, mocking. “don’t start.”

the bed shifts again, and you know what he’s doing, even without sight. the faint sound of fabric, the subtle rhythm of his hand moving, stroking himself just inches from your face. your lips part, ready, aching for him, and he mutters, “needy little mouth. didn’t get what you wanted at the bar, so now you’re desperate for mine, huh?”

you nod, because lying is pointless. he knows you too well.

he brushes the tip of his cock against your lips, barely there, just enough to make you chase it. again, and again, teasing, cruel. “open wider,” he says, and you do, letting him thrust in slow, shallow at first, then deeper, his hands holding your face steady as he rocks forward. you gag slightly, throat flexing, but he doesn’t stop, his pace building, relentless, until your throat burns and your lungs ache. spit drips down your chin, tears prick behind the blindfold, but you don’t pull away. this is what you wanted.

he holds you there, nose pressed to his skin, throat full, until you’re trembling, then pulls out with a wet pop. you gasp, chest heaving, throat sore and pulsing. he’s silent for a moment, letting you catch your breath.

then, soft but stern: “face down.”

you move without thinking, cheek pressed to the sheets, hips raised, the cuffs digging into your wrists as you brace yourself. he fucks you like he’s marking territory, each thrust deep, deliberate, his lips brushing your ear with every movement. “mine,” he says, and you don’t argue, because you are.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈 : BOLD ASSUMPTION

three months ago, you didn’t know his name. the city was a maze of glass and steel, neon bleeding into the night, and you were just another shadow passing through. you’d come here after a breakup that left you raw, chasing a fresh start in a place where no one knew your failures. the job was simple—bartending at a dive bar downtown, pouring cheap whiskey for tired men, dodging their hands, their leers. it paid the rent, kept you moving, but it didn’t fill the void.

the first time you saw jungwon, he wasn’t like the others. he didn’t flirt or leer or make crude jokes. he sat at the end of the bar, nursing a bourbon, eyes scanning the room like he was waiting for something—or someone. his face was all sharp angles, shadowed and unreadable, but there was an intensity to him, something that made your pulse quicken when his gaze landed on you.

“another?” you’d asked, holding up the bottle.

he nodded, sliding his glass toward you. “make it quick.”

you poured, watching the amber liquid catch the dim light. “rough night?”

he didn’t answer, just tilted his head, studying you like a puzzle he wasn’t sure he wanted to solve. “you new here?” he asked instead.

“couple weeks,” you said, wiping the counter. “you a regular?”

“something like that.” his lips twitched, not quite a smile. “you don’t belong here.”

you bristled, but his tone wasn’t cruel, just certain. “and where do i belong?”

he leaned forward, elbows on the bar, voice low. “somewhere people don’t look at you like meat.”

you laughed, sharp and surprised. “bold of you to assume i don’t like it.”

his eyes narrowed, a flicker of something dangerous passing through them. “you don’t.”

you didn’t know why, but you believed him. he saw through you, saw the armor you wore, the cracks beneath. you poured another shot, slid it to him. “on the house,” you said. “for the unsolicited advice.”

he didn’t touch it, just watched you, unblinking. “careful,” he said finally. “this place chews up girls like you.”

he was gone the next night, and the one after that, but when he came back a week later, he sat in the same spot, ordered the same drink, and watched you with that same unnerving focus. you started to notice things—the steadiness of his hands, the way he never slurred, the way people gave him space without being asked. he wasn’t just a drifter. he carried weight, the kind that came with power.

“you own this place or something?” you asked one night, half-joking, as you refilled his glass.

“or something,” he said, that not-quite-smile back.

you learned his name eventually. jungwon. no last name, no explanation. just jungwon. and you learned he wasn’t just a regular—he was the kind of man who could silence a room with a glance, who didn’t need to raise his voice to be heard.

you started staying late, closing up alone, just to see if he’d show. sometimes he did, sometimes he didn’t, but when he was there, the air felt charged, like a storm waiting to break. you’d talk, or you wouldn’t. he’d watch you wipe down the bar, and you’d feel his eyes like a physical touch. you started wearing tighter shirts, leaning closer when you poured his drink, letting your fingers brush his when you handed it over. testing. teasing. seeing how far you could push before he pushed back.

one night, he stayed until the last customer stumbled out. you were locking up, the bar empty except for the hum of the neon sign outside. he was still there, sitting at the counter, watching you.

“you’re trouble,” he said, voice low, like he was stating a fact.

you turned, leaning against the bar, arms crossed. “you don’t know me well enough to say that.”

“i know enough.” he stood, slow, deliberate, crossing the space between you. he was close now, close enough you could smell the faint spice of his cologne, feel the heat of him in the cool air. “you’re looking for something. and you think you’ll find it here.”

“and what if i do?” you shot back, chin tilted, defiant.

he stepped closer, crowding you against the bar. his hand came up, fingers brushing your jaw, light but possessive. “you won’t. not with them.”

“and who’s them?” your voice was steady, but your pulse wasn’t.

“everyone who’s not me.”

you laughed, shaky. “cocky bastard.”

“you have no idea.” his thumb grazed your lower lip, and your breath hitched. “come with me.”

“where?”

“does it matter?”

it didn’t. you followed him out the back door, into the alley where the city’s pulse felt rawer, louder. he didn’t touch you—not yet—but you felt him, like a current under your skin. the car was waiting, black and sleek, and you slid into the passenger seat like you’d done it a hundred times before.

that was the first night. not the last.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈𝐈 : FRIEND OR FHOE?

jungwon wasn’t your boyfriend. you didn’t call him that, and he didn’t ask you to. but he was something. something that made your heart race, your skin burn, something that made you feel alive in a way you hadn’t in years. he was a drug, and you were hooked.

he owned clubs, you learned—not just the dive bar, but others, sleek upscale places where the city’s elite came to lose themselves in music and liquor and secrets. he moved through them like a shadow, always in control, always untouchable. you saw how people looked at him—fear, respect, desire, all tangled together. you saw how women watched him, how men stepped aside when he passed. and you saw how he looked at you, like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.

you started going to his clubs, not as a bartender but as his. you’d show up in dresses he bought you, tight and expensive, the kind that made heads turn. he’d watch from across the room, never hovering, never crowding, but always there, his presence pulling you back. you’d dance, drink, flirt with strangers just to see how long it took for him to cross the floor and claim you. it was a game, and you both played it, knowing who’d win.

tonight wasn’t different—at first. you’d picked the dress yourself, black and barely there, knowing it would drive him up the wall. you’d danced with that guy because you could, because you wanted to see how far you could push before jungwon snapped. you wanted the rush of his anger, the heat of his possession. you wanted to feel him.

and now, here you are, blindfolded and cuffed, kneeling on his bed, his voice cutting through the dark like a blade.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐕 : ARE YOU, THOUGH?

“you think you’re clever,” he says, voice almost a growl. “you think you can play me.”

you shake your head, lips parted, but no words come out. the blindfold sharpens everything—the creak of the bed, the sound of his breath, the brush of his fingers against your skin. you’re hyperaware, every nerve alive, waiting.

he’s close now, the heat of him radiating, the weight of his presence suffocating in the best way. his hand trails down your spine, slow, deliberate, and you arch into it without thinking. he laughs, soft and mocking.

“so eager,” he mutters. “you act like you don’t want this, but your body says different.”

you bite your lip, trying to stay quiet, to hold onto some shred of defiance. but it’s hard when his fingers are on you, tracing patterns that make your skin burn, make your thighs clench. he knows exactly what he’s doing. he always does.

“say it,” he says, voice sharp. “say you want me.”

you hesitate, just for a second, just to push him. but then his hand is in your hair, pulling your head back, exposing your throat. you gasp, the sound loud in the quiet room.

“say it.”

“i want you,” you whisper, and it’s true. it’s always been true.

he hums, satisfied, and releases your hair. you feel the bed shift, feel him move away, and you hate it—the sudden absence, the cold where his body was. you strain against the cuffs, the metal biting into your wrists, but you don’t care. you want to touch him, want to pull him back.

“patience,” he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. “you don’t get to decide what happens next.”

you hear the drawer again, the soft clink of something being picked up. your heart races. you know what’s in there—the tools he keeps, the ones he uses when he wants to take his time, to unravel you slowly. you don’t know what he’s chosen, and the not-knowing makes your pulse throb in your ears.

“spread your legs,” he says.

you do, slow, feeling the mattress dip under your knees. you’re exposed, vulnerable, and the blindfold makes it worse—or better. you can’t decide. every nerve is alive, waiting, anticipating.

you feel it then—the cool, smooth edge of something against your inner thigh. not his fingers, not his mouth. something else. you flinch, but he steadies you with a hand on your hip.

“don’t move,” he says, voice calm but edged with warning.

you nod, breath shallow, and he drags the object higher, teasing, letting it linger just close enough to make you squirm. you don’t know what it is—maybe a knife, maybe something else—but you trust him. you shouldn’t, maybe, but you do.

“good girl,” he murmurs, and the praise sends a rush of heat through you, makes your toes curl against the sheets.

he moves the object again, and this time it brushes against you—light, fleeting, but enough to make you gasp. it’s cold, slick, and you realize it’s the handle of something, maybe a knife, maybe a toy. you don’t care. you just want more.

“you like this,” he says, not a question. “you like not knowing.”

you nod, because lying is pointless. he knows you too well.

he chuckles, low and dark, and then the object is gone, replaced by his fingers, warm and rough, sliding over you, testing your limits. you moan, loud and unashamed, and he doesn’t stop you this time. he lets you make noise, lets you beg with your body, lets you fall apart under his touch.

“you’re mine,” he says, and it’s not possessive now—it’s a fact, like the sky is dark or the city never sleeps. “say it.”

“i’m yours,” you gasp, and you mean it.

he doesn’t respond with words, but you feel him shift, feel the bed dip as he moves closer. his mouth is on you then, sudden and relentless, and you cry out, back arching, wrists straining against the cuffs. he’s not gentle, not careful, but it’s exactly what you need—exactly what you’ve been chasing all night.

hours later, you’re lying on the bed, blindfold gone, cuffs off, your body heavy and sated. jungwon is next to you, one arm draped over your waist, his breath steady against your neck. the room is quiet now, the city’s hum a distant backdrop. you’re both silent, but it’s not uncomfortable. it’s just… done.

you turn your head, look at him. his eyes are half-closed, but he’s watching you, like always. you wonder what he sees when he looks at you like that. you wonder if he knows how much you need this—need him.

“you’re still trouble,” he says, voice soft, almost fond.

you smile, small and tired. “you like it.”

he doesn’t deny it, just pulls you closer, lips brushing your temple. “go to sleep,” he says.

you do, because for once, you don’t want to fight him.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐕 : DON’T FLATTER YOURSELF, IT’S WHAT FRIENDS DO

the morning light is pale, spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows of jungwon’s penthouse, softening the sharp edges of the room. you’re in one of his shirts, too big, the hem brushing your thighs as you stand at the kitchen counter, pouring coffee from a sleek machine that probably costs more than your rent. jungwon is at the table, scrolling through his phone, hair still messy from sleep. he looks almost normal like this—human, not the untouchable figure who commands rooms and owns half the city’s nightlife. but even now, there’s an edge to him, a quiet intensity that never quite fades.

“you’re staring,” he says, not looking up.

“am not,” you lie, turning back to the coffee, the rich aroma filling the air.

he snorts, soft, and you hear the scrape of his chair as he stands. he’s behind you before you can react, hands on your hips, chin resting on your shoulder. “you’re a terrible liar,” he says, voice low, teasing, but with that undercurrent that makes your pulse quicken.

you lean back into him, just a little, letting his warmth seep into you. “you like that too,” you murmur, and he doesn’t argue, just tightens his grip on your hips, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“you working tonight?” he asks, his breath warm against your skin.

“yeah,” you say, stirring sugar into your coffee, the spoon clinking softly against the mug. “closing shift.”

he hums, thoughtful, his fingers tracing lazy circles against your hip. “don’t flirt with the customers.”

you laugh, turning in his arms to face him, one eyebrow raised. “jealous?”

his eyes narrow, but there’s a flicker of amusement there, a spark that makes your stomach flip. “you know better,” he says, voice low, and you do. you know exactly how far you can push him, and you know what happens when you go too far. it’s why you keep doing it.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐕𝐈 : GET REAL !

the club is different in the daytime, hollow and quiet, the neon lights off, the air stale with the ghost of last night’s chaos. you’re behind the bar, restocking bottles, the clink of glass against glass the only sound in the empty space. jungwon walks in, his presence as commanding as ever, even in the daylight. he doesn’t come here during the day often—too busy running his empire, you assume—but when he does, it’s always with purpose.

“you’re early,” you say, not looking up from the crate of vodka you’re unpacking.

“had a meeting nearby,” he says, leaning against the bar, his eyes tracking your movements. “thought i’d check in.”

you glance at him, skeptical. “you don’t check in.”

he smirks, just a little. “maybe i missed you.”

you roll your eyes, but your pulse quickens, betraying you. “sure.”

he watches you work, silent, and you feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and familiar. it’s not just attraction—it’s something deeper, something that makes you feel seen in a way that’s both thrilling and unnerving. you set a bottle down, turn to face him, wiping your hands on a rag. “what do you really want, jungwon?”

he shrugs, but his eyes are serious, searching. “you ever think about quitting?”

you pause, caught off guard. “this job?”

“this life.”

you set the rag down, cross your arms. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

he steps closer, voice low, deliberate. “you’re not like the others here. you’re… different.”

“different how?” you ask, chin lifting, challenging him.

he’s closer now, close enough that you can smell the faint spice of his cologne, feel the heat of him in the cool air. “you’re not just passing through. you’re looking for something. but you won’t find it behind a bar.”

you laugh, sharp and defensive, but it rings hollow. “you don’t know what i’m looking for.”

“don’t i?” his voice is soft, but it cuts deep, and for a moment, you can’t meet his eyes. he’s right—he always is—but you’re not ready to admit it, not to him, not to yourself. you’ve spent too long running from your past to start digging it up now.

“i’m fine,” you say finally, turning back to the bottles. “i like it here.”

he doesn’t believe you. you can feel it in the way the air shifts, in the way his jaw tightens. but he doesn’t push, not this time. “be careful tonight,” he says instead, and then he’s gone, leaving you with the echo of his words and the weight of his absence.

that night, the club is alive again, the same pulsing beast it always is. you’re behind the bar, pouring drinks, dodging hands, flashing smiles at the customers who tip well and ignoring the ones who don’t. jungwon’s there, in his usual spot, but he’s not alone tonight. there’s a woman with him—tall, sleek, her dress as expensive as the ones he buys you, her hand brushing his arm as she laughs at something he says.

you hate the way it makes you feel. you hate that you care.

you pour a drink too fast, and it spills over the edge of the glass, the customer cursing under his breath. you barely hear him, your eyes flicking to jungwon, to the woman, to the way she leans closer, like she has a right to him. he doesn’t look at you, not once, and it twists something sharp in your chest.

you tell yourself it’s fine. you’re not exclusive. you’re not anything. but the knot in your chest doesn’t loosen, and when your shift ends, you’re out the door before he can say a word, the cool night air hitting you like a slap.

you walk home, the city’s lights blurring into a haze. your apartment is small, cramped, nothing like his sleek penthouse, but it’s yours. you drop your keys on the counter, kick off your heels, and sink onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. you don’t know why you keep doing this, why you keep going back to him, why you let him pull you in again and again when you know it’s a game you’ll never win.

your phone buzzes. a text.

jungwon: where are you?

you don’t answer. not tonight.

he shows up at your door an hour later, and you’re not surprised. he probably bribed the doorman, or maybe he just knows everyone in this city. he’s still in the black shirt from the club, hair slightly tousled, like he’s been running his hands through it. he looks at you, standing in your doorway, and there’s no trace of the smirk you’re used to, just a quiet intensity that makes your heart stutter.

“you didn’t answer,” he says, voice flat.

“i was busy,” you lie, leaning against the doorframe, blocking his way in.

he raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. “busy hiding?”

“busy living,” you snap, sharper than you meant. “i don’t owe you an explanation.”

he steps closer, and you hate how your body reacts, how your heart speeds up just because he’s near. “you ran out,” he says. “why?”

“i was tired,” you say, but it sounds weak, even to you.

“bullshit.” his voice is low, cutting through your defenses like they’re paper.

you glare at him, but he doesn’t back down. he never does. “who was she?” you ask before you can stop yourself, the question slipping out, raw and unguarded.

he pauses, and for a moment, you think he’s going to dodge it. but then he smirks, just a little, and you want to slap it off his face. “a business associate,” he says, and the way he says it makes it sound like it’s nothing, like it shouldn’t matter. “jealous?”

“no,” you lie, but your voice betrays you, sharp and brittle.

he steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat of him, smell the faint trace of his cologne. “you don’t get to be jealous,” he says, voice low, almost dangerous. “not when you’re out there playing games with me.”

“i’m not—” you start, but he cuts you off.

“don’t.” his voice is sharp, final. “you know exactly what you’re doing. you always do.”

you want to argue, want to push him away, but he’s right. you’ve been playing this game as long as he has, and you’re both too good at it. “what do you want, jungwon?” you ask, tired suddenly, the fight draining out of you.

he looks at you, really looks, and for a moment, there’s something soft in his eyes, something almost vulnerable. but then it’s gone, replaced by that hard, unreadable mask. “you,” he says simply.

you laugh, bitter. “you have me.”

“do i?” his voice is quiet, but it hits like a punch.

you don’t answer. you don’t know how.

he steps past you, into your apartment, like he owns this place too. you close the door behind him, because what else can you do? he’s here, and you’re here, and the game isn’t over.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐕𝐈𝐈 : ANYTHING BUT UNDERSTANDABLE

the next few weeks are a blur of nights like that—clubs, drinks, his hands on you, his voice in your ear. you tell yourself you’re in control, that you’re choosing this, but every time he looks at you, every time he touches you, you feel yourself slipping, falling deeper into something you can’t name. you start noticing things about him—small things, things you shouldn’t care about. the way his hands shake sometimes, just slightly, when he thinks no one’s looking. the way he avoids questions about his family, his past. the way he never talks about love, or forever, or anything that feels too real.

you ask him one night, after, when you’re both lying in his bed, the city lights spilling through the window. “why do you do this?”

he’s quiet for so long you think he’s not going to answer. but then he says, “because it’s easier.”

“easier than what?” you press, turning to look at him.

“everything else,” he says, and his voice is so soft, so guarded, you almost miss the weight of it.

you don’t push. you don’t know if you want to know.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈 : DOES THIS COUNT AS OBJECTIFICATION ?

the club is louder tonight, the crowd wilder, more reckless. you’re not working—you’re here for him, like always. you’re in another dress he picked, red this time, the fabric clinging to you like a second skin. you’re dancing, but it’s not for the crowd—it’s for him. you feel his eyes on you, always, from the corner of the room, and it’s enough to make your blood sing.

you don’t see the fight until it’s happening. a drunk guy, too handsy, too close, and then jungwon’s there, pulling him off you, his fist connecting with the guy’s jaw before anyone can blink. the crowd parts, security swarms, and jungwon’s standing there, knuckles bloody, eyes blazing.

“won—” you start, but he grabs your arm, pulls you through the crowd, out the back door.

the alley is cold, the air sharp against your skin. he’s pacing, hands in his hair, breathing hard. “you okay?” you ask, because you don’t know what else to say.

he laughs, short and harsh. “am i okay? you’re the one who had that asshole all over you.”

“i was handling it,” you say, defensive, arms crossing.

“handling it?” he rounds on you, eyes flashing. “he had his hands on you.”

“so what? you don’t get to punch every guy who looks at me.”

he steps closer, voice dropping, dangerous. “you think i do this for fun?”

you don’t answer. you can’t.

he grabs your face, not gentle, but not rough either. “you’re mine,” he says, and it’s not a question.

you pull away, heart pounding. “i’m not a thing you own.”

he looks at you, and for a moment, you think he’s going to argue. but then he just nods, slow, and steps back. “fine,” he says. “walk away.”

you don’t. you never do.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐗 : JUST MAYBE

the next night, you’re back at his place. you don’t know why you keep coming back, but you do. he’s different tonight, quieter, softer. he doesn’t touch you right away, doesn’t push. he just sits on the couch, watching you as you stand by the window, the city sprawling out below.

“why do you stay?” he asks, and it’s the first time he’s ever asked you that.

you don’t have an answer—not a good one. “because i want to,” you say finally, and it’s the truth, but it’s not enough.

he stands, crosses the room, and this time, when he touches you, it’s gentle. his fingers brush your cheek, your throat, and you lean into it, closing your eyes.

“you’re going to break my heart,” he says, so quiet you almost miss it.

you open your eyes, look at him. “you don’t have a heart to break.”

he smiles, small and sad. “you’d be surprised.”

the game doesn’t end. it never does. but it shifts, becomes something else. you’re not sure what it is, but you feel it, every time he looks at you, every time he touches you. it’s not love—not yet, maybe not ever—but it’s something. and for now, it’s enough.

you’re back in the club, weeks later, the same pulsing lights, the same pounding music. you’re dancing, and he’s watching, and you know how this ends. you know you’ll push, he’ll pull, and you’ll both fall into each other, like always.

but tonight, when he takes your hand, when he leads you out, there’s no anger, no punishment. just you, and him, and the city that never sleeps.

and maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐗 : OUCH !

you keep going back to the clubs, to the nights that blur into mornings, to the way jungwon’s eyes find you in a crowd, no matter how packed the room is. it’s a rhythm you’ve both perfected—push, pull, tease, surrender. you wear the dresses he buys, each one bolder than the last, each one designed to draw his attention and everyone else’s. you dance with strangers, let their hands linger just long enough to make jungwon’s jaw tighten, to make his fingers flex at his sides. you know what you’re doing, and so does he. it’s a dance, and you’re both leading.

but there are moments—quiet ones, in the spaces between the chaos—where something else creeps in. moments when he’s not the untouchable club owner, not the man who can silence a room with a glance. moments when he’s just jungwon, sitting across from you at his sleek dining table, pouring you coffee, his hair mussed, his eyes soft. moments when you catch him watching you, not with that predatory intensity, but with something warmer, something that makes your chest ache in a way you don’t want to examine too closely.

one night, after another round of the game—another night of dancing too close to someone else, of feeling his eyes burn into you from across the room—you end up back at his place, sprawled on his couch, the city lights glittering through the windows. he’s sitting beside you, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his tie long gone. you’re in one of his shirts again, the fabric soft against your skin, your legs tucked beneath you.

“why do you keep doing it?” he asks, voice low, almost curious. he’s not looking at you, just staring at the amber liquid in his glass, swirling it slowly.

“doing what?” you ask, though you know exactly what he means.

he glances at you, one eyebrow raised, calling out your feigned ignorance. “pushing me. testing me. you know what happens when you do.”

you shrug, leaning back against the couch, stretching your legs out so your toes brush his thigh. “maybe i like what happens.”

his lips twitch, but it’s not a smile, not quite. “you’re gonna get yourself in trouble one day.”

“haven’t i already?” you shoot back, voice teasing, but there’s an edge to it, a challenge.

he sets the glass down, leans closer, his hand resting on your knee, his thumb brushing slow circles against your skin. “you’re different,” he says, and it’s not the first time he’s said it, but it hits harder tonight, in the quiet, with no music to drown it out. “you don’t belong in this world.”

you laugh, but it’s hollow. “and what world do i belong in, jungwon? some quiet little life where i’m not… this?” you gesture vaguely at yourself, at the shirt, at the city beyond the glass.

he doesn’t answer right away, just looks at you, his hand still on your knee, his thumb still moving in those slow, maddening circles. “i don’t know,” he says finally. “but not here. not with guys like that. not with me.”

you freeze, the words landing like a punch you didn’t see coming. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

he leans back, running a hand through his hair, his expression unreadable. “you’re too good for this. for me. you’re gonna figure that out one day, and when you do, you’re gonna leave.”

you stare at him, your heart pounding, because he’s never said anything like this before, never let the mask slip this far. “and what if i don’t want to leave?” you ask, voice quieter than you mean it to be.

he looks at you, and for a moment, you see it again—that softness, that vulnerability, buried deep but there. “then you’re dumber than i thought,” he says, but there’s no bite to it, just a quiet resignation that makes your chest ache.

you don’t know what to say, so you don’t say anything. you just slide closer, resting your head against his shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. he doesn’t push you away, doesn’t make a move. he just lets you stay, and for now, that’s enough.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐗𝐈 : YOU KNOW BETTER

the weeks blur together, a cycle of nights and mornings, of clubs and his apartment, of games and quiet moments that feel too real. you start to notice more—the way he clenches his jaw when he gets a call he doesn’t want to take, the way his hands linger on you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, the way he never asks about your life before this, like he’s scared of the answers.

you’re not sure when it happens, when the game starts to feel like something else, something heavier. maybe it’s the night he shows up at your apartment unannounced, his tie loose, his eyes tired. you open the door, and he doesn’t say a word, just steps inside, pulls you into his arms, and holds you like he’s trying to keep himself together. you don’t ask what’s wrong, because you know he won’t tell you, but you let him hold you, let him bury his face in your hair, let him pretend for a moment that he’s not the man he is.

or maybe it’s the morning you wake up in his bed, the sunlight soft and golden, and he’s watching you, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back. “stay,” he says, and it’s not a command, not this time. it’s a request, soft and raw, and you nod, because how could you not?

you start to wonder if this is what love feels like—not the burning, all-consuming thing you’d imagined, but something quieter, something that creeps in slowly, like the tide. you don’t say it, though. you don’t dare. because love is a dangerous word in a world like this, and you’re not sure either of you is ready for it.

one night, the club is packed, the air thick with sweat and perfume and the sharp tang of alcohol. you’re behind the bar again, filling in for someone who called out, your hands moving fast, pouring drinks, taking tips, dodging the usual handsy customers. jungwon’s there, in his usual spot, but he’s distracted tonight, his phone buzzing constantly, his jaw tight. you don’t ask questions—you’ve learned not to—but you feel the shift, the tension radiating off him like heat.

you’re pouring a shot when it happens. a guy—drunk, loud, too close—grabs your wrist, his grip slimy and too tight. you twist away, flashing a smile to defuse it, but he doesn’t let go, his eyes glassy, his words slurring. “come on, sweetheart, don’t be like that.”

you’re about to snap something sharp when jungwon’s there, faster than you’ve ever seen him move. he doesn’t touch the guy, doesn’t need to—just steps between you, his presence enough to make the man shrink back. “walk away,” jungwon says, voice low, deadly, and the guy does, stumbling over his own feet in his haste to disappear.

you exhale, shaking out your wrist, and meet jungwon’s eyes. “i had it under control,” you say, because you always say that, even when it’s not true.

he doesn’t answer, just grabs your hand—not your wrist, not rough, but firm—and pulls you out from behind the bar, through the crowd, to the back office. the door shuts, and it’s just the two of you, the music muffled, the air heavy.

“you didn’t need to do that,” you say, crossing your arms, but your voice lacks conviction.

he steps closer, his hands flexing at his sides like he’s trying not to touch you. “you think i’m gonna stand there and watch some drunk asshole put his hands on you?”

“it’s part of the job,” you snap, but even you don’t believe it. you’re tired, suddenly, of pretending you’re untouchable, of pretending you don’t need him to step in.

“fuck the job,” he says, and his voice is raw, unguarded, like he’s saying something he shouldn’t. “you’re not theirs to touch.”

you stare at him, your heart pounding, because this isn’t the game anymore. this is something else, something real, and it scares you as much as it thrills you. “and whose am i?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

he doesn’t answer right away, just looks at you, his eyes dark and searching. then he steps closer, so close you can feel his breath on your lips. “you know whose,” he says, and then he kisses you, hard and desperate, like he’s trying to prove it.

you kiss him back, because of course you do. you always do.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐗𝐈𝐈 : LIKE PUZZLE PIECES

the game doesn’t end, but it changes. it’s not just about pushing and pulling anymore, not just about testing limits. it’s about the quiet moments after, when you’re lying in his bed, his arm around you, the city outside silent for once. it’s about the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching, like you’re something he’s afraid to lose. it’s about the way you feel when you’re with him, like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, even if you don’t know what that means.

you’re back at the club, weeks later, the same lights, the same music, the same pulsing energy. you’re dancing again, and he’s watching, and you know how this will end. you’ll push, he’ll pull, and you’ll end up tangled in each other, like always. but this time, when he takes your hand, when he leads you out, there’s no edge to it, no punishment. just you, and him, and the city that never sleeps.

and maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

you don’t talk about what this is, not really. you don’t call it love, or a relationship, or anything that feels too permanent. but you feel it, in the way he touches you, in the way he looks at you, in the way he shows up at your apartment unannounced, just to sit with you in the quiet. you feel it in the way you think about him when he’s not there, in the way your body aches for him, in the way you don’t want to imagine a life without him.

one night, you’re at his place, sitting on the balcony, the city sprawling out below like a glittering dream. he’s beside you, a cigarette between his fingers, though he doesn’t smoke it, just lets it burn down to ash. you’re in one of his shirts again, your legs bare, the cool night air raising goosebumps on your skin.

“you ever think about leaving?” you ask, breaking the silence.

he glances at you, exhaling a slow plume of smoke. “leaving what?”

“this.” you gesture at the city, the lights, the life. “all of it.”

he’s quiet for a moment, his eyes on the horizon. “sometimes,” he says finally. “but it’s who i am.”

you nod, because you get it. this world—his world—is as much a part of him as you are. maybe more. “and me?” you ask, voice soft, almost afraid of the answer. “where do i fit?”

he looks at you then, really looks, and there’s something in his eyes that makes your breath catch. “you’re the only thing that makes it bearable,” he says, and it’s the closest he’s ever come to saying something real, something that matters.

you don’t push, don’t ask for more. you just lean your head against his shoulder, and he lets you, his hand finding yours, his fingers lacing through yours like they were made to fit.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐗𝐈𝐈𝐈 : I LIKE U

the nights keep coming, and so do you, back to the clubs, back to him. you dance, you drink, you push, and he pulls, and it’s a rhythm you both know by heart. but now, there’s something else in it—a thread of something deeper, something that makes the game feel less like a game and more like a promise.

you’re not sure when it happened, when the lines blurred, when it stopped being just about the thrill and started being about him. but you know you’re in too deep now, and you know he is too, even if he’ll never say it. you see it in the way he watches you, in the way he touches you, in the way he lets you see the parts of him he keeps hidden from everyone else.

you’re back at the club, the music pounding, the lights flashing, the crowd a living, breathing thing. you’re dancing, and he’s watching, and you know how this ends. but tonight, when he takes your hand, when he leads you out, it’s different. it’s not about possession or control or proving a point. it’s just you, and him, and the city that never sleeps.

and maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

#ㅤ ㅤ ✿◞ ◟ ) ❜#enhypen #enhypen jungwon #yang jungwon #jungwon #jungwon smut

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amaranthineghost · 1 year ago

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THE MIGHTY HAS FALLEN (BUT YOU'LL RISE AGAIN, LOVE) ( max verstappen. )

max verstappen x reader

after a tough race cut short, max pushes away any person around him, but not her. never her. she always picks up the pieces to put him back together.

authors note: I love max. I know he's not the self-deprecating typa guy, but in this, he is, OKAY. charles is after this <333

HE WAS A BOMB. the fuse getting shorter and shorter every minute that his patience was tested. everything around him seemed to irritate him more and more as he tried to keep himself from exploding, for pr's sake.

he just wanted to avoid the media all together, for obvious reasons, but he was contractually obligated to give his words to the journalists under the media tent. putting him under a microscope and asking questions that had an undertone of scrutiny in hopes of catching him break. he was close, but he wouldn’t.

it hadn’t even been a fault of his own, he rarely made those anymore. the car had caught fire, but not due to a mistake he had made, and even if it had been, he wouldn't have admitted it anyways. still he felt the guilt of his lack of performance, beating himself up after every question asked about his car and what had happened.

it was just stupid. the questions were stupid. the car was stupid. this whole race was stupid.

the pressure to perform, even in the best car on the grid, was high. despite his seat being secured for plenty of years to come, he still had expectations to meet and records to break.

it was obvious to everyone that max was hard on himself every time he didn't perform his best, his girlfriend especially noticing when she’d find him in his very luxurious driver's room sulking at even the slightest of a mistake made by him.

it didn't happen often, but when it did, she'd been there for him. he knew that.

he wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and never be seen again because world champions don't make stupid mistakes.

even if this hadn't been a mistake he made, he should've known. even if there was no possible way he could’ve, he should've.

he was raised to believe that he was only deserving if he had been first, that he was destined to fail after every second place or worse finish.

so it wasn't surprising when he thought he didn't deserve her. in comparison, or more like his eyes, she was simply perfect.

and she understood him, which not many people could because he wouldn't let anyone pick apart his brain like she did.

he locked his thoughts and feelings in the dark that shrouded his mind from early childhood trauma. he promised he would never let anyone see.

but he was never great at keeping such promises because it hadn't taken much for her to pick the lock to his brain. even though he wasn't ready to spill every detail of his upbringing to her, he trusted her.

and he didn't get to do that all too often.

the media had been brutal—he knew they would be—and yet it still crushed his mentality and faith in himself.

with his race suit around his waist despite having time to change beforehand, he walked through the paddock in shame at the early retirement.

it wasn't like this determined the outcome of his career because the next race, he'd be back on top. he didn't feel so sure of it though because all his thoughts were on this failure. what if he failed the next race?

what if he failed the whole season? what if he fails her?

unlikely, the people know, but he had so much confidence which had so easily crumbled when it got a little too hot. he wasn't sure of himself anymore.

anyone could see the turmoil bubbling underneath his skin, harsh waves crashing in the ocean of his blue eyes as he pushed past anyone and everyone.

the walk through the paddock was short, considering the red bull motorhome was the first of ten. max hastily entered through the automatic doors, skipping steps as he was eager to hide out in his driver's room.

he felt the eyes of the staff follow him down the hall until he disappeared quickly around the corner. he didn't want to be seen by anyone.

the door to his driver's room closed as fast as it was opened, but much louder. she heard the slam of the door echo down the hallway.

she didn't flinch, she just calmly greeted staff with smiles and left a bag of sweets on the table for them. she always brought something for the team, to celebrate every victory and despite this not being one, they still deserved it for working hard.

since she had gotten there not too long after him, she lingered around the lobby. she didn't want to be waiting around for him to show up and have him brush her off because he wasn't in the right headspace.

he would never mean to dismiss her, and she knew to give him at least a little time to himself to think and process things. she couldn't give him too much time though because she didn't want his self-deprecating thoughts to eat away at his confidence.

from what she analyzed from the staff and their demeanor, he'd probably caught them off guard when he slammed his door.

she wouldn't apologize for his behavior because she would make him do it when he cooled down.

so she hung around and made small talk with the sparse staff around to allow max a few minutes to himself before excusing herself down the hall.

she had a bomb to defuse after all.

the clack of her heels on the hard floors bounced off the walls, but she walked quietly enough so max didn't hear her coming. he knew she would though. he knew she would find him with his head in his hands, barely covered in sweat because he didn't race for more than three laps.

his face was still flush with disappointment though. he didn't want her to see him like this even though she was with him during his last disappointing race, but even though his singaporean grand prix finish wasn't great, at least he hadn't been out of the race.

max hadn't DNF’d in two years because he was simply just that good, and he still is. he just didn't feel like it.

his hands pressed so hard against his eyes, the blood vessels in them would have popped if he pushed any harder. he had taken off his red bull hat, he felt he didn't deserve the number one right now. it was thrown lazily onto the makeshift bed in his driver's room.

the room was practically silent, every so often interrupted by a deep sigh of disappointment that escaped his lips. he had sat there for a good couple or minutes, sulking.

when she reached his door, she held the bouquet of flowers she always got for him close to her body with one arm while she raised the other to knock. her hand only slightly hesitated before her fist made contact with the door and a few seconds later, she tried entering. it was locked, which was usual whenever he was brooding.

at first, when max heard the knock, he thought of all the people last on his list that he would want to see right now, but on the bottom of the list was the person he wanted to avoid the most right now.

his dad.

their relationship was rocky. he never supported max at any place unless it was on the very top of the podium, and even then max thought he looked unpleasant.

“go away,” was all max could mutter through his hands as his heart started to pick up the pace.

she sighed, shaking her head with a smile pulling at her lips, “max.” it was all she needed to say.

part of him didn't want to let her in, he didn't want her to see him like this, but he knew she was just as stubborn as him, if not more. he knew she would stand there all day if he didn't open the door to let her in.

and he would always let her in.

she heard the low creak of the sofa she could imagine him sitting on, but not his footsteps while he made his way to the door. she only knew he heard her when the lock clicked and the door slowly opened inwards to reveal the red-faced max verstappen.

she stood staring at him, her head tilted as she studied his face. he didn't move, he just watched her eyes dart around his appearance, and he felt himself getting hot under his fireproofs.

“are you going to let me in, verstappen?” she teased, a sly smile on her lips as she watched her boyfriend roll his eyes.

he scoffed, stepping aside, “don't call me that.”

“what?” she acted innocent, stepping into his driver's room with the fresh flowers, seeing the already prepped vase, “don't call you by your name?”

“you know what I mean.” though he tried to keep a straight face and act like he was still mad, he couldn't keep a smile from creeping onto his lips. she just had that effect.

she heard the door close and lock again as she took the wrapping off and placed the flowers in the vase. she shrugged at his words, her back still towards him, but she knew he had sat back down.

“you didn't have to get those,” he mumbled, “didn't win.”

she sighed, crumbling the wrapping in her hand and throwing it away before walking to where he sat. she stood in front of him as he looked up at her.

even with heels, he was still much taller than her and even though he was sitting, he reached barely below her chin.

she spread her arms to offer a hug to him, which he gratefully took, his arms snaking around the low of her hips. pressed against her chest, her arms wrapped around his head, running her fingers through his hair.

she felt him sigh against her skin, his eyes closing as they stayed like that for minutes without speaking. she felt him caress the bare skin of her thigh with his thumb.

when they finally pulled apart, his hands still laid firmly on her hips, his hair disheveled from the hug. she ran her hands through it to fix it and he only watched as she did so.

when she finally finished after only ten seconds because guy hair is a lot less complicated than women’s hair, he finally spoke up, “why are you dressed so uncomfortably?”

she was slightly taken aback, seeing as he was just moping about his race not even ten minutes ago and now commenting on her appearance. he only assumed she was uncomfortable, but unfortunately his assumption was correct.

“what do you mean?” she looked down at her attire, which isn't so different from the other wags that she hung out with.

his hand snuck around the back of her thigh and pulled up her leg, “I thought I told you to stop wearing heels, you always complain about them.”

“i’m fine,” she said, about to cross her arms, but her balance said otherwise so she settled them on his shoulders for support.

he gave her an incredulous look because every time she wore heels, without fail, she would complain less than an hour into wherever they were that she wanted to sit.

“okay, i admit i can't wait to get these things off,” she let out a deep breath, putting a hand on her hip, “but I'm supposed to be taking care of you.”

she said in his response to take the heels off her feet for her, a simple gesture really, but this was about him.

“do you want to talk about it?” she massaged his shoulders as he threw her heels to the other side of the small sofa.

“nothing to talk about,” he shrugged, “maybe I don't deserve being first.”

she pushed his head to look up at her, shaking her head, “you just don't realize how much you deserve, max. you're a world champion, a three-time one,” she reassured him, “you've won countless races, and you still have the entire season ahead of you. I know you want to, but you can't let one bad race define your season.”

“I know, you're right.” he bit the inside of his cheek as he thought deeply, “but I have to prove myself.”

“you've already done that plenty of times,” she shook his shoulders in emphasis, “besides you'll still lead the championship, unless charles gets p1, but you'll get it right back if that's the case.”

she was right. she always was, he never doubted her. he would never doubt her because she would never lie to him. she always backed up her answers by building up his ego and confidence back up so he was ready to fight it out on the track next race.

whether it took a couple of minutes or hours to bring his mood back up, she'd take her time in making him feel like the champion he was again.

she would take his phone from him, he didn't need to see the articles being written or the missing phone calls from his dad.

all he needed was her and she would always be there.

—

taglist (found here): @slut4lrh @taylorslovesswifties13 @sbella13 @kaa212 @nhlfs

proofread by @foreveralbon <333

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mostlysignssomeportents · 8 months ago

Text

Conspiratorialism as a material phenomenon

I'll be in TUCSON, AZ from November 8-10: I'm the GUEST OF HONOR at the TUSCON SCIENCE FICTION CONVENTION.

I think it behooves us to be a little skeptical of stories about AI driving people to believe wrong things and commit ugly actions. Not that I like the AI slop that is filling up our social media, but when we look at the ways that AI is harming us, slop is pretty low on the list.

The real AI harms come from the actual things that AI companies sell AI to do. There's the AI gun-detector gadgets that the credulous Mayor Eric Adams put in NYC subways, which led to 2,749 invasive searches and turned up zero guns:

https://www.cbsnews.com/newyork/news/nycs-subway-weapons-detector-pilot-program-ends/

Any time AI is used to predict crime – predictive policing, bail determinations, Child Protective Services red flags – they magnify the biases already present in these systems, and, even worse, they give this bias the veneer of scientific neutrality. This process is called "empiricism-washing," and you know you're experiencing it when you hear some variation on "it's just math, math can't be racist":

https://pluralistic.net/2020/06/23/cryptocidal-maniacs/#phrenology

When AI is used to replace customer service representatives, it systematically defrauds customers, while providing an "accountability sink" that allows the company to disclaim responsibility for the thefts:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/23/maximal-plausibility/#reverse-centaurs

When AI is used to perform high-velocity "decision support" that is supposed to inform a "human in the loop," it quickly overwhelms its human overseer, who takes on the role of "moral crumple zone," pressing the "OK" button as fast as they can. This is bad enough when the sacrificial victim is a human overseeing, say, proctoring software that accuses remote students of cheating on their tests:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/16/unauthorized-paper/#cheating-anticheat

But it's potentially lethal when the AI is a transcription engine that doctors have to use to feed notes to a data-hungry electronic health record system that is optimized to commit health insurance fraud by seeking out pretenses to "upcode" a patient's treatment. Those AIs are prone to inventing things the doctor never said, inserting them into the record that the doctor is supposed to review, but remember, the only reason the AI is there at all is that the doctor is being asked to do so much paperwork that they don't have time to treat their patients:

https://apnews.com/article/ai-artificial-intelligence-health-business-90020cdf5fa16c79ca2e5b6c4c9bbb14

My point is that "worrying about AI" is a zero-sum game. When we train our fire on the stuff that isn't important to the AI stock swindlers' business-plans (like creating AI slop), we should remember that the AI companies could halt all of that activity and not lose a dime in revenue. By contrast, when we focus on AI applications that do the most direct harm – policing, health, security, customer service – we also focus on the AI applications that make the most money and drive the most investment.

AI hasn't attracted hundreds of billions in investment capital because investors love AI slop. All the money pouring into the system – from investors, from customers, from easily gulled big-city mayors – is chasing things that AI is objectively very bad at and those things also cause much more harm than AI slop. If you want to be a good AI critic, you should devote the majority of your focus to these applications. Sure, they're not as visually arresting, but discrediting them is financially arresting, and that's what really matters.

All that said: AI slop is real, there is a lot of it, and just because it doesn't warrant priority over the stuff AI companies actually sell, it still has cultural significance and is worth considering.

AI slop has turned Facebook into an anaerobic lagoon of botshit, just the laziest, grossest engagement bait, much of it the product of rise-and-grind spammers who avidly consume get rich quick "courses" and then churn out a torrent of "shrimp Jesus" and fake chainsaw sculptures:

https://www.404media.co/email/1cdf7620-2e2f-4450-9cd9-e041f4f0c27f/

For poor engagement farmers in the global south chasing the fractional pennies that Facebook shells out for successful clickbait, the actual content of the slop is beside the point. These spammers aren't necessarily tuned into the psyche of the wealthy-world Facebook users who represent Meta's top monetization subjects. They're just trying everything and doubling down on anything that moves the needle, A/B splitting their way into weird, hyper-optimized, grotesque crap:

https://www.404media.co/facebook-is-being-overrun-with-stolen-ai-generated-images-that-people-think-are-real/

In other words, Facebook's AI spammers are laying out a banquet of arbitrary possibilities, like the letters on a Ouija board, and the Facebook users' clicks and engagement are a collective ideomotor response, moving the algorithm's planchette to the options that tug hardest at our collective delights (or, more often, disgusts).

So, rather than thinking of AI spammers as creating the ideological and aesthetic trends that drive millions of confused Facebook users into condemning, praising, and arguing about surreal botshit, it's more true to say that spammers are discovering these trends within their subjects' collective yearnings and terrors, and then refining them by exploring endlessly ramified variations in search of unsuspected niches.

(If you know anything about AI, this may remind you of something: a Generative Adversarial Network, in which one bot creates variations on a theme, and another bot ranks how closely the variations approach some ideal. In this case, the spammers are the generators and the Facebook users they evince reactions from are the discriminators)

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Generative_adversarial_network

I got to thinking about this today while reading User Mag, Taylor Lorenz's superb newsletter, and her reporting on a new AI slop trend, "My neighbor’s ridiculous reason for egging my car":

https://www.usermag.co/p/my-neighbors-ridiculous-reason-for

The "egging my car" slop consists of endless variations on a story in which the poster (generally a figure of sympathy, canonically a single mother of newborn twins) complains that her awful neighbor threw dozens of eggs at her car to punish her for parking in a way that blocked his elaborate Hallowe'en display. The text is accompanied by an AI-generated image showing a modest family car that has been absolutely plastered with broken eggs, dozens upon dozens of them.

According to Lorenz, variations on this slop are topping very large Facebook discussion forums totalling millions of users, like "Movie Character…,USA Story, Volleyball Women, Top Trends, Love Style, and God Bless." These posts link to SEO sites laden with programmatic advertising.

The funnel goes:

i. Create outrage and hence broad reach;

ii, A small percentage of those who see the post will click through to the SEO site;

iii. A small fraction of those users will click a low-quality ad;

iv. The ad will pay homeopathic sub-pennies to the spammer.

The revenue per user on this kind of scam is next to nothing, so it only works if it can get very broad reach, which is why the spam is so designed for engagement maximization. The more discussion a post generates, the more users Facebook recommends it to.

These are very effective engagement bait. Almost all AI slop gets some free engagement in the form of arguments between users who don't know they're commenting an AI scam and people hectoring them for falling for the scam. This is like the free square in the middle of a bingo card.

Beyond that, there's multivalent outrage: some users are furious about food wastage; others about the poor, victimized "mother" (some users are furious about both). Not only do users get to voice their fury at both of these imaginary sins, they can also argue with one another about whether, say, food wastage even matters when compared to the petty-minded aggression of the "perpetrator." These discussions also offer lots of opportunity for violent fantasies about the bad guy getting a comeuppance, offers to travel to the imaginary AI-generated suburb to dole out a beating, etc. All in all, the spammers behind this tedious fiction have really figured out how to rope in all kinds of users' attention.

Of course, the spammers don't get much from this. There isn't such a thing as an "attention economy." You can't use attention as a unit of account, a medium of exchange or a store of value. Attention – like everything else that you can't build an economy upon, such as cryptocurrency – must be converted to money before it has economic significance. Hence that tooth-achingly trite high-tech neologism, "monetization."

The monetization of attention is very poor, but AI is heavily subsidized or even free (for now), so the largest venture capital and private equity funds in the world are spending billions in public pension money and rich peoples' savings into CO2 plumes, GPUs, and botshit so that a bunch of hustle-culture weirdos in the Pacific Rim can make a few dollars by tricking people into clicking through engagement bait slop – twice.

The slop isn't the point of this, but the slop does have the useful function of making the collective ideomotor response visible and thus providing a peek into our hopes and fears. What does the "egging my car" slop say about the things that we're thinking about?

Lorenz cites Jamie Cohen, a media scholar at CUNY Queens, who points out that subtext of this slop is "fear and distrust in people about their neighbors." Cohen predicts that "the next trend, is going to be stranger and more violent.”

This feels right to me. The corollary of mistrusting your neighbors, of course, is trusting only yourself and your family. Or, as Margaret Thatcher liked to say, "There is no such thing as society. There are individual men and women and there are families."

We are living in the tail end of a 40 year experiment in structuring our world as though "there is no such thing as society." We've gutted our welfare net, shut down or privatized public services, all but abolished solidaristic institutions like unions.

This isn't mere aesthetics: an atomized society is far more hospitable to extreme wealth inequality than one in which we are all in it together. When your power comes from being a "wise consumer" who "votes with your wallet," then all you can do about the climate emergency is buy a different kind of car – you can't build the public transit system that will make cars obsolete.

When you "vote with your wallet" all you can do about animal cruelty and habitat loss is eat less meat. When you "vote with your wallet" all you can do about high drug prices is "shop around for a bargain." When you vote with your wallet, all you can do when your bank forecloses on your home is "choose your next lender more carefully."

Most importantly, when you vote with your wallet, you cast a ballot in an election that the people with the thickest wallets always win. No wonder those people have spent so long teaching us that we can't trust our neighbors, that there is no such thing as society, that we can't have nice things. That there is no alternative.

The commercial surveillance industry really wants you to believe that they're good at convincing people of things, because that's a good way to sell advertising. But claims of mind-control are pretty goddamned improbable – everyone who ever claimed to have managed the trick was lying, from Rasputin to MK-ULTRA:

https://pluralistic.net/HowToDestroySurveillanceCapitalism

Rather than seeing these platforms as convincing people of things, we should understand them as discovering and reinforcing the ideology that people have been driven to by material conditions. Platforms like Facebook show us to one another, let us form groups that can imperfectly fill in for the solidarity we're desperate for after 40 years of "no such thing as society."

The most interesting thing about "egging my car" slop is that it reveals that so many of us are convinced of two contradictory things: first, that everyone else is a monster who will turn on you for the pettiest of reasons; and second, that we're all the kind of people who would stick up for the victims of those monsters.

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/29/hobbesian-slop/#cui-bono

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

#pluralistic #taylor lorenz #conspiratorialism #conspiracy fantasy #mind control #a paradise built in hell #solnit #ai slop #ai #disinformation #materialism #doppelganger #naomi klein

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silantryoo · 1 year ago

Text

nakamura kazuha x le sserafim!reader (fluff)

WARNINGS ; scheming, possessiveness (non-toxic)

kazuha lived a hectic life, almost as hectic as her mind.

at age three, she decided to throw herself into a raging fire.

she had listened to one of her close friends (as close as children could get at that age, at least) rave about how fun their after-school activities were. how she felt like the spotlight was on her, and only her.

kazuha would never admit it, but she craved attention. she yearned to be seen and be recognized, to be watched and to amaze. her after-school activities (read: watching cartoons and drawing stick figures for her parents to interpret) left her with a restlessness, one that relayed onto her parents.

("kazuha! stop cutting holes into your blankets!")

nearly all her childhood memories consisted of school and ballet. it was a monotonous rinse and repeat. each day, she woke up with the dull sensation of aching and routine.

it was fun. it was exciting.

kazuha knew she was good. there was no doubt about it. she would get comments from other parents, praising her, and her mom and dad constantly walked around with their chins held high, knowing how well they're daughter performed.

she was a performer. an amazing one at that.

it didn't go unrecognized. as soon as she reached high school, she earned herself a hefty scholarship, attending one of the most rigorous ballet academies in the world.

kazuha had everything a ballerina could ever want to achieve, but somehow, a sudden emptiness started to consume her.

ballet was fun. kazuha knew what to do to get the spotlight. she knew how to catch the attention of the audience. it was a test, a rigorous evaluation of everything she knew in each class, in each recital.

it was a test, one which she had studied.

but nakamura kazuha wanted to perform.

she would've lied if she said she joined hybe purely out of ambition.

kazuha knew about kpop. she wasn't born in the last century. she, although not as diehard as her roommate, liked blackpink and bts. she knew their discography well enough to attend concerts, and her roommate usually blasted some random song from an idol group while washing the dishes.

(she refused to mention her secret twitter page that somehow shifted into a blackpink fan account.)

when she had gotten the email from hybe, kazuha was more than hesitant. she heard horror stories about the training, how foreigners were forced to speak a language they knew none of. kazuha was already accustomed to how rigorous ballet was, but she knew that the language barrier would be the final straw to making her break.

still, she couldn't do this forever. she couldn't die doing ballet, of feeling the dull ache of something missing.

"i don't know." kazuha sighed, gritting her teeth as she thought about that email again.

Dear Nakamura Kazuha...

("how did they find out my email address and my full name?!")

her roommate sighed. "i think you should."

"and leave everything behind?" kazuha shivered at the thought. change was fun as it was scary. "what if my parents say no?.

mina shook her head. "as if they would. they know how your brain works."

kazuha couldn't disagree with her. her parents were her number one supporters. if she decided to be a cashier at the nearest 7eleven, they would support her.

"besides," mina smirked. kazuha always became worried when her friend was smug. "i heard some of the izone members-"

l/n y/n.

"izone?"

kazuha hadn't known much about izone in all honesty.

all she knew was that miyawaki sakura, honda hitomi, and yabuki nako were in the group. she had heard their songs, and although she had always wanted to get into them, she never had the time.

but then there was you.

your minju-unnie said that it was okay that your family group disbanded. she said that it was an opportunity for growth and change, and despite her face full of tears, you tried your best to believe her.

packing your bags was the hardest thing you had to do. your roommates, wonyoung and yujin, were quiet and solemn. it was unlike the three of you. your unnies always heard shouting from your room, whether it was you and yujin arguing over the air conditioning, or wonyoung begging you to go shopping with her.

you were their maknaes.

now, you were no one's.

being a group of thirteen, someone was always left out, no matter how hard eunbi or sakura tried. sometimes, it was one of the two. other times, it was willingly hyewon, trying to avoid working.

sometimes, it was you.

everyone grouped up. yujin and wonyoung were going back to their company, starship. hitomi, sakura, and nako were getting ready to fly back to japan. yena and yuri talked to a bumbling and restless chaewon, crying into their arms. chaeyeon and hyewon were in the corner, worriedly watching eunbi as she scanned everyone's faces.

"y/n-ah."

you turned around, wiping the tears off your face.

"minju-unnie." you couldn't help but smile at the older girl.

minju was your rock.

she was a year older, and almost, if not more, confused than you about the whole idol thing. she was shy and insecure, always double-checking if things were done right.

but she was always there. minju always cared, even when she didn't have time to care.

she was the older sister you had always wanted (regardless of whatever chaewon and yena said during interviews and lives).

"give me a hug."

"okay."

you smiled, holding her tight. you could feel her tears dripping onto your shoulder, and her hand gripping your shirt.

minju was afraid, just like you were.

"i'm still your unnie after this, okay?" you didn't know if minju was trying to convince you or herself, but it didn't matter. "talk to me about anything."

you pulled back.

why did this feel like a goodbye? why did it feel like everyone knew this was a goodbye.

you didn't want them to leave. you didn't want them to forget you.

"unnie-"

"i'll be okay." minju could always read your mind somehow. "everything will be okay."

"okay." it'll be okay. everything will be okay. you'll still have your family members. "i trust you, unnie."

a week later, you, chaewon, minju, and sakura received an email.

everything will be okay.

being okay came in the form of nakamura kazuha.

you had seen her on that video call, talking in broken sentences with a cute accent. she read the paper in front of her, and you could visibly remember the light reflecting the hiragana pronunciation from the back.

a month later, she flew in.

nakamura kazuha was pretty.

a soft knock echoed through your room, the vinyl drowning it out after a few moments. the clock on your table read one am.

it could've been anyone of your group members at this point. maybe it was yunjin, dragging you out to go eat with one of her friends (despite it being past midnight). it could've been sakura, just wanting to sit next to you as she knitted. maybe it was eunchae too, claiming your room was colder despite her living in a different dorm complex. maybe it was chaewon...

you shook your head. chaewon wouldn't leave her room.

the door creaked open, puppy eyes staring back at you.

"hi."

kazuha.

you smiled. part of you was glad that minju never took the offer from hybe, otherwise she would pester you nonstop about your (extremely obvious) crush on the japanese ballerina.

you waved your hand, telling her to go inside. the younger girl beamed at you, a red tint dusting the apples of her cheeks.

"i got something!"

you raised an eyebrow, sitting up as you tried to peak at what she was holding.

"what is it?"

kazuha blinked, trying to calm herself down from bursting at the thought of spending time with you.

it didn't matter to her that you two had been friends for more than a year. being near you was enough to make her heart double in size.

"i, uh, i bought a lego set." she couldn't show that her confidence was wavering. "yunjin-unnie doesn't wanna do it with me."

you frowned.

you loved yunjin as much as the next person did, but you hated it when kazuha talked about her. the ballerina seemed to worship the ground that yunjin walked on.

the worst part was the fact you couldn't blame her. back in izone, there was a moment in time when you had done the same with one of your former members.

minju still teased you about your former crush.

the room went quiet, and kazuha could tell that you were caught in your head again. she always wondered if you thought about her when you were lost in your thoughts. maybe if she knew, she would find the courage to tell you her true feelings.

kazuha fiddled with the box, her voice suddenly a whisper.

"do you," kazuha blushed harder. "do you wanna do it with me?"

although you knew that kazuha most likely went to you after yunjin had said no, you couldn't help but agree. it didn't matter to you that you always seemed to be kazuha's second thought. all that mattered was that she thought of you.

you nodded, and the younger girl couldn't help but smile brightly.

("it'll be a good excuse for you to confess! maybe you'll even kiss her."

"unnie!")

you moved aside, letting kazuha sit across from you. she couldn't help but blush at the feeling of your covers. your room always seemed softer and brighter than hers, just like how you seemed prettier than everyone else.

kazuha sighed. maybe yunjin was right. maybe kazuha had fallen a bit too much in like and ended up in love.

she didn't mind though, not when you felt so familiar to the spotlight.

"these flowers are pretty." you looked closely at the orchids, humming as you traced the box with your finger.

mina had always mentioned how she was a sucker for pretty girls. she vividly remembers the two of them in their second-grade science class, kazuha tensing up whenever her teacher came near, or the time that one of her closest friends back in the academy complimented her physique, and she stiffened up so hard that she strained her neck.

when she first saw you during that video call, she was more calm than she expected. kazuha knew that she was gonna meet her celebrity crush, and the thought of you knowing she existed nearly made her brain short-circuit but she prepared. kazuha wasn't weak-willed.

and then she met you in real life.

somehow, she had forgotten how to speak at all.

("kazuha, right?"

"mmh!")

even after two years, she still struggled to form thoughts around you. it wasn't her fault that you were pretty.

kazuha cleared her throat, her face heating up as she realized how long she had stayed silent.

the two of you got to work quickly, the lull of the record playing. pieces of lego scattered your bedsheet, the two of you (mostly just you) struggling to figure out which piece went where.

"so..." you fiddled with a piece, one that you assumed to be the leaf. "you got these for yunjin-unnie?"

kazuha snapped out of her daze, too focused on completing the set in front of her. she always got too into these things.

"huh?"

"the flowers." you smiled, holding back an 'aw'. kazuha was too adorable for her own good. "you said yunjin-unnie didn't want to build them with you."

kazuha couldn't help but avoid your gaze.

she knew that you weren't exactly the best when it came to anything that required hand-eye coordination and focus. she also knew that she desperately wanted to spend time with you. you had been too busy meeting up with your former members and she had been missing you a bit too much.

she had seen the set while window-shopping.

they looked easy enough, one that wouldn't confuse you as much as the other ones, but hard enough to make sure it took more than one sitting.

it was a perfect excuse.

"oh, um," kazuha didn't know why it suddenly got so hot in your room. "no, i got them just because."

you glanced at her, watching as she toyed with the piece in her hand. you had no reason to doubt the younger girl, but you had to admit it was odd.

you couldn't complain, however. kazuha was here, and that's all you wanted.

the two of you continued, you looking over every so often. the scattered pieces seemed to never end, and despite the younger girl's dexterity, your lack of seemed to prolong the process more than it should've (just like she had hoped).

"this has a lot of parts." you muttered, feeling bad. "i think you picked the wrong person for this, zuha."

kazuha, like always, smiled at you as if she was smiling for the audience.

"i don't mind it taking long."

it was breathtaking.

"if you say so..."

you yawned, rubbing your eyes as you curled up against the futon.

you loved comebacks more than an idol should. it was fun to roam around, exploring the building of whatever showcase it was. being the only extrovert in le sserafim, you also made it your duty to help the others (and yourself) connect with whoever you seemed to cross paths with.

most days, you would already be outside, introducing sakura to whoever walked by.

not today. not when you were running on three hours of sleep.

"y/n-ah," sakura's voice echoed in your brain. "did you see my iron anywhere?"

"chaewon-unnie had it last." you yawned out.

sakura glared at her leader, watching as chaewon dug through her comically large bag. she needed to use it after the show. chaewon couldn't look like a mess in front of min anyone.

the leader stared you down, your peaceful body irritating her.

"snitch."

your mouth dropped open.

a couple years ago, back in izone, chaewon wouldn't dare insult you (although snitch was barely an insult). it didn't matter whether you barged into her room unannounced and left the door open, insulting you was off-limits.

as one of your unnie's once said, insulting you is equivalent to scolding a kitten who didn't know any better.

"i'm telling eunbi-unnie!" you whined, pouting.

chaewon laughed, pinching your cheek as if your threat meant nothing to her. you were basically her little sister after all. the worst thing that your 'mom' would do was scold her.

"like you told her about your crush on zuha?" chaewon snorted as she saw how red your cheeks had suddenly gotten. "how she's so pretty when she dances and how you wanna kiss her?"

you slapped her arm away, embarrassed. you should've known that eunbi had told chaewon (and probably the rest of the other girls) about your infatuation with the ballerina in your current group.

maybe that's why wonyoung gave you a thumbs up when she saw you and kazuha gathering drinks for the rest of your members.

"kkura-unnie!" you turned to the eldest, her figure hidden under a purple blanket. "chaewon-unnie being annoying again!"

you stared at the blob, waiting for it to utter a word. something that hopefully defended you from your child-like leader. sakura tended to take your side, anyway, except when-

you squinted, watching as the blanket shook up and down.

was she...

"stop laughing!" you groaned, throwing your head back.

you thought that somehow, especially since hong eunchae was in your group, chaewon and sakura would stop treating you like a maknae.

it seemed to be worse now, the two throwing jabs at your unrequited crush when the three of you were left alone.

"when are you gonna ask her out, y/n-ah?" sakura sat up, her voice drowning out the door opening. "you can't pine forever."

eunchae looked around, her eyes beaming with curiosity.

"ask who out?"

chaewon screamed as the youngest's voice echoed from behind, her eyes wide open as she jumped onto the couch. somehow, sakura followed with her, the sheer volume of the leader's voice frightening her.

"jesus, eunchae..." chaewon clutched her heart. "you scared me."

beside her, sakura's head hung low as she tried to catch her breath.

eunchae chose to ignore the two, glancing at you with shining wonder.

"who are you gonna ask out, unnie?"

she already knew who you were talking about. eunchae wasn't dumb. she saw the quiet glances and the bright smiles you and kazuha sent to each other. she knew that sakura saw it too.

but somehow, neither you nor your ballerina did.

you bit your tongue, debating whether or not to tell the younger girl in front of you.

you trusted eunchae. the young girl knew how to keep a secret unlike some people (yunjin and chaewon), but you also knew she had a tendency to meddle when the chance was given to her. it was why your junior, minji, and chaewon were so adamant about keeping her and her friend, haerin, away from each other.

you hummed, blurting out the second name that you could think of.

"minju-unnie."

"minju-sunbaenim?" eunchae shook her head. she didn't know you were this bad at lying. "as if chaewon-unnie would let that happen."

all eyes shifted to chaewon as her ears burned a firey red.

"yah!"

eunchae rolled her eyes, pouting as she ignored her leader's half-hearted scolding.

"so?" the youngest continued to press. "who is it?"

you shrugged, not knowing that the two of you were thinking about the same girl. "no one."

"but-"

the door opened, kazuha and yunjin entering the cramped room with a boxful of cheesecake.

chaewon frowned. she had told them to get real food. not dessert.

"what is that?" chaewon glared at the white reflecting the lights.

yunjin looked down, half confused and half serious. "it's a container...?"

with a deep breath, chaewon closed her eyes. she always wondered how eunbi managed to keep some sanity when choi yena, kang hyewon, and ahn yujin were all under her care.

part of her knew that if yunjin was added to that mix, eunbi would combust.

"but i ordered rice...?"

chaewon looked at the proud smile on her member's face. "it's made with flour, so it's close enough."

huh yunjin was gonna give her an aneurysm.

"have you told her yet?"

being ambushed while drying her hair wasn't exactly how kazuha wanted to spend her night.

in all honesty, she had mentally prepared herself to confess to you later today. from the moment her six alarms rang, she knew that she'd do it.

she didn't take into account how many people would stop by and say hi to you.

kazuha frowned. why did you know so many pretty people?

"no..."

yunjin frowned, pointing at her with the fork in her hand. "you said you'd do it today?"

kazuha loved the thrill of the spotlight. she loved showing the world that, not only was she talented, she was confident. she held herself with a poise that she knew many people could never compare to.

kazuha never crumbled under the presence of the spotlight.

why was it so different with you?

"told who what yet?"

kazuha spun around, her eyes wide. it had slipped her mind eunchae usually drank a caprisun around this time. something about her nightly routine...

(kazuha tried to pay attention, but eunchae talked fast, faster than she could translate in her head.)

"what?" yunjin laughed awkwardly, her mouth scrunching up. "told who what?"

leave it to yunjin to make things obvious.

"you're such a bad liar, unnie." eunchae rolled her eyes. "so, who is it zuha-unnie?"

kazuha swallowed air, her fingers nervously tapping on her side. if eunchae found out, there was no doubt that she'd tell you before kazuha herself could.

"no one."

the youngest sighed. everyone seemed to think she was five years old or something. they might as well have told her santa was real.

eunchae shook her head, plastering an unbothered smile on her face.

the maknae had decided a while ago to not get in between you and kazuha. she liked how the two of you acted like two stupid shoujo characters, dancing around their feelings. yes, it frustrated her, but at the very least, she found daily entertainment.

everyone had forced her hand.

"oh..." eunchae nodded. "you're just like y/n-unnie."

kazuha's head perked up almost instantly, like a dog when they smelt a treat nearby.

"what?" eunchae knew something about you? was it something she didn't know? "what about her?"

the youngest bit back a smirk.

"i heard that she was gonna ask someone out."

someone...

kazuha frowned.

someone?

did she know them? were they close to you? was it one of your former members? was that why you had been so busy visiting them instead of paying attention to her?

"who?" kazuha's mind couldn't stop racing as she named all the people you had visited in the past month.

eunchae chuckled, squeezing past her and grabbing a drink from the fridge. "i'm not telling!"

"what?" gears turned in kazuha's head, her frown deepening. "who?"

eunchae smiled. if she was right and kazuha thought like any lead in any of her favorite tv shows, planning a seed of anxiety would be enough for her to finally do something.

"she's probably teasing, zuha." yunjin's voice was laced with nervousness, never before seeing kazuha in such a state of panic.

"maybe..." the youngest sighed.

wow... she was a genius.

"so," the youngest stabbed her juice open, sipping as she acted innocently. "do you guys think minju-sunbaenim is pretty?"

the kitchen went silent.

"...what?"

yunjin's eyes widened. she never knew kazuha's voice could be so intimidating.

"minju-sunbaenim?"

minju? kim minju?

how was she supposed to compete against kim minju?

kazuha liked spending time with you.

she liked how easily she made you laugh, how your eyes seemed to brighten at every word she uttered. she took note of how your cheeks tinged red, and how you'd stare at her as if she was the focus of your attention.

your spotlight was on her.

she'd never tell you, but there was a reason why she had gotten so close to yunjin out of nowhere.

it was obvious how you liked jokes, stupid or not. you laughed at whatever was said, even if imaginary tomatoes were being hurled towards the other person.

huh yunjin always managed to make you laugh, and kazuha knew from the first day she met you that she wanted that as well. she wanted your eyes on her and only her.

("take it."

"a joke book, yunjin-unnie? i don't think..."

"it'll work. trust me.")

now, the spotlight was somewhere else. somewhere familiar... somewhere you were used to.

it was driving her insane.

kazuha looked up, watching as you struggled with the legos in your hand.

"do you like minju-sunbaenim?"

you paused, confusion suddenly appearing in your eyes.

"minju-unnie?"

kazuha, too filled with anxiousness and determination, thought nothing of it.

"do you like her?"

you blinked. kazuha had never been this blunt, nor this flat with you.

your searched your brain for an explanation, but none came to. "where'd this come from?"

kazuha frowned. that wasn't a no.

"eunchae said you did."

you laughed quietly, shaking your head as the girl in front of you sulked. gently, you put the last piece together, staring at the orchid head in your hand.

"don't listen to eunchae." you smiled, her eyes hardening as she took in your words. "she just heard i liked someone and-"

someone?

there was someone, just not kim minju.

kazuha nodded internally. she could compete with someone. in fact, she was sure she would win. as long as it wasn't another person like minju (god forbid it was hyewon), she'd be fine.

hell, she'd fight lee chaeyeon for you.

"who?"

"who?" you blushed under the dim light of your lamp, the thought of confessing to kazuha outright flustering you. "someone..."

the ballerina clenched her jaw. she didn't understand why you wouldn't tell her.

she was greedy. she had always been. kazuha needed to learn to share the spotlight, but she had always struggled with it. she needed to learn to accept that not everything came to her the way she wanted it to, no matter how hard she tried.

"i think we did it!" you smiled, clicking the last piece of the set together. "i'm so glad that's over with-"

she wasn't gonna share you.

kazuha crawled over, not caring that her knee had crushed the bottom of the pot that the two of you worked so hard on.

"kazuha!"

your eyes widened in horror as it shattered under her weight. it took you two hours of work, and so much patience that you felt like you had transcended time at certain points.

kazuha didn't care.

she craved the spotlight. she craved you.

her hand rested on the side of your neck, pulling you into a kiss she had so desperately dreamt of each night.

you barely registered what was going on, your brain hopping from grieve to confusion to flustered in less than a second. her mouth was on yours. kazuha was kissing you.

humming, your eyes screwed shut as you focused all your attention on her. you could taste the faint layer of chapstick on her lips, the one that you had always wondered what tasted like.

sweet. you smiled. like her perfume.

you pulled back awkwardly, watching as she semi-hovered over you, and struggled to maintain her position.

"focus on me instead." she ignored the sharp pieces digging themselves into her knee. "like me instead, unnie."

you looked into her dark irises, her breathing heavy as they searched yours. you couldn't believe how out of nowhere kazuha had been. you had known her long enough to know how she kept her thoughts to herself, rarely speaking out unless something had happened.

you paused.

oh.

"eunchae, you sneaky little..." you shook your head, deciding to scold the youngest another time. now, your focus was kazuha.

her eyes never wavered away from yours, almost as if she was silently pleading for confirmation.

with a smile, you chuckled. "you're the someone, kazuha."

kazuha's face went blank, shifting to her knees.

"huh?" her face heat up. she had never been more embarrassed in her life. "but eunchae said..."

you gave her a pointed look.

"exactly."

kazuha clenched her eyes as she sat back to the opposite of you. how did a fifteen-year-old manage to out-smart her.

i got played.

"so..." kazuha sat cross-legged, glancing sadly at the broken figure in front of her. "i broke our flowers for nothing?"

you couldn't help but let out a laugh, watching as the girl across from you reminisced about the state of the lego set a few minutes ago.

"it's okay." you hummed, picking up the pieces. "it just means more time together."

kazuha hummed happily, going back to work to fix the vase. the more time she spent with you, the better.

together...

that was another conversation for another day.

eunchae stared at the fake flowers on the living room table, smiling as her scheming had worked perfectly.

she was glad that you two were finally dating, even if that meant you and kazuha (poorly) snuck around the dorms.

it was also a plus that she got treats for not telling chaewon about anything (not like she was going to).

"do you know orchids mean love?" sakura said, glancing at her phone.

"love?" chaewon laughed. you were too young to know what love was. "y/nnie didn't even have her first kiss yet."

yunjin's eyes bulged out, not sure if she was hearing wrong. "she didn't tell you?"

"unnie."

"oops."

> main masterlist.

#nakamura kazuha x reader #kazuha nakamura x reader #le sserafim x reader #lesserafim x reader #kpop x reader #idol x reader #silantryo

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reveriedraffs · 4 months ago

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۶ৎ MOVIES IDEAS TO SCRIPT IN YOUR ACTRESS DR ⠀ 𖥻 𝗢2 ⠀ᰋ

1. Symphony of Shadows

Genres: Musical | Horror | Thriller | Mystery | Gothic

Themes: The price of genius, obsession, the supernatural nature of music, artistic legacy

Plot:

You are a world-renowned violinist, invited to play at an exclusive concert hall that hasn't opened in a century. The moment you set foot inside, something feels off—there are no stagehands, no visible patrons, yet the air crackles with applause. The sheet music on your stand is not one you recognize, yet your hands move as if guided by an unseen force.

As you play, shadows around the hall begin to move, whispering in an ancient language. The music takes hold of you, playing through your fingers even when you try to stop. The more you resist, the more the room warps—the audience is no longer empty seats but ghostly figures, dressed in fashions from different centuries.

You uncover the secret: The concert hall was built over a cursed foundation. Every musician who plays here must complete the unfinished symphony—a piece of music that has trapped souls within its notes for generations. The only way to escape is to find the missing note, but the longer you play, the harder it becomes to remember who you are.

Major Twists:

🎻 The symphony is a ritual. It traps souls inside the music. 🕯 Every musician before you has become part of the piece. 💀 If you finish playing, you will be next.

Ending:

You change the ending of the composition, breaking the curse. But as you leave, a single note plays… by itself. The symphony isn’t done with you yet.

2. Exit Interview

Genres: Psychological Thriller | Horror | Corporate Satire | Sci-Fi

Themes: Identity erasure, corporate control, free will, existential horror

Plot:

You’ve just been fired from your job at a high-profile but mysterious company. Before leaving, you are asked to participate in an exit interview. It starts out normal—questions about your experience, your satisfaction with management—but the further the interview goes, the stranger the questions become.

“Do you recall signing a contract upon your arrival?”

“Have you ever questioned the nature of your work?”

“Do you believe in alternate realities?”

The interviewer never blinks. The office outside the glass-walled room is empty now. Your reflection in the mirror behind them doesn’t match your movements.

When you try to leave, you realize: There is no door. The room is shifting. You are not an ex-employee—you are a test subject. And you have been through this interview before.

Major Twists:

🧠 The company has erased parts of you before. 📂 Your memories are files—and they’re being rewritten in real time. ⏳ Other versions of you exist. Some have already been deleted.

Ending:

You escape… but days later, you see someone identical to you entering the office for their exit interview. The cycle begins again.

3. The Last Joke

Genres: Dark Comedy | Noir | Psychological Thriller | Horror

Themes: The cost of laughter, artistic obsession, performance as a trap, reality distortion

Plot:

You are a stand-up comedian at the peak of your career. Your jokes are brutal, cutting, and always leave the audience roaring. But after your latest show, a stranger in the audience doesn’t laugh. He just watches.

Later, you find an old VHS tape in your dressing room. It plays a black-and-white recording of someone telling your exact routine—jokes you just wrote this year—yet the timestamp says it was filmed decades ago.

The next night, you hear laughter when there’s no one around. Shadows stretch unnaturally in your dressing room mirror. The stranger is in the audience again. You start forgetting your own punchlines, but somehow, the audience still laughs—word for word, as if they already know what you’ll say.

Major Twists:

🎭 The club is purgatory for comedians who went too far. 🃏 The audience members are people who have been erased by jokes. 💀 The “perfect joke” will rewrite reality

Ending:

You finally tell it. The audience erupts in laughter. The world dissolves.

You wake up, but when you try to speak… the only thing that comes out is laugher. laughter.

4. The Mirror Court

Genres: Dark Fantasy | Thriller | Mystery | Gothic Drama

Themes: Duality, guilt and justice, reflections as prisons, the price of truth

Plot:

You are summoned to an ancient, hidden court where cases are judged not by laws, but by mirrors. Every crime is reflected in glass, showing the accused not as they appear, but as they truly are. Lies dissolve, illusions break—only the deepest truth remains.

You are not here by choice. You are the defendant.

The charges? Unknown. The accuser? A shadowy reflection of yourself. The jury? A collection of faceless figures who shift between people you once knew.

To prove your innocence, you must pass the Mirror Trials:

The First Mirror reveals your worst memory, but twisted into something even you can’t recognize.

The Second Mirror forces you to confess a secret you’ve never admitted—not even to yourself.

The Final Mirror shows you… as something unrecognizable.

Major Twists:

⚖ The court has been replacing people with their reflections. 🪞 Those who lose their cases are trapped in mirrors forever. 👁 Your own reflection is plotting to replace you.

Ending:

You shatter the Mirror Court, freeing everyone. But later, you see your reflection… smirking at you.

#reality shifting #shifting realities #waiting room #desire reality #current reality #manifestation #cr #dr #ideas #shifting consciousness #scripting #dr scripting #shifting script #script ideas #fame dr #actress dr

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cosmowgyral · 3 months ago

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"Beast in Office"- April Fool's Short AU Story

This is a fan translation so please don't expect it to be 100% accurate. Creative liberties have been taken. All content belongs to Cybird. Reblogs are appreciated. Hope you enjoy!

Michel Conglomerate

We’re always pushing boundaries, delivering dreams and inspiration to the world.

This spring, I am changing jobs.

But for some reason the job interview was held on the rooftop of a skyscraper—

~~~♪

Licht • Nokto: ♪ I love, love you! I’ve been falling in love with you since the day I was born ♪

Emma: ……..

Chevalier: ………

Licht: ♪ There's no need for Cupid when I'm aiming straight for your heart ♪

Nokto: ♪ 'Cause we’ve been bound together since way, way, way back in a past life ♪

Emma: …….

Chevalier: …..

Licht: ♪ My every day’s a love rollercoaster—feels like I’m about to max out my lifetime heartbeats ♪

Nokto: ♪ But it’s alright, ‘cause even in the life to come—♪

Licht • Nokto: ♪ Our fates are tightly spun ♪

Emma: ….Wo-

Emma: Woww! I can’t believe I got to hear Midnight Prism’s new song during an interview… I'm so moved and thrilled!

(It’s a bit concerning how both of them looked incredibly displeased, though…)

Clavis: Haha, now that’s the kind of reaction I like. Don’t hold back—show even more joy. It’ll fire them up for future performances, after all.

Licht: Just how many more times do I have to sing these awful lyrics...? Our songs used to be decent.

Nokto: They were probably aiming for shock value, right? The fans will be screaming in agony, this’ll definitely blow up in the worst way.

(A twin idol unit that burst into the scene like a comet now looks like it’s about to burn out just as fast.)

Licht: Hey, why were we even made to sing that in the first place?

Clavis: Glad you asked.

Clavis : An interview is meant to assess the applicant’s skills and personality to determine if they’re a good fit for the company.

Clavis: Because of that, the atmosphere tends to get heavy. I’ve seen countless applicants sink without ever being able to properly showcase their strengths.

Clavis: That’s why this year, we decided to hold a live performance like this to help ease the nerves of our applicants first.

Clavis: A company mustn’t forget that while it does the choosing, it’s also being chosen.

Nokto: Huh... That’s surprisingly reasonable.

(I was bracing myself for a grueling pressure interview since it’s a conglomerate-backed company, but they’re surprisingly wholesome.)

Chevalier: …..

(But Mr. Chevalier, the head of the conglomerate, has been reading his book this whole time.)

(Could this be a sure sign that I’ve already failed…?)

Chevalier: Unfortunately, I don’t have the hobby of wasting time on unnecessary people.

Emma: Th-thank you so much!

(That means they’re expecting something from me, right? I’ve got to do my best.)

Clavis: It irks me that Chev stole the spotlight… but I’ll let it slide.

Clavis: Well then, let’s get down to business.

Licht: Hang on.

Licht: Hey… are you seriously planning to go through with this interview? You really want to join a company like us?

(He's basically asking me about my motivation for joining this company!)

Emma: Yes! It’s my first choice.

Emma: You’re constantly expanding into music, anime, visual media, and talent management…. spreading dreams and inspiration across the globe.

Emma: I’m drawn to the sheer dynamism of your company—constantly uncovering limitless new possibilities in entertainment.

Emma: That’s why I applied—because I want to be a part of that, and contribute to it myself.

Nokto: Even after hearing those lyrics, you still want to join us? …You might actually be a rare find.

Clavis: This year's talent hunt is guaranteed to end on a high note, it seems.

Clavis: Your passion came through loud and clear.

(Yes! Looks like I made a good impression.)

Clavis: Next up is the skill check.

(A test along with the interview!? They didn’t have this in previous years…)

(Don’t lose heart now. You’ve worked so hard just to get into this company, haven’t you?)

(No matter what kind of test it is—)

Clavis: Now then. I’d like you to perform the new Midnight Prism single you heard earlier—‘I'm Your Captive♡Just One Beat Left.’

Nokto: You just gave her a death sentence.

Licht: That’s just too cruel.

Clavis: Don't worry. Even if you haven't memorised the lyrics or the choreography, it won’t be a problem.

Clavis: I want you to show me your passion—no need for words.

Emma: ……

(No matter how absurd or unreasonable this skill test is... I'm going to pull through—no matter what...!)

Emma: Lo…

Emma: ♪ I love, love you…! ♪

That day, I traded away my dignity in exchange for a job offer—

#ikemen prince #ikepri jp #ikepri #chevalier michel #ikepri chevalier #ikepri licht #licht klein #nokto klein #ikepri nokto #clavis lelouch #ikepri clavis #ikepri translations #ikemen prince translations #cybird ikemen #cybird otome #otome games

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bathroomcryptid · 5 months ago

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Emotional Support

A/N: Hiii everyone, this is my first kinda work for Warhammer and I’m very excited. This is just a funny intro I came up with in my head with more to come about each legion. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Warnings: none

Are you, citizen of our great Imperium, craving a change in career? Or are you otherwise unemployed and seeking stable employment? Well, we here at Imperium of Man Inc. have just the career for you!

After years and years of research, it’s come to the attention of everyone involved that we humans are communal by nature and crave intimate relationships with other humans and have a great need for those deep fulfilling bonds (platonic, romantic, or otherwise). This also rings true for your local Space Marine Chapter. Therefore, we here at Imperium of Man inc. have a bunch of emotionally stunted Space Marines desiring people with whom they can essentially imprint on and we need the serfs to be able to do their jobs…Either way, this gap in the market has prompted us here to roll out the first of many programs designed to keep the Empire’s finest in tip top shape. We’d like to introduce to you, Imperial citizen, our newest career path - Emotional Support Human!

That’s right! Today, you could be one of a select few chosen after a series of tests to be placed with your local space marine chapter to be their Emotional Support Human and help support the Emperor’s Angels in a variety of ways.

Qualifications:

-Passing all Imperial Temperament Tests

-Excellent communication skills (verbal, written, etc)

-Happy, Courteous, Enthusiastic, Attentive and Empathetic

-Meets mobility requirements

-Proficient in the Imperial and High Gothic (High Gothic lessons available after employment)

-Ability to multitask

-Work under pressure and at a fast pace

-Willing to learn and understand complex military terminology and strategies

-Able to cope with sudden changes in elevation and being carried around

-Able to perform deep pressure therapy

-Able to cope with hearing complex trauma and lend support as needed

-Able to wield a basic knife and fire a weapon with decent accuracy (training provided if skills not already acquired)

-The mental fortitude to see eldritch horrors beyond comprehension and not go insane

-Comply with imperial policy

-First aid may be required based on legion policy

Benefits:

-competitive salary

-A clean room to sleep in (may share with other emotional support humans based on legion policy)

-At least three meals a day

-free visits to the legion Apothecary

Being an Emotional Support Human HCs:

- You were basically snatched off the street by Imperial employees with little grace. Let’s be honest here, it’s the Imperium.

- The whole time you’re convinced that they’re about to turn you into a servitor. You’re not stupid, you’ve heard the stories of people being yanked of the streets and going missing all to end up as servitors

- You just hope they lobotomize you quickly.

- To say you’re confused when they just stick you in a random room and congratulate you on being selected as a potential candidate for their newest program is an understatement and you’re even more confused when they tell you that they are about to administer their new test for you.

- Do you have to take a test to become a servitor now? You thought the only requirement was a mostly functioning brain?

- You comply (not that you have much choice with the two armed guards staring you down) and take the test, a little unnerved the whole time as the proctor administers the test, but oh well.

- Next thing you know, you’ve passed and they congratulate you on your new job - a Space Marine Emotional Support Human (SMESH/ESH but smesh is just funnier-)

- Anyway, you have no idea wtf that is, but you’re apparently not becoming a servitor and that’s about enough to get you to do anything.

- Plus, a free room and three meals a day were apart of the benefits package and they had you at that.

- You’re moved into another room with about 20 other people, all of you looking equally as confused.

- An Imperial employee gets up in front of you and congratulates you on being the first batch and trial run of the Imperium’s newest hare brained scheme (your words not theirs) - the Space Marine Emotional Support Human program.

- Your new job? Becoming your local space marine legion’s new in-house therapist/stress toy/state sponsored best friend

- Out of everyone that was tested, 21 people passed, and the lot of you were the 20 selected to be in the program (one person per legion). You think 21 people passing the stupid test is ridiculously low but whatever. (Turns out, being able to tolerate your now line of work takes a pretty optimistic and mentally sturdy person that’s not all that common)

- You’re given your new uniform and basically shunted off to your new forever home and to the people the Imperium would love for you to bond with…what could go wrong?

#warhammer 40k #space marines #warhammer 40k x reader #💚my.works

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writingforstraykids · 1 year ago

Note

What are your thoughts on Jilix as fwb? Please, anything 🙏🏻

Hii dear, thank you for the request🖤 As I already had some thoughts on Jilix kissing platonically I decided to take that as a starter. I was working on a fic based on Miu's audio sooo I thought why not combine those?🤭 hope you like it🖤🖤

Pairing: Jilix

Word Count: 3082

Summary: Jisung and Felix have slowly grown closer and became each other's safe haven. Fleeting touches turn into cuddles, cuddles turn into kisses, kisses one day turn into more.

Warnings/Tags: fluff, smut, kissing, oral (ji receiving), whiny!bottom!ji, soft!lix, fwb

The dim glow of Jisung's lamp cast a warm light over the room as Jisung and Felix settled in for the night. They had just finished another exhausting day, performing for thousands of fans and basking in the high energy of the stage. Now, as the adrenaline faded, they found themselves in the quiet solitude of Jisung's room.

It had become a routine for them, these nights spent together. Initially, it was out of convenience and comfort; sharing a room meant they had someone familiar to unwind with after the chaos of the day. But over time, their interactions had evolved into something more intimate, yet undefined.

Jisung was sprawled out on the bed, his limbs heavy with fatigue. Felix, ever the night owl, was still puttering around, brushing his teeth and organizing his things. The two had grown used to each other's habits and quirks, finding a rhythm that worked for them.

"Hey, you coming to bed or what?" Jisung called out, his voice muffled by the pillow.

"Yeah, yeah, just a sec," Felix replied, his voice tinged with amusement. He quickly finished up and turned off the bathroom light, plunging the room into a comfortable darkness, save for the lamp.

Felix climbed into bed beside Jisung, their proximity close but still respectful of personal space. It was a boundary they had naturally established, though it was becoming increasingly porous.

Jisung shifted slightly, turning to face Felix. "You did great tonight," he said softly. "The fans loved your solo."

Felix smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Thanks, Ji. You were amazing too. Your rap was fire."

They lay there for a moment, the silence filled with unspoken words. It was Felix who broke it, leaning over to place a fleeting kiss on Jisung's hair. It was innocent, almost brotherly, but it sent a ripple of warmth through Jisung. He felt a flutter in his chest, a sensation that was becoming all too familiar.

"Night, Ji," Felix murmured, settling back down.

"Night, Lix," Jisung replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

The next night, the atmosphere was much the same. They returned to their room after another busy day, exhausted but exhilarated. As they settled in, Jisung felt a strange but familiar pull toward Felix. It started with a casual brush of hands, a lingering touch that neither pulled away from. Then, a kiss on the temple, followed by one on the forehead.

It was innocent, tender, and filled with an unspoken need. They were both touch-starved, craving the simple comfort of being held and loved in a way that transcended words. As they cuddled up, Jisung felt a sense of peace wash over him. Felix's presence was grounding, a reminder that amidst the chaos of their lives, there was a constant they could rely on.

One night, as they lay in bed, Felix grew a little bolder. He had always been the more adventurous one, willing to push boundaries just to see where they led. As he nestled closer to Jisung, he planted the softest kiss on his neck, testing the waters.

Jisung's breath hitched, and he would be lying if he said it didn't make him feel special. There was a vulnerability in Felix's actions, a silent plea for connection that Jisung couldn't ignore. He found himself leaning into it, encouraging Felix in subtle ways—a gentle touch, a soft sigh, a quiet "yes" in the darkness.

As they lay there, bodies entwined, Jisung's fingers found their way into Felix's hair, running through the soft strands. Felix responded by kissing Jisung's neck sleepily, the sensation sending shivers down his spine.

Without thinking, Jisung pulled Felix up, meeting his lips in a kiss that was both surprising and inevitable. It was a culmination of all the unspoken emotions and desires that had been slowly simmering between them. They kissed with a tenderness that spoke volumes, their need for each other laid bare in that intimate moment.

From that night on, their dynamic shifted. What had started as innocent gestures of affection grew into something more profound. They became each other's solace, their safe haven in a world that often demanded too much of them.

Whenever one of them was hurt, the other was there to kiss away the bruises, offering comfort and healing in the form of soft touches and whispered reassurances. When one of them was upset, the other was there to kiss away the tears, holding them close when they felt like falling apart.

Whatever room they shared became a sanctuary, a place where they could be themselves without the weight of expectations. They would spend hours holding onto each other, their lips meeting in a dance of affection that left them feeling seen and appreciated.

One night, after a particularly grueling day, they found themselves in bed, wrapped in each other's arms. Jisung was tracing lazy patterns on Felix's back, the repetitive motion soothing them both.

"Ji," Felix murmured, his voice heavy with exhaustion and something deeper. "Do you ever think about... us? Like, what this means?"

Jisung's hand stilled for a moment before he resumed the gentle strokes. "Yeah, I do," he admitted. "But I try not to overthink it. What we have... it's special. And I don't want to ruin it by putting labels on it."

Felix nodded, understanding but still needing reassurance. "I just... I care about you, Ji. A lot."

"I care about you too, Lix," Jisung replied softly. "More than anything."

They fell into a comfortable silence, the weight of their words hanging in the air. There was a sense of contentment in knowing that they had each other, no matter what.

As the tour continued, their bond only grew stronger. They navigated the challenges and triumphs together, finding strength in their connection. Every night, they would return to their now shared hotel room, eager to seek solace in each other's arms.

One evening, after a particularly emotional performance, Felix found himself feeling unusually vulnerable. The cheers of the crowd had been overwhelming, and the pressure to be perfect weighed heavily on him.

Jisung noticed the tension in Felix's frame as they entered their room. Without a word, he pulled Felix into a tight embrace, holding him close. Felix melted into the hug, his defenses crumbling as he buried his face in Jisung's shoulder.

"It's okay, Lix," Jisung murmured, rubbing soothing circles on his back. "You're amazing, and you don't have to be perfect. Just be yourself."

Felix let out a shaky breath, feeling the warmth of Jisung's words seep into his soul. He pulled back slightly, looking into Jisung's eyes. "Thank you, Ji," he whispered. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Jisung smiled, his heart swelling with affection. "You don't have to worry about that. I'm not going anywhere."

Their lips met in a soft, lingering kiss, a promise of support and love that transcended words. They held each other close, finding comfort in the simple act of being together.

As the months passed, their nights became a ritual of intimacy and connection. They would talk about their dreams and fears, sharing parts of themselves that they kept hidden from the world. In those moments, they were not just idols but two people who needed each other in ways that went beyond friendship. Until one day, another so far established boundary was bent…

The hotel room was dimly lit, casting long shadows on the walls as Jisung and Felix entered, both exhausted from the night's performance. The thrill of the concert still buzzed faintly in their veins, but fatigue was quickly catching up. They had become used to this pattern: the high of the show, the quiet descent into their shared sanctuary, the solace they found in each other's presence.

Jisung flopped onto the bed, kicking off his shoes with a groan. "I'm beat," he said, his voice muffled by the pillow.

Felix chuckled softly, closing the door behind him. "I know the feeling," he replied, setting down his bag and stretching his arms above his head. His shirt rode up slightly, revealing a sliver of toned stomach, and Jisung's eyes were momentarily drawn to the sight.

They had grown closer over the past months, their bond deepening in ways they hadn't anticipated. What started as simple gestures of affection had evolved into a physical intimacy that neither of them had the words to fully describe. They had found comfort in each other's touch, a way to feel grounded amidst the chaos of their lives.

Felix opened the window, the distant sound of traffic floating into the room. Felix approached the bed and sat down beside Jisung, his hand coming to rest on Jisung's back. "Come on, Ji. Get up. You need to change out of those clothes."

Jisung rolled onto his back, looking up at Felix with a tired smile. "You're such a nag, you know that?"

Felix grinned, leaning down to plant a kiss on Jisung's forehead. "Someone has to take care of you," he teased. "Now, come on."

With a groan, Jisung sat up, pulling off his shirt and tossing it aside. Felix watched him with a mixture of amusement and something deeper, his gaze lingering on the way Jisung's muscles moved under his skin. There was a tension in the air, a current of unspoken desire that seemed to crackle between them.

As Jisung reached for his pajama top, Felix's hand caught his wrist, stopping him. Jisung looked up, surprised, and saw the intensity in Felix's eyes.

"Lix?" he asked, his voice uncertain.

Felix didn't respond immediately. Instead, he leaned in, his breath warm against Jisung's skin as he placed a soft kiss on Jisung's collarbone. Jisung's breath hitched, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Felix..." he murmured, but there was no protest in his tone. If anything, there was an unspoken invitation, a desire for more.

Felix's kisses trailed up Jisung's neck, each one sending shivers down his spine. When he reached Jisung's jaw, he paused, their faces inches apart. Jisung's eyes fluttered closed, anticipation coiling tight in his stomach.

"Ji," Felix whispered, his voice husky. "Is this okay?"

Jisung's eyes opened, meeting Felix's gaze. There was a vulnerability in Felix's expression, a need for reassurance. Jisung answered by cupping Felix's face in his hands, pulling him into a kiss that was anything but innocent.

The kiss deepened quickly, a hunger that had been building for weeks finally finding release. Felix's hands roamed over Jisung's bare chest, his touch both gentle and insistent. Jisung responded in kind, his fingers tangling in Felix's hair, pulling him closer.

They broke apart only when the need for air became too great, their breaths coming in ragged gasps. Jisung's eyes were dark with desire, his lips swollen from their kiss. Felix's pupils were dilated, his skin flushed.

"God, Ji," Felix murmured, his voice shaky. "I want you."

Jisung's heart skipped a beat at the raw honesty in Felix's words. He leaned in, capturing Felix's lips in another searing kiss. "I want you too, Lix," he whispered against Felix's mouth. "So much."

They moved together in a tangle of limbs and desire, shedding clothes and inhibitions. The feel of Felix's skin against his own was electrifying, each touch sparking a fire that burned hotter with every passing second.

Felix's hands were everywhere, exploring Jisung's body with a reverence that made Jisung's heart ache. When Felix's mouth found his nipple, teasing it with gentle flicks of his tongue, Jisung moaned, arching into the touch.

"Felix, please," Jisung gasped, his fingers digging into Felix's shoulders. "I need you."

Felix's eyes met his, dark and intense. "I've got you," he promised, his voice low and fervent. "Just let me take care of you."

Jisung nodded, surrendering himself to Felix's touch. Felix's kisses trailed lower, leaving a path of heat in their wake. When he reached Jisung's waistband, he paused, looking up for permission.

Jisung's answer was to lift his hips, helping Felix remove the last barrier between them. Felix's breath hitched at the sight of Jisung laid bare before him, vulnerable and trusting.

"You're beautiful," Felix whispered, his voice filled with awe. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the hollow of Jisung's hip. "So beautiful."

Jisung's response was a shuddering breath, his fingers threading through Felix's hair. Felix's mouth moved lower, his kisses becoming more fervent, more insistent. When he finally took Jisung in his mouth, the sensation was overwhelming.

"Felix!" Jisung gasped, his hips bucking involuntarily. The pleasure was almost too much, a white-hot intensity that made his mind spin. Felix's hands held him steady, guiding him through the waves of sensation.

Felix's mouth worked with a skill that left Jisung breathless, each movement pushing him closer to the edge. When Jisung felt himself teetering on the brink, he tugged at Felix's hair, pulling him up for a kiss that was desperate and needy.

"I need you inside me," Jisung whispered against Felix's lips. "Please, Lix. I need you."

Felix's eyes darkened with desire, and he nodded, his breath coming in harsh pants. "Okay, Ji. Okay."

"Relax, Ji," Felix whispered, his voice soothing as he squeezed a generous amount of lube onto his fingers. "I don't want to hurt you."

Jisung nodded, his trust in Felix absolute. He spread his legs, opening himself up to Felix's touch. Felix's fingers were careful and deliberate as they prepared Jisung, each movement slow and controlled to ensure Jisung's comfort. The initial intrusion was met with a sharp intake of breath from Jisung, but he quickly adjusted, his body relaxing under Felix's ministrations.

Felix's free hand stroked Jisung's thigh, his touch a grounding presence. "You're doing great, Ji," he murmured, his eyes locked onto Jisung's face, watching for any sign of discomfort.

Felix moved with a deliberate slowness, the careful preparation intensifying the anticipation between them. His fingers worked gently but insistently, each touch drawing soft whimpers from Jisung. The sounds of his need filled the room, a symphony of whines and gasps that only fueled Felix’s determination to drive him wild.

“Felix, please," Jisung whimpered, his hips moving restlessly. "I can't wait anymore."

"Patience, Ji," Felix murmured, though his own voice was strained with desire. "I want you to be ready."

Jisung's response was a high-pitched whine, his back arching off the bed. "I'm ready, Lix. I need you now.”

When Felix deemed Jisung ready, he withdrew his fingers, reaching for the condom. Jisung watched him with half-lidded eyes, his anticipation building with every passing second. Felix rolled the condom on with practiced ease, applying more lube before positioning himself at Jisung's entrance.

"Ready?" Felix asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jisung nodded, his eyes full of trust and desire. "Yes, Lix. I'm ready.".

He locked eyes with Jisung, searching for any last sign of hesitation. Seeing only desperate need reflected back at him, he pressed forward, slowly entering Jisung. The initial stretch drew a sharp cry from Jisung, his fingers clutching at Felix's shoulders, nails digging in as he adjusted to the intrusion.

The sensation was overwhelming—a perfect blend of pleasure and pain that made Jisung’s head spin. His breath hitched, his chest heaving as he struggled to accommodate Felix's size. But the discomfort was quickly overshadowed by a growing wave of pleasure, each inch driving him closer to the edge.

"Move, Lix," Jisung pleaded, his voice breaking. "Please, I need more."

Felix began to move, his thrusts slow and measured at first, giving Jisung time to adjust. But the pace quickly grew more urgent, the need to be closer, to feel more, overtaking them both. Jisung’s legs wrapped around Felix's waist, pulling him deeper, his head thrown back in ecstasy.

"Felix," Jisung moaned, his voice high and needy. "Oh god, you feel so good. So good."

Felix groaned in response, his movements becoming more forceful. "You're perfect. So perfect."

They moved together in a frantic rhythm, their bodies seeking an intimacy that went beyond the physical. Each thrust, each touch, was a reaffirmation of their connection, a silent promise that they were in this together. Jisung's hands roamed over Felix's back, his nails leaving red trails in their wake. Every movement, every sound, drove them both higher, their need for each other consuming them.

Jisung's whimpers turned to cries of pleasure, his body trembling with each powerful thrust. The pleasure built to an almost unbearable peak, every nerve ending alive with sensation. "Lix," he gasped, his voice breaking with need. "I'm so close. Please, don't stop."

Felix’s response was a growl of determination. "I've got you, Ji. I'm not stopping."

With a final, powerful thrust, Felix drove them both over the edge. Jisung's cry of release was loud and desperate, his body arching off the bed as waves of pleasure crashed over him. Felix followed moments later, his own release shuddering through him as he buried his face in Jisung's neck, their bodies trembling together in the aftermath.

They collapsed together, their bodies slick with sweat and trembling with the aftershocks of their release. Felix remained inside Jisung, their breaths mingling as they held each other close, the intimacy of the moment grounding them both.

Jisung’s fingers threaded through Felix’s hair, his touch gentle, soothing. "That was..." he began, but words failed him.

"Incredible," Felix finished for him, his voice filled with awe and contentment.

They lay there in the quiet aftermath, their bodies still entangled. Jisung felt a profound sense of peace settle over him, his heart swelling with affection for the boy in his arms. Felix had become more than just a friend, more than just a comfort. He was Jisung’s anchor, his safe haven.

As their breathing slowly returned to normal, Felix pressed a soft kiss to Jisung’s forehead. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice filled with concern.

Jisung nodded, a contented smile on his lips. "More than okay," he replied. "That was... perfect."

Felix smiled, his eyes filled with warmth. "Yeah, it was," he agreed, pulling Jisung closer. "I'm glad we have each other, Ji."

"Me too, Lix," Jisung said softly, his heart full. "Me too."

They lay there in the afterglow, their bodies entwined and their hearts full. In the quiet of their hotel room, they had found something precious: a connection that went beyond words, a bond that made them feel whole.

As they drifted off to sleep, Jisung felt a sense of peace settle over him. No matter what the future held, he knew they would face it together. And that was enough.

MASTERLISTS | PROMPT LIST | GUIDELINES

Taglist (Please let me know if you want to be added to or removed from the taglist):

@atinyniki @galaxycatdrawz @silverstarburst @aaa-sia @lilmisssona @kthstrawberryshortcake @channieaddict @soullostinspaceandtime @rebecca-johnson-28 @lixie-phoria @kibs-and-bits @xxstrayland @ihrtlix @pheonixfire777 @mellhwang @palindrome969 @harshaaaaa @rylea08 @heeyboooo @manuosorioh @gisaerlleri @andassortedkpop @lailac13 @bbokari711 @kazuuuaaa @rssamj @wolfyychan @stellasays45 @chrizzztopherbang @ionlyeverwantedtobeyourequal @silentreadersthings @myforevermelody143 @sapphirewaves @dis-trict9 @queer-possum @james-is-here @slutforchanlix

And also those who loved the jilix thoughts: @antisocial-socialbutterfly @sleeplessstupidfinch @babybearcubbs @stayp1ece143

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liillyliilly · 1 year ago

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A Prevailing Love

ukai keishin x reader words; 1614 synopsis; a memory from childhood- getting locked in the bathroom. the life he's living now still carries themes from his teenagerhood.

If there were at least two things that Ukai Keishin knew, it was that he was in love with her, and that he was a reasonable volleyball coach.

The second thing was due to all the time he spent working with the volleyball team, and ensuring that they were doing their best to perform at maximum capability. The first thing however, was much more of a challenge to understand. His love for her was blurry and confusing, like the way when he rubbed his eyes too hard and that static darkness that covered his eyelids, that was his adoration for her.

He wished that he could have been high school sweethearts with her, the girl who came to all of his games just so she could be the first person to congratulate him on a win, or be there to comfort him after a loss.

He only realized he liked her when she started dating some other guy from school, a green jealousy coating his senses as he kept being her friend.

There was always a thousand excuses for why he never said anything to her. The timing was never right, there were other people (for her, he never liked to date around), there was volleyball to focus on, a team to manage, shops to maintain up to standard.

She owns the small tea shop directly across from the Sakanoshita Store. If he times it just right, he can go for a smoke break when she goes outside to water the flowers in the pots splayed into the windowsill. Talking easily, and words flowed like the exhale of burnt smelling smoke from his lips.

She hated when he smoked, always citing studies about cigarettes. But he was a chainsmoker at this point.

She was the one who caught him more than once behind the school gym, smoking cigs and trying to burn leaves without starting an actual fire.

"Ukai, you can't be serious." She hit her hand to her forehead. He quickly threw his smoke to the ground and stamped on it with his shoes.

"I don't know what you're talking about." An eye roll later, and she dragged him to the non-gendered bathroom, locking the door behind her.

"Geez, if you wanted me alone, just say that." She filled a cup up with water and dumped it on his head. She tilted her head, as if to say: care to argue with me now?

He apologized, and took the piece of gum she offered. Chewing slowly, he climbed up and sat on the counter, the sink was running as she scrubbed his jacket and tried to massage enough hand soap on it to get rid of the scent of smoke. He had caused her more than enough trouble this time.

They had a science examination coming up, and their teacher had subtly, not subtly, mentioned that if anyone smelt like any kind of drug, then he would void their test and give an automatic fail. She was just trying to save his ass once again. Saving him from burning up his whole life.

When she was satisfied with the clean jacket, she held the clothing under the hand dryer, as Ukai repeatedly hit the button to start the air flow. The jacket got moderately dry, and the scent of the smoke was faded enough and replaced with the green apple hand soap. He slid his jacket back on.

The bigger problem, aside from the wet clothing, and her being mad at him yet again, was her rapidly twisting and jerking the door handle.

"It's stuck."

"It's not stuck, you just have a weak grip." Ukai motioned her aside, turning the handle with more force than he guessed was needed.

She folded her arms and began tapping her foot.

"I wasn't the one who got both of us stuck." He raise his hands in the air, claiming innocence.

She started hitting the door, banging and calling for someone to save them. He finally looked at his watch after he traded spots with her calling for help, 30 after the last bell. Their exam had come and gone, and the cleaners for the non-gendered bathroom only came around 7 pm. If no one came within the next fifteen minutes, then they would definitely be stuck for at least four hours.

They sat on the floor, digging through her bag to see if there was anything to unlock the door from the inside. She hadn't carried any bobby pins, no cards, no knives (which she said he shouldn't be carrying at school anyways), and no secret master key to the school.

"Let's play seven minutes in heaven." He shrugged and offered a solution to pass the time.

She smiled and shook her head, "Now I'm starting to think that you're the one who wanted me alone."

"I always want you alone." Muttered, under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

In true studious fashion, she pulled out her notebook and pens and began doing her assigned practice problems. Ukai didn't like sitting across from her, so he scooched around until he was sitting side by side with her. Watching as she carried the two, divided the 14, and added the variables.

He glanced at his watch again, only 5 o'clock. Two more hours to go. He dug through her bag to find anything to pass the time.

Lip gloss, more stationary, notes, oh.. a note.

"What's this?" He waved the pink paper in front of her face, shifting it from face forward and face backward between his pointer and middle finger. She reached to grab it, but he pulled it back to him.

"Who's it from?"

She grimaced, "That third year, the one who stops by my grandma's shop." Her face was fully flushed now, she kept trying to grab the note back, but Ukai shoved it in his front pant pocket.

"No! The same one who totally tripped on the stairs when he had to give a speech at the beginning of the year?" Ukai left out the third year's better qualities, one of the top ten students at Karasuno, played on the baseball team, was captain of said baseball team, had a job lined up with his dad's automobile company right after graduation, had an actual future, stability, guarantees.

He pulled the note back out, she didn't attempt to take it. He read the note. It was genuine. He listed out the reasons he liked, nay, loved her. The same reasons Ukai loved her too.

That blinding smile.

Her big brain (baseball boy said her intellect, but Ukai knew that it could be summed up as her big brain).

Her heart, especially the fact that she was super respectful to the elders in town. The way she held her grandma's arm so they could sit on the porch sipping lavender tea together.

The way she looked in a swimsuit (utterly true, although Ukai wondered under what context this idiot saw her in a swimsuit).

Ukai shoved the note back to her, refusing to read any more than he had to.

"He's nice." She whispers.

"Nicer than me?" He joked.

"Not quite." It was an honest reply.

She never ended up dating the golden boy. But she didn't date Ukai either, so he considered it a break even circumstance.

The principal's office the day after they had gotten found by the custodian was brutal. She even had to take a 'just in case' pregnancy test, and she was mortified. Ukai had to do several hours of community service. The non-gendered bathroom was therefore and forever closed down. But they always fondly recalled the bathroom incident.

“Remember the time, when that one dude from that opposing high school called me Heracles?” Ukai finished wiping off the counter, and turning the sign on the store from open to closed.

She laughs a bit, wiping her hands on her apron. She leaned against the counter as Ukai opened the freezer to get out some ice cream. The crickets outside chirping from the simple temperature drop as day slid into night. They were older now. He said his back hurt more than once a month. She complained that her mom wanted her to get married and have babies as soon as possible.

“And then, I said something along the lines of, ‘He’s more like Hunk-acles rather than Heracles’ I do remember that.” Ukai smiles as he hands her favorite ice cream to her. Opening his own ice cream sandwich as she lets out a content sound from the taste of the refreshing treat. She looks over to him and she bumps his shoulder with her own.

“I had the biggest crush on you when we were in high school. Looking back on it, I’m sure it was obvious.” She scrunched her face up, her nose wrinkling and her cheeks lightly dimpled from her grin. Ukai decides to toy with her a little, just like when they were teenagers.

“And now? Still have a little crush on me?” Ukai throws away the paper wrapper of his frozen delicacy and pulls out a cigarette, lighting it before taking a slow drag from it.

She shrugs, leaning over and wiping away something from the corner of his mouth. The cigarette almost falling out of his mouth from the sudden touch from her. “Maybe I do.”

Ukai smirks, scratching the back of his head before rolling up his long sleeves and folding his arms. “What if I told you I also have a crush on you?” She laughs and she tugs on his arm, adjusting it so that she was holding his hand.

“Then I’d say, let's go on a date.”

#haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #hq #hq x reader #ukai #ukai keishin #ukai x reader #ukai keishin x reader #getting locked in the bathroom #childhood friends to lovers #fluff #ukai needs to swap to a vape or something #but the cig aesthetic is cool too i guess #lilly's red string of fate

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zeroseuniverse · 5 months ago

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Dance of Familiarity

Word Count: 1.4K Summary: “You... should’ve let me die,” he managed, his voice rasping with pain. “Not a chance,” She said, her hands working quickly to apply pressure to the wound, staving off the worst of it. “You’re not getting off that easy.” Pairing: Hyunjin X Fem Reader

Disclaimer: Please be aware that this is apart of the from the ashes series. This series will have aspects of violence, weapons, angst, blood, injuries, killing, and will heavily focus on oppression and segregation of mutants, Look after your mental state if any of these make you uncomfortable please.

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The neon-lit city hummed with a pulse of danger, its streets lined with shadows and secrets. Beneath the buzz of illegal deals and whispered alliances, a storm was brewing—one that would threaten to unravel the delicate balance of power.

She had always prided herself on staying out of the underworld’s mess. A bounty hunter for hire, she’d worked the fringes, always calculating, always detached. Her reputation was built on precision, taking down targets with a mix of skill and efficiency. No emotions, no attachments—just the job.

But tonight was different. The contract she’d accepted felt... off, like a wrong turn down an unfamiliar alley. The target was a rogue assassin, someone who had been dismantling high-profile crime lords like clockwork, leaving bodies in his wake. No one knew his name. No one knew his face. All she knew was the trail of chaos he left behind, each kill more graceful than the last.

The job was simple—or so it seemed. Track him, kill him.

She had followed the breadcrumbs to a run down warehouse at the edge of the city, the scent of rust and rot in the air. Her eyes scanned the area, picking out every detail, every movement. She’d been hunting killers long enough to know when things didn't feel right.

The moment she stepped into the building, the air shifted—like the world had held its breath.

She’d barely noticed the shadow darting across the rafters above, a quick movement almost too fluid to track. Before she could react, a blur of motion descended, and she was face to face with the one person she never expected: the rogue assassin.

Hyunjin stood still, his backlit figure framed by the dim light filtering through the cracked windows. His eyes locked onto theirs, the faintest flicker of recognition crossing his face, though whether it was curiosity or something else, she couldn’t tell.

"Didn't expect company," Hyunjin’s voice was smooth, like velvet, yet laced with danger.

Her grip tightened on her weapon, but she didn't fire. Not yet. This wasn't just any target. There was something about Hyunjin—something different.

"You've been killing our clients,"She said, her voice steady, betraying nothing of the storm brewing beneath her calm exterior. "I’m here to put an end to that."

Hyunjin smirked, the glint of a blade flashing in his hand, his movements a slow, deliberate dance. "I’m not your enemy. Not unless you make me one."

And in that moment, she knew this wouldn't be like any other hunt.

A deadly game of cat and mouse began, each of them testing the other’s limits, their movements a blur of precision and grace. Every strike, every counter, seemed more like an intricate performance than a fight for survival.

But the moment the ground shifted beneath their feet, they both knew they were no longer alone. A third party—rival syndicate operatives—had entered the fray.

It wasn’t about the mission anymore. It was about survival.

As the chaos erupted around them, Hyunjin offered a brief glance, the unspoken challenge clear in his eyes: “We fight together, or neither of us makes it out alive.”

For the first time in years, she hesitated, caught between the urge to fight and the strange pull of an unexpected alliance.

The sound of gunfire echoed through the crumbling warehouse, and the once tense, calculated fight between her and Hyunjin morphed into something chaotic. The rival syndicate’s operatives flooded in, their weapons drawn, intent on silencing both of them.

Hyunjin didn’t flinch. His every move was fluid and precise, as if this was nothing more than a familiar dance. But her instincts were sharper than most—she had no choice but to adapt quickly, her mind racing.

In the midst of the chaos, Hyunjin's movements began to change. Where his strikes had been lethal, now they seemed... restrained. He wasn’t going for the kill shots anymore. His every motion was a carefully calculated move to incapacitate, to subdue, and not to finish the job.

It was subtle, but she caught it—a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, a momentary look that passed too quickly to decipher.

A sudden realization hit her like a punch to the gut. Hyunjin wasn’t here to eliminate her. He wasn’t even here for the syndicate’s contract. Something deeper, more personal, was driving his every action.

But before she could process the thought, one of the rival operatives made a dangerous move—aiming directly at her.

Instinct kicked in. Hyunjin lunged forward, faster than she could react, taking the bullet meant for her. The impact sent him crashing into a stack of crates, the air thick with the sound of his breath escaping in sharp gasps.

"Hyunjin!" her voice broke through the din of the battle, her focus snapping to him. He lay there, vulnerable, blood seeping from the wound.

She rushed to his side, ignoring the gunfire still ricocheting around the warehouse. He was breathing, but barely, his hand clutching the bullet wound in his side. His face was pale, his usual cold demeanor slipping for the first time since their encounter.

“You... should’ve let me die,” he managed, his voice rasping with pain.

“Not a chance,” She said, her hands working quickly to apply pressure to the wound, staving off the worst of it. “You’re not getting off that easy.”

Hyunjin’s eyes flitted between her and the approaching enemies. “They’re coming for you next. They won’t stop until you’re—"

"Then we leave," she interrupted, her eyes flickering to the shadows as she dragged Hyunjin to his feet. "We don’t have time for this."

But as they turned to run, something struck them both at the same time—a figure in the shadows, hidden just beyond the edges of their vision. Someone had been watching the entire time, someone who shouldn’t have been there.

A woman stepped into the dim light, her eyes cold and calculating. Her features were sharp, her movements smooth like she was part of the night itself. She was dressed in black, the faint shimmer of a blade at her hip—one that seemed eerily familiar.

Y/N froze, her pulse quickening. She recognized her.

"Well, well," the woman said, her voice smooth like Hyunjin's but colder, more menacing. "You thought you were the only one tracking him down?"

Y/N’s throat went dry. The woman was no stranger. She was the one who had hired her.

"You," Y/N growled, her grip tightening on Hyunjin’s arm as realization dawned. "You set me up."

The woman’s smile was dark, almost cruel. "Not exactly. I just... provided the right incentive. You see, I don’t care who kills him. I just need him gone. But I’ll admit, the two of you working together has been... entertaining."

Hyunjin struggled against Y/N’s hold, his gaze flicking back to the woman. "You knew," he whispered, a flicker of understanding passing between them. "You knew I was dismantling your empire."

The woman’s lips curled. "And you were never meant to get this far. Hyunjin. And you," she turned her gaze to Y/N, "Well, you’re just a pawn in a much bigger game."

The realization struck Y/N like a thunderclap. The woman wasn’t a contractor. She was the one pulling the strings, the real mastermind behind everything. She had orchestrated the entire scenario—the rogue assassin, the rival syndicates, even Y/N’s involvement—just to clean up a loose end.

Everything she had believed about this mission was a lie.

The world around them tilted as Hyunjin pushed himself to his feet, his eyes locked onto the woman with burning fury. "You’ve been playing us both from the start," he said, his voice low and deadly. "But you’ve underestimated one thing."

"What’s that?" The woman arched an eyebrow.

Hyunjin smiled—a dark, dangerous smile. "I never play by the rules."

Before she could stop him, Hyunjin lunged, his movements so swift and graceful that the woman didn’t have time to react. In a heartbeat, the blade he had hidden in his coat was in his hand, and with one swift motion, he sent it flying.

The woman barely had time to dodge, but not fast enough.

The blade sank into her shoulder, and she staggered back, fury flashing in her eyes.

"Game’s over," Hyunjin muttered, his voice cold with finality.

But Y/N could see it now—the uncertainty in his eyes. The fight wasn’t just about survival anymore. It was about something far deeper, something far more personal than either of them had realized. They had both been players in a game they didn’t fully understand, and now the stakes were higher than ever.

Now, there was no turning back.

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chilli-talks-a-lot · 2 years ago

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How Prevent Gifted Kid Burnout From a Gifted Silly whose Fire is still Blazing with Rage

1. EVERYTHING IS STUPID.

School is stupid, parents with unrealistically high expectations of you are stupid, teachers who overwork you are stupid.

You don't need their approval. You don't need to impress authority to have worth.

You don't need to be perfect, especially not in a broken system.

Test scores aren't a measure of intelligence. You are smart, even if the material was difficult to grasp.

You're not "wasting your potential" if you decide to pursue a career you love. Create art, write music, perform, you're contributing to the beauty of the world. There's more value in that than most people see.

You're not "wasting your potential" if you're an adult who isn't busting their butt in college or a fancy job. The economy is fucked right now, and being an adult is hard. You're doing your best.

And sometimes, you can't be at your best all the time, but you're trying, and that's all that matters.

2. Don't let school ruin a passion for learning.

Just learn. Learn and love learning. Learn without school holding you down. Find your passions, and run after them. Pursue knowledge because it's fucking fun.

Research something you care about for fun, challenge yourself to learn how to complete that math problem, learn, not because you feel like you have to, but because you want to.

Never let school make you lose a love for learning.

3. They explain it more effectively than I can lol

I made a video game metaphor but, when I was finding the video that made me realize this I read another video game metaphor that explained it better, "So basically, as a gifted kid, I skipped the tutorial because it felt too easy. Then the actual game threw curveballs at me" (adorablehoe, 2nd top comment).

youtube

HealthyGamerGG's entire channel has great information

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usafphantom2 · 12 days ago

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The Last Cat: The F-14 Tomcat and its Fleet Air Defense Role

The final member of the Grumman cat family, the F-14 Tomcat, with its signature variable-geometry wings and twin-engine design, became an iconic symbol of the Cold War.

Darrick Leiker

The Last Cat F-14 Tomcat

Creating the Cat

A product of the “Grumman Iron Works” (Grumman Corp.), famous for producing rugged fighter aircraft such as the F4F Wildcat and F6F Hellcat during World War Two, the F-14 is a variable-geometry twin-engine all-weather interceptor/air-superiority fighter built under the newer company name of Grumman Aerospace Corporation.

The final member of the Grumman cat family, the F-14 Tomcat, with its signature variable-geometry wings and twin-engine design, became an iconic symbol of the Cold War.Creating the CatThe Claws of the CatF-14 Specifications and VariantsCombat Air Patrol Cat FightsStray Cats

When a program known as TFX (Tactical Fighter Experimental), established by Defense Secretary Robert McNamara, produced a naval version of the highly-touted Air Force F-111A, it soon became obvious the aircraft was not going to live up to requirements or expectations as a replacement for the Navy’s McDonnell Douglas F-4. Soon after McNamara left office, the too heavy General Dynamics-Grumman F-111B naval version was forgotten.

In July 1968 the Navy requested proposals on a new carrier-based fleet defense aircraft under a program known as Naval Fighter Experimental (VFX). Designs came from General Dynamics, North American Rockwell, Ling-Temco-Vought (LTV), McDonnell Douglas, and Grumman. Grumman was announced the winner of the design competition in Jan. 1969 with the company’s Model 303 proposal.

Grumman’s Model 303 design was a two-seat design and was built around a weapons system known as the Hughes AWG-9. Two Pratt & Whitney TF-30 turbofans would power the large aircraft, and, following Grumman’s tradition of naming aircraft after cats, the new aircraft became known as the F-14 “Tomcat” and would be the last “cat” produced by Grumman, with the first flight taking place on Dec. 21, 1970.

The F-14 was the first of the Teen Series of fighters for the United States, and was designed to establish complete air superiority in the vicinity of carrier battle groups at sea, perform interceptor duties, reconnaissance missions, as well as a secondary role attacking tactical targets. The variable-geometry wings adjusted automatically between 20 and 68 degrees, sweeping back for intercepting at high-speeds, and swung forward for lower speeds used for loitering and increased endurance during patrol duties. The rugged landing gear was designed to withstand carrier operations for the heaviest and largest U.S. fighter ever built for carrier operations.

After completing carrier trials in the summer of 1972, deliveries of the aircraft, now designated the F-14A, followed in Oct. of that year with the commissioning of the first two F-14 squadrons, VF-1 and VF-2. The F-14 would go to sea as an operational aircraft for the first time aboard the carrier USS Enterprise on Sept. 17, 1974.

A prototype F-14A during armament testing in 1973 with the wings swung forward. (Image credit: Wikimedia Commons)

The Claws of the Cat

The heart of the F-14’s ability to perform its fleet defense missions was the Hughes AN/AWG-9 weapons control system, which could track up to 24 targets at once and allow 6 of them to be fired upon simultaneously. With roots in the Douglas F6D Missileer and the F-111B, the system and its powerful radar had look-down capabilities exceeding 150 miles and, combined with the AIM-54 Phoenix air-to-air (AAM) missile, the Tomcat was the perfect weapon for interception of long-range threats to naval assets.

The AIM-54 could carry a 132 lb warhead at speeds up to Mach 5 at a range over 125 miles, providing air defense of the fleet over an area consisting of 12,000 square miles at altitudes from near sea level to altitudes attained by aircraft and tactical missiles. An incredibly expensive missile, it was also very effective, carrying its own radar guidance system, allowing the F-14 to concentrate on and engage multiple threats. The AIM-54 was a large missile with a length of 13 ft, wingspan of 3 ft and weighing close to 1,000 lb. The F-14 could carry up to six Phoenix missiles, but normally was loaded in smaller quantities of two or four with a combination of other AAMs.

Medium range AIM-7 Sparrow missiles could also be carried by the Tomcat for BVR (Beyond Visual Range) aerial targets, as well as shorter range AIM-9 Sidewinder for closer targets. Racks allowed various combinations of “iron bombs” to be attached to the aircraft. Multiple weapons loading schemes allowed the F-14 to be configured for a variety of roles defending the fleet against aerial threats at various ranges or attacking ground targets, with a capacity for a mixture of ordinance of up to 14,500 lb. Drop tanks could also be thrown into the mix to extend range.

For close-in engagements the Tomcat also had a General Electric M61A-1 Vulcan 20 mm rotary cannon mounted in the forward fuselage on the left side. A total of 675 rounds were available for the Gatling-style gun capable of a rate of fire of up to 6,000 rounds per minute with a muzzle velocity around 3,400 feet per second (FPS).

An F-14 with a full load of six AIM-54 Phoenix missiles makes a turn with its wings in the swept position. While an effective long-range fleet defense weapon, it was unusual for the maximum number of AIM-54s to be carried, usually two or four were carried, augmented by AIM-7 and AIM-9 missiles. Tests showed the Phoenix effective not just against enemy aircraft, but against some types of incoming missiles as well. (Image credit: Wikimedia Commons)

F-14 Specifications and Variants

Grumman F-14A models were supplied to the United States Navy totaling 478 in number. The A variant was powered by two Pratt & Whitney TF30-P-412A afterburning turbofans producing up to 20,900 lb of thrust each and giving the aircraft a maximum speed of Mach 2.34. Maximum wingspan was 64 ft 1.5 in and 38 ft 2.5 in at the maximum swept position. Service ceiling was 56,000 ft. Overall length was 62 ft with a height of 16 ft. Maximum take-off weight was 74,349 lb. A crew of two consisting of a pilot and a rear seat officer known as a RIO (Radar Intercept Officer), or sometimes called NFO (Naval Flying Officer), sat in tandem with good visibility.

An F-14B model was proposed utilizing the Pratt & Whitney F401-PW turbofans with a prototype produced from an existing F-14A and known as the “Super Tomcat”, but was placed in storage after a handful of flights. It would be used later a testbed for the General Electric F110-GE-400 engines producing 28,200 lb of thrust with good results. Later, some F-14A models were fitted with General Electric F110-GE-400 engines, designated F-14A+ and eventually re-designated the F-14B in May 1991. The new engines were more fuel efficient and also increased performance. These Tomcats received the ALR-67 Radar Homing and Warning (RHAW) system along with other upgrades.

An F-14C variant was proposed powered by two General Electric F101DFE engines along with improvements in avionics, radar, and fire control systems. However, the C model was never produced and most of these improvements were incorporated into later production F-14As, F-14A+(B), and eventually the F-14D.

The final Tomcat variant was the F-14D, with a total of 37 being produced before further production being stopped by Defense Secretary Dick Cheney in 1989. An additional 18 F-14As were converted to the F-14D.

Notable upgrades to the F-14 throughout its service life include the TARPS (Tactical Airborne Reconnaissance Pod System) controlled by the RIO, which included an extra display for viewing reconnaissance data, allowing the Tomcat to assume the role of the retiring Vought RF-8G Crusader. The Low Altitude Navigation and Targeting Infrared for Night (LANTIRN) gave the F-14 a forward-looking infrared (FLIR) camera for nocturnal operations along with a laser target designator for guiding laser-guided munitions. Ground attack capabilities improved in the 1990’s with the addition of the Joint Direct Attack Munition (JDAM) system along with the capabilities to carry GPS guided weapons. ROVER III was added to some Tomcats to provide full motion video (FMV) real time to forward air controllers in the early 2000’s.

An F-14D of VF-31 “Tomcatters” during the type’s last operational cruise in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom in 2005/2006, armed with a GBU-12 Paveway II. (Image credit: U.S. Navy)

Combat Air Patrol Cat Fights

On August 19, 1981, two F-14s were engaged by Libyan Sukhoi Su-22 “Fitters” over the Gulf of Sidra in the Mediterranean Sea. In what became known as the Gulf of Sidra incident, the Tomcats from VF-41”Black Aces,” operating from the carrier USS Nimitz, were able to evade the hostile missile fired at them and returned fire splashing both Libyan aircraft.

The American aircraft were flying CAP (Combat Air Patrol) while a Lockheed S-3A Viking ran a pattern over international waters that were contested by Libyan leader Gaddafi as belonging to Libya. Both Su-22s were destroyed by hits in the tailpipe from heat-seeking AIM-9 Sidewinder missiles. It was the first aerial victories for the F-14 as well as a historical first of all aircraft involved being of variable-geometry designs.

Shortly after the incident two MiG-25 “Foxbat” aircraft operated by Libya headed towards Nimitz with F-14s turning them back, then once the F-14s turned for home, the MiGs turned back towards the carrier only to be chased away once more.

Jan. 4, 1989 saw the Libyans once again throw variable-geometry aircraft against American F-14s in a second incident over the Gulf of Sidra, when a pair of MiG-23 Floggers was downed in the Mediterranean Sea north of Tobruk, Libya. Two pairs of F-14s were conducting combat air patrols while operating from the carrier USS John F. Kennedy, when a Grumman E-2 Hawkeye detected the MiGs departure from an airfield near Tobruk and heading north toward the carrier battle group.

One pair of Tomcats operating with VF-32 was directed to intercept the MiGs while another pair of F-14s from VF-14 flew cover for Grumman A-6 Intruder aircraft operating in the area. The intercepting F-14s began tracking the Floggers 72 nautical miles away but, unlike most previous encounters with Libyan pilots, the two MiGs did not turn back once detecting the radar sweeps from the Tomcats.

F-14A Tomcat 160403 on the deck of the USS Nimitz the day after the aircraft shot down a Libyan Su-22 Fitter. (Image credit: U.S. Navy)

The two pairs of aircraft continued to converge head on, and despite multiple maneuvers, the MiGs insisted on placing themselves on head-on approaches to the American aircraft. With the MiGs consistently showing aggression, they were determined hostile and one was shot down with an AIM-7 Sparrow, followed by the second MiG being downed by an AIM-9.

During Operation Desert Storm in 1991, Tomcats performed CAP duties over the Red Sea as well as the Persian Gulf, along with strike escort missions and reconnaissance roles. With strict Rules of Engagement, the F-14 was limited in utilizing BVR weapons such as the AIM-7 and the AIM-54; however the AWG-9 radar emissions frequently sent Iraqi aircraft retreating at a great range once they were “lit up.”

On Jan. 21, 1991 the F-14 suffered its only loss to enemy action when one was hit with an SA-2 surface-to-air missile near Al Asad airbase in Iraq. The F-14 shared the skies with Air Force McDonnell Douglas F-15s conducting air combat patrols. A Mi-8 helicopter would be the final kill for a United States Navy F-14 when it was downed with an AIM-9 on Feb. 6.

Nicknamed “Bombcats,” F-14s finished out their career utilizing enhanced ground attack capabilities in Bosnia during Operation Deliberate Force, in Operation Enduring Freedom in Afghanistan, and in Operation Iraqi Freedom. They performed these duties well and also helped enforce “no-fly zones.” However, the Tomcat’s career was coming to a close.

Stray Cats

Despite attempts to market the F-14 abroad, only one nation besides the United States purchased the F-14. Originally sold to the Imperial Iranian Air Force in the 1970s, the Shah of Iran was deposed from power leaving these potent aircraft and their Phoenix missiles in the hands of the Islamic Republic of Iran Air Force (IRIAF) in 1979.

Although not involved in fleet defense roles, Iran used the aircraft and the AIM-54 with good success during the Iran-Iraq War 1980-1989. Out of the original 79 purchased, small numbers of Iranian F-14s are thought to still be airworthy despite the lack of spare parts due to American sanctions, and at the time of this writing it is unclear how they have fared in the recent conflict with Israel.

An Islamic Republic of Iran Air Force F-14 on landing approach. Sold to at the time America’s ally, the revolution of 1979 removed the Shah from power and placed the aircraft in the hands of those hostile to the United States. (Image credit: Wikimedia Commons)

Putting the Cat out

Despite performing well and having extremely potent and effective weapons and capabilities for fleet air defense, the F-14 Tomcat was retired from active service with the Navy on Sept. 22, 2006 at NAS (Naval Air Station) Oceana, Virginia, after Grumman had produced a total of 710 aircraft. The potent AIM-54 Phoenix missile was retired previously in 2004. The last flight for an F-14 in U.S. service was on Oct. 4, 2006.

The Tomcat had become very expensive to maintain and being a mostly analog plane in a digital world, it was replaced by the Boeing F/A-18E/F Super Hornet that is capable of carrying the new AIM-174 “Gunslinger” long range AAM. Many F-14s are now on display in museums and parks with engines and critical components removed in order to prevent parts being harvested and used by the Iranians to keep their F-14s in service. Made famous by the popular 1986 Top Gun movie, the legendary Tomcat is well recognized and loved by both movie goers and aviation enthusiasts everywhere.

@TheAviationist.com

Several retired Tomcats are on display in museums and parks, the example here on display at Eisenhower Park in WaKeeney, Kansas just off of I-70. F-14A 160925 was a TARPS capable aircraft. (Image credit: Author’s Collection)

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rip-quizilla · 1 year ago

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We Could Be Beautiful: Dead Girl Walking

Eddie Munson X Fem!Reader

🔹An AU in which you and Eddie are both actors in a community theater production of Heathers: The Musical🔹

Word count: 1.6K

A/N: Just an idea I’ve had rolling around in my head for a while. This will probably become a series of short blurbs within this AU, taking place between the auditions and the cast party following the final performance of the show.

Tags: mutual pining, unconfessed feelings, allusions to sex, passing mention of suicide (pertaining to the plot of Heathers), references to Heathers: the Musical, song lyrics

If you’d like a visual for the scene described from the original musical, click here

🔹divider made by @k1ssyoursister 🔹

You took your role as Veronica’s understudy seriously.

You’d copied down every stage direction, every line, every director’s note- you’d made sure you were prepared. Now, the ultimate test would determine just how prepared for this you really were.

Barb, the actress playing Veronica, had warned you that her sister might go into labor early, and that had been exactly what happened. That meant she would be in the delivery room on opening night, and every program in every audience member’s hand would have a little insert with your picture on it, alongside your name followed by “-will be playing the role of Veronica Sawyer.”

Already, you had managed to make it to the first quarter of the show. “Beautiful” had gone without a hitch, and you’d gotten through “Fight for Me” without your voice cracking. But next was “Dead Girl Walking,” and you were just about ready to fling yourself in front of a bus. Or drink some drain cleaner.

You hadn’t rehearsed this song with Eddie yet; you knew the words, knew the blocking, knew exactly which note you were expected to sing and every riff you had to hit. But standing behind that velvet curtain as you waited for your cue, you were practically on the verge of a panic attack. When you finally had to enter the stage, you channeled it all- the panic, the nerves, the terror of what comes after tonight.

I need it hard

I’m a dead girl walking

I’m in your yard

I’m a dead girl walking

You’d watched him sing this song with Barb so many times, and each time you’d wished it was you- now, you had your chance.

Sorry, but I really had to wake you

See, I’ve decided I must ride you ‘til I break you

Tonight I’m yours,

I’m your dead girl walking

Get on all fours,

Kiss this dead girl walking

You knew Eddie’s wide, wet eyes were those of an actor. The eyes of JD as he watches the girl of his dreams. Still, the heat and want you felt right now wasn’t Veronica’s- it was purely yours. So you let it feed Veronica’s words as you held his face in your tender hands and told JD the things you wished you could say to Eddie.

And you know, you know, you know

It’s ‘cause you’re beautiful

You say you’re numb inside

But I can’t agree

You were the one in the blue blazer now. Tonight, he was your JD, and you were scared shitless that when your lips hit his in a stage kiss that was supposed to have so much fire it set the stage ablaze, it might feel a little bit too real.

So the world’s unfair

Keep it locked out there

In here it’s beautiful

Let’s make this beautiful

Eddie- JD- gazed at you with all the wonder and adoration of a man on his knees for a generous god. His head shook gently, bewildered by his luck as he delivered the next line. “That works for me.”

Then your lips were on him, and for a second you let yourself pretend he was kissing you back and not Veronica. His mouth was warm, his hands hungry as they roamed over your clothes and subtly squeezed until you felt your blazer’s polyester pucker.

When you pulled away for your high note, you gazed into his eyes and saw nothing but truth looking back at you. That fire you’d been feeling all this time was reflected in his eyes tonight. Sure, maybe it’s the stage lights. Maybe he’s just a really good actor. Maybe you’re fucking obsessed with him- but whatever it was, you felt wanted in those eyes. So yeah, you let yourself believe it. You let the script burn you alive.

Full steam ahead,

Take this dead girl walking

Let’s break the bed,

Rock this dead girl walking

You were drunk on the awe in his gaze, the way he looked up at you like he wasn’t sure if you’d really just barged in through his window to ride him until he was a broken mess, or if you were a fantasy his mind had conjured to fuel his desire to belong to someone who would cherish all he had to give.

Again, Eddie was a talented actor. You knew that was his interpretation of how his character felt about your character. Still, you let yourself fall into the script as you straddled his tense, shirtless body, his abs crunching under the blue stage lights in a way that made you salivate. You wondered what your spit would look like on his skin.

You were far too horny to be professional. At least you weren’t so far gone that you couldn’t remember your blocking.

No sleep tonight for you,

Better chug that Mountain Dew

Your heart fell into your core upon hearing Eddie’s whimpered ‘okay, okay’ in character, needy and submissive beneath you.

Get your ass in gear,

Make this whole town disappear

His eyebrows pulled together, voice stronger and raspier as it ripped from his chest. ‘Okay, okay!’ His fingers snuck underneath your skirt, fingertips digging into the soft flesh of your ass. You wished it was real.

You eyed him like a predator eyes a kill, determined to stay in his head until he needed you for real. You ran your palm over your cheek, brought your other hand up to fist in your hair, and pretended both hands were his.

Slap me,

Pull my hair,

You grabbed his wrists forcefully, bringing them up one by one to grope each of your tits.

Touch me

There (left tit)

And there (right tit)

And there

To punctuate the final syllable, you couldn’t stop an involuntary writhe of your torso into Eddie’s hands as he grasped your white button down (which was actually a snap-up) at the chest and pulled hard, simultaneously pinching your nipples through your bright blue bra and ripping open your blouse to showcase the swell of your chest for the whole audience to see. You didn’t notice them, though- you noticed the way he looked at your chest like it was the second coming of Christ. You witnessed that fractional widening of his eyes, the way he was entranced by every move you made as you writhed in his lap.

And no more talking

Love this dead girl walking

Eddie’s voice was lightning in the wake of thunder, bright and jagged and beautifully raw with power as he crooned a harmony to your lead as the song drew to a close. This song wasn’t an easy one to sing; had you not been so distracted by how it felt to have Eddie’s hips between your thighs you might have been nervous that you’d flub your high notes- but you didn’t. In a moment of sheer improvisation you did what just felt right, and that meant grabbing Eddie by hair at the base of his neck and wrenching his head back as you rolled your hips into his.

You knew your blocking was to arch your back away from him, but instead you brought your face close enough to his that it’s possible his mic picked up your perfect, clear falsetto as you pleaded, ‘Love this dead girl walking’ with the cadence of a lover asking, begging their beloved ‘don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop’. Eddie’s eyes registered your improvisational choice, and maybe you imagined it but behind those big brown button eyes he seemed to come alive with you, sitting up even further and digging one hand into your soft, hot skin while the other flexed against the stage floor to keep him balanced. His little ‘whoa, whoa, hey, hey, yeah yeah’s were short and breathy, sounding more like moans and whimpers as he rolled the sturdy bones of his hips into you as you matched his rhythm.

If you closed your eyes, you could pretend. If you didn’t have blocking to follow, you might have kissed him again, might have bitten his lip, might have reached for his belt buckle with reckless abandon and let a summer’s worth of pining win over in your mind. Instead, you channeled that passion into the way your hips ground into him with the fervor of a woman with nothing to lose.

Together the two of you finished out the song with heavy breaths and belted lyrics. You writhed. He thrusted. ‘Love this dead girl,’ your voices intertwined in a desperate dance for release from the tension between you that, at some point, had grown thick as two oak trees planted near enough to forget where one ends and the other begins.

‘Yeah!’

Your hand on his chest splayed out over faded ink. Your hips swiveled against his groin.

‘Yeah!’

His hand fisted in the plaid fabric of your skirt. That wasn’t in the blocking- had they added that? Was this improv?

‘Yeah!’

Using the grip on your skirt, he tugged you further into him as his hips bucked up just enough to bounce you on his groin and shake your exposed cleavage. Without thinking, your hand flew into his hair, grasping the sweaty curls at the nape of his neck and tugging sharply back. You weren’t supposed to do that.

‘Ow!’

It wasn’t supposed to be a moan, but that was definitely what you would call the sound you pulled from Eddie’s mouth. A soft yet sharp, breathy moan that existed somewhere in the valley between pleasure and pain and definitely sounded more sexy and less funny, which is how it was supposed to sound. You saw Eddie’s eyes go wide as he too came to this realization.

No matter; if you played it off, no one in the audience would know the difference. You let go of his hair and flung your hand into the air above you, reaching for heaven and belting out your last ‘Yeah’ into the stage lights that lined the rafters above you. Your back arched, and you felt one final push of Eddie’s pelvis into yours, weaker this time as he too came down from the endorphins that ravaged every thought in both your mind and his.

Taglist (people I've been talking to about this since the idea spawned): @ghost-proofbaby, @the-unforgivenn, @munson-blurbs, @hellfire--cult

#eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #heathers the musical #veronica sawyer #jason dean #eddie munson #Spotify

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