#Showerhead Filter

[aqualiseshowerfilter]

IS YOUR WATER REALLY CLEAN?

Even clean-looking, clean-smelling water hides dangerous skin, hair, and nail-destroying agents. Aqualise 20 stage advanced shower filter High Output Universal Shower Filter instantly inhibits scale buildup, and reduces chlorine, dirt, bad odors, and pesticides – so your skin, hair, and nails naturally rejuvenate and achieve proper balance.

[thelovebudllc]

Why Your Showerhead Filter Might Be Making You Itchy

That sent me spiraling into another Google rabbit hole. I wondered if my showerhead contained colloidal silver, but I couldn’t find any information to confirm it either way. I reached out to the company, Afina, to comment on this story and never heard back. While I can’t say for sure that colloidal silver was the culprit, the timing—and the reaction—definitely raised a red flag. According to Dr.…

[joelsrose]

Grays & All

no warnings just fluff :)

Joel groaned softly as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, his body stiff and aching from another night of fitful sleep. His knees cracked as he stood, stretching his back, the familiar twinge of discomfort settling into his joints like an unwelcome guest, reminding him of every year he’d survived. He let out a slow, weary breath, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and turned his gaze to you.

You were still curled beneath the covers, a serene picture of softness and peace. The golden rays of sunlight that filtered through the curtains bathed you in a warm glow, making you look even more ethereal. The rhythm of your breathing was steady, your chest rising and falling in quiet slumber, and Joel couldn’t help but watch you, captivated by the quiet beauty of the moment.

You’d been together for some time now, but each time he saw you like this, it felt new. His heart—old, aching, and hardened by years of survival—skipped a beat as he took you in. He couldn’t quite grasp what he’d done to deserve you, or why you’d chosen him.

His thoughts tangled, heavy with doubt, circling like vultures. He couldn’t help but wonder what someone like you, so young and full of life, saw in him—a man worn down by years of pain, loss, and hard living. You deserved someone who matched your energy, your light. Someone whose body didn’t betray them with every creak and groan, someone whose laughter wasn’t tinged with regret.

In Jackson, there were plenty of younger men, men who hadn’t been weighed down by the past, who didn’t wake up with an ache in their bones. Joel couldn’t fathom why you’d chosen him, but he knew deep down that he was afraid to ask, afraid of the answer.

With a heavy sigh, Joel made his way into the bathroom, the cool tile beneath his feet grounding him for a moment. He turned the water on as hot as it would go, letting the steam rise and fill the small space, hoping it would wash away the doubts swirling in his mind.

Stepping under the showerhead, he closed his eyes and tilted his head forward, pressing his palms against the cool tile as the scalding water cascaded down his back. The heat soothed his aching muscles, but it did little to ease the weight in his chest.

The water pounded against him, each drop heavy, like the thoughts he couldn’t shake. Every streak of gray in his hair, every wrinkle around his eyes felt like a reminder of the years he’d lived, of the mistakes he couldn’t undo. He let the water stream over his face, his hands gripping the edge of the tiled wall as if holding himself together. Joel felt the pull of time in his bones, the relentless march forward, and it terrified him. The world had taken so much from him already, and he couldn’t help but wonder how much longer he could hold onto you.

When he finally emerged from the shower, steam billowing around him, he wrapped a towel low around his hips and caught his reflection in the mirror. His damp hair clung to his forehead, but the strands of gray were unmistakable, streaking through the dark like threads of time woven into his life. He ran a hand through it, frowning slightly as his fingers tangled in the silver that seemed more prominent with each passing day.

His eyes traveled to the dresser beside the mirror, where the necklace he’d had made for your birthday lay draped next to a photograph of the two of you from one of Jackson’s gatherings. The image was one of laughter, of a time when the weight of the world didn’t seem so heavy.

Joel’s hand hovered over the photograph, his thumb brushing against the frame as a flicker of doubt tightened in his chest. How could someone as radiant as you love someone as broken as him? He dropped his hand, letting the question go unanswered.

The soft rustling of sheets behind him pulled him from his thoughts. You stirred, waking to the lingering scent of his familiar body wash that clung to the steam in the air. As you sat up, stretching lazily, your eyes found him standing in front of the mirror.

The sight of him—bare-chested, hair slicked back, still damp from the shower, the early morning light framing his body—made your heart stutter. Joel, even with all his scars and his age, was the most beautiful man you’d ever known. Every line on his face, every silver strand in his hair told a story of survival, and you loved him for every part of it.

“Good morning,” you murmured, your voice still thick with sleep as a soft smile tugged at your lips. “What a nice view to wake up to.”

Joel turned to face you, the tension in his shoulders easing at the sound of your voice. “Mornin’, sleepyhead,” he teased, though the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, and you noticed the flicker of something unsettled beneath the surface.

You watched him for a moment, noticing the way his gaze flickered back to the mirror, the way he ran a hand through his hair with a sense of hesitation. “What’re you doin’?” you asked gently, sensing that something was weighing on him, something more than the usual early morning stiffness.

Joel sighed, his hand raking through his hair once more. “Ah, it’s nothin’,” he muttered, though the heaviness in his voice told you otherwise.

You sat up straighter, your concern deepening. “Joel,” you pressed softly, your gaze locked onto his. “What’s wrong?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer, his jaw tightening as he stared at his reflection as if it were someone else looking back at him. Finally, he sighed, a quiet sound that felt like the weight of the world slipping through his chest. “It’s stupid,” he said, his voice low, rough. “These damn gray hairs… they’re gettin’ worse. Feels like I’m really startin’ to show my age.”

Your heart softened at his vulnerability. Joel wasn’t one to open up easily, especially about things that made him feel exposed. You hadn’t given his gray hairs a second thought—if anything, you loved them. They were a testament to his resilience, to the life he’d lived, and you found them incredibly sexy. But now you could see how much they weighed on him, how they reminded him of every year that had passed, of everything he thought he might lose.

You adored Joel in every angle, in every moment. The way his calloused hands ran through your hair, gentle despite their roughness, always sent a warmth through you. Watching him as he worked, his broad back flexing as he repaired something around the house or chopped wood outside—it made your heart race in a way you couldn’t quite explain. His movements were always purposeful, a quiet strength in everything he did, whether he was leaning over the table, focused and determined, or simply reaching out to brush a stray hair from your face with such care, you’d almost forget the harshness of the world outside. Even the way he drank his coffee in the morning, his jaw clenching and relaxing with each sip, or the quiet hum of satisfaction he’d make when he stretched after a long day—it all captivated you. He was rugged, raw, but to you, every motion, every glance, was filled with tenderness that only you were lucky enough to witness.

Without hesitation, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and padded across the room to him. You reached up, your fingers sliding through his damp hair, smoothing back the strands as you offered him a soft, reassuring smile. “I love your gray hairs,” you whispered, your voice full of warmth and sincerity.

Joel shook his head, still looking uncertain. “I don’t know, darlin’. Feels like the world’s catchin’ up to me.” His voice was quieter now, almost hesitant. “Don’t know why you’d want someone like me when there’s plenty of guys in Jackson who don’t groan every time they get outta bed.”

You frowned, your hand sliding down to cup his jaw, your thumb brushing lightly against the rough stubble that shadowed his skin. You’d noticed the way Joel had become more self-conscious lately—the way he moved a little slower, the quiet sighs he thought you didn’t hear when he sat down after a long day. But to you, he was everything. “I want you,” you said firmly, your voice steady and unwavering. “Just as you are, right now.” Your hands trailed down his chest, fingers lightly tracing the lines of his body, the warmth of his skin beneath your touch. “Those other guys? They don’t know how to make me laugh like you do. They don’t take care of me like you do,” you added, your smile turning playful as you pressed a soft kiss to his jaw, then another to his neck, letting your lips linger there.

You leaned closer, your lips brushing the shell of his ear, and in a soft, teasing whisper, you added, “They don’t know how to make me cum like you do.”

Joel’s breath hitched slightly, his hands tightening on your hips, and you felt the tension between you shift, the vulnerability of moments before melting into something heavier, something laden with the desire that had always simmered just beneath the surface.

“And those gray hairs?” you continued, a smile dancing on your lips as you met his gaze again, your voice low, “They make you even sexier.”

Joel’s eyes flicked up at that, his gaze dark.

“You’re just sayin’ that to make me feel better,” he muttered, though the gruffness in his voice was starting to fade.

“I’m not,” you insisted, stepping closer until your bodies were flush, your hands resting against his chest. “I mean it, Joel. You’re everything to me. The gray hairs, the scars, the rough edges… they’re all part of you, and I love every single part.”

For a long moment, Joel didn’t say anything. He just stood there, his chest rising and falling slowly as he let your words sink in. He stared at you, as if trying to figure out how someone like you could love someone like him—with all his flaws, all his doubts.

Finally, Joel reached up, his hand cupping the back of your neck, pulling you gently into him. His lips pressed softly against your forehead, lingering there for a long moment as if trying to absorb every bit of comfort and reassurance you were offering him.

When he pulled back, there was something different in his eyes now—something softer, more accepting. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he muttered, his voice low and rough, but there was a smile tugging at the corners of his lips now, a hint of the Joel you knew so well.

You grinned up at him, your fingers still tangled in his hair. “I know,” you teased, standing on your tiptoes to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips.

It was a quiet promise—of love, of everything you cherished about him, flaws and all.

[hippopotamusdreamer]

Period Reds

genre. [F][C]

warnings. Talks about periods; as in MENSTRUAL CYCLES. No actual mentions of blood but it does talk about tampons, pads and cramps.

additional notes. Female! Reader | You/Your pronouns, reader is aged between Hyunjin and Han, includes all members of Stray Kids in some way, Lee Know as Minho

This was a request by an Anon!

Hope you don't mind that I tweaked it a bit!

pairing. OT8 x 9th member

w.c. 1.1K

synopsis. It's that time of the month again, so how do the boys handle it?

Kpop Masterlist

Fandom Masterlist

Waking up, you knew that that day was going to be a problem.

You’d started your period yesterday. And as usual, Day 2 was always the worst for you. Everything felt twice as difficult. Lower back pain? Unbearable. Cramps? Unbearable. Overwhelming urge to not move? Unbearable in your line of work.

Not only did you have to waddle to the bathroom like some sort of deranged cowboy, but the ondol in the apartment stopped working at the beginning of month so your tootsies were cold. Your mother had always nagged that your cramps were worse because you were barefoot on the cold floor. You hated every second you were out of bed…

Not to mention your lower half needed a soak but the unfortunate thing about Korean bathrooms was that there was no tub. Just a double filtered showerhead attached to the sink.

At least the water heater worked…

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

After allowing the discomforts of this morning literally go down the drain, you found yourself holed up in one of Binnie’s pullovers. Not wanting to be confined to your room, you made your move. Fuzzy socks and house slippers on, you trudged your way to the living room, the plush couch calling your name. Everyone was out for the day besides Hyunjin since it was one of the rare days off.

Speaking of Hyunjin, the couch was where he found you not even fifteen minutes later of laying down. Half asleep and cozy with s Pochacco blanket that remained in the living room. The title song of some random Netflix show playing on the tv nearly lulling you to sleep.

As he dried his hair with a towel, he made his way to you. A pep in his step until he saw how your eyebrows remained furrowed. Kneeling by your head, he touched your forehead while calling out to you gently.

“Y/N-ah?”

“Mm?” you roused softly.

“You ok?”

“Mmhmm”

“You don’t feel warm, so you’re not sick…at least not yet.”

“’m not sick Hyunjinnie. My uterus is just mad at me for not being pregnant,” you mumbled.

“Oooh,” he says, already used to how casually you talked about your period with them. With that new information squared away, he took out his phone to message Minho.

‘We have a Code: Empty Nester’

Minho hyung: How is she?

‘Image.png sent’ Minho-hyung: Ah it’s day 2 Minho-hyung: Give me 20 minutes. I’ll be there soon. Minho-hyung: Message Felix too ‘Ok’ ‘Lix, we got a Code: Empty Nester’ Yongbokkie: Which day are we on? ‘2’ Yongbokkie: ‘2 ½ batches of extra fudge brownies coming up.’

Nodding to himself, he looked back towards you. You’d basically conked out on him, so he couldn’t ask you if you needed any of the American medicine you had. Instead he decided to do the next best thing.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Minho and Han walked into the rapper dorm; hands loaded with groceries for the soup that he was going to make for you. You’d commented once that it had settled your stomach when he’d whipped it up the first couple of times during your period. So now it was basically a staple during these times.

They were rendered motionless immediately after taking off their outside shoes. Through the opening that lead inside the apartment, they were able to see you and Hyunjin asleep on the couch. Somehow Hyunjin had managed to wiggle himself behind you and had essentially koala wrapped himself around you. They silently chuckled as they walked past, careful not to make a sound. It was common knowledge amongst them that you got terrible sleep any time you got your period.

The two of you stayed asleep until the soup was just about ready for lunch. Felix and Jeongin walked through the door, each carrying a kimchi container filled with brownies. Smiling as they watched you stir, Felix handed over his container to the maknae and made his way towards you.

“Hey sleepyhead,” he greeted softly while cupping your cheek as he crouched in front of you.

You gave him a delirious smile in return, still in the process of waking up.

“You hungry?”

“I am,” the muffled voice of Hyunjin was heard from behind you. The two of you giggle as the lanky man detangled himself from you.

“Minho-hyung made your favorite-” the Aussie began.

“Soooup,” you cut him off with a croak.

“Haha, yeah soup. And I made brownies.”

“Extra fudge?”

“Of course, I’m not a monster.”

“You guys are the best,” you said with your best half asleep smile.

“Wanna get up?”

“Yeah, just give me a sec,”

The other thing about Korea was that tampons were not widely used in comparison to pads. So getting a box of 12 was not worth the price. Instead you had to wait for your friends and family back in America to send you a mega pack to keep over time. Which meant that you were able to feel everything shifting as you moved about.

Hyunjin helped you up slowly from your laid down positions. Occasionally having to stop every now and then. Until a sudden pain in your lower stomach had you take a breath in sharply. A few seconds of worried glances from the boys had you reassuring them that you were fine and that it happened every now and then.

“I’m gonna go freshen up first then meet everyone in the kitchen, ok?”

As you made your way to your bathroom, you heard Jeongin calling after you.

“Hyung said that him, Changbinnie-hyung, and Seungminnie-hyung were at the store picking up snacks for your stash. But then Sungminnie-hyung said that they were out of your chocolate covered sunflower seeds. They said they’ll be here in like 15 minutes.”

“Aww, tell them I said that’s ok and thank you!”

Phone in hand, you sat on the toilet. You couldn’t help but reflect as the sounds of the boys getting rowdy in the kitchen intensified. You were very appreciative of them and how far your relationship with each of them had come. How grateful you were for their understanding of you and your menstrual cycle. There have been plenty of childish men in your life that had tried to make you feel bad when talking about it but they were no longer worth your time.

Your guys certainly made everything easier to deal with.

You knew you’d gotten lost on your phone doom scrolling when a timid knock sounded from the door and Chan questioned if you were alright.

‘Uh-oh…’

“…I’ll be out in a sec!”

a/n. For my sake, 9th member will never be a different age than where she's at. Just to keep everything orderly.

Tag list: @elizalabs3

This in no way reflects the actual persons involved/based in this fic, nor their actual character. This is purely fiction.

© hippopotamusdreamer, est 2024. all rights reserved.

[justarkive]

TABLE 3 | JJK ch14

“For good service, and cute waitresses.”

pairing: pre!military jungkook x fuckbuddy/waitress! reader

warnings: SMUTTTTTTTTT profanity, angst, humour, fluff, celebrity au, idol!jungkook , mentions of other kpop groups/idols, inner conflict, insecurity.

smut warnings: needy jungkook, suggestive messages, booty call at 3AM LOL. shower sex, protected sex, oral m recieving, throat fucking, crying, gagging, fingering, squirting, spanking, use of showerhead against the clit, clit play, nipple play, missionary, doggystyle, oc is practically touching her toes, reverse cowgirl umm but he does all the work?? cowgirl, strength kink, fucking while standing up, oc smacks jungkooks butt HAHA, multiple orgasms for both, super needy kook, basicaly non verbal oc lol, jungkook cant stop thinking abt leaving and he takes it out on her </3 (its hot tho) jungkook is just rlly fuckin horny and she just lets him do whatever pretty much. kinda dom jk?? DIRTY TALKKK ITS SO DIRTYYYYYYY, kinda possesive jk in a “noone will make u feel like this” way??? FLUFFY AFTERCARE!!!

wc: longggg

this fic is not meant to represent the real jungkook or any other characters mentioned!

taglist: @jenniebyrubies @dreamersparacosm @darklove2020 @rayyrayy10 @elinaki92 @alana4610

a/n: make sure to read till the end wink wink. it all comes crashiny down soon guys… so prepare LOL. i figured they deserved s rlly freaky chap before that tho. ENJOY MY LOVES

masterlist , <prev | next>

The next morning, you wake up to the soft glow of daylight filtering through the massive hotel windows.

Nari, of course, is still knocked out—sprawled on the bed like a starfish, one arm flung over her face, her hair a tangled mess from sleep. Her breathing is heavy, slow, peaceful.

And you? You groan the second reality kicks in.

You have a night shift.

You sit up, running a hand down your face as the weight of that realization sinks in. After the absolute high of last night—VIP treatment, insane performances, Jungkook—your reward? A long-ass shift at the diner, which was of course the consequence of asking for one day off.

Life is cruel.

Knowing better than to wake Nari unless it’s a life or death situation, you quietly slip out of bed and start packing your things. The magic of the concert is still lingering in the air, but with every folded piece of clothing, every zip of your bag, it fades just a little, replaced by the routine of your normal life.

The normal life that does not include penthouse suites and private concert boxes.

Once your bag is mostly packed, you hop into the shower, letting the warm water wake you up. By the time you’re dressed and ready, Nari still hasn’t moved.

Great.

You settle onto the couch and finally—finally—open your phone.

There’s no good morning text from Jungkook. Not surprising. He’s probably still asleep, hungover if last night’s spam is anything to go by.

And speaking of that—

You click into the chat.

His messages from the night before are a mess.

Jungkook [2:12 AM]: IM si tied

Jungkook [2:13 AM]: si so tired fukc tired

Jungkook [2:15 AM]: wait no im buzzing still im still high off the concert not like drug high ok

Jungkook [2:16 AM]: did u like it???????

Jungkook [2:17 AM]: bet u cried. bet u wept. bet u are weeping rn

Jungkook [2:19 AM]: i wana kiss u rn

Jungkook [2:20 AM]: NOT IN A HORNY WAY

Jungkook [2:22 AM]: mayb a little in a hornt way

You snort, scrolling further.

There are voice messages—slurred, barely understandable, probably recorded in the car ride back.

You click on one.

A deep, drawn-out sigh fills your ears, followed by a very drunk-sounding Jungkook.

“U don’t even knooowwwwwww how much I killed it. Like. No one. No one killed it like me. I’m soooo good. Did u SEEEEEE MEEEE??????? Wait ofc u did. Hi. I miss youuuuuuuu heheheheheh.”

You wheeze.

Then there are accidental photos of a table—just a table—with half-eaten food and someone’s hand in the frame. Probably one of his dancers.

A few blurry videos of him dancing on top of said table.

You shake your head, thoroughly entertained—until—

Your scrolling halts.

One message stands out.

Amidst all the nonsense, all the chaotic, drunken rambling, there’s one that’s… off.

Jungkook [3:04 AM]: im raelky fucking sorry y

Your brows furrow.

It’s buried between a spam of typos and nonsense, easy to overlook, easy to dismiss as just another drunken slip-up.

But still. Sorry?

For what?

You stare at it for a moment, lips pressing together.

Your gut tells you to ask.

But your brain tells you not to dwell on it.

So, you don’t.

You exhale, shaking off the weird feeling creeping in your chest, choosing instead to focus on the much more entertaining parts of his messages.

Like the terribly filmed videos of him singing dramatically, off-key, into a bottle of soju.

Or the way his last message—before passing out, apparently—was just:

Jungkook [3:22 AM]: meow

You lose it.

The weird feeling lingers in the back of your mind, but for now, you let yourself laugh.

And maybe, just maybe, you forget about that one message entirely.

For now.

——

Nari wakes up in the worst mood imaginable. You drag yourselves out of the hotel, obviously after munching on the breakfast buffet like absolute animals.

Which, honestly, is valid. You’d both gotten maybe five hours of sleep, and when you texted her when you got home in the morning to check in, she was radio silent.

Unresponsive. Dead to the world. Practically in a coma.

You figured she needed it—after all, that concert was a marathon. But by the time you dragged yourself through your morning routine, did some mindless scrolling, and considered texting Jungkook, you finally got a single reply from Nari at 1 PM:

Nari [1:04 PM]: bitch

That was it. No follow-up.

Meanwhile, Jungkook finally woke up at 2 PM, which was late, even for him.

Jungkook [2:15 PM]: good morningggggggg 🥱

You [2:16 PM]: it’s 2PM.

Jungkook [2:16 PM]: i am a popstar and i require beauty rest.

Jungkook [2:16 PM]: u up?

You [2:17 PM]: obviously.

Jungkook [2:18 PM]: cute.

And that’s how the texting started—all day, back and forth, about everything and nothing.

The concert. How unreal it was. How insane the screams were. How you both really had the audacity to do what you did before the concert when he was supposed to be saving his energy.

And then, somewhere between 11 PM and 3 AM, your texts shifted to complaining about your night shift.

Nari had offered to drive you both home after it because, in her words, “I am literally on the verge of death, and the faster I get us to the nearest bed, which is your place, the faster I can sleep.”

So now, here you both were, dragging your bodies inside your apartment, exhausted and delirious, talking shit about the weirdest customer of the night.

“I swear,” Nari groans, tossing her keys onto your desk, “that man has never showered in his life.”

“I think I’m still smelling him,” you mumble, flopping onto the bed.

Nari follows suit, dramatically collapsing beside you. “If I ever agree to another night shift, slap me.”

“Same for me.”

You mindlessly pull your phone out, expecting more texts from Jungkook—but he hasn’t replied for a bit. Which is… weird.

But before you can question it, your phone buzzes.

And then another. And another. And—

Jungkook [3:02 AM]: u up?

Jungkook [3:02 AM]: wait ofc ur up u just texted me

Jungkook [3:03 AM]: come over

Jungkook [3:03 AM]: now

Jungkook [3:03 AM]: please

You blink.

Okay. That’s new.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard,

You [3:04 AM]: u okay?

Jungkook [3:04 AM]: no

Jungkook [3:04 AM]: i miss you

Jungkook [3:05 AM]: come

Your stomach flips.

Oh.

You [3:05 AM]: jungkook its 3am.

Jungkook [3:05 AM]: y/n.

You sigh, staring at the screen.

Okay, you want to go. Desperately. But—

You [3:06 AM]: can’t. nari’s over.

You expect him to be pushy—maybe whine a little, try to convince you.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, his next message is immediate.

Jungkook [3:06 AM]: ohhh okay. get some sleep then.

Jungkook [3:06 AM]: i’ll see u tomorrow maybe?

You smile a little. Of course he’s understanding.

And then— A voice beside you.

“Oh my god,” Nari practically cackles, making you jump. She’s leaning over, peering at your phone, grinning like a menace.

“Bitch, GO.”

Your mouth opens. “I—”

“You think I care?” She snorts, flopping back onto the bed. “I’m gonna be asleep in the next 5 mins and probably all day tomorrow. I wouldn’t notice if the building was on fire.”

You hesitate. She notices.

She glares. “Y/N, if you don’t get your ass up”

You bite your lip, sighing. “Can you drive me?”

Nari snorts. “It is three in the morning. I am not getting behind a wheel right now.”

You huff, already pulling up the Uber app. Asking for Jungkook’s address and typing it in. “I’ll just—”

Nari snatches your phone out of your hand.

And Ubers you to Jungkook’s apartment

She pays for it before you can react.

Your jaw drops. “Nari—”

She shrugs, grinning. “Consider it my thank you for that once-in-a-lifetime concert experience. You think I’m not still riding that high?”

You groan, but at this point, you’ve lost. You snatch your phone back.

You [3:12 AM]: omw.

Jungkook’s reply is instant.

Jungkook [3:12 AM]: 😏

You roll your eyes as you head to the bathroom, trying to act like you’re not doing the absolute most to freshen up.

Hair? Fixed. Perfume? A little. Lips? Definitely hydrated with layers of gloss.

And the second you catch yourself in the mirror, adjusting your clothes like you’re not about to just end up taking them off anyway—

“Bitch.”

You jump.

Nari is watching you from the bed, arms crossed, smirking like she caught you red-handed.

“You are doing too much for a 3 AM dick appointment.”

You scowl. “Shut up.”

She snorts, rolling onto her side. “Nah, it’s okay. You deserve it.”

A beat. Then—

“My girl’s getting dicked downnn tonight.”

You throw a pillow at her. She wheezes.

Your phone buzzes. The Uber’s outside.

⸻

By the time you step out of the Uber, you are literally fighting for your life.

Your limbs are heavy, your eyelids are betraying you, and every step toward Jungkook’s apartment door feels like you’re wading through concrete.

But you know exactly what’s about to happen.

And somehow, that alone is keeping you alive.You knock once you get to his door, somehow remembering how to get there since the field date—too tired to text, too wired to just walk in like you own the place.

It takes half a second before the door swings open.

Jungkook stands there, leaning against the frame like he’s trying very, very hard to keep his composure.

Like he’s trying to act normal—cool, casual, unfazed. But his eyes betray him immediately. Because they drink you in. Like he’s starving.

And then— All that composure?

Gone once you smile and say “Hi.”

You barely register Jungkook’s grip on your wrist before the door shuts behind you, sealing you into his space, his world, his intentions.

He’s not playing around.

The second you’re inside, he’s on you. Hands on your waist, pushing you back, his breathing already heavier than it should be for someone who hasn’t even touched you properly yet.

You’re half-asleep, running on fumes, but your body?

It knows exactly where this is going.

You feel the cold edge of the bathroom sink, which you don’t even question how fast he’d pulled you in there, against your back before your brain even catches up to the fact that he’s been steering you here on purpose.

His grip is firm, deliberate, his fingers pressing through the fabric of your pullover, claiming you before he’s even said a word.

And then— “I already showered,” you manage, breathless, blinking up at him.

Jungkook just grins.

Smirks, actually.

The kind of slow, dangerous smirk that makes your stomach clench, makes your knees weaker than they already are from exhaustion.

“I haven’t.”

A pause.

Then—

His lips crash into yours.

And just like that—

You are wide awake.

Jungkook kisses you like he’s been waiting all day for this.

Like he’s been counting down the minutes, picturing this exact moment, craving it.

And you? You feel it.

Every ounce of his desperation, his need, the way his hands tighten just a little too much when they grip your hips, like he’s trying to ground himself in your warmth.

He doesn’t even let you think.

The second he feels you relax into it, he’s lifting you—easily, like you weigh nothing—and setting you onto the cold marble countertop of the sink.

Your legs automatically spread for him, letting him step in between, and— He whimpers. Actually whimpers. Like just the feel of your body opening up for him is already too much.

You feel the weight of his hands slide down from your waist to your thighs, his thumbs brushing just under the hem of your hoodie.

He leans in, kisses you deeper this time, tongue teasing yours, hot and demanding.

It’s all teeth and lips and need.

Like he wants to devour you. And you? You let him.

Because fuck it, you want it too.

The exhaustion from earlier? Completely gone when your hands tangle in his hair, still damp from whatever half-assed shower he took, and the feeling of your fingers tugging, gripping makes him let out a low, breathy curse against your lips.

He’s losing it. Then his hands disappear.

You barely have time to process the sudden loss of warmth before you hear it—

The sound of his hoodie hitting the floor. Then his shirt. You look down.

The heat that pools in your stomach at the sight of him—shirtless, toned, glistening from the way the bathroom light reflects off his skin—is actually unfair.

He’s so unfair.

And he knows it.

Because he’s watching you watch him. Head tilted, chest rising and falling, lips red and swollen from kissing you like he was trying to leave a permanent mark.

“You’re staring, baby.”

Your cheeks burn. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You don’t get the chance.

Because before you can even think of something to say, he takes off your clothes and he’s lifting you again—

Off the counter. Into the shower.

Your body shivers. Not from the temperature—from him.

From the way his hands slide up your sides, from the way his mouth attaches to the soft skin under your jaw, kissing, sucking, teasing.

He’s barely doing anything, and yet you feel weak. Like your entire body is being tuned to his touch. And he knows it.

Because when his lips move to your ear, his voice drops, raspy, his breath hot against your skin— “You still tired?”

The smirk in his tone is palpable. You glare at him—well, you try to. It’s hard to be intimidating when your brain is melting.

But you force yourself to lie “Yes.”

Jungkook laughs “Better wake you up then.”

Then his hands are on you again.

And just like that, he makes sure you never feel tired again.

Jungkook scoops you up effortlessly, and you’re suddenly clinging to him like a fucking koala, your arms wrapped around his neck as you laugh.

He nearly trips when he picks you up, and you can’t help but giggle at how ungraceful he looks. “Careful,” you tease, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

You notice his… well, you notice. His cock isn’t fully hard, but it’s in the process of getting to it, it’s already starting to twitch, and damn, it’s hard not to stare when it swings with every movement in front of you.

You’re almost hypnotized by the way the huge thing moves.

But then, of course, the cold water sprays you right in the face, and you let out a loud squeal, completely unprepared. Jungkook immediately goes wide-eyed, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Sorry, baby.” he says quickly and chuckles, his voice cracking slightly as he tries not to laugh at your reaction.

And then, before you can recover, he pulls you back into a kiss. It’s warm, soft, and the taste of him makes you forget all about the shock of the cold water. There’s something about seeing him like this—so real, so raw, his skin glistening with water—that makes your stomach do flips. You hadn’t realized how much you liked this part of him. The part that’s just… human.

As he deepens the kiss, you let yourself melt into him, not caring about the cold anymore, just the feeling of being so close, so completely wrapped up in him.

The kiss doesn’t last as long as you’d like however, his hands already moving across your wet skin. His tattooed hand gently brushes your damp hair away from your face, and you can’t help but smile at how undone everything is, mascara probably smeared, but you don’t care.

He’s groaning in your fucking face, his hands roaming, just feeling every inch of you like he’s starved for the touch.

You can feel how much he’s craving you, the way he reacts to your body, every movement of his making you shiver.

“I missed you,” he says, voice thick with longing, and there’s a desperation in his words that makes your heart race. He pulls away just enough to look at you, and suddenly you notice- he’s jerking off by just looking at your face.

Your knees buckle.

His eyes dark, his breath heavy. You try to look away, feeling your cheeks flush, but he catches your chin, gently tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

“I swear, I’ve been losing my fucking mind,” he murmurs, his voice almost shaky as he leans in closer, forehead to yours, his breath warm against your lips. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you, about fucking that little pussy.” He looks down. Tugs harder. “I wanted you so badly, you have no idea,” A moan, “I came so hard thinking of what we did yesterday night- Fuck-“

He’s babbling now, each word filled with so much raw emotion that you feel a heat rise in your chest, your face burning with embarrassment as you try to hide your flustered reaction. But he doesn’t stop, his hands now holding you close, other hand still tugging at his cock, filling the air with nasty, wet noises as he continues, his desperation clear.

“I couldn’t think straight without you,” he says, his voice a little frantic now. “You drive me insane, you don’t understand…”

You can’t help but blush harder, the way he’s pouring out his emotions making you feel more exposed than you’ve ever felt. His words, though, only make the connection between you feel even stronger, the intensity building between you two in ways you never expected.

He’s not just after your body; he’s after you, and that realization makes your heart skip a beat. It’s different from before, he’s clearly worked up about something. And you can’t help but think it’s not just because he misses having sex with you.

But you don’t pry. Like always.

“You had to message me at 3AM for this?” you tease, raising an eyebrow at him.

Jungkook pauses for a second, his smirk slowly spreading across his face. The way his eyes gleam with both frustration and amusement makes your heart skip a beat. “Duh,” he replies, his voice dripping with that familiar confidence. “You think I wasn’t gonna do whatever it took?”

His hand reaches up, brushing your cheek softly as he laughs lightly, the tension between you easing into something more playful.

You roll your eyes, but the warmth of his smile, the way he looks at you with such intensity, has you blushing again. The teasing may be there, but underneath it all, you both know how badly you want this connection, the way you fit together, and how much you crave more of each other.

You chuckle, shaking your head at him. “It’s been one day, Kook. One day,” you tease, trying to hide the blush that creeps up your neck.

“I don’t care.” His voice is low, sharp, cutting through your sentence like a blade. His fingers trail lower, his touch light—too light. “I’ll take you whenever I want.”

His gaze darkens a bit, the intensity in his eyes making your heart race. “Doesn’t matter how long it’s been. I want you always,” he says, his hand reaching out to brush your hair away from your face again, the water running over your body,

You can’t help but blush again, the mix of desperation and affection in his words making it hard to breathe. It’s more than just a physical need—it’s something deeper, something raw that you both can feel.

He lets go of his cock, face scrunching up in the cutest way as if he was about to cum. Hes so pathetic, but you love it. His cock flushed a pretty pink when it’s left to stand in front of his glistening abdomen, twitching slightly.

Suddenly, a soft “Fuck-“ escapes you as he gently traces your folds which have been soaked by your own juices and the water from the shower, and you realize just how much you’ve missed this closeness—the way he holds you like you’re fragile, yet there’s an unspoken promise in his touch that says he’ll never let you go, even though the last time he had touched you like this was only less than 48 hours ago. And that’s when you realize.

You’re fucking doomed.

The realization hits you like a wave, crashing over you with the weight of it all.

You never imagined sex would ever feel like this—so real, so intense-

But also really fucking good of course.

Despite having sex with Jungkook before, less times that you can count on your hand, nothing compares to this feeling. And that scares you more than you’d like to admit, because it’s not just physical. The way he makes you feel—cared for, seen—it’s like he’s holding you together in a way you didn’t know you needed. His desperation is raw and real, but there’s something more beneath it. A tenderness, an intimacy that makes you wonder if you’ve been underestimating what he’s been truly offering all along.

Jungkook never fails to put your pleasure first.

You realize now, with a startling clarity, that you’ve never experienced anything like this. And likely never will again. The way he makes you feel safe, even in the way he’s desperate for you now, shows just how much he values you. And even as his desire takes over, there’s this soft, underlying care that feels like it’s always been there, just waiting to surface.

His voice breaks through your thoughts, rough but somehow tender, “Look what you’ve done.” His words make your heart skip a beat, and the warmth between you deepens. You look down to see his hand back on his dick, not moving, just there. The fingers that skim through your folds falter slightly, “You make me so fucking hard,”

He finally pulls his hand away, and you can’t help but glance down at where he’s rubbing at your folds. Jungkook’s eyes stay locked on you, though, as his fingers gently press against your clit now. You gasp, feeling a shiver go through you at the contact. “Shit,” you moan, your gaze dropping, and he lets out a strangled noise, clearly feeling the heat too.

Suddenly, the water gets way too hot, and he shifts, his skin obviously uncomfortable.

Without even looking, he reaches over to adjust the temperature. You can’t help but snicker, watching him like he’s got some kind of mission to complete. “Can’t keep your hands off?” you tease, still chuckling, because honestly, it’s a little funny how much he’s trying to focus on you when he’s struggling just to turn the damn shower down.

Jungkook doesn’t laugh, though. When he turns his eyes away from your pussy and up to you, his eyebrows are furrowed, “I made it clear how much I want you, baby. And now you’re just gonna laugh at me?” He starts rubbing faster, and when he gives your clit a soft slap, you can’t help but squeal.

You get the feeling that Jungkook’s not gonna hold back tonight, and honestly? You’re kind of excited for it.

Kind of? Your buzzing for it.

He’s always been gentle with you during sex, and even on those late nights when you felt a little lonely—though, to be fair, you haven’t needed that kind of comfort in a while—you’ve always wondered… has Jungkook been holding something back? Is there a rougher, more carnal side to him?

His nose trails along your neck, and you can’t help but moan a little louder, totally under the spell of his fingers working their magic on you. “I’m gonna make you cum on my fingers, and you’re gonna scream my name,” he says, pressing a wet kiss to your neck.

“A-ah—” You stutter at one particularly hard rub to your clit, and he grins like he knows exactly what he’s doing. He kisses down your body with way more enthusiasm than you expected, stopping at your chest and sucking on your nipples, each one with a little more force than you’re prepared for.

Suddenly, one harsh suck to your nipple and then his finger starts prodding in—unfortunately not adorned with his signature chunky rings this time. But either way, the sensation has you gasping and practically shouting his name. “J-Jungkook!”

He pulls away from your nipple, slamming his lips onto yours to silence the noise escaping you. You moan against his mouth as his fingers start to move slowly at first, and then he slips in another finger, picking up speed.

Jungkook’s fingers find the spot he never fails to find quickly, wether it’s with his cock or fingers.

He’s so unfair.

And you can’t help but gasp as his touch awakens a heat that spreads through your entire body. Your eyes lock, and you meet his gaze, seeing the intensity there. His hand crawls around your neck, holding it firmly in place, and the action makes you feel both anchored and completely vulnerable at the same time.

Your heart races, the sensation of his touch overwhelming you in ways you didn’t expect.

You can feel your legs grow weak, knees buckling, your body pressed up against the shower tiles for support, and Jungkook’s hand around your neck is a steady anchor. He watches you closely, the intensity in his eyes softening for a moment as he sees the way you’re trembling, his hand holding your neck just enough to remind you of his presence, his care.

There’s an unspoken understanding in the air between you—how much you’re both craving this closeness, this connection.

As his fingers move faster on your clit, the rawness of the moment hits you, and you’re left breathless. You tilt your head back further, practically looking straight up now, feeling exposed in the best way possible, as Jungkook stays close, holding you in his gaze, his face over yours as your buckling knees minimise your height, giving you something more than just the moment. He fingers you harder, rougher.

You force yourself to hold his gaze, even as your breath quickens, letting out vulnerable whimpers and strangled moans, feeling the heat between you two intensify. Jungkook breathes in deeply, his exhale brushing your face, and you notice the way his jaw clenches, the tension in his body mirroring the way you’re feeling.

“Always so fuckin’ tight,” he murmurs, voice low and rough.

His hand leaves your neck, fingers threading into your hair, and you can’t help but gasp. “J-Jungkook, please,” you moan, trying to gather enough focus to look up at him, pleading silently for a bit of mercy. You’re on the edge, and if you cum now, you don’t know how much more you can take.

He smirks down at you, his eyes full of that quiet intensity. “Please what?” he teases, tilting your head back by your hair just a little more, his grip firm.

“S-slow…” you whisper, your voice shaking from both desire and the overwhelming feeling of his fingers. And he has the audacity to chuckle and go even faster. “Can’t handle it?”

You shake your head, and his smirk only deepens, a quiet confidence in his gaze. Your heart skips when you realize that he won’t let up—he’s not backing down.

“You’re gonna take it because you’re such a good girl, right? The best girl,” he murmurs, his voice low and full of that same intensity. You clench around him, and he groans, caught by the tightness. He struggles for a moment, but it only makes him more determined.

His hand gently grips your chin, squeezing your cheeks together, guiding your puckered lips towards his for a soft, fleeting kiss on your lips, the touch tender despite the heat between you both.

He releases his hold on your face, his hand shifting to himself, and you can see the struggle in his expression as he moves even faster than before. The speed increases, and it catches you off guard, a wave of heat building inside you. You try to catch your breath, reaching out to grip his wrist, but he pushes your hand away, “Nggghh- Fuck!”

Then, suddenly, his touch falters for a moment, and you feel the shift as he pulls back.

What the fuck.

“I was so close!” You pout, frustration seeping into your voice.

“Enough,” he seethes, his tone sharper than you expected. His hands move to your waist, guiding you down to your knees, positioning you in front of him.

You’re on your knees, feeling a little unsteady from the moment, but there’s something about the way Jungkook stands over you, the way he watches you with such intensity that makes your heart race. You look up at him, his eyes soft but filled with an unspoken need, the muscles of his body taut and rippling in the dim light.

His strong thighs are close, the water running down his skin of his abs when you look up, the vibrancy of his coloured tattoos seem to increase under the water that cascades down his arms, creating a slight sheen that makes both of your lips drool-

Half of his face is slightly covered by the length of his hard cock above you, the sight of it is almost too much to process. Your breath catches in your throat as you try to steady yourself, but it’s hard.

He shifts slightly, length swinging, and you can feel the tension heightened in the air, the electricity between you both, as if every little movement is creating an undeniable pull. You gaze at him, the water dripping from his hair, and there’s a fire in your chest, the connection between you two so palpable it feels almost like a promise.

“You good?” His voice is softer than you expected, compared to the harshness earlier, and it makes you shiver, the warmth of his care wrapping around you.

You nod, unable to talk, feeling a mix of emotions you can barely sort through, but it’s all-consuming in a way you never expected.

He cradles your face, his gaze searching yours for some kind of reassurance, a silent question hanging between you. His hands are steady, as they grip around the base of his cock, letting out soft breaths.

He strokes his thumb over your bottom lip, watching it bounce back and smiling, his eyes never leaving yours, as if trying to gauge how you feel.

You meet his gaze, and there’s a mix of emotions between you—vulnerability, desire, and something deeper. The air feels charged, and without saying a word, you give him a slight nod.

He moves his tip closer to your mouth, and he grins when you try and chase it. “You want it?”

He taps it against your lips and you whine, opening your mouth, ready to take this thing in, but he moves it away, swinging it against your cheek. He groans at the impact.

You look up at him to find him grinning, holding back a laugh. “Jungkook,”

He gives in, only because it’s you. Finally pushing his tip inside your mouth.

The salty, familiar taste greets you.

Through all the times you and Jungkook had fucked, he’d made it pretty clear how much he loves receiving (as much as he does giving of course) never failing to slip it into your…sessions.

And you? You definitely aren’t complaining.

He lets you go at your own pace, and he just watches you from above as your tongue licks around his tip, watches you as you slip half of his length in your mouth, letting out the occasional grunt.

It hits him then. When you look up at him with a mouth full of cock. The impending doom of his military service that keeps popping up in his mind at the worst times possible like an annoying notification that he cant seem to swipe away.

And to will it away. He thrusts his entire length in your throat.

“Fuck…” His breath stutters, but even in his distraction, he notices your struggle. Your eyes widen as you cough, and he instinctively reaches for your temples, guiding you, trying to ground you both.

“Wanna fuck it,” He whispers, other hand tracing your jaw.

You don’t have time to protest; it’s like he’s made up his mind already. His grip on your head tightens, but you notice the strain in his expression, his face caught somewhere between pleasure and something heavier, like he’s fighting off his own thoughts.

“Mouth always feels so fuckin’ good, baby.” His breath is ragged, the quiet tension in the room thick as you look up at him, noticing the sweat on his thick neck, though it’s mostly just water. You look over slightly to the shower that’s still running.

Those damn water bills must be high.

The way his Adam’s apple moves with each breath. And worst of all, his chain that swings ever so slightly with every thrust of his hips.

What a man. You think.

Jungkook’s movements become more urgent, and you feel a deep sense of vulnerability as he looks down at you, his tip is constantly hitting the back of your throat and the tears from the gagging that you’ve been trying your hardest to push away flow freely now.

His gaze is intense, but also distant in a way. Noticing the mascara that’s running down your face, he gently reaches up to wipe it away, a tender gesture that makes your chest tighten.

His eyes linger on your face, and he thinks you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. How could he be hurting you?

And he’s mad about it.

So fucking mad, that it leads him to thrust in fully. Your nose pressed against his soft, trimmed pubes, cock tucked into your throat.

“Take it.” His grip around your hair tightens when you try to move back, your head pressing against the tiles, his pace snapping into something unforgiving. “You can handle it.”

Your tongue is flat against the underside of his dick, it fucks into you like butter. And you let him push in deeper, harder, making gargling noises around the length of it.

“Tap my leg if- Ffuck- if it gets too much, okay?” The tenderness is back, but you can only manage a barely-there nod when-

He jackhammers your fucking throat.

He really gets in there. Stopping his thrusts and just using his hand that hasn’t stopped gripping your hair like a damn vice to control your head, in, out, in, out.

The tears spill out of your eyes. The occasional grunt and “Fuck.” From Jungkook above spur you on more, until-

“Shit…” He spills into your mouth, curses and moans spilling out of his own. You keep going, sucking his cum out. It doesn’t taste like much, only the slightest hint of salt. But his cum is mostly warm, warmer than the water still cascading down his body and dripping onto yours, it runs down your throat, and you swallow as best as you can with his whole dick inside. He thrusts further, as if there was anymore space to do so, your nose pressed and twisting with the pressure he puts on your head to his pubic bone.

You barely have a moment to recover before he pulls you up, knees numb and slightly red from being on the floor for so long. You grin at him, ready to tease him with a cocky remark about making him cum in less than five minutes.

But jungkook has different ideas, turning you around with one hand around his cock, cutting off the circulation from his cock to keep it hard, “Hands here,” he orders, facing you towards the glass, voice thick, husky.

You turn your head, desperate for a kiss, and he looks like he’s about to reject you to tease, but he always gives in when it comes to you. And quickly kisses your puckered lips, letting out a soft laugh.

But that softness is gone when you feel his tip teasing your folds, His lips curl into a grin against yours before, suddenly, he pulls away.

You blink, dazed, as he steps out of the shower, water dripping from his skin, his movements unhurried, deliberate. And then you notice something that makes you smile.

Jungkook has the cutest, plumpest little butt. It’s an observation that catches you off guard, but you can’t help the soft giggle that escapes as you watch him walk over to the sink counter, dripping water everywhere, completely shameless in his search for a condom.

He turns back, brows raised. “What?”

Still grinning, you let your hands rest lightly on his ass cheek before giving a playful light smack, voice warm with amusement. “Damn, sir.”

He laughs at that, until-

"Turn around," he commands.

This man is such a contradiction.

You do, pressing your hands against the cool shower tiles as he moves behind you, his warmth a stark contrast to the misty air. His fingers skim down your sides, tracing slow, deliberate paths before settling at your ass and giving it a smack- just like you did.

His voice is low, rough with want. “Stay just like that.”

When he finally pushes into you after putting on the condom and sliding the shower door closed, a quiet gasp leaves your lips, your body instinctively molding to his. His grip tightens against the wet tile, steadying you, grounding you. For a moment, neither of you move—just breathing, just feeling.

“Okay?” he breathes, clearly trying his hardest to let you adjust, his voice softer now, a thread of something unspoken laced in the question.

You nod, exhaling a quiet “Yeah.”

When he doesn’t move, you let out a frustrated sigh, pushing your hips back in silent plea—only for him to pull away at the last second. A quiet laugh leaves him, low and teasing, as his hands roam over your curves, coaxing you to bend just a little further.

At this point you’re touching your damn toes.

“Beg for it,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate patterns along your spine.

Your breath stutters, your body already trembling with need. When you glance back at him, strands of wet hair clinging to your flushed face, your voice comes out barely above a whisper.

“Please, Jungkook… I- need you.”

He seems satisfied, so much so that, without warning, he grabs your hips and pulls you back onto him in one smooth, fluid motion. A sharp gasp leaves your lips, your body instinctively molding to his as he fills you completely.

A low “Fuck,” grumbles from him as he leans down, his teeth grazing your neck before soothing the bite with his lips. His hands wander, tracing every curve of your back, fingers brushing over your skin with need before rolling over your breasts. A sharp gasp escapes you when he pinches at your sensitive nipples, sending a shiver down your spine.

The pace quickens, his hips meeting yours in a rhythm that has your breath hitching, your body melting into his. But the strain of holding yourself up in the position starts to creep in, the ache settling into your limbs. Jungkook notices instantly. Without a word, he slows, pulling out just long enough to spin you around, his touch firm yet careful.

Before you can catch your breath, he lifts you effortlessly, strong arms locking beneath your knees as he presses you against the cool tile of the shower wall. Your breath catches, legs tightening around his waist on instinct. His lips find yours—deep, slow, lingering—before trailing down the column of your neck.

And then he’s inside you again, the stretch just as intoxicating as before, but this time, there’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Just him, holding you close, moving in sync like he never wants to let go.

Your tits bounce with each powerful stroke, the water streaming down your bodies.

"Look at me," he demands, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes are wild with lust as he pounds into you, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix. He reaches down, spitting before rubbing your clit in rough circles.

You throw your head back against the tiles, lost in the sensation of his cock and fingers. Your legs tremble as he hits your G-spot, bringing you closer to the edge.

"Cum on it, baby," he growls, his hips snapping forward. You scream as your orgasm crashes over you, your walls clamping down on his length. He continues to thrust through it, chasing his own release.

He pulls out, but he doesn’t let go of you. Instead, he eases you down onto the cool floor, his touch steady despite the urgency in his movements. The contrast of warmth and chill against your bare skin sends a shiver through you, but then he’s kneeling between your legs, spreading you open with deliberate care.

His fingers find you again, slipping inside with ease, his thumb pressing against your swollen clit. You jolt at the overstimulation, your body still trembling from the last high. But Jungkook isn’t done with you. His lips find your shoulder, his teeth scraping along the damp skin as his pace quickens.

“Give me another,” he murmurs, the word more like a command, you barely have time to brace yourself before the pleasure hits, this time sharper, more intense. It crashes over you in waves, your back arching, a strangled cry escaping your lips as the release takes hold-

You fucking squirt.

This man just made you squirt.

Jungkook stills for a split second—stunned, mesmerized—before a low, guttural groan leaves him. His hands grip your thighs, his breath coming out harsh as he watches the aftermath of what he’s just done to you. He doesn’t stop, coaxing more liquid from you, his touch relentless until you’re squirming beneath him, gasping his name in a desperate plea.

And then he just can’t help it, lining himself up quickly, his cock pressing into you, his mouth capturing yours in a deep, breathless kiss as he pushes inside, chasing that same desperation that has him completely undone.

Jungkook buries himself inside you in one forceful motion, his pace relentless from the start. Your hand instinctively presses against his lower abdomen, a silent plea for mercy—but he doesn’t grant it.

Instead, he grabs your wrist, pinning both of your hands above your head, his grip firm as he leans in, his breath hot against your skin. His body crowds over you, leaving no space between you, forcing your gaze to meet his.

“Eyes on me,” he demands, his voice rough, edged with something desperate.

His thrusts slow, deepening, dragging every sensation out until you’re trembling beneath him. “Who makes you feel like this?”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

“Speak,” he grunts, his dark eyes flickering with something unreadable when you shy away, cheeks burning.

When you don’t answer, he exhales sharply, jaw clenching before he snaps his hips forward, faster, rougher, forcing the answer out of you. “You won’t talk?” His voice dips lower, a growl in your ear. “Then I will.”

Each word is punctuated with another thrust, his hands tightening around yours.

“No one—” he groans, eyes locked onto yours, the weight of his words pressing into you as deeply as he does. “No one will ever make you feel like this.”

“No one will ever get you this fucking wet.”

His voice is low, strained, as if the thought alone drives him insane.

“Jungkook—please—” Your voice breaks into a cry when he angles his hips just right, hitting that spot that sends shockwaves through you.

He groans, dropping his forehead to yours. “No one will ever—fuck—hit that spot. My spot.”

Letting go of your wrists, his hand slides down, wrapping around your throat—not tight, just enough for you to feel the weight of his presence, the control he refuses to let slip. You gasp, a moan spilling out before you can stop it.

“Now tell me.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

“Tell me.” His thrusts stop completely, leaving you desperate, aching, hovering on the edge.

“I—” You swallow, the heat in his gaze making it impossible to look away. “It’s you, Jungkook—fuck���you always make me feel like this. Always make me feel so fucking good.”

His smirk is slow, dark, satisfied.

“Good,” And then he’s moving again, faster, deeper, making sure you never forget it.

After three particularly deep thrusts that leave you gasping, he suddenly pulls out, his grip firm as he shifts you away from the shower wall. Then, without a word, he leans back against the glass, legs spread, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.

“Ride it,” he rasps, voice thick with need. “Like you fucking mean it.”

Your knees feel weak, but you straddle him anyway, pulse hammering as you take in the way he looks—hair soaked, jaw clenched, abs glistening under the water, waiting for you with confidence. He tilts his head, watching you with a dark, expectant smirk.

“And don’t disappoint me.”

You sink down slowly, but his impatience gets the best of him. He pulls your hips down firmly, and you gasp, your face instinctively burying into his neck as you try to steady yourself. The weight of his breath on your skin heightens the moment.

“Like that…” he breathes, voice strained.

You respond, moving more urgently, caught up in the heat between you, eager to give him everything he’s asking for, every part of you desperate to feel him deeper.

You whine softly, lifting your head to watch him, his face scrunched cutely in concentration. As soon as your eyes meet, the tension between you heightens, raw and desperate. When your movements hit that familiar spot, you gasp, your head falling back, overwhelmed. His hands find your waist, guiding you, encouraging your every movement.

The sounds of the shower, mixed with soft grunts and the rush of water, fill the space. Then, in a swift motion, Jungkook reaches over to the showerhead. You don’t see it, but you feel the change — the cold metal against your skin as he adjusts it and presses the thrashing water against your poor little clit.

“Fuck!” You cry out, your movements momentarily stopping, as the sensation overwhelms you.

“Move,” he commands in a low growl, urging you to continue as his grip tightens, his desperation clear, pushing you both to the edge.

You force yourself to move, following his encouragement, but you can feel his restraint — his teeth gritted, holding back, as the rush of water continues to hit you. You adjust your pace, slow and deliberate, as the heat builds between you both.

His lips trail over your skin, sucking your nipples and practically anything he can get his lips on, and it becomes overwhelming. The sensation is too much, and before you can stop it, the wave of pleasure takes over. You stop your thrusts and sink down fully on his cock, “Nggghgh- Fuck Fuck Fuck!” feeling how his whole length fills you up, and he groans as your body responds, tightening around him.

In that moment, the showerhead slips from his grasp, falling to the floor as the world around you fades into the rush of emotions and the overwhelming connection between you both.

He presses his lips to your forehead as you gasp, your body trembling beneath his touch. You let out a soft whine from overstimulation from the sheer amount of times Jungkook has made you cum tonight, and he reacts quickly, gently pulling away before turning you around.

His chest presses against your back, and you feel the weight of him behind you, “I’ll be quick,” he reassures with a kiss to your temple.

With his feet planted firmly against the floor, he thrusts upward, cock pounding in, balls slapping against your…other hole. His movements relentless. You can hear the sounds of his moans, fast and heavy, as he pushes himself closer to the edge.

You let out a gasp, and despite the overwhelming rush, he’s focused, consumed by his own need. He holds you firmly, both arms around your waist, his breath hot against your ear. “Take it,” he murmurs, the words filled with urgency.

"Fuck," Jungkook grunts in your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine.

"Taking it so well." He starts thrusting harder, his hips slamming against your ass with each forceful drive inside you. "Your pussy belongs to me now. I'm going to use it however I want, whenever I want."

The dirty talk combined with the intense stimulation has you spiraling closer to the edge, your moans growing louder and more desperate. But Jungkook isn't ready to let you come again yet. He wants to watch you fall apart first.

Suddenly, he pulls out with urgency, your slick walls clenching around nothing. Your ass hits the cold, wet floor with a loud thud as he withdraws, the sensation jolting you out of your haze of pleasure. But before you can even register being pissed at him for stopping, he reaches down and rips the condom off his throbbing cock.

Jungkook starts fisting himself rapidly, his tatted arm flexing as he chases his release. With a low groan, he tilts his hips up and aims his cock at your face. Hot ropes of cum shoot out, coating your features - your lips, cheeks, nose, even your eyes. You can't help but gasp at the intensity of it, overwhelmed by the sight and smell of him marking you like this.

But Jungkook isn't done yet. Still sensitive from coming so hard, he pushes the tip of his cock against your soft, plush lips. "Open," he commands gruffly. As you part your lips, he smears his sticky cum all over them before pushing inside your mouth to deposit the rest on your tongue. "Clean me up,”

You dutifully suck him clean, hollowing your cheeks to draw out every last drop. Once he's satisfied, Jungkook lets out a shuddering sigh and gently caresses your face. "Beautiful," he murmurs admiringly.

Spent from his powerful orgasm, Jungkook helps you up from your knees, rests against you as you both catch your breath. You nuzzle your face against his softening cock, your only response a contented mewl.

When it’s over, the only sound in the room is the dripping of water and the jagged rhythm of your breaths.

Jungkook presses his forehead against yours, a lazy, satisfied grin tugging at his lips.

“Still tired?”

You would shove him if you could move.

——

After showering, you both move through his night routine effortlessly, like this is something you’ve done a hundred times before.

And maybe you have. Maybe not in this exact way, but the way he lets you exist in his space—undisturbed, welcomed, wanted—it’s enough to make your chest ache.

You open his bathroom drawer, reaching for his toothpaste, when—

You pause.

Your toothbrush is still there.

Tucked neatly in the corner, exactly where you left it the last time.

A quiet, warm feeling spreads through your chest.

You bite your lip, smiling down at it like an idiot.

Jungkook, already slathering on his absurdly expensive moisturizer, catches your expression in the mirror.

“What?” he asks, brow raised.

You look at him, giddy for no reason. “You kept my toothbrush?”

He blinks. Looks at the drawer. Then at you.

“Yeah?” His voice is flat, like he doesn’t get why this is a big deal. “I wasn’t gonna throw it away.”

You just stare at him.

And then—God, you wanna kiss him.

Jungkook notices. Because, of course, he does.

His lips curl into a smirk, but instead of teasing, he just grabs his serum.

“C’mere, baby.”

You blink. “What?”

He gestures you over, unscrewing the cap. “I know you wanna steal my skincare, might as well let me do it for you.”

Your heart squeezes.

The last time you were here, you made a throwaway comment about how one day, you were gonna steal all his expensive skincare.

And he remembered.

You let him tilt your chin up, his hands gentle as he works the product into your skin. His fingers move slow, precise, careful. He explains what each product does, but you stop listening.

Because you’re tired.

And you’re warm.

And you feel so fucking safe right now.

Jungkook notices.

Halfway through his sentence, he catches the way your blinks get slower, the way you sway slightly.

So he just—stops talking.

And takes care of you instead.

Quietly, effortlessly.

He dresses you in the hoodie you came in, slipping you into it with soft, careful hands. Leaves you just in your panties, because he guessed you like to sleep that way.

Then, he strips down to his briefs, scoops you up into his arms like you weigh nothing, and carries you to bed.

You instinctively nuzzle into his chest, body molding to him without thinking.

Jungkook laughs under his breath, setting you down, tucking the blanket over you.

Within seconds, you’re out.

And he—

He just lays there. Watching you. Thinking.

His heart is so fucking full, but so goddamn heavy.

You don’t know.

You don’t know he’s leaving in three weeks. That every time he touches you, every time he kisses you, teases you, makes you laugh, holds you like this—he’s counting down the days.

And he’s had enough of it.

Enough of lying, hiding, hurting you without you even knowing.

So he promises himself, right then and there—

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, he’ll tell you.

For now, he just pulls you closer, presses his lips to your hair, and lets himself fall asleep next to you.

Like he’ll get to do it forever.

[sacredsorceress]

scrutiny // bucky barnes

PAIRING: bucky barnes x avenger!reader SUMMARY: (CA:BNW spoilers) your husband decides that he wants to run for congress, but he won't do it without you. WORD COUNT: 2k A/N: tbh I needed to rationalize bucky running for congress after ca:bnw and the thunderbolts trailer WARNINGS: angst, PTSD, anxiety, captain america: brave new world spoilers, nightmares, pregnancy mention

masterlist | bucky barnes masterlist | inbox

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

"Are you sure this is what you want?"

The day was young. Dawn had barely begun. When you took a sip from the glass of water on your nightstand earlier, the clock had blinked 5:14 back at you. You wondered now how much time had passed.

A stream of gray light filtered in between the window's shades allowing you to see your husband's face. Scruff littered his cheeks, left unshaven from three days before and strands of hair hung loosely behind his ears in desperate need of a wash.

I'll scrub it clean later, you thought.

Your fingers could feel the phantom touch of the shampoo against his scalp as your fingertips massaged it into his skin. You'd even hold the showerhead for him, letting the warm water wash away shampoo along with the worries from earlier in the day.

But that was later.

Now, a tension thick enough to cut with enough a knife consumed the air.

"I think so." Bucky said.

Bucky's voice was coarse from the lack of use in the night. He cleared his throat as you heard the distinctive beep! beep! of your neighbor unlocking his car, signalling a start to the day.

"You think?" You couldn't help the bitter edge to your voice. As you tossed and turned the night before, playing different ways to approach the situation, you had tried- sincerely you did- to find a kind and gentle way to voice your opinions. But it seems that had faded away along with your consciousness as you went to sleep. "Buck, this isn't something you think you want to do. This could... I mean it could-"

You couldn't tell if his tone was due to exhaustion or frustration.

"Go ahead," Bucky said. "Say it."

"This could ruin our lives." You spat. "We're finally on track to having normal lives and now you want to run for Congress?"

"I think you know it's too late for us to have normal lives, Y/n."

It was the simplicity with which he said it. As if it was an obvious fact that only you were not aware of. In a way, you suppose you were.

Outside the window you heard your neighbor kick at his car door as the engine fussed. Battery's dead. You could hear him shout at his kids through the hurricane door, telling them that they'd have to take the bus to school.

You wanted nothing more than for Bucky and you to live normal lives. But the fact of the matter was that every day you were proved about the impossibility of it.

A week ago Bucky had come home to an empty house.

It's not as though he had never come home to an empty house before, because he had. Really, Bucky wasn't sure what it was. But before the logical part of his brain could remind him that you could be anywhere, doing anything, his pulse had began to quicken. Bucky could feel his heart thumping against its cage as blood rushed to his head, flooding his ears.

His lungs burned as he inhaled faster than he could exhale. His flesh hand shook.

Stumbling through the house he swung open a door to every room and closet, even shoving hangers aside in hopes of finding your waiting face between articles of clothing. With what little breath he had, Bucky called a wispy shout of your name.

He tossed sheets from their beds, ingredients from their cupboards all in search of you.

When you had finally come home fifteen minutes late, keys jingling in the lock, you found Bucky, head in his hands, sitting on the floor dialing Sam.

Later he would tell you that he didn't know what had gotten into him.

But you knew. This time it was nothing more than a missed bus, but before, it had been the real deal.

You had disappeared in the hands of some mastermind before he could even fight for you. And he wasn't alone.

Two nights ago Bucky woke to the sounds of you screaming.

His heart pounded in his chest, terrified that something had happened to you until he felt your wriggling form at his side. Your legs had tangled themselves in the sheets and a sheen of sweat coated your forehead as you heaved. The colourful glow of your magic emanated from your palms.

Not again.

In a moment he was up, grabbing your arms.

"Doll?" Bucky asked to no avail. "Doll, It's a dream-"

Before he could register what was happening, your head had whipped towards him, light glowing from your eyes.

"Stop it!"

And with that, a kinetic blast shot from your palms, building a shield between the two of you.

It took a moment, and several hits against the barrier with Bucky's vibranium fist, for recognition to blink its way back into your eyes.

When it did, your eyes burned with tears. Bucky welcomed you into his lap with open arms and held you as if the world depended on it. He supposed it did.

"I didn't know."

So maybe your husband was right.

Maybe you were past normal. But that didn't mean it was a good idea.

"We could move," you suggested. "Get out of the city... out of the country even. We could put this behind us like a bad dream. We could be safe there-"

You shifted in the sheets to face him, flinging your hands in reference to some distant future. Bucky could feel the breeze from your gestures brush against his skin and found himself wishing he had wings.

"It's never going to stop." Buck sighed, not out of frustration over you, but rather the fact he knew he was right as much as he wanted you to be. "They'll find us. They always do."

"So... what?" You asked. "So you put yourself out there and let them pick apart your life? Your every move? Because it'll start the second you announce you're running for election. They don't understand what our lives are like, Buck. They'll blame you for everything the Winter Soldier did. They'll scrutinize every little thing you do-"

Although your words had venom to them, it wasn't meant to sting Bucky into anything more than self awareness.

In truth, you weren't upset that he wanted to do something like this. Surprised? Yes. But upset? Angry at Bucky? Never.

What you were frustrated with was that you couldn't understand.

The same system that had turned itself against Bucky Barnes was now gaining him as a willing volunteer.

You'd seen firsthand how the admiration of someone when looking at you would quickly shift to fear at the sight of him. You'd stood alongside him as he fought to gain back the trust that he- James Barnes- had never been the one to lose. Again and again he was treated as a monster, a sinner, when all he had ever done was go fight in a war when he was asked 80 years ago and had paid the price for it ever since.

At times you didn't believe you deserved him- the kind, gentle love of your husband- why did they?

Lost in your own tirade, you hadn't noticed your husbands hands inching towards yours until the warm touch of his calloused fingertips begged for entrance into your closed fist.

"They already do pick me apart." His voice was rough, ragged. "I know you don't think I should do it, but I... I've spent so much of my life with no control over how it goes. I want to be able to do something, you know? Maybe I can make it better for other people, and us and... and if we have kids someday that end up with abilities like yours, they won't need to be scared like we were."

You could feel the steady beat of your heart thumping inside your chest. Your bottom lip quivered. Loosening your grip, you felt Bucky brush circles inside your palms.

His chest- shirtless from a restless night sleep- rose with a deep inhale.

"I won't do this without you."

It felt silly, almost, to think it but you were afraid of letting your husband out into the world. As if he wasn't several decades your senior, as if his face wasn't plastered in museums. But then again, the person the public knew was a hero or villain- not a man.

You knew the man- the one who lost sleep over memories that weren't his. The one who flipped a coin to decide whose turn it was to do the dishes. The one who slow danced with you to a scratchy vinyl on winter nights. Bucky Barnes was human and you were afraid they wouldn't see him for the man he was. Or refuse to and further hurt the man you loved.

You glanced down at your intertwined fingers. The light that was slowly pouring in had grown warmer and doused both your hands in its glow.

This was it, though, wasn't it? You've had the universe against you more times than you could count, what's a campaign trail?

You were together 'til the end of the line.

"I'll..." you started, squeezing Bucky's fingers. "If this is something you really want to do... I'll support you."

Bucky kept his mouth closed, waiting to hear it..

"But," you argued. "I won't stop getting my hands dirty. I'm an Avenger first and the Congressman's wife second."

And for the first time that morning, the tension shattered. You hadn't realized how thick it had been until your chest lifted.

Bucky was hunched over then, tendrils hanging in his face as he continued to massage your palm. It was then you noticed that in the years since his freedom, his posture had worsened. Buck'll complain about his back later, you thought.

The simplicity grounded you.

"'Congressman's wife," Bucky snorted, shaking his head. "God that sounds crazy."

You leaned forward and brushed a stray hair from his temple to get a better look into his eyes. Your fingers lingered against his skin.

You smiled.

"If there's one thing I know for sure though," you said. "Fuck, will you be able to pull off those suits."

A rumble of laughter escaped his throat and joined your own in a light symphony that drowned out the worries of before.

Your husband pulled your hand towards him, reeling you into his grasp. And before you could think, your lips were on Bucky's turning your giggles into delight-filled hmms.

He told you he loved you, not in words but in the feeling of his fingers gripping your top and his lips lingering on yours between breaths. You told him you loved him back.

Later, after you had washed Bucky's hair, massaging his scalp just as you had promised yourself earlier, you sat, hand in his, as he confirmed his intentions to run.

The rest of the day became a blur of phone calls and questions from wannabe campaign managers, journalists, politicians- really you couldn't remember- but what you would never forget was the way his eyes fell on you amidst the chaos of the afternoon, grounding him on his own world the two of you shared.

That morning Bucky had told you that he wouldn't run without you, but what he really meant was that he couldn't.

They said all the things you had warned him about. They scrutinized him to a degree that even his former captors would be impressed by and minimized his accomplishments so much so he wondered if they'd wipe his name from being next to Steve's in the museum.

Though, it ran off him like water with you by his side.

As evening turned to night and his phone finally stopped ringing, Bucky climbed under the sheets beside you.

And as your fingers traced the scars on his chest, humming his ringtone as you dozed off, he had a profound realization: how could the words of a stranger carry any weight when he received the love of a woman like you?

[owlbloop]

I am so tired of complicated housewares. I don't want a mixer that changes speeds based on beater type, an adjustable bed with 14 massage types, a microwave with programmable settings, everything in my house to have a digital interface, smart kettles..

All I want is simple durable stuff to get the job done. Press a button and get boiling water, pour the water through a filter, turn the dial to the number of minutes you want your bread to toast. Can the washing machine do delicates, cold, bedding, and normal? Great. Can the rice cooker cook the rice? Great. Does the heated blanket heat? Perfect. Does the showerhead have even water pressure? All i need

Why is it so hard to find basic good quality appliances? I don't want to do more math

[ugotnojamzzz]

Chapter 28

Genre: Mafia!au , Slowburn, Angst, Hurt, smut, TW (it is a mafia!AU, after all)

Pairing: Mafia!Jungkook x reader

Wordcount: 1.5k

Masterlist

Chapter 27 

—

Some men inherit kingdoms.

Others inherit rage.

Y/N sat up in bed, breath shallow. The room was still dark, but her pulse was wide awake.

She had woken up to thunder. Or no, not thunder. But the walls were most definitely shaking.

She blinked against the dark—violent thumps still coming from somewhere behind the wall of her bedroom. The sheets were damp with sleep-sweat. Her ears were ringing.

The pounding didn’t stop.

Thud.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, bare feet on cold wood. Her limbs ached. Bruises still bloomed on her shins, her shoulders. The ache in her spine felt older than her body. The air was sharp with chill—wrong for spring.

Thud.

She stepped out.

The door to the bathroom was ajar. A faint yellow glow filtered through the crack. She heard it now: water rushing. Shower on full blast. And beneath it, the sound of something breaking.

Over and over and over.

Crack.

She approached slowly.

The bathroom light buzzed overhead. Steam clung to every surface, fogging the mirror. The sound was clearer now—relentless impact, like flesh meeting stone. A hiss of breath. The thick, muted echo of something raw and helpless being flung against the world.

She pushed the door fully open.

Jungkook was standing underneath the showerhead. Fully clothed. Shirt soaked through, hair dripping, fists red. He was hunched forward, forehead into the wall, eyes screwed shut as he pounded his knuckles into the ceramic tile. Again. Again. Again.

It cracked with each blow.

Fist. Bone. Tile.

“Are you fucking insane?” she suddenly snapped, but he didn’t hear her. Or didn’t care. He just kept hitting.

Crack.

Blood smeared across the white.

Crack.

His breath hitched. The sound that came out of him wasn’t human.

Crack.

“Jungkook.” She took a step forward, her voice sharp, slicing through the mist. “Stop it.”

He didn’t look at her. His shoulders tensed. He hit the wall harder.

“Get out,” he growled without turning around. His shoulders were tight. Shaking.

“Seriously?” She stepped closer. “You’re going to break your fucking hand.”

Another hit. His body rocked forward from the force of it.

“I said get the fuck out.”

His voice was different. Not angry. Not cold.

Fractured.

“This is insane,” she snapped, arms crossed over her chest. “You’re destroying the bathroom, and for what? To punch through the fucking wall? Do that in you own room, will you?”

He didn’t answer. Just stood there, under the water, his chest heaving like he couldn’t get enough air.

“Stop,” she exclaimed. Still closer now. “You’re gonna cripple yourself. Do you get that?”

“Why do you care?” It came out strangled. Croaked. He didn’t even look at her. Forehead still pressed against the tile. 

She blinked. “…I don’t.”

Another breath. He raised his fist again.

“I just—don’t want to deal with your whining when you can’t use your hand for a week,” she added.

He hit again. Crack.

“Leave.”

His voice broke, but he didn’t stop.

She could’ve turned around. Leave him be. Maybe she should’ve. But instead she stomped forward and stepped into the shower.

The cold hit her first—the clothes soaking through in seconds, clinging to her skin. Water pooled around her ankles. She barely registered it. She grabbed his arm just as he was about to hit the tile again.

“Stop it, you idiot. I mean it—”

His fist didn’t swing this time. It twisted. Fast.

Before she could react, her back was slammed against the tile.

His body pressed into hers, the force of it jarring. One arm crushed her wrist above her head, pinning it to the wall. The other wrapped around her throat—not tight. But enough to freeze her.

Her breath caught. Not from pain. From surprise.

Jungkook’s breath was hot against her cheek, ragged, soaked with whiskey and heat. His chest heaved. His clothes stuck to her, the weight of him unbearable.

She turned her head slightly, enough to see his face.

His eyes were bloodshot. Red, rimmed, wild.

But there was no hate in them.

Only devastation.

Only something bottomless and cracking and quietly drowning in a body that had forgotten how to scream.

She held still.

Didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

He wasn’t hurting her.

Not really.

His grip loosened, fingers shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he choked, and suddenly, it was like someone had pulled the last thread of whatever had held him upright.

Before she could move an inch, his knees buckled.

He collapsed—down onto the shower base, under the stream of water.

She gasped.

He landed hard—knees hitting slick ceramic, body slumping forward like a puppet with its strings cut. 

She would’ve crouched to check on him, but the single most surprising thing happened before she could. His arms wrapped around her legs without thought, tight and clumsy, as if clinging to the last thing tethering him to this plane of reality. Her body jolted as his weight pulled her slightly downward, soaking her pajama pants to the waistband.

Y/N stared down at him.

Jungkook. On his knees. Arms locked around her thighs, forehead pressed to her abdomen, under a freezing stream of water that was already tinged pink with blood from his knuckles. He was shaking violently now—not from cold, not from adrenaline, but from something else. Something deeper. More corrosive.

He was sobbing. Muttering.

At first, she couldn’t hear the words. Just the low, guttural rasp of breath dragging itself out of his chest. But then—between stutters of breath, between the wet clench of his fists—

“I hate him.”

It spilled from his lips like a prayer between sobs. A curse.

“I hate him. I hate him.”

She didn’t move.

Didn’t know how.

Her arms hung stupidly in the air for what felt like an eternity, her breath caught somewhere between her throat and her spine. Her shirt was soaked. Her skin was freezing. Her legs were trembling—not from the weight of him, but from the weight of the moment.

Because this—this was something else.

This was grief without filter. Rage without target. Pain without armor.

She had never seen anything like it.

The man at her knees wasn’t the version of Jungkook the world knew. Not the cocky guard. Not the cold-blooded soldier. Not the rage-fueled killer. This wasn’t the smirk or the gun or the tattoos and biceps.

This was a boy who had finally shattered.

Who was drowning in the echo of something that had snapped loose inside him long, long ago—and only just now cracked through the surface.

“I hate him,” he whispered again, and his voice broke entirely. His grip on her tightened. Not violently. Desperately.

Her breath caught.

She looked down again, really looked—and for one fleeting, splintering second, all she saw was a boy curled against his mother’s apron, clutching at fabric, searching for comfort, for warmth, for mercy.

There was something almost childlike in it. Something deeply wrong and achingly familiar.

All fathers die eventually. Not all of them are missed.

She knew that. Better than most.

But this wasn’t hate like fury. This wasn’t revenge.

This was grief.

This was the kind of hate that bloomed like rot after too many years of hope.

Her fingers, stiff and numb, slowly lowered.

One hand came to rest on his shoulder. The other—hesitant, tender, unsure—brushed through his soaked hair, flattening it back, again and again. He didn’t lift his head. Didn’t move. 

His chest kept shuddering. His knuckles bled. The water kept falling.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. And it was the kindest thing she’d ever said to him.

She didn’t say it like a comfort. She said it like a truth. Like a confession. Like someone who understood what it meant to hate someone and miss them in the same breath.

To mourn a parent who had never really been one.

To carry the weight of love unreturned, twisted into rage.

To be broken by someone who was supposed to protect you.

“It’s okay,” she said again, quieter now. She didn’t know if he heard.

But his grip loosened.

Just a little.

His forehead stayed pressed to her stomach, hot breath ghosting through wet fabric.

He kept shaking.

So she stayed.

Not because she felt sorry for him. Not because she felt forced to. Not because she wanted to either.

But because she understood.

Because monsters were born in rooms like this—silent and wet and dimly lit. And maybe—just maybe—if someone had stayed with her back then, her own monsters wouldn’t have grown so large.

So she stood.

Still.

Unmoving.

Fingers stroking his hair. The blood on his hands pooling quietly at her feet.

Not lovers. Not enemies.

Just two broken things in a ruined house, beneath a too-cold shower, pretending—for one second—that they weren’t completely alone.

—

Chapter 29

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[impale-me-radio-daddy]

The Lookalike (Epilogue, Acknowledgments and Requests)

☒ Summary: The first thing you remembered after your death was an argument. “No, this isn’t one of my fucking sluts.” The man behind you exhaled, frustrated. “This is a present for you. Something to help you work through your Alastor fixation.” You awakened in Hell as the near-spitting image of a certain infamous radio host. Unfortunately for you, you immediately fell into the clutches of his nemesis, before stumbling into the arms of the Radio Demon himself. A whole lot of fucking later, you became the catalyst for something resembling a reconciliation, and now you're back in the TV Demon's private quarters with both Vox and Alastor, hung over and sore. 

☒ Warnings: hermaphrodite!reader, deer!reader, they/them pronouns used, explicit sexual content, Vox X reader, Alastor X reader, Vox X Alastor, reader is in Hell for a reason, Valentino, canon typical scenarios.

☒ Series Links: Now completed! Part I Part2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 6 BONUS SCENE Part 7 Part 8 Part 9

The thing about Hell was that your internal body clock woke you after only a couple hours of sleep, just enough of the alcohol out of your system that your head throbbed and the rich bittersweet taste of last night’s whiskey had been transmuted with the alchemy of the morning after, the interior of your mouth now tasting of rancid orange peel and dirt. You lay splayed across the couch, Alastor’s tailcoat covering your nakedness, its red unmarred by the blood it had soaked up, your head in Alastor’s lap, your hooves in Vox’s lap.

Consciousness brought with it the awareness of the various injuries you had acquired, the fullness of your bladder, and the generalized muscular ache that was probably from all the wall-climbing you’d done. You were also filthy, your whole body faintly sticky like a budding rhododendron. You moved to get up, but found Alastor’s arm around you.

“-very dear to me,” mumbled Alastor, the radio filter almost entirely missing from his hoarse, sleepy voice, and his claws wrapped around your shoulder, hard.

“Darling. I have to piss,” you croaked, stroking Alastor’s fingers, and he gave a noise of irritation, his red eyes opening a fraction, but his grip loosened and you pulled yourself free.

Brushing away Alastor’s shadow’s hand as it snagged at your hoof, you staggered naked across Vox’s small living space, to where you remembered the bathroom to be, and took a piss that felt like it lasted at least a minute and a half, your head throbbing all the while. The things that Vox had brought for you during your short stay were still there; the little blue toothbrush, the showercap with room for your ears, the robe.

You brushed your teeth, drank several cups of water from the tap, and ate a Tylenol before grabbing the bottle of deer shampoo from the cabinet and stepping into the shower.

Vox’s shower was large, enough to comfortably fit three or more people, the flooring some kind of expensive looking stone tiling that was probably fiendishly difficult to get blood out of, and the showerheads set at chest height. You hesitated at the shower controls- which button turned the water on, again?

“You, uh- you want some help with that?” Vox stood at the entryway to the shower, wearing only pants and looking pretty much exactly like you felt.

“Sure,” you sighed, not really surprised when Vox stripped off the rest of the way and stepped into the space with you.

A gesture from him was all it took for the water to start running, no uncomfortably hot or cold initial flow but something close to body temperature. You stepped into the stream, sighing as it hit you, the water swirling a brownish color around your feet as it began to wash away the blood that had caked onto your skin.

“Temperature?” Vox asked, stepping closer.

“Warmer,” you said, an involuntary noise in your throat as Vox made it so. It stung the lacerations on your back, the small wounds on your hips and thighs, the scrapes that Alastor’s teeth had made on your neck.

“You like that?” Vox asked.

“Warmer,” you repeated, and the temperature rose to something crueler, enough that steam rose as it hit your skin, a truly scouring sort of heat. You felt your soreness recede, a little of the tension in your shoulders relaxing. “There,” you said, content to stand under the water for a few moments before uncapping the shampoo you had brought in with you.

“Let me?” Vox asked, and there was a little of the Vox who had sat in the armchair in your bedroom in his voice, pleading. You handed him the bottle, and he unhooked a second showerhead from the wall and turned it on, wetting your hair with a trickle of warm water before he lathered shampoo between his palms. It was strange; anyone else save Alastor and you might’ve had second thoughts, but Vox had had you last night, quivering and vulnerable in his hands, so you had no qualms turning your back to him.

Vox’s hands in your hair were a gift. You stood under the stream of near-scalding water as he drew close, his fingers running from the back of your neck and up, fingers parting your hair, massaging the lather into your skull. You groaned low as he worked the base of each ear, his body pressing closer to your back. He was hard, his cock brushing up against your tail and the small of your back, but there was no threat to it, no intent beyond simple closeness.

“That good, eh?” he asked, as you gave another appreciative grunt, and you braced yourself against the wall to avoid melting completely under the touch.

“You’re making me forget about my headache,” you said, which was rewarded by Vox pressing his fingers more firmly against your skull, more head massage than shampoo application. “Don’t you have things to do?”

“It is five fuckin’ thirty am,” said Vox, his voice thick and hoarse, and he leaned into you, his chest pressing warm against your narrow back, his erection squashing temptingly against the meat of your ass. “I’m all yours, baby deer.”

It would be so easy to let him fuck you like this- even as hungover as he clearly was, he was strong enough to lift you against the wall of the shower and fuck you against it until you were whimpering and quivering, your orgasm smoothing the edges of this rough and difficult morning. It would feel good.

But no. No fucking. Only Vox’s soapy hands in your hair, rubbing your back-tilted ears until you wanted to purr, his thumbs experimental around the base of your antlers. He told you to close your eyes before he raised the spare showerhead to rinse you off, the water dark, even the soap bubbles brownish as the blood was sluiced away. Vox repeated the process twice more before the water ran clear, finger combing your hair to check for errant viscera.

“I don’t need you to wash my back for me, you know,” you said, as Vox put the shampoo aside and reached for the bodywash.

“Course you don’t,” he said, eyes narrowed, and for a second his grin reminded you of Alastor’s. “But you fuckin’ like it, don’t you? You like my hands-” he said, rubbing soap into your flank, then tracing a line down, over your thigh. “My mouth.”

You opened one eye. “I hope you’re not proposing to lick me clean.”

The glazed expression on Vox’s face, along with the way his antennae flopped, told you that yes, yes he would very much like that, his gaze drifting to between your thighs, the faint trickle of Alastor’s cum mixed with his as it leaked out of you and mixed with the water from the shower.

Vox swallowed. “Please,” he groaned. “Fuck, please, baby deer. Just a little. Don’t make me fuckin’ beg.”

“I’m not making you do anything, Vox,” you said, a sidelong look at him. The steam from the shower was fogging his screen, droplets of the splashback running down the front of his wide face like sweat, and his eyes were wide. “You’re begging of your own accord.”

You put your palm on Vox’s grey-skinned shoulder and pushed him down. He sank to his knees, obedient, the water on your back slowing to a trickle, still under his control. His eyes weren’t hearts but they might as well have been with the expression he made as he reached out to touch your thighs, pulling his face close to your legs, his long blue tongue extending.

Vox’s tongue against wet skin was a new sensation; a crackling pressure that conducted over a wider area than his tongue touched as he lapped blissfully at the rivulets of diluted cum that ran out of you. You shivered, and breathed in as you watched him eat, running a hand over the top of his screen, your claws gentle on the fragile antennae that sprouted from it.

Vox whimpered as you held the tip of his antennae between thumb and fingertip, and it occurred to you, belatedly, that maybe these were analogous to antlers for him. You stopped touching them, returning to stroking his frame. His hand found yours, your fingers twining, and you knew that if you asked him he would fuck you with his tongue, lap every last drop of Alastor’s seed from your aching cunt and drink it down like a man starved.

“Please-” he whined, looking up at you between strokes of his tongue.

“You know,” you said, smiling to yourself. “Alastor has very sharp hearing, and he was mostly awake when I got up. He can definitely hear us right now.” You paused to take a breath as you felt Vox freeze, his tongue still on your thigh. “He definitely heard you begging me to let you lick his cum from my legs.”

Vox’s eyes fluttered closed, a low groan in his throat. “Fuck.”

“Tell me,” you said, pushing him a little as his tongue swept up your leg, perilously close to your sex. “Tell me what you’re begging for now.”

Vox’s voice came as a stream of consciousness as you squeezed the top of his screen, hard enough that colors distorted around the pads of your fingers, his breath in gasps as he tasted you between each word, a prayer to you, a prayer to Alastor. “Fuck, yes, please, I fucking want it, oh god, fucking god, let me, let me, please please, let me taste him. I wanna taste him in your pussy, oh god.” He swallowed, whimpering, cock finding friction against your leg, and he trembled. “God-” Vox’s eyes sprang open as he came, his body jerking as he shot his load over your hooves. “Fuck-” he breathed, softly, his screen tilting against your thigh.

You were gentle with him as you pulled him to his feet, letting him lean against you as he came down from his high. You rubbed his back, his shoulders, and the edges of his screen, eliciting soft groans from him, and he nudged his face into your shoulder before you grabbed the soap and started to lather it into his chest.

As if realizing where he was, Vox started the water running at full pressure again. When you had finished him he washed your back for you without complaint, merely a pleading look in his eyes as he scrubbed you down, the runoff going from dark brown to pink as the ablution opened a few of your newer injuries, his hands gentle enough on you to make you sigh and forget your hangover for another few seconds.

When you emerged from the bathroom, toweled dry and dressed in the monogrammed robe Vox had kept for you, you felt almost alive.

“You were in there a while,” Alastor commented from the couch as you emerged, one eye opening, his voice rough and crackling like old vinyl.

“You didn’t want to join us?” you asked, squeezing a little more moisture from your hair.

Alastor shrugged, his lips a tiny smirk. “You seemed to have everything under control,” he said, a statement not lost on Vox, who did not meet his eyes.

Vox’s arm was protective round your waist, or perhaps simply clingy, as the three of you proceeded out of his quarters and into the living area he shared with the other members of his coterie. You sat at the breakfast bar as Vox operated what was perhaps the most complicated coffee machine you had ever seen. Alastor took a seat at the breakfast bar too, his tailcoat on, overdressed compared to you in a robe and Vox in his lounge pants and t-shirt. Alastor’s shadow looked more hung over than he was, sulking in a pool by his feet and clutching its head. Vox seemed to have some level of sympathy for his condition, because he turned to Alastor first.

“So, Al, you want anything? This baby makes a mean fuckin’ macchiato, I’ll tell you that much. We’ve got three types of coffee, too, a Columbian-”

“Coffee,” said Alastor, a grinding edge of almost mechanical stress to his voice. “Make me a coffee.”

Vox sighed. “Americano it is,” he said, setting the machine running with a cheerful beep as he manipulated his way through the menus.

Alastor was sniffing his americano and the expensive looking machine was grinding something in its innards when the door on the lower level opened and a small group of people came in, clearly still mid revelry, brightly colored plastic drink containers in hand. You recognized one of them as the man who had dumped you on Vox’s bedroom floor on your first night in Hell, dressed to the nines in patent leather thigh high boots and a naked effect body-stocking with red sequins that barely covered the essentials. Valentino.

“Ah.” Vox froze with one hand on the coffee machine. “Fuck.”

“Vox?” Valentino’s tone was disbelieving, and he sashayed up the stairs to the breakfast bar to stare at the three of you, lowering his pink glasses dramatically. “What the fuck is this?”

“Val.” Vox hopped the breakfast bar with surprising alacrity, placing himself bodily between you and Valentino, his hands up in a placating gesture. It was unnecessary, all things considered, but sexy. “I can explain.”

Alastor, meanwhile, lowered his ears and hid his face behind his fuck Alastor mug, clearly uncomfortable at being witnessed in Vox’s residence at such an early hour.

“So this is where you’ve been?” Valentino gesticulated. “You don’t take my calls, you say you don’t wanna party with me, all so you can stay home and jerk off onto your pile of Alastor lookalikes?” He turned to Alastor, the real Alastor, his eyes squinting behind his pink glasses. “Where did you even get this one? He looks like shit!”

“Gotta agree with you there,” you deadpanned. “Not a word of English either.”

“Bonjou,” said Alastor, gamely, his voice gruff with the full impact of his night of drinking, his radio filter completely absent.

“You see?” Valentino waved. “You want more Alastors, chulo, you come to me. None of this amateur hour carajo.” He shook his head. “Me and these professionals are going to my room.”

“Val, wait-” Vox called, but Valentino was already on his way out. He stopped, perhaps realizing the futility of it, and rubbed the front of his face with his hand. “Fuck.”

“Is that-” you watched Valentino walk out, shooing the squad of sex workers through the door ahead of him so that he could slam it. “-is that gonna be okay?”

“Fuck knows.” Vox’s shoulders sank, and he walked back to the coffee machine. “It’s hard to tell what he wants sometimes. I mean, first he gives me you, then he’s pissy I’m spending time with you. Does he want me to chase after him? I don’t fucking know anymore.” The machine finished making your drink, and Vox picked it up, vanishing in electricity and arcing to appear behind you. “I know what you want, though,” he purred, his face close enough to your back that the hairs on your neck stood on end, and pushed your coffee in front of you.

You turned your head to grin at him, eyes half-lidded. “A full and unredacted list of the members of my fanclub still extant in Hell?”

“Fuck.” Vox’s expression soured, and he leaned back. “You're all business, aren't you? You know, I preferred it when you were pretending to be stupid.”

“And I preferred it when you had your tongue up my ass,” you said, enjoying the instant of startlement and arousal that flashed across his screen, Alastor smirking into his cup of coffee behind him. “I guess we’re just not our best selves this morning.”

“I liked that too, but I can't just hand you those names, baby deer,” said Vox, leaning on the breakfast bar beside you. “That's not how business works around here. It's about trust.”

“He’s lying,” Alastor interjected, mildly. “He could give you whatever it is you’re talking about, he just doesn’t want to.”

“Oh, butt out, Al,” groused Vox. “I’m not lying. There’s a cost.”

“One which you could well afford to waive,” said Alastor, smiling. “Given our situation.”

“Yeah, and what situation is that?” Vox shot.

He was unprepared as Alastor stood, closing the distance between them and seizing Vox by the front of his shirt, bringing their faces close, not quite touching, but close enough to kiss, or bite. Vox made a noise in his throat, and Alastor grinned, violence in his teeth.

“If you want this to continue,” said Alastor, his voice low menace. “You’re going to have to give our delightful young friend here everything they want. I don’t care what it is, I don’t care what it costs you. Everything.”

“Fuck,” Vox croaked, his eyes wide.

“Well?” said Alastor. “Do we have a deal?”

“This isn’t fair, Al.”

Alastor’s grin was steady. “These things rarely are. Yes or no, old pal?”

“Shit, I’m such a fucking idiot.” Vox closed his eyes. “Yes.”

Alastor set Vox down gently, a sly wink to you as he did so, then stalked his way over to you, taking a small sip from your coffee cup before winding an arm around your waist and burying his face in your hair.

Vox looked at the both of you with something approaching dismay. “He likes you way too much, baby deer,” he said, shaking his head. “Way, way too much.”

Alastor just laughed, his nose pressing against your neck.

The following list is all of the people without whom this work would not exist in its present form; who cheered for me, who reassured me, who pointed out where my phrasing was awkward, and all in all encouraged me to go the whole hog and not just the tip. Thank you for putting up with me and my incessant self-aggrandizing wank and telling me, each in your own way, that the dog exploded.

Bapple Fraugwinska Macabre Barbie Miggy Katethulu Rein Miz blue Molly Anne

The others in the discord server for whom I do not have an ao3 or tumblr account

Special thanks to Shunypie/Shunyhuny who drew fanart (holy shit I am still absolutely fucking floored by this, it's so beautiful)

My final acknowledgment goes to everyone else who read this and thought it was hot, love you guys. Your comments feed me, your likes sustain me.

Though my planned procession of porn is past its climax, I am still open to penning vignettes about the lookalike and set in the lookalike’s timeline. If you have an idea or request, please post a comment here, or if you fancy remaining anonymous, you can use my inbox at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/impale-me-radio-daddy

Regretfully, I do not take commissions (I can’t think of an amount of money that would be worth the expression of confusion and fear from my accountant) so all requests will be undertaken at my own discretion.

Until next time, dear readers.

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RIGOR MORTIS | CHAPTER SIXTEEN

SIMON RILEY X AFAB READER | 18+ MDNI | MASTERLIST | AO3

PREV CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

TAGS: reader uses she/her pronouns, fluff angst & eventual smut, blood violence & death, suicidal ideology, slow burn, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, toxic workplace environment, flashbacks, implied past SA

“Abandoned in a battlefield with the one person you thought you would never see again; you're forced to come to terms with the ghosts of your past."

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 25TH 2016

NORWAY, 0600 HOURS

Simon Riley has never had proper sex.

It's a thought that torments him the rest of the night into the morning, staring at the wall in the shower as the water cascades around him—cold enough to run a thick, numbing static over his limbs and slow his thoughts.  Cold enough to sober him and cool the hot magma that floods through his veins, still.  He stares at the wall of the shower until a dim light filters in through the reinforced window.  

Thinking.  Processing. 

He doubts the very concept of letting someone get that close has crossed his mind in years.  His hand has slipped under the sheets occasionally, of course, he’s only human.  He's had thoughts, urges, and opportunities; but he rarely jumped on any of them.  His mom didn’t comfort him when he cried, his father burned his skin with the stinging end of his cigarettes.  For a big chunk of his childhood, he’d flinch at the sight of swinging bottles and raised voices.

His work only solidified his aversion to touch; associating all forms of it with pain in Simon's very fucked up head.  Sex became another basic human pleasure ruined for him—something for the civilians he protects, but not for him.  He lived only to be a machine; a tool to be used, something to carry a gun; because it was the only thing he had left.  It saved him, in a way, convincing himself he was merely a weapon.

It brought him some peace knowing he did what he did so that no other person ends up like him: broken.  A ruined human.  Scared shitless by something so fucking simple and stupid as touch.  

He thinks he'd sooner die than admit any of that, though.  What would anyone think if they found out?

What would you think if you found out?  If he peeled back the endless layers and revealed himself—Simon—was he even that man anymore?  Was he still there?  Could he be what you needed?  Would you be disappointed?

You were already disappointed.

That's the simple fact that makes his fists clench that night, still a bit dizzy with bourbon and the heat of your gentle touch branded into his skin.  He turns the hot water down further and tilts his head up against the showerhead—sobering up, washing away the heat in his nerves and the heaviness to his breath.

He thinks.  

He opens his eyes and he thinks.

He looks down and scars stare back at him.  Thick, heavy muscle rolling under pale skin; scattered with stretch marks from muscle development and weight gain after Roba—attained almost too quickly after his escape.  A miraculously speedy recovery, the doctors had said.  A stature he's worked hard to curate and maintain, to ensure he would never feel that weak again.  To protect.  To kill.  To obey.  He scares most people, and he's happy with that if it means they won’t lay their hands on him again.

You weren't scared of him, a thought that makes something in his core stir.  

Pretty eyes.  Another, an echo of your voice.  He isn’t pretty—far from it.  His nose was broken too many times to count, his skin pale, eyes bagged and sunken and pretty much permanently bloodshot.  A true Ghost; a scarred war machine.

He remembers each and every memory behind every mark on his skin.  He traces a finger over a scar at the edge of his lip and over his jaw; trying to recreate the way your hand had cupped his face and traced the mark just a few hours ago.  He traces the cigarette burns on his arms, the gunshots on his collar, feels over the calluses on his hands.  Then, finally, the deep and angry dent just between his ribs—pink, sunken, and crisscrossed with surgical incisions.  An angry mess of scar tissue that cuts through his abs and still aches, sometimes, when he moves wrong.

He ghosts the scar with his finger and thinks about how you might touch it; imagines your fingers in place of his.  Your voice in his ear, your hands on his body.    

He thinks about your eyes.  Your smile, your voice, your hands, the way your hips move when you walk and that look on your face when you’re mad.  How he finds himself staring, sometimes, stuck in a pathetic trance.  How every brush of your hand on his arm seems to burn itself into his skin for hours.  How you sat in his presence for days simply because you wanted to.  Fucking hell.

He's no idiot.  He's been attracted to a woman before.  He's had his run of breaking hearts in high school, like every other troubled teenage boy.  What made this so profound—so earth-shattering—was that this is the first time he's even considered another person since then.  The first time he's felt attraction, wanted someone to touch him since before Roba; before his family was killed.  

When he was Simon, not Ghost.

It's then he realizes he's scared because he wants you, too.  In more ways than just sex.

He takes a breath.  He's hard again, uncomfortably so—but still he refuses to give it attention. Instead, he turns the shower off.  He grabs some gym clothes, cleans himself up, and checks the time.

0900 hours.  You'd be up by now.

He grabs his bag and leaves his room.  His head foggy and pounding, his feet carry him out into the snow to your barracks, where he knocks on the door.

You don't answer.

His throat constricts, his heart already squeezing in his chest.  Did I fuck it all up?  Did you hate him now?  You have every right to.

He knocks again, louder this time.

"What?"  Comes your groggy voice, and Simon could almost sigh with relief.  He purses his lips, second guessing himself—for once—yet he forces his voice to work anyway.

"Meet me at the gym in an hour," he says.  "To talk."

A beat of silence passes before your answer.

"Yes, sir."

Without another word, he walks down to the gym—one of the sparing rooms—and he waits.  

You show up at 10 A.M. on the dot, standing in the doorway.

[blathannabeaga]

.☽༊˚ january writing; thursday

bobby x reader

feat. qrf!reader, ambiguous setting, established relationship, non-sexual nudity

Even inside the blissfully cool, air-conditioned barracks with all your borrowed tactical gear in a pile on the bathroom floor, you feel no closer to the respite you seek then you did all tac’d up on the blisteringly hot tarmac beyond these pale-tiled walls.

Under the pitiful water pressure, the streaks of mud and grass stains dilute to paint your skin in hues of brick-red and lime-green. Tainted water swirls down the drain in crooked spirals and is soon followed by soapsuds as you begin the tedious process of scrubbing yourself clean, so focused in your efforts that you almost miss the heavy bathroom door opening and Bobby’s handsome face appearing in the jamb.

She disappears behind a row of lockers, and reappears a few seconds later when you’re resigning yourself to a lifetime with one vaguely green elbow. Her laugh echoes off the pressing walls and your glare is met with only a wink as she leans around the hot spray of the showerhead to kiss you.

Drawing away, she twists the squeaky dial to start the showerhead next to yours. Blonde hairs grow dark as the water streams over her, filtering down the valleys and plains of her sunkissed body in a way you have a hard time pulling your eyes away from. A grin takes hold on her face, telling you your admiration doesn’t go unnoticed as she threads her hands through her hair to rid herself of the thatches of mud that’ve snuck under her helmet. “Gotta say, it beats sand.”

“Yeah, m’feeling really spoiled right now.” You mutter, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn smear of reddish mud over your hip. A chuckle rumbles low in her chest as she rolls her shoulders, letting the hot water relax her muscles as it streams down over her.

“Never say I don’t take you anywhere.” Bobby tells you, tapping on your hip pointedly. You swat at her with a handful of body wash, catching her across the cheek as she tries to dodge your hand. After a beat, she stalls her movements to sluice the soapsuds off her face as she watches you flounder trying to wash your back. “Oh- God, just come here.”

Strong hands take hold of your waist, spinning you around atop the slippery tiles. Your noises of surprise fall on deaf ears as she holds you under the hot spray and, with sure but tender hands, patiently soaps clean your marred skin.

As she steadily moves down to the curve of your hip you can’t help but poke at her, humor belying your tone. “This is hardly turning you on.”

“Yeah, I’ve always wanted to fuck Thing from Fantastic Four in a second-rate NATO base on a Thursday morning.” Through a snort of derisive laughter, a softness tinges her words. Moving her hands back up to your neck, she massages the muscles gently as she steps close enough for you to feel the heat of her body against yours. “No, you wriggling around like that is just making me sad.”

The tips of your ears grow warm, but you say nothing. Bobby pulls you around to face her, moving methodically down your body with a practised ease and you have to bite back a comment about your own capabilities, but if it means getting to spend another second with her hands so caringly on your skin then you suppose you can take it.

[chocobochaserstories]

Turk Omegaverse Headcanons Part One

Utilizing Before Crisis details as well... even if with Crisis Core, the two games would have to take place during each other to be half canon. Turks: Reno, Rude, Emma (Gun (Female)), Elena TW: I had no filter writing this. Sex, allusions to kinks, condoms, minors DNI to be safe :)

Reno

The sluttiest omega you can imagine

He’s supposed to be on suppressants, but you’re also  not supposed to drink alcohol while on them, and he forgets to take them half the time, so they’re not very effective.

Reno is a bonded omega, so his cycles hit like clockwork exactly every five weeks.

Reno has a very active sex life with his alpha, both during his heats and outside of them.

Reno is shameless and he’s not exactly afraid of being kinky or playing with a new toy. That being said, as second in command, he won’t do anything that might threaten his job.

Rude

Reno’s alpha, husband, and best friend.

Significantly less kinky than his husband, but definitely not vanilla. Plus he likes it when his omega is happy, so if Reno wants to be handcuffed to the showerhead for some reason, he’s willing to try that… even if it involves them both slipping, falling, and having to come up with a lie to tell the plumber as to how the shower head got ripped out of the wall.

Has he screwed Reno in a helicopter before? Maybe.

The sweetest husband!

His favorite way to end a long day is turning on a shitty rom-com and cuddling Reno.

Emma (Gun (Female))

An Alpha and not-exactly-bonded with Alvis (Rod (Male)

She’s been on Rut Suppressants since it was legal and has safe sex drilled into her head like a mantra.

Her parents were teens when she was born (Fifteen with her, seventeen with her sister), and the pregnancies were stressful enough that it’s pretty much impossible for her and Elena to have any more siblings.

She’s not really looking for a permanent mate, but blowing off steam with Alvis works and she has a “Not quite friends, not quite acquaintances” with benefits thing going on with the beta.

She lives on her own now, but growing up, her parents had a ready stash of condoms in the house and they were not at all taboo. 

“If you’re going to have sex, don’t hide it. Just be safe.” - Her Mother

Elena

An omega who pretends she’s an alpha. Or a beta. Anything but an omega, really.

Views being an omega more as a weakness and a hindrance than a help.

It adds a layer of complexity to her sibling rivalry with Emma, especially since it leaves Elena feeling inferior to her sister and Elena is hard enough on herself as it is.

Elena is eighteen, so she’s on the cusp of pseudoheats and transitional heats (See post on Omega A+P), so it’s not legal for her to take any form of heat suppressant, scent blocker, or other forms of hormone altering medications. She hates that.

Elena’s cycles are still irregular and since she doesn’t have a mate (and has no interest to), she spends the cycles off of work and resting at home.

She really hates missing work and it’s usually her mother who will cuddle with her if his heat cycle doesn’t overlap with hers. He hates when his pups are in pain.

Elena is pretty shy when it comes to exploring her sexuality, so she’s not a major fan of toys or porn on her heats. She’d rather utilize frozen treats as a means to lower her temperature, plus sugar eases her cramps a bit from the endorphin rush. Her go-to is sea salt, of course.

[fleet-off]

Surprise, sneak peek Stable Delusion chapter drop! A big thank you to @imminentinertia and @vegaseatsass for their comments, guidance, and corrections. Prologue here. Mild sexy scene under the cut.

The cloudy sky hovered like an incomplete task over Pete’s free-floating body. Wavelets rippled over him, comfortably cool where he was submerged, goosebump-raising where parts of him poked above the water. A certain stale weight in the air promised storms ahead.

Pete closed his eyes against the eye-straining white clouds and let soft red light filter through his eyelids. The lake rocked him, buoyed into soothing insignificance.

Pete was on the verge of dozing off when a half-blurred voice interrupted, calling his name as if from a long way off. Other, less distinguishable words followed.

The thought of rising made Pete’s mind feel sodden, heavy. He twitched, flicking the sound away. Surely it could wait.

The voice came again, insistent. Pete sighed and lifted his head. “What was that?”

Lake water drained from his ears. Spots crowded his vision as he readjusted to the light--he blinked hard, but a few insistent floaters refused to dissipate.

“Took you long enough. Thought the lake water might have finally soaked through to your brain.”

At the end of the dock stood a familiar shape with features too dim to make out and a hand resting on his hip. Pete smiled at him. “I’m listening now. What is it?”

“I’m heading in to heat up dinner. It’s getting late.”

Dinner already? Pete squinted at the sky. The cloud-cloaked sun offered no hint at the passage of time. Out of stasis, however, he could feel the hollow weight of his stomach. It must be approaching late afternoon.

“Hold up, I’m coming,” he said. He treaded water, gliding towards the outline of Vegas’s figure.

Vegas shifted on his feet. “It’s not dark yet. You can stay out a little longer, if you really want.”

The lake was too quiet without Vegas’s presence, however little they talked while Pete was swimming. In isolation, Pete’s mind was amplified and muffled all at once, thoughts too muddied to hear but too loud to ignore. Sometimes he could feel his own heartbeat, blood sweeping through his veins like an invasion.

Pete shook his head. “I’ve been drifting long enough.”

He covered the remaining distance in a few strokes and braced his palms against the rough-hewn wood of the dock to heave himself up. From the corner of his eye, he could see Vegas watching him. He played along, flexing his arms so the veins in his hands stood out. Cool water sluiced down his back as he drew his knees up and broke away from the water.

The ripples of his passage faded almost at once, leaving only the lake’s placid empty-mirror surface. Pete kept his eyes on Vegas, who was following the path of water down his chest with focus rapidly warming into intent. He licked his lips. Pete shivered and strained for his towel. “Not until I’ve rinsed off,” he said. “Lake water’s dirty, you’ll get typhoid or something.”

Vegas scooped up the towel and bent to settle it around Pete’s shoulders himself. His hand lingered after Pete took hold of the corners, strolling down to his collarbone. He pressed at its peak. Sensitivity made Pete sway--there must be a bruise there. “Shame. After dinner and a shower, hm? Hose yourself down and come keep me company in the kitchen.”

Pete patted his hand in thanks and stood. He trailed after Vegas back towards the house.

***

The shower water beat hot against Pete’s skin that evening after dinner, rapidly steaming up a bathroom not ventilated for the warm showers the tankless water heater afforded them. The unit gleamed beside the water-stained showerhead--Pete assumed Vegas was responsible for its installation. His mind played out an increasingly familiar game: had it happened before they moved in, or should Pete remember the plumber’s visit?

Better the latter--he would have liked to tease Vegas for it. He’d have earned his lecture on accepting nice things, met Vegas’s thin-skinned glare with a smile, and only then let himself be coaxed into the tub to be shown what an excellent idea the hot water was.

It would have made a nice memory.

“Spoiled rich boy, too good for the cold showers the rest of us grew up with,” he mumbled to himself. The shower steam sat heavy in his lungs, sluggish with the appeal of inertia. He scrubbed absently at his chest, skin purpled by stains no water could wash away.

There had been a quieter edge to Vegas, of late--a softening in his volatility, an underlying sadness. Pete didn’t know whether to attribute it to the atmosphere around the lakehouse or a deeper, more secretive grief. It left him uneasy, and the unease fed from his full stomach to that crossed wire in his head that sometimes contorted discomfort into vague, aimless arousal. Messy, that. Pete’s hand dipped into the wiry hair above his groin and gave it a tug; with his other hand, he prodded his neck to find the unseen marks there.

Vegas took such pleasure in leaving the signs of his touch. Bites and fingerprints across Pete’s throat and hips and the insides of his wrists; welts down the backs of his legs, sometimes, clean pink lines he could only catch glimpses of if he craned his neck. Wax burns along the arc of his spine. Traces Pete could follow with his own hands later, just for an echo of the original ache and Vegas’s amused delight.

When the marks were refreshed so regularly, the old ones’ refusal to heal was easier to overlook. Pete could pretend it was natural, that he underwent Vegas’s heavy touch too regularly for his bruises to fade green or yellow.

Pete was good at ignoring what he did not wish to perceive, but surely Vegas in his obsessive attentions had noticed. The fact that he hadn’t brought it up yet meant he didn’t want to.

…Which meant Pete probably should.

Vegas would be in bed waiting for him. Vegas would have his answers. He’d know where to direct the apprehension tugging like desire in Pete’s gut--could spin desire into need, need into pleasure, pleasure into satisfaction. And satisfaction would in turn provide passing refuge from whatever heaviness hounded Vegas. Pete heaved a steam-dense breath and shut off the shower faucet. They’d figure it out. He scrubbed the towel through his hair and secured it around his waist.

Vegas startled when Pete emerged from the bathroom, book jostling in his lap. He flipped reflexively to the next page--narrowed his eyes like his own hands had offended him and returned to the previous.

Pete found boxers and one of Vegas’s silky night shirts in the dresser. He left the shirt unbuttoned; Vegas would strip it off for him soon enough anyway. He skimmed a hand down his chest and glanced over his shoulder.

Vegas’s unblinking gaze had settled back on his book; Pete frowned. “You know,” he said, idling towards the bed, “I’m going to run out of unmarked skin at this rate.” He traced the lurid bruises that streaked his thighs. “I look like I’ve been attacked by a wild dog.”

Vegas’s hand stilled at the corner of his page. The lamplight shadowed his face, rendering his expression briefly unreadable.

Then he snapped his book shut and set it on the nightstand, reaching for Pete with a hum. “Really? C’mere, let me have a look.”

Pete let Vegas tug him onto the bed. His shower-warmed thigh muscles settled into an easy stretch over Vegas’s lap. The momentary impenetrability left no trace on Vegas’s features; his eyes flashed with dark amusement, and a familiar crooked smirk twisted his lips.

Pete swayed towards that smirk, all his strings cut loose. His hands landed on Vegas’s shoulders. Vegas squeezed his hips as if to stabilize him, but his thumbs revealed his true intent--they found his sore spots through his boxers and dug in hard. Pete sighed into the redoubled ache.

Vegas pushed Pete’s shirt over his shoulders and sat back to examine him with the self-assurance and tender calculation of a butcher preparing his knife for the first cut. His eyes and hands traced Pete’s sides and chest--then slowed, lingering over each mark in his flesh. Pete tried to maintain focus in the flood of heat under his skin.

“You’re right,” Vegas said at last, fingering the mass of livid mouth-shaped bruises at the base of Pete’s ribcage. It resembled a mauling, like Vegas had tried to tear open his skin to devour what lay beneath.

This was not so far from the truth.

Vegas tutted. “Look at how messy you are, Pete.”

“Like it’s not your fault,” Pete muttered. Vegas blew warm, damp air against his bruises. Shuddery sensation made Pete squirm, and Vegas’s snicker was a vibration in the hollow under his ribs. Pete arched closer as Vegas’s tongue joined his hands.

“It’s been a while since you gave me those,” Pete said, meaning they probably shouldn’t still be that shade of purple.

Vegas grinned up, sharklike and so lovely that it very nearly hurt. “You hold onto my marks so nicely,” he crooned, and then his thumb pressed in hard and it did hurt. Pete whined. “Oh, you like that?”

Evidence of how much he liked it twitched in his boxers. Pete ground down and received an admonishing rap on the hip.

“Already? I’ve barely started.”

Pete swallowed hard. He should ask about the bruises, before Vegas stole his ability to put words into sentences. He should ask, so that Vegas could choose to respond or not--and that would be that. Out of Pete’s hands.

“Vegas,” he said--tried to say, but Vegas already had his hands and was crossing them behind his back. The name stuck in his throat and died on his lips. Vegas didn’t seem to hear; hungry teeth raked Pete’s freshly exposed chest on a path that ended with the dark bruise just under his nipple and a bite that yanked the air from his lungs in a glorious rush. Pete sank into the arousal pooling in his groin.

The world outside Vegas’s touch lay across muddy, clouded waters. Perhaps it had always been so, and Pete had simply never known any different. But within the vague blur of associations and worries, the truths Pete was meant to care about--in that dim, he could see Vegas with razor clarity.

Maybe Vegas’s hands were, as he sometimes claimed, designed only to deal hurt.

Still, they hurt him so wonderfully well.

The sudden absence of touch arrived as a sluggish afterthought. Pete blinked hard--Vegas sat back on his hands, mouth a smug twist. “Yes?”

Pete flushed. “Asshole.”

“And here I thought you had something to say to me.” Vegas fisted a hand in his hair. Pete resisted just enough to feel the tug on his scalp as Vegas guided his head back and to the side. He fought to keep his eyes on Vegas’s face--surrendered at once when Vegas leaned close, grazing the side of his neck. “Do you, Pete?”

Pete tensed in anticipation of a bite. He choked on air when Vegas instead licked a broad stripe from his collarbone up behind the corner of his jaw. Vegas’s mouth brushed the shell of his ear. “Just gagging for it, aren’t you,” he whispered. Then his lips seized Pete’s, and Pete was lost.

Time failed him. He was the sharp of Vegas’s weight, pressing him into the bed--the hunger of Vegas’s mouth, kissing the air from his lungs--the raw friction of Vegas’s flannels against his cock as he was bared, skin bitten and touched in all the tender places Vegas had marked a hundred times before. Vegas fed him on muscle-deep pressure and too-much-not-enough pain, left him shaking and incoherent.

At some point, he was bound spread-eagle across the bed while Vegas pressed methodically at every bruise he could find. At some point, Vegas mouthed at the darkest mark on Pete’s thigh and whispered, “Fuck, you’re so pretty. These are so pretty,” and Pete’s eyes went damp with a coarse-edged fragility he didn’t know how to release until Vegas kissed him again.

The sex was slow, sweet as drowning, and mingled with some far-off lowing noise--eerily sob-like, yet muffled as if by water. Maybe it was Pete himself, broken by pleasure--maybe Vegas, whose face was buried in Pete’s neck where it could not be read. Perhaps it was simply the wind outside the window. It had begun to rain.

Pete was a receptacle, made of and for need; Vegas spilled into him just so. A few strokes had Pete coming into Vegas’s hand and the soft fabric of his shirt.

Then it was Vegas bent over him, breathing hard through his nose--Vegas finding his mouth to kiss him into spinning beams of light--Vegas smiling at him, the only steady in endless deeps. “So sweet for me,” he murmured, stroking Pete’s face. Pete grinned dazedly up at him.

He watched Vegas unhitch the ropes from the headboard and used the new slack to cradle his arms to his chest. He was semi-liquid, now. The knots biting into his wrists kept him from melting away.

Sex with Vegas was a delirious thing. It drove Pete from his body. It made him real.

“Be right back,” Vegas whispered, slipping from the bed and into the unshaped void beyond it. Pete made a wordless sound of protest--but he blinked and there again was Vegas, bent over him with a towel to wipe him clean.

He’d removed his come-stained shirt and pajama bottoms. Pete stared at his chest, the lonely taper of his ribs softened by relaxation and lamplight.

I’m in love with you, he thought. Rain pattered against the roof.

A hand lifted Pete’s head for a sip of water that trickled down his throat and tickled the corners of his clumsy lips. “There you go,” Vegas told him. He thumbed away the escaped water droplets and set the half-empty glass on the nightstand. “More of that after.”

Pete blinked at him. The words hovered over his head, just out of reach.

Vegas popped open a tube and tipped some kind of oil onto his hands. Its unfamiliar, vaguely medicinal scent coiled in tendrils around them. It left a gentle menthol tingle where Vegas spread it over his bruises. Pete sighed and arched closer.

“Feels good?”

“Mhm.”

Vegas’s chuckle was a wonder, the most comforting sound. Pete wanted a kiss. He pursed his lips, and Vegas obliged.

“You like being bruised up for me, don’t you? Like being claimed?”

Pete didn’t pause to think before he nodded, mostly because Vegas was smiling at him--and it was the right answer, earned him another kiss, earned him that look of contented adoration and absolute focus.

“Love you like this,” Vegas murmured. “Think you’re so sexy.”

Pete felt his brow furrow. Vegas stroked the tension away with his thumb. “Shh. You don’t have to worry about that, you just feel good. I’m going to roll you over now.”

Pete nodded and made to roll over himself. His weightless limbs pushed too hard, sent him sprawling nearly off the bed. He giggled--heard Vegas snicker as he took his hips and repositioned him.

A thumb traced the rim of his hole almost in passing, casually proprietary--then more oil drizzled across his back and down his thighs. Vegas rubbed the oil into his sorest spots first. He returned for a deeper massage after, working his hands into aching muscles. His touch pulled noises from Pete’s throat, a buzz of low-level arousal. Too far gone to get hard, Pete simply basked in the warmth.

At last Vegas nosed at the back of his shoulder, weight settling atop his back. His chest rose and fell. “Fuck,” he said unsteadily. “Fuck, I love you.”

The wobble of his voice sank into Pete’s skin like a cold current, tugging him down. He nudged back. Vegas gave him room to roll towards him.

Hands weighted by rope, Pete reached for his face. He turned it from side to side, checking his expression--but Vegas’s face revealed only warmth. “Vegas?” he asked. Vegas kissed his hand, and sparks of joy set the world spinning dizzily around them once more. Pete beamed reflexively.

“All good,” Vegas said. “You’re mine, aren’t you?”

He was. Pete nodded, concern dropping away. “Yeah.” His lips curled up. “I get to be yours.”

Vegas’s throat bobbed on a hard swallow, and his mouth returned hot and too demanding. Pete surged into it, delighted; his eagerness nearly tipped him into Vegas’s chest.

Vegas laughed and pushed him back onto the bed--joined him before he could protest, affection brimming over. A peculiar levity rose between them. The rain quickened, lashing the shuttered windows, and in their room they were brief and effervescent as foam upon a cresting wave.

At last Pete’s breath ran short from kisses. Vegas withdrew, and there in his hand was the half-finished glass of water. “A little more before we sleep.”

The water slid down easy, with Vegas’s eyes drinking him in. With Vegas’s hand petting his neck.

“That’s it,” Vegas murmured, and, “All mine.”

“Yours,” Pete repeated, floating in it. His cheeks hurt from smiling.

[lenialenient]

Fuck it, first 6 Real Jobs chapters under the cut

1 - Neither beautiful nor well written

A dark purple filter dims the crowd that makes up the bulk of the hall. Every seat is filled as the light remains on Julia and Julia only.

“Hi,” she says into the microphone bubble in front of her mouth. It resonates all the way to the last row, all four walls, and the double door entrance. Julia smiles sheepishly. The crowd smiles back. She takes a moment to breathe.

“As some of you might know,” Julia says, but is interrupted by another wave of star-struck cheers and whistles. “Yes, yes, thank you, thank you so much.” She starts over. “As some of you might know, I’m a writer and a poet and I wrote a little something called The Secret of Neverward–” Cheers. Jubilation. People with Neverward shirts rise from their seats. People raise their Neverward posters into the air. “And I am, obviously, extremely successful. Mad successful. And they ask me: Julia! How come you’re so successful? Well, I’m here to tell you!”

Julia clicks on a PowerPoint via a tiny remote in her hand, then grabs a bottle of revitalizing color-protection shampoo from the shower basket and squeezes a dime-sized amount into her palm.

“This right here is not what the writing process looks like.” Julia points at the screen behind her. The PowerPoint shows a photo of herself at a desk in a room with a large window, smiling a toothpaste-advertisement smile into the camera, one hand confidently placed on an old-timey typewriter, the other hand holding a cup of coffee up to her lips. It draws a sensible chuckle from the purple crowd.  

“In actuality,” Julia says while massaging the shampoo into every centimeter of her pink-stained scalp, “it looks more like alarm clocks set to four-thirty in the morning. It looks like drafting scenes in the notes of your phone while on public transport, because every second counts. And also-” Julia turns up the water, picks up the showerhead, and starts rinsing, “I drink green tea rather than coffee.”

The audience laughs.

“Honestly, it’s healthier, and it gives you almost the same effect.” Julia smiles ahead and her reflection in the shower screen smiles back, water dripping from her lashes. She lets the hot water run over herself a bit longer.

“When I wrote Neverward,” she says, “it was sandwiched between jobbing at Subway and studying for my linguistics degree. I had no money. I had no guarantee anyone would want to read it. I had no time. I made time anyway. Because that’s the thing-”

Julia shuts the water off and watches the showerhead’s stream turn into a drizzle. The bathroom’s quiet now. “I knew that I wanted to create something meaningful, and to get this piece of myself out there in the world where it could be meaningful for someone else, too. That was what I really wanted.”

Carefully, she steps out of the shower. “Once you have a goal, a real goal,” she whispers, “you can start working toward it. You can start to figure out how to get there. And once you know how to get there, there is only one more thing you need. Determination.”

Julia dries herself off and wraps the towel around her torso. With it firmly trapped underneath her arms, she shuffles across the part of the apartment’s living room that’s actually the living room and to the part of the living room that’s actually the kitchen. She boils water.

Clipping her hair down to a crisp 5mm last week easily shaved ten minutes of blow-drying and ten minutes of styling off her morning routine. Not to mention, it saves her two hair washing sessions a week. No one can tell whether her hair is greasy if it barely exists, and that’s valuable, valuable time. Dress, cardigan, tights – laid out the night before. Another pair of tights because chub rub has chafed through the inner thigh area. Finally, Julia sits down at the kitchen/living room table with a mug of green tea.

The tiny desk in Julia’s room can’t rival the magical feeling of a common area before anyone else is awake. Hayal is the only possible encounter at five in the morning, should she drag herself out of her room on a quest for coffee. She’d give Julia that specific look and say “you really don’t need to sleep, do you?” and Julia would answer: “Oh no. Absolutely not.”

Julia closes her eyes and takes a breath, hands hovering above the keyboard.

Okay. Go.

She opens her mailbox.

Nothing. No subjects in bold, no names that haven’t been sitting there already, not a single message with a Re: in the subject line. Face illuminated by the white shade of empty inbox, Julia taps her fingernail on the laptop’s surface. She refreshes just in case, then scrunches her lip. Fine.

Still drumming on the laptop, Julia moves the cursor to the Sent tab, takes a sip of green tea, and leans in close. Then, she opens the Word document she wrote the email in.

Is this a pointless exercise? It might be. Pretty sure it’s not acceptable to send a query letter to an agent twice, even when the words have been switched out for better words.

… not just a whodunit with superpowers but an analysis of what makes humans lose their humanity. She deletes humans and writes people. Sure, it was a word play, but it made her sound like a psychopath.

It’s fine, one of these days she’ll have to send more queries anyway.

Actually.

The entire sentence feels like something an unpleasant person would write. Not just a whodunit – who does she think she is?

…it’s a whodunit with superpowers.

Julia takes a sip of tea.

… a whodunit with superpowers where every superpower fits into

… a whodunit with superpowers where every character’s unique power fits perfectly into the murder case, making it a mystery until the end

… until the very end

… until the end

… a whodunit with superpowers where every

Julia paces the kitchen. “A whodunit with superpowers…” The stove time display tells her that about twenty minutes ago it turned six. “A whodunit. With superpowers.” She catches the eye of her reflection in the microwave. “What the hell. You’re just saying words.”

With a fresh cup of tea, Julia sits back down in front of the whodunit with superpowers. She closes her eyes, shakes her head to rearrange her thoughts, and goes back in. Calmly, she reads the paragraph she’s been working on, whispers along. Then she reads the paragraph again, slower this time.

Julia leans back into the chair, all the way, as if she could merge into the backrest. Her eyes burn. She uprooted the entire paragraph. The sentence is nicer, but the rest doesn’t fit anymore. Everything’s just pieces, nothing’s connected. The query letter is falling apart in front of her eyes.

Julia reaches for the backspace button and knocks over the mug with her elbow. It sends a stream of green tea trickling down the side of the table and Julia watches. Watches, until two hot tears run down her cheeks and she wipes the mug off the table and listens to it break on the wooden tiles.

She sits there until it’s seven, waiting for this feeling to pass. There’s been a sob, maybe two, but she’s breathing now.

She takes another, deep breath.

She moves the cursor to the little x in the top right corner and closes her mailbox.

She closes the document and doesn’t save the changes.

She cleans up the shards from the floor and slides them into the trash bin.

She blots up the tea. She closes her laptop.

Julia sits there, pointless and still, as the room progressively sheds the night and the gray becomes lighter. Three hours gone to waste. Nothing got done today.

It’s quiet. Julia sits.

Then she stands up, grabs her Subway uniform, her university backpack, and leaves for work.

2 - That white canvas must be turned into something

Hayal wakes up dehydrated, disoriented, and with a side of that headache that presses down onto your nose bridge. She shifts in her bed, rustling the sheets, but doesn’t manage to get up. Sweeping her arms across the mattress, she feels for her phone, then for her charger, plucks it in, and finally unglues her eyelids to look at the time. It’s 13:38. Hayal puts her phone face-down and burrows herself in her blanket.

The fact that she didn’t have to be anywhere was such a cathartic thought to wake up to in the first weeks post-uni.

Several minutes pass.

Hayal groans and pulls the phone into her cocoon. There are things. So many. The little bar at the top of the screen is littered with icons. Instagram and Twitter, four new emails. Four? Hayal resists the urge to shut the whole thing down. Air starts to become scarce in her blanket shell, and she strikes a deal with herself that she’s allowed to break out of it as soon as she’s answered those goddamn emails. She slows her breathing, and the sound of her overgrown nails hitting the phone screen takes over.

Two people are inquiring about new commissions and two people are inquiring about commissions that are overdue. One week and two days, respectively. Hayal goes into her notes and copy-pastes her answer templates. She tells the first two people what she’d charge and that she’d be happy to accept their commissions on those terms. She updates the other two on the status of their art pieces and asks them to be patient just a few days longer.

Finally, she wrestles herself out of the blanket. For another several minutes she lies there, head on her pillow, eyes closed, and breathes in the recycled air as long as it still feels fresh. She’s won that battle, let’s not lose that grip. Get up. Get some water, don’t let dehydration make a home here.

Hayal rolls off the mattress and manages to catch herself just before stepping on the drawing tablet on the floor. God, that would have been fatal. She makes a mental note to either put it away properly next time she passes out for the night or pull back the curtains before she tries to navigate her room. She knows neither of these will happen.

Tablet under her arm, Hayal emerges from her door and squints into the kitchen/living room. “Morning.”

“Morning,” replies the green-dyed weirdo at her kitchen table without so much as raising an eyebrow. “How long have you been going for?”

“Don’t know. Five or six. Seven, maybe?” Hayal drops the tablet on the couch and trudges over to the overstuffed cupboard to pry out a can of instant coffee powder. “I see the SAI interface when I close my eyes.”

Kiwi hums thoughtfully and returns to the academic discipline of distressed typing.

While the electric kettle labors, Hayal fills a glass with tap water and sips it looking over Kiwi’s shoulder. “Do you think you’ll ever be tired of writing Stasi papers?”

“I’m legally not allowed to be tired of writing Stasi papers, I think.”

Kiwi’s sacrificing a lot of typing speed on account of the fact that only one of his hands is actually on the keyboard. With the other, he attempts to simultaneously text what Hayal can only guess are several people.

Hayal spoons a generous amount of coffee powder into the communal Stay strong, Friday’s coming! mug Kiwi got from his parents. While pouring hot water, she takes a moment to mourn the broken espresso maker. “Julia’s gone already?”

“Yeah, Subway.”

“I thought she didn’t have to work until evening.”

“That’s Monday.”

“What’s today?”

“Wednesday.”

“Oh.” Hayal blows onto the coffee-adjacent broth. “That’s harsh.”

“Yeah.”

The almost comfortably familiar sound of Kiwi bouncing his foot like an industrial grade jackhammer draws Hayal’s attention toward the fact that he not only has his stupid-big platform boots on, but also a generous amount of stupid-big eyeliner. His phone keeps buzzing.

“You heading out?”

“I’m meeting the band in a minute,” he says. “But also I’m rushing a deadline, so.”

Hayal takes a careful sip. The coffee still burns her tongue.

“And I kinda messed up because Tien’s already at the bus stop.” Kiwi’s fingers stop typing as he throws Hayal a glance from the corner of his eye. “She’s coming over so she doesn’t have to wait in the cold while I finish this thing up.”

Hayal holds her breath to narrowly avoid choking on her coffee and pulls the mug away from her face. She wipes at the few drops that hit the ground with her sock. “Is she? Now?”

“I mean,” Kiwi turns and holds onto the back of the chair. His voice is drawn out and apologetic. “You were kinda still asleep five minutes ago, so I didn’t really...”

A key turns in a lock, followed by a click. There’s just enough time for Hayal to shoot Kiwi a strong-eyed look before the door swings open to reveal Tien in all her pierced face, spiked hair, combat booted glory – the living proof that punk is on life support. 

Hayal is painfully aware of how she’s standing here in her pajamas and dark under-eye circles and overgrown side-cut, leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee in her hand at two in the afternoon like someone who’s got nothing better to do.

Hayal looks at Tien, Tien looks back.   

“I thought you’d ring,” says Kiwi.

Tien tears her eyes away from Hayal and jangles a pair of keys. “Yeah, well, I still got those.” A glance back to Hayal. Back to Kiwi. “I can still give them back.”

“No, no, someone reliable outside the apartment having spares is a good thing.”

Tien pockets the keys and closes the door.

“Give me like five more minutes,” says Kiwi and – now two-handed – steps up his typing pace.

Hayal would give a leg for something to type. Kiwi’s the only one barely escaping the weird energy in the room. She tries giving Tien a smile but it ends up all teeth, and all sideways instead of upwards. Tien blinks at her a few times, no smile, but nods. Then, she leans against the doorframe, going through her phone. God.

Hayal stands there, winding the grimace off her face. She could go and hide in her room but not without making the impression that she’s going to go hide in her room. She sips her still too hot coffee and reads Kiwi’s Stasi paper over his shoulder.

“Alright,” he says finally, and shuts the laptop.

Tien sighs in relief. “You done?”

“No.”  Kiwi stands up, disappears into his room, and emerges with his guitar case. He slides the laptop into his backpack. “I’ll take it along.”

“You suck at multitasking,” says Tien.

“I’ll make it work.”

Kiwi slips on his leather jacket and throws his guitar case over one shoulder, the backpack over the other. He waves to Hayal before heading out of the door. “I’ll be back at some point tonight.”

“Have fun, be yourself, et cetera.”

Tien gives a slight smile before pulling the door shut. “See you around, Hayal.”

With the door closed, the apartment is vacant. Except for Hayal, of course. She empties her coffee mug in silence, drops onto the couch, and pulls out the drawing tablet from underneath her.

See you around.

What the hell, she thinks, as she puts pen to screen, is that supposed to mean. 

3 - An oddity, a nonentity, or a disagreeable man

“I feel like I should’ve warned either of you,” Kiwi says, trying to sit on the metal bench in a way that wouldn’t have him freeze his ass off. Throughout all of December there’s been the cold without the snow and that trend is continuing well into January.

“We can handle it,” says Tien. “We’re all adults here.” She’s given up on the bench, instead leaning on the glass wall of the bus shelter, partially blocking out an ad with a grotesquely big and uncomfortably close face of a white woman with white teeth that watches over the bus stop.

Kiwi and Tien may have occupied the glass house, but they’re not alone at the stop. Three teenagers on their way home from school and two older women shift impatiently. Kiwi can look at them through the ad-free wall to his left and they can look right back. Which, he supposes, is the reason why they’re staying outside, limiting themselves to the occasional outraged glance thrown his or Tien’s way. The teenagers whisper and giggle with each other.

Kiwi drags the soles of his boots – five centimeters thicker than they need to be – back and forth over the concrete and fidgets with the straps of his guitar case. It could be the eyeliner, it could be jeans so thoroughly ripped that he’s wearing tights underneath to not freeze to death. It could be the fact that his hair is green – or meant to be green, as it’s also bleach-blond where Hayal’s missed a spot or two with the dye, and dark brown where the roots have grown out. It could be the fact that all that spills over a wildly outdated glam-punk bandana. It could also be the fact that he’s a man* with an asterisk that, no matter how hard you look, never leads to any tangible footnotes. At least Tien is flashier than him. And at least she’s here. Had he been alone, he would’ve had to tone it down.

Kiwi pulls out his phone and texts Oskar.

Kiwi [14:11]: We’re on our way

Kiwi [14:11]: For real this time

Kiwi [14:11]: Sorry

The bus turns into the street just as he shoves the phone back into his pocket. When they get on, Tien manages to snatch seats facing each other. It’s not too crowded yet, just enough for each double-seat to have – in true German fashion – exactly one person and one bag on it.

Kiwi doesn’t want Hayal to be the topic hanging in the air so he says: “I’m just gonna need five minutes to work on the essay at Oskar’s, ten tops.”

“You’re not gonna do it.”

“Am too.”

“Wait.” Tien’s eyes focus on something Kiwi doesn’t immediately manage to pin down.

“Wait, let me see your tongue.”

Kiwi scans the interior of the bus – he catches the gaze of one of the women from the bus stop, who immediately averts her eyes – before he turns back to Tien and reluctantly sticks his tongue out just enough for her to see the piercing.

“Goddamn,” says Tien. “When did that happen?”

“Last week. Saturday.” Kiwi lowers his voice. “Does it look infected? Because it’s kinda…” He gestures vaguely.

“Yeah, no. It’s just gonna look shitty for a while.”

Kiwi’s phone buzzes.

Oskar [14:13]: oh nice cause mona and I realized songs arent quite the same without any strings

Kiwi [14:16]: I said SORRY

Oskar [14:17]: are you bringing food as an offer for forgiveness

Kiwi [14:17]: I’m not

“Had no idea you were planning on getting something like this done,” says Tien. Her legs are stretched all the way to the seat across from her. “I could’ve recommended you a place.”

“I wasn’t.”

Tien slides a few centimeters up on her seat, props her elbow against the window, and tilts her head against her fist. “Did you have beef with your mom?”

“Why is that – why are you the second person asking this?”

Tien gives him an overstated shrug. Kiwi squints at her before he goes back to typing.

Oskar [14:17]: boo

Oskar [14:18]: but seriously

Oskar [14:18]: you ready for now?

Kiwi [14:19]: If you mean the song you gotta put that in quotation marks or something because otherwise that’s confusing

Oskar [14:20]: youre the one who named it that

Oskar [14:20]: ready for “now”, the song?

Kiwi [14:21]: Actually I think we should take out the spoken part before we try the whole thing for the first time

Kiwi [14:21]: The “I tried wanting less, I tried wanting more” part

Oskar [14:22]: kiwi, my dude, my love

Oskar [14:22]: weve been revising for the past like month

Oskar [14:22]: you have that is

Oskar [14:22]: and i mean didn’t you text me at 2 in the AM about how we need that part

Oskar [14:23]: about how important it is

Oskar [14:23]: about the emotions

“By the way,” Kiwi taps his fingertips on the phone screen without actually typing. He speaks very slowly. “Did I mention that she invited herself and dad over? Again?”

Tien grimaces. “Seriously?”

“They’re still guilt-tripping me because I didn’t come home for Christmas so I couldn’t really, you know, say no.”

Slowly, Tien’s face transitions from empathetic disdain to suspicion. He sounded too prematurely apologetic just now, didn’t he? “When did they say they’re were gonna come exactly?”

Kiwi shifts his weight, keeps his eyes on the phone. “Friday.”

Tien rises in her seat, lips thin. “So, what, you’re gonna miss practice?”

“I’m trying to move it to Saturday, okay? My mom just takes two days to reply to a message.”

Tien drags a hand down the side of her face. “Kiwi…”

“’I’ll be there. I’m gonna make it work somehow. Promise.”

Kiwi [14:24]: I guess it’s too emotional

Kiwi [14:24]: Kinda cringy

Kiwi leans back against the squiggly bus seat pattern and looks at Tien. “You’re so serious about this lately.”

“Maybe,” says Tien, “I’m getting kinda impatient. We’re not really doing much.”

“We can’t really do much until my finals are over.” Kiwi bounces his leg. On the other side of the dirty window, towering grey blocks start to make way for yards and fences. “At least I can’t, anyway.”

“When’s that?”

“The last one’s Monday in two weeks.”

“Hmm,” says Tien.

Oskar [14:25] were not gonna film today  

Oskar [14:26] so id say lets try it out anyway

The outskirts of town harbor a now empty house that belonged to Oskar’s grandparents before they died two years back. In those two years it’s been left mostly untouched, which is why Kiwi would never dare to actually go inside the house, but the shack that stands in its yard – formerly a workshop and equipped with electricity – couldn’t be a more convenient place for Divine Discontent to practice their songs.

Kiwi and Tien haul their instruments off the bus and walk the rest of the way through a desolate early afternoon suburbia. Fewer eyes means Kiwi doesn’t feel compelled to powerwalk constantly, but there’s something eerie about this place. Like it’s saying that if he only changed the trajectory of his life five centimeters to the right, he, too, could have a lawn and a fence someday. 

Because you can’t hear the doorbell in the workshop, Tien hands Kiwi her bass case, vaults over the fence, and opens the gate from inside. The stiff winter grass crackles under their boots as they make their way across the yard.

Mona’s spinning idly on the stool behind her drum-kit as Kiwi opens the door to the practice shack. Her drumsticks are fixed behind her ear in her rose-colored hijab, and with the matching pastels and expertly-carved makeup, she looks like someone who either has fifty thousand followers on Instagram or who aspires to have fifty thousand followers on Instagram. Oskar rests one of his arms on the mic stand, the other in the pocket of his sweatpants. He wears big shirts and lets his dark hair grow to his shoulders. Hayal once said that nobody in Divine Discontent looks like they’re playing the same music. Tien argues that they can make the lack of consistent style work as a style in itself. Kiwi, meanwhile, maintains that post-progressive pseudoglam queercore cannot be reduced to a singular cohesive look.

Oskar and Mona abruptly turn and start clapping in formal unison as Tien and Kiwi enter.

“Oh, fuck off,” says Kiwi. A grin sits on his face though, and he can’t seem to wipe it off. After easy greetings and one-armed hugs, he squats down to unpack his stuff. There’s no point in taking any jackets off, since the workshop is barely any warmer than outside.

“So, are we all good to go?” Oskar asks.

“I’ve been for weeks,” says Mona. “I really wanna know what it sounds like in all its glory.”

Kiwi sits there, backpack unzipped, his hand inside instinctively grabbing his laptop.

He looks up, at Tien, her bass guitar hooked to the amp, and at Mona, drum sticks in hand, hovering over the toms. One second passes, two seconds pass.

“Yeah. Yeah, sure.” Kiwi zips the backpack shut again.

Oskar picks up the mic and throws Kiwi a glance. “So, with or without the spoken part?”

Kiwi breathes in. “Without.”

Disappointment flashes over Oskar’s face for a second, but he shrugs. “Sure thing.”

Kiwi leaves his backpack by the door and unsheathes his guitar. He throws it on and takes his spot in Divine Discontent’s formation.

4 - Times New Roman, Twelve-Point, Double-Spaced

Julia kicks the door shut behind her. Her legs are sore, her backpack is heavy, a grocery bag dangles from the crook of her arm because her hands are busy – one with the keys and the other holding the phone that she, under no circumstances, can take her eyes off.

It’s all about the tiny 1. All about that little symbol and the promise of 1 new message(s). She saw it on the tram home, the sender, the subject, everything but the actual email. Reading the actual email requires preparation and a specific setting, but she can confirm that the email’s neither from Amazon nor Duolingo and that is, in fact, a Re, and what’s more, it is Re: QUERY SFF.

A drawn out “Welcome back” wavers over to Julia. Groceries in her arms, she crosses the living room, past Hayal who’s sprawled over the entire length of the couch, eyes staring up at the ceiling and the drawing tablet on the floor.

“Having a crisis?” Julia asks, pulling discounter pasta, tea, and soup cans out of the bag and stuffing them into her third of the cupboard. There’s no time to actually cook dinner tonight.

“Yes.”

Julia stocks her part of the fridge in record time and throws the shopping bag on the shopping bag pile. An unheard-of amount of energy is bristling within her, as she slips into her room and re-emerges with her laptop. “What’s the crisis about?”

“I thought I could take a break and play Animal Crossing for like an hour,” says Hayal.

“And you can’t?” Julia props the laptop up on the kitchen table, presses the power button, and sits.

“I can’t.”

The moment the laptop whirs to life, Julia starts drumming her fingers on the table. Deep breaths. She knows there’s nothing to expect. She knows that everyone who’s ever published anything will tell her that they’ve collected fifty or seventy or a hundred or two-hundred rejections before there’s been a trace of interest from a literary agent. So, this is going to be a rejection, and that’s fine.

“But aren’t you having a break right now?” she asks Hayal.

“I guess I’m having a break.”

Julia’s desktop appears and her fingers fly over the trackpad. Her inbox still shows her the same notification when it stretches across her screen – as if she needs reminding. This wasn’t the first agent she messaged, but it was the first who responded. Okay, reject me.

“Then what’s stopping you from playing Animal Crossing?” she asks, hovering the cursor over to the email.

 “Gee, Julia.” Hayal says. “Am I supposed to have my break and enjoy it too? Like some hedonistic glutton?”

The notification dissolves as Julia clicks the email. Then it sits before her, open, accessed, unveiled. It’s shorter than expected, just a small block of text, but you can’t start a message like this at the beginning. You start in the middle, you start where your eyes happen to look the moment it appears, and you start with keywords. And there is one:

Unfortunately.

That’s a rejection. That’s a rejection, alright.

Julia reads the whole message, beginning to end. Beginning to end, again. Still a rejection.

Julia breathes in and out. A rejection was fine five seconds ago and it is fine now. She expected nothing else. It’s time to say ‘okay then’ and close the email and make soup for dinner. But the cursor doesn’t move a pixel and neither does she.

A wave of some type of emotion washes over Julia, and that’s a problem. There’s a problem and it needs to be reviewed right now, or she’s not going to last.

She opens a blank Word document.

You got your first rejection, how are you feeling?

Bad.

But why so?

Judging by the immovable blinking cursor, she’s already written herself into a corner.

Am I arrogant? I didn’t really think the first rejection wasn’t going to be one. This is the first agent who responded. Of course it was going to be a rejection. It would be so incredibly arrogant of me to think it wouldn’t be one.

Behind her, the couch rustles. She turns and watches Hayal collect her drawing tablet and pen from the floor. Julia refocuses on the Word doc in front of her and tightens her lips.

Did you hope it wasn’t going to be a rejection? She types.

I guess. But wouldn’t everyone?

She taps her finger on the table and straightens up.

Why did you hope it wasn’t going to be a rejection?

Julia already knew she wouldn’t be able to answer that question when she typed it, so she’s not surprised when all she can do is sit and stare at the letters.

A few seconds pass before Julia hits the table with the palm of her hand and rises from her chair in the same motion Hayal jumps.

“Sorry.”

“Writing problems?”

“No. Not at all.” Laptop in hands, she scurries off to her room. There, she powers up her old printer. While it sputters ink onto paper, Julia rummages through her drawers until she finds a roll of tape and rips a piece off with her teeth. She snatches the email – still warm – from the printer, climbs on top of her office chair, and tapes the rejection to the wall.

Carefully, she steps back down and takes a moment to behold her work. A white A4 paper – two thirds blank and one third standard rejection lingo – taped to the center of the wall above her desk.

She can work with that.  

4.5 - Julia is sixteen

And the pattern of her room’s carpet stamps itself onto her calves as she sits cross-legged on the floor, leaning in on the screen in front of her.

“Once you know what you want, you can start to figure out how to get there,” Michelle says. Very emphatically, because it’s very important. “You break that huge goal into tiny goals and then you set yourself one or several tiny goals every year, or half a year, or even every month, whatever works best for you. You’ll be there before you know it.”

Julia pauses the video and pats the carpet in search of her journal.

Monthly goals, she writes down, underlines it.

Monthly chapter goals.

Monthly submission goals?

She unpauses the video.

“But you need to put in the work,” Michelle continues. “It’s not going to be a walk in the park, alright? If you don’t ‘have time’” – she does air quotes – “to work on your project, you need to make time. If you don’t feel like writing today, that’s just a feeling, and you can push past that.” 

The background in Michelle’s videos is one giant bookshelf. Some of the books are facing forward – those that have her name on them.

“Number three. Effective time management is pivotal,” says Michelle. “Try taking the twenty-four hours of the day and assigning them a purpose. If you mark down work for eight hours, plus getting there and back – that makes it nine hours – and sleep for eight hours, you are at seventeen. That leaves seven hours you can potentially spend working on your project.”

Julia seesaws her pen up and down against the pages of her journal. On bad days, school’s also eight hours. But she needs to account for homework. The view count below the video hits around thirty thousand. How many of these people are still in school, Julia wonders. Not a lot, probably. She’s got a head start.

“Number four. It’s obviously a long-term commitment, maybe a forever commitment, and putting in the work is key, but there’s a useful thing that you can do right now. It sounds cliché, but I promise it’s going to give your confidence a boost, and it seems like it worked for Octavia Butler, if that’s anything to go by. That is, speak your goals into existence. Say ‘I’m going to be a best-selling author.’ Or write it down, after all, we’re writers.”

Not all thirty thousand are going to be bestselling authors. Or authors at all. Who knows how many of these guys even have a finished novel to their name? Julia does. Almost.  

“Say it not like it’s a thing that you want to happen,” Michelle says, “but say it like it is a thing that is going to happen. Make it destiny. Make it inevitable.”

Julia grabs her journal and her pen. Then she puts the pen back down it in favor of a sharpie. She dedicates one page for each statement.

I am going to be a published author before I’m 20.

She flips the page.

I am going to be a renowned author before I’m 25.

She flips the page.

I will be extraordinary.

5 - The Sad Lesbians, not the Cool Ones

With a single tap of Hayal’s pen, gray fills the entire canvas. She sighs and reverses, zooms in and squints for gaps in her line-art. Ah, there we are. A shirt line doesn’t quite connect to the skirt. She draws in what’s hardly more than a dot and tries to match the pressure so it’s the same weight as the rest of the lines. Good, fixed. On the next, resolute tap, gray spills over the entire canvas again and Hayal hangs her head in defeat.

She shoves her tablet closer to the edge of the bed and drops onto her back, closes her eyes, and takes a second to very purposefully, very consciously, groan. With a question of what’s the time, anyway, she pulls out her phone. 22:31, the night is still young.

A couple of seconds later, Hayal’s scrolling through Twitter. And another couple of minutes later, a notification pops up on the top of her screen.

“What-!”, she yells, before the phone slips out her hand.

For a moment Hayal lies there in silence and accepts that she dropped her phone on her face. She picks it up and rubs her nose. When she turns the screen back on, she does so carefully, with the lightest press of a button, like the message is going to disappear if she looks at it directly.

No, it’s still there.

Tien [22:34]: How are you?

“What!” Hayal reiterates.

She stares at the message until another one comes in.

Julia [22:36]: What are you yelling about

Hayal pushes herself off the bed, zigzags through her mess and, two seconds later, stands in Julia’s room, gripping the doorframe.

“Tien messaged me,” she says.

“She did?”

The tidiness of Julia’s room is passively shaming. There’s not a thing on the floor, instead, the things are on shelves, and some of them are organized alphabetically. All that’s on the bed is Julia, already in her pajamas, the phone next to her, and the journal she’s just putting down.

“Look,” says Hayal. She clambers onto the bed and levels the phone to Julia’s face. “It’s all spelled out, too. And the first letter is capitalized. I know she has auto-capitalization off. She’s a lowercase texter. And the punctuation? There’s a whole question mark.”

Julia’s eyes move from left to right until a smile springs up in the corner of her mouth. “’Lean Mean Tien Machine’?”

“That’s from back when we were still together.”

“And you didn’t change her name?”

“Was I supposed to?”

“I guess people usually would.” Julia shrugs. “One could argue that it implies that you’re not over her.” 

“I mean, I absolutely am not over her but that’s got nothing to do with my shitty phone organization.” Hayal withdraws her phone and scrolls. “Most of my contacts are just numbers. I read the messages to figure out who it is.”

“Am I saved as anything?” Julia asks.

“Yeah, you’re ‘Julia’.”

“Ah.”

“Okay, focus.” Hayal calls up the message again. “What am I supposed to say?”

“Well, how are you?”

“That’s a loaded question.”

“You could tell her that.”

“I don’t know,” Hayal sways from side to side. “She’s being serious, right? She’s using her serious voice, with the question mark and all. Shouldn’t I be serious, too?”

“You weren’t?”

“No, it was a joke.”

Julia shuffles a bit. Hayal squints at the phone, chewing on her lip.

“Do you think she wants to get back together?”

“Did she text you at all since you broke up?

“No.”

“Chances are good, I guess.”

“Ah. Oh.” Hayal grinds her teeth and leans against the wall. “Oh man. Oh boy.”

“Do you want to get back together?”

“No.”

Julia smiles a little helplessly. “You should probably tell her that?”

“Don’t want to.”

“Why?”

“’Cause. That’s not really a good answer to ‘how are you’. Also I love her so, so much.”

“Oof,” Julia sits back, journal clutched to her chest. “Oof, Hayal.”

Hayal keeps sitting on Julia’s bed, back to the wall and the phone in her lap. She takes several deep breaths. She calls up the messenger keyboard and backs out again. She briefly considers sending only a solitary crying-laughing emoji. Then she’s typing.

“You got something?” Julia flips through the pages of her journal, furrowing her brow every few entries.

“Mhm.”

Why are you asking, Hayal types, and deletes.

How come?

She deletes.

Why do you ask? She hits send, sets her phone to vibrate, and puts it face down on the blanket. Don’t look at it again, don’t wait for typing… to pop up next to her name. Just chill. But how? Julia’s scribbling something in her journal. Hayal slides down the wall a couple of centimeters and folds her arms. There are tall stacks of paper and even taller stacks of books on Julia’s carefully organized desk. The walls are blank save for a singular slip of white paper printed in a font too small to read from here.

The phone buzzes.

Tien [22:54]: You looked really done when I saw you today

Hayal’s mouth opens as if she’s going to say something. Obviously, she isn’t.

Hayal [22:54]: Yeah I’m kinda tired

Tien [22:55]: can’t sleep?

Hayal [22:55]: Drawing all night

Should she mention it? Yeah, she’s gonna mention it.

Hayal [22:56]: Sort of live off it now

Tien [22:56]: FOR REAL?

Tien [22:56}: THAT’S INSANE

Hayal [22:57]: I guess

She peppers the crying emoji into the message. Twice. Then she deletes the second one and sticks with that.

Hayal [22:58]: It’s a lot tho

Hayal [22:58]: I haven’t seen the sun in months

Tien [22:59]: don’t leave the house much?

Hayal [22:59]: Not at all

Hayal [23:00]: Like I straight up couldn’t tell you when I last went outside

Tien [23:00]: hayal. that’s like a recipe for depression

Hayal [23:01]: I know

Hayal chews on her bottom lip. She’s halfway into deciphering the individual book titles on Julia’s desk, when the phone buzzes against her palms.

Tien [23:03]: actually

Tien [23:03]: do you feel like leaving your cave

Tien [23:04]: cause I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a while

Hayal slams down the phone like it bit her. She looks at Julia with big eyes. Julia looks up from her journal.

“She says she wants to talk.”

“Oh, there it is.”

“What do I say?”

“Don’t ask me, you know yourself better.” Julia furrows her brow. “And Tien definitely. Do you want to talk to her?”

“I think. I wanna see her.”

Julia vaguely gestures towards the phone. Hayal picks it back up and takes a deep breath.

Hayal [23:05] When?

“I’ve never actually been in a real relationship, you know?” Julia says, eyes back on her journal. “I’m probably not the best person to ask for advice.”

“You haven’t?”

“I mean technically I have.” She bounces the closed pen off the current page. “But I don’t really think that counts because both of them were before I realized I like girls.”

“Ha,” says Hayal, “how long did they last?”

“Longest was three weeks. I honestly thought I was the problem.”

The phone in Hayal’s hand buzzes.

“Still not entirely sure I’m not.” Julia says.

Tien [23:07]: i’m kinda tied up with some band organization stuff right now, but have you ever seen us all play

Hayal [23:07]: Only on youtube

Tien [23:08]: you could join us for next band practice

Tien [23:08]: that is if you want

Tien [23:08]: it’s friday

Hayal holds her breath, tracing the little letters with her eyes. She gets up, opens Julia’s door, and shouts into the rest of the apartment: “Kiwi?”

After a couple of seconds, there’s a muffled answer through the wall: “Yeah?”

Hayal crosses the kitchen and pokes her head into Kiwi’s room.

“Do you mind if I tag along on Friday?”

5.5 - Hayal is seventeen

Closer to eighteen, and when she comes home from school, her mom is waiting for her in the kitchen, sitting at the table in a superficial state of calm, holding a dainty cup of coffee to her lips. The green-white-checkered tablecloth has been cleared of everything but an equally dainty saucer, and a stark white envelope.

There’s a moment of pause in which Hayal’s brain time-lapses the past couple of months, trying to recall something that she’s done that she shouldn’t have, and arrives at the conclusion that there’s nothing in that A-student life of hers that fits that description. But then – hold on – hold on. Hayal steps closer and scans the address on the letter.

“No.”

“It’s the moment of truth, baby.”

It’s been how long since she sent in the portfolio? Months, too many. She thought they’d ghosted her by now. Hayal hesitates to pick up the envelope. It’s all by itself on the table, flat and white, and automatically generated, valid without signature. Looming.

Hayal grabs it. Pokes through the glue, pries it open with her fingernails. Unfolds the letter.

It’s quiet. Enough for Hayal to hear the ticking of her mom’s wrist watch.

“’You have been admitted.’”

The cup clinks against the saucer, Hayal’s mom rises from her chair.

“You have been admitted,” Hayal says.

Her mom wraps her arms around her, actually picks her up a little, which she hasn’t done in approximately eight years.

“’You have been admitted’!” Hayal screams. She pumps her fist into the air, letter still in the other one, nearly topples her mom. “I’ve been fucking admitted!”

“I’ll excuse the language this time.” Hayal’s mom sets her down, hugs her again. “This is fantastic. I’m so proud of you, Hayal.”

There’s a sting in Hayal’s eyes, but it’s the best kind of sting that could possibly be in one’s eyes.

“Oh,” she gently frees herself from the hug. “I need to –”

“Yes. Go.”

Hayal runs to grab the jacket she put down five minutes ago and pockets her phone, her keys. Erdem’s head pokes out from the corner, exuding an aura that only a thirteen-year-old with headphones dangling around his neck can exude. “Why are you yelling?”

Hayal doesn’t stop walking as she turns around, claps her hands in front of his face.

“I’m going to art school! Ha!”

Two seconds later she’s on the stairs, speeding past the other doors and speed-dialing Tien.

C’mon, pick up.

It rings two, three times, then it clicks.

“What’s wrong?”

Neither of them are phone call people.

“Guess what,” Hayal says.

There’s a moment of static silence, as if Tien is actually trying to guess.

Finally: “No!”

“Yes!”

“Oh, fuck.” Tien laughs, first a little, then a lot. “Oh shit! Wait, hold on, I’m coming over.”

“No! I’m coming over already, you stay where you are!”

“Let’s meet in the middle.”

The park’s rusty with fall and the onset of evening. Between the people lying in the grass, catching the last scraps of light, Hayal sees Tien jogging her way. She’s not hard to spot in her all-black. Her shoulder-length hair is up in a ponytail, she’s wearing her glasses instead of contacts.

“You fucking –” is the first thing Tien says when she’s within shouting distance. “You fucking artist, you!”

There’s the tightest possible hug, and when they separate, Tien takes Hayal’s face in both hands and kisses her, again.

6 -Local Bassist Tien Thanh Le Demonstrates German Efficiency by Causing Two Crises at Once

The bus smells almost like new car. Hayal traces the randomized pattern on the seat in front of her. She knows her shoulders are up to her ears, and she knows that must be terrible for her already wonky posture, but she’s going to cut herself some slack because, after all, she’s out here, in public. She sits in the window seat and Kiwi by the aisle. If he hadn’t managed to push his parents’ visit back, chances are Hayal wouldn’t have come either. 

“Okay, but,” Kiwi sends a text and sets his phone down on his leg, “how come? Since when have you two been talking again?”

“Literally only the two days. She really just went ‘hey, Hayal, how’s it going? I wanna talk to you, so how about Friday’ and I was like –” She looks at Kiwi with the most shaken-to-the-core expression she can muster.

Because the silence had been broken, she had wondered if they’d go back to sending good morning and good night texts now, but Tien hasn’t messaged her since. Hayal also hasn’t messaged Tien.

“How do you feel about that?” Kiwi asks.

Hayal leans her head back against the seat and stretches her legs under the one in front of her. “I don’t know.” She eyes the lifeless fluorescent lamp on the ceiling of the bus. “I’ve been missing her.”

There’s a beat of silence, then another one while Kiwi checks his phone.

“Hope this doesn’t get messy,” he says. “Even if you two get back together, Julia’s in her room now, so-”

“Hw- Wha- Now, hold on, now, mister. You’re kinda skipping several – kinda skipping the whole staircase here. We’re not trying to get back together.”

“Okay,” says Kiwi, with special emphasis on the ‘o’. He passes his phone from one hand to the other. “So, what is it, then? A ‘we should stay friends’ thing?”

Hayal gives him a Look.

“See, this is important to me because I love you both.”

“I genuinely don’t have a clue.”

“But, I mean, you…” Kiwi fizzles out at the sight of Hayal’s index finger raised towards his face. “Yeah?”

“You know, you can keep prying,” she says, a twitch in the corner of her mouth, “but I will pry back.”

“I’m like ninety percent sure there isn’t a single thing about my personal life I haven’t told you at some point.”

“Mh-hm.” Hayal glances at Kiwi’s phone. “Like whatever is going on between you and Oskar.”

Kiwi shoves the phone in his pocket and folds his hands. “Fine.”

Another bus stop, five minutes of walking, and a few jabs at a lack of punctuality later, Hayal finds herself holding a camera and filming Divine Discontent starting the same song over and over. That’s something she’s volunteered to do, not just because she’d hate to sit on her ass and watch while everyone else is trying to create something, but also because she’d like it to seem as if Tien wasn’t the only reason for her being here.

The aesthetic dissonance between the four members is only more potent with the thick jackets everyone’s wearing. Yet Divine Discontent come together to deliver the world’s most concentrated and also only interpretation of post-progressive pseudoglam queercore – a genre that Hayal had trouble visualizing up until right this moment.

She’s got to admit, they are leaving an impression.  

It’s mindboggling how Oskar’s able to sing his heart right out, even though he knows people can hear and see him – and how Kiwi plays as though they couldn’t. Either the bass is more prominent in this song than in others, or you only really notice the bass when you begin to notice the bassist. In her heavy leather jacket and fingerless gloves, Tien works through the strings. In this moment, she radiates such an unfair amount of confidence that in the rare case of Tien messing up her chords, Hayal is more inclined to believe that something is wrong with her own ears. Mona’s awkwardness around people that aren’t part of her little in-circle falls away completely and Hayal hopes for a drum solo in the other half of the song, because the vision of her unrestrained drumming is just delightful.

The problem is, Divine Discontent has yet to get to the other half of the song. The second verse is as far as they get before someone – usually Kiwi – overwhelmingly Kiwi – calls for a redo.

Every time the music stops and the band take a couple of seconds to refocus – and for Kiwi to brief everyone on an alternate version of the lyrics he’d like them to try – Hayal carefully sets the camera on an old workbench that she herself would not dare sit on, squats down, and burrows her hands in the pockets of her parka. The shack is cold as hell and her back hurts from standing – something that she, come to think of it, hasn’t done a lot in the recent past.

“Ready?” Kiwi asks into the room. Hayal picks the camera back up and aims. After three nods from his bandmates – and one from Hayal – Kiwi begins to pluck the intro from his guitar strings.

Since Oskar’s the only vocalist but all members of Divine Discontent have tried their hands at songwriting, they’ve made it a habit to establish a personal signature by giving the intro of a song to whoever wrote the bulk of it. This means, to his mild distress, that two thirds of Divine Discontent’s songs start with Kiwi’s guitar.

Upside down, but I try standing my ground/ An hour, a decade, to speak out loud are the first lines Oskar sings, his voice the cue for the other instruments to kick in. The plan is to record two versions, one with a spoken bridge to the last chorus, and one without. As last time, however, the second instance of And now I’m glad I wasted my childhood/ Because now if I wanted to I could/ Live twice as fast and skip all the dull parts is the farthest they’ve come before Kiwi stops playing the guitar to rub his hands over his face and groan. One after the other, the instruments fall away.

Hayal stops recording.

“What now?” asks Tien.

“I can’t deal with the – it’s still –” Kiwi gestures, as he tends to, in shapes that make no sense to anyone but him. “Ew.”

Tien sighs, twice as long as someone would normally sigh.

“No worries,” says Oskar. “How about five everyone?”

“Ten,” says Kiwi.

“Even better.” Oskar pulls a bag of loose tobacco from his pocket and taps it onto a sheet of rolling paper.

“Uh-huh. I see you,” says Kiwi. He leans his guitar against the wall and wipes at his forehead.

Oskar gives him a grin, already heading towards the door. “Voice maintenance. What can I do?” 

A clang of sheet metal announces the door dropping shut. Mona stretches, shakes her arms, stands up, and stretches again. Hayal and Tien stand idly.

“So, how is it?” asks Mona slowly. She cracks her fingers, first cupping her right hand with her left, then her left hand with her right.

Tien grimaces at the sound. “How is what,” she asks.

“Hayal’s here so you can have a conversation, right?” Her eyes dart from Tien to Hayal.

“Ten minutes might just be enough for a conversation,” Kiwi says, “and I have a feeling the break might stretch a little.”

Mona nods thoughtfully. “Might just stretch a bit.”

“I’m never telling you anything ever again.” Slowly, Tien turns to Hayal, her lips approaching a smile. “Wanna go and have a conversation?”

Hayal follows Tien out into the yard, leaving behind Kiwi and Mona’s discussion about whether ‘live twice as fast’ is pretentious or not, past Oskar who gives them a thumbs-up and is met with an affectionate middle finger.

They find themselves stopping and standing behind the workshop; the yellow motion sensor light drowns out the blue hour and Hayal can see the air she breathes. She leans against the sheet metal wall, her hands in her pockets. Tien stands in front of her, her hands in her pockets as well.

No one says a thing.

“’Suuup,” says Hayal, as blatantly embarrassing as possible – ‘cause if you do it intentionally you can’t do it accidentally.

“Yeah, shit.” Tien says. “I forgot what I wanted to say.”

Hayal debates whether she should grin at Tien. She’d like to.

“Alright, it’s back. Be prepared.”

“Preparing.”

Tien brings up her hands, thumbs in line with her fingers, and jolts them back down in a parallel motion. “I saw you on Wednesday,” she says.

Hayal nods.   

“And it kinda pulled the rug out from under my feet how much I –” she stops and squints at the air, “– miss… your presence? In my life?”

Hayal blinks. “Holy shit.”

“Look, listen,” there’s a lopsided grin on Tien’s face, “as sappy as it is, gotta let it out.”

“Okay,” Hayal says. “Okay, okay. Okay. Let me think.” She breathes in, out. “I miss your presence, too. I really do. I mean, you’re pretty much the coolest person I know.”

Tien smiles. She says: “How are you doing right now?”

“Mentally?”

“Yeah.”

Hayal chews at the inside of her cheek. “Okay. I’d like to say I’m doing okay. I’m a bit behind on commissions which is, you know, stressful, but – I’m doing okay.”

Tien’s smile more and more turns into a diagonal line.

“What about you?” Hayal asks, something she hadn’t done enough in the past. “How are you?”

“Been better,” says Tien. “Worse, too. Spent a lot of time at my mom’s house lately, that’s as close to vacation as I’m gonna get.”

“Cool,” Hayal says. She smiles. There’s so much more she wants to say, but more could lead to more still.

With her boot Tien flattens the frozen grass before she looks back up at Hayal. “When I said I miss your presence – I don’t know if that’s weird – I’m not saying that we need to be together again. I mean, not that that’s impossible…”

“Do you want to be back together?”

“Don’t know. You?”

“Don’t know.”

A beat of silence.

“When I say I miss you,” says Tien. “What I mean is I miss you. I miss talking to you and seeing you and sitting in cafés talking for hours about whatever shit is on our minds, you feel?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“And,” says Tien. “We don’t need to get back together. We don’t need to be together to be together, right?”

“So, you’re asking a year later if we wanna stay friends?” Hayal asks.

“I guess, yeah. Because I wanna spend time with you and I like you.”

“I like you and want to spend time with you, too.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.” As is her first reflex when a conversation flattens, Hayal reaches for the phone in her pocket and finds two new emails. She stuffs it back quickly. “Do you feel like sitting in a café and talking for hours about whatever in the near future? I feel like I need to get out more.”

“Sure,” Tien says, and that feels nice.

There’s a mechanical buzzing in the air and just when Hayal glances up to the motion sensor lamp, Tien pulls her own phone from her jacket. Her face lights up as she checks the screen. “Oh shit, I need to look at that real quick.”

She turns away from Hayal, hunched over her phone and reads with wide open eyes. Hayal resists the urge to look over her shoulder.

Tien keeps standing there, frozen like that even after the light of her screen stops illuminating her face.

“What happened?”

Tien turns around with a grin on her face that seems to get wider by the second. “Let’s go back inside.” She takes Hayal’s hand and draws her back towards the front of the workshop. “There’s news.”

***

Kiwi stands between Oskar and Mona, huddled around Tien’s phone screen as she holds it up to them, arm fully stretched. The brightness is turned all the way up and makes Kiwi squint. What glares back at them is an email correspondence. Subject: “A question” sent by Tien Thanh Le, “Re: A question” answered by Michael Grünberg, Event Manager. Kiwi’s still frozen solid as Oskar high-fives Tien’s free hand. Mona gapes, switching back and forth between looking at Tien and looking at the phone. “You need to give me a pinkie promise that this is not a prank.”

“Read it again, if you have to.” Tien grins, ear to ear. “No prank. It’s real, black on white.”

Mona gasps. In lieu of her own hands being enough, she clutches Tien’s hands to her chest and bounces up and down, squealing in delight. (Tien neither bounces or squeals with her – can’t risk her hard-ass punk cred.)

Kiwi stands there stock-still, fingers frozen in the middle of reaching for the phone, which has since traveled from Tien to Oskar and from Oskar to Hayal. “Wait. No, wait. What? What? What is this?”

“It’s exactly what it looks like,” Tien says. Kiwi can’t recall the last time he’s seen her so giddy. “The opening act at Tristan’s dropped out, so we’re up.” 

“Tristan’s?”

“It’s a bar.”

“Opening act?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Us?”

“Opening act.” Tien nods. “Us. You can repeat the rest of the sentence as well if that’s what it takes.”

“You’re kidding, right? You’re joking.”

“Dead serious,” says Tien.

Kiwi takes a step back, a step to the side, and one to the other. Cranes his neck to look at Oskar. At Mona. Hayal, too. No one else seems as alarmed as he is. He opens and closes his mouth like a fish. “When did this–” He gets the phone from Hayal. He reads over the email again. Looks up, looks down. Up again. “Who is this, even?”

“Tristan’s event manager. I’ve been scouting for places we might have a chance in,” says Tien, her voice aims for calm and confident, specifically cause Kiwi is neither. “I’ve been sending emails and requests for a while now.”

“And, and,” says Kiwi, “and you didn’t say anything? Anything at all?”

“I may have forgotten to mention it.”

“You can’t just sign us up for a concert!” Each of Kiwi’s sentences comes out a different pitch than the one before. “We can’t even get through the entirety of ‘Now’!”

“It’s not a concert,” Oskar chimes in. “Makes you think too big and intimidating. It’s a small gig at a niche club, that’s all. It’s LGBT-friendly, too. Mona’s been there before.”

“They have pretty decent non-alcoholic options,” supplies Mona.

Kiwi turns around to Oskar, mouth forming a couple of soundless shapes before finding his voice. “Were you in on this?”

“I was in on this.”

Kiwi turns to Mona. She gives him an apologetic smile.

“No.”

“I wasn’t at first, if that helps.”

Kiwi takes another step back, unable to close his mouth, and gestures helplessly at all three of his bandmates. “What the fuck?”

Hayal, sucking air in through her teeth, withdraws to fiddle with the camera.

“Why am I–” Kiwi swallows down a voice crack, potentially several. “Why am I the only one who didn’t know about this?”

“It’s not like we all actively conspired against you. Tien just told me at some point,” Oskar says, “Mona figured her out eventually.”

“But you didn’t tell me?” Kiwi’s voice climbs the octaves and remains adamantly on the verge of a shriek. “None of you?”

Tien and Oskar exchange a few negotiating glances – a ‘you do it – no, you’ type deal – Mona investigates the wall with a tight mouth.

Oskar sighs, resigned to his fate. “We figured,” he says, “it would stress you out.”

“AND IT IS NOT DOING THAT RIGHT NOW?”

“Okay,” Oskar says. “Okay. Breathe, Kiwi.”

Kiwi, all red in the face, does not do that. “And it’s so soon, too! There’s no way we would have time to – Do we even have a set? Do we have enough songs?”

“We’ll do covers in between original ones,” says Tien. “I’ve thought about this.”

“You’ve thought about this!?” Kiwi whirls around, points at Tien, points at himself. “Maybe you should’ve thought about involving me in the decision-making process!”

Hayal murmurs to the camera: “He’s got a point.”

Kiwi clutches his feverish forehead, finally breathes, or at least forces his chest to rise and fall. “No,” he announces, “No, no, no. No bar. No gig. We’re not doing this.”

Tien, Oskar, and Mona look at each other and the temperature in the frigid shack drops further. On their faces, in order: Stoicism, patience, and uncertainty. What is not there is compromise. 

“Okay, well,” says Kiwi. “I’m not doing this.”

He snatches his guitar from its resting place against the wall, its case from the floor, and squats down to get one into the other as fast as humanly possible.

“Kiwi, come on,” says someone – Oskar – but Kiwi shrugs it off in his rush to pick up his jacket, shoulder the guitar case, and make it to the door. There’s another bargaining “Kiwi!” before the metal door slams shut and the sound reverberates across the yard.

***

Kiwi speed-walks past the fences of afternoon suburbia. Part of his brain registers that he’s still wearing an outfit he put on under the assumption that he wasn’t gonna be alone in public, part of his brain registers that he’s freezing his ass off because he didn’t actually put the jacket on, but most of it is preoccupied with the fact that his bandmates collectively backstabbed him. That’s what they did, so he wasn’t wrong to storm off. No reason to feel bad about it. He doesn’t owe them to stay and listen to their excuses, he doesn’t owe them shit.

About halfway to the bus stop, hasty footsteps catch up with him. Kiwi considers walking faster, but that’d mean he’d end up sprinting and that’s just not attainable with a guitar case on your back. He turns around, sees Hayal, and is immediately stung by guilt.

“You’re really just gonna leave me like that?” Hayal pants. As soon as she comes to a stop, she braces her hands against her knees. “With my ex and two people I sort-of-know-but-not-super-well? That’s cold.”

“Sorry,” Kiwi catches his breath. “Really. I just – What?” He points his jacket back in the direction of the practice shed. “Did you hear this? Did you see this? Please tell me what I think happened actually happened and I didn’t just overreact.”

“You didn’t overreact. I think.”

“I can’t with this.” He takes a step towards Hayal then a step back. “I’m leaving. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to cut your time with Tien short. Sorry.”

“It’s okay, we said our pieces.”

“Yeah?” Kiwi’s already walking backwards down the sidewalk.

“Yeah.”

The two of them continue at a pace that allows Kiwi to hand Hayal the guitar case for a second to slip on his jacket. He’s still shaking his head when he drops onto the plastic bus shelter bench. Hayal sits down next to him and buries her hands in her parka.

“Should be here in like five minutes,” he says to the time display on his phone’s lock screen. With finally a second to rest, he leans his head back against the glass wall. And because it is a glass wall, Kiwi has no problem spotting Oskar jog down the street once he turns his head to the left.

“Careful, you’re in throwing range,” Kiwi says, back on his feet, his phone raised, as Oskar approaches the bus stop.

“I come in peace,” says Oskar, voice calm as a Sunday morning. He’s not wearing a jacket either. “Lower your weapon and hear me out.”

Kiwi doesn’t change his stance; his phone remains in the air.

“Look, Kiwi, we love you, but we need to put ourselves out there at some point and so far you’ve kept stalling and dodging every opportunity.”

“So you decide to just go behind my back? What kind of friends do that?”

“Not the most graceful maneuver for sure.” Oskar concedes. “But–”

“But? You’re really going to but me right now?”

“You don’t come out of your shell unless you get a little push.”

“Push,” says Kiwi. “That’s not a push, that’s betrayal.”

“You don’t come out of your shell unless you get a little betrayal, then.”

Kiwi jolts his arm back, ready to chuck.

Oskar raises his hands.

“So, Tristan’s, right. It’s small. It’s niche. Relatively non-threatening. That’s why Mona suggested it to Tien in the first place.” He tilts his head gently. “It’s a real place that actual people go to. YouTube’s not doing anything for us, so we have to take actual steps. This is an actual step. People would actually see us, hear us.”

“I think,” says Kiwi, “I’m gonna throw up.”

“Look–”

“No.”

“This whole thing was definitely sneaky and lowkey unfair–”

“Highkey unfair.”

“–and highkey unfair, but two weeks from now, when we’ve had our gig, and we’re standing on a little stage and a couple of people are cheering because they liked what we did, then it’s gonna be okay. Promise.”

“Well! Look!” Kiwi gestures very intensely at nothing in particular. “Two weeks from now! I’ll be neck-deep in my history didactics exam!”

“On a Saturday?”

Kiwi opens his mouth and closes it a couple of times. “Monday. But I need that weekend to cram.”

“You’ve still got two weeks.”

“And there are still two more exams and an essay! I’m busy!”

“Tien didn’t know that it was gonna be so soon when she messaged that event manager guy. I’m pretty sure she didn’t even expect a reply. But here we are. We have that chance now, even though it’s shitty how we got there.”

“I don’t know how to tell you that you should’ve considered this before organizing a gig without the whole band’s knowledge.”

“I mean I didn’t really organize anything–”

“Plural you.”

“Right.” Oskar takes a breath, decelerates the conversation. “Look, I’m sorry.”

Kiwi watches him, waits. “But?”

“No but. I am sorry.”

Kiwi crosses his arms.

“Is this really only about your exams, though?”

“Well, no, there’s also the whole ‘I’m super fucking mad’ aspect and–” He resets himself, takes a breath, then overenunciates every word. “I’m just not going to embarrass myself like this.”

Oskar furrows his brow.

“I don’t know if that’s a concept that you can grasp, though. Embarrassment.”

“Sure is. That’s why we didn’t tell you.”

“I’m going to throw up.” Kiwi steps back and leans against the shelter wall. “And what’s more, I’ll throw up directly, specifically, on you.”

“Boys,” says Hayal.

Kiwi and Oskar turn their heads.

She points at the corner of the street that’s currently being rounded by a familiar bus with a familiar number on display.

“Thank god.” Kiwi picks up his guitar and fishes for his ticket, which turns out to be redundant when the driver opens the doors in the back as well. One person gets off. Hayal gets on, waits.

“Alright,” says Oskar, hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. “Call me when you’re ready to talk.”

“You’ll need to find someone else for the gig.” For a moment, Kiwi lingers with one foot still on the pavement. “I really, genuinely, have exams. I can’t.”

“Don’t worry about it right now.” Oskar raises his voice to reach past the closing doors. “The 26th is still two weeks and a day away. You’ve got time!”

Kiwi doesn’t respond. Air hisses as the bus lifts its sideways tilt back up and the engine shakes the floor below him. He watches Oskar turn around and saunter back towards his grandparents’ house, hands still in his pockets, before the bus turns out of the street and he loses sight.

“Kiwi,” says Hayal. She nods towards a free seat to her right and Kiwi plops down next to her.

He hoists his backpack onto his lap and starts rummaging through it. “Is it okay if I-”

“Sure.”

Kiwi pulls his headphones over his ears. For the rest of the bus ride, he closes his eyes and listens to the music.

[sarkos]

"I wanted to see how many people would actually pay for the more expensive, 'Made in the USA' version," van Meer said. So, he set up an online experiment. On his website, where customers can already choose from a variety of finishes — chrome, nickel or black — for their showerheads, van Meer offered two options: The imported showerhead for $129 and a domestic version costing about $100 more. The higher price for the domestic option was based on what it would cost van Meer to stitch together a supply chain from scratch — one company to handle the plastic molding, another to do the metal plating and a third to supply the special filter that removes chlorine and heavy metals. No single company is making a product like that in the U.S. today, and if van Meer wanted to start, he figured he'd have to charge about 85% more than he currently does for the imported version. What he found from his experiment could pour cold water on Trump's effort to encourage more domestic manufacturing. The results were not even close. Of the more than 25,000 people who visited the website during the two-week trial, about 600 ordered the imported showerhead. Not a single person clicked on the more expensive, "Made in the USA" model.

What a Texas showerhead salesman discovered about 'Made in the USA' labels : NPR