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dreamersparacosm · 2 months ago

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jeon jungkook - the price of desire (part nine)

warnings ; well.. oral (f recieving) light choking, he hits it from the back, front, idk i lost count, she feels him in her stomach? (realism has left the chat)

prompt ; in which you learn that your dignity has a price, and unfortunately, it looks a lot like Jeon Jungkook in Calvin Klein boxers.

note ; here it is. my baby. my pride and joy. my biggest accomplishment that i will be hanging on my fridge with my hello kitty magnet. not even kidding i rewrote this part four times. four full rewrites. not because the words weren’t working, but because i knew this part had to hit just right.

writing that was hard!! i love these characters so much it physically hurts sometimes. ive lived inside this world for months now, and bringing them to this point broke something in me in the best way (also healed me??? idk dealers choice) the process wasn’t pretty. there were pacing debates, deleted scenes, google docs full of one-sentence paragraphs. through all of it though, one woman held my hand: miss taylor swift.

required listening for this part is this is me trying by tswift. (it’s actually required, the lyrics are THEIRS)

to all of you who’s sent me theories, essays, questions, unhinged keysmashes, character analyses, or even just a quiet “i love this” — thank you. thank you for seeing these characters the way i see them and for lovingly watching on the sidelines when two people experience the ache of wanting something they’re afraid they’ll ruin. you’ve made this story so fun to write!!! i hope, when you reach that last line, that it all feels right to you too. enjoy!!

playlist here

series masterlist here

When you were seven, you ran away from a kitchen fire before anyone else smelled the smoke. You bolted — barefoot, wild-eyed, arms flailing — as the toaster sparked and your mother screamed your name. You learned two things that day: one, that survival is instinct and two, that no one follows a girl who flees first. Ever since then, you’ve made an art of it, of leaving before you’re left, of outrunning the collapse before it’s had time to announce itself.

Even now, you still run like the building is burning.

You book a one-way flight back to Los Angeles with a violence that surprises even you, fingers stabbing at your phone screen, credit card number punched in before the doubt can catch up to your impulse. No pause for breath. No moment to excavate what just splintered apart in Seoul. Just the brutal efficiency of escape.

When the plane finally lifts, Korea dissolving beneath a cotton shroud of clouds, you search yourself for something that might feel like catharsis. But there's only absence. A vacuum where emotion should live.

Not the sweet release you'd imagined.

Not the peace you'd convinced yourself would follow.

Not even regret, which might have offered its own strange comfort.

There's a stillness inside you, resonating like footsteps in an empty gallery after the crowds have gone. You've become a visitor in your own body, observing from the outside.

The campaign, with all its frantic choreography of stress and miracles has finally wound down. The endless parade has halted: no more lighting to approve, no more impossible deadlines to somehow bend to your will through sheer force of determination. No more 4 A.M. calls with production when everything threatened to fall apart.

(No more Jungkook. Almost. You can taste it on the tip of your tongue.)

Tomorrow, it all launches.

You should be electric with anticipation. You should be riding the intoxication of knowing that in storefronts across continents, space is being cleared for what everyone predicts will redefine the brand's trajectory. Success is waiting,, yours to claim.

Instead, you're suspended in a strange limbo. Present but not present. Moving through the the world like someone playing the role of you in a film about your life.

You've become the most convincing ghost in your own story.

You slip back into the LA office like that same ghost returning to familiar hauntings, moving with that quietness people develop when they've spent years trying to be noticed while simultaneously proving themselves indispensable. The ritual feels stolen from another life: coffee warming one palm, the other hand clutching your phone with determination, as if the device might try to escape.

You lose yourself in the launch preparation, drowning in press releases that need one more edit, retailer confirmations requiring verification, social media calendars demanding timing. You orchestrate influencer packages like a general deploying troops, analyze backend metrics with the intensity of someone decoding ancient hieroglyphics.

Because busy hands can't text people.

Because typing another email means not typing his name.

Because every spreadsheet you complete is another reason not to wonder what he's doing right now.

When Jungkook's name illuminates your phone screen for the fifth time that day, something in your chest contracts with such sudden pain that for a moment, you forget how to breathe. You've developed a new skill: the swiftness with which you decline his calls, a movement so practiced it's become second nature. Your finger swipes across his name each time.

Voicemail. Another notification. Voicemail. The red badge multiplying like evidence.

Everything bearing his digital fingerprint gets redirected to Daniel. Meeting conflicts that need resolution, approval requests for campaign deliverables. Some tedious back-and-forth about choosing the right cover image for the website that would have once made you call Jungkook directly.

"Can you handle it?" The question leaves your mouth without inflection, your eyes never lifting from your laptop screen, afraid of what Daniel might read in them.

Daniel stands in your doorway, silent long enough that curiosity finally forces you to look up. The expression on his face carries such naked concern that you almost flinch.

"Are you really going to ghost your own campaign's face?" His voice is soft, which somehow makes you feel worse.

"He's not my anything," you say, the words emerging with a coldness that surprises even you. "He's the brand's."

The look Daniel gives you could incinerate entire cities, reduce them to smoke and memory. There's judgment there, yes, but beneath it something more dangerous: understanding. He retreats without pushing further.

You drag yourself to your hotel in Los Angeles at the hour when even the most dedicated workaholics have surrendered to basic human needs like sleep and food that isn't delivered by Uber Eats. It greets you with the enthusiasm of an abandoned museum exhibit — pristine, untouched, vaguely disappointed.

You answer emails until your retinas protest and your fingers develop their own Stockholm syndrome relationship with your keyboard. The clock on your laptop blinks an accusatory 2:17 A.M while you craft responses.

The Calvin Klein countdown timer on your open browser tab pulses with all the subtlety of a doomsday clock, a digital reminder that your exit strategy is right on schedule. This was always your personal three-step program: Get in. Get it done. Get out.

Jeon Jungkook was supposed to be a line item in your professional portfolio, not the tenant currently occupying all the premium real estate inside your head.

The fact that your brain has apparently thrown him a housewarming party complete with intrusive thoughts as party favors is just your psyche's idea of a practical joke.

One that unfortunately, you do not find the least bit funny.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

The launch doesn't just hit. It is literally a tidal wave. #jungkookcalvinklein is trending on Twitter at the ripe hour of 9am.

Before you've managed to convince the coffee maker that yes, today definitely requires the triple-shot setting, Times Square has transformed into a shrine to sculpted abs and Jungkook’s face. Stores unveil installations that somehow make minimalism feel maximalist.

He's everywhere.

Christ, that jawline probably has its own insurance policy, with Calvin Klein jeans on that defy the laws of physics by simultaneously hanging too low and fitting too well, silver chains adorning him.

The public response is teetering on obsession; less consumer enthusiasm and more mass religious conversion. You half-expect to see people speaking in tongues while clutching Calvin Klein shopping bags.

You don't even have time to perform your planned emotional collapse, which you'd scheduled right between "approve final press release" and "pretend to eat lunch." The universe, it seems, has no respect for your Google calendar.

There are calls to field, interviews to prep, press appearances to manage. But then, just to your luck, digital confetti in your inbox: the New York office is hosting a last-minute happy hour to celebrate the global rollout. The invitation lands with little subtlety in bold letters: SENIOR STAFF AND GLOBAL LEADS ONLY, with enough exclamation points to suggest someone's enthusiasm has escaped corporate blandness.

Your decision-making process rivals light speed. You book the flight with the impulsive confidence of someone fleeing a crime scene, pack your garment bag with a dress you haven’t worn in a while. It’s flowy, with an open back that lets you feel the breeze.

Daniel plops himself in the seat beside you on the plane, a one-man information hurricane disguised as your colleague.

You let his voice become white noise, because right now, even corporate jargon is preferable to the unauthorized commentary running through your head, the one narrating all the ways you're not thinking about Jungkook (which, ironically, is all you can think about.)

By the time you two land in Manhattan, it’s dusk, that magic hour when the city sheds its skin and slips into something more comfortable. The streets buzz with that New York electricity that called you even as a young girl in Busan, a current that used to light you up from the inside but now just makes you wonder if you ever really loved it at all.

The SoHo rooftop has undergone the standard office-to-party transformation: string lights creating the illusion that accounting departments can be romantic, glasses clinking.

For the first time since Seoul, you almost feel like a person again instead of a walking collection of unprocessed emotions wearing business casual. Not fixed, not whole, but at least functional, kind of like finding your favorite sweater that you thought was ruined in the wash.

You slip back into your social persona with ease. Your laugh doesn't even sound fake to your own ears, which feels like progress. The champagne bubbles tingle pleasantly, reminding you that sensations other than dread still exist.

It’s always been in your nature; telling stories, entertaining others. Your hands paint disaster scenarios in the air, voice dropping conspiratorially at just the right moments. When you describe finding the missing sample jacket locked in a janitor's closet, your audience erupts into that specific kind of corporate laughter. Even Daniel, standing beside you like your professional shadow, can't help but crack up.

It feels almost like... okay. Not perfect. Not Seoul-never-happened. But upright and breathing, like a houseplant that survived your vacation.

The moment shifts when Daniel's fingers tap your elbow gently. "Hey, walk with me for a second?" he murmurs.

"Sure," you respond, the word automatic as your brain runs rapid calculations on what this could possibly be about.

He leads you away from the celebration, past colleagues swapping war stories and marketing puns, until you reach the edge of the rooftop where the Manhattan skyline lights up the sky.

You exhale slowly, watching the city sparkle before you, thousands of windows lit up. The view is breathtaking in that uniquely New York way that somehow makes your problems feel both microscopic and monumentally important.

"Have you spoken to Jungkook?" Daniel asks carefully.

The question cuts through your momentary peace. Just like that, the city lights dim, the champagne goes flat in your veins, and you're back in Seoul, watching everything fall apart in high definition.

You don't answer immediately. Jaw clicks into lockdown mode. Your arms fold across your chest, the universal body language for "absolutely not having this conversation right now." If emotional armor could make sound, yours would be clanking into place.

Daniel watches you with that particular expression he reserves for when you're being self-destructive but he's too smart to say so directly. It's the look that has always made lying to him impossible, which is precisely why you've been avoiding direct eye contact.

You stare down at your drink where bubbles perform their slow surrender, fizzling into oblivion against the rim of your glass. There's probably a metaphor in there somewhere, but you're too tired to figure it out.

"No," you finally admit, "Not since Korea."

Daniel nods once, the motion small but definitive. "He asked if we were coming tonight."

Your heart performs an acrobatic routine that would qualify for the Olympics, some complicated tumble of hope, panic, and an unfortunate third thing. The champagne you've been nursing suddenly seems very fascinating.

"And?" The question emerges more breathless than you'd prefer.

"I didn't answer," Daniel replies with a shrug. "Wasn't my place."

You swallow hard enough that it feels like forcing down something solid.

"You don't have to tell me anything," he adds, tone dropping to that specific frequency of friendship where truth lives. "But I figured you'd want to know."

Somewhere in this universe, Jungkook might be wondering if you'd show up tonight. The thought lands like a stone in still water, ripples expanding outward.

What would he have done if he'd seen you here?

What would you have done if he flew from Seoul?

Worse: what might you still do?

You remain silent, lips pressed together in a thin line of indecision. Your voice might crack, words may betray you.

The truth is, you're standing at the crossroads of pride and longing, and you have absolutely no idea which direction to take.

You tilt your glass back, letting the alcohol wash across your lips before words form in your throat. “I don't know what you think you saw," you say, your gaze sliding sideways to catch Daniel's expression without fully committing to eye contact. "But I promise you, it's not some great love story."

Daniel makes a sound, a gentle hum that vibrates with something like understanding. “Never said it was," he offers,. "But something definitely happened. You've been walking around like someone left the door open and the wind knocked everything over inside you."

"Poetic," you say sarcastically and roll your eyes.

He shrugs. "I minored in creative writing."

A laugh escapes you, unexpected and genuine,"You minored in talking shit."

His grin unfolds slowly. "So? I'm right."

The silence that follows feels weighted, layered with everything you cannot bring yourself to say. Words gather in your chest, pressing against your ribs like birds against cage bars, but none find their way to your tongue.

Part of you — the part that still wakes at 3 A.M replaying conversations that cannot be undone — wants desperately to believe that your spiral has gone unnoticed. That you might still appear whole from certain angles, in certain lights.

When he speaks again, his voice has softened even more. “You know, you never really do things for yourself."

The observation catches you off-guard, slipping beneath your defensesd. Your brow furrows,"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean..." His hand lifts in a gesture that encompasses everything. His fingers trace the invisible architecture of the career you've built, brick by exhausting brick. "You do this. All of this. You're a fucking workaholic. But when was the last time you did something just because you wanted to? Just for you?"

"I wanted this campaign to succeed," you retort. Your posture straightens, shoulders squaring against accusation.

"For the company," he fires back, neither unkind nor relenting. "For the brand. For the headlines. For the part of you that refuses to lose. But not for you. Not really."

Your fingers curl more tightly around the stem of your glass. Because, like, yeah… you keep a tight ship and all, but it’s what your multimillion dollar contract calls for. In the distance, a helicopter cuts across the skyline, its searchlight briefly illuminating clouds from beneath, revealing their hidden dimensions.

Daniel turns to face you more fully, his expression shifting more dangerously sincere. "What's all this success worth if there's no one to share it with?"

You attempt a laugh that emerges more like a strangled hiccup. Your lips part for a comeback that refuses to come out while your traitorous brain launches into a highlight reel of Jungkook: his sleepy morning smile across hotel pillows, the weight of his shoulder underneath your head during that night on the beach in Busan, his laughter spilling into crevices of the hotel bar. The memories arrive uninvited, like party crashers bringing gifts you're afraid to open.

Daniel nudges your arm, pulling you back from the your thoughts. "Look, I'm not saying go get married in a garden or whatever. Although, now that I think about it, the photos would be incredible. Very Architectural Digest meets romance novel."

He grins before his expression softens. "But maybe... just maybe... it's okay to let someone in. You know, that thing humans have been doing since, like, forever."

You meet his gaze then. It's terrifying, like standing at the edge of a high dive you're not sure you remember how to use.

He's not pushing, not wielding your vulnerability. He's just reminding you, in the way only Daniel can after years of watching you build emotional fortresses, that beneath your exoskeleton of competence and control, you're still embarrassingly human. Still allowed to want something that doesn't come with metrics, target demographics, or quarterly reviews.

You exhale slowly, turning back toward the skyline,"I don't know how to do that," you admit.

"Then start small," he says with the gentle pragmatism of a man suggesting you try a new coffee shop rather than rewire your entire emotional circuitry. "Text the guy."

You shake your head, but the gesture lacks conviction. Your fingers twitch slightly against your glass, as if already rehearsing what they might type.

You squint slightly at the skyline like the answers could be written in neon across the Empire State Building: YES or NO in flashing lights, visible from miles away.

Daniel stands beside you, patient in his silence. He's always had this gift; knowing when to push and when to simply wait, creating space for you to stumble toward your own conclusions at your own stubborn pace. Somewhere beneath the layers of denial, a small, persistent voice wonders what would happen if, this one time, you stopped running long enough to find out what might catch up to you.

Finally, you exhale. "And say what?" you mutter, mouth twisting into what might be mistaken for a smile if not for the panic flickering in your eyes. "Text him: 'Hey, can't believe I ended things between us, how's your day going? Fantastic, thanks for asking!'"

Daniel chokes mid-sip, whiskey catching in his throat as laughter erupts. Amber liquid splashes dangerously close to his shirt cuff. "Jesus Christ," he wheezes, eyes watering. "Maybe workshop that a bit before hitting send."

You laugh too at that. The momentary lightness evaporates as quickly as it appeared, leaving something heavier in its wake. Your next breath feels weighted.

"He said something I can't forget," you add, voice dropping to that particular register where confessions live. You trace the condensation on your glass with one finger, drawing invisible patterns that might spell out what you're afraid to say directly. "During this fight we had... about my family."

Daniel's expression shifts, humor draining away. He watches you with that careful attention that always makes you feel seen. "What'd he say?" he asks.

You shake your head, gaze fixed on some indeterminate point beyond the rooftop's edge. The city lights blur and sharpen with each blink. "That I didn't even want to see them. That I was back in Busan for days and didn't bother. He used it like an insult. Like proof that I don't care about anything."

Daniel's silence stretches between you, allowing your words room to exist without immediate judgment. Long enough for you to lift your glass again, for the alcohol to slide down your throat and bloom warm in your chest, for you to wonder if maybe you've said too much or not enough.

Then he speaks tentatively, "Okay. Not great. But..."

You raise an eyebrow, the gesture sharp with defiance. "But?"

"But he's also not wrong." When your eyes narrow dangerously, he lifts his hands in theatrical surrender, "Not about using it against you.. that was a dick move, solid eight out of ten on the asshole scale."

His expression softens. "But about the rest of it. You kept pushing everyone away. I think you told me to forward all calls from your mom to ‘Satan’ one time. You were so scared of being known, it was easier to hide behind quarterly reports than have coffee with the people who gave you life."

Your mouth opens, a rebuttal forming on your tongue. But the words evaporate before they reach air, leaving you momentarily speechless. Some part of your brain, the part not currently occupied with denying everything, whispers that maybe, there's a sliver of truth worth examining here.

Daniel shrugs casually, with the demeanor of someone sliding the final piece into a puzzle. "Look, I don't think he meant it to hurt you. I think you hit a nerve, and he lashed out. Poorly."

He shifts on his heels, "But he also... I don't know. He kind of seems hopelessly in love with you."

You blink rapidly, as if your eyelids might somehow filter this information into something manageable. "He- what?"

A grin unfurls across Daniel's face. "Dude's clearly gone. I've watched him stare at you like you personally invented the concept of desire. Dont tell anyone this, but he’s also been blowing up the rest of the team’s phones asking if he should expect to hear from you."

You scoff, eyes rolling skyward, but a sensation you've been systematically ignoring since Seoul unfolds within you. Since before Korea, if you're being honest, which you rarely are with yourself. The memories surface unbidden: Jungkook hunting down honey butter cookies because you'd mentioned liking once. The way he'd placed the bag in front of you without comment. The thousands of other tiny gestures you'd filed away as "just being cordial" because "being in love with you" seemed too terrifying a folder to create.

"I didn't..." you begin, then falter. The words hover, “ I don't think I know how to let someone be in love with me."

The confession hangs between you, delicate and honest. Daniel doesn't look away, "Maybe," he says simply, "it's time to learn."

The words settle over you, not a weight but an opening, a door unlocked but not yet pushed ajar.

Daniel drains the last of his drink with finality, eyes fixed on the skyline. The casual observer might think he's admiring Manhattan's glittering architecture, but you recognize this particular silence — the loaded pause before he drops something he's been strategically holding back. It's the conversational equivalent of watching someone wind up for a pitch.

And sure enough, after a calculated beat, he says, "You do realize the contract is done, right?"

You glance sideways, eyebrows lifting in a gesture that attempts indifference but lands somewhere closer to alarm.

"All the promo's scheduled. Launch assets are live. My inbox is starting to go down," he continues, ticking items off an invisible check list. "You're technically free. No more approvals.”

His voice softens around the final blow: "No more excuses."

You lean against the railing, the metal cool against your forearms "What are you saying?”

"I'm saying..." He turns toward you fully now, "You don't have to pretend this is about work anymore."

A scoff escapes you. "Please. Me? And a k-pop idol?"

Daniel delivers a look so deadpan it could be preserved in a museum, the perfect distillation of "are you actually serious right now?" compressed into a single facial expression.

You clarify, hands animating the air between you like you're conducting an invisible orchestra of denial. "The biggest k-pop idol. Like globally famous. The same dude who gets murdered everytime there’s so much as one dating rumor." Each descriptor escalates in pitch, as if the accumulation of external obstacles might somehow outweigh the internal ones.

Daniel lifts his hands in surrender, though his expression suggests he's winning whatever battle is being waged. "Yes. All true. Also.. just so we're keeping track, he's the same guy you've spent the last few months hooking up with, traveling the world with, fighting with like some married couple, and if I'm not mistaken, spending all your time with."

Your eyes narrow to slits. "You make it sound so romantic," you mutter, each word dripping with sarcasm.

"It kind of was," he says with a shrug, "In a HR-nightmare kind of way."

You roll your eyes for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, but there's no real resistance behind the gesture. If anything, you're fighting back something dangerously close to a smile.

Daniel nudges your arm, “I'm not telling you to drop everything and chase some wild fantasy. I'm not suggesting you write his name in your planner with little hearts or anything. But… if it is something, if it's more, then maybe you owe it to yourself to find out."

You stare down at the streetlights below, watching headlights weave through intersections. The city continues its relentless dance, indifferent to your crisis of heart. Somewhere down there, people are making decisions far less complicated than yours; ordering takeout, hailing cabs, choosing which Netflix show to fall asleep to.

"You should take a few days off," he adds, less the colleague who's seen you demolish incompetent vendors and more the friend who once held your hair back after three too many tequila shots at the holiday party. "You can actually take them. The company will somehow survive without you micromanaging every press release for 72 whole hours."

You don't answer, silence a familiar shield.

"I'll cover anything that comes up," he says, the offer weighted with a kindness you're not sure you deserve. "But I think you need to go."

He doesn't say where. He doesn't have to. The destination hovers between you.

Still, you say nothing, your fingers tracing idle patterns in the condensation on your glass. But something shifts in the atmosphere around you, not a decision yet, nothing so concrete or brave. More like the subtle change in molecular rearrangement that animals sense before humans do.

Because maybe there's a version of this story where you don't end up alone with your accomplishments for company, where professional triumph isn't the only warmth in your bed. The thought bubbles up, ridiculous and terrifying and somehow not entirely unwelcome.

You've spent so much of your life building walls with the focus of someone who believes safety lies in being alone, you almost forgot what it feels like to stand before a door that's already open, waiting. The possibility stretches before you, an invitation to step through and see what might exist on the other side.

Daniel slips away, leaving behind only the lingering scent of overpriced whiskey and words that hang in the air. You remain at the railing, arms folded across your chest in what your therapist would probably call a "defensive posture" if you actually went to therapy instead of just reading psychology articles at 3 A.M.

For a while, you just breathe, an activity so basic it shouldn't feel revolutionary, and yet somehow does. One inhale. One exhale. One heartbeat after another.

Then, with the slowness of someone defusing a bomb, your hand migrates to your pocket. Your fingers close around your phone, that small, glowing rectangle.

The screen illuminates instantly, revealing a notification dot so aggressively red it might as well be screaming. You tap the voicemail icon with the hesitancy of someone poking at what might be a sleeping bear. The app lags for a moment, probably collapsing under the sheer weight of messages you've been studiously ignoring.

112 unheard messages.

You stare at the number, a monument to your impressive commitment to avoidance. Gold medal material.

You haven't listened to a single one. Haven't allowed yourself even the smallest peek behind the curtain you pulled.

Your fingers hovers above the most recent message, trembling slightly. You press play before the rational part of your brain can stage an intervention.

"Hey."

His voice arrives like an ambush, rough around the edges, frayed.

"I don't even know if you'll listen to this. You probably won't. But I just... I don't know what to do anymore."

Your grip on the railing tightens, as if holding onto something sturdy might somehow anchor you against what's coming.

"You're not answering. You won't text me back. Daniel says you're 'handling things.' Whatever the fuck that means."

“You always do this. You disappear when things get hard. But this isn't just some hookup anymore. You know that."

You press the phone against your ear with unnecessary force, as if the closer it gets the more sense everything might make.

"I said something I shouldn't have. About your family. I know I crossed a line and I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."

Your throat constricts, performing an impressive impersonation of a python with its prey. The apology lingers in the universe for a second too long.

"I wanted you to know me. But… I think I forgot that I'm only just starting to know you. And I want to. God, I want to know you so bad."

The voicemail ends with a soft click that somehow sounds louder than any dramatic declaration. You don't move. You don't blink. You barely breathe. Your brain, that overachieving organ that's kept you ten steps ahead in boardrooms and client meetings, suddenly finds itself speechless.

You press play on the next message with the reckless courage of someone who's already jumped from the plane and figures the parachute situation can be sorted out mid-fall.

"Please talk to me."

The sound travels from your phone directly to some unguarded part of your chest.

"I can't sleep. I keep thinking you're gonna call. And then you don't. I get it, I do. But I miss you."

"That's pathetic, right? Missing someone who keeps running from you?"

The question hangs in the air, unanswered and devastating. You find yourself shaking your head in automatic response, as if he could somehow see you through time and digital space.

Your thumb hangs over the screen, hesitating for the briefest moment before tapping to the next message like someone poking at a bruise to see if it still hurts. And the next. And the next.

Each message is a progressive study in yearning — Jungkook's voice traveling through octaves of exhaustion and vulnerability you didn't know existed. Each one reveals another layer of him spiraling, leaving behind a man who can't understand why someone disappeared.

"I think I'm in love with you.”

There it is. The message that finally breaks through the elaborate wall of denial you've been maintaining. Kind of like the sprinkler system activating after the fire's already spread to every room.

You bite down on your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, your body's desperate attempt to keep everything contained as your eyes begin to burn with the particular sting that follows with tears. You lock your phone with fingers that suddenly feel clumsy.

The breath you draw in trembles, your chest expanding around a feeling you've been ignoring since Seoul.

You can feel it now rushing toward you with the unstoppable momentum of a train whose brakes have failed. The devastation you left behind, casually strewn across continents like discarded clothing. The truth you didn't want to admit, even in the privacy of your own thoughts. The stupid, impossible, terrifying fact that somewhere between contract negotiations and late night 1-on-1 strategy sessions, between stolen moments in hotel bars and shared laughter over take-out containers that he forced you to eat, between arguments that felt too personal and kisses that felt too intimate, Jeon Jungkook somehow slipped past every defense system you'd installed and became more than just another project to complete.

He became the person you think about when good things happen.

The voice you want to come home to on difficult days.

The laugh that somehow makes everything lighter.

Oh.

The realization lands with surprising gentleness.

Oh shit.

You wipe your cheek with the back of your hand for tears that somehow manifested on your face. For the first time since you left Korea, the weight that's been compressing your lungs begins to lift. Not because the ache has diminished or because the fear has subsided, but because you've finally granted it permission to exist.

The realization settles into your bones, that what you want has never resided in quarterly projections or campaign metrics or the professional detachment you've perfected over years of holding people at a distance.

What you want, what you've wanted while convincing yourself otherwise, exists in a hotel room in Korea where a boy with gentle hands and knowing eyes has been waiting for your voice. The thought arrives with clarity, cutting through layers of cynicism and self-protection: you've been running from the very thing you most desperately need.

Your fingers find your phone with newfound certainty, navigating to your travel app with none of the hesitation that's characterized every interaction with this device recently. The flight options materialize on the screen. You select the earliest departure, credit card information autofilling as if your technology recognized this decision before you made it. The laughter and chatter from your coworkers seems so far away despite how close they actually are.

It’s just you and the simple, terrifying recognition that some journeys can only be postponed, never avoided — and the surprising discovery that stepping toward what frightens you can feel remarkably like coming home.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Okay… so you’ve definitely done more degrading things before. Right?

You're sweating through your blouse with the enthusiasm of someone auditioning for a deodorant commercial (and failing. To your own detriment.)

This isn't the "post-workout glow" fitness influencers pretend is attractive. No, this is your body's formal declaration of mutiny, a rebellion against rational thought executed through every pore. Your armpits, palms, and the back of your neck have formed an alliance dedicated to transforming your clothes into soggy evidence of your composure.

What the fuck are you doing?

Outside Jeon Jungkook's front door, you've established a pacing perimeter worthy of a security detail, shoes padding against pavement. The neighborhood is all manicured hedges and tasteful architecture, houses standing witness to what is undoubtedly the most unhinged moment of your professional career.

You halt abruptly, pivot, and resume your trajectory in the opposite direction. Each step carries you further into the absurdity of your situation while bringing you no closer to resolution.

"What the fuck am I doing?" The question emerges as a desperate whisper, fingers wrapped around your purse strap "What the actual fuck am I doing?"

The universe, in its infinite wisdom, offers no response. Not even a convenient sign from the heavens, no fortuitous text message, not so much as a symbolic bird flying overhead. Silence, highlighting the void where your rational decision-making process should be.

The most devastating part of this is your complete lack of preparation — you, who once created a thirty-page document for a photoshoot involving a temperamental cat. You, who color-codes your calendar down to 15-minute increments and keeps emergency protein bars in every bag you own. You, who has never entered a meeting without 3 different strategic approaches and a mental flowchart of possible outcomes.

You flew across the Pacific Ocean on nothing but emotional autopilot, your normally meticulous planning abandoned. You landed, changed your shirt three times in the Incheon airport bathroom while arguing with your reflection, and then navigated to this address with single-minded determination.

His address was acquired through means that would make your company's legal department develop hives. Extracted from the Calvin Klein executive contact database with the moral flexibility of someone who has left all professional ethics back in Manhattan along with her common sense. The violation of privacy policies sits in your phone.

You are experiencing what can only be described as a crash landing; no runway in sight, no landing gear deployed. The metaphorical wreckage spreads across this quiet street, invisible to everyone but acutely, painfully apparent to you.

You excavate your phone from the abyss of your bag and open the Notes app for the third time in 10 minutes, staring with mounting horror at the single sentence you managed to compose somewhere over the ocean — the grand thesis statement that was supposed to carry you across this threshold:

"I'm sorry, and I think I like you."

You blink at it, the words swimming on the screen like poorly translated instructions for assembling complicated furniture. A scoff escapes you in part disbelief, part surrender to the cosmic joke your life has become.

Jesus Christ. That's the line?

That's the earth-shattering revelation that propelled you across international date lines and multiple time zones?

It has all the weight of a middle schooler passing a folded note in math class. "I think I like you" — the verbal equivalent of bringing a water pistol to a nuclear war. The confession carries all the emotional awareness of someone who just discovered feelings exist yesterday and hasn't figured out the instruction manual.

You are pathetic.

You shove the phone back into your bag with force, bearing witness to perhaps the most pitiful declaration of affection ever composed by an allegedly successful adult. Another shaky breath fills your lungs, doing absolutely nothing to calm you.

You haven't knocked yet. You're just standing here, marinating in your own anxiety sweat. Your current strategy appears to be hoping for divine intervention. Perhaps the earth might split open and swallow you whole, or a targeted meteorite might strike just this spot on this particular street in Korea. At this point, even a localized power grid failure would be welcome, anything to ensure that no one ever discovers the depths of your desperate, transcontinental travels for this man.

You feel that urge to run again.

But your feet remain rooted to the concrete, overriding any escape plans.

Underneath the panic, the dampening of your shirt, and the chorus of doubt performing a full operatic production in your head, you know exactly why you're here.

Because of that voice on the phone that carved something permanent into your memory.

Because of the way he looked at you across crowded rooms.

Because for once in your existence, this isn't about control or power or securing the optimal outcome.

This is about choosing someone, even if it makes your knees perform a dance of terror. Even if it required theft of confidential information from a database you definitely shouldn't have access to.

You take one more breath, and step forward with the confidence of someone who still has approximately 14 seconds before complete collapse.

Your knuckles connect with the door in what's meant to be a confident knock but comes as more like the hesitant tapping of someone who's not entirely sure they've got the right house and is already formulating an apology to potential strangers.

The door swings open. There's no cinematic pause, no buffer zone during which you might remember how to be a functioning human capable of speech and basic facial control.

And there he is.

Jungkook.

Standing in his doorway like some kind of domesticated Greek god, barefoot in sweatpants that hang from hipbones, wearing a black t-shirt that clings to his torso. His silver chain catches the light, hair artfully disheveled.

There are shadows beneath his eyes that speak volumes, the look of someone waiting too long for a response that never arrived, for a message that never delivered.

He looks frozen in a moment of suspended animation.

And you.. well, you look like someone who's just realized they've accidentally booked a one-way ticket to their own reckoning without packing appropriate attire. Your professional persona is dissolving faster than cheap mascara in a rainstorm.

Your mouth opens automatically, but your brain has apparently decided to go offline. Not a greeting emerges. Not a witty remark. Not the apology you composed and discarded a dozen times between your airplane seat and this moment.

How do you explain what it means to see him again?To see the evidence of what you did inscribed across his features? To stand there and have a million feelings rushing into you?

And worst of all, to realize that somewhere along the way, between "professional boundaries" and "conflict of interest," you've managed to accomplish something you never planned for: you've fallen catastrophically, inconveniently, undeniably for Jeon Jungkook.

His eyes sweep over you once, then return for a second pass. There's a flicker of disbelief in his expression, as if his brain is running diagnostics on whether you're actually standing on his doorstep or if he's finally cracked and started hallucinating ex-whatever-you-weres.

And then, with the simplicity of someone handling something that might shatter, he says your name.

No accusation coloring the syllables. It’s your name, floating between you like a verbal lifeline extended without judgment.

You swallow with enough force to be audible, fingers doing that twitchy dance at your sides. The emotional menu before you offers several options — spontaneous crying, inappropriate nervous laughter, or your personal favorite: the tactical retreat.

But you stay put. No running shoes required.

You look at him with all your barricades temporarily offline. You’re thinking of that beach, that night you tried to bury. Thinking of the way he looked at you then, like you were still salvageable. Thinking of when he told you, “Hi is a good place to start.” You didn’t say it at your mother’s house. Couldn’t. But maybe now, with the weight of everything lingering in the quiet, maybe now’s your second chance.

So you take it.

"Hi," you whisper, the syllable emerging with all the confidence of a first-time public speaker.

He stares at you. You stare back.

Finally, Jungkook breaks the silence, his voice scratchier than you remember. There's a rawness to it, an edge that suggests maybe he got tired of speaking into the void of your unanswered messages. “What the fuck are you doing here?"

And just like that, your mental hard drive crashes. The speeches you rehearsed somewhere over the terrain vanish like airplane meals — unmemorable and completely inadequate for the situation.

You stand there, watching his chest rise and fall with slightly uneven breaths, and realize that you're going to have to improvise without a safety net.

The only thing your brain can process is the sound of blood whooshing behind your ears and the embarrassing tremor in your fingers as they begin to battle the suddenly complex engineering marvel that is your purse zipper.

"I—" you stammer, voice cracking like a thirteen-year-old boy asking someone to dance. "Hold on—just—"

You excavate the dig site formerly known as your handbag, pushing past convenience store receipts, a lipstick, and a charging cable that's currently charging absolutely nothing. Your fingers finally close around what you've flown across the world to deliver.

It's not exactly presentation-ready; it’s crumpled like it's been stuffed in a blender, folded and smudged around the edges.

With the triumph of someone who just discovered treasure, you extract the contract. His contract. Holy grail of paperwork.

The very same contract for Calvin Klein that consumed months of your life, prompted 17 panic attacks, and served as the professional excuse for every personal boundary violation you've committed since meeting him.

You unfold it clumsily, then thrust it toward him like an artifact that could explain your entire emotional state without requiring actual human communication.

"Your contract is up," you announce. "It ended this week."

Jungkook blinks at you with confusion. His eyebrows pull together, creating that little crease you've definitely never memorized. "Okay...?" he questions.

You look at him with the desperate stare of someone whose entire communication strategy is telepathy while your throat constricts. The words scream inside your head with megaphone clarity: Don't you get it? Don't you see what I'm trying to say?!

But all that emerges is a breath.

He glances down at the paper, then back at your face "I know," he says slowly, "I was there when I signed it."

A sound escapes you. This is what your life has become — standing on a doorstep, physically shaking, brandishing legal paperwork like it's a love letter. You, who once negotiated a seven-figure deal without breaking a sweat, reduced to communicating your feelings through expired contractual obligations and hoping he somehow translates this into "I've made a terrible mistake and flown across the world to fix it."

He's still examining the contract, tilting his head slightly, eyes narrowing, as if proper legal documentation might suddenly reveal invisible ink.

It's really just paper and ink and legal jargon that somehow became the flimsiest of excuses to orbit each other's lives.

Your fingers tighten around the document before it goes limp in your hands, dangling between you. “You think I care about this contract? Do you really think I flew across the world to remind you about paperwork? What am I, the world's most dedicated courier service?"

His eyes lock onto yours now. He's silent, still, letting you speak.

"I don't give a shit about Calvin Klein," you continue. "Or the campaign. Or the storefronts. I mean... I do, I did, but not like that. Not more than this." You gesture vaguely between the two of you with the contract, which has now been demoted from legal document to impromptu prop.

You're fully in verbal freefall now, thoughts colliding in real-time, each one crashing into the next before either can reach a proper conclusion.

"Do you know what you did to me?" The question is more of a whisper. "You made me feel things I don't let myself feel. You made me lose control. You — God, you made me talk."

His jaw tightens eyes simultaneously sharp and soft. He's bracing himself, his body language shifting.

"For the first time in a year, I saw my mother," you continue, the confession tumbling out with the momentum of something that's been held back too long. "I held my sister. I went home."

You blink rapidly, your eyes performing emergency protocols to contain the tears. "Do you know what kind of man it takes to make me do that?"

Jungkook's lips part like he's about to speak, but nothing leaves, as if the dictionary of possible responses has been wiped from his memory. You step closer, closing the distance between you.

"You got me to sit on a beach and tell you things I've never said out loud. You got me to let you in. Without trying.. or asking." Your hands wave vaguely in the air, as if trying to physically grasp the concept. "You just... did. You're the first man who's ever made me feel something that wasn't transactional. You make me feel like a person, Jungkook.“

He's standing with the frozen stillness of someone who just discovered they're in a minefield, but his chest is rising and falling. You know he's hearing it all; every word, every crack in your voice, every truth you've been swallowing since you pushed him away.

"I didn't come here to fix anything," you murmur, "I just needed you to know that you mattered. That you weren't some mistake for me."

And then, quieter, “You were the only thing that ever felt real.“

Jungkook blinks once. And then again. If a human could display a buffering sign, it would be rotating above his head right now.

He's speechless, which considering he's a man who performs in front of stadium crowds and has entire teams dedicated to crafting his public statements, is quite the achievement to add to your professional resume.

You just let him look at you. There's no persona to hide behind, not anymore.

And the longer he stands there, wordless as a statue, watching you, jaw clenched tight, the more your stomach flip-flops inside you.

You've never been this exposed. Not even in the heat of his bed, when physical nakedness seemed like the most vulnerable state possible (how adorably naive that belief seems now.) This is an entirely different category of exposure.

Still, he says nothing. The audacity of this silence is almost impressive.

So you redirect, falling back on the one thing you understand: paperwork.

Your fingers tremble, but you manage to grip the contract and tear it straight down the middle with surprising dramatic flair.

Again. And again. And again.

Until it's nothing but corporate confetti. Thin little fragments of legally binding language and signature and structure, falling in what your brain identifies as a metaphor so on-the-nose it would be rejected from a first year creative writing workshop.

"I don't care about this," you whisper, gesturing to the paper carnage. "I mean, I do care about this. Just… not the way I care about you." You immediately recognize this as the kind of line that would make you roll your eyes if you heard it in a movie, yet here you are, delivering it with complete sincerity. The universe has a twisted sense of humor.

Nothing. Nada. Zilch. His silence has evolved from awkward to actually embarrassing now.

You’re starting to think you may be too late. Maybe he got back together with his ex. Maybe him and Jennie are fucking again.

You blink back the burn in your eyes, throat closing around words. "Please," you breathe out, "Tell me I'm not too late. Tell me I didn't fuck up another thing in my life—"

You barely finish getting the words out before he moves.

One second you're standing there, and the next, his hands are on your waist, pulling you in, grounding you like gravity suddenly remembered your specific coordinates.

To your surprise — he’s kissing you.

The world narrows to this: his hands on your body, warm and solid and real. The faint scent of his musky cologne mixing with a body wash that is uniquely him. The pressure of his lips against yours, lip ring cool against your warm mouth.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, a small voice wonders if this counts as a successful business negotiation or a breach of ethics. The rest of your consciousness tells that voice, quite firmly, to shut the hell up.

You melt into him, shaking and breathless, fingers curling into his t-shirt as your lips part under his with enthusiasm.

This isn't some tentative, exploratory first kiss from a Hinge meetup. This isn't the calculated kiss of someone testing chemistry before deciding if a dinner date was worth the investment.

This is a kiss that announces "you're home" with little to no subtlety.

His mouth remains attached to yours as he backs into the doorway, pulling you along and tethering your body to his like you might run. His paranoia, you have to admit, isn't entirely unreasonable given your track record of vanishing acts.

The torn contract lies abandoned on the welcome mat. The wind shifts behind you as the door clicks shut with finality.

Inside, it's warm. Dim. Quiet. Smells like a mix of spices and some kind of candle. His soft lips move over yours, intoxicating enough that your educated brain has forgotten how to form coherent sentences in any known language.

He walks you backward through his home, the kiss breaking only in microsecond intervals.

"I waited for you," he whispers between kisses. You respond with a sound between a whimper and a sigh, palms pressing into his chest as he lightly pushes you against the nearest wall with surprising authority. His breath fans hot against your cheek, “I told myself to let it go. That maybe I'd imagined all of it, that you didn't feel the same."

You gasp as his teeth graze your skin with just enough pressure to short-circuit your higher reasoning capabilities. One of his hands slides up beneath your blouse, his touch somehow managing to be both needy and soft.

Your last coherent thought before surrendering entirely to this expected plot twist is that Daniel is never, ever going to let you live this down when you return to New York.

"I've never felt this way about anyone," he exhales against the base of your throat, words tumbling out. "Not once."

It’s real when he says it. All of it. Every emotional shard he left scattered across like breadcrumbs, still waiting for you to come back and attempt the world's most ill-advised puzzle reassembly.

You pull him closer with upper body strength you didn't know you possessed, kissing him like your respiratory system has been recently reconfigured to run exclusively on Jeon Jungkook. Your hands slip beneath the hem of his shirt, cataloging the warmth of him, the tension coiled in his muscles.

"Jungkook..." You begin, caught between a moan and a murmur.

But he shakes his head, kissing you harder, "Don't. Don't say anything yet. Just be here." The request comes with the desperation of someone who's still half-convinced they're hallucinating.

You have absolutely no idea of how you've navigated this far into his house. Your last clear memory involves standing on a doorstep watching shredded corporate paperwork fall to the gravel.

The walls blur, corners cease to exist. Every hallway becomes a perfect clone when your mouth remains fused to his. You maintain only peripheral awareness of your own movement, shoes occasionally slipping against the floor with all the grace of a newborn giraffe, his hands gripping your waist to steady you. You careen into one wall, then another, turning his home into an obstacle course neither of you seems particularly interested in navigating efficiently.

He's talking through it all, and you don't realize you're crying until his thumb brushes over your cheekbone in adoration.

"I thought I lost you," he mumbles, his mouth creating a cartography of your features; the edge of your lips, the angle of your jaw, the sensitive spot just below your ear. "You were gone. I thought that was it."

You shake your head, and he doesn't even wait for verbal confirmation before kissing you again. Deeper this time, with the kind of attention to your body that makes you wonder if perhaps your entire professional career has just been an elaborate prelude to this specific moment in this hallway with this person.

Your fingers fumble with the hem of his shirt, tugging the fabric upward in what's meant to be a smooth, seductive motion. He lifts his arms automatically anyway as if he is just as desperate to eliminate any non-skin barriers between you.

His shirt gets tossed somewhere, your hand firmly planted on the plane of his chest, the taut muscle underneath.

"Fuck," he mutters against your collarbone, as he presses you against yet another wall (his home apparently consisting of nothing but convenient vertical surfaces.) One hand slips beneath your blouse while the other slides up your clothed thigh with intent. "You can't do that to me again."

"I won't," you promise, hands trembling against his chest "I swear."

He kisses you again like he doesn't quite believe you but has decided the potential heartbreak is an acceptable risk if it means having this fragment of connection.

Clothes begin their gradual migration to the floor — not the choreographed disrobing of movie sex scenes where garments somehow land in artful arrangements, but the realistic, occasionally awkward shedding. Your blouse gets caught on one earring. He helps with buttons while simultaneously trying to maintain mouth-to-mouth contact, resulting in misaligned kisses that land at the corner of your lips.

There's a brief, silent negotiation about whether your shoes should come off before or after your pants. Jeans are discarded, fingers brushing against your lace underwear.

You don't even care about the logistics anymore, the who-goes-where and what-happens-when that your organizational brain would typically want to map out. You just know one essential truth.

You need him.

Not in the scratch-an-itch way of previous encounters.

You're letting him see you now, unfiltered and unedited.

You don't try to steady your hands as they trail down his sides. Don't stabilize your voice to hide the crack when you whisper his name like it's become a more honest version of your own. You don't armor yourself when he looks down at you, shirtless and flushed, and murmurs with wonder: "You came back."

And that's when he lifts you, hands sliding under your thighs, holding you firmly to him. You wrap your legs around him, arms circling his neck, surrendering to being transported like the world's most willing hostage.

You have only the vaguest awareness of your surroundings. Some room, presumably his bedroom, though frankly it could have been his kitchen or laundry room and you wouldn't have noticed or cared. Geography has become thoroughly irrelevant to your current priorities.

The only thing actually registering in your sensory catalog is him; breath warming your collarbone, skin pressed against skin, lips trailing slow, wet kisses along the slope of your shoulder. He lays you down on his bed, gaze taking inventory of every inch of you.

His expression carries the stunned disbelief of someone who can't quite convince himself he's allowed to have you after you pulled your disappearing act.

The room is quiet except for your combined breathing and the soft rustle of sheets. Jungkook's palms drag up the sides of your thighs with a confidence that makes your skin tingle in anticipation, thumbs grazing the curve of your hips. He lowers himself, dark hair falling across his forehead. He presses a kiss just above your knee that sends an electrical current straight to your core which has apparently been in hibernation.

"You always look like this for me?" he murmurs. His fingers toy with the delicate hem of your lace underwear — the good ones you'd packed with what you now recognize was blatant optimism disguised as practicality. His eyes flicker up to catch yours, and you recognize him on his knees in his own bedroom, and suddenly breathing seems like an advanced skill you never quite mastered. "Spread out, soft... waiting?"

You can only nod, lips parted and pulse fluttering beneath your skin. Because when he's like this, looking at you like you're some kind of miracle he's afraid to blink and miss, it's impossible to maintain the illusion that you were ever in control of this situation.

Your eyes flutter shut, hands curling into the sheets. He hasn't even properly touched you yet, but you're already unraveling faster than a cheap sweater in the dryer, undone by nothing more than his mouth hovering in your general vicinity.

You feel the delicate tug of lace between your thighs, the slow drag of your underwear as he bites at the waistband. He pulls them down with his teeth like he's personally offended by the concept of using hands for their intended purpose, savoring each millimeter of progress.

He drops the lace to the floor with casual disregard, like it’s unimportant — which, right now, it is — and without hesitation, he leans in, pressing the softest kiss to your soaked core.

You jolt visibly, audibly, a shaky sound catching in your throat as your legs try to twitch closed out of instinct. Not that he allows this sudden attack of modesty to proceed.

No, he’s already got his hands under your thighs, dragging you closer to the edge of the bed, closer to his mouth, to the heat of his breath, to the place he plans to keep you until you forget your name.

And then he hooks your legs over his shoulders with practiced expertise, essentially wearing your thighs like the world's most inappropriate neck pillow.

“There we go,” he mutters, like he’s pleased with himself, like he’s settling in. His fingers dig into your thighs to maintain his access route, thumbs brushing over skin softly that somehow makes everything worse (or better, depending on your perspective.) He’s spreading you wide open for him, singing your praises, “Nice and close. Stay just like that, baby.”

And you do, despite your brain's distant, feeble protests about maintaining some semblance of dignity. Your hands scramble through the sheets, heart thundering in your chest.

A single coherent thought manages to penetrate the fog of sensation overtaking your higher reasoning capabilities: you are so, so screwed. Metaphorically, for now. Though given current trajectory, the literal interpretation seems imminent.

His grip on your thighs tightens just before his mouth finds your cunt. It’s one singular lick, tongue dividing between your folds. Your fingers dive into his hair with the desperate urgency of someone grabbing the last life preserver on a sinking ship, threading through the soft strands until you're practically clutching his head. “F-fuck!”

It’s consistent laps up and down your folds, your juices coating his lips, the coldness of his lip ring sending you into oblivion. He doesn’t ease up. He doesn’t tease. He devours you, tongue beginning to speed up.

You feel completely exposed, like you've accidentally sent your most private thoughts to a company-wide email thread, and somehow this vulnerability only intensifies everything, your body apparently interpreting danger signals as "please, sir, more of that."

Then his tongue flicks across your clit with the precise timing of someone who's memorized your particular user manual, and the noise that escapes you resembles something between a hiccup and the beginning of an embarrassing performance. Some pathetic little "uh" sound bubbles up from your throat.

You’re spread out beneath him, legs shaking, sheets twisted in your fists as he keeps going — his tongue relentless, lips slick, chin wet with you. His jaw glistens with evidence of your arousal, creating the kind of mess that would horrify you normally but currently registers as the hottest thing you've ever witnessed.

He groans against you, the vibration adding yet another layer of sensation to the overwhelming cascade, a sound so deep and raw it seems to originate from somewhere primal. Maybe he's just as far gone as you are, equally lost in this moment of reconnection. Or maybe… god, who cares, he just really can’t stop.

Your brain is syrupy now, thick and slow, synapses misfiring as your body spins somewhere between pleasure and delirium. Every drag of his tongue has you twitching, every suck of his lips on your clit sends another wave crashing through you, and your body doesn’t know what to do with any of it.

“Fuck—Jungkook, I—I can’t—” you gasp, practically ripping his hair out of his scalp. Your voice has adopted qualities you've never heard before — high, fractured, entirely unbefitting for someone who once made a junior copywriter cry with a single raised eyebrow.

“I love eating this pussy,” he mutters, muffled against your soaked cunt. Like he's experiencing a religious epiphany that happens to be centered between your thighs. “Swear to god, I’d live here. Every damn day.”

You respond with a choked sob that would mortify you in literally any other context but seems perfectly reasonable given that your central nervous system is currently experiencing the neurological equivalent of fireworks.

“You taste so fuckin’ sweet,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue in one long, devastating stripe. “So good for me. You feel that, baby? The way you’re dripping all over me? The way your little cunt’s beggin’ for it?”

Your hips buck upward, but he counters this rebellion, mouth locking around your clit with such pressure that your eyes roll back like they're trying to retreat into your skull for safety.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice containing equal parts possession and wonder, as if he's surprised by his own declaration. “You know that? I’m never letting you go.”

You’re gone. Dizzy, spinning, stars behind your eyes. There’s a scream climbing up your throat, and your entire body is about to break apart, lit from within by a chain reaction that has precisely one catalyst: him, him, him.

Just when you think you’re about to tip over the edge, when every muscle in your body is coiled and quaking, Jungkook pulls back slightly, enough to keep you hovering. His tongue slows to an excruciating crawl, tracing soft circles around your clit. Barely there. Absolutely criminal.

Your whole body jolts, hips twitching helplessly, chasing more, chasing anything. But he keeps you right there, locked in with the pads of his fingers bruising your thighs.

"N-no—don't stop," you whimper, voice hitting notes that would embarrass you in any other context. "Feels so good, I—fuck, since when— since when did you get this good?"

He hums against you, the vibration hitting exactly where you need it most, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. His tongue resumes its torturously slow rhythm, each deliberate stroke designed for maximum frustration. He's moving like he's got all day to keep you on this edge.

"I mean it," you babble, vocabulary reduced to the primitive language center of someone who's forgotten they once intimidated an entire marketing department. "God, it's—fuck, I swear, what the fuck, it feels so —ahh— good!”

You glance down, desperate for visual confirmation that this is actually happening, and discover he's already looking up at you. Eyes dark and hazed over like he's sampled something significantly stronger than the recommended dosage, half-lidded and wild.

And the moment your eyes lock, it hits you like a punch to the chest. Somehow, it feels too raw.

His tongue doesn’t stop, slow and cruel in its own way, but his eyes stay locked on yours. Completely unflinching, intense, like he wants you to see him, like he’s trying to tell you something with every flick of his tongue.

Your tone fractures like cheap glassware. "Jungkook... please, please don't stop, I can't—"

He doesn't (clearly a man who follows through on his commitments.)

Just when you think you’ve adjusted to the slow torture of his tongue, Jungkook shifts.

This time, there's no trace of the earlier restraint. No more teasing. No more measured patience. His tongue flattens and drags against your slit, before circling your clit rapidly, flicking in tight, rhythmic strokes that have your entire body seizing.

You cry out with sounds that would be mortifying if recorded, hands clutching his hair like stress balls. "J-Jungkook—oh my God—don't stop, don't—fuck, please—"

"Keep still," he whispers against you,"Take it just like this."

And then he’s back on you, tongue working you over, flicking fast, then flattening again, sucking your clit into his mouth and rolling the sensitive nub over in devastating circles.

You're spiraling into some delirious dimension where coherent speech is a distant memory. "God—fuck—Jungkook, what the fuck, you're—nnh, please keep going."

He chuckles into you, vibration shooting through your spine. “Want you to cum on my face.”

And then — just when your nerve endings have adjusted to his particular brand of torture — he pauses.

You whine at the sudden loss, body shaking, on the very edge of begging. But then you feel it: two fingers, thick and warm, sliding slowly into you. The stretch makes your back arch, mouth falling open on a broken moan as he sinks them deep and curls them just right.

Your walls clamp around him instantly, greedy and desperate, like they've been waiting for exactly this intrusion.

“Oh my God,” you gasp, eyes flying open. “Fuck!”

He pulls his mouth back a bit to speak, lips slick with you, fingers never leaving you. “Hmm, I’ve always known how to fuck you right.”

He leans in again, multitasking with impressive coordination; his tongue returning to your sopping wet core with determination while his fingers establish a rhythm inside you that can only be described as diabolically perfect. They curl against your sweet spot that makes your vision develop lens flares at the edges.

"Cum for me," he begs, "Cum on my fingers. Cum on my tongue. I want all of it."

And there's nothing left in your arsenal of resistance to fight this particular hostile takeover.

Not when he's looking at you with that expression. Especially not when his fingers are pumping inside you.

Your orgasm tears through you with a force that feels almost violent, body snapping taut beneath him as your back arches off the bed and a involuntary cry rips from your throat.

This is a full system meltdown. A white-hot supernova behind your eyelids, a full-body seismic event that has you gasping for oxygen. Your thighs clamp around Jungkook's head but he doesn't even flinch — he holds steady, fingers maintaining their rhythm, mouth still attending to your clit with dedication.

Everything in the known universe disappears except the overwhelming input of sensation; his mouth, his hands, his voice murmuring something against your trembling flesh that your pleasure-scrambled brain files under "process later" in a folder that may never actually be opened.

And then — oh God. There it is.

A gush of warmth, uncontrollable, spilling out of you before you can stop it,, and maybe you do squirt, maybe it’s just a near miss, but who’s to say? All you know with absolute certainty is that you're essentially baptizing his face, and the animalistic sound he produces in response is obscene, so proud, that it sends another aftershock ripping through your core.

Your whole body vibrates. Wrecked. Utterly demolished.

Jungkook finally pulls back, face glistening. He looks both flushed and triumphant, eyes dilated, staring at you like you've just performed some rare cosmic event he was lucky enough to witness.

"Holy shit," you exhale, "What the fuck was that."

He has a shit-eating grin on his face, wiping his chin with the back of his hand in a gesture that should be gross but somehow isn't, managing to look simultaneously cocky and awestruck. "Guess I don't have to wonder if you came."

You release a sound that exists somewhere between laughter and delirium, flinging an arm over your eyes. “I think I just blacked out," you murmur, the confession slipping out too easily.

Jungkook leans over you, starts to get off his knees, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, then another softer one. "Good," he says.

You blink at the ceiling with disoriented wonder. "Fuck, I missed this. Even if it wasn't that long of a break."

He chuckles. "I don't care how long it was, I still missed it."

You blink through the haze clouding your vision just in time to witness Jungkook fully rising to his feet at the edge of the bed, his gaze locked on you. His hands hook into the waistband of his boxers, dragging them down his thighs. Then he's there, hard, thick, and flushed, cock cradled in his hand as he strokes himself.

His eyes trail over your body with the thorough documentation of someone creating a visual archive. You can feel yourself responding in eagerness, walls clenching around nothing like they're experiencing separation anxiety.

"I'm never letting you go again," he says, voice dropping the playful edge, becoming something serious. “You get that, right?"

You attempt to formulate a response, but discover your mouth has apparently decided to cosplay as the Sahara. All you can manage is a nod that barely qualifies as movement.

He’s slightly hovering over you, arms sliding under your thighs, clamping around them as he drags you down the bed in one swift movement. You gasp as your ass makes abrupt contact with the edge of the mattress, cool air hitting newly exposed skin while your legs fall open, and then — holy evolutionary biology —

His cock slides through your folds, the weight and heat of him dragging against your already hypersensitive clit like a match strike against sandpaper. You whimper, legs twitching, your body apparently unable to decide if it's too sensitive for more stimulation or desperately craving it.

He repeats the motion again. And again. The thick, velvety length of his cock glides through your slick evidence, teasing your entrance. He lets you feel every ridge and vein without giving you the satisfaction of actual penetration, slaps his length against your juices a few times.

"Feel that?" he speaks softly, "That's mine. This whole fucking pussy. All of you." The possessive declaration should trigger your feminist alarm bells, but your body apparently didn't get the memo, responding instead with an endorsement.

Your hips jerk upward instinctively. “Jungkook, please."

He looks down at you, pupils so dilated they've nearly consumed the black holes. His jaw clenches, sweat creating a subtle sheen at his temple that catches the dim light. His cock twitches against you, leaving another hot trail of precum across your folds like some kind of territorial marking. “Say it," he growls, "Say you're mine."

Your fingers claw at the sheets, completely useless against the solid weight of him positioned between your thighs. You're wet to a degree that should concern you, but it somehow doesn’t. “Jungkook," you moan, "Please. I—I need you."

He grits his teeth, cock jumping between your folds. His expression broadcasts a man barely maintaining his composure. “Say it," he repeats. "Tell me you're mine."

You gasp, legs shuddering in his iron grip. “I'm yours," you whisper, the words escaping before your pride can intercept them. "I'm yours, Jungkook. I'm fucking yours. Please.. just fuck me. I can't, I need it, need you—"

That's all it takes; your desperate declaration being the final passcode to unlock whatever restraint he's been maintaining.

He growls under his breath incoherently, pushing his full length devastatingly slow into you.

And the stretch..

Sweet merciful heaven, it's always been llike discovering a new dimension of sensation. Always been the best you’ve ever had.

He's thick, pressing deeper into you than before, walls struggling to accommodate him. Each inch creates a delicious burn that makes your mouth fall open silently.

Your back arches, hands flying to his forearms with a desperate grip. Your lungs attempt to remember their primary function.

"Fuck," Jungkook hisses through teeth clenched, the grip on your thighs now firmly in bruise-manufacturing territory as he watches himself disappear into you. "You're so tight. Shit, always so wet for me."

You attempt to form words, but they never come. You're too full, stretched beyond what you thought possible. All you manage is a whimper as he bottoms out, hips flush against yours, the substantial weight of him seated so deep you feel claimed from the inside out.

He hovers over you, his forehead brushing yours with unexpected tenderness. "You feel that?" he says under his breath. "That stretch? That fullness? That's me, baby."

You nod frantically, nails creating temporary artwork on his toned arms, walls clenching around him with rhythmic pulses. “I can feel you everywhere," you whisper, "You're—fuck, you're so deep, I—"

Jungkook holds still inside you for one suspended moment, long enough for your body to adjust to the size. Your legs twitch where they remain trapped in his grasp, feet dangling in the air.

Then, without verbal warning or mercy, he withdraws completely.

All the way out.

The sudden emptiness hits you like sensory whiplash, your walls clutching at nothing, muscles fluttering with panic, and then he pushes back in unhurriedly, dragging every impressive inch into your slick cunt.

Head tilting back, you moan out something that sounds like a profanity. He follows your movement like he's tethered to you, leaning down with a groan.

That's when you feel it; the gentle tap of cold metal against your chin.

His silver chain. You never really did appreciate that jewelry piece.

It swings, providing cool metallic kisses against your overheated skin. The visual of it dangling above you, catching light with each oscillation, nearly sends you to heaven.

You will never get tired of this man again.

You grab him by the neck with the decisive urgency of someone who's finally stopped overthinking everything, dragging him down against you, crashing your mouth to his with absolutely zero concern for technique or dignity.

Fuck, the taste.

You taste yourself on his lips, a complex, slightly salty sweetness that you'd never admit to anyone you find strangely intoxicating. Mixed with the warmth of his tongue and the slick slide of his mouth, your brain temporarily suspends all higher functions. He maintains that unhurried rhythm below, deep thrusts that end with a grind.

Your teeth accidentally catch his bottom lip in your eagerness and his breath hitches against your mouth.

"God," you exhale into his mouth, "you feel so fucking good. I-I missed you so m-much.”

Jungkook moans wantonly, forehead pressing against yours in that surprisingly tender gesture that somehow makes everything more intimate than the actual sex itself. His hips maintain that tempo, drawing out pleasure.

"You drive me insane," he whines. "You're so fucking tight, so perfect. I could do this all night. Never get tired of being inside you."

You shudder, gasping into the half-kiss, legs tightening around his waist with newfound plans to eliminate any remaining space between your bodies.

When he thrusts again, harder this time, you swear the room performs a slow rotation around you. He breaks the kiss with a muttered profanity that somehow sounds like poetry, staring down at you. In this moment, in this bed, with this man… you’ve never felt more safe and loved.

Yet the careful, teasing rhythm he’s been making love to you with shatters like fine china dropped from a height.

Jungkook drives into you with a force that makes your breath catch, his hips connecting with yours. The soundtrack becomes deliciously obscene — skin meeting skin with wet smacking. The headboard begins its own contribution, banging against the wall with a volume that would concern you if you weren't well past caring about such mundane considerations.

You cry out incredibly loud, “Oh my God — fuck — Jungkook, don't stop," your nails drag across his back and shoulders, anywhere within reach, as your body jerks beneath him.

"Not fucking planning to," he responds with grim determination, thrusting harder, deeper.

Thank God he doesn't have neighbors.

High, broken sounds emerge from your throat that seem to bypass your vocal cords entirely. And Jungkook? He's producing a collection of grunts and groans, punctuating each thrust with your name.

"You hear that?" he pants, fucking into you with enough force to make the bedframe collapse at this rate. "That's how wet you are for me. That sound—fuuck—you hear how good it sounds?"

You can't formulate a coherent response but your body registers only the essential data points: the way his cock hits that sweet spot each time, the way your walls grip him, the feel of his muscles underneath your fingertips.

You're the visual definition of dishevelment — hair stuck to your face, eyes glazed mouth open and—oh god—actually drooling slightly as you beg for more.

Jungkook's hand comes up to grab your jaw with gentleness, tilting your face to meet his gaze. “You are so, so beautiful."

The sincerity punches through your pleasure-riddled brain. You suddenly recognize this look — the one he's been giving you for weeks while you've been busy pretending he wasn’t. The realization lands with the subtlety of a piano dropped from a third-story window: you're the oblivious protagonist in your own romantic story.

Without warning or consultation, Jungkook rearranges your legs, hooking them over his shoulders like he's claiming ownership… which, at this particular moment, feels like a completely reasonable arrangement.

He thrusts back in, so deep your mouth drops open in a silent scream. Your walls clamp down on them, juices leaking out onto the sheets below you.

"Holy shit," you gasp, "I can't, I can't, you're so deep, Jungkook, I—"

Somehow, in this moment of incoherence and surrender, you've never felt more genuinely yourself. There's something terrifying and liberating about being seen so completely, being known in this most primitive, honest way, and that you’ll let him have you like this.

He groans, abs flexing with roll of his hips. From this angle, escape from visual impact is impossible; he's looming above you, hair falling into eyes, jaw squared. His chest rises and falls in a quick, shallow rhythm but has decided breathing is less important than the task at hand.

"Fuck," he growls, gaze traveling downward to where your bodies connect, where every drag of his cock exhibits a ring of cream soaking his base. "Taking me so well. You're so fucking tight baby, squeezing me like you want me to cum."

You respond with some sound, legs twitching on his shoulders, toes curling behind his back with enough force to cause minor cramping.

"You were made for me," he rasps, "Made to take my cock."

His hand slides to your lower abdomen, pushing down with gentle pressure, and… wait, what is that? You can actually feel him inside you, a distinct bulge moving with each thrust, and your brain momentarily abandons pleasure to engage in scientific inquiry. How is that even possible? Isn't that one of those myths perpetuated by romance novels written by people with questionable understanding of female anatomy? Yet here you are, experiencing the impossible, your own body betraying your skepticism.

"Oh my God," you cry out, "I can feel your—I can't— Jungkook, I can't—"

"Yes, you can," he counters, leaning further forward. He pounds into you, driving his hips even faster. "You're doing so fucking good for me. You're perfect. So perfect."

The praise sends you down a delirious spiral. It's embarrassing how effective simple validation can be, how the right words at the right moment can dismantle any fears you had.

Jungkook's rhythm falters momentarily, before he suddenly stills, cock pulsing inside you with a distinct throb, your walls gripping him with contractions. “Get up," he rasps.

You blink up at him with the unfocused bewilderment of someone who's forgotten how limbs work, body vibrating.

But then his hands are under your thighs, guiding your legs down. He helps you upright, being as careful and soothing as possible. As soon as you’re vertical, back of your knees hitting the edge of the bed, he grabs your face with urgency and kisses you — not the polite, exploratory kiss of early dating, but the kind that has already memorized the topography of your mouth.

His tongue slides in with confidence, and you respond with some sound that gets muffled in his mouth, drunk on the cocktail of hormones, endorphins, and the intoxication of tasting yourself on someone else's lips. Jungkook grips your jaw, hand trailing down to play with one of your pebbled nipples.

Without warning or a proper transition period, his other hand executes a perfect southward journey to your ass and delivers a sharp smack that somehow hits the precise intersection of pleasure and startled indignation.

You gasp, body performing an involuntary jump, and he grins against your lips with the smug satisfaction of someone who's just confirmed a long-held hypothesis (which is that you’ve always liked it when he slapped you. Which he knew.)

"Atta girl," he murmurs, "Now turn around."

You comply eagerly, positioning yourself on wobbly knees on the bed and arching your back in what you hope resembles sexy feline grace rather than a person about to cum in under five seconds. Your hands clutch the sheets with a desperate grip.

Behind you, the mattress creaks with his movement, his hands beginning a leisurely expedition up your back, wandering against your spine. He leans in, his breath cool on your overheated skin, and begins planting kisses down your spine. Each contact of his lips sends tiny electrical currents branching outward, tongue occasionally making guest appearances.

"You're unreal," Jungkook whispers, his voice carrying the raspy quality of genuine awe. "Every inch of you."

And then his hands find your hips with purposeful intent, pulling you backward, and you already know.

You already know you're not ready; not in the sense of being unwilling, but in the way that your body is still recovering from the previous position and probably needs another moment. Normally, under other circumstances, you might’ve stopped whoever, but because it’s him and somehow it feels like it’s been too long, you whimper in excitement.

He taps his cock against your slit a few time, collecting the arousal, and that elicits another wanton moan from you. He slides back in easily, and the sensation of fullness is immediately overwhelming, spine curving in automatic response like you're trying to make space for him inside your body. Your forehead drops to the mattress as a cry escapes your throat, “O-oh fuck, Jungkook!”

"Fuuuck," he groans behind you. His hips connect with your backside forcefully, and repeatedly. "This pussy's fucking perfect. God, I’m going to fuck y-you everyday."

Your entire form jolts with each impact, hands clutching the sheets. Your sensory awareness has narrowed to a hyper-focused inventory of feeling: every inch of him, each purposeful grind of his hips, the smell of his leftover aftershave still on your body, the sound of skin slapping echoing throughout the room. “F-Fuck me like I’m yours.”

That pretty much sends him on a rampage.

His hands press flat between your shoulder blades, effectively pinning you as he speeds his tempo.

"You like this?" he pants against your ear, breath hot against your neck as he leans over you. "Being bent over, dripping all over my cock?"

Your moan comes out high-pitched, needy, and completely stripped of dignity.

"Yes," you whisper, "Yes, Jungkook — fuck, it's so good. You feel so good—"

"That's right," he groans, emphasizing his point with even more forceful thrusts. "Say my name. Let me hear who's fucking you like this."

You obligingly repeat it, volume increasing with each iteration, “Jungkook—Jungkook—"

With absolute certainty, you realize your impending orgasm has become less a question of "if" and more a matter of "how explosively.”

His hand leaves your back. And suddenly, he’s reaching around your front, fingers slick with his own saliva (you think) as they find your clit, rubbing tight, relentless circles that make your whole body seize up.

“J-Jungkook— oh my god —” you choke out.

“You gonna cum for me again?” he begs against your ear, his weight looming on you. “Gonna fall apart on my cock like the filthy little thing you are?”

And yes, of course you are — your body is already approaching the cliff edge — but your brain knew that while your whole being simultaneously sends a very clear memo: We are absolutely fine with this particular brand of objectification at this specific moment, thank you very much.

You attempt to formulate a verbal response, but your vernacular has apparently gone on strike, only a stuttering noise that emerges from you. “Y-yes. Please make me cum, oooh.”

His fingers speed up, merciless on your clit, and his other hand tangles in your hair and pulls. Spine arching, head yanked back until you’re forced to look up, eyes wide and glassy.

"Fuck, fuck," you practically sob, his fingers entangled so deep in your scalp as he gathers his own makeshift ponytail. "I can't—I oh my god—"

"Yeah?" Jungkook hisses, lips brushing your cheek with unexpected tenderness given what's happening elsewhere. "That cockdrunk already?"

"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna fucking cum again, I—ahh, fuck," you babble with the coherence of someone experiencing a minor stroke, words slurring together, "Jungkook, please—"

"That's it," he bites his lip roughly, nearly drawing blood, his thrusts increasing in both frequency and force. Every circle of his fingers winds the tension tighter in your core. "Say my name while you lose your fucking mind on my cock."

Your mouth drops open in a perfect O, the pressure building in your stomach. Through it all, he remains the constant; grinding into you, fingers maintaining their devastating rhythm on your clit, hand still firmly grasping your hair.

God, you’re right there, so close you can almost…

Jungkook suddenly withdraws completely, creating a void so unexpected your body responds with a sob that comes from somewhere deeper than conscious thought, your entire body trembling and slick and utterly wrecked.

But before you can think again, he's gripping your waist, flipping you over onto your back, your body responding with the cooperative limpness of a rag doll. Thighs still unfortunately shaking from everything he’s done to you. You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s back between your legs, spreading them wide, staring down at the soaked mess between you two.

“Need to see you,” he pants, pupils blown wide. “Need to watch you cum.”

He's kissing you again, less a romantic gesture and more like someone attempting to consume you through your mouth. Tongue hot and demanding, lips slick with everything you’ve given him. It’s messy, desperate, teeth clashing, breaths swallowed. Your hands claw at his back, his hair, needing something to hold onto as he thrusts back into you.

You cry out into his mouth, sound mangled, your head spinning as he fucks you hard from above. His chain swings again with every thrust, cold metal smacking into your bouncing breasts.

Jungkook’s tattooed hand comes up to your throat, wrapping his fingers around the skin, enough to remind you who’s in control.

Your eyes snap open to meet his, and what you find there makes your internal organs perform cartwheels. Possession, worship, and hunger, as if he's been starving for years and you're the first real thing he’s had.

"You're gonna cum for me like this," he whines. His hand maintains its position at your throat, his chain now swinging with abandon, occasionally delivering metallic kisses to your chest. Hands are firmly placed on your hips, your legs flailing with each thrust. "Right here, while I'm inside you."

Your clit throbs at his words with almost painful insistence while your walls contract around his cock, your body apparently making decisions without consulting your brain first.

"Jungkook, right there," you mewl, hand gripping his shoulder tightly, "I can't—I'm gonna—I'm—"

"That's it," he grunts, reclaiming your mouth in a kiss that effectively silences whatever embarrassing sounds were about to escape. “Cum for me, baby."

And you do.

Your orgasm doesn’t just hit — it erupts. It detonates from deep inside you, hot and electric, tearing through your entire body like a lightning strike. Your back arches off the mattress, thighs snapping around Jungkook’s waist as your cunt clamps down on him, squeezing so tight it rips a guttural noise from his throat.

You’re sobbing something that might be his name, might be a prayer, might just be air torn from your lungs.

The world performs an impressive disappearing act. Your vision whites out. You're gone, temporarily relocated to some dimension where only he exists. Every muscle in your body spasms and shakes. It's raw and messy and completely unhinged.

Jungkook feels every microsecond of your unraveling. Each pulse. Each ripple of your body's meltdown beneath him.

"Fuck—" he groans, hips stuttering as your walls flutter around him. His grip intensifies — at your throat, your hip, anywhere he can establish anchor points — his self-control visibly deteriorating with each passing second. "Jesus Christ, you're— fuck, you're squeezing me so hard — baby, I'm not gonna—"

He’s panting now, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping from his temple as he tries not to lose it. This whole time you've been running from him, pretending not to notice what's been right in front of you; his almost painful beauty, the devastating architecture of his features, the way his eyes contain entire universes. (Okay, fine, you noticed. Sometimes. Often. Constantly. But admitting it then would have meant admitting other things you weren't ready for.)

"Look at you," he manages, the words coming out with obvious effort as he watches you completely disintegrate beneath him. "You're so goddamn beautiful when you cum."

"Shit," he gasps, "you're gonna make me—fuck, baby, I'm gonna—"

And still, he doesn’t stop praising you, even as his self-control cracks beneath the weight of your body convulsing around his cock.

“So tight. So wet. You’re perfect,” he growls, each compliment landing like a physical touch. “Made for me. My perfect girl.”

Even as his composure fractures atop the weight of your body, he continues his litany of praise. He's trembling above you now, jaw tightly clenched, every muscle locked as he continues moving through your climax, pursuing his own with increasingly desperate determination.

"Jungkook, fuck, I can't—" you sob, the overstimulation too much for you to even breathe, let alone think.

With one final, decisive thrust, he finishes, harder than he ever has in his natural life.

A sound escapes him, raw and primal and startlingly vulnerable. His head drops to your shoulder, hips moving with an erratic rhythm. His body pulses inside yours, hot ropes of cum painting your walls, your toes curling.

"Fuck, fuck, fuuuck—" he whimpers, hips making two more valiant efforts as he empties himself completely. "So good my girl, so fucking good—I can't, shit—"

This moment of complete abandon is when you finally let yourself see him. Not Calvin Klein's global ambassador. Not South Korea's beloved idol. Not the carefully constructed public image or even the man who you cared less about in those first meetings. Just Jungkook, beautiful when his own walls are down.

You spent so long running from this, from him, pretending not to notice how the light catches his features at certain angles, how his eyes tell stories when he looks at you, how the slope of his nose looks like somewhere butterflies land.

Now, watching him come undone because of you, inside you, the realization lands with catastrophic clearness: he was always yours to have. Completely, irrevocably yours in a way that both terrifies and exhilarates you.

His whole body trembles with aftershocks, chest heaving as he presses impossibly deeper, seeking maximum contact. Jungkook’s hand migrates from your throat to your waist, fingers grasping the warm skin.

Tears leak from the corners of your eyes, not from sadness or even overwhelm, but from some emotion too big for your body to contain. Your legs try to remain wrapped around him, but your muscles give out entirely. Your whole body has gone pleasantly boneless, nerves humming, heart performing a drum solo against your ribs.

He pants against your collarbone, his chain now a cool, slightly sticky presence trapped between your overheated bodies, lips brushing your jaw with tenderness.

"I didn't mean — fuck — I didn't mean to cum that hard," he murmurs, voice sandpaper-rough.

You manage a sound that's adjacent to laughter, breathless and slightly broken, your lips struggling to form actual words through the haze of endorphins. "It’s okay."

He allows his weight to settle near you, forehead resting against your shoulder, still intimately connected.

Neither of you move for a long time. Neither of you really want to.

｡･:*:･ﾟ��,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

You don't know how long it's been since the world stopped spinning on its axis, time having apparently become an optional concept rather than a reliable constant.

The sheets beneath you are warm, air carrying a complex bouquet — skin and breath and something that exists in the undefined territory between forgiveness and desire. Your legs remain stubbornly intertwined with his own, as if your body is staging its own rebellion against separation, operating on some fear that distance equals disappearance.

Jungkook has maintained silence. You've been equally restrained in your contributions to the non-conversation.

But his hand continues its cartography against your skin. Slow, featherlight circles mapped across your back. Periodically, his lips find your hairline, the gesture so natural it seems less of a conscious choice, but instead an involuntary reflex.

Your head occupies the territory of his shoulder, lips occasionally brushing his collarbone in what could be kisses or simply the accident of proximity. Beneath your ear, his chest rises and falls, his heartbeat a steady percussion under your palm.

You allow your gaze to travel upward.

You look at Jungkook in his unfiltered state — eyes heavy-lidded with satisfied exhaustion, torso bare of everything except his tattoo sleeve, the silver chain and a thin sheen of cooling sweat that catches what little light seeps in from the hallway. A faint crimson mark decorates his jaw where you clearly got too excited. He looks beautifully dismantled.

"I want to make this work."

He blinks. Then freezes in place like someone who's just spotted a rare and potentially skittish creature.

You register when he stops his movement against your back, feel the subtle hitch in his respiratory rhythm before it recalibrates to steadiness. But what matters more is what doesn't happen. He doesn't retreat. Doesn't deflect with humor. Doesn't repackage vulnerability into something more manageable.

Instead, he turns his head to look at you with an expression of wonder, gaze soft around the edges, mouth slightly parted as if he's afraid that acknowledging what you've said might cause you to take it back.

"I don't know how. I'm not... I don't want to be your girlfriend yet. I know I'm not ready for that," you admit, the confession emerging with all the tentative vulnerability of someone stepping onto ice they're not convinced will hold. "But I want to try to get there with you."

You don't explicitly mention fear, don't need to catalog the specific anxieties currently living in your chest. It's encoded in every accelerated heartbeat, every microexpression, every subtle tension in the muscles that have spent years building barriers around your emotions.

You're not hiding behind power dynamics or professional distance or the fortress of pride you've constructed brick by brick. You're just here. In his bed. Body curved around his like a physical manifestation of the promise your words have just placed in the air between you.

Jungkook exhales through his nose, a sound that is the audio equivalent of relief wearing joy's clothing, and presses his forehead to your scalp.

"Then let's try," he murmurs.

The silence expands between you, but it isn't awkward at all.

You adjust your position slightly, one leg claiming territory around his waist. His skin radiates warmth against yours, offering a security that feels foreign but essential. Yet your throat constricts anyway.

"Well," you sigh, "I don't know how to be with you, to be honest."

His eyes move to yours. As always, he doesn't attempt solutions. He listens with the rare patience of someone who understands that witnessing is sometimes more valuable than fixing.

You lick your lips and continue, "I don't know how to be someone who texts good morning. Or someone who talks about their feelings over dinner. Or someone who... who knows how to let another person in without feeling like I'm losing something in return."

The admission costs you something — you can feel it leaving your body, years of self-protection dismantling in real time. For a woman who's built her career on knowing exactly what to say and how to say it, this raw honesty feels like jumping off a bridge with no harness.

He remains silent. But his gaze holds yours with steady assurance, eyes dark and patient in the dim light like he's prepared to wait as long as necessary for whatever comes next.

You hesitate, but then add ,"Is that okay?"

The question hangs between you two. About whether someone like him, who seems to navigate genuine connection with the ease of breathing, could possibly want someone like you, for whom emotional transparency feels like a foreign language.

For what seems like ages, he doesn't answer.

Then he lifts a hand to your hair, brushing it back from your face with a sweetness that makes your chest ache in places you didn't know could feel.

"Yeah," he affirms, "That's okay."

Two words. Simple. Direct. And somehow containing the most profound acceptance you've ever been offered.

"I don't need you to be perfect," he continues, "I don't need you to turn into someone else just to be with me. Honestly, i would hate that.”

His thumb traces your jawline, eyes maintaining their focus on yours steadily. “I just need you to try."

You blink back the tears threatening to compromise your maintained image as someone who doesn't cry over boys or sad movies or particularly moving commercials featuring rescue animals.

"That's the problem," you confess, "I don't know how to try without trying to win or turning everything into something to conquer."

"I know," he says with the certainty of someone stating that water is wet. "You're the most guarded person I've ever met."

You narrow your eyes with mock indignation. "You're terrible at comforting people."

Which… is a lie so transparent it wouldn't fool a toddler. The man clearly possesses emotional intelligence bordering on supernatural — he somehow got you, corporate warrior queen and professional feelings-avoider, to actually visit your family after a year of strategic absence. If that's not evidence of psychological wizardry, nothing is.

He smiles genuinely, "You didn't come all the way here because I'm good at comforting people."

Your lips twitch traitorously, the beginnings of a smile staging a coup. Jungkook leans closer, "You don't have to know how to be with me right now. You just have to stay."

You press your face into the sanctuary of his skin, inhaling his scent. “You're not afraid?" you ask.

"Terrified," he replies without even a millisecond's hesitation. "But I'd rather be afraid with you than safe without you."

The line would sound rehearsed coming from anyone else, but his voice carries this authenticity of someone speaking their unfiltered truth. He looks at you like you're the answer to questions he didn't even know he was asking, like someone who's found their favorite person in a world of seven billion options and is amazed by his good fortune.

You don't respond verbally. You don't need to.

Because your arms remain wrapped around him, your body more honest than your words have ever managed to be. And you haven't let go or run away yet — a physical declaration more powerful than any verbal agreement.

The soft moment only lasts so long, however , because he's a man and therefore incapable of sustaining emotional vulnerability beyond the FDA-recommended dosage, his chest rumbles with that low frequency that signals a subject change is imminent.

"So," he says, "wanna hop in the shower with me?"

The question carries all the subtlety of a neon sign, but you find yourself smiling anyway — partly because it's such a perfectly timed relief for the emotional pressure that's been building, and partly because even this transparent attempt at distraction is infused with affection. His eyes still look at you like you've personally hung the moon and stars, even while proposing something as mundane as shared hygiene.

You blink for a moment. Then lift your head just enough to give him a look that questions both his sanity and possibly basic human biology. “You're joking."

He returns your gaze with an expression balanced perfectly between amusement and innocence. "Why would I be joking?"

"Because it's physically impossible that you still have anything left," you retort ,eyebrows climbing toward your forehead in a silent judgment of his audacity.

He just shrugs, "I hydrate. I stretch. I take care of myself."

You drop your head back onto his chest with a groan that contains multitudes; exhaustion, disbelief, and a reluctant hint of admiration. "Oh my god."

He grins, entirely unbothered by your exasperation, fingers tracing a path down your side. "You're the one who came crawling back to me, remember?"

You lift your head again, fixing him with a glare that would wither lesser men. "Crawling is a strong word."

He arches a single eyebrow. "You showed up at my house with a crumpled contract and a face that said please, take me back my lover."

You have the simultaneous desire to slap him, kiss him senseless, and then perhaps slap him once more for good measure. But you opt for your mouth opening, then closing again, resembling an indignant goldfish as your brain frantically searches for a comeback and finds the cupboard disappointingly bare.

"Yeah," he smirks, "that's what I thought."

You grab the nearest pillow and smack him squarely in the face with it — the universal last resort of those who have lost the argument but refuse to concede defeat.

He laughs as he effortlessly confiscates your improvised weapon and tosses it aside. With fluid coordination, he tugs you back toward him, arms locking around your waist.

"I'm serious," he murmurs,"Shower with me."

His expression might be teasing, but his eyes tell a different story, one where this request is about far more than shared hygiene. They look at you with the softness reserved for someone who still can't quite believe you're actually here, in his bed, in his arms, agreeing to try.

You pull back just enough to examine him properly, the way his smile goes slightly lopsided when genuine, how his eyes crinkle at the corners when they're not performing for a lens. And underneath all of that visible surface-level perfection: relief. Quiet, unmistakable relief that you're actually here, that this isn't another near miss in your shared history of almosts.

You trace a thumb along his jawline, "If I go in there with you, you're not allowed to make a single comment about your 'stamina.'"

He presses a kiss to your wrist. "Fine."

"Or your flexibility."

"Okay."

"Or how good your skin looks wet."

He snorts with amusement. "You do like it though."

You deliver one final shove to his shoulder, the gesture containing all the force of a gentle breeze as he begins to sit up. His arms are already reaching for you again, the blanket abandoning its post as he pulls you back into him. A laugh escapes your throat before you can intercept it, muffled against the skin that's become more familiar to you than anything.

This unexpected development is precisely what you never permitted yourself to envision. What your risk assessments classified as statistically improbable.

But here it is. Materializing in this moment. Occupying this bed with the certainty of something that's always been inevitable.

You look at him again, and he returns your gaze.

Perhaps love isn't orchestrated declarations or cinematic gestures performed with optimal lighting.

Perhaps it's this.

The quietly profound silence that says despite all logical arguments to the contrary, you stayed.

And the next few days unfold with that same magic of moments you weren't supposed to have; soft, unanticipated.

You extend your return flight as if you’re postponing a dentist appointment. Once. Then again and again. Until the concept of departure transforms from definitive plan to vague hypothetical.

Your hotel sends increasingly concerned emails about your room you haven't seen and don’t plan to. Your suitcase maintains its position in the corner of Jungkook's bedroom, untouched and increasingly irrelevant.

Now? You essentially live here.

At least, that's the only conclusion based on available evidence.

Your limbs are entangled with his at all times; on his comfortable couch, in his ridiculously large bed, half-conscious on the floor in front of his massive TV. Your hairbrush has made good friends with his bathroom drawer. There's a bottle of your overpriced moisturizer holding territory on his nightstand. His kitchen now carries the scent of your morning coffee, and he never allows you to prepare it without supervision.

"Let me do it," he insists, "You'll make it too strong."

"You're weak," you counter, "Own it."

But he just shrugs with nonchalance, delivers a kiss to your cheekbone, and activates the kettle anyway.

Daniel, from across the world, hasn't made contact. He doesn't need to. Your discretion levels are currently hovering around zero.

You sent him a single text, a masterpiece of vagueness claiming you're "taken care of." His response consisted of three laughing emojis and a GIF depicting a calendar engulfed in flames. You chose not to follow up on that particular conversation thread.

No other member of the team has demonstrated the courage needed to disturb your unauthorized sabbatical.

For perhaps the first time in your adult life, you experience zero guilt about any of it.

For once, your life isn't structured around the strategy decks at dawn and press releases at midnight. You're eating toast over Jungkook's kitchen sink, while behind you, he performs a lip sync routine using a wooden spoon as his microphone. You're curled up on his couch wearing one of his shirts (which naturally, fits you like a dress), your laptop exiled to the coffee table. His head rests in your lap while he tells you tales from his trainee days that simultaneously explain his discipline and make you wonder how anyone survives the k-pop industry with their sanity intact.

You find yourself watching him smile, the authentic ones that transforms his entire face and makes something in your chest bloom. Somewhere between months ago and this moment, your brain recategorized him, filing him under "person I might actually miss" rather than "professional chaos requiring PR aide."

Each night, you fall asleep in his bed with windows slightly ajar, Seoul's night air drifting in, his arm draped across your waist.

Some days you wake to find him already conscious, just... looking at you, blinking as if he’s conducting reality checks.

"You okay?" you whisper during one such morning surveillance, voice still rough with sleep.

He nods. Smiles that stupid bunny smile that makes you all fuzzy. “Just making sure you're real."

You don't try to respond. Kiss him instead.

You don't know what comes next in this unscripted thing you've stumbled into. Your professional life has always operated according to meticulous planning but there's no PowerPoint template for whatever this is. No key performance indicators to measure the success of accidentally falling for the person you were supposed to keep at a professional distance.

Finally though, when reality does come crashing down, when the email confirmation materializes in your inbox, it feels like some alternate version of yourself made these arrangements. Some corporate doppelgänger who still prioritizes quarterly projections over the way Jungkook's voice sounds when he's half-asleep.

Your return to New York.

A city that once represented the pinnacle of your ambitions, now reduced to a collection of skyscrapers and deadlines.

You stare at the itinerary, thumb hovering over the screen. The return remains theoretical until you forward it to your assistant.

Subject line: returning next week. please keep calendar clear until I land.

What your assistant doesn't know… is that this departure comes with a loophole.

Not so much an ending as a comma in a sentence still being written.

There's another ticket purchased with the stealth of a spy. Under Jungkook's legal name. Scheduled for precisely seventy-two hours after yours — a buffer zone necessary for him to navigate the bureaucracy that runs his existence. A whispered promise that he'll follow once HYBE's legal department, publicity team, and some other people sign off on the logistical nightmare that is "globally famous person attempts to ‘try things’ with c-suite member of said person’s latest marketing campaign.”

There will be tabloid landmines to sidestep. Calendar schedules to master. Seemingly trivial concerns that will eventually mean something, like calculating time differences before sending texts, ensuring you’ve made space for his skincare in your New York apartment, and perfecting the art of arriving at the same location via different entrances.

“Trying to make it work” with an international popstar, it turns out, requires the same level of strategic planning as a corporate merger.

Right now, though, you're standing in the doorway of Jungkook's apartment, performing the world's most reluctant exit. Your suitcase waits by your feet, coat draped over your arm, heart lodged so firmly in your throat. The car service downstairs is undoubtedly charging by the minute while the driver wonders what drama is delaying your descent.

Jungkook’s standing before you, barefoot and hoodie carelessly thrown on, eyes carrying sleepiness. Beneath that morning haze, he's unmistakably present. Awake in the way that silently pleads don't leave without saying what we both know is true.

You haven't told him yet. The words you've been rehearsing in your head.

The truth you've been aware of for days while pretending otherwise.

His voicemail still plays on repeat, the one you finally had the courage to hear on that Manhattan rooftop, glass abandoned as his voice crackled through your phone speaker.

"I think I'm in love with you."

He never demanded reciprocation. Never presented it as a transaction. And now you're stuck thinking about your mother's favorite lecture, delivered with the exasperation reserved for a child too smart for her own good. "Don't lie if you can't carry it."

As your fingers make contact with the cold metal of the door handle, you pause. Turn to him.

Your eyes connect with Jungkook’s — they’re always wide with anticipation, patiently waiting, hopeful in that quiet, unassuming way he hopes for things. Your mouth opens, words still stubbornly refusing to leave.

Finally, with the triumphant relief of someone who's been holding their breath underwater, you manage to speak.

"I.. I-I think I'm starting to fall in love with you too."

He blinks at you. Like perhaps his sleep-deprived brain has misinterpreted that. Like maybe this is some elaborate dream his subconscious has constructed to torture him.

But then there’s that slow, sunrise smile that spreads across his entire face. That small, stunned shake of his head. His eyes soften, and he steps forward, reaching for your hand like it's the only anchor in a storm.

He presses his lips to your knuckles — a gentleman's compromise, the only part of you he apparently trusts himself to touch without dragging you back to bed.

"I'll see you in New York," he mutters.

In some way, those words say exactly what you know they mean. You nod, swallowing past the lump in your throat, forming a smile that doesn't look like you're about to cry.

The distance between Seoul and New York has never seemed so vast and so insignificant.

And when you walk out the door, heart thundering, you slide into the backseat of the car. Not any less yourself, not someone’s girlfriend, but with the promise of something new. Hands are still buzzing, gaze lingering on the city you used to avoid calling home.

As the driver pulls away from the curb, you feel your phone buzz once in your lap.

Eomma.

You blink at your phone.

Without hesitation, without fear, without guilt, you answer the call.

“Hi, Eomma,” you say, smiling softly. “I’ve missed you! Sorry I didn’t call since last week, I was crazy busy. But I do have a story for you.”

Everything in your chest feels entirely new.

Because at this point in time, you’re not running from something.

You’re walking toward it.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

masterlist + request

note ; if you’re reading this — welcome! you survived the end of the price of desire, and i love you for it. thank you for reading.

now to show my love and affection… i’ll be doing 3-4 epilogue drabbles/blurbs based off your guys’ requests (bc it’s no fun if im just doing whatever i please, duhh!!) send in some ideas (smut, fluff, even some angst) of what you would want to see as epilogue blurbs and i’ll choose the ones that inspire me :-) THIS IS NOW CLOSED! THANK YOU FOR ALL THE REQUESTS 🫶

taglist ; @lovingkoalaface @maybetheproblemisme @mimi1097 @mar-lo-pap @mysjammy @yooniepot @tinytan-gerine @ashslight @sky-23s-world @myzzysstuff @elinaki92 @7fever @munchkin-kitty7-blog @uarmygguk @jjkluver7 @coletaehyung @jkxlvrr @amarawayne @kooslilhoe @bangchanwantsmesobad @kpopslur @senaqsstuff @sugakookies77 @tteokbokibyjk @emmie2308 @neurospicynugget @prxdajeon @majesticjung-97 @jksusawife @rkivesarchive @hyunjinswifetingzz @bjoriis @nan4rf @parkinglot-nights @travelgurrl @softhaes @bexxs @magicalnachocreator @wisebouquetbarbarian @futuristicenemychaos @jadestonedaeho7

#jungkook smut #jungkook #jungkook x reader #bts jungkook #jeon jungkook #jeon jeongguk #jungkook x you #jungkook x y/n #bts #bts x reader #bts fanfic #jjk #jjk x reader #bts smut #jungkook angst #jungkook fluff

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madwomansapologist · 7 months ago

Text

ᡣ𐭩.ᐟ a hound left without a leash

★彡 synopsis: your love is constant, ever-present and ever-growing. toji finds it endearing. how you're not afraid of being soft around him. but he can’t be like that. his love isn't gentle and quiet like yours: it's remorseless, made of sharp fangs soaked in blood—five times toji felt loved by you, five times he loved you back.

content warnings: established relationship, fluff & angst & smut, domesticity, movie night, toji is soooo in love it's embarrassing, touch starved meet clingy, he's bad at feelings don't give him space, devotion, beach date, hurt/comfort, his love language is acts of service it's not his fault he only knows how to kill, violence (not towards reader), gaslight if you squint, voyeurism, sex toy, manhandling, lots of spit and bites and scratches, creampie, cockwarming.

bella's note: inspired by the song valentine by laufey. y'all say thank you, @gothsuguru for making like three posts about toji that reminded me of my love for this deadbeat killer.

word count: [4.3K]

(It took Toji by surprise the first time he noticed it.)

Toji tried to focus on the action movie—clearly made with no aspiration beyond gathering as much money as possible. He really did. Before learning the bland protagonist’s name, heavy eyelids and comfy blankets came together with a sickening plan to betray his determination.

There was no movie to pretend to watch by the time Toji woke up. The television was turned off, the living room silent if not by his untamed heartbeat. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, blurs turning into discernible shapes, Toji breathed no more.

Only after seeing it on the television that Toji was able to feel it on his body. Fingertips running through his still-damp hair, thumb pressing softly against his temple. A constant movement, warm and calm. It made him think about waves in an empty shore.

A contained laughter guided his eyes away from the screen. Leaning on your shoulder, Toji saw you. Eyes narrowing at your phone, undoubtedly fighting to stay open, the tip of your tongue between your parted lips. Caressing his hair, you nibbled on your tongue.

For you, it was an old habit you couldn’t get rid of. For Toji, it was a telltale of your concentration.

Once he learned there was a way to read you, Toji aimed to collect all your telltales. He has all those little signals memorized to translate your behaviors into something he can fully understand. Into something he can transforming into actions.

Distant gaze means hesitation, which in turn means say something, anything, goddamnit. Trembling lips and fervent rage, scrunched nose and jealousy, discreet smiles and nauseating happiness. Toji could fill libraries with everything there is to know about you.

Staring at the soft muscle, Toji knew what your concentration required from him: silence, just for a while. Toji gave you what you needed, hoping somehow you knew what he meant by it—I love you, I love you, I love you.

Wondering about what you needed him to do for you Toji didn’t even notice your nails scratching behind his ears, where you knew he’s sensitive enough to melt into your palm. If he had, maybe Toji would’ve fallen asleep on your shoulder again and rest properly for once.

Toji can’t remember the name of the movie that lulled him to sleep. If he was at your home, if it was late at night, if it was during an unexpected blizzard. Toji can only remember that your eyes weren’t on him, and your touch was gentle.

Scrolling endlessly as you kept him awake, Toji thought once more about how soft your skin is when compared to his. It lacked scars. You lack roughness, precision, disgust. All those things Toji once believed being an adult meant: you don’t have any of them.

(The first time he noticed your love was gentle and quiet, Toji didn’t knew how to react.)

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

(Obviously, Toji never lets you win.)

“Just throw me, Toji”, you practically meowed his name. When he completely ignored your presence, you pinched his cheek. Toji took a deep breath. “Please. Pretty please.”

Your cold hands cupped his cheeks, trying to get Toji to look at you. Pouting, plush bottom lip on display, you stared at him through your lashes. You knew it would take one look at you for him to fold and give in.

He slipped away from your hold, so fast you only noticed he was gone when Toji was already laying down on your beach sarong. That made you giggle. He does that all the time. Moves faster than your eyes can comprehend.

It’s so alluring you couldn’t even force yourself to get mad over Toji mistaking your new sarong for a sheet.

“Brat, I’ve told ya”, he tilted his head back. Toji rest his arm over his head, in a not-so-subtle way of ensuring he wouldn’t accidentally sneak a glance at you. Toji could feel on his bones that you were pouting. “I’m not doing that.”

Maybe because you both went on a whim to a beach on a random tuesday, maybe because this one isn’t as popular as you feared, it was truly a peaceful day. No kids running around, no loud music blasting through someone else’s phone, no drunks yelling just because.

It’s so close from being a perfect day, now all you need is to hear Toji saying yes, darling, anything for you. Not that you ever heard that before. At least, not worded like that.

With a melodramatic sigh, you walked to where your stuff was. Searching among all the bags tossed around, you found just what would change his mind. As your malignant plan developed inside of your mind, a grin spread across your face.

Sitting on his lap, your soaked thighs clamped around Toji’s thick waist. Sighing once more, you rolled your hips with the poor excuse of searching for a more comfortable position. Warm fingers pressed down on his hips; nails close enough to ghost over his happy trail.

“Behave”, Toji groaned, free hand closing around your hip. He easily held you in place. You smelled like salt and malice. “I won’t change my mind.”

You bent over Toji, soaked bikini pressing down against his toned chest. Scratching his forearm, you brushed your nose against his cheek. “Can I try to convince you?”, you whispered sultry against his ear.

Softening his hold on you, Toji smirked. “You’re a fucking menace.”

Splash.

Pouring cold water on his face, you took advantage of his surprised state to run away while you’re still able to. Laughing more than you could breathe, you tilted your head back to look at Toji. “Now tell me something I don’t know.”

Just like you expected, Toji looked at you.

Just like you always forget, Toji was fast. Really, really fast.

Colliding with his chest, you frowned as your mind processed that Toji was right in front of you. As a pair of arms wrapped around your waist, you knew there was nothing you could do to escape his grip. You tried to anyway.

“That’s cheating”, you yelled. It made him laugh like hell, chest vibrating against your stomach. Lifted up far above the ground, you moved your feet uselessly. “It’s so unfair, you need to let me win sometimes too!”

A slap against your ass shut you up. “Annoying brat”, Toji threw you over his shoulders. You tried to squirm away, but decided to settle for just complaining once he bit your thigh. “As if. You can earn your victory or stop acting like a bored cat for once.”

Giggling, you pressed your elbows down on his shoulder. “Toji. My love”, your voice imbued in honey and sugar made him face you. Smiling angelically, you pointed at the cliff providing the shade you two enjoyed all day. “Throw me in the water. From up there, please.”

Another sigh. I’m almost breaking him, you thought. “Why? Just… why?”

“Because I want to jump so badly but I’m a coward”, you pouted. His eyes fell towards your bottom lip. “So just throw me. Pleeeeeeeaase. Pretty please.”

“If you drown, I’m not saving your ass.”

“Deal”, you kissed his jaw.

Another slap. “Spoiled, annoying brat.”

(Except, obviously, Toji always lets you win.)

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

(If you had asked, Toji would’ve confessed in a heartbeat.)

Toji took of his shoes and frowned at your heels fallen out of place. Murmuring to himself about how when he does it with his sneakers it’s a crime deserving of death sentence, Toji closed the buckles of your heels and put them inside the shoe rack.

He knew something was off once the silence lingered. Never one to doubt himself, Toji didn’t hesitate. He analyzed the floor, searched for different scents, checked the front door’s handler. Passing through every room with a hand near his hidden gun, Toji didn’t breathe until seeing you on your bed.

Although, what Toji saw didn’t make him any more relieved.

It’s late at night and you’re still wearing your responsible-adult clothes—that’s how you call those you buy solely so your coworkers won’t judge you. Earrings intertwined with your sweaty hair, necklace pressed against your collarbone, belt too tight to be comfortable.

Moonlight showed him your puffy eyelids smeared with mascara. Half-open as you stared at the ceiling, you didn’t seem to acknowledge Toji’s presence. You didn’t seem to acknowledge anything at all.

“Hi, love.” Toji kneeled down, whispering in order to not startle you. He pressed his chin on your pillow, hands moving your hair away from your face. “Are you here with me?”

Another tear rolled down your face once you blinked. Toji pressed his thumb against your skin, stopping it from falling into your ear. You tried to turn your face away from him, but hesitated once the warmth of his hands made to your heavy mind.

“Need to sleep”, you murmured, voice so thin Toji felt his throat shut.

Soaked in sweat, Toji ran his fingers through your hair without bothering you. He scratched your head, draw figures on your scalp, avoided any knots. Your name, his own, any other word he could think of: his fingertips wrote on your head. For what felt like hours, that’s all he did.

You tilted your head, staring at him. Toji can’t remember ever seeing your eyes like that. Dim. He wondered where you lost your light, and made a quiet promise to return it to you. “Sorry.”

“Don’t.” Toji simply continued to caress your head. “Tell me what to do.”

For the first time in hours, you thought about what you needed. With a single phrase, Toji reminded you that you had a body. “Can you get me my towel?”

Toji would’ve done anything, everything, you asked him to.

With your towel on the mattress, Toji assisted you to sit down. One hand on the small of your back, another cupping your cheek. You melted into his touch, but closed your eyes once he kneeled in front of you. Running away from his careful gaze, you grabbed your towel and forced yourself to walk into the bathroom.

It didn’t surprise you that Toji followed you. Or that he took the towel from your hands, unclasped your jewelry, slid your clothes off of you. Neither as the water hitting your body was on the temperature you prefer, as he hugged you tightly under the shower, as he didn’t make questions you couldn’t quite answer.

Not even your worst day would make you forget how soft your Toji is.

Toji relies on your body to tell him what you need, but once or twice you will say it yourself. Can you get me my towel? You want to be clean again. And knowing what you want, Toji knows what to do.

In no rush, he put your shampoo on his hand and massaged your head. Once your back found a support on his chest, he rinsed your hair while protecting your eyes. After moisturizing, he brushed your hair until he could feel no more knots. Washing the remains of conditioner away from his hands, he moved to the rest of your body.

It didn’t feel weird, and that did surprise you. To feel his hands on your naked body without feeling desire or desired. It wasn’t uncomfortable. Far from it. As Toji washed you, you just felt less lonely.

“Toji?”

He kissed your scalp, massaging your shoulders. He drawn little hearts on your skin. “I am here”, Toji hummed.

“It’s nothing”, you closed your eyes. That was a lie. You meant to say thank you, and I’m sorry but knew he would get mad if you did so. “Just wanted to hear you.”

“I am right here.”

(He would’ve confessed to mimic you, because Toji’s love is anything but gentle and quiet.)

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

(You wouldn’t ask him to. You would never.)

Ignoring the sorcerer’s terrified eyes, his movements were harsh and cold. It felt just right. To have a combat knife between his fingers again. How natural. As if his hands came from a mold, one made to wield blades and nothing more. That would make sense. For his body to be assembled instead of born.

Gun left aside; chair dragged across the concrete floor. Toji sat in front of the muzzled sorcerer, spreading his legs as he sharpened the blade. Moonlight made it clear. Cold sweat, stunned eyes, shaken limbs. He was a scared, coward animal.

“Don’t cry now”, Toji cocked an eyebrow. Spreading his legs, he admired the thin edge. Perfect. Dragging out the silence for one more instant, Toji stared at the walking corpse. “Not when you begged for this.”

A clan left behind; hellish decades erased within an insurgent decision. Toji doesn’t need to be a Zenin to have enemies. Blood-stained hands collect them just as easily. But after slaughtering enemies enough times, those smart enough to be considered dangerous by others knew better than facing him.

But rumors travel fast and, in his absence, fools gained confidence.

This late on his life, Toji couldn’t tell if it was instinct or muscle memory. He simply knew the sorcerer was about to do something stupid. The knife’s handle hit the man in the temple. As he fought to continue conscious, Toji observed his skin turning purple.

He felt proud. This night left no wound or bruise on his skin. There will be no perplexed gaze, uncertain touch, questions that can’t be answered honestly. Once he comes back to his home, you will have no reason to worry.

“You hurt her.” Toji wondered how long it would take. To get back to you. To return your caring gaze, feel your caring touch, hear your caring questions. “Now I’ll hurt you.”

It begged. It tried to negotiate, numbers rising as Toji continued in silence. If rumors travel fast, so does the truth. Toji turned soft, a rumor that thing discovered to be a lie the moment it decided to bother you. Toji can be bought, a fact that never once included you.

“What do you want?!” And the tears came back. They usually do, with loud and unstoppable sobs. Don’t matter who they are, in the end they beg just the same. “I can give it to you. Tell me your price.”

“Your right hand”, Toji tilted his head, sliding the edge of the knife against the armchair. “You touched her with your right hand.”

Toji was merely taunting the sorcerer. He would never use a combat knife to torture someone. That doesn’t sound like him at all. Toji will saw both hands with a dull knife.

(But you didn’t need to ask him to. Toji would always.)

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

(Toji didn’t need to say it.)

It took him long enough to unlock the door to your apartment. The voice of a senator on a news channel welcomed Toji. Heels inside the shoe rack, handbag and headphone forgotten on the couch. Hearing you hum in the shower, Toji turned the TV off.

He could picture it so clearly. You stretching your neck and walking barefoot into the living room, rubbing your eyes just to immediately remember about the mascara. Calling for him. Hearing nothing in response. Choosing something loud on the TV and deciding to take a long shower because it’s friday, I deserve this.

Toji sighed, relief washing over him in waves. You’re back to being you.

He put the takeout on the table and organized the groceries on the kitchen cabinet—his excuses for staying out longer than usual. Toji was careful with them. Food from your favorite restaurant, cleaning products you mentioned before. Lies build on solid truths.

He doesn’t have an excuse for the scent of antiseptic soap, but once your products made to his nostrils Toji realized he wouldn’t need one. Scents way too sweet, enough to confuse slightly his keen senses. There is no way you’re able to smell anything but yourself.

As the bathroom door opened, Toji grabbed a towel on the laundry and locked himself inside it before you could get a hold of him. He doesn’t think you would notice, and if you did you wouldn’t waste your breath on it, but Toji won’t risk it.

Washing himself once more, Toji tried not to wonder about what would make you despise him more: what he did, or that he doesn’t feel any remorse. Would it make it better for you if Toji cried in the shower? If he stared at his clean hands and saw blood on them? Toji could pretend for you. He really would.

You’re safe and sound, mere steps away from him. Toji showers hearing your loud music. Toji can picture that too. You waiting for him as your sleepy eyes challenge your determination—you always fall asleep before he gets to you. You being you. No shaky breathes, no unstoppable tears. He could never feel remorse.

Toji went after you with a towel around his hips. Following the music most likely coming from your phone, he gently opened the bedroom door to not wake you up. Leaning on the door frame, Toji chuckled.

With your eyes closed, you were far from sleeping. Wrinkled sheets falling out of bed, toes curling against the mattress. Damp towel forgotten on the floor. A hand squeezing his pillow, the other hidden between your thighs. Forearms moving in the rhythm you created to yourself; small gasps concealed by a song.

Spit gathered in the corner of your mouth, mesmerizing Toji. How he wished to sink his teeth into your glossy lips. A broken moan and your back arched, his eyebrows furrowing in synchrony with yours. You did it as the waves of pleasure became too much, and Toji as he finally saw what you had between your legs.

From the blunt and bulbous head to its thick length, it was truly no wonder why you were so quiet. All way out, then all way in. Your concentration was on fucking yourself with the dark purple dildo, the rest simply too much for you little brain.

He never saw that one before.

Wrist burning from your incessant movements, your free hand abandoned his pillow to press down on your clit. A simple and precise touch that made you whimper. Feeling shivers down his spine, Toji smirked.

Your eyes fluttered open.

A beat later, they meet his and widened. All way out. Mouth hanging open, you chuckled. It sounded like you were about to lose your sanity. Then all way in. “There you are.”

Toji crossed his arms, leaving his place at the door to a new one at the end of the bed. “Putting on a show for me?”

“Not on purpose”, you laughed it off. It felt so dirty. For you to talk normally while doing something so lewd. As if you weren’t fully exposed—as if he wasn’t too. “I could say the same about you.”

Skin reddish because of the hot water, black hair dripping wet. You followed every drop, burning him with your ravenous gaze. Veins evident on his thick neck. Long fingers pressing down on his forearms, a reminder of how bad you miss his touch. Huge thighs, even when relaxed.

He dropped the towel. “Not on purpose”, Toji lied.

A knee sunk on the bed, his hands caressing your heels. Toji forced your legs up, tilting his head to kiss the side of your foot. He put one on each shoulder, another knee sinking down on the bed. Grabbing at the fat of your thighs, Toji pulled you closer.

Toji has a way of making you feel weightless.

He bit his tongue, a hand massaging your thigh. Always the cocky asshole, Toji rubbed your overwhelmed clit with his thumb. Staring into his hungry eyes, you grinned.

Holding the firm base of the dildo, Toji pulled it out of you. The sounds your cunt let out, soaked and soft, made him squeeze your thighs. With a pop, there it was, covered in lubricant and your excitement. Your core clamped around nothing.

Toji spat on you, fingers rough against your sore lips as his other hand pumped his cock. You swallowed watching Toji compare with your dildo. You both could see the truth. How your toy was much bigger and ticker.

Salivating, Toji was so proud of you.

Bending over you, forcing your thighs against your chest, Toji admired your sweaty face. He kissed your temple, pressing the dildo’s tip against your lips. “Your collection only grows”, Toji groaned. “That’s a new one.”

“Not new”, you lapped at the protruding head. “Is for when I miss you.”

Toji sank his teeth into your shoulder, hiding his burning cheeks against your skin. Fingers ran through his hair; nails scratched his forearm. “You saw me this morning.”

His tongue was everywhere, moving too fast for you to keep up. Kissing your shoulder, licking your neck, biting your collarbone. Toji is always too much. How perfect of him. “Are you that needy you can’t go hours without me?”

“Miss you all the time”, you struggled to breath. Pulling him by the hair, you made Toji face you. Lost on his dark eyes, time seemed to stop. “Say you miss me too.”

“Miss you all the time”, Toji obeyed. It wouldn’t matter if he didn’t. Not when you can see his flushed cheeks. As a reward, you kissed the scar on his mouth—you would’ve kissed it anyway. “Think about you all the time.”

You bit his earlobe, nose sliding against his neck as you searched for that sweet spot able to make Toji stutter. Once you did, mouth sucking it without mercy, Toji gave your hips a strong squeeze. His calloused hands would mark you tonight.

Toji humped on your thigh. You could feel precum leaking against your skin. He settled for leaning his forehead against yours. “You smell way too sweet.”

“I can get new lotions”, you offered. “Something you like better.”

“Don’t.” Toji cupped your face, ignoring your clit to rub the length of his cock against your slit. Pushing your head against the pillow, he kissed your forehead. “I like you sweet.”

Toji didn’t meant to slip inside you. He wanted to taunt you some more. To fuck you with your dildo and make you scream right into his open lips. Toji wanted you drooling. And once you begged him enough, showing what a polite woman you are, Toji would make you cry with his tongue deep into your walls.

But you were so wet.

“T-Toji!” You gasped, eyes wide as you felt all of him. Pulling his hair, you bit his bottom lip. “Can feel you so deep…”

“I know”, Toji grabbed the headboard, thighs shaking. So fucking welcoming. Thumbs stroking your hips, his mind was a mess because of you. “I know.”

Your eyes meet his. A part of Toji wanted to look away. To hide how fragile you make him. How your gaze burns him deeply. The other wanted to never shy away from you. To never know what it feels like to not be watched by you.

No one ever sees him, the one who left it all behind. No one but you.

His body collapsed against yours. His hands pulled your hair, making you tilt your head so he could continue to torture your neck. Thighs forcing yours open, chest pressing down against yours. You could feel the rhythm of his heartbeat. This gigantic man crushing you against the mattress, so heavy it was difficult to breath.

Drunk on his overwhelming intensity, you admired Toji. His hips rolling up, so slow you could feel the trace of every vein on his cock. His length inside you, never giving you a break. His hair dripping on you, a blend of water and sweat.

“Remind me… to thank my new friend”, Toji tilted his head, pointing at the dildo besides your pillow. His raspy voice was more addictive than cocaine. “Got you ready to take me all in.”

Fighting his grasp on your hair, you hugged his shoulders and forced your head up. Sharing an open mouth kiss, your drool fell on your chest. It felt so cold. Or perhaps your skin was too feverish. Toji devoured your every moan, hands tightening around your hips.

“Missed you so much”, you whimpered. His forehead leaned on yours, eyes closing as Toji tried to not lose himself. You continued to admire him. “Missed being yours.”

“You’re always mine. All the time”, Toji groaned. His tip hit your most sensitive spot; your eyes closing on their own. Toji rubbed your neglected clit, a hand grabbing the roots of your head. His grip firm yet gentle. “Look at me.”

You obeyed, staring into his dark eyes again. You could swear you saw stars on them. Toji leaned his forehead on yours, your touch enough to make him forget everything but your name.

“There you go”, he whispered. “Focus on me, pretty. Don’t look away.”

Searching for those stars again, the waves of pleasure strong enough to shatter your mind. There was nothing but that spot you and Toji turned into one. Blinded by a fog, crushed by him, you came looking into his eyes.

Toji filled you with all he had. His head fell on your chest, it all too much for him to bear. It all too good for him to fully believe it was real. Gasping, he couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t do anything but breath on you. Sweet you.

Running your trembling fingers through his hair, you collapsed against the pillow. Toji was heavy enough to make you breathless, but you didn’t want him to move. You wanted him as close as he could get.

“Welcome back”, Toji murmured. Mimicking you, Toji ran his fingers through your hair. You felt him smiling against your skin. “I missed you.”

You knew exactly what he meant by that. “I love you too”, you whispered.

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ultravioletrayz · 1 year ago

Text

𖤓1K FOLLOWERS SPECIAL𖤓

💜(N)SFW HEADCANONS💜

Pairing: miguel o’hara x f!reader

Warnings: 18+, body descriptions (miguel is all buff and reader is curvy), size kink, manhandling, floor sex, oral (f. receiving), rough-ish sex, choking w/ bicep, 69, just the tip

Summary: miguel being a big, beefy man

A/N: tysm for 1000 followers!!

SFW

This man breaks EVERYTHING. Both in fits of rage, and just when using everyday items, Miguel's pure, superhuman strength just leads to him accidentally breaking shit all of the time. He has most definitely hurled the remote at the TV screen while watching soccer, also has probably broken things like glasses or mugs in his unintentionally firm grip before. He's always laughing embarrassedly and apologising for it, although deep down he's genuinely shamed of his brute strength and always having to go out and buy replacements for the things he breaks.

It's funny to watch him use utensils, brush his teeth, talk on the phone etc., because his hands are so big that everything looks comically tiny in his grasp. Also, Miguel purposefully puts things on high shelves to show off how tall he is. If you're struggling to reach something, he's definitely the type to reach for it from behind you and make you beg him to hand it to you. He's an asshole a tease who can't resist bragging about how much bigger and stronger he is compared to you.

He uses you as weights when he works out. It doesn't matter how heavy you are, since Miguel can canonically lift up to 10 tons, so he only works out for definition/tone rather than strength. He loves hearing your shocked gasps and giggles when he pushes you up suddenly while benching you, or when he curls your cute body and you blush every time he pecks your face when he lifts you towards him.

Miguel is always open to carrying you. He isn't into PDA, but his exception is the way you pout and complain about your feet hurting, and he's always quick to effortlessly scoop you up bridal style and carry you around the street, keeping you nestled against his warm tits chest. He also insists on carrying groceries and laundry, and he absolutely loves it when you ask for help/give him a task that requires him to show off his strength. Miguel is the king of princess treatment and will happily wait on your hand and foot if you ask, solely because he's physically capable of doing so.

Sometimes Miguel can be insecure about his strength because of the trauma associated with his mutant powers and his self-destructive tendencies, but the way that you give him a space to drop the tough, intimidating act makes him want to cry. You know he's a strong guy, but you never take advantage of his superhuman abilities. He just wants to be loved, he doesn't want to be seen as the scary animal he's made out to be.

NSFW

Following on from the "breaks everything" headcanon, Miguel has most definitely broken things while you guys have sex. In fear of hurting you, Miguel has a tendency to grip the headboard, the sheer strength in his hold causing the wood to snap in his hands. Obviously, the force of his thrusts has caused the bed itself to collapse underneath the two of you, but whenever it's happened Miguel has just dragged you onto the floor, kissed you on the cheek, and continued. He's a man on a mission when he's inside you.

Miguel treats you like a rag doll, he manhandles you completely. He makes sure not to hurt you too badly, but he likes to throw you around, lift you up, and pin you in place. He can easily contort your body into any position he pleases, and support you no matter what. When he eats you out, you can barely muster the energy to squirm, because he’s got your thighs wedged open with his broad shoulders, his rough hands keeping you spread. Sometimes, he’ll lift you up over his shoulders and eat your pussy while standing, leaving you dangling in the air and grabbing his hair helplessly as he keeps his hands hooked underneath your knees.

This headcanon is dedicated to Miguel’s arms. More specifically, Miguel putting you in a chokehold while he’s hitting it from the back. Heavy balls slapping against your clit as his bulging bicep engulfs your throat, restricting your breathing so deliciously that you’re panting and drooling all over the mass of beautiful tan skin and hard muscle underneath your chin, his pulsing veins caressing your throat with an almost sinful delicacy. His free hand gropes the fat of your waist and your ass, each slap that lands on your big butt making you squeal in pure ecstasy, to which his beefy arm squeezes around you tighter to stop you from escaping his deep strokes into your sopping cunt. Definitely talks to you half-degrading, half-praising just to make your mind spin and your pussy clench around him. “Keep taking it, sweetheart. Doing so good for me. You still breathing? Or am I fucking you so good you’ve forgotten how to do it, niña tonta?”

(This one is HEAVILY inspired by @mybvalentine’s 69ing with Miguel blurb because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since I read it 🤭) But 69ing would definitely be a competition between you and Miguel, in the sense that you'd both be competing to taste each other. Miguel is so tall, and by comparison, you're so much smaller than him, so unless the two of you are willing to strain your necks and bodies by leaning in to suck and nibble at each other's essence, 69ing is a test of your patience. While Miguel has you pulled back, sitting on his face as he feverishly eats you out, you're stuck watching the way his pretty cock weeps at the taste of your slick coating his tongue, making you insatiably hungry for him. When you finally escape his grasp and lay forward with Miguel's dick prodding at the depths of your warm throat, Miguel groans at the way a combination of his spit and your juices dribbles onto his pecs, causing him to compromise and helplessly finger your weeping hole, scooping up your slick and bringing it to his mouth so that he can taste you again as you swallow and choke around his big cock.

Miguel is too big. Like, I’ve said in other posts, his dick can be unbearable at times, the dull aching off his cock stretching you out and filling every crevice occasionally becoming a relentless throbbing sensation. So, when you’re just too tight and he’s too thick to handle, Miguel will do just the tip to give your thoroughly bruised cervix a break. Even his flared, leaky tip is a tight squeeze in your little cunt, the wet *pop* sound the head of his dick makes each time Miguel pulls his hips back to the point where his slit is brushing against the rim of your entrance making you mewl. The sight of you unravelling on just his tip goes straight to Miguel’s head (you can decide which one).

sooo this was actually meant to be for 500 followers but I delayed it so much that it became my 1K special... 👀

oops!

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booty-uprooter · 11 months ago

Text

some tips on how to make bosses easier if youre feeling theyre too hard:

play a ranged physical dps class. that way you can hang back to keep an eye on the arena and what the boss is doing without having to worry about needing to stand still long enough to complete an induction

on that note, inductions are considered finished before the bar is full. you can usually move right before it fills and still have it go off, but it takes some trial and error to figure out how close you can cut it

move your ui around. my own life was made immeasurably easier when i put the target right above my hotbar so i wouldnt have to pay attention to both the top and bottom of the screen at the same time, but try stuff out and see what works best for you

the best time to mitigate an attack is right before the boss finishes casting it. the second best time is as soon as the mit becomes available, every time it becomes available

use addle and feint. you almost never see these used in casual content and it's a waste because they really are extremely useful skills at any level

use arm's length and surecast. there are some knockbacks they dont work on but those are rare. if you know youre gonna get pushed, use these and you probably won't get pushed

take advantage of duty support. the npcs know the mechanics. watch them and let them teach you

particle effects cant hurt you (usually). with the exception of puddles that stay on the ground for a while or layered stacks like akh morn, as long as youre not standing on the marker when it disappears (or are if it's a stack), you're in the clear. feel free to move through the animation if necessary. more and more mechanics require you to do so to be in position for the next one in time

it's usually fine to let spread markers overlap. just, yknow, make sure another person isnt in yours (though its the responsibility of anyone without a spread to keep themselves out of harms way)

when in doubt, ask your party members. it's extremely rare to match with a group of randos and have everyone be a first-timer. most players are happy to help, and the ones that know the mechanics but are bad at explaining them will usually just stick a marker on themselves (usually a triangle) for you to follow

read your tool tips. boss fights are as much a test of how well you know your class as they are your ability to read and react to mechanics. unless youre playing a healer or paladin, youre going to use your entire kit, so make sure you know what everything does

on that note, freecure is a scam. once you get cure ii/benefic ii, you will never need cure or benefic again. keep them on your hotbar for when you get synced content if you wish, but otherwise you do not need them. do not use them

if you play multiple classes, try to keep skills that do the same/similar things at the same spot on your hotbar. this isn't always possible bc despite what some may claim, not all classes of the same type are actually identical, but it will save you a lot of headaches

entirely new and unique mechanics are rare to the point of being nigh nonexistent. everything is a remix of something else and practicing in lower level content can actually be a big help

look up guides. the internet is full of them in pretty much whatever form works best for you (though they can be of admittedly variable quality)

turn down party effects. theyre on one of the tabs under character configuration > controls. if you put them on minimum you can still see heals and such but you wont have your screen constantly full of explosions

turn on target health percentage. this one is under character configuration > ui. it lets you better see how close the boss is to going down

make summons smaller. we all love titan's ass but not when it's the only thing you can see. "/petsize all small" will make this problem go away

relax and have fun. panicking leads to mistakes, which can lead to worse mistakes. if you need to take a second to breathe, do so. your party members probably wont mind waiting a minute or two between pulls

#ffxiv #zack's random nonsense

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revelboo · 5 months ago

Note

I’m officially addicted to your fics. May I request an update to TFP Shockwave’s story? 💜

Sure!

Point of Extinction Pt 11

TFP Shockwave x Reader

• Head lifting guiltily from where you’re absolutely not doodling stick figure Shockwaves that are pretty much a cube head with rabbit ears, a rectangle for his giant mech-tit-whatever it is he has going on there, and stick legs. And his antenna go back the second he spots you, pointedly looking everywhere but at you. Which, considering his default mode is staring for an uncomfortably long time and barely speaking, puts you on edge. “Everything okay?” And how do you erase the screen? Especially now that you’re realizing his cannon doesn’t actually look like a cannon. Why had you drawn it like that? At a loss, you sit on the screen.

• Everything is needlessly complicated now. Not okay as you put it. Because Megatron had been playing with his human and hadn’t bothered to stop when he’d tried to report his research findings. And he keeps thinking about it against his will. About the sounds that human had made, the way they’d moved against Megatron’s servo. Wondering what sounds you’d make. “Thirteen, do you interface for pleasure or only to breed?” He asks and your little mouth falls open. Making him suspect he’s been neglecting your needs.

• What? There’s no understanding how his weird processor works, but that’s the last question you expected. And wary of him misunderstanding any way you answer him, your eyes narrow as his head tips, antenna still back. “Why do you want to know?” Because no matter what led him to that question, you’re probably not going to like it. What’s going on in that head of his? ‘Could provide a human to interface with if required for-’ Lurching to your feet in alarm, because you don’t want him kidnapping some random person thinking you need a fuck buddy to be happy. “No!” Antennae flicking, he begins tapping his cannon against a thigh in agitation. “No, we don’t do that with strangers, okay? We need to know someone, trust them.”

• Ah. Intimacy only with trusted individuals and that eases tension he hadn’t even realized was bracketing his frame. Realizing he didn’t want you to agree or to have to watch you couple with someone else. “Understood,” he rumbles, reaching to touch a servo to your soft head. He’s not had need for a holoform before, so he’ll need to format one. Or perhaps mass shift. Shouldn’t be curious at all about how you’d feel wrapped around his spike. Servo shifting to tip your chin up, that warmth he can’t quite pin down spreads through him when you lay a soft hand on him. “I will tend to your needs, then.”

• What now? “No,” you blurt and his antenna go back. “What I mean is thank you for the um, very kind offer.” He’s just staring at you. How does he even think that would work? “But I’m good.” Sometimes you really hate his lack of face, you’re pretty sure you’re probably offending him, though. And you don’t even care about the stick figure with the dick cannon, because this is so much worse. He’s so damn serious about it, head tipping like he does when you swear he’s thinking about dissecting you. “I promise I’ll keep it in mind, though,” you add weakly.

#transformers x reader #shockwave x reader #tfp shockwave

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souliebird · 10 months ago

Text

[[and then I met you || ch. 27]]

Series: Daredevil || Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader || Rating: Explicit

Summary:

A one-night stand years ago gave you a daughter and you are now able to put a name to her father – Matthew Murdock. Everything is about to change again as you navigate trying to integrate your life with that of the handsome and charming blind lawyer’s and Matt realizes he needs to not only protect his new family from Hell's Kitchen, but from the world.

chapter masterlist

Words: 4.4k

ao3 link

Police Arrest Three After Mass Protests in LA County

By C. Grant

Three people were arrested in Pasadena, California yesterday after a crowd gathered to protest the death of Sheila Pom. Police say the three individuals, whose names have not yet been released, appeared to be Enhanceds attempting to agitate the crowd. Witnesses claim one of the individuals was creating sparks with their fingers and threatening to start a fire, while the two others encouraged the behavior. Police have made no comment about these arrests and all questions about the incident have been redirected to a now defunct phone number.

Sheila Pom was killed in an officer-related shooting two weeks ago after neighbors reported her as a Dangerous Individual under the new Sokovia Accords Act. Pom, 23, worked at her uncle’s auto body shop as a mechanic while also attending online classes to get a degree in Engineering. She was also a telekinetic - someone who can move objects with their mind.

Pom was known to not be shy about her gifts. Pom was seen frequently lifting cars and trucks within garages without the help of equipment and is rumored to have once righted a tipped over semi-truck. Neighbors became concerned when Pom began using her gifts at home.

“We’d come home, and things would be floating up and down the street,” one neighbor said.

Another claimed Pom was unstable, and when she would become upset, things around her would begin to shake.

“I thought it was an earthquake until my TV hit the ceiling,” a source who lived in the same building Pom told GKTV, “I learned the next day her boyfriend broke up with her.”

Officers were called when Pom refused to return a motorcycle to the ground while working on it in a residential neighborhood. After a brief standoff, officers fired two shots, striking Pom in the head, and killing her.

Pom’s family claims she was unaware of the officer’s presence, as wireless earbuds were found near her body after. Pom was known to listen to music to block the noise of machines.

Protests began after the officers involved in the incident were cleared of any wrongdoing.

----

A full-page ad takes over your screen, and instead of continuing to read the depressing article, you close the tab.

There has been a palpable unrest in the news cycle the past week that is starting to leave you with an uneasy feeling in your stomach. You’ve noticed a shift in the general narrative tone and terminology used when discussing people who have superpowers.

Before Sokovia, before Lagos, before Connecticut, the morning shows would bring on people with amazing gifts and gently joke about them joining the Avengers as they made water fly around the set, but now those same hosts debate if they should be allowed to have the right to privacy. ‘Enhanced Peoples’ has been shortened to just Enhanceds and is now spit out like it is something dirty.

You don’t know when the conversation stopped centering around heroes and vigilantes and started being about everyday people, but it scares you that the change happened. There seems to be no official power scale about what is deemed ‘dangerous’ and your mind keeps zipping all over the place trying to justify different lines of thinking.

Does Matt fall under the category of Dangerous?

He is a vigilante, so by default the Accords are directed at him, but is it doubly so? If he was forced to reveal himself to the government, would they require him to wear a tracking device? Or would they try to lock him up?

Could he fight it in court, or would they whisk him away in the middle of the night and you’d never know what happened?

If Matt is deemed Dangerous because of his senses, and not just because he is a vigilante, would Minnie be considered the same?

With how intense and angry everyone is becoming you could see yourself having to take her in to be tested.

To be monitored.

And she is just a baby.

You can’t imagine how others must feel - people who are older, who are just trying to live their lives. The girl who was killed was just trying to fix her bike, like millions of other people do every weekend. She wasn’t going to other countries to fight terrorists. She wasn’t trying to use her powers to rule over others. She wasn’t hurting anyone.

But she was different, so they killed her.

“Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! I need help!”

You’re ripped from your spiraling thoughts and look across the room to where Minnie is sprawled out on the floor. Her Starkpad is in front of her, and she’s set up Pig and Scooby so they are also peering down at the device and you know exactly what she is doing.

It is the same thing she has been doing for a week straight - playing a bootleg Muppet’s math game.

Since meeting Spider-man, all your little Mouse has wanted to do is learn math. She keeps saying she wants to impress him and make him proud, and you are in no way going to discourage her. Every day has been filled with counting and addition and subtraction and you are a bit amazed she has stayed so focused.

You are not going to complain at all about it - you are getting time to yourself while she has been glued to Elmo and Kermit.

You leave your phone on the dining table and head towards your daughter.

“You need help?” you confirm as you crouch beside her. The screen shows a Muppet you don’t recognize, along with various numbers floating around them, and up at the top, the equation that has your little Mouse stumped.

“I need help!” Minnie repeats as she scrambles up off her belly and into sitting. “I don’t have enough fingers!”

She holds up both her hands to show you all ten of her itty-bitty fingers and you make a sympathetic noise.

Mouse has been getting pretty good at using her fingers to help her with addition and subtraction, but on only one hand. She uses the index finger on her right hand to help count by pointing at each finger and hasn’t quite worked out she can use her fingers to point and count. That is okay, though, as you are happy to lend yours to her important cause.

“Okay, how many fingers do you need?”

You hold out your hands and she instantly begins to manipulate them.

“This one…this one needs three! One, two, three!” She pushes your thumb and index finger down so the other three remain up, then she pushes down the pinky of the other hand. “And this one is four!”

“So, three and four? What are we doing with three and four?” You ask, trying to not laugh at her determined face.

“We adds them!” She chirps, before starting to jab at your fingers, “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven! That’s seven fingers! Mommy, it’s seven! Three plus four is seven!”

“That’s right, it is seven. Which number is seven?” You direct her back to her game, where she triumphantly picks the correct symbol. The Muppet congratulates her before presenting a new equation.

Minnie squeals in delight before ripping the device off the ground and shoving it in your face, “I know this one! Mommy! I know this one! It’s three! Mommy! It’s three!”

You can’t even process what the question is before the screen is out of sight. Your daughter holds her Starkpad above her head, treating it like some war prize as she starts spinning and dancing around the living room.

“It’s three! It’s three! It’s three!”

You laugh at her antics, heartwarming at her pureness. How could anyone ever think she’s a danger?

“Are you sure it’s three?” You tease as you watch her.

She whips around to you, eyes scrunching up into a glare, and barks, “It’s three!”

“Okay, okay, it’s three.”

You push yourself up into standing just as Mouse returns to her spot. She drops her Starkpad to the ground a little harder than you would prefer, but that is why it has a big bulky case. She plops down in front of it and happily smacks the number three that is floating around the screen.

You let yourself watch her for a few seconds, silently bombarding her with all the love you feel for her. You want to wrap her up and live in this bubble forever.

Except, there is one element missing from your perfect moment. You wish there were a pair of arms wrapped around your waist and a chin on your shoulder. You want to lean back against a muscular chest and lose yourself to eternity like that.

Instead of indulging those thoughts, you tell yourself to stop fantasizing and you make your way back to the kitchen to check on dinner.

Vegetable curry has been simmering on the stove for most of the day. It has been a while since you had the energy to make the dish from scratch, but you had a craving this morning and went all out. You’ve made curry for Minnie before, and she did not complain - though you think that is because her portion was mostly rice and hot dog cuts. You plan to do the same again tonight, and if she wants more sauce, you’ll give it to her.

You check your seasonings and give everything a stir to make sure nothing gets stuck at the bottom of the pot. The rich aroma tickles your nose, and you are glad you don’t have to wait much longer to treat yourself.

As you debate adding a pinch more salt, you catch Minnie sneaking towards you out of the corner of your eye. Her movements are slow and dramatic, and you pretend you don’t notice her. This ruse works, and you appropriately jump in fear when she suddenly tugs on your shirt.

“Up!” She demands and you oblige, scooping your daughter onto your hip. As soon as she is high enough, she cups her hands around your ear and leans into whisper, “Daddy saids the food smells yummy-yummy.”

She quickly dissolves into giggles, and it is infectious, so you end up smiling.

Matt hasn’t been over for dinner in a hot minute, and you are hoping to have a nice quiet family night, before he goes out on his Patrol. The plan is to watch a movie after your meal and Minnie has already prepared for this by dragging multiple blankets out to the couch. You just know she is going to demand a cuddle pile, and now that you and Matt are intimate, it isn’t something you are nervous about.

You just want to have a good time.

“Can you tell Daddy everything is almost ready?” you ask, even though you know Matt can probably hear you just fine.

Mouse, always eager to be helpful, nods and relays the message directly into your ear. You try to not grimace, and so it won’t happen again, set her down on the ground.

“Can you plug in your Starkpad so it can sleep for the night?”

She streaks off to do her newly assigned task, leaving you to start setting the table. When you were at the store, you bought Matt a bottle of beer - a brand you know he likes - and you set it at his designated spot. You’ve grown accustomed to just drinking water and juice, but you don’t want to push that on to him - not when he’s a guest and coming over after a long day of work.

As you start to make everyone’s plates, you hear the water in the bathroom turn on. You know Minnie knows the routine for getting ready for dinner and you just hope she isn’t trying to wash Scooby’s paws again. You are worried he’ll end up moldy and you aren’t sure what you will do if that happens. You peek into the living room and are relieved to see your daughter’s best friends have been relocated to sitting on the coffee table, facing the television.

You finish setting everything up just in time, it seems. Minnie runs from the hallway right to the door as you go to wash your own hands, and you rush to get all the soap off so you can help her open the door.

Matt is standing on the other side, looking handsome as ever in a gray suit. He looks like he’s had a busy day - his hair is windswept, and he is sporting a strong five o’clock shadow. There is a garment bag draped over his arm and his saddle bag looks a little bulkier than usual and you wonder if he ran some errands on his lunch - picking up his dry cleaning and such.

You barely have time to take in his appearance before Mouse is launching herself at him.

“Daddy!” She shrieks and Matt oh so easily swings her up onto his hip. “Daddy! We’re having vege-tuhble kermies for dinner! I helped make it! I cut up ALL the carrots! By myself!”

“By yourself, huh?” Matt confirms, a bright, warm smile taking up his entire face. “Soon you’ll be making us dinner.”

You step aside so he can come in and help to take his things to hang while Mouse soaks up his attention.

“No! Mommy makes dinner because…’cause she makes the bestest foods. I just help!”

“You are a very good helper,” you interject, “You keep a very clean workstation. A professional chef would be proud.”

Minnie beams at the praise, then a microsecond later, is wiggling in to be let down. Her feet hit the ground and she takes off running back toward the living room, probably to collect something to show off to her Daddy.

Matt takes the small break to turn his attention to you. A hand goes to your cheek, and instead of a brief ‘hello’ peck, he kisses you like he wants to turn and pin you to the wall. It catches you off guard, but you easily melt into it. You clutch at the lapel of his suit jacket and try to not moan as he nips at your lips. You open your mouth for him, but being the tease he is, he pulls back just enough to whisper against you.

“Been thinking about that all day.”

The words send your blood rushing - some north to your cheeks and the rest to your cunt.

He’d been thinking about you? About wanting to kiss you? Or has he been thinking about more than that - because you must admit, you’ve been thinking about it. You’ve had more than a few thoughts about what you want to do to him the next time you two are alone together and those thoughts were certainly very explicit.

“Matt…” you totally do not whine out but instead of replying, his grin just turns cocky. He pulls away as Minnie returns to the entryway, and you decide you need a drink of your water. You escape and Mouse starts showing off her latest masterpieces to Matt.

Food coloring, cotton balls, and popsicle sticks have proven to be a massive hit and Minnie has made a whole collection of things for Matt - there’s butterflies and flowers, a house with clouds, and various abstract pieces. You are sure his office is already filled to the brim with his daughter’s art, and you would not be surprised if he started to hang things from the ceiling when he does run out of room. He seems to treasure every little thing Minnie has given him and it warms your heart so much. You hope that love never runs out.

Somehow, Matt ushers Minnie back to the dining room while she shoves different papers into his hands and gets her up in her booster seat.

“I’m going to put all these in my bag, so they don’t get dirty or lost, okay?” He tells Minnie, who nods way too enthusiastically.

“Keep them clean!” And then, just like that, she switches from being excited her Daddy is there to being a hungry toddler. She whips around to face you and asks in an almost impatient manner, “Can I has my hot dogs now?”

You give her the go ahead as Matt returns to the table and takes his place. You quickly tell him the placement of everything, including his beer, then quickly add, “If you don’t like it, I have a few different things I could make you. Or we could order something.”

A brief panic runs through you when Matt scoffs. You think you’ve insulted him - having him come all the way to Chelsea to eat a dinner he won’t enjoy and having to find a substitute.

“I love curry and this smells delicious. I wouldn’t trade it for the world - in fact, I’m hoping some of those leftovers on the stove are for me to take home and lord over Fog tomorrow.”

You flush at his sweetness and mumble out you’ll pack him some to go. This seems to please him, and he starts to dig in. Ever the little parrot, Minnie mimics him by shoveling food into her mouth with a big grin and you can’t help but laugh a little.

“It’s nummy!” Your little one declares, and even if she’s just eating plain rice right now, you’ll take it as a win. You know well she won’t eat what she doesn’t like.

“Speaking of yummy,” Matt starts, slow and deliberate, with his head angled towards you, “I was hoping we could go somewhere yummy together.”

You blink slowly at the statement, rolling it over in your mind and trying to dissect the meaning. Did he want to go somewhere for dessert? Maybe get ice cream or something? “Somewhere yummy…?”

“Mhm,” he hums, then his smile becomes a bit more sly. Even though you know it isn’t true, you feel like, behind his glasses, he is hungrily looking you up and down, “Somewhere like Uvas.”

The name doesn’t automatically generate anything for you, but after a moment, it dawns on you. Uvas in a Spanish restaurant near Central Park known to be high end and impossible to get into. It’s been in the local tabloids a few times for turning away minor celebrities who don’t meet the dress code. You’re mouth parts slightly in shock.

“What’s Oo-vuhas?” Minnie asks around her fork, her big eyes looking between you and Matt. “Do theys has yummy foods?”

“Oh, they have yummy food,” Matt teases. He then leans forward a bit in his seat and stage whispers to her, “It’s where I want to take Mommy for a date.”

“A date?” Minnie scrunches up her face at the word while your mind is still spinning.

Matt wants to take you on a date? To Uvas? You have never been anywhere that fancy or expensive as a date. Hell, you’ve never been somewhere that fancy, period. The nicest date you’ve ever been on was Hard Rock Cafe - which says a lot about your dating life.

“A date,” Matt confirms, smug and knowingly scheming. You can hear it in his voice as he tells Minnie, “That is where Mommy and Daddy go and have dinner together as grown-ups.”

Up goes Minnie’s hand into her mouth, but it stays there only a split second. Her eyes get impossibly bigger and filled with wonder, and she whispers, “Like Lady and Tramp?”

“Exactly like Lady and Tramp.”

“Mommy!” Minnie says a little too loudly, pointing her fork at you. “You gotta go to Oo-vuhas and be Lady and Tramp! You gotta!”

And at that moment you know you can’t say no, and that Matt knows that. You can’t tell your daughter you don’t want to be like Lady and Tramp. Not that you don’t want to go on a date with Matt - the idea gets you giddy and makes your stomach flutter - but you thought if it happened, it would be a coffee or something. Not somewhere where you can’t even afford to look at the building. The idea makes you a little nauseous, because you are sure you’d make an absolute fool of yourself.

But Matt looks determined and sure of himself. You are certain he asked in front of Minnie so that she could help bully you into saying yes to such a lavish date.

Luckily, your mind is working in overdrive, and you choke out, “I don’t have anything to wear. They have a dress code, don’t they?”

You don’t expect Matt to push his chair out and get up. Your throat instantly tightens up and fear shoots up your spine. Have you offended him? He clearly wants to do something with you and you’re over here hesitating. You must be coming off as a complete bitch.

You start to stand up yourself as Matt disappears into the entryway. You don’t think he’d just leave without saying goodbye to Minnie.

Maybe you can talk to him - explain that somewhere a little less grand would be ideal to start.

Before you can start to follow him, Matt is coming back to the table, holding up the garment bag he brought with him, still looking like the cat that got the canary.

“I thought you might say that,” he starts, his voice almost a little musical, “so I got you this.”

You stare dumbly at him, shock and confusion overtaking your system.

He got you something to wear? To Uvas?

No one has ever bought you clothes before - except your parents. Even when you were pregnant, the small amount of gifts you got were all for Minnie.

You distantly hear Minnie start saying something about presents, but it is all muffled under the sound of blood pumping through your ears. You step forward hesitantly and reach out for the zipper of the bag, your hand shaking slightly.

You expect it to be a joke. You’re going to open the bag and there’s going to be a clown costume inside, or a skimpy dress people like arm candy to wear, or something akin to a Burka.

You don’t expect a black floor length sheath gown. The silhouette is simple, but you can tell just by looking at it the quality of the dress is top notch. The fabric has a nice weight to it, and it is incredibly soft to the touch that you have the distinct feeling that it did not come from a dress warehouse or a department store.

This type of dress would come from a boutique uptown and would cost a few hundred dollars.

You are so caught up in admiring the dress, you don’t notice Minnie come up beside you until she is also touching the dress. Panic that she might have crumbs or curry on her fingers runs through you, but you force it down.

“It’s like a princess dress for Mommy!” Mouse cooes and you feel your face start to heat up.

You’ve never worn something so nice before and certainly nothing that would be fit for a princess, but it seems like Matt and Minnie are on the same page.

“Well, I want Mommy to feel like a princess.”

You want to hide your face, but you know you can’t, so you cover your mouth instead.

“Matt, this is beautiful. But this is so much, I can’t accept this.”

You know that while Matt is a lawyer, he’s still struggling a bit financially. If he had his way, you know he wouldn’t charge anyone for his services, and even though Nelson, Murdock, and Page has paying customers, they still have to stagger out their bills.

He shouldn’t be spending his hard saved money on you.

Matt sighs your name before gently draping the garment bag over the back of his dining chair and stepping towards you. Both his hands go to your waist, and you freeze up as he steps close enough to press his forehead to yours. Your heart begins to wildly beat when his hands slowly begin to rub your sides.

“Let me spoil you. To make up for all the dates I’ve missed. Please?” His lips dip into a small frown and you feel like you’ve kicked a puppy.

He’s gone out of his way for you, and you are being so ungrateful.

But it is so hard to say yes. Guilt is pooling in your stomach, and you just want to disappear into the shadows and be forgotten about. That is so much easier than Matt holding you, saying such sweet things.

You don’t want to ruin everything.

You close your eyes as you have a war inside yourself. All you have to say is ‘Yes’ and you’ll make Matt happy, but the monster inside of you keeps dragging your mind into a pit.

Matt wants to treat you like a princess, but how crushing will it be when he decides that is no longer the case? Can you take that?

The corners of your eyes start to sting and your monster starts to mock you for getting worked up over something as simple as being asked on a date.

Why can’t you be normal?

Why can’t you accept this?

Why can’t -

The thoughts cease as Matt’s lips press against yours, soft and sweet and tempting. You respond hesitantly.

“Let me take care of you,” he breathes into your mouth, making you shudder. “You deserve it.”

“You deserve it!” Minnie chirps from beside your knees and you very suddenly remember where you are and what you were doing. You try to pull away from Matt, thinking Minnie hasn’t seen the two of you like this yet, and it might confuse her, but he keeps his hands firmly planted on your hips, not letting you go. You don’t try to fight it, instead, you turn your head away, trying to hide away in your shell.

You know there is no way you will win this. Matt is determined and he clearly has Minnie on his side, so, very hesitantly, and feeling like you are going to throw up at any moment, you nod into Matt’s shoulder.

“Okay.”

Mouse lets out a deafening cheer and you feel her dart away.

“LADY AND TRAMP! LADY AND TRAMP! LADY AND TRAMP!”

Matt laughs at her excitement over something she doesn’t understand, while you tuck yourself into his hold, wondering how long you have before he ends up shattering your heart into pieces.

---

tags:

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@anehkael @akilatwt @lostinthefantasies @reluctanthalfwayoptimism @ethereal-blaze

@nennia-2000 @seasonofthenerd @abucketofweird @mattmurdockstateofmind @imagineswritersblog @hazelhavoc @smile-child-13 @allst4rsfall @hashcakes @kezibear @mapleaye @sammanna @gamingfeline @moon-glades @nightwitherspring @phoenix666stuff @dare-devil

@ladyoflynx @hobiebrowns-wife @sarcasm-n-insomnia @lillycore

@dorothleah @mattmurdocksstarlight @mars-on-vinyl @mywellspringoflife @sleepdeprived-barelyalive @simmilarly @soupyspence @darkened-writer @akila-twt

@murc0ckmurc0ck @groovycass @sumo-b98 @just3rowsing @tongueofcat @zoom1374

@theclassicvinyldragon @aoi-targaryen @lunaticgurly @nikitawolfxo @shireentapestry @snakevyro @yondiii @echos-muses @honeybug-victoria @the-bisaster @ristare

@mrs-bellingham @eugene-emt-roe @cometenthusiast @stevenknightmarc @yes-im-your-mom @hunnybelha @actorinfluence @capbrie @prowlingforfood @jupitervenusearthmars

@mayp11-blog @danzer8705 @thinking-at-dusk @remuslupinwifee @akila-twt @nommingonfood @mattmurdocks6thscaleapartment @dil3mma @allllium

#soulie writes #fanfiction #matt murdock x reader #daredevil #and then i met you #matt murdock x you

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glowettee · 6 months ago

Text

digital notes guide part 1/5: setting up your aesthetic note-taking system 🎀

posted by: glowettee

hey study angels! ♡ mindyyy heree

omg so many of you have been asking about my digital notes setup, and i'm so excited to share all my secrets! this is going to be a 5-part series on creating the most aesthetic and effective digital notes ever. i'm going to start with the basics! this is super exciting because digital notes are literally unlimited, no wasting paper, and no perfect handwriting required.

♡ choosing your digital notebook

because the right foundation changes everything:

notion (my personal fave):

amazing for linking different pages

super customizable layouts

can embed literally everything

aesthetic cover images

databases for tracking progress

easy table of contents

goodnotes:

perfect for iPad users

feels like writing on paper

pretty digital stickers

custom paper templates

easy organization system

beautiful handwriting options

onenote:

works across all devices

infinite canvas (so dreamy!)

easy subject dividers

voice recording option

drawing capabilities

♡ essential digital tools

make sure you have these ready:

hardware needs:

reliable device (laptop/tablet)

stylus if using tablet (worth the investment!)

external keyboard (for faster typing)

good lighting for screen

comfortable study space

backup charging cables

software must-haves:

note-taking app of choice

cloud storage system

screenshot tool

pdf annotator

calendar app

backup system

♡ creating your aesthetic setup

because pretty notes = happy studying:

color scheme selection:

choose 3-4 main colors

pick 2-3 accent colors

create highlight palette

save hex codes

make color meaning system

maintain consistency

font selection:

main text font (i use garamond)

heading font (something cute!)

emphasis font

quote font

size hierarchy

spacing rules

♡ basic organization system

keep everything findable:

folder structure:

semester folders

subject folders

unit folders

topic folders

resource folders

revision folders

naming convention:

date_subject_topic

use consistent formatting

add emoji indicators

number sequence system

status markers

importance levels

♡ template creation

work smarter not harder:

essential templates:

lecture notes template

reading notes template

study guide template

revision notes template

project planner template

weekly overview template

template elements:

header section (date, subject, topic)

learning objectives area

main content space

summary section

question bank area

revision checklist

setting up your digital note system might take time, but it's so worth it! think of it like creating your perfect study sanctuary - every detail matters!

the next post will be getting into actually taking notes during class (and making them both pretty and effective!). for now, focus on setting up your perfect system.

pro tip: don't get too caught up in making everything perfect from the start. your system will evolve as you use it, just like how my notes looked completely different freshman year!

xoxo, mindy 🎀

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thatweeboverthereisthirsty · 6 months ago

Note

Could I please request 17, Idia x reader? Thanks!!

A/N: again with randomly dropping content and then disappearing but I suppose that's just how it is. Anyways in case you were wondering I'm still stuck on Chapter 6 so here's some Idia content just in case he decides to be forgiving with me :,)

Ask: #17: Tucking their hands beneath the other person’s shirt, just to watch them break the kiss and gasp in surprise at the sensation of cold/warm hands on their skin.

You loved your boyfriend more than anything in the world but sometimes he could be denser than a brick. It always amazed you just how oblivious he could be when it came to certain things and then a genius about everything else. His mathematics and engineering? Stellar! His social responses? His ability to take a hint? God awful. No one had told you how hard it would be to have a gamer boyfriend but you were seeing now that it required just as much, if not more work than an average relationship. Not that you minded; you always liked a challenge.

Your current predicament was one you had experienced several times before, you just weren’t sure what to do. Idia obviously loved you and adored having you around but his social awkwardness and fear of the outside world made it hard for him to do anything besides games and experiments. It wasn’t uncommon for him to invite you over and you end up sitting on his bed while he cackled deviously into his mic while he took out the opposing team almost single handedly and then complained about “nerfed” characters.

Most of the time you were totally down, either working on homework or a project or using your laptop to game as well but some days like today, you were craving a little more… stimulation. You stared at him with contemplative eyes, a part of you completely infatuated with his passion and excitement over the game, another part of you begging him to look away from the screen for just a second and notice you. Finally the defeat scene flashed across his screen and he scowled at it with contempt. You jumped at the opportunity to grab his attention before he delved into a new game.

“Idia?” you slid into a seated position on his bed. He turned and looked at you expectedly as his thumbs moved over the controller to start up a new game. “Could you come lay with me for a second?”

The tips of his hair flared pink for a second and his cheeks stained the same color. He looked at his screen for a moment and muttered something under his breath that sounded an awful lot like “oh gods it’s a boss level.”

Finally he stood and nodded awkwardly as he moved over to the bed. You slid back until your back touched the wall and waited patiently for him to sit on the edge of the bed and stiffly move into a lying down position. Despite appearances Idia was quite large and took up a pretty decent amount of space so the twin XL administered to each dorm room wasn’t exactly spacious enough for the two of you to lay side by side.

When you saw that he was comfortable you promptly scooted down and maneuvered yourself until you were laying on top of him. Your head rested on his chest while your legs tangled in the messy comforter. He made a nervous noise and you couldn’t help but smile as you saw the blue glow around you turn a steady pink color.

“Aren’t I uncomfortable? I’m probably too bony to stand for very long.” You rolled your eyes at Idia’s antics and pushed yourself up to peck him on the lips in between each word.

“You. Are. Perfectly. Comfortable.” When you finished he blushed a deep pink and looked at you with wide eyes.

“I knew it, you were using an Ultimate halfway through the battle to revive to full HP so you could K/O me with one move.” He stammered out and you laughed.

“You’re partially right Idia, I was reviving to full HP. But you haven’t even seen my Ultimate yet. I’ve been charging up for it by laying on top of you and now you will suffer my most powerful attack.” You grinned and leaned forward to press your lips to his in a long and slow kiss. It was only pressing your lips together but that was what made it such a dangerous attack. It left the receiver feeling unsatisfied.

You pulled back only a little so your breath was mingling, it wasn’t the most comfortable position but that didn’t matter so much as Idia took a breath and then pushed himself up so you met again.

Your eyes fluttered closed and comfortable warmth flooded all around you as he heated up in response to the contact. He never got hot enough to burn you but when you were together he had a tendency to run warm. His lips moved against yours hungrily as he got bolder, hesitancy and insecurity slipping away as you kissed.

One hand slid up to your thigh and he gripped you gently as he sat up, moving you into a sitting position on his lap. The hand rose a bit higher and you didn’t even notice he had slipped it under your shirt until his fingers grazed your stomach. You gasped and he chuckled when you pulled away before burying his face in your neck as his fingers slid higher and higher until they were running along your ribs. You bit your lips and pouted at him.

“What?” Idia smirked, “Couldn’t handle my Ultimate attack huh? Did you really think I’d let you win?”

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst x reader #idia shroud x reader #idia #twisted wonderland idia #idia shroud #idia x reader #kiss prompts

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zyonicorn · 5 months ago

Text

Click to Start Chatting

Many months ago, I met my girlfriend through an app called “V-loop”. It was an app for meeting new people, and there was a function for you to follow people you liked and chat with them, though the requirement was that the other person had to follow you too.

The first time I saw her profile, I was hesitating if I should follow her or not, but she's literally my type. “Let’s just give it a try.” I stared at the “@_zyozyo/ 106 followers/ 5 following” for a few seconds, then clicked “follow” eventually.

I don't even know if she liked girls, all I knew was her name, Jihyo, which kept lingering in my mind. She was so gorgeous, every picture seemed like a piece of art, that I didn't even deserve to savor.

“Click to start chatting”

It was my third time checking the chat session in an hour, my heart skipped a beat when I saw the line, indicating she followed me back.

“Hey there! Are you y/n?”

Yes! Nice to meet you 🫣

“Why’d you follow me?”

Cuz you look easy to get along with :)

“I see.. You’re cute”

Her direct expression made you don't know how to answer for a moment.

Thanks..?

The chat continued. The two of you started to share about your daily lives, people you've met, what you had for lunch. In just a week, you got closer to Jihyo that she told you about her work, stress, and some personal matters.

“Y/n.. I'm pretty frustrated lately.”

What’s wrong??

Everything sounded normal, just like how you usually chat with her.

“I don't know if I should tell you but..”

“What I meant by ‘frustrated’ is sexually.”

Oh um, but why are you telling me about this?

“I want you to solve it for me.”

Though you were really, really shocked by her straightforward words, you still replied right away, just to hide the fact that you were panicking, staring at the screen while your fingers hovered over the keyboard.

I mean, why me? We met online and you’ll never know who I actually am.

There are many scams nowadays, and despite being shocked, you’re also worried about Jihyo.

“Cuz I know I can trust you. I have my reasons, just say yes or no.”

“Of course, I won't force you if you don't want to, it's my personal problem after all.”

She’s so thoughtful, that your heart pounds faster for her again.

Well, sure I can help you. But it's not as easy as it’s said.

“Don’t worry, I’ll book a hotel room and send you the address. All you have to do is go there and help me out.”

She sent you a link right away, booked tomorrow, a whole day. She doesn't sound nervous or embarrassed anymore, unlike you, who still not believe your type asked you out, for sex.

That night you barely slept, the only 3 hours of sleep, you had a dirty dream about Jihyo. You woke up at 6, found your underwear wet. “What the fuck…” you breathe out, without thinking much, you change quickly and have a shower.

The time she suggested was 8, at a cafe near the hotel, so the two of you can have a small chat and get to know each other.

“I’m over here, Jihyo-ssi!” you waved while tipping your toes, trying to maintain your smile and not faint from the beauty of the woman approaching in baggy jeans and a white ruffled top.

“Hey there!! Oh…” she suddenly stopped talking, looking up and down at you. You thought you looked messy, or maybe disappointing her because you looked different from the picture, so you quickly fixed your posture and pulled your shirt straight.

“What’s the matter?” you hesitated before asking, the woman’s bright confident expression seemed to soften a little. She looked back into your eyes and smiled kindly, your face exposing your nervousness. “Nothing, but you’re even cuter than I thought” she calmly said.

You blushed at her words, which Jihyo noticed right away. She smiled even more that it pushed her cheeks up perfectly.

“Alright, let’s go in.” her arm wrapped around your shoulder, while you blushed even harder from her warm touch. She helped you with your chair, then sat at your opposite. Looking at you, she asked “Do you want to drink something?” though you had mentally prepared for what would happen today already, you’re still shy about being in front of Jihyo.

“N-no, thanks. I’ve had my breakfast,” you responded. “Okay. Our check-in is at 9, so why don't we have a small talk first?” she started the topic. The chat between you two sounded just like how you chatted online. Her friendly tone eased your anxiety.

The chat went well, she started to brush your leg with her shoes. Leaning closer to you across the table, she asked, “Why don't we head off to the hotel now? It’s almost time.” her smirk showed her excitement.

“Sure” You got up as she held your hand, like a normal couple, though you were too timid to hold her back until her fingers crossed yours.

On your 5 minutes way to the hotel, you started the conversation. “Don’t get me wrong but, have you done this many times before?” you asked after hesitating.

“Done what?” “Like- having sex with people you met online?” you asked, though it’s hard to say it out loud. “Oh honey, what makes you think that?” she looked surprised for a moment, but fixed her expression quickly. “I-I mean, you’re all calm from the start, I wonder if you’re experienced,” you explained yourself.

“I did have sex before, with my ex-boyfriend. But he never satisfied me. We broke up and I'm feeling empty. So I wanted to try it with a woman, then you showed up.” she said. You were kind of confused, are you that extraordinary? You never found yourself attractive. That's what you asked Jihyo, she replied, “You’re kind and caring. Have some confidence in yourself! I found it really comfortable to be with you.”

That's almost a confession, you thought. Maybe confidence is what you lack. The two of you stepped into the hotel hall. It was big and the atmosphere was peaceful. The receptionist handed Jihyo the key as she took care of everything.

There’s a big window in the room, with a large bed for two. The fact that you’re having sex with this beautiful woman hit you suddenly. Your heart pounded faster and faster, you tried to hide your blush while bending over to take off your shoes. Jihyo was faster than you, she put her bag aside and sat on the edge of the bed.

She pats her side, signaling you to sit there. The bed was soft and clean, the sheet felt cold like your hands. “So.. Do you want to start?” “S-sure” you answered, but you have no idea how to do it.

She smirked and leaned closer, her face hovering above yours. “Maybe I’ll begin first,” she whispered and tilted her head so she could kiss your lips. The first kiss was soft, like testing the water. You closed your eyes, feeling her moist lip on yours, slowly opening your mouth and her tongue slipped in smoothly. It was as hot as you imagined, your hands reached for her shirt to pull her closer. She smiled at your eagerness, as you get turned on more and more.

The sound of heavy breathing filled the room, along with the sound you and Jihyo’s mouths made. You sneaked your hand down to Jihyo’s crotch, another to her tit. Feeling the temperature passing through the clothes, unlike your cold hands, she seems to be hot.

“Can you take the lead?” she noticed that you relaxed a bit, then asked softly while pulling away. “So we’re starting right now?” you smirked. You've thought of pushing her into the bed directly, but you know it’s polite and necessary to ask, you’re the one pleasuring her today, anyway.

“Sure, if you can,” she said and pulled you into a kiss, more passionate than before. Her soft whimpers are leading you to release your need, you press her into the bed, straddling her while kissing. “Take those off,” you said. She pulled her shirt and blouse, and you took off her jeans, leaving her underwear on.

You gasped from seeing her boobs spring free, they’re bigger than they looked like when she was wearing her bra and the shirt. “How do you want me to please you?” you asked while drawing slow circles on her abs.

“Suck on my tits and finger me, I know you want it,” she smiled in anticipation, while you were still not moving your gaze away from her breasts.

You leaned down and grabbed her tits with both hands, though you couldn't fully hold on them. Enveloping one of her nipples with your lips, she felt your hot breath fanning her skin and your cold hands at the same time, feeling the sensation while giving out soft whines.

She guides one of your hands to her abs, then underwear. You pressed into her clit through the fabric softly, making Jihyo moan even louder.

You moved to the side of her and sat up, playing with her chest with one hand and another rubbing her clothes clit.

“You’re dripping,” you smirked and circled even faster, brushing her slit occasionally. “For you, love” her voice unsteady. Love? She just called me love? That name is melting you on the inside, but you have to act calm.

“Can I take it off?” you asked while reaching for the strap of her underwear. She immediately nodded. It was a white normal underwear, matching her bra.

A string of juice connected the cloth and her pussy, you didn't expect she would be this “juicy”. You cut the string with your finger and playfully licked it. She looked at you staring at her pussy, “Taste it” her voice was soft, you didn't catch what she was saying- or rather you would say, you didn't believe what she was saying.

“Sorry?” you asked her to repeat. She said again, “Eat me.” This time you made sure you didn't hear her wrong. You’ve never licked a pussy, you don’t know how to make Jihyo comfortable with your mouth.

“Tell me if it hurts,” you still asked just in case. She nodded and closed her eyes, “don’t push yourself too much just because of me, love” she said. You took off your clothing, naked while your face hovered on Jihyo’s pussy. She was being so thoughtful, to be honest, just by chatting with her, you thought she would use you like a sex toy. But turns out she cares about your feelings too.

You lapped your hot tongue onto her clit, feeling your saliva dropping from the roof of your mouth. Jihyo curled her legs and let out a whimper. “Just go for it, baby. I can’t wait” She sounded weak, almost begging you. And of course, you would obey this perfect woman.

You sucked her clit and folds into your mouth, her juice covering your lips. Jihyo’s mouth fell open, she gasped and exhaled heavily under your touch. She’s so sensitive that you wanted to tease her. You flicked your tongue on her clit and fanned your breath on her pussy.

“S-suck me just like how you did..” she spoke up and her fist clenched onto the hotel’s bed sheet.

You remember you’re here to satisfy Jihyo, so you decided to stop teasing her. You took her clit into your mouth, saliva mixed with her juice. It’s something you’ve never tasted before, tastier than anything else.

It’s time, you thought. Putting your tongue into her cunt, it was moist and warm. Her tight wall clenched, although your jaw was sore, you didn’t stop. You started to bob your your head, paying attention to Jihyo’s breathing.

“Hmph-” her noises sharp but short, legs bending uncontrollably. Her back started to arch, she held your head and tried to fuck your face. You kept yourself in place and licked her sweet spot, her moans getting denser and denser.

Her juice squeezed onto your face, some dropped into the sheet below. Her eyelid was half closed, she panted heavily.

You lay next to her, she hugged you and kissed your lips eagerly. You thought she would need some rest, but it was the complete opposite. You looked up, “what’s next?”

She stared into your eyes, lust and desire filled her gaze.

“Now let mommy treat you nice and well, as the payback for the wonderful work you’ve just done.”

Mommy? What does she mean? Your brain did not really register her words. But that doesn’t matter, she flipped you so now you’re on your stomach. Your juice oozed out from hearing her moans just now, making your crotch a mess.

She leaned onto you, her hot wet pussy right under your ass cheek. You felt Jihyo’s chest pressed onto your back as her hand moved slowly from your upper back to your ass, then your wet needy cunt, the trail of touch her fingertip left giving you a chill in your spine.

She rubbed your clit and folds forcefully, teasing around the entrance. Her delicate touches don't feel like it’s her first time with a woman. She knows everything you need, every bit of skin is caressed.

Her hand moved around your stomach and went under it, giving her a better angle to touch your pussy. It went between the bed and your skin, hot and moist, you don’t know if it’s her sweat or your slick.

She started to circle your clit ruthlessly, your muffled moans covered by the pillow that you buried your face in. You felt Jihyo starting to grind her pussy on the back of your thigh, slick coating your skin as pleasure builds in your body.

Her bare pussy grinding on your leg, she rocked her hips with desire, while working on your clit with her fingers. “Oh god you sound so good” she moans and praises every sound you make. Pressing your head into the pillow even more, you felt the suffocation. Mind blank, only the knot in your stomach slowly unraveling, and tied tight again every time she slow down to tease.

Your head spins and cunt clenches as she circle her fingers. She noticed your moans and softened to tease. “L-let me cum-” You raised your head, didn't notice the tears on your face. Sweat stuck your hair on your face, making you look messy.

“Call me mommy” she commanded. Maybe it’s her “kink”, you obeyed her immediately. “M-mommy please” you breathed out.

She sped up her fingers, the sound of wetness sent to your ears. You felt like you were almost blacking out.

The knot in your core seems to be releasing, slowly consuming the little sanity left in your mind. Your feet clasped Jihyo’s hand in between, your moans becoming denser, you felt like someone was holding onto your lungs, not letting you breathe. Jihyo’s voice was right next to your ear, your back arching up from time to time as you felt Jihyo speeding up on your thigh. “Fuck” you heard her faintly breathe out. She sounds angelic, you would love to keep fucking her just to hear her again.

“Hmph-!!” you squeezed your eyes shut, almost crying out of pleasure. The organisms washed through your body completely, Jihyo’s juice coated your thigh, she hugged you tight and continued to draw circles on your clit, until you have fully ridden out your climax.

She took her hand out, dripping with your water. You couldn't move at all, mind blank, vision blurred. The bed sheet was all wet, you felt Jihyo’s honey going down your flesh. You uncontrollably shivered, slick still slowly flowing out of your cunt.

In Jihyo’s eyes, your face is washed red, cum dripping, hair stuck onto your face because of your sweat and tears, your mouth slightly opened, heavily breathing, while you shivered hard.

Jihyo sucked the slick on her fingers, and cleaned you up with her mouth. You felt her tongue going from your thigh to your dripping pussy. She sucked on it a few times, you felt your sensitive cunt go through some tiny organisms as she licked you up.

She flipped you over, looking at you from above with a big smile on her face. “Messy” She kissed you as you pulled her into your body. Your words were still shaky, “I’ve never had such great sex ever” “I think I might be addicted.”

She sat up and put her head onto her thigh, you’re now lying as Jihyo strokes your hair softly. “Then we should do this often.” She looked at you and said. You smiled, if you do this often, you think you might be ‘used up’ one day.

“Rest for a while. I’ll help you with the shower later.”

You fell asleep. She softly said to your ears, “Thank you.”

Pretty much rushed, I’m not satisfied with this fic but I don't want to keep you guys waiting :( sry for the low quality and the long waitttt

#jihyo smut #jihyo imagines #lesbian #twice imagines #twice smut #gxg smut #jihyo x fem reader #jihyo x reader #gxg fluff #smut #kpop smut

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garoujo · 2 years ago

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✩ ˛˚ . NAGI SEISHIRO ; — nagi’s never been one who cared about running late before, so why does he now?

ஜ ˖ ࣪࿐ྂ warnings! none, fluff, early date scenario. ♡ ˖ ࣪࿐ྂ note! these random writing ideas are haunting me istg! why is my brain suddenly trying to work again :< back w my baby <3

nagi seishiro has never unnecessarily ran for anything in his life

call him a slacker, lazy.. he never felt the need to exceed more energy than required — always looking for ways to get him out of everything that he found bothersome.

so why is he running now? casting glances at the screen of his phone between strides because he said he’d meet you at 1pm and he’s got 3 minutes but he’s 5 minutes away. he can remember the way your smile twitched at the sides and the little, subtle glow your eyes held when you asked if he’d like to visit a new cafe with you and he shrugged his shoulders with his ‘kay. hes thankful that the messy mop of snowy hair that falls over his features helped to hide the way the tips of his ears flushed that day.

but why’s he remembering that now? what a pain.

nagi huffs as he slows at the crossing, panting softly before he’s tapping his phone screen again. he’s almost there but he’s sweating hard.. he could really go a bath, maybe he would’ve worn something a little lighter than his usual oversized clothes if he knew he was going to be running through the streets.

the crossing turns green & nagi’s off again, another few blocks—a few heavy breathes and it’s like a relief when he’s turns the corner to see you’re still there. still waiting.

“nagi?” you question suddenly as his tall figure shuffles its way towards you, his hair is more disheveled than usual and you think it’s amusing how suddenly wobbly he looks—urging you to reach to steady him as he catches his breath.

“ah, sorry..” nagi’s words are breathless as he finds himself leaning his weight onto you, just enough for him to balance himself before he takes another deep breath. “i think i’m gonna die.”

although you’re still curious.. and concerned, he could’ve been running from some mob or wild animal for all you know. “are you okay, what the hell?”

“nah, i kinda fell asleep.” nagi manages and you really try to hold in the giggle you can feel bubble through your throat. but you still let a grin twitch at your lips as he gives you a sleepy look.

“you’re only 2 minutes late.”

“ehhhh, really? so bothersome.” that’s when you really laugh as you feel him drape more of his weight on top of you, self-consciously you think.. but maybe it’s because he can just pass off the pinker flush of his skin right now to exhaustion but also a little embarrassment.

“oh, uh. i brought you this.“ nagi speaks again after a few more moments, reaching in to rummage around in his hoodie pocket before he’s pulling out a crumbled little package and placing it softly into your palms.

“a vitamin jelly?” you ask earnestly and there’s something charming about the way he shrugs before sending you a starry-eyed look then suddenly looks away when you meet it with your own.

“uh.. yeah, i thought you’d be hungry i guess. the store was busy so it was a hassle.”

“are you hungry?” it’s an honest question and you can see nagi humming it over in his mind for a few moments before he’s shrugging again, “a little. i’m sweaty, wanna take another nap now.”

although you think he seems a little perkier now as you let yourself grab onto the hem of his sweatshirt, urging him to follow behind you as you send him a pretty smile from over your shoulder that makes him burn.

“it was probably all the running, big guy. let’s get you some food.”

“hey, i just didn’t wanna make you wait.”

nagi thinks it was worth it though because you’re beautiful when you’re caught somewhere between a smile and a laugh— still holding onto the vitamin jelly he brought you and everytime his hand brushes against yours he can feel the urge to intertwine it with his own.

“are you sure you weren’t just excited to see me?” that really gets to him because he swears the rate of his heartbeat spikes like he just ran around tokyo twice, it’s unfamiliar—he’s not used to stuff like this. how’s he supposed to act? what does this even mean?

“don’t tease me, ‘ts no fair. ‘m too sleepy to fight back now. wanna carry me?” nagi drawls out lazily and he’s a little surprised when you actually laugh. another brush of his hand against yours as you walk and he thinks that maybe he’ll let it linger with the next one.

“no, but i can buy you lunch.”

“hm, ‘kay.”

#݁ . ࿓ : sealed#blue lock x you #blue lock x reader #blue lock x y/n #bllk x reader #bllk x you #bllk x y/n #nagi x reader #nagi fluff #nagi x you #blue lock fluff #bllk fluff #nagi seishiro x reader #nagi seishiro fluff #nagi seishiro x you

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wowbright · 4 months ago

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Transferring your Kindle library to calibre: The Easiest Way

For people who are trying to get their Amazon Kindle libraries imported into calibre, this is the easiest method I have found.

Pros:

easy if your entire library fits on your Kindle

Faster and less clicking than manually downloading each book onto your computer from the Amazon website and then importing it into calibre

It allows you to import "Docs" from your Amazon Digital Content as well as "Books"

Does not require you to understand coding language or how to use scripts

This method should continue to work after February 26th (when Amazon will no longer allow manual downloads from its website to your computer)

Cons:

you have to use whispersync (only a con if you can't use or are opposed to using whispersync)

Doesn't work if you don't own a Kindle

These instructions are for the latest edition of calibre in Windows, but it works similarly on Mac (typos ahead because I am dictating this and my dictation does not spell calibre nor many other things correctly):

On your Kindle:

Download every Book and Doc you have stored in the Kindle cloud. You have to do this one at a time so it's boring, I did it while watching TV and listening to podcasts.

On your desktop:

Download and install calibre

Open caliber

Click on preferences from the top menu, roll down to add plugins

Install the KFX input plugin

Do an internet search for "NoDRM" caliber plug in. The latest version is 10.0.9. download and unzip the file folder. There are zipped files inside that folder. Leave those zipped files alone.

Go back to caliber, go to preferences, select advanced, select tags. You have the option of importing plugins from your desktop. Choose that option. Through that option, go to the folder you just unzipped and click on the "NoDRM" or "DeDRM" zip file. It should install.

IMPORTANT: click on customize plugin. A screen will appear where you can enter the serial number from your Kindle. You must enter a serial number or this plugin will not work.

Connect your kindle to your computer using a USB cable. A device icon should show up on the menu at the top of your caliber window. Click on the device icon.

A list of all the books and documents you have downloaded onto your Kindle should appear in the library window. Select all of them using the ctrl-A keyboard shortcut. Right click and choose "add to library".

Wait until caliber says you are done importing. Then you can disconnect your Kindle.

You've done it! If you want to convert everything to a more universal file type like EPUB, go to your library, select all, right click, choose Convert Books > bulk convert, choose EPUB as your output format in the top right corner of the window, then hit okay in the bottom right corner of the window. Wait for the process to complete before quitting caliber!

If you get a message saying that you cannot open your Kindle books or that they cannot be converted, it's probably because you did not enter your serial number, you did not save it, or you entered it incorrectly. Go back to the plug-in settings and check on them. Other than that, I can't give you any tips because I only figured all of this stuff out yesterday!

#kindle #calibre #amazon #ebooks

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tau1tvec · 1 year ago

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Some tips for The Sims 3 Buy/Build

Install LazyDuchess’ Smooth Patch to alleviate lag, esp in Buy/Build and CAS.

Keep your CC merged and organized, esp your patterns, this will also alleviate a lotta lag across all modes.

When building on community lots, or any lot rlly, avoid going to the edit world menu, and just put testingcheats enabled into the cheat window, then shift+click the ground of the lot to enter Buy/Build mode. This makes leaving it to save a lot easier, with less “preparing” screens to possibly get hung up in.

Lower your settings, you don’t need any adjacent lots loaded, and you certainly don’t need super water on either. You can always switch these back on when you’re done.

While you’re at it, remove your HQ mod, and turn off your Reshade/Gshade preset, or at least turn off your depth shaders. I only ever turn on my depth shaders when I’m taking screenshots for better fps while playing. The DoF shader esp requires a lotta resources your game could be using to simulate all those 78 townie sims instead.

Save as… vs Save, I Save as… at least every third save. It’s also just good habit to keep backups.

When using the CASt tool, set down everything you plan to CASt first, then switch to a category like the wall tool to avoid eventual lag and drag when using it a lot. Love yourself. You don’t have to suffer using CASt tool in an overpopulated category like misc deco.

Utilize the clone option through testing cheats to duplicate already CASted objects, it’ll keep your design just like the dropper tool, but it’s a lot less time consuming, I promise.

Don’t be afraid to use the swatch save tool for objects you use often, esp community lot objects, as it helps to keep your aesthetic consistent. I also keep all of my favorite streetlamps, benches, and public trash bins etc in a convenient custom collection folder to speed up the process of doing multiple lots in one sitting. These handy tools are there, use them.

The issue with custom counters. They mess up sometimes, if you can’t recolor it suddenly, here’s how to fix that. Now if you can’t place down a cupboard suddenly, even though nothing’s in the way, and you’ve got moveobjects on activated, try putting it on the wall a tile over, and then try adding it to your desired spot again. Lastly if you set down counters or cupboards at a corner, and it messes up the textures, but you can still recolor it, you could do what the video I linked above does, or you could simply pull out the CASt tool, and switch it back to any of its original swatches and click the check, then feel free to recolor it as you want.

Railings will also do the “can’t recolor” trick too, but this is a simple fix, just delete it, and replace it, and you’re good.

“Oh no, I switched between buy and build mode, and now my catalogue won’t load, and I can’t click on anything at all!” Don’t panic, hit F2 and/or F3 on your keyboard, these are shortcuts for switching between them, and if you’re lucky it’ll load properly again. Should you get the bug where you load a category and it’s somehow empty, don’t fret, just click on a different category and this should fix it. Then if you get the bug where all the objects you put down disappear suddenly, sorry your game is haunted. Call an exorcist, or just reload, they might reappear if you do.

Tbh, if you run into any kind of major bugs, it’s likely a sign to either save immediately or just restart your game. These only ever show up when you’ve been at it a while ( at least for me ), therefore starting fresh wouldn’t hurt. Probably also wouldn’t hurt to check whether you might’ve installed something the game didn’t agree with by running Dashboard, or put it through the ol’ Save Cleaner.

Honorable Mention: Keep an eye on the texture sizes and poly counts of objects. I know it’s tempting to build these ultra hyperrealistic lots with clutter at every inch, but unless you’re just doing it for screenshots, or for your story, or using it very sparingly, it is not by any means recommended purely for gameplay. This is just the truth when it comes to any Sims game. You don’t want lag, or max memory crashes, or save errors? The Sims 3 is a 32bit game, that’s almost old enough to drive, be easy on it.

#the sims 3 #ts3 #tips and tricks

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herlv3r · 1 year ago

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tip toe

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.

୨୧ synopsis: as le sserafim’s comeback had just released, your girlfriend is extremely busy with promotions and is under strict supervision. her managers have clearly warned you to stay away for the time being, but is that really going to stop you?

୨୧ pairing: gf!chaewon x fem!reader

୨୧ genre: fluff

୨୧ a/n: stream fimmies new mini album or else i WILL hunt you down

you grip on your fimbong as anticipation builds up in you like you’re about to explode. sitting in front of your tv, the screen counts down from its final minute. as the countdown nears its end, you can’t help but to stand up, adrenaline filling your veins.

even though your girlfriend already spoiled you their new song, you can’t help the excitement as if you’re hearing it for the first time all over again.

memories begin rushing in from when she first auditioned for woollim entertainment, then her time with izone, and finally le sserafim. you were there with her every step of the way. to say how proud you are is really an understatement.

your eyes gleam seeing chaewon’s outstanding visuals. and hearing her sing through the screen blesses your ears. how’d you get so lucky with her?

your phone rings violently as a call from chaewon comes through. answering it, a soft voice warms your ears.

“babe did you watch?!?” excitement is evident in her tone. you giggle at her question when it’s obvious you did. “of course i did! i wouldn’t miss even a second of it.”

you hear her small laugh amidst the busy background. “okay i gotta prepare for the showcase. i love you and i miss you.” your stomach fills with butterflies hearing those words escape her mouth. “good luck! i’ll be cheering for you.”

every comeback is always filled with busy schedules and strict rules. you can’t even remember the last time you’ve held her in your arms. you know dating a kpop idol comes with an unspoken requirement of being patient but you long for her.

the last time you attempted to see her during promotions got you banned from stepping in their dorms. as much as you want to see her, you have to do what’s best for your girlfriend.

hours past since the showcase and you haven’t heard anything from chaewon ever since. slumping in your seat, your brows drew together thinking heavily on what she could be doing at the moment.

suddenly a text notification causes your phone to vibrate. “i want to see you. pick me up at my dorm?” that burst of adrenaline comes rushing back to you, as you read word by word. excitedly getting up and gathering everything you need, you rush out the door without looking back.

who cares if you get banned again, it's worth the risk. after all, it's her personal request. how can you pass on something like that?

pulling up to her dorm, you hurriedly park and skipped your way to her room. once reaching her floor, you make eye contact with chaewon, her eyes widen in shock. the dumb smile on your face is quickly replaced with a terrified expression after realizing she's talking to her manager.

making the fastest u-turn in your life, you rush back down the stairs nearly tripping in the process. panting for air, you arrive back at the lobby searching for a place to hide.

several minutes past and you've finally calmed down. that was a close call you thought. as you slowly peek over your hiding place, a hard slap stings your head. looking back to see who it was, you're met with chewon glaring down at you. without saying a word, the expression on her face clearly says, "you're such a dumbass."

swiftly standing up, you engulf her in your arms as you squeeze the air out of her. "chaechae i missed you!!" in response, she pinches your waist causing you to squeal and back away.

attempting to rub the pain away, you look at her in confusion. why is she so violent today? has she finally lost it?

"god that was a close call. if my manager saw you first then our whole sneaking out plan is over." you swear you can see steam escaping from the top of her head as she complains.

tilting your head down, a sly smile forms on your lips. "but he didn't see me, so it's all good." she scoffs at you, rolling her eyes and taking your hand in hers. "come on let's go before we get caught." she drags you behind her as she sneakily makes her way back to your car.

you've been aimlessly driving for the past couple of minutes, unsure if chaewon even notices. you weren't expecting a spontaneous hang out today, so you were severely unprepared.

you're terrible at hiding things from her especially with the occasional side eyes you've been giving. she eventually catches on to you.

"how about a convenience store run, just like old times?" pursing your lips you glance at her as if you already had that thought. "pfft, yeah i was already heading there."

"but you just missed the turn..." staring at you, she furrows her eyebrows. "babe i can't see, it's dark out here." out of habit she smacks your arm causing you to swerve a little bit. too busy laughing uncontrollably to even notice.

arriving at the parking lot, you instruct chaewon to stay in the car hoping to avoid any unwanted attention.

walking in the store, you can't help but feel a little guilty. it's such a big day for chaewon but the only thing you can give her is cheap food. still, it's no excuse to not try to make the best out of the night.

making your way down several isles you surprisingly bump into chaewon already picking out items. stopping in your tracks, you cross your arms and tap your feet in disbelief. you cough deliberately, attempting to gain her attention.

"pfft, what?" she doesn't even bother looking at you. "what do you mean, 'what'?" slowly approaching her, you snatch the kimbap she was holding. quickly turning her head, she raises a brow.

"babe you're such a hypocrite. you got mad at me earlier for almost getting caught but look at you now." she snatches the kimbap back from your grasp. "it's okay, i'm covered up good."

finally acknowledging your disappointed look, she squeezes your cheeks. "baby i'm sorry. i'll be careful." giving in to her soft touch, you let it slide. how can you possibly get mad at her?

luckily you were able to leave without anyone recognizing your girlfriend. you wouldn't know what to do if someone did.

getting in the drivers seat, you're hit with realization of not knowing where to go next. resting your head on the steering wheel, you release an exasperated sigh as you struggle to think of a destination.

"make a right turn and take the next exit."

shooting your head up, you stare at the gps. confused as to why it spoke. your gaze shifts back and forth between chaewon and the route displayed on the car's screen, wondering if she had anything to do with it.

chaewon smiles as she comfortably sinks in her seat, "just drive baby." you study her expression, suspicious of her little scheme. "mhm... should i trust you?" the blank expression sitting on her face hints at you to just go without question. you nod in defeat and turned on the engine.

for what seemed like 30 minutes, you're starting to doubt your gps when it leads you to an isolated road. the only source of light that's surrounding you is the brightness of your headlights. it's like you're in a horror movie where you encounter an eerie girl standing on the side of the road.

an uneasy feeling in your stomach begins to stir just by thinking about it. you quickly glace at chaewon whose face is as pale as snow. "you good? you don't usually look as white." she grips on to her thighs and swallows hard. "why wouldn't i be? hehe..."

you knew what she felt at the moment. she's scared shitless. your heart starts to beat . "hey you can't be scared?! because i'm scared... we can't both be scared!"

her grasp transfers from her thigh to your shirt. "girl, just drive!" you immediately step on the gas without a second thought.

"you have arrived. your destination should be on the left." pulling up to a secluded area, a single bench facing a cliff sits under a soft lit lamp post. not creepy at all...

"welp, ladies first," you laugh awkwardly as you unlock the doors. she shook her head in disagreement. "what, you can't do that! you took me here." you lifted an eyebrow and crossed your arms.

"don't make me go out there first, please baby," the look in chaewon’s eyes has you completely entranced. heat rushes to your face, staining it red. it took you a moment to form a response. “you’re a coward,” you murmured.

you push your car door open and hopped out. stepping foot on the rocky ground, the cool evening breeze sends shivers down your spine. you felt vulnerable being outside the walls of your car. in a snap you hurriedly ran to the other side to open the door for your girlfriend.

chaewon steps out and gently pats your cheeks as a thanks. “okay come with me.” she interlocks your fingers, leaving you no choice but to follow.

as you slowly approach the edge of the cliff, the view of the city lights comes into sight, leaving you mesmerized. who knew such a place existed that overlooks the city. chaewon lets go of your hand, letting you take in the scenery.

gawking for too long, you didn’t even notice the feeling of fear had completely washed away. discovering chaewon’s slipped away from your side, you promptly turned around only to see her resting on the bench behind you. she pats the empty space beside her gesturing you to sit down.

“so how’d you know about this place?” you drop your weight on the old wooden material. chaewon shifts closer to you and rests her head on your shoulder.

“i used to come here a lot with my grandma. we’d clear our heads and just talk.” you’re left speechless as you figure out where this is heading. “i wanted to share it with you for awhile now.” your heart softens at her words, realizing you occupy a special place in her heart.

you chuckle as you start playing with her hair, "thank you."

you both sit in comfortable silence just admiring the night sky. after a short while, you felt chaewon's grip on your hand loosen. turning your head to look at her, her eyes completely closed as her chest rises and falls.

looking at the time, it's nearing 1 in the morning. she must be exhausted after such a busy day. you can't even imagine what she'll have to go through later.

you lightly squeeze her, attempting to not startle her. "baby let's take you home yeah?" she groans in response with her eyes still glued shut.

crouching down, you force her to get on your back. you carried her back to the car and gently placed her in the passenger seat. you slowly walked back to the drivers side, taking in the view one last time. bringing her back here for your anniversary would be lovely, you thought.

as you comfortably sunk in your seat, you removed your jacket and wrapped it around chaewon's small figure. she shifts in her spot, turning in your direction giving you a tired smile.

"i'm sorry, did i wake you?" you rub her cheek with your thumb. she timidly shakes her head no.

"if i had known you'd take me here, i would've prepared much more." she chuckles at your statement. "don't be silly, being here with you is more than enough." shutting her eyes again, she falls back asleep. releasing a satisfied hum, you start the engine once again.

the streetlights illuminated the quiet streets and cars sat empty in parking lots. parking in front of her building, you sat there admiring how peaceful and cute she looked.

you shook her softly, "chaewonie we’re here." she yawns heavily and stretches in her seat. rubbing her cheeks, she slowly opens her eyes taking in her surroundings. taking hold of her soft hand, you walk her inside.

arriving at her front door, she turns to you with her head down. "i don't want you to leave... stay with me a little longer?" she tightly clutches on the hem of your shirt. "please?"

without warning, the door bursts open revealing a fully awake eunchae. she looks at you and chaewon cringing. "damn guys it's late. wrap it up please."

"isn't it past your bed time?" chaewon lifts a brow. eunchae crosses her arms as she leans against the door frame. "do you want me to rat you out."

chaewon's eyes widen at eunchae's response. lifting a fist in the air, she makes a threatening gesture. "i'm your leader, you can't tell me what to do." she pushes eunchae back inside, shutting the door at her face.

rubbing your eyes, you can't help but laugh at their interaction. "what's so funny?" she nudges you. tucking her hair behind her ear, you sigh in contentment. "you're so cute, you know that?" she shyly giggles at your compliment.

wrapping her arms around your waist, she pulls you into her embrace. "well you better go in before she comes back out." moving her hands from your waist to your neck, she brings you in and pecks your lips.

a stupid grin forms on the corner of your lip, "do it again." she laughs at your request. connecting your lips once again, it lasts longer this time. her hands explore your back, drawing you even closer. this is what you longed for.

"maybe i should stay for a bit," you whisper into the kiss. pulling away chuckling, she punches your shoulder. "shut up and go home."

opening the door, she finds eunchae waiting, mocking her with kissy faces. "omg eunchae! didn't i tell you to go to sleep?!" you can hear eunchae hysterically laughing on the other side as she makes a run for her room.

your girlfriend turns back to you, pinching the bridge of her nose. "ugh, kids..."

"text me when you get home and as soon as you wake up. i love you and drive safe. good night my lover girl~" peeking throught the small gap of her door she gives you a cheeky smile.

"i love you too. good night~" leaning in, you shut the door for her.

#le sserafim #le sserafim x reader #kim chaewon #kim chaewon x reader #wlw #kpop #kim chaewon imagines #le sserafim imagines #lsrfm #gxg fluff #gxg scenarios #kpop fanfic

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vxsellie · 3 months ago

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‧₊˚┊simple living things﹗

a hunger games!au ellie williams fanfiction.⌇𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭 𝔵𝔦𝔦𝔦

summary. flowers wilt, humans die, and empires fall. this chapter alludes to each of these inevitabilities; all equally agonizing, all equally unavoidable.

content warnings. animal death (the wolf), alcoholism, implications of child abuse, death, injury, amputation, descriptions of past drug/alc addiction, heavy PTSD (ellie), suicidal thoughts (ellie), vague mentions of rebellion, more alcoholism, mentions of past torture.

total wc. 10,068

notes!! that's a long ass list but i swear this chap isn't even THAT bad, there are just a lot of conversations about uncomfy things, not much graphic things tho anyway !!! once again, reminder that it's better read on ao3!

𝜗𝜚 series masterlist ⸝⸝ playlist ⸝⸝ ao3 𝜗𝜚

09:42.

SAINT MARY’S HALL.

MANY HOURS EARLIER.

A gray wolf stalks you from the bushes. The cameras are pinned to the scene, zooming in on the creature before panning back to your sleeping expression. The wolf steps forward, baring its teeth before letting out a low growl. Your brows furrow in your sleep at the sound. It growls again and you shift around a bit.

Fucking wake up. Ruben wants to scream. He wants to shake you awake and protect you from everything within this God forsaken arena. That’s not possible, though, and he’s a fool for so much as permitting his mind to imagine it.

With a jolt, you wake before glancing around for the source of the growling. Your eyes land on the wolf and you unsheath your sword. A smile works its way to Ruben’s face as relief floods his chest. He’d never recover if you were to die in your sleep due to the Gamemakers adding something as simple as a wolf to kill you.

“Fucking pathetic.” His father comments. His words are slurred, caused by the abundance of alcohol he’s imbibed so far. He sits slouched down in his chair, knees spread with his arms crossed. “Had she been more attentive to her surroundings, she’d have killed it by now.”

“She was sleeping.” Ruben grumbles, unable to hold his tongue.

His father turns to him, eyes lidded yet undeniably full of irritation. “Don’t defend her, boy, she’s done nothing but prove herself incompetent.”

Ruben opens his mouth but is quick to snap it back shut. Arguing with his father is futile, always has been. His father doesn’t have a mind open enough to even comprehend what someone is saying. If he believes himself to be correct—which he always does—no other opinion matters to him. Especially when he’s drunk off his ass.

Alice is here today. Yesterday, she stayed in the suite and watched the Games from the comfort of her bed, claiming it helps her focus. Ruben didn’t have that pleasure. It’s mandatory for mentors to be present for the first day of airing. After that, it’s free range. They can stay in Saint Mary’s Hall until the victor is announced, or they can never even show their face.

Alice keeps her face blank and her gaze pinned forward, eyes flicking around as she watches all twenty tributes at once on the split screen. She’s wearing a crimson dress, which is unlike her. She usually opts for much more vibrant colors. Her hair is done up in an intricate bun, sitting atop her head as though it’s difficult to keep it balanced.

Beside her, Tilly wears a similar hairdo, though her bun rests at the nape of her neck. Tilly would usually be required to sit by Joel at level seven, but he’s not here today. He didn’t even show up. A few other mentors are absent, such as Maria and Tess, though they had the sense to come earlier on and talk with a few sponsors before disappearing. Ruben’s assumption is that the three of them are together, having run off somewhere to away from the prying eyes of Capitolites—especially considering what’s happened with Riley, Joel likely doesn’t wish to be bombarded by sponsors like he was yesterday.

“Ugh!” His father runs a hand over his face, head tipping back with a groan. “I cannot believe that girl had the inanity to drop her sword.”

Ruben looks back up to the screen to see you pinned to the ground by the wolf, its claws digging into the soft skin below your collarbone. A few feet away, your sword lies discarded in the grass. The pained expression on your face is enough to make Ruben’s heart beat wildly with the innate need to protect. Like a bear to its cub, every nerve in his body surges.

“She was doing great up until that point.” Ruben grounds out through clenched teeth, having to force back all the insults that sit on his tongue. “She only dropped it because she was—”

“Weak.” His father finishes his sentence. “If she were strong enough, there would not be a situation in the world where casualties such as this would occur.”

He reaches forward for his beer, tipping it back as he takes a long sip from the bottle. Ruben watches with a clenched jaw. The sight of his father inebriating himself is more common than the sight of him smiling, which is rather unsettling. Ruben turns toward the screen, no longer able to stomach the scene any longer.

When he looks forward, you’re seen yanking your sword from between the wolf’s ribs. Remy stands behind you, his eyes covered as he refuses to watch. You drag the body away before telling the child he’s able to open his eyes once more.

The relationship you have with Remy reminds Ruben so painfully of his own relationship with you. The maternal instincts you hold toward the boy shows through every action you carry out—from the softness of your tone to the gentility of your touch. You’d given him your sock last night despite knowing you’d earn blisters on your feet. You gave him your sleeping back, causing you to shiver all night. You look at Remy as though he holds the entire world in his hands.

Ruben knows the feeling. It’s the same emotion that he feels when he sees you. Even when he was in the Capitol and you two hadn’t spoken for years, the thought of your small face and tiny hands would bring her comfort. That’s how you feel right now, whether you’re aware or not. In the arena, everything is full of malice and is made to hurt you. However, amid the calamities, Remy remains soft. A reminder to you that good things still exist in the world.

“She needs to hurry up and rid herself of that kid.” His father grumbles. “He’s a burden to her. He slows her down and eats all of her food.”

Ruben doesn't respond, knowing his dad would never understand what paternal instincts feel like. Despite being a father himself, he’d never experienced such a thing. The screen averts its attention to another tribute, shifting to where Dahlia is seen walking through the city with Selene and Ariadne.

Selene has become a fan favorite. Her bubbly personality and fragile air instantly draw people to like her. Maria, her mentor, was crowded with sponsors yesterday as they begged to send the blonde gifts and food. Even this morning, when she’d shown up for only a few minutes, Maria was fighting to get past the crowd of people.

Ruben glances over his shoulder to level eleven where Dina sits beside Jesse. Her head is rested on his shoulder, eyes soft as she watches one of her tributes find solace in the older ones. Ariadne is pretty strong, too, so Dahlia is no doubt safe so long as they remain an alliance. Cooper, on the other hand, has joined up with the Careers. Ruben worries what that means for the poor boy, knowing nothing good ever comes from hanging around the wrong crowd.

The screen shifts away from them and focuses on Lev and Yara, who are hiding out in a portable building. They sit side by side on the couch, engaging in idle chatter. It’s a nice break from the gore that’s normally seen during the Games.

Down at level one, Abby sits to the left of Owen, the two of them talking lightly, nodding to the screen and gesturing vaguely with their hands at certain spots on the map. They laugh to themselves, proof of their long lasting friendship. On the other side of Owen, his wife, Mel, sits in silence, twisting the ring on her finger.

It’s calm, nice. Until a loud sound comes from the screen—the door of the portable slamming open. Elliot, the shy smart guy from Nine, enters with a hammer hanging from his left hand. All three of them freeze, the Hall falling silent as well as everyone waits to see what happens.

“I don’t mean any harm,” Elliot says slowly, though he doesn’t drop the hammer. “I just want—”

“Don’t come any closer.” Yara is quick to step out in front of Lev, pushing him behind her. She holds up a bow, training the tip of an arrow to Elliot’s chest. “Don’t come closer or I’ll shoot. Leave, now.”

Elliot’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t move. His gaze flicks to the two backpacks on the couch behind them. He swallows. “Listen, I— I’m just a bit hungry, is all. Lend me some food and I’ll leave.”

“No.” The bow trembles slightly in her grip, clearly not wanting to shoot Elliot, but she will if she has to. To protect her brother, she will. “This is our food that we worked hard to get. Please, just leave. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Please.” Elliot steps forward. His cheeks are hollowed out and the bones in his hands poke through the skin of his knuckles. “Please, I haven’t eaten anything but berries and—”

Yara shoots a warning arrow toward him and it wizzes past his head, slicing the shell of his ear. He gasps, bringing his free hand up to the wound. His fingers come back bloody. His eyes grow wide, jaw snapping shut. Yara’s voice shakes, “I told you.”

Elliot’s eyes flick to the backpacks again, his jaw ticking. He’s not a violent man, but anyone who’s been starved the way he has would go to unimaginable extents to alleviate the pain from his stomach. He grips his hammer tightly before charging forward.

He swings his hammer toward Yara and, before she can evade him, it slams into the wooden arc of her bow, snapping it. Her breath hitches as the broken weapon clatters to the floor. She pushes Lev farther behind her as Elliot reels his arm back in preparation to strike again.

All of Yara’s weapons are in the bags on the couch. She can’t reach them in time. So, out of pure instinct, she brings her arms up to block her face just as Elliot whacks her with the head of his hammer. The bone in her forearm shatters.

A deafening scream tears from her throat.

Elliots staggers backward, dropping the hammer to the floor. His eyes are wide as his back hits the wall. “I didn’t— That wasn't supposed to happen, I didn't mean to—”

“But you did.” Lev says before letting an arrow of his own fly. The head wedges right between Elliot’s eyes, killing him instantly. He falls to the floor with a thud, blood seeping into the linoleum flooring.

The cannon rings out, blending horribly with the sound of Yara’s screams.

Lev falls to his knees beside her, eyes filling with tears. “Yara? Yara, are you okay? I don’t—”

“Mel!” Abby’s shouting tears Ruben’s eyes away from the screen to the scene down at level one. Abby is standing, her hands pressed to the surface of the table as she leans forward into Mel’s face. “What do– What can I send her?!”

Mel shakes her head, eyes wide. “It needs to be amputated, Abby, I don’t know what you could possibly send that would—”

“Well, figure it out!” She demands, slamming her hand down on the table, making Mel flinch. Abby sighs, tipping her head down. She runs a hand over her downcase face. “Sorry, I just— I need to help them.”

Owen rubs a hand up and down Abby’s back. “Just calm down, Abs, everything will be fine. It was just her arm.”

Ruben swallows, looking back toward the screen. It’s shifted away from them, panning back to you. You’re walking through the foliage with Remy on your back, talking about random childish topics. You’re laughing and smiling, genuinely enjoying yourself despite everything.

Alice and Tilly are tense, watching as the argument between Abby and Mel grows more and more heated. Ruben sometimes forgets that the two of them are Capitolites—hence their desperate need to be in everyone’s business. He’s grown so used to being around people like them that things like this randomly catch him off guard.

“If y’ ask me,” His father suddenly says as he watches you speak with Remy. He’s completely wasted by now, his syllables all jumbling together. “It’s a good thing th’ wolf was sent. Otherwise, Y/n would not have learned her lesson ‘bout foolishness.”

“She wasn’t being foolish.” Ruben argues back. “She was—”

“Th’ girl can barely hold a sword.” He interrupts.

“She can hold a sword just fine.” He bites out as irritation settles into his bones. “But when she’s pinned to the ground and bleeding, you can’t expect her to—”

“I expect th’ very best from ‘er.” His father interrupts again.

“Can you just listen for a second and let me speak?”

“Not if ya continue t’ blabber nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense. She’s your daughter, you should—”

“I should what? Coddle ‘er and expect a fucked up child?” He snaps. “I challenge her b’cause it enables her t’ grow as a person.”

“You know damn well that’s not the reason.” Ruben says. “You’re expecting too much from her. She’s a human being—”

“She’s a L/n.”

Oh, he’s had enough. His father isn’t even listening to what he’s trying to say, words falling onto deaf ears. Ruben stands from his chair, allowing the legs to scrape loudly against the tile. Alice and Tilly are having a field day as they try to eavesdrop into both arguments at the same time.

On the screen, you’re adjusting Remy onto your back. Your shoulders are bloody and aching and, still, you carry the boy so he doesn't feel any unnecessary pain. You are strong, you’re stronger than Ruben in many senses. And yet, here your own dad sits, having no words aside from biting insults.

Ruben doesn't say anything else, turning on his heel and walking toward the door. He shoves it open with a huff, allowing it to slam back closed.

The hallway is perfectly silent, nothing but the air conditioning able to be heard overhead. It’s a nice break from the boisterousness of the Hall.

DAY THREE.

THE ARENA.

Time felt so much slower as you trudged through the city with Remy on your back and Ellie barely capable of keeping herself upright. You pitied her, but said nothing as the three of you walked in complete silence. The quietude was only broken to draw their attention toward a barn in the distance, perched in the outskirts of the city, right at the cusp of the forest.

That’s where you reside now, digging through the backpack you stole before leaving the costume shop. You sift through its contents, committing each item to memory—two granola bars, a pair of sunglasses, a roll of gauze, and, holy shit, water! Remy sits criss cross beside you, watching over your shoulder as you pull out the half-full bottle.

His eyes light up, “Can we have some?”

You smile, untwisting the cap before holding it out to him. “Of course we can.”

“You don’t want some first?”

“Quit worrying about me, Rem.” You scold him softly. “You need to prioritize yourself sometimes. And I know you’re thirsty, so go ahead.”

Begrudgingly, he takes the bottle from your hands before drinking it. He lets out a satisfied hum as he swallows, water dribbling down to his chin. He looks up at you with a wide smile. “That was so good.”

You take the bottle and drink the rest of it, unable to help yourself. The water blooms across your tongue, spreading like roots in soil. It instantly makes your dried mouth feel a million times better. And, the moment it’s gone, you frown.

Remy’s brows furrow. “What about Ellie?”

“What about her?” You respond, our voice sounding a bit strained.

“Well,” He fumbles with his fingers in his lap, casting his head down, “Wasn’t that technically her water?”

You give him a small smile, grabbing his hand to cease his fidgeting and draw his head back up to look at you. “We’ll go to the lake tomorrow. We can fill my canteen and refill her bottle. It’s not too far from here, I don’t think.”

“Okay.” He nods.

It may have been wrong to drink all of Ellie’s water, but you and Remy would have died of dehydration before long. Plus, she’s not here to argue with you, considering that she’s currently passed out in one of the horse stalls. She’d been half asleep when you guys arrived at the barn, but refused to admit she was tired. You three had split up to check the stalls for mutts, but Ellie ended up falling asleep in the first one she entered.

When you found that she hadn’t returned from her stall, you began searching each one, fearing that a mutt had killed her. But, when it was revealed that she’d gone to fucking sleep, you were pissed. Overcome with anger, you were about to awake and scold her, but Remy stopped you. He said that she probably needed the rest if she’d fallen asleep so easily. Begrudgingly, you agreed.

And here you and Remy sit, having decided to search the bag so as to distract your mind from the swirling emotions within it—residual anger at Ellie that fades to irritability with everything she does, confusion toward the details of what exactly happened to Riley, and fatigue caused by carrying Remy all day and lack of sustenance.

On your walk toward the barn, they showed the dead tribute from today. Elliot Declan from Nine. You wonder how he died. From the Careers? From the mutts? From someone else? Not that it matters. He’s dead and that’s that. Some good news, though, is that with each dead tribute, you’re closer to getting out of this place.

You reach into the backpack and pull out the roll of gauze, turning to Remy. “Lift up your pant leg. I’ll wrap it with something better than a sock.”

“Okay.” He laughs.

He rolls up the denim of his jeans to reveal a long sock tied around his calf. The priorly white fabric is now stained red, barely hanging onto his leg after everything it’d been put through. Yeah, you’re not putting that back on.

You untie the sock and he instantly looks away, not wanting to see the wound. It’s a good thing, too, because it’s a rather nasty sight. All around the wound, his skin is red and irritated from the sock’s chafing. The wound itself is healing, but it’s not pretty. Dried blood surrounds the open flesh. You suddenly wish you had more water to rinse him clean, but the gauze will have to do. You wrap the calf a few times, firm but not too tight.

You’ve done medical things such as this for Ruben before. After your parents’ punishments, he’d be covered in blood and open gashes. He would always insist on doing it himself, but you wouldn’t let him.

You were six when you first found him sitting all alone in the bathroom, perched on the edge of the toilet seat as he tried to stitch up his own rib. He had gone down to the dock by himself to fish and your mother punished him for it, saying “That’s what we have mister Alden for! What if someone had seen you?!” and “Fishing for your own food is a sign of poverty!” You’re unsure on the details of her punishment, but Ruben said she had used the fishing hook on him. He didn’t say anything more than that and you didn’t pry.

“All done.” You say softly, stuffing the roll back into the pack.

Remy looks down at his leg, seeing the neatly wrapped gauze. You had even made sure to wrap up the areas where his skin was red or coated in dried blood, knowing he’d prefer not to see those things. He flashes you a toothy grin. “It already feels much better. Thank you.”

“Of course.” You say, zipping Ellie’s backpack before turning to unzip your own. You pull out the sleeping back, standing to unroll it across the hay-covered floor. You nod to it. “You can have it.”

He frowns. “But it gets so cold.”

“Which is exactly why you’re using it.”

“But I felt you shivering last night.” He says in a small voice.

“Your body is much smaller than mine, Rem. You need it more.”

His frown only deepens, though he doesn’t say anything. He slides into the bag, his chattering teeth slowly ceasing. Then, just as you’re about to lie down on the ground, he turns to you with wide eyes. “What if we share it? There’s plenty of room.”

“You’re very kind.” You say. “But it’s okay, I’ll be fine.”

“Well—” He presses his lips together, beginning to shuffle back out of the bag. “Well if we don’t share it, neither of us get it.”

His words instantly remind you of the Careers. They had a sleeping bag too, and they made that same exact decision to not use it if everyone can’t have it. Well, it was more Thalia who made the decision, but the fact still stands.

“Fine.” You sigh. “But only if you promise not to die of hypothermia.”

He grins victoriously. “Deal.”

You slip into the bag beside him and, shockingly, it has much more room that you’d anticipated. The ground is hard beneath you, but the fabric and hay work together to cushion your spine. Remy turns on his side, shutting his eyes as he faces the rotted wooden wall. You turn the other direction, looking out at the open doors leading to the outside.

Stars dot the sky, looking like splatters of paint across a black backdrop—which might be exactly what they are, considering nothing in the arena is real. In fact, a few years ago, for one of the arenas, the sun never set. This just proves that there’s nothing natural about it.

You can hear clicking, though it’s far in the distance as the mutts’ noises bounce off of the trees. You can also hear the gentle sounds of animals and creatures of the forest. But, louder than anything, you can hear Remy snoring behind you.

You shut your eyes, allowing all the tension in your body to relax into the warmth of the sleeping bag. However, after a mere two minutes, they snap back open at the sound of screaming. You sit up with a jolt as Remy stirs beside you, rubbing at his eyes.

“What’s that?” He asks.

You recognize the voice, quickly piecing it together. “Nothing, go back to sleep.”

“But—”

“I’ll be right back.”

You slip out of the sleeping back and walk over to the horse stall where the screaming had come from. You poke your head inside to see Ellie balled up in that same position you’d found her in back at the costume shop—clutching at her hair as she breathes unevenly.

“Hey,” You say quietly.

She shakes her head, not looking up. “I said— I told you I didn’t wanna go. You shouldn’t have made me leave her back there.”

You walk fully into the stall, crouching down beside her. You open your mouth to speak, hovering your hand to her shoulder. Though, after a second, you close your mouth and lower her hand back to your side, deciding against touching her.

“You couldn’t have stayed there, Ellie.”

“Yes, I could.” There’s nothing harsh about her tone, just defeat. “You could have left me there. I would have preferred to die by her side anyway.”

You frown. “Don’t say that.”

“But it’s true.”

You don’t respond, unsure what you could possibly say in this situation. She didn’t just lose her friend, she lost her family. Nothing you could do would fill the gap that Riley’s death left. So you sit in silence, bringing your knees up to your chest so as to mimic her position. It is comfortable, you must admit.

Ellie lifts her head, looking at the side of your face. You can feel her gaze pinned on you and turn toward her. You can’t tell if she’s been crying or not, as the darkness provides a veil over everything. The artificial stars don’t provide enough light to illuminate her face. They’re barely enough to illuminate the sky. If you were to guess, though, you’d assume she’d been crying.

She opens her mouth only to close it again, deciding against saying whatever she’d thought of. After a moment, she does it again. Your brows furrow, wondering what she’s holding herself back from saying aloud. Then, when she finally speaks, it’s a simple question. A boring one.

“What happened to your shoulders?”

You sigh, turning back forward. You rest your chin on your knees. “Long story.”

“Mm.” She hums, looking away. Her eyes flick from the wall to the floor, anywhere that’s not you.

Silence settles between you again, heavy and awkward.

With a huff, you say. “An arrow and a wolf.”

She turns. “What?”

“My shoulders.” You respond. “I was shot in the shoulder blade by Nolan, then I was attacked by a wolf this morning.”

“Oh.” She nods, swallowing. There’s a long pause, then. “Is that why you killed Violetta?”

Your head snaps up to her. “What?”

“I saw her body.” Ellie says calmly despite the panic flooding your veins. “There was a pool of blood, which would explain why you were carrying Remy all the way here. She was stabbed by a sword, one of which you have at your hip right now. And, by the way,” She reaches into her boot, pulling out a dagger, “You left this.”

“I don’t—” You stop mid sentence, lips thinning.

She tips her head, finally looking at you again. “It’s fucked.”

“What do you expect from me?” You ask as irritation blooms through your chest. It’s unprompted and a bit unfair for Ellie, but it’s there nonetheless. “An explanation? An apology?”

“No.” She runs her finger along the blade of the dagger. “I just wanted you to know that I know.”

Your jaw tightens. “Why would I give a shit what you know?”

“Because it means I’m not just some defenseless little girl grieving her best friend. It means I’m still a tribute in these Games and I know you’re a threat.” She says. “You won’t be able to kill me as easily as you killed her. I know you better than she did.”

The initial irritation that she’d invoked fades to a strong sense of rage. You push to your feet, expression hard as you look down at her hunched silhouette. “As much as you know me, I know you. Which means you don’t have the upper hand that you think you do.”

She taps the dip between her collarbones. “Don’t I?”

A chill runs up your spine. She’s making a reference to your pearl necklace. To Mister Alden. To all the things you’d been foolish enough to share with her.

You huff, turning on your heel and exiting the stall. You return back to the sleeping back, slipping in beside Remy. And, this time, instead of turning away from him, you pull him into your arms. He hums in his sleep, curling into your warmth.

Ellie knows you. She knows your issues with your brother, she knows your father won’t send sponsors, she knows you cherish Remy, she knows how you fight, and, more than all else, she knows how to get under your skin.

TRAINING CENTER, GROUND LEVER.

01:55.

Dampened skin and heavy breathing.

A white tank top sticks to Ruben’s body as perspiration coats his skin in a thick layer of sweat. A punching bag sways gently in front of him, rocking back and forth on the chain tethering it to the concrete ceiling of the Training Center.

“Don’t I?” Ellie’s voice sounds through the room.

Ruben lifts his head, stilling the bag. He does so just in time to see her fingers tap lightly against her collar bone. He watches your breath hitch at the sight. And, with that and naught more, you turn on your heel with a huff, climbing into the sleeping bag. You pull Remy into your chest, holding him tight. Anger traces up Ruben’s spine and he throws another punch at the stiff bag.

His knuckles are throbbing and his chest burns from exertion. He’s been doing this for hours, locked away in the gym as he attempts to release the rage within him. It hasn’t worked. Every screen in the country is airing the Games—including the projector in front of him.

His irritation isn’t directed toward Ellie, though she doesn’t make it easy to remain compassionate toward her. He understands that she’s grieving, he understands better than anyone. But, in spite of knowing this, you remain the sole object of his thoughts. Everything in his mind orbits the worry regarding your well-being. But, as stated, it’s not necessarily directed toward Ellie, rather the entirety of the Capitol. The Gamemakers whom he’d been foolish enough to piss off—hence them sending the wolf to kill you. The sponsors who enjoy watching innocent lives taken for their own entertainment. And, more than all else, President Fedra, the man in charge of every bit of agony that rakes through this fucked up society of his.

Another punch to the bag.

Ellie isn’t to blame for her actions. She’d never have behaved like this, had she not been thrust into a death arena in the first place. In fact, come to think of it, the two of you could have worked. You could have navigated your own romance story because, in this hypothetical world that’s rid of atrocities such as the Hunger Games, you would never have had reason to leave her on that roof. No reason that Ruben could think of anyway.

Another punch.

It’s just all so fucked. You and Ellie could have lived a domestic life of gentle fondness. Ruben could have spent those eleven missing years in your company, as he never would have had a reason to rely on drugs for coping. He mourns the life you could have had. One with a sober brother and soft lover. One where you wouldn’t have to cradle a small body in your arms, knowing it’ll be lifeless before long. One where your parents aren’t merciless victors. One where you can be happy, healthy.

Ruben continues to punch the bag, his eyes flicking to the screen every few minutes so as to make sure he doesn’t miss anything too important.

After leaving Saint Mary’s Hall, Ruben's initial plan was to ride back to the Training Center where his suite is located. There, he hoped to watch the Games in the peace of his own bed. But then he remembered the fact that his parents have full access to level four’s suite and thus decided to go anywhere but there. Not because he feared them, but because he feared what they’d do as punishment for his argument with his father. In the end, he decided to head down to the gym.

As a child, training with his parents was torture. But, now that he’s able to do so in his own free time, it’s a way to get his anger out.

When he was in the beginning of his journey to sobriety, Ruben spent countless hours in this very gym. Sometimes on his own, sometimes with Dina or Jesse or Birdie. Regardless of what company was present, it was a good way to release everything pent up inside of him.

He can remember in clarity the first day spent here—he had just turned twenty a few months prior and had a particularly hard time watching the Games that day. His youngest tribute was killed brutally by a Career. Instinctively, he turned to inebriation as a form of comfort. Dina stopped him before he could, though, suggesting that they go to the gym. Ruben thought it to be a stupid solution at first, but agreed nonetheless. Jesse and Birdie accompanied them.

Ruben and Jesse wrestled for hours, exchanging punches and kicks until they were both too bruised and fatigued to carry on. They lied on their backs, laughter shaking their chests as they stared up at the ceiling, out of breath. Dina walked over to Jesse, placing a kiss on his sweaty lips before helping him up. That was the day Birdie became aware of their relationship. She gasped, eyes blown wide as she asked to hear all the details.

That was the happiest he’d ever been during airings of the Games. Time felt as though it were slowed, everything swirling around them as though it was already a memory.

“There.”

Ruben’s head tilts up toward the screen in time to see Lev stepping away from his sister. Her arm is amputated, an array of medical equipment scattered across the floor. Abby must have sent it despite Mel’s insistence that nothing could be done. Across the room, Elliots corpse lies in a heap against the wall. Lev’s hands are shaking and Yara offers him a small smile.

“You did really well, Lev.” She says quietly. Her lids are heavy, exhaustion evident in her bones. Still, she reaches out to hold his hand in hers, stilling his trembling. “I’m proud of you.”

His eyes water. “Thank you.”

Ruben inhales deeply before looking away. The sight makes his chest hurt. He wants you to get home. More than anything, he does. But knowing that would cost the lives of all the other nineteen remaining tributes is a hard pill to swallow.

He exhales sharply before turning away from the screen and walking over to his drawstring bag. He grabs it, tossing it over his shoulder before walking toward the door. He pushes it open and walks down the narrow hallway to the elevator. Inside, there’s a small screen above the sliding doors. On it, the Games continue to play. God, the Capitol loves this sadistic shit.

He reaches forward, finger hovering over the 4 button. But, for some reason, he doesn’t press it. Instead, his hand trails down to the number 7. He presses it and the elevator begins to rise.

With a high-pitched ding, the doors slide open to reveal a long hallway leading to a brown door with the number seven etched into it. Ruben exits the elevator and begins walking toward it. He passes a small square on the wall where the paint has faded, an empty nail at the top of the square where a painting must have once been hung. The painting that you knocked down when you slammed Ellie into the wall after the interviews.

Ruben turns away from it and continues down the hall. He knocks twice on the door before it swings open in a wide arc. Standing in the doorway is Alice Reymond, her hair taken down from that high bun that once adorned her head. In its place, her hair is held back in a pale pink bonnet. She tilts her head to the side, eyeing him.

“Ruben?” Alice questions. “Whatever are you doing here? And why are you so sweaty?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” He pauses. “Well, minus the sweaty part.”

“I’m here to visit my sister.” She says simply, running her palms down the side of her nightgown. She rakes her eyes down his body before clicking her tongue. “Do you have any idea how late it is?”

“Uh.” His eyes dart to the side. “Not really, I haven’t kept track.”

“It is two in the morning.” She says.

He opens his mouth to speak, but is interrupted when a third voice chimes in from behind Alice’s shoulder. “Who is that?”

She moves to the side, allowing the person to set their eyes on the visitor.

A short woman with straight black hair stands in the foyer, her bangs pinned back with mismatched hairclips. She narrows her eyes at him before recognition works its way to her face. Her mouth forms an O shape.

“Ruben L/n!” She says, walking forward to the door. She beams at him as though they’re lifelong friends. “I’d hug you, but you’re all sweaty.”

He blinks, confused. “Uh, do you happen to know where Joel is?”

She frowns. “I’m afraid we just put him to bed.”

“Put him to bed?”

“He was drunk.” Alice says with saddened eyes. “The poor guy was barely conscious when we found him. His head was pressed on the table with beer bottles all around him.”

“Yes, yes. We can gossip about the pitiful old man later.” The other woman says before brushing past Alice. She grabs Ruben by the wrist and tugs him inside of the suite. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He allows himself to be pulled inside, taking this chance to glance around the suite. The kitchen is crowded with Avoxes attempting to clean up the mess Joel made. The living room isn’t much better. If anything, it’s worse as that’s likely where he watched the Games. In fact, as Ruben is pulled past it, he catches sight of the screen, David working hard to stick wooden posts into the dirt.

Then within a mere few seconds, the black haired woman is pushing him into the bathroom. She pushes the door shut behind him, locking it. Instinctively, he takes a step away from her, having been forced into one too many rooms with lustful Capitolites.

“Calm down, I’m not going to do anything untoward.” The woman says, pressing her back against the taupe door. “I’m Catalina, or Cat. I’m Ellie and Riley’s stylist. Well, I was.”

Ruben narrows his eyes at her. “Okay.”

“I’ve been working in secret with Birdie.” She says, crossing her arms over her chest. Ruben’s head snaps up at that, eyes widening. She smirks. “Yeah, I thought that’d get your attention.”

Ruben’s entire demeanor changes within seconds. His posture straightens and his mind is reeling. There’s no reason for the two of them to be working together, not to mention in secret. Not unless they’re doing something unlawful. Something frowned upon by the authoritative figure of this crackling government.

He’s met Catalina before, but only in passing. She’d been there, at the Chariot Parade. Ruben overheard Joel reprimanding her for making Ellie naked, though it turned out she just appeared that way. He was quick to understand Joel’s perspective. Ellie is an adult, but no less young. And Ruben knows from personal experience how the Capitol treats tributes who they deem attractive.

But he can simultaneously see why Cat did what she did. Considering she’s working illegally with Birdie, she must have a motive for such a mutinous act. And, if she’s telling Ruben this, she’s expecting him to understand. Also, seeing as he and Cat don’t know one another well, her expectation is undoubtedly based upon something commonly known. Such as his love for you. Which means she holds a love for someone as well, hence the reason behind her recalcitrance. His guess, Ellie.

And, if she does hold care for Ellie, her actions at the Parade are all that more understandable. To exploit someone is unforgivable. Unless, however, it ends up saving their life in the arena. Cat, here, had no choice. Her goal was to gain the attention of the Capitol for Ellie’s sake. This way, if she were to survive the arena, she’d have saved her life via earning her sponsors. However, if she dies within the arena, she’ll never have to face the consequences of Cat’s decision to dress her as she did. It’s smart. Perhaps too smart.

Ruben narrows his eyes at Cat. “For how long have you been working with Birdie?”

“Mm,” She hums in thought, “Right before the Chariot Parade, I believe.”

I knew it, he thinks but doesn’t say. An idea made with such intricate care could only be formulated by a certain red-haired woman. He tries not to grin at his own cleverness for having puzzled it out. That, and the second hand pride in his friend’s ability to come up with the idea.

“So,” He muses, eyes flicking to the side, “The bathroom?”

She tilts her head. “Only place without cameras.”

“Did Birdie teach you that, as well?”

“She’s a wise woman.” Cat says, evading the question whilst still answering it in vagueness. “She’s been in this industry far longer than I. She knows her way around these things.”

“She knows her way around lots of things.”

“Yes, I’m beginning to realize that more and more each day.”

Ruben watches her. She’s wearing a silk robe, the same shade of red as Birdie’s hair. It’s tied tightly around the waist, though it doesn't hide the low neckline revealing her cleavage. Her feet are clad in fuzzy pink slippers, her toes perfectly painted and clean. A Capitolite, albeit a new one. She still has natural features such as her hair and eyes and nose. There’s still hope of her not turning to become a complete monster of the Capitol’s design.

He wonders how old she is, pitying the world she’s been thrust into. She appears to be your age, perhaps even younger. But, in the Capitol, everyone looks more youthful than they actually are. His own grandmother looks his age. It’s freakish.

“And why exactly have you two formed this duo?”

She walks over to the counter, leaning her hands against the edge. “You care for your sister, yes?”

“What does she have to do with any of this?” He’s instantly stiffened at the mention of you, still distrusting this woman.

“Everything.”

His brows furrow. “What does that—” “You were in Saint Mary’s Hall when Ellie and Riley joined forces, weren’t you?” She asks.

“Yes.”

“So,” She taps one of her long nails against the marble counter. “What you viewed wasn’t filtered. You saw the raw footage of what happened, of what she showed her.”

Finally, Ruben’s mind begins to catch up. “You’re talking about the dog tag.”

She nods slowly. “Yes.”

“But what does that have to do with my sister?”

“While you were able to witness the true facts, everyone else in the country had their screens pinned onto Y/n. That way, nobody in the Districts would see proof of a resistance building. That’s why the Gamemakers made the fire so big, so they could direct the calamity onto someone aside from just Ellie and Riley. That’s why Violetta crossed her path, so as to create a spectacle that would distract the audience from wondering what was going on with the other pair.”

Ruben blinks at her.

He saw what Riley held out in her hands, the entire Hall did. The Gamemakers were trying to distract them, making the screen blur and fizz. But it didn’t erase what was happening. There was a rebellious group forming, and the government didn’t want them to know about it. None of the other mentors mentioned it, carrying on with their conversations casually. Perhaps they didn’t piece it together. Or perhaps they knew better than to draw attention to it.

“What was it that Ellie said for her interviews?” Cat asks, though rhetorically. “When they're lost in the darkness, they look for the light? Where do you think that saying came from?” “It was regarding the moth wings on her outfit.”

“The moth wings that I created, yes.” She nods. “It was a reference to fireflies—insects who make their own lights, illuminating a path for others who are lost in the void of cruelty.”

“Fireflies,” Ruben mutters, his head spinning. “Like the one on Riley’s dog tag.”

Cat gives a small smile. “Birdie said you’d pick up fast.”

“You two—” He shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut. “How did you two meet?”

“Well,” She muses, “Prior to the Parade, all the stylists were brought into this— It was a super odd space, like a classroom but not at all at the same time. Anyway, there, we were told everything we needed to know—such as which bodily measurements to take, which conversations with tributes were permitted, and which outfits were deemed appropriate by Capitol standards.”

“Sounds boring.” Ruben comments.

“It was.” Cat chuckles. “But, considering I was still a bit new to this whole thing, I was listening to every word. That is, until Birdie leaned over and told me it was all a crock of shit. I laughed out loud, earning us both punishment for interrupting the lesson. It was— Well, it was a rather upsetting occurrence, yes, but we grew close due to it. Friends, almost. I trusted her to be one of the only truthful people here in the Capitol while she continued to give me unfiltered tips and tricks regarding how to survive here.”

“When you say punishments…” Ruben trails off, his brows knitting as he considers her words and the natures surrounding them.

She nods slowly, as though pained. “Whippings. Threatened to turn us both to Avoxes if it were to happen again.”

He grimaces. The Capitol is cruel in every sense imaginable. If they wish for someone to be altered, they have no issue with abusing that change into them. Whippings, torture, execution. Anything they think will adjust what is deemed undesirable, they’ll do.

Ruben can still remember when Tess’s entire family was killed simply because she refused to have her body sold to the Capitol. They adjudged her to be defiant and used that ruling as means for their deaths. Her mother, father, and two siblings. All hanged publicly in Three, her home District.

Ruben opens his mouth to respond to Cat, only to be interrupted by a light knocking on the bathroom door. Her expression changes in an instant, fading from solemnity to a professional charisma. She opens the door, face falling when she sees Joel, no longer seeing a point in wearing such a facade around him.

“What on Earth are you doing up?” Cat asks, bracing her hands on her hips.

He brushes past her into the bathroom, walking oddly. The alcohol seems to not have fully worn off just yet. “Thought I heard voices.”

“You should be resting.” She shuts the door behind him lightly.

“Quit y’ur fussin’, ‘m fine.” Joel slurs before plopping down onto the closed toilet seat, gazing around through lidded eyes. Finally, his sights land on Ruben. “What’re ya doin’ here? N’ why’re y’ so sweaty?”

“I went to the gym for a bit.” He replies. “What about you, old man? Got drunk without me?”

Joel laughs. “Funny.”

“This is all good and fun,” Cat steps forward, putting herself between the two of them with a heavy frown. She turns to Joel, hands still on her silky robe. “You need to get back to bed or you’ll regret it in the morning.”

“Calm down,” He says lazily. “I a’ready said ‘m fine.”

“Listen, I don’t give a shit if you want to waste your life away in a bottle of booze.” She says pointedly. “But if Ellie somehow survives the arena and comes back to find you like this? That’s an issue that I do give a shit about.”

Ruben frowns as he listens to Cat’s words. Joel cares about Ellie, that much was proven upon seeing his reaction to her cries following Riley’s death. He didn’t even show up the next day due to how much it affected him. But Cat is implying that Ellie cares for him in return, that she’d be hurt to see him in this condition.

It’s not uncommon to be fond of Joel Miller, he’s a hard man to hate. Well, that’s a lie. Plenty of people hate him, but that’s because not many people take the time to get to know him. If everyone knew who he was and where his heart lied, not a single soul on this planet would have the valor to loathe him. Joel isn’t a bad person, that much is undeniable.

But it’s equally undeniable to say that tributes and mentors seldom care for one another. Mentors are at fault for that, in most cases. They watch their tributes die year after year, having no choice but to sit back and continue to watch the show.

And, considering how long Joel has been in this industry, it’s quite shocking that he came to care for a tribute.

“Fine.” He grunts, pushing to his feet. “I’ll go lie down, but I ain’t doin’ it for you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Cat waves him off. “Just go sober up already.”

With a huff, Joel walks out of the bathroom. The door clicks behind him and Ruben glances at the clock. It’s nearing three in the morning, he ought to lie down as well.

He turns to Cat. “Whatever alliance you and Birdie and forming, be fucking careful.”

“As if she’d be anything but careful.” She laughs haphazardly.

“I’m serious.” Ruben says. “Birdie is good at this stuff, but she’s not perfect. She’s been in the Capitol for a long time, but that only means her hatred for it is incredibly large. When it comes to politics, she can be impulsive and reckless. All I’m asking of you is that you don’t let her.”

Cat nods, offering a small smile of consolation. “Okay.”

“You promise?”

“Promise.”

DAY FOUR.

THE ARENA.

Riley’s face haunts every thought that crosses Ellie’s mind. From the soft smiles she’d throw over her shoulder while escaping school to the death that rattled within her lungs when Ellie slit her throat. It’s occultly vivid, too, every memory that pops into her head.

After her conversation with you, Ellie proceeded to have an abundance of nightmares. Each time, she’d wake up screaming. Her arms would flail around, patting the ground in search of something that’d offer her an ounce of comfort, but naught appeared. You didn’t come to check on her after what she said, what she implied. Not that she cares, just an observation.

As sunlight begins to peek through the cracks in the wooden walls, basking the prickly hay in golden glow, Ellie decides it’s time to abandon the small stall she sought solitude within.

Her eyelids weigh heavy as she pushes to a pair of aching feet. Her thighs and calves burn from walking so far with you and Remy last night. Not only that, but she’s already soaked in sweat from so many nightmares paired with the heat of the artificial sun. She strips off her coat, wrapping it around her waist before exiting the stall.

The barn is large, larger than any that she’d ever seen in Seven at least.

She and Riley explored many abandoned buildings in their youth, especially old barns or hunting cabins scattered through the woods. The memory is a sweet one, made complete with the scent of citrus and the sound of cicadas. Despite this, it leaves a bitter ache in her mouth, one that causes the back of her tongue to taste metallic. Like blood on a silver axe.

The ceiling of the barn is supported by wooden beams, though some of them have fallen or cracked under the weight of time. Grass pokes through the cracks in the rotted floor, mingling shades of green with the yellow hay.

And, like a contrast of sharpened strokes against a gentle backdrop, you sit with your back pressed against one of the wooden posts in the center of the structure. Your head is facing away from where Ellie stands, eyes barely open. You must not have heard her leave the stall.

But that’s not what grabs her attention. It’s the boy that lies fast asleep with his head in your lap. You’ve both removed your coats. His is being utilized as a pillow to separate his bony head from your thighs while yours is balled up at the small of your back so as to prevent your spine from the ache of being against the wooden post.

Remy looks so content, eyes shut and lips parted. You look equally as fond, eyes softened as you gaze upon his sleeping expression. Your fingers are running through his hair, massaging his scalp.

Does he know how many people you’ve killed with those hands? Is he aware of the murderous genetics that entwine your nerves together?

Ellie spots her backpack across the barn. It sits idly atop an unrolled sleeping bag. She knows it's hers because there’s a handful of flowers sticking out of the side. Her heart clenches at the sight, knowing Riley had picked them in honor of their finite days in Seven. They’re wilted, now. Stems hanging low and pedals flaking away like the ash that’d scorched her.

Hardened hay crunches under her boots as she walks over to the backpack. You lift your head at the sound. Your eye is puffy, tinted in hues of purple and blue—result of her having punched you back at the costume store. Neither of you say anything as you watch her crouch down before unzipping the pack.

Inside, she finds that her belongings have been rummaged through. The granola bars and sunglasses are untouched, though the gauze has been torn at the end and her bottle of water is bone dry. She pulls the empty bottle out, turning to you with a hardened expression. “You drank my fucking water?”

You sigh as though you have a right to be annoyed. “We were thirsty.”

“Well so am I.” She says harshly. “You can’t always hold yourself on a goddamn pedestal.”

“Neither of us have had a drop of water since before the Games.” Your exhaustion fades to irritation, brows furrowing, though your fingers continue to gently run through Remy’s hair.

“That’s not my fucking problem.” Ellie snaps, pushing to her feet despite the burning in her thighs. She tosses the bottle into the pack. “It’s not your place to go through my things and drink all of my water. I was sleeping, you can’t take advantage—”

“It’s just water.” Your fingers cease their movements, now fully indulging in the argument.

Her jaw tightens. To you, it’s just water. To Ellie, it’s how she is able to honor Joel’s only advice. To Ellie, it’s a lifeline that reminds her she’s no longer a useless girl hiding in a tree. To Ellie, it’s one of the last things she spoke to Riley about. But yeah, to you, it’s just water.

“No it—” She cuts herself off, realizing she couldn’t possibly explain all of that to you. And, even if she could, you wouldn’t understand. You’re a conceited L/n. You’d never faced hardships, never had to struggle for food on a table or water in a glass. She runs a hand through her hair, groaning. “Ugh.”

You roll your eyes. “We can get more.”

“Yeah?” Her head snaps to you. “How? Where?”

You open your mouth to reply, though you shut it as Remy shifts in your lap and your attention is instantly on him.

When are you going to drop this act? Pretending to give a shit about this kid and care for him is cheap, even for you. He has parents and a home. Yet, here you are, using him as a pawn to gain yourself pity points and sponsors.

“Thought we were going t’ the lake.” His voice is rough with sleep, groggy as he rubs at his eyes.

“We were just talking about that, Rem.” You reply softly.

Ellie scoffs, bracing her hands on her hips. “It’s gotta be at least a day-long trip from here.”

“Half a day.” You correct her sharply. “And, all things considered, that’s not too far of a journey.”

“It is when it’s spent with you.” You scoff, seeming to be on your last nerve. “Okay then don’t come. We’re only going on this trip to get your fucking water back. If you’re too good to come with us, then don’t.”

She crosses her arms.

She doesn’t want to spend two more seconds with you, not to mention half a day. But, at the same time, she needs her water replaced or else she’ll die of dehydration. Though, in all honesty, that doesn't seem too bad of an option right now. What with your attitude and her pride, the two of you will no doubt be butting heads the entire way.

But she doubts she could make it on her own in this condition. All she has in terms of weaponry is a switchblade and a dagger. You didn’t take the axe from the costume store, which she’s grateful for. She’s not sure she could stomach the sight of it.

“Fine.” She huffs. “We can go to the stupid lake.”

You give her a condescending smile. “Great.”

She turns back to her bag, zipping it before swinging the straps over her shoulders. She turns back around to find you gathering all of your things while Remy rolls up the sleeping bag into a tight coil. You hold open the bag while he stuffs it inside.

Between the cracked walls, holey ceiling, and lack of doors, the barn provides an abundance of light. But, with the light comes heat. Sweat is beginning to build at both yours and Remy’s hairlines, though Ellie is already soaked in it from her night spent tossing and turning. She walks over to the two of you just as you’re helping Remy situate the bag on his shoulders.

“You’re making him carry the heavy shit?” She asks accusingly. “How kind.”

“Yeah, so I can carry him.” You respond with a huff.

Her eyes fall to his left calf, only to find out where the missing gauze went. You must’ve wrapped it for him. No child could do such a neat job with medical bandages.

You crouch down in front of him and he hops onto your back, hanging his arms loosely around your neck as you support him under the knees. You’re straightening back up when the torn skin on your shoulders catches her eye. She’d seen them last night, but not in this light. There are puncture wounds below your collarbones, three on either side. And on your left shoulder blade, there’s a deep gash.

Even if she were to not have received your shitty explanation from last night, she could figure out what they were caused by. The punctures are clearly from an animal; she’s seen forest creatures adorned with them in Seven to deem that true. And, considering her relationship with archery, she can easily recognize the wound on your shoulder blade.

You turn and she sees something much more appealing than your injuries.

“Is that a bow?”

You raise a brow at her inquiry as you swipe it up from the floor. You pass it back to Remy and he shifts it onto one of his shoulders. “What, you don’t know what a bow looks like?”

“No, I definitely know what they look like.”

“Okay, so why ask?”

She shoots you a scowl. “Can you even use it with your fucked up shoulders?”

“Yes.” Ellie’s eyes flick to your back, noticing the redness that surrounds the arrow wound in your shoulder blade. There’s no fucking way you could shoot with that. Though, judging by the stretched skin, it appears as though you tried to. She looks back at your face. “Oh, really?”

“Look.” You snap. “It doesn’t matter whether I can use it or not, I’m not stupid enough to trust you with my weapons.”

“Yeah?” She asks. “Well, considering you’ll be carrying Remy around on your back, you won’t be as good at fighting, even without the bow. It’d be more stupid of you to withhold all the weapons due to pride and have us all killed than lend me one.”

Your head tilts to the side, eyes narrowing. “Call me what you want, but I’m not giving you jackshit.”

Ellie scoffs, turning her back to you as she heads for the door. Whatever. She shouldn’t have gotten her hopes up. Perhaps she’s the stupidest one for having held an ounce of hope that you’d trust her enough to lend her the bow.

Trust doesn’t exist between either of you. On the rooftop, it flourished, reaching up toward the sunlight like a blossom in the belief that it’ll become something greater. Now, though, it's equally as wilted as the decaying plants in the side of her backpack.

[post] notes!! i will be completely and utterly honest with you, this chap needs to be proofread asap,, but i don't wanna so i'm not gonna <3 so! if this is written poorly, pls do not lmk! thx!

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