#ALL TYPE BELT FOR CONVEYOR

[bitterrfruit]

kerosene

ghost x f!reader. 17k words. cw: noncon. kidnapping. gun violence. free use. smut. mentions of involuntary groinal responses lol. simon is a smug asshole and reader is into it you get robbed at gun point while working the lone register at a nowhere petrol station. the money in the till is not the only thing he takes with him. or [read on ao3]

Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, so they say. 

The devil should have been busy with you, then. Malignant boredom had taken root in you, rankled in every crevice and swell, metastasized like knobbly tumours that parasitised on your will to live until only the gritty alluvium was left. 

You began your shift behind the till at the Gulf station in the late afternoon, shy of four p.m., as you had done yesterday and as you would tomorrow. You took over from Mitchell, who worked the morning shift, the old man with a wiry grey beard and eyebrow hairs like corkscrews sticking haywire out of his forehead. You’d work until midnight, when you would be replaced by Charlie, a pinguid twenty-something with legs like beanpoles and eyes so sunken they were hollow as caves in his skull. 

They had been your co-workers for the better part of three years, yet they might as well have been strangers to you. The scant exchanges you would share with them were a few words at shift change, if that. Mitch would prattle on about some rude geezer and tell the same story about his ex-wife that he had every other week. Charlie, bedecked in his cheap headphones and carrying an egg sandwich cling-wrapped by his grandmother, would only give you a nod and ask been busy? with little attention paid to your answer. 

You had been offered the morning shift when you first started. 

The owner of the franchise station, Dave, was uneasy about the prospect of a ripe (his word) young woman working alone behind the register after dark, at a nowhere white-pole station in the sticks, where the only customers were long-haulers and on-the-way-home farmers. A just concern, you supposed, and a part of you had considered taking him up on his offer. 

You refused, in the end. 

Told him that someone like Mitch (frail, near-blind, on the cusp of Alzheimer’s) would far more likely be victimised by the ilk of patrons that trudged through the station. In your experience, anyway, most of the late-night customers that came through the push-door understood the implication of a burly old man being served by a young woman on her own. They’d tread more carefully, offer you kind smiles, sometimes mention their wives to make sure you understood they were not a threat to you. 

There was always the odd lecher, though. Goes without saying. 

The kinds of yellow-toothed men that would lean too far over the counter, talk to you like they knew you, overly familiar. The type to ask you to smile for them, or for a discount, or for your number. Ones that would joke about coming back, just to visit you. That would say you’re too pretty to be working in a dump like this, you should be in a bar instead. Maybe on a pole. Maybe in the passenger seat of their truck, to keep them company. 

It never frightened you, really, because nothing ever happened. You stuck with the late shift because it offered the fanciful possibility that something interesting might come to pass. Maybe, if you were lucky, there would be a car wreck outside the station, or a patron threatening enough to justify hitting the panic button, or a fire set off by the fuel pump and you’d finally be able to put the ten-year-old extinguisher to use. 

But you were confident that every shift would be the same, as always. 

Nothing would happen, you would drive home to your shoddy seventies cottage in the pit-stop hamlet of Dunhill, eat a frozen pastry, sleep alone, and do it all over again. Days came and went like empty boxes on a trundling conveyor belt, your life a deserted factory, only still whirring because the last attendant forgot to switch off the machinery when they left. 

Today was no different. 

You perused the grocery shelves with cheap earbuds stuffed in your ears, the kind with squishy mushroom plugs that made it sound like you were underwater. Shuffling through the same playlist you had been slowly adding to over the last year — you liked the songs you already knew every word to, creature of habit that you were. Busied yourself by twisting the canned foods so that their labels all faced outwards, then backwards, just for a laugh. 

It got to half-nine, the sun had long since set, and you had served one customer since your shift started. A middle-aged man with a muddy van, who bought three RedBulls and a pack of Chesterfields, and half a tank of diesel. He scarcely acknowledged you, a hi when he walked in and a cheers when he left. 

Your meal for the evening was a pack of Walkers salt and vinegar crisps and a bottle of chocolate milk, plucked from the shelves and not logged. Leaned back in the plastic chair behind the till with your Chucks propped up on the counter, some Sally Rooney book with its spine broken folded in half in your hand. 

You had milk in your mouth when you heard the characteristic thud of a closing car door, a harsher slam than you were used to. Attuned to the noise even while your ears were plugged. You swallowed it hard when you heard the chime of the bell, the swing of the door, the thuds of boots. New customer. 

Sat upright, you peered over the register to see who had entered the station, and you were flummoxed when there was nobody there. 

You grabbed your earbuds by the flimsy cord and tugged them from your ears with a pop — there were footsteps, someone was there, you weren’t crazy. You could hear the sound of provisions being swept from shelves and shoved into a bag, the bonking of cans and the crinkling of plastic. 

Only once you stood did you see the head above the shelves. 

Black hood up, you only saw the side of him as he wandered down the aisle, towering beast shuffling along and torpidly picking things up just to put them down again. A foot taller than the racks he meandered between. Wore a black leather bomber over his hooded sweater, well-worn hide, turned tawny brown in the creases and at the edges. All bulky, padded up. His shoulders swayed with the bravado of a gladiator who spent his life unchallenged.

Had you any remaining hospitality in your system you’d have greeted him, but you circumspectly held your tongue. 

There was something in his presence that did not augur well. Something crooked, something bent. Turned the tired air inside the station dyspneic, too dense and thick to comfortably breathe. 

Call it a woman’s intuition, if you believed in such a thing. 

Simon hadn’t accounted for a bird at the till. 

He’d have expected some ruddy-cheeked man with buck teeth and brown-bordered sweat stains on his shirt. The typical clerk at a shithole backroads petrol station, in his experience. They’d shoot him a grimy look, eye him up-and-down with a curl in their lip, all ruffian until he brandished the Sig Sauer he had tucked in the waistband of his jeans. 

That was what he had prepared for. He came to stick the gunmetal barrel in the face of the old bloke behind the register, demand every stack of cash from the till drawer and anything valuable he had on his person, maybe fire at the ceiling if he moved too slowly. Piece of cake. In and out. 

Instead, it was you. 

Sneakers propped up by the register, sucking the crisp dust off your fingers with pink lips. Reading a book as disinterestedly as you might watching paint dry. 

Unlucky for you, it didn’t make a difference that you had a pair of tits. He wanted that money. 

Your chary little head poked up from behind the counter once he was done collecting his supplies. A few cans of Baked Beans, couple bags of crisps, some vacuum-sealed biersticks. A roll of gauze and a bottle of Dettol for the flesh wound in his thigh. Pack of tissues. Bic lighter. KitKat for a treat. All shoved in the duffle bag he held in his fist, heavy with the wads of cash he had already collected from the last pit-stop on his trip north — an offy in a piss-stained back alley in Cheltenham. Grabbed a few pilsners for the road from there, too. 

He forsook his urgency as he approached the register, measured pace, duffle in hand. Eyeing you up with each step as if you were a candybar on a display rack. 

Pretty wee thing. 

He hadn’t even shown you his gun yet, and your eyes were already peeled wide, glistening in the bright fluorescent lights hanging overhead. 

None of the goods he intended to pay for. He didn’t need to make that any clearer to you, the assumption was already plastered on your face as he loomed towards you. Had his mask on, after all; thick black ski mask pulled over his head, jagged holes cut out for his eyes. No doubt that made quite plain his intentions. 

You stood pin straight, curling the purple cord of your earbuds between your fingers as if some attempt to ground yourself. Not a drop of makeup on, he could see the satin sheen of sweat on your forehead, the plum rings unconcealed under your eyes. Nobody to impress out here. Still pretty. 

“Um, which pump?” You asked flatly, tone meek, in denial of the obvious. 

Your stupefied stare followed his hand as it ventured to the base of his sweatshirt, a frown fluttering in your brows as you all but tilted your head in anxious confusion. He reeled up the heavy fleece, white t-shirt underneath — but that wasn’t what your eyes clung to. 

His hand curled around the grip of his handgun, plucking it out from the waistband and holding it insouciantly at his side. No need to point it at you, not yet. 

Your skin turned cadaver grey as your blood flooded to your feet, eyes bulging with the instantaneous panic that wracked you as though you had been smacked in the face with it. 

“Oh my god — ohm — oh my god,” you squeaked, tongue knotting in your mouth, tears quick to fill your kittenish eyes. “Oh my god — y-you—”

It was this, the histrionics, that he hoped to avoid. The tears, Christ, the fucking tears. There wasn’t anything to cry about, not yet, but your eyes glowed sanguine, and the tears that oozed from them were clear and glittery. Rolled dramatically from their wells and dripped from your chin, seeped into the corners of your trembling mouth. All flushed and glossy and he hadn’t even spoken yet. 

There was no blood-curdling outburst, though. You didn’t scream, didn’t wail, didn't scurry around hysterically like a decollated hen. You were stiff as a board, arms pinned flat to your sides. Merely whispered the Lord’s name in vain over and over as if he might answer your call. 

“Please — ohmygod — please don’t hurt me,” you cried, lungs seizing with every word, hiccuping and spluttering like you had just been pulled ashore. “What do you want, you can — you can take anything. P-please—”

“Shut up,” he barked, and you flinched at his aggression. “Just open the fuckin’ till.”

You nodded so vehemently he thought your head might roll off your shoulders, and your pallid hands began raking over your body in desperate search of the pocket you kept your keys in. His glare followed keenly as they ran over your hips, waist, unabashedly caressing your arse in the search. After finding them in a back pocket you tried to orient the keys in your grip, but your fingers trembled so vigorously that you immediately dropped them to the linoleum floor. 

“Fuck — I’m sorry,” you bleated as you bent down to pick them up, eyes still riveted to him, “I’m sorry, let me just — please, I’m sorry—”

He let out a grunt of exasperation as he marched around to the other side of the counter, your feet remained planted still as though you were bolted to the floor, leery eyes following him while your head kept rigid. 

A deer in headlights. Fawn, more like. Small and doe-eyed and too stupid to get out of his way. 

You only whimpered when he jostled you away from the till, physically driving you to the wall with his hands under your arms, clearing his path. He took your shaky little hand in a fist and peeled it open, plucking the keys from your sweaty palm. 

The register was old, something from the nineties, yellow-faded plastic with cube-clacky buttons. He shoved the tiny key into its slot on the drawer, gave it a good shimmy to loosen it up, and it popped open with a ding. 

Pretty much empty. 

“The fuck is this?” He growled, fingering through the notes in the drawer — all twenty-two of them. “There’s fuckin’ nothing in ‘ere!” 

Your face screwed up like a wrung cloth when his glare shot to you. Great gulping sobs, your eyes squeezed into fleshy little crescents and spewed tears from either corner, terror rilling from your nose and making your lips all wet. 

“I’m sorry — it’s not my — I think Mitch m-must have done the cash drop this morning,” you wailed, “Please — it’s not my f-f-fault!” 

“Shut up,” he snapped, jutting the mouth of his Sig Sauer at you, callously reminding you of the fate he held in his grip. 

He snarled to himself as he plucked out all of the notes, flipped through them to count it up. Nine fivers, six tenners, five twenties, two fifties. A few quid worth of coins floating around unorganised between the compartments. A prodigious spoil of three-hundred-and-five pounds. 

Fucking joke. 

He rancorously shoved all the paper in the bag — left the coins, ego too tall to fish out the petty change. 

“Piss take,” he grumbled as he slammed shut the till drawer. “What else y’got.” 

You blinked up at him timorously as he tucked his gun into his jeans and marched towards you, almost buckling over as though you could curl up into a shell to protect yourself from him. 

Only cried as he spread your arms, shamelessly smearing his hands over your body to feel for something in a pocket. Down your waist, stomach, hips; all pillowy under the pressure of his hands, soft even through your t-shirt. Prodded the undersides of your breasts with shameless fingers, checking for anything tucked in your bra, and your lips curled in disgust as you looked away from him. 

He almost cracked a smile at your diffidence. Maybe another time, pretty thing. 

He flipped you around, manhandling you until your nose pressed into the wall. Hands smoothed down your back, before finding something rectangular tucked into the tight pocket of your skinny jeans. You squeaked in dispute as he stuck his fingers in the pocket, flush with your arse, but he had no time to enjoy it. 

Little red wallet. 

He flicked through it — a visa debit card, expired Primark gift card, two quid in the zipped pocket and a tenner note folded in a card sleeve. Eyed your license for longer than necessary — cute little photo of you, a tiny smirk in your lips as you gazed at the camera. 

“Pretty name,” he said wryly, and you only huffed with your forehead pressed against the wall. 

He didn’t bother taking any of the change. Looked like you needed it as much as he did. You winced when he pushed a finger in your back pocket, tugging it open so he could shove your wallet back in. 

He instead returned his attention to the checkout, scouring the counters for anything else that could be deemed at all valuable. Nothing, obviously. Merely cardboard display racks of chewing gum and cheap candies. There was a cigarette cabinet behind the till, at least — after some fiddling he found the key on the chain that fit the lock, broke open the steel door, and swept an entire rack of cartons into the duffle bag. 

As a last resort, he dropped the bag and crouched down, wiped underneath the countertops with gloved hands, hoping for a vault, a hidden compartment, or—

His fingers brushed plastic, creasing and soft; something wrapped in film, taped to the underside of the counter. He tore it off with a zip, held it in a tight hand; a stack of notes, more than a centimetre thick, wrapped with a hair tie and shoved in a zip-seal sandwich bag. 

You let out a remorseful sob as you sunk to the floor with your back against the wall; thighs tucked to your chest, head dropped to your knees. 

A grin peeled his lips from his teeth as the realisation settled. “This yours?” 

“No,” you chirped, a pitiful attempt at a lie — he was unsure why you wouldn’t admit to it, it wasn’t as though he’d have informed your boss. 

“Skimming, eh?” He snorted, peeling open the yellow seam of the plastic pouch and fishing out the stack. Flipped through them — mostly tens and twenties — easily a couple grand, at the very least. 

“I just—” you sobbed, shoulders hunched, “I was just saving up. It doesn’t matter. Just t-take it.” 

“Saving?” He asked incredulously, voice thick with amused derision. “Little thief. No better than me, are ya?” 

“Whatever,” you bellyached, arms wrapped around your knees, snivelling on the floor. 

He sucked his teeth as he dumped the stack in his bag. Too bad. His now. 

As he went to stand, though, he went dead still — eyes hooked on a flashing blue light under the counter. Squinting, he leaned closer, to substantiate his hunch—

A fucking panic button. 

His rage burst like a purulent blister, apoplectic with it, he ripped his handgun from his jeans and steamed towards you. 

“You fuckin’ hit the alarm?” He roared, and you shrieked in terror as he took the collar of your t-shirt in a fist and heaved you up from the ground. 

“I — I’m — I didn’t—”

Your spluttering only enkindled his fury. You cried out in despairing dread when he shoved the mouth of his pistol into the soft flesh under your chin, and he held his teeth to your cheek. 

“Why the fuck would you go and do that, eh?” He growled, inexplicably disappointed. Thought you were smarter than that. 

“I’m sorry,” you bawled, shaking your head, wet eyes bolted to the ceiling. “I didn’t know what to do, I just — I thought I was s’posed to, I’m s-sorry. Please — god, please, don’t kill me.”

He huffed, jaw rigid. 

He wouldn’t put a bullet in you, pretty thing. Too lovely to mire with lead, that butter-soft skin. 

It was a shame you were such a thorn in his side, fractious girl, because otherwise he would have just left you be. Would have taken his cash and been done with it, left you in your piss-wet jeans to cry to your boss about the ordeal and rightfully request some weeks off to escape to somewhere more therapeutic for the soul than fucking Dunhill. 

“Would be a damn waste,” he grunted, finally pulling his gun from under your chin, sticking the barrel into his jeans. A moan of relief leaked from your throat once the instrument of your imminent death was no longer kissing your jaw. 

Premature relief, love. He grappled you away from the wall, and with a shove, had you in front of him. You yelped when he collared you with a tight hand around the back of your neck, stumbled over your feet as he began driving you forward.

“What are you—”

“Use those legs, girl,” he barked, as he reached to hoist up his duffle bag from where he left it on the floor. 

You blubbered like a toddler, sobbing and sobbing and sobbing, as if your tears might engender pity from him. “Are you t-taking me?” 

“Not gonna leave you to blab to the cops, am I?” 

Another sob. “No — I wouldn’t — I won’t say anything, I don’t even know what you look like. Please—”

“Christ, you’re a whinger, aren’t you?” He rumbled, barrelling through the swinging door and hauling you across the asphalt of the forecourt.

The air was thick with the greasy smell of petrol seeping from lousy fuel pumps, amalgamated with the distant fumes of factory farms and cow manure that hung in a blanketing smog from there to Birmingham. Only the corrugated metal infrastructure of beef and dairy industries for miles in any direction out there. 

He couldn’t fathom what a bird like you was doing with her feet in the mud, stagnating in such a miserable shithole. Maybe he was doing you a favour. 

He tore open the passenger door of his twenty-year-old Mitsubishi L200 — a rusty black pickup he bought with cash from a shrivelled old man on Gumtree, with hopefully just enough life in it to last the drive north. 

You stuck your hand out and planted it on the edge of the door as he pushed you towards it, vigorously shaking your head. “No, n-no — I’m not going with you, I’m not—”

He snorted, and when you didn’t capitulate with a shove, he swept an arm under your knees and hoisted you upward before dumping you into the passenger seat whether you liked it or not. You landed with a squeak, and before you could spew out any more vacant refusals he slammed shut the door. 

He stormed around to the drivers side and hopped in beside you, tossing his duffle bag back between the seats, hastily igniting the engine as he shut his own door. Hit the central lock button and the entire truck locked shut with a clunk — you whimpered when you heard it, and turned your knees away from him.

“Where are you taking me?” You cried, as he revved the truck and rapidly accelerated, tearing out of the forecourt and over the curb, landing on the road with a sharp bounce and a tire screech. 

He paid little attention to your whimpering as he sped off down the dilapidated country road, eyes flicking to the rearview every odd second to make sure he saw no flashing lights in pursuit. The vehicle dipped and recoiled over every pothole on the crumbling old road — motorway would be preferable, but he decided heading in the opposite direction to loop back around would be the safest bet. 

You only sobbed quietly to yourself in his silence, no doubt his lack of response was a threat in itself. 

He had no issue frightening you. Served you right. 

Took some morbid glee in considering what you imagined he planned on doing with you. Whether you considered weighing up your chances. Might you survive if you were to attack him? Would he go easy on you? Might he enjoy the struggle? 

Perhaps you were girding yourself for what he might do next. 

Truth was, he hadn’t decided yet. 

His decision to take you was as impulsive as it was inexorable. 

You weeped until your tear troughs were droughted and nothing more could bleed from their ducts. Cheeks had gone sticky with it, salt dried gritty on your flushed skin, lips shrivelled and thirsty. 

Transient thoughts of rebellion had been ignited and snuffed out in the ten minutes since he had abducted you from the station — you could have reached over and pulled the gun from his waistband, could have tried to kick through the passenger window, could have thrown a nuclear tantrum and bucked and screamed until he was forced to pull over. 

All would have been futile. You weren’t stupid. 

He had that gun in his immediate reach; in fact he kept a heavy hand resting high up on his thigh, prepared to yank it out of its nest above his crotch at any given opportunity. He had made abundantly clear the shortness of his fuse, and that his reflexive reaction to annoyance was to threaten your life. 

Best you settle down, you thought — wait until his guard was down, until he pulled over somewhere, then consider something more drastic. While you were trapped in a car with him such an opportunity was unlikely to present itself. 

There were no streetlights out this way; your abductor had bypassed Dunhill entirely, sticking to unmaintained back roads that had you bouncing up and down in your seat. Not the motion alone that made you queasy, but the fact he was driving even deeper into nowhere, where the only sources of light were the headlights of his truck, illuminating the dark road ahead like something out of a found-footage horror film. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” you croaked, voice abraded to the point of gurgling stones. 

You felt his head turn to look at you, but you kept your stare pointed out your window. Knees turned so far away from him that they burrowed into the door. 

“Eh?” He huffed dryly. 

Sipped a cautious breath before repeating yourself. “Where are you taking me?” 

“I’m ‘eaded north,” he said, no elaboration. 

“Where north,” you asked more firmly, warily frustrated. 

He let out a breathy chortle, as though surprised you’d interrogate him. “Scotland.” 

You cocked your head back in bewilderment and turned to glower at him. “Scotland?” 

“S’what I said.” 

“I don’t want to go to Scotland,” you whined, realising quickly the length of the drive — easily six hours to Glasgow if he stuck to the motorways, but you got the sense he was avoiding them. 

“That’s a shame,” he said. 

“I don’t understand,” you pleaded, terror thick in your throat. “What do you — what do you want from me?”

You regretted the question as soon as you uttered it, because there was some comfort to be found in uncertainty — that is, the possibility that he wasn’t going to throw you into the bed of his truck and rape you in the pitch dark of the backcountry night. 

He looked at you again, eyes tar-black in the shadows of his balaclava, and you held shut your thighs on instinct. 

“Dunno yet,” he said. 

You might have cried if you had any tears left to give. Instead you blinked at him uneasily, petrified into a surreal state of milky numbness — maybe you were in shock, you had heard of that before. 

“So you — you just took me because you felt like it?” 

He shrugged with a single shoulder. “‘Spose so.” 

A minute of stodgy silence settled in the cab as you stared blankly ahead down the spotlighted country road. You weren’t sure what you should do with yourself, and it made you itch all over. From the pits of you echoed screams to put up a fucking fight, to do something — instead you sat quietly, vacantly, erosively indecisive. Waiting for something to happen. For the other shoe to drop. 

“Are you going to shoot me?” You timidly asked, words eking out like dripping water from a tight faucet. 

“Hopefully not.” 

“Then — then why did you take me?”

His head rocked back and bounced off the headrest as he let out an exasperated puff of air. “Y’make a lot o’ noise, don’t you?” 

“Well there would be no noise if you hadn’t.” 

He laughed at that, you could see the fine lines creasing in the corner of his puckering eyes through his mask. “Got me there.” 

“So then why don’t you just let me out?” You pestered, only emboldened by his droning indifference. Apathy exuded from him like serum from an open wound, oily yet salutary, and you found it grotesquely reassuring. 

“Don’t want to,” he bluntly replied. 

“Why not?” 

He was twitchy. On a razor edge. He lasered a glare at you and it stung, and you shrunk into yourself under the heat of it. 

“Because I don’t want to.” He repeated, jaw tight. 

You should have heeded the venom in his throat as a warning to shut up, but despite effort to wire your jaw shut, your compulsion to fill the silence was pathological. 

“Are you — are you going to—” Couldn’t bring yourself to finish the sentence. The tail of it sat heavy and sour on your tongue. 

“Goin’ to what.” 

A quivering breath leaked through your teeth. “Rape me.” 

He sighed heavily, languidly rocking his head to the side, and you felt his hard eyes on you. Excoriating you from legs to lips. 

“Thought about it,” he said. 

Ribs closed like dog jaws around your lungs. 

Said with such torpor that it didn’t cut you like a threat. Instead it made your heart tight and hot, shuddering rather than beating, pumping out needly adrenaline that made your hairs spike up and your stomach drop heavy. 

“And?” You creaked, voice scratching in your trachea. 

“Wouldn’t mind a fuck,” he grunted indifferently. “But I don’t like crying.” 

A mortifying heat feathered over your cheeks. Something pre-programmed, an evolutionary reaction to the suggestion of sex at all, consensual or otherwise — that’s what you told yourself, when you felt a reflexive shiver between your legs, and your ears turned hot. 

“So that’s why you took me,” you mumbled anxiously. 

“To fuck?”

You shot him a pointed lour in place of a response. 

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

Fucking weird girl. 

Your curiosity was potently unsettling, riveting in the same breath. Didn’t make sense to him, that you’d ask him so unabashedly whether or not he intended on defiling you. What answer were you hoping for? Did you simply want to make sure he said no? 

You blinked at him vacantly after his candid response. No use in lying to you. 

It wasn’t his style to brutalise himself into a bird, to bulldoze through wails and shrieks of refusal, physical capability to do so notwithstanding. He simply didn’t like tears. Felt beneath him, really, the impotent sadism needed to enjoy milking them. The only wetness he liked in a girl was a wet mouth and a wet cunt. 

He was partial to a hisser, though. Liked his spitters and scratchers. The kinds of girls that would gripe and grouse about his brutishness but turned treacly sweet when he inevitably overpowered them. 

Perhaps you’d be a hisser. 

He would have liked to find out. What noises you might have made. What the skin of your thighs might have felt like when free of their denim sheaths. How your nipples might spike up in the invasive cool of the September evening, or under the unwelcome brush of his fingers. 

There was a glimmer in the pools of your eyes, fretful yet inquisitive. He was probably only seeing what he wanted to see. 

You went quiet after that, at least. For the best. Kept your little knees nailed together as you glowered out your passenger window, pleasantly pacified for the time being. Sulking like a fucking child, but he supposed he couldn’t blame you. 

He wasn’t stupid enough to expect that you’d be cheerful after he kidnapped you. And he wasn’t in denial, either — he did kidnap you. There was no dancing around it. He threatened to kill you and then he abducted you, because he felt like it. Because he liked the look of you. 

Not remorseful, though. It would be a cold day in hell before he ever felt sorry for anything. His brain just didn’t function that way. If he wanted something, it was his. No use wasting time feeling guilt over something not even he could prevent. 

He spent his time in your silence considering how to make it worth his while. Whether he would, in fact, drag you all the way to Scotland with him. Whether he’d have you aid and abet his next robbery to make up for the piss-poor spoils he purloined from your petrol station. Whether he would find a way to fuck you on the way, or perhaps once he got to his destination. 

Maybe he’d let you keep some of your savings if you showed him your pussy. He looked at you briefly as he thought about it. Wondered how badly you needed the money. 

“What were you savin’ for, eh?” He asked suddenly, and you flinched at the sound of his voice. 

Soft little girl. He’d need to harden you up. 

“What do you mean,” you murmured, hardly a croak. 

“Don’t play dumb,” he gritted.

You sighed warily, eyeing him before you answered. “Doesn’t even matter,” you grumbled. “You took it, so now I haven’t saved anything.” 

He glowered at you, and something in his dissatisfied stare must have compelled you to elaborate. He had that effect on people. Birds, especially. Intimidation coursed through his blood and emanated out of his skin, it didn’t take much effort. 

“I wanted to leave Dunhill, obviously,” you groaned, reluctant to spill every word. 

“Yeah?” He asked, “where were y’off to?”

“Fucked if I know,” you muttered. “Literally anywhere else.” 

He snorted at that. “Couldn’t do that without skimming, eh?” 

“What, do you disapprove?” You hissed, scowling at him. “At least I don’t kidnap people when I need money.” 

“I’m not judging, sweetheart,” he crooned through a grin. “M’only impressed.” 

“Whatever,” you groused, crossing your arms and glaring out the window. “I only took it because I owe a bunch of money.” 

He quirked a brow at that. “To who?” 

“Why do you care.” 

He shrugged. “Boring drive.”

You let out a petulant huff before you inevitably decided to answer him. 

“I’m behind on rent,” you said, through gritted teeth. “Like, four months behind. And I’m still paying off my car, which I just needed to get repaired, so now I also owe money to the mechanic who did me the favour. Fucking owe money to the government, too, because they found out I was on the dole while I was working at the station.” 

A curl tugged in his lips, brows raised in intrigue. No surprise you had managed to find yourself burdened by so many favours — landlord giving you grace, mechanics fixing your cars without payment upfront. Pretty thing like you, though, he’d expect you’d get everything for free. Couldn’t imagine what kind of penny-pinching wankers would still demand money from you when you looked like that. 

Shame you didn’t cross his path sooner, he’d have fixed your car for you. No charge. Might have even let you squat at his place rent-free, assuming you made it worth his while. 

Started to imagine it, despite himself. Pictured having a pretty thing like you to come home to. Standing in the kitchen in his t-shirt, nothing under it. He’d bend you over the counter and fuck you right there while you stirred your tea. Wouldn’t have taken much to get your cunt nice and wet, he thought. You seemed like you’d be easy to please, bored little thing, hopelessly awaiting a man like him to show you what’s worth living for. 

Maybe he would take you all the way to Scotland, after all.  

“What about you,” you asked dully, snapping him from his reverie. “Why do you need the money.” 

He glanced at you, you picked your fingernails and glared at his hands on the wheel. 

“Must need it pretty bad,” you muttered, scorn bubbling in your throat. 

He tapped the steering wheel. “Long story.” 

“What, are you a fugitive, or something?” You asked, contemptuous eyes raking over him. 

“Is it that obvious?” He asked, through a chortle. 

You gulped, almost cartoonishly. So scared of him. He was sure the mask didn’t help, but he didn’t feel like taking it off yet. 

“What’d you do?” You questioned, that pang of anxiousness never quite leaving your voice, despite your attempts at feigning bravery. “Kill someone?” 

“Worse than that,” he said frankly. 

Your brows knitted together worriedly, fingers knotting. Nervous fidgeting. “Some kind of rapist, then?” 

“Not quite,” he replied facetiously, certain you must have found his amusement at the prospect ill-placed. 

“Then what?” 

“Got in trouble with people you shouldn’t get in trouble with,” he explained, purposefully vague. He enjoyed your inquisitiveness. 

“A gang?” 

“Could call it that,” he jeered. “Special air service.” 

Probably shouldn’t have told you that. Couldn’t help himself. 

“Special — wait, you’re in the army?” 

“Not anymore,” he said. 

You frowned uneasily. “What happened?” 

“That’s a tale for another day,” he grunted, and you turned to glare out the window again, spiteful now that he left your curiosity unsated. Little brat. 

Twenty uneventful minutes passed uninterrupted, then, and Simon focused on the route he had set out to follow. Had successfully avoided main roads for the better part of an hour, now electing it safe enough to return to the highway. Took a few dark turn offs, and every time the truck slowed, you visibly tensed up; so terrified that he’d pull over for a rest stop and drag you into the grass on the side of the road.

He didn’t like the streetlights. They were confrontational, accusatory, as though their beams of light were enough to alert every cop in the vicinity to his presence underneath them. 

The highway was largely empty, at least. Only one car passed in the opposite direction as he cruised along the smooth asphalt, decidedly more comfortable to drive on than the tattered backroads. Meant he could drive a lot faster, too. Might have been able to cut his trip by an hour, if he stuck to eighty-five miles an hour for the stretch between there and Birmingham. 

Your girlish little hands clutched the armrest of the door as he accelerated, the speed of the vehicle pushing you against the window as he followed a curve in the wide road. 

“You’re driving too fast,” you said quietly. 

He cracked a grin. How endearing that you thought to warn him. You were lucky he was trying to keep a low profile, in any other circumstance he’d be brushing a hundred. Then he’d really scare you, wouldn’t he? You could do with some toughening up, he thought. 

“Now you’re worried about the law, eh?” He sneered. 

“I just don’t want to die in a car wreck,” you bit. 

Seemed his docility was emboldening you. Perhaps you were a hisser, after all. Wondered if he needed to correct your behaviour. Maybe you’d spit on him if he reached over the centre console and fixed his hand to your thigh. 

“You’ll be fine,” he said. 

He avoided the arterial motorway that cut through Birmingham, choosing instead to stick to the A roads that bounced between exits and junctions in a zigzag. Hardly efficient, such a route would tack on an extra three hours of travel between there and Manchester, but at least far less monitored than the M5. 

He got cocky, he supposed. 

Saw the flashing red-and-blue lights before the sirens started blaring, and you jumped like a bunny — your head wracked around with a speed that made your neck crick, glaring at the cop car through the back windscreen. 

“Fuck,” he barked, through a clenched jaw, eyes jumping between the cruiser in his rearview and the highway ahead of him. 

He could have shoved his foot down, pressed the accelerator flat to the floor and fled the likely jaded cop patrolling the country highway at eleven p.m. on a Tuesday. There was a chance the fat old bastard wouldn’t give chase, but that chance was slim. Simon didn’t need the attention. 

He sunk his foot into the brake and slowed to sixty, veering into the shoulder. “Fuckin’ tosser.” 

And didn’t you perk up? Itching all over to bounce out of your seat, head swinging back to look at the police car twice a second. All twitchy and riled up. He could see what you were thinking, it was printed in your cheeks, bright in your eyes; now’s your chance. 

He hoped you weren’t that stupid. 

“You gonna be a good girl?” He asked rigidly. 

“What do you mean,” you squeaked, panicked, eyes peeled wide and skin glossy with sweat. 

“Means keep your fuckin’ mouth shut,” he snapped, lifting up his jersey, and you gawped at the gun against his stomach. “You make a scene, I’ll have to shoot him. And then I’ll have to shoot you. Y’understand?”

You nodded tightly, wiping under your eyes with your palms, some paltry attempt to collect yourself. He sincerely hoped you’d behave. He didn’t want to kill you. Would be a waste of a pretty bird. Not to mention a fucking pain in the arse to hide not one, but two bodies. 

“Good,” he muttered, as he tore off his mask and tossed it on the ground between his feet, slowing the car to a stop on the side of the highway. Rubbed his hand over his buzzed head on instinct, cropped hair velveteen under his palm. Hopeful the knit didn’t leave suspicious imprints in his skin. 

Your lips went a little slack when you looked up to see him unmasked, and a grin creased in his cheeks. Saw plain as day that glimmer in your little eyes, as they scoured over his face as if reading the pages of a book. 

Didn’t think he’d be pretty, did you? He was not ignorant of his looks, and wasn’t humble about them either. So blatant in your flustered expression that you liked what you saw, only too virtuous to admit it to yourself. 

He wound down his window before the policeman approached. He was adept at pretending to be a good boy. Spent decades licking boots in the military, and cops were even easier to please. 

The officer was middle-aged and saggy-eyed, just as jaded as Simon had predicted. The truck was taller than him, so his hatted head peered through the center of the open window, assessing the cab with his lips in a line. 

“Evenin’,” Simon said simply. 

“Heading home, are we?” The officer asked, eyeing up the bird next to the driver, lathering you in more attention than necessary. 

Could’ve clubbed him in the nose for so shamelessly drooling over you — as far as the cop was likely concerned, you were his bird, not some slapper along for the ride. He had king-hit men for less. 

“You bet,” was all he said. 

“Must be in a hurry,” the cop said derisively, glare finally returning to the driver. “Any clue how fast you were going, mate?” 

Mate made Simon twitch. Swallowed back the urge to spit not your fucking mate, instead offering a placating grin and a pat of the steering wheel. 

“We are in a bit of a hurry.” 

“Yeah? Enough of a hurry to be going twenty over the limit?” 

“Bird tells me to hurry home, I hurry home,” Simon jeered. “Y’know what I mean.” 

The officer almost tutted, until your voice cut across from the passenger seat, and Simon’s knuckles turned white on the wheel. 

“Don’t blame me,” you snapped. “It’s not my fault you can’t control yourself.” 

To Simon’s surprise, the cop chuckled at that. 

“Need to rein your fella in, love.” 

“I tried,” you lamented. “I told him he was going too fast and he was going to get pulled over. I told him so. Bastard doesn’t listen to me.”

Simon blinked in your direction, to see you sitting upright with your arms spitefully crossed over your chest, cheeks red-hot with panic and knee bouncing in frustration. If he didn’t know the root of your unease was the fact he had abducted you, he’d have believed you were a contemptuous bird itching to castigate her reckless partner for getting in trouble. 

Seemed the cop believed that, too. “Bird’s smarter than you, eh?” 

Simon snorted, deciding to play along. “That she is.” 

“Looks like you’re in plenty of trouble, then,” he taunted.

Simon looked at you, again, to see you scowling at him before you glowered out the windshield. “Mh. Think so.”  

“You’re lucky I’m not in the mood to do the paperwork,” the policeman said sternly. “I’ve got your plate, though, so slow down, yeah? Way down. No excuse for eighty-five in a sixty.” 

“Understood.” 

“Don’t let me catch you again, eh?” 

Simon smiled politely, concealing the chortle that curdled in his throat. Cop wouldn’t be seeing him again at all, ever, because he was fucking off to a different country and intended to stay there for as long as he remained under the radar. 

He’d have to dump the car, though. With the plate on the record it was fated for the scrapyard. 

“Appreciate it,” Simon said through an artificial grin. “Have a good one.” 

The cop only nodded, patted the car door with a flat hand, before waddling back to his cruiser without another word. 

Simon was humiliated to admit the relief that doused him was sobering, letting out a ragged sigh as he rolled up the window and twisted the keys in the ignition. He was certain that the encounter would have been far uglier — felt his hand twitching towards the gun on his stomach more than once, imagined how quickly it could have been over if he simply tore it out and pointed it at the wanker’s forehead. 

You, strange girl, saved his arse. Whether or not you had intended to help him, you did. His eyes fixed to you as he pulled back onto the motorway, speedometer creeping back up to sixty and staying there, while the police car was still in sight. 

“‘Bastard doesn’t listen to me’?” He quoted with a brow raised, incredulous amusement rich in his tone.  

“What,” you muttered derisively, staring rigidly out of the passenger window, arms tightly interlocked. 

“Think of that on the spot, did ya?” 

Seemed you were avoiding eye contact with him now, glare fastened out into the moonlit countryside and head bolted still. Ashamed, perhaps, that you had thwarted your only real opportunity to escape him. Or, worried that if you looked at him for too long, your fear of him might have mutated into something far more difficult to justify. He smirked at the thought. 

“You should be grateful,” you grumbled. 

“Should I?” 

“You didn’t get arrested because of me.” 

He chortled at that. Maybe your tactic to ingratiate yourself was to help him, but he got the sense that wasn’t your intention.

“In that case, ‘course I’m grateful.”

“Then say thank you,” you spat, finally swivelling your head on your neck to pin your grouchy little lour to him. 

“Thank you,” he crooned, grin sharp. 

“Whatever,” you griped, slumping back into your seat with a huff. 

He wasn’t sure if he preferred you whining and crying to pouting like a teenager, either option tested his patience. He at least found the latter vaguely amusing, only slightly more endearing than a whimpering abductee in his passenger seat. 

“Thanks not good enough for you?” He asked mordantly, and you scoffed. “What, do I have to lick your cunt to prove it?” 

Your stare cut to him out of the corner of your eyes, head impudently bowed to avoid facing him head-on. 

“Don’t say things like that,” you murmured uneasily, eyes glittering under the streetlight that passed by.

“Like what?” He sneered, “don’t want me to talk about licking your cunt?” 

“Shut up,” you chirped, stiff-lipped, tipping your knees away from him and once again scowling out of your window. 

He snickered at you, couldn’t help it, watching you get all tight and restless when he said it again. Certain you were involuntarily picturing his head between your legs, whether you liked it or not. 

“Don’t like the word cunt?” He teased, winding you up for his own enjoyment. “Or don’t like thinking of me licking it?” 

“Stop it,” you whined, shrivelling up like a raisin. 

He grinned. “I can call it your pussy instead.”

“You’re disgusting.” 

“Uh-huh,” he laughed. 

You turned to tug at the door handle, yanking at it unrelentingly, and it only thumped as you failed to break through the lock. “Let me out.” 

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” 

“Open the fucking door,” you spat, spite simmering in the back of your throat. “Let me out.” 

He liked this better. Hissing derision, contemptuous attempts to escape, to demand your freedom. Much more enjoyable than your earlier weeping, all snotty and puffy-eyed. 

“Not gonna happen,” he said.

“You’re a pervert,” you growled.  

“So?” 

“Let me go,” you repeated, glaring daggers at him. 

“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he said candidly, tone as rigid as he intended it to be. He meant it. 

Again stymied, you slouched over and turned away from him, and went petulantly silent. Simon drove ahead unruffled, took another exit off the motorway — once again trundling over a poorly kept rural road, heading in the direction of the next highway junction half an hour north. 

It was evident being off the beaten track put you on edge, pellucid in the way you tightened your arms around yourself once the streetlights became fewer and further between. He couldn’t blame you, it was certainly slasher-esque to cart you around backroads, where the only buildings were abandoned barns and grain silos. Lucky for you, he wasn’t a murderer. Not anymore. Besides, all of his past killing was government sanctioned. Most of it, anyway. 

You kept your mouth shut for the next long while, huffing and puffing every now and again, making sure not to let him forget how unhappy you were with your circumstances. Strangely enough, he found it endearing.

“I need to pee,” you said suddenly, a squeak, shy to say so. 

He snorted. “Think I’m thick?” 

“I — I’m being serious,” you stammered. Unconvincing. 

“Hold it,” he said unsympathetically, turning a left corner, the momentum making you tip into the centre console, your shoulder nudging against his before you spitefully tugged yourself away.

“I can’t,” you grouched. 

“Piss yourself then,” he sneered. “I’m not keepin’ this car.” 

Your brows scrunched up in disappointment. “I don’t want to — to pee on myself. That’s just gross.” 

He smiled. Something cute about you. 

“You can piss when we stop for the night,” he said. “How’s that?” 

“We’re stopping?” You asked quietly, blinking at him charily, as if he’d change his mind if you spoke too loud.  

“Been a long fuckin’ day,” he grumbled. “I’m not driving for nine hours straight.” 

“Nine hours?” You pestered, “I thought we were going to Scotland?” 

He couldn’t help but grin at that. Perhaps it was a Freudian slip — we. Maybe you had come to terms with it already, the ineludible fact that you were stuck with him for however long he wanted to keep you. So far, that looked like a good while. 

“Taking the long way,” he answered. 

“What the hell, how many people are looking for you?” You asked, pouting in worry. 

He sucked his teeth. “Not enough to find me.” 

You didn’t need to pee at all. 

In fact, your nerves had sucked up every drop of water that remained in your body after your deluge of tears. They were glutted with it. All swollen and pinging with panic every odd moment, when you remembered you were supposed to be in fight-or-flight. 

You were seething, though, that you had failed to convince him. 

The plan was poorly conceived, in fairness — you only imagined getting as far as an unlocked door, girding your legs to bolt off into the endless fields on the side of the road in whichever direction they took you. Didn’t spend a moment considering whether you could outrun the goliath, or how rough he’d be when he predictably tackled you. Maybe he’d simply have shot you as you ran away, turned it into a game of target practice for his own amusement. 

There was shame brewing within you, now. 

Sweltering, emetic, frothy as it crawled up your throat — you were disgusted with yourself, at how pathetic you were being, at how little you had done in the interest of your own escape. How you had let all of it happen. 

You always imagined yourself a fighter, it was easy to imagine such a thing. In hypotheticals you would kick and scream, could easily overpower your assailants by sheer will, your resolve to survive so strong that capitulation was inconceivable. 

Reality stung. 

You weren’t a kicker or a screamer. You were a sit-and-waiter, and that realisation was sobering as it was disappointing. 

Humiliated that you had forsaken a real opportunity at rescue for no discernable reason. No reason you could truly justify. Perhaps you had done it to save the police officer; if you hadn’t intervened, your deranged captor would have shot the innocent man for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, and it would have been your fault for making a fuss. 

Terror was the next excuse, but that didn’t quite justify it either. If you were so terrified that the man would shoot you, you would not have uttered a word. No, you would have been quiet, a good girl, just as he ordered you to be. 

It assuaged your fear, you thought, to see his face. 

You were surprised to see a face at all beneath the mask, forgetting he was a man and not some caricature of chaos and violence. He looked like a soldier, too. All scarred and cynical, disillusionment was inlaid in his features despite how caustically he grinned at you. 

His hair was freshly buzzed, sandy blond velvet coating his head, long pink cicatrices carved lines into his scalp as if someone had attempted to cut through it and peel it from his skull. He was tattooed, you could tell, by the teal-black engravings that crept up the side of his neck, the rest concealed by the thick hood of his sweatshirt. Nose a little swollen at the bridge, fractured once and poorly healed. 

The shame was even more potent when you caught yourself eyeing him for too long, flicking over to him every now and again just to get a glance, the shortest possible eye contact to ensure he didn’t catch you staring. 

Fucking mortifying that he was good-looking. 

That your mind even allowed you to think so, that your eolithic subconscious had considered your abductor’s appearance at all. The way he had rakishly smirked at you was arrogance manifest, you could see in his russet-brown eyes a patent awareness of your attraction. As if he could smell it on you, goading you to admit it, ego stroked every time you caught his eye. 

So you didn’t. 

You kept your body tilted away from him, gaze locked out of your passenger window, sweaty hands clamped together. Every now and then you felt his glare on the back of your neck, heard him breathing in your direction — it felt as though you were counting down the minutes until he felt compelled to reach over the console and touch you. 

It was only a matter of time, undoubtedly. That’s what he took you for, you were certain, despite his supposed ambivalence. The thought made your heart sit fat in your throat. Stopping for the night was a deadline.

“Where are we stopping?” You asked weakly, voice aimed at the passenger door. 

He let out an exasperated breath. “Not sure yet.”

“Are you going to sleep in the car?” 

He seemed to find that amusing. “I might not look it, love, but I’m a creature of comfort,” he said. “I’ll get us a bed.” 

Us. You shivered when he said it. 

A scornful refusal knocked at the back of your teeth, but you knew how he’d twist it, would mock your aversion. He’d make another foul little quip about your pussy, you thought. 

You didn’t want to give him the chance to say the word again. Not simply because it was revolting to listen to the degenerate joke about eating you out — licking your cunt, it echoed in the sauna of your skull — but because the mere mention of it turned your cheeks claret-red and the back of your neck all clammy. 

What was worse, is that you knew he could see it on you. Plainly emboldened by how much it ruffled you. Could decipher your unease as an effort to conceal some biomechanical reaction, one provoked by the mere suggestion of it, by the vibrations of his voice as he said it. 

“Do me a favour,” He suddenly demanded.

You refused to turn and look at him. “What.” 

“Grab me a fag, will ya?” 

Animosity congealed in your mouth. The fucking gall to request favours of you. “From where?” 

“Bag in the back there,” he said simply, “light’s in there too.” 

“Fine.” 

You peered behind the headrest, his unzipped duffle bag was dumped on the back seat; just out of reach if you were to extend an arm between the gap. Instead you had to twist your entire body and contort yourself through the middle, waist between the front seats as you climbed over the console.

You resented being in such a position, arse jutting out towards the windshield, unable to see the driver that sat so close to you — so you were quick about it, burrowing through the sack, stuffed to the brim with junk, and myriad different brands of cigarette cartons. 

“Which ones do you want,” you asked impatiently.

He huffed as he thought about it. “What’ve we got?” 

“Um,” you murmured, digging through the cardboard cartons. “Mayfairs, Richmonds… uh. Embassies, Davidoffs—”

“Mh. Gi’s a davidoff,” he interrupted. 

You followed his instruction and plucked out the trim red box, and an orange Bic lighter once you found it at the bottom of the bag, wedged between wads of cash. You peeled away the thin plastic covering and flipped open the card lid as you reeled your body back between the seats — immediately you caught him lavishing your rear in attention. He sniffed casually when he caught your eye, utterly shameless. 

Heart shuddered in your ears as you sat back down in your seat, gooseflesh prickling up in your skin as you held the carton out for him to pluck out a roll. 

He pinched the end of one and stuck it between lips curled over his teeth, before gesturing wordlessly for you to give him the lighter. 

“You’re a doll,” he said, muffled by the filter in his lips. Jaw jutted out to angle up the cigarette, he flicked the lighter in his fist with his thumb, little orange flame hovering under the end of the roll as he sucked it. 

“Whatever,” you grumbled, swiftly turning away from him to return your attention to the road out the window. 

Seemed he was approaching some area of population, little brick houses began popping up on the side of the street, lampposts peppering the road ahead. A surge of adrenaline made your hackles spike up — bystanders, you thought, people who might have heard you if you screamed loud enough. 

“Want a puff?” He asked indifferently. 

“I don’t smoke,” you snarked, distracted. 

He snorted. “Goodie girl, are ya?” 

“No,” you said curtly. 

“Mh, that’s right — you’re a little thief,” he taunted. “Not a good girl at all.” 

There was no response that would spare you his teasing, so you kept your mouth shut. Stayed silent for the remainder of the drive, in fact, a solid quarter-hour — until the car bounced over something and you jolted in your seat. Quickly realised he had pulled up into a parking lot as the truck began to slow. 

A two-star Travelodge, evidently, one planted directly on the side of the northbound highway. It looked barren, coral bricks all grimy with lichen and sludgy brown water stains, every window blocked by shut curtains. Not a single light glowed from within a hotel room, only the dim yellow lantern bolted to the wall above the sliding door at the entrance. 

You held your tongue in your teeth as he drove to a park at the very back of the lot, under a low-hanging tree branch, concealed by shadow. Your skin began to itch, crawling with bugs and alight with adrenaline — you could run, now, if he opened your door. Maybe you could sprint to the nearest building and hammer on the door, shriek that you’d been kidnapped, and to please please call the police. Or, maybe you could try to snatch his gun from him and shoot him in the fucking head. 

Instead you sat still in your seat. Felt your chest breaking out in a panic rash. 

“Righ’,” he said casually as he killed the engine, the suspension of the truck bouncing under the weight of him as he adjusted in his seat. “Look at me.” 

You shook your head in refusal. Entire body stiff as wood. Anticipation frayed your nerves and made your hairs stand on end. It was suddenly real. 

You kept your eyes pinned away from him, but it was futile, because he reached a massive arm across the gap and seized your jaw in a single hand. Fingers dimpled your cheeks as he twisted your head to face him, and you attempted to scowl at him, but your quivering lip made plain your alarm. 

“You gonna make a fuss?” He asked stiffly, pinching his cigarette with his free fingers, silvery smoke clouding out from behind his teeth. 

You just about said no on reflex, but bit down on it instead, because it likely would have been a lie. Only pouted at him scornfully and shivered in his grip. 

“What d’you think will happen if you do.” 

You swallowed. “You’ll shoot me.” 

He shook his head. “Would be an uncomfortable night for you, though, I can tell y’that.” 

A crease pulled between your brows. “Are you going to — to beat me up, or something?” 

He chuckled at that, a cocksure grin; you suddenly felt a weight in your chest, burning hot, made your ribs sink and your heart flutter. 

You hadn’t yet seen his face up close. His cheeks were stubbled, skin peppered with freckles and the creases of early aging. Teeth were sharp and unexpectedly white, raffishly crooked with pointed canines, a silver cap on a premolar. His lips were full, pale, a single scar running through the top one, white stripe in the ruddy pink. 

The shame returned with a kick to the stomach when you noticed yourself staring at his mouth, and you tried to look away from him, but he riveted your head in place. 

“Don’t plan on it,” he said, after a beat too long. 

Sweat pricked along your hairline. “Then what.”

“I’d like to have a nice long snooze,” he grumbled. “I don’t wanna be up all night wrangling you. So if you throw a tantrum you’ll be sleeping tied up with a sock in your throat. S’that what you want?” 

“No,” you chirped. 

He nodded approvingly. “I don’t want that either. I like the sound o’ your voice. Be a shame to snuff it out, wouldn’t it?” 

You attempted to nod, and though his hand kept you still he understood the intention. With a ragged sigh he finally released you, giving you a condescending pat on the cheek. 

With a grunt he suddenly twisted and leaned between the seats, gargantuan body taking up the entire cab as he reached behind you to grab his duffle bag, and you wedged yourself against the door to avoid touching him. 

Clambered about as he reeled the giant bag back to the front, before snatching the car keys out of the ignition and unlocking the driver side door. He kicked it open and hopped out with a huff, immediately slamming it shut behind him — only unlocked your door with his keys only once he was directly outside it, pre-empting any of your attempts to slip away. 

He opened the door for you with a clunk, and the biting air of the late autumn night made your entire body tighten up. 

“Get out,” he said.  

You nodded, swivelling yourself on your bottom and sliding out of the truck cab, landing directly in front of him. He flicked his cigarette to the ground and left the stub smoking on the concrete. 

“C’mon.” He fixed a hand to your bicep and yanked you away from the car, shutting the door with a slam. 

You were light on your feet as he ferried you towards the entrance to the cheap hotel, his other fist white-knuckled around the strap of his bag. 

“You don’t need—” you chirped, almost tripping over your feet, “—to hold me so tight.” 

“No?” He snorted. 

“I’m not gonna run,” you spat, hushed despite yourself. 

“Obviously.”

The sliding glass doors trundled open as you approached them, a tired ding echoing out to welcome you. The reception was quiet, poorly lit by vibrating fluorescent bars, stunk of fresh linen toilet spray and floor cleaner. 

Your abductor let go of your arm abruptly when he noticed the receptionist — a teenage boy with headphones on, who disinterestedly looked up from a Nintendo Switch to address the tall brute that sauntered in with you in tow. 

“Y’after a room?” The kid asks monotonously. 

“Standard double.”

The receptionist clicked around on the computer, smacking chewing gum between his teeth “How many nights.” 

“Just the one.” 

Click click. “It’s sixty-eight for the night.” 

“Y’take cash?” 

The kid frowned dubiously at that, jaw hanging open as he rolled the wad of white gum along his tongue. “Sure.” 

“Lovely,” your abductor grunted, unzipping the flap of his duffle bag and fishing out a thick wad of paper notes. 

Jaw gaped as you watched him unashamedly finger between the notes to pluck out three twenties and a tenner, slapping them on the counter of the reception before tucking the stack away again. As agog as the receptionist at his brazenness, all but showing off his spoils, plainly stolen. 

The kid pouted skeptically as he swiped the notes and counted them again, tucking them aside, and you wondered if he used the same technique as you. 

He dropped a keycard on the counter. “Room thirteen,” he said. 

“Cheers.” 

Your abductor scooped up his bag and planted his other hand on the small of your back, nudging you ahead of him towards the narrow hallway, never allowing more than two feet to grow between his body and yours. 

You glanced around feverishly as you wandered meekly down the corridor, identical doors mirroring each other for as far as you could see, until the hall turned a corner. Eyes clung to the glowing green emergency exit lights dotted along the ceiling, as if they might lead you to your salvation. 

“Can’t believe you actually paid for a room,” you murmured spitefully, when he nudged you forward by the arse as if guiding a ewe. 

“Wouldn’t want to break the law,” he chuffed. 

In any other circumstance you would’ve giggled. You might have found him funny if he weren’t the deranged fugitive who had kidnapped you. 

A yank of your shirt stopped you in your tracks, tugging you back — your abductor had flippantly taken your t-shirt in a fist, as he shoved the key card into its slot under the handle of a door behind you. 

“In,” he snipped, shoving you through the door once he had pushed it open. 

The room was small. Hardly enough room for the double bed in the middle of it, skinny end tables wedged on either side. The only amenities were a shin-height fridge and a kettle on a bench, tucked into a nook by the door. It was hot in there, too — radiator bubbling all day, you guessed, to counteract the cold weather. 

Immediately you fixed your stare on the window by the bed; a good metre across, brown aluminium trim, lumpy textured glass that distorted the view of whatever sat directly outside the hotel room. Ground floor, you thought, easy to slip out, if you could open it —

Noticed, then, that there was no indication it could be opened at all. No hinges, no frames, no handles. Simply a flat plane of glass stuck in the wall. 

Your stomach wrung itself, and you did your best not to keel over. The air was suddenly infinitely stuffier, sweltering, torrid in your lungs. 

He flipped shut the bolt on the door, and landed a pat on your shoulder. You could unlatch it, obviously, but the old thing was squeaky, clanking old brass, and undoing it would certainly alert him. 

He nudged you out of his way and dumped his duffle bag on the floor beside the bed, evidently claiming the side closest to the door, as if prepared to catch you should you try to slip around him. 

In truth, the notion of escape was scarcely a whisper. Supplanted by a nauseating docility — a survival instinct, you thought, to simply behave. To do as you were told. 

He began undressing himself, uninterested in whether you observed him; shucked off his old leather jacket and hung it over the back of his bag, unlaced and kicked off his muddy old boots. Your toes curled involuntarily into the soles of your shoes, watching him like a degenerate, as he tore off his hoodie and t-shirt and tossed them to the floor. 

Something out of a movie, you thought; gargantuan beast of a man, broad-shouldered and cladded in such a dizzying mass of muscle and adipose bulk that he looked encumbered by it all. The icteric light of the sconces by the bed carved out the divots in his back, the valley of his spine, the symmetrical dimples above the waistband of his jeans — you felt sick with yourself, that you even let your eyes venture there, but they cleaved fast to him despite your chagrin. 

He was slathered in tattoos as you had imagined, all flames and skulls and barbed wire, broken up by the occasional stamp of something more meaningful — a sacred heart, serif-font numbers, somebody’s name with a date beneath it. You could read it from where you stood; Johnny, 11/2023.

You were only thankful he hadn’t turned around — couldn’t see you leering at him, and spared you having to see him from the front. 

“Still need to piss?” He asked roughly, and your lips twisted. 

“No,” you said, still standing awkwardly by the door. 

He snickered. “Seemed pretty desperate before.” 

“I — yeah,” you stammered, “I don’t know. I’m fine.” 

Gave you a shrug as he lumbered into the ensuite bathroom, and you heard the unbuckling of a belt and zip of a fly, the clunk of metal on a counter, then the steady stream of his piss landing in the toilet water. 

You scoffed in revulsion. Fucking pig. Couldn’t even close the door. You heard him rinse off his hands at least, though you couldn’t be sure he had used any soap. 

He emerged from the bathroom rubbing his shaven head and with his belt undone, leather straps hanging loose from his hips, zipper of his jeans wide open. His gun was gone. Plaid boxers bunched up, distended by the mass within and protruding through his fly — you felt yourself turn berry pink, more repulsed by yourself than him. 

This time he caught you staring, and he was manifestly pleased about it. A smug grin pulled in his lips as he shuffled towards you, and you rested your weight on your back foot. 

“Y’want a Valium?” He asked you, and you frowned at him bewilderedly. 

“What?” 

In front of you, now, you panted like a cornered animal in the shadow he cast. “Might help you sleep.” 

You grimaced at him. “You just want to knock me out.” 

He snorted. “Why would I do that?” 

The daggers you stared at him served as your only reply, and he half-heartedly rolled his eyes at you. 

“You reckon I’d want to fuck a sleeping bird?” 

“Probably,” you muttered, averting his gaze when he uttered the word. 

“No fun in that,” he said simply. “No nice noises if you’re asleep.” 

You scoffed, perturbed by how he discussed it happening with you as if it were an inevitability. “What, like screaming?”

He cracked a grin. “Screamer, are ya?”

Your blood went runny. “Stop it.” 

He brushed a knuckle under your chin, and you flinched — but to your relief, he relented. Turned away from you and squeezed the back of his neck as if to release tension. 

“Get into bed,” he grumbled, plodding towards the bathroom, returning swiftly with his gun in hand. 

You went cold. “Why?” 

“The fuck do you think?” He replied curtly, shoving his pistol under his pillow, before he pulled his jeans down and your mouth went dry. 

“I don’t want to,” you squeaked. 

He chuffed at that. “Christ, fucking is the only thing on your mind, in’t it?” He taunted, “don’t get all worked up.” 

“I’m — I’m not worked up, you—”

“I’m too tired for this shit,” he grunted, “‘n I’m not havin’ you up and about while I’m sleeping. Get into bed or I’ll put you in bed.” 

There was no give in his expression, it was a final order. He did look tired — eyes were sunken and beset with aubergine rings, lids heavy with frustration and exhaustion. He stood with hands hooked on his hips as he impatiently awaited your acquiescence, and you sensed you were on a short timer.  

“Fine,” you murmured, shuffling around the end of the bed with your arms crossed tightly, eyes averting him.

He watched you, though. Scrutinised your every move as you bent over to untie your shoelaces, pulling off your converses and dumping them on the carpet. 

“Sleepin’ in your jeans?” He jeered, when you reached to pull back the blankets.

“I’m not taking my clothes off,” you retorted, sitting on the mattress and swiftly tucking yourself under the covers. The mattress was foamy, soft, sunk deep as though permanently impressed by all the bodies that have ever slept in it. 

“Hardly comfortable,” he said, smirking, decidedly amused. 

“Don’t care,” you groused, rolling onto your side away from him, blanket up to your ears. 

He chuckled. “Suit yourself.”

You bounced on the mattress as he fell into it, springs moaning as they sunk deep beneath him, and you felt your body tip back towards him — you curled up, as close to the edge of the bed as you could get without toppling over the side. 

He switched off the sconce above the bed, and the room was abruptly black as pitch. 

The mattress recoiled as he adjusted himself, settling into bed with a gruff sigh, and you felt his warm breathing on the back of your head. 

He seemed to find comfort quickly; exhales turning deep and languid, you sensed he had fallen asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. 

There was some relief in that. Temporarily escaping him while he was unconscious. 

With your heart thundering in your ears, though, sleep was impossibly out of reach for you. You could hardly keep your eyes shut, they fluttered and twitched as you tried to close them, and they’d bolt back open as though spring-loaded. 

Now’s your chance — it echoed ad nauseum in your skull like the chiming of a clock, over and over until your ears rang. 

You could have slithered out of bed and scurried to the door, unbolted it and ran down the hallway if you were quick enough. You could have used the steel-legged chair in the corner to shatter the window and sprint into the night. You could have slipped a hand under his pillow nice and slow, snatched his gun from under his head and shot him while he slept. 

Instead you lay dead still, save for the trembling that never quite subsided. 

You tried to vivisect your own mind while you stagnated in the bed. Attempted to determine why you failed to enact your own rescue, why you actively avoided pursuing your freedom. 

The answer eluded you, in concrete terms anyway. 

Truth was, you didn’t know where you’d go. 

Literally, of course — you had no idea where you were, no phone with you, no sense of direction. You could run to a bystander and ask, of course, but you didn’t want to do that either. 

It was as if you didn’t want to go back. 

The thought of it nauseated you almost as gruesomely as the uncertainty of the path ahead. Of being dragged back to Dunhill, of being back to square one, of having no money, no prospects, no future. 

It was the obscurity, you thought, that kept you there. Something new. Something different, albeit terrifying. The ambiguity of any future, however short, was somehow preferable than the certainty of not having one at all. 

Worse to admit was whatever churning you felt between your legs. What seed he had planted when he took you had taken root, tendrils burrowing into the recesses of you and tumescing with a reluctant anticipation. You all but throbbed with it, as if your body were preparing itself for the inevitable, manipulating your mind into assenting to it. 

It made you feel sick, and your skin was febrile, sticky with apprehension. 

You were baking — the air was thick with it, stifling heat, though in truth it was likely your thundering nerves that set your body alight. Too anxious to release yourself from under the covers, or to roll into a cooler position, or to flip over your pillow to the cooler side. 

You lay cocooned for as long as you could bear the heat, but your blood was molten and your head began to ache, and you resorted to uncovering yourself. 

You did it desperately slowly, peeling the cover away from you inch by inch, and even in the air you found no relief. Your last resort was to turn off the radiator — if you could — but you’d need to get out of bed for that. 

Slinked a leg over the edge of the mattress, whisper-slow, used your elbow to prop yourself up—

You felt a hand grab at your hip, and you were unceremoniously yanked back into the bed with a squeak. 

“Where d’you think you’re goin’,” he grunted, voice gratingly hoarse after a half-hour sleep. 

A ten-tonne arm was suddenly hooked over your waist, and you were flush with his back, his knees folded in behind yours. 

“I just wanted to turn the heater off,” you whispered, hoping he wouldn’t hear you. 

“Too hot, eh?” 

You exhaled shakily. “Yeah.” 

“Y’know why you’re too hot,” he murmured, and you felt him stick his fingers into the back of your skinny jeans, tugging the stretchy waistband and snapping it against your lower back.  

“I just can’t s-sleep when it’s warm,” you stuttered, tongue tangling in your mouth. 

“Bit restless, are ya?” 

You felt his hand glide over your belly, and your muscles turned to stone, entire body tensing up with the touch. 

“I’m not havin’ you tossing and turning all night,” he grumbled, thumbing at the button of your jeans, unfastening it with a pinch. 

“Don’t do that,” you breathed, heart plugging your trachea, unable to swallow a real breath. 

He persisted unimpeded as if he had not heard you, pushing down your zipper and stuffing his hand unhesitantly down the front of your underwear. 

You squeaked in fright the moment his fingers brushed your mons — every millilitre of blood in your body flooded out of your extremities and pooled between your legs, a reflexive reaction that fired off every nerve ending under your skin. 

“No, d-don’t—” your whimpers of refusal eked out between your teeth on instinct, but their root lay more in humiliation than fear. 

His hand was icy against your feverish skin, and goosebumps bristled out from his touch — your vision went foggy as a cold middle finger the size of two of yours slid along your seam, lips went slack as the tip burrowed deeper. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” he grunted, his stony voice tickling the hairs on the nape of your neck, “you are warm, aren’t ya?”

“Stop it,” you whined, half-heartedly, defeat viscid on your tongue. 

His finger snaked deeper between your legs, the others flush with the puffy outer lips of your cunt, thumb burrowing into your groin as he wedged his hand in the tight gap between your pussy and your jeans. 

He chortled under breath when the tip of his finger broached your entrance, dipping into the mortifying abundance of your fluid that had pooled there. God, there was so much of it, you were humiliated — you had been in denial, ignoring it, even as you felt it slicken the gusset of your underwear, maybe even the inseam of your jeans. It was only instinctive, you told yourself, it wasn’t like that—

“Jesus Christ, girl,” he chuffed, breathless, and you could not for the life of you tell whether he was proud or disgusted. “Made you wait too long, did I?” 

You shivered, cunt pulsing around nothing, felt the nettle sting of adrenaline crawling down your spine. 

“N-no, I—”

Bit down on your tongue as his slippery finger dragged up between your folds, catching your clitoris with a swipe and making your legs clamp together in a vice. 

He only scoffed in awe. “Sensitive thing.” 

“Stop doing that,” you mewled, so embarrassed that your cheeks were aflame, ears burning red-hot, heart galloping in your chest. 

He didn’t believe your attempts at refusal, and you weren’t certain you did either — not when he stroked your clit with the palp of his finger, up and down, all of his movement honed in on the one spot that made you choke on air. 

“Not so bad, is it,” he sneered. 

You curled up like a cat, but he kept you fastened to him, immovable hand burrowed deep in your jeans. His finger slid between your folds effortlessly despite how hard you pressed your legs together — there was no escaping it, every brush of his fingertip against your slippery clit burned more than the last, igniting an inferno in the core of you that seemed inextinguishable. 

Fucking humiliating, degrading, shameful, that the brute who had abducted you could make you feel that good, do so little to have you so, so—

“You’re a fuckin’ furnace,” he jabbed, and he swiftly tugged his hand from between your legs and out of your jeans. 

Whatever remorseful noise spilled from your mouth was beyond you, high-pitched and so wanton it made you sick to hear it, but he only snickered. 

“Quit whingein’,” he chided, taking your waistband in a fist.

He hiked your jeans down with a violent tug, tearing them down to your thighs, underwear pulled down with them. What little abnegation you had left turned to sugar on your tongue, dissolving in your saliva and sliding down your throat. 

The blanket was gone, then, pulled off and pooled at the end of the bed — the slightly cooler air biting at your bare skin scarcely settled your tempers, even less so when he roughly shoved his hand between your legs again, now unobstructed. Three avid fingers prodded against your hole as if to collect the syrup that pooled there, slickening themselves before they dragged back up. 

You yelped like a kicked puppy when he kneaded your clit, pads of his fingers pressing and pulling in firm circles, bud swollen and shuddering and so sensitive it was sore. 

You could only whine about it, now unwilling to fight him off and likely incapable even if you wanted to. He had you riveted to him, chest solid against your back, heaving arm locking you in place. Your compunctions had melted, deliquescing into the stodgy recesses of your mind; usurped by the revoltingly animal, blood-thinning want that thundered in your temples and made your mouth all wet. 

“Don’t, p-please, you’re—”

“Tha’s it, girl,” he rumbled, directly into the back of your skull, and it made you dizzy. “Let it happen.” 

Your core tightened up, cunt constricting as tight as a vice, painfully empty — the surge was as sudden as a flash flood, just as violent, and you drowned in it as it swept you under. You came beneath his fingers with a winded whimper, so forcefully you bucked your legs to evade him, bullied clit ablaze and spasming in waves that made your heart stop with each contraction. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” he chortled, easing his infliction but not yet stopping. “Listen to you.” 

“Shut up,” you whined, unable to catch your breath. 

“That’ll help you sleep, eh?” He teased, fingers finally retreating, trailing your slick up your mons before he landed flat on his back with a huff.

You were molten, sweaty hair clinging to the nape of your neck, and you wanted nothing more than to take off all your clothes and have a cold shower. All you could muster was your jeans, though, already half-off — you used your feet to peel them down to your calves, kicking them off into nowhere. Your shame had dissolved, now, utterly irretrievable. 

The stale air was cool against the wetness of your inflamed cunt when you rolled onto your back; a potent relief, despite how unbecoming you felt it to leave yourself so exposed in the company of a bedlamite.

“Now stop fussing,” he grunted, settling into the mattress, hand resting on his stomach. “Don’t want you wakin’ me up again.” 

You couldn’t have fussed, even if you tried. Body utterly siphoned of all energy, mind as foggy and blank as smoke. 

It took you less than a minute to fall asleep. 

Morning came with rain. 

The glow of daylight through the embossed window was powdery white, you heard the gentle patter of raindrops landing on the pane, the loud dripping of a leaky gutter pipe somewhere outside. 

Your mouth was chalky, tongue swollen, vision too blurry to identify where you were at a glance. 

The realisation rinsed you like cold water when you heard the gruff breathing from beside you. Heavy and deep, the warmth of a body lying too close to you, you felt the hirsute skin of a leg against yours. 

You were nauseous as you remembered the night before, when your legs brushed together and you noticed they were bare — no underwear on either, the sheets tangled up between your feet and your hair greasy on your forehead. Your cunt was still sticky and it made you wince to move and feel it, remembering how he had touched you, that his fingers were likely still covered in the dried residue of the orgasm he had milked from you. 

The remorse was as pounding as a migraine. Brontide in your skull that made the room spin, and you wanted nothing more than a glass of icy water and some ibuprofen.  

You peered over your shoulder at your abductor; lying on his side with an arm folded under his pillow, shoulders rising and collapsing with each heavy breath, scarred face somehow peaceful in his slumber. It was surreal to witness him like that, observing him in his most vulnerable state — you knew his gun was under that pillow, but the thought of trying to steal it faltered as fast as it came. 

Instead you slipped out of the bed, pattering on the soft soles of bare feet to the tiny kitchenette, and filled up a brown glass mug with tap water. You drank it all in three hard gulps, then filled up another. 

He didn’t stir, not even slightly. In such a deep sleep that you likely could have put your jeans back on and unbolted the door without even waking him. 

Instead you went into the ensuite, shutting the door behind you. The bulbous knob had a push-button to lock it, but it was loose, and no matter how many times you pushed it, it failed. You gave up quickly, though — didn’t want to wake him up yet. 

The bathroom was arranged nonsensically — the toilet sat by the door, the vanity across from the shower that was tucked into the corner. Its glass walls were grimy with limescale, every amenity made of faded ivory acrylic and stained brown at the edges where the janitors had failed to clean it.  

You flushed the toilet when you saw that he hadn’t and swore under your breath in disgust. Fucking animal. You quickly peed, rinsed out your mouth with water from the sink, then turned on the shower. You only had a t-shirt to take off, revolted that it was all you had worn during the night. You hung it on the towel rail. 

You kept the water lukewarm, too sensitive for cold and too feverish for hot. An array of cheap mini soaps and shampoos lined the tiny in-built caddy, and you were not frugal in using them. Used almost the entire bottle of body wash to lather every crevice of your body, washing away the sweat of panic and ignominious lust that mired your skin. Shampooed and conditioned your hair with products that smelt like pine and citrus with an undercurrent of battery acid. 

The water was cleansing, a pleasant distraction, and you shut your eyes as you rinsed off your face, rubbing the grease off your skin. 

You rubbed your eyes before you opened them — immediately spotted a silhouette outside the shower, and a blood-curdling scream erupted from your chest as you sprung from the ground. Almost slipped over when you landed on the PVC floor, but you managed to catch yourself with your hands on the glass.

“What the fuck!” You shrieked, heart galloping so rapidly you worried it would break a rib. 

He was blurry through the spray of water landing on the shower walls, but you could see him lumber towards the shower door. You shrunk into the corner when he cracked it open, back firm against the square tiles as if you could slip through the fractures in the grout. 

He stepped into the shower as if he hadn’t noticed you there, leviathan that he was, his body took up two thirds of the space in the narrow glass box. Boxers were gone, his cock hung heavy and unashamedly, and your stare caught on it like a fish on a hook. Fucking bludgeon of a thing; it swung as though prideful, thick from root to head, roped with veins and sheathed in rosy foreskin. Half-hard, it jutted out from his bed of wheaten curls at a forty-five degree angle, and it bounced as he took a step. 

You looked at it for too long, breath caught in your gullet, and he noticed. 

“Settle down,” he taunted, hardly a croak, morning voice abraded and gurgling from his throat. He shut the shower door behind him. 

You had a plethora of disputes to mount — get the fuck out, how dare you, you didn’t even knock — but they all fizzled at the back of your throat, when he hauled you out of the corner by the hips, swivelling you around until your nose was flush with the shower wall. Kept you there with a hand cuffed around the back of your neck, wet hair knotting in his fingers. 

“You can’t—”

“Prettier than I thought,” he murmured to himself, a rough hand smoothing from your hip to your ass, brazenly taking a handful and squeezing hard enough to make you chirp.

“Get off—”

You choked on the rest of your dispute when he packed his hand between your legs, the gap tight where you held your thighs together — he gave no warning when he snaked his finger between your folds, nudging for an entrance. 

It happened so fast you couldn’t catch a breath — he found it quickly when your hole twitched at the intrusion, and you yelped in shock when he unhesitantly pushed it inside you to the knuckle, palm flush with the base of you. 

“Lovely little cunt.” 

And despite every effort to maintain some dignity, every bulwark you had attempted to erect against succumbing to your baser appetites, came toppling down in the quake of his words. Scruples sloughed off from you like the shed of a snake, and whatever slithered free was as shameless as she was hungry. 

“Mh, still nice and warm after last night, in’t she,” he crooned, flexing his finger to push it deeper before raking it out. 

He was priming you, evident in how he stretched you open around his thick finger, pumping it in and out of you as though assessing how deep he could go. You pressed your forehead against the cold tile, toes curling into the plastic shower floor, whimpering like a wounded animal.

You felt like one, when he tried to push a second finger in — he had to wriggle it to wedge it in, bully it deeper before your hole could stretch to fit it. It stung where the fragile skin pulled taut, but it was a delicious pain, like the burn of liquor or the sting of pulled hair. 

“Christ, that’s tight,” he grunted into the shell of your ear, and a chill prickled down the side of your neck. 

He ran out of patience, you supposed, because he slid his fingers out of you and your cunt spasmed in protest of its emptiness. He had spun you around then, handling your body like a ragdoll, moving you right where he wanted you — had his hands under your ass in a blink, and he deftly hoisted you upward, back grinding against the tile wall. 

You hooked your legs around his hips on instinct, arms slung over his shoulders when he put them there, his face level with yours. Water ran in rivulets down his face, dripping from his hairline and off his chin. Pupils distended and black as tar, beady as a shark, and glaring into the depths of them made your tongue even wetter. 

His titanic arms held you up without exertion, and one released your thigh to scoop underneath you — held his cock upright in a fist, and with no pause he lodged the clubbed head of his cock against your opening. He pushed in with his full weight, reaming you open on the girth of it, and your eyes glassed over. 

The noises you made were animal, mewling and gasping, coughing when he landed against the spongy plug of your womb, cock as hard as a gun barrel and just about as threatening. 

“Fu-hu-huck,” he chuffed into your cheek, voice oozing ardent satisfaction, vibrating directly into your skull. “Tha’s heaven.” 

It tracked that he was a talker, given how chatty he was for the duration of the drive — but you liked it. God, you liked it. Mortifying, yet liberating to admit to yourself, that you wanted to hear him talk; you wanted to hear him tell you how lovely, how pretty, how perfect you were. 

“All sweet now, aren’t ya?” He purred, bouncing you upward as he rutted hard. “Just what she needed, mh?”

You almost said it aloud — yes crept along your tongue and prickled at the tip, but you weren’t quite ready to let loose the confession. It escaped instead as a moan, head rocking back and knocking against the tile, and he let out a low chuckle, because you said it in all but words. 

“Yeah,” he grunted, panting, pelvis grinding against yours as he pistoned into you, somehow deeper every thrust. “Fuckin’ knew it. Barmy for it the second I walked in, weren’t ya?” 

He grabbed your face by the jaw, angling your head to look directly at him, the squeeze of his fingers forcing your lips to pucker. His cheeks were ruddy, blood fresh and hot under his skin, eyes rabid with hunger and pride. They scoured every feature on your face and you melted beneath their attention. 

“Gorgeous girl, aren’t you?” 

He rutted with purpose, chasing his own end with no mind paid to your squeaks of sore rapture, grunting as his cock reeled out and stuffed you full again in steady rhythm. You could only burrow your fingernails into the meat of his back, carving into his wet skin as if holding on for dear life. 

“Just fuckin’ perfect,” he grunted, a tirade that persisted through every thrust, 

“Sweetest thing I ever stole.” 

“Who needs fuckin’ money, eh?” 

“Hit the jackpot with you, din’t I?” 

“Might just keep you forever.” 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t ya, sweetheart?” 

Perhaps your brain had been knocked against your skull one too many times, turned soggy and stupid in the heat, because you whimpered; “Y-yeah.” 

His brows shot up at that, shocked — but that surprise quickly gave way to a lavish conceit, a vicious smile that oozed pride for having conquered your inhibitions without even having to try. You’d have been embarrassed if you had the capacity for it anymore, but all shame had been bled from you. 

“Yeah?” He goaded, grin wide and jaw loose, panting through his teeth. “Want me to steal you away, eh?” 

You nodded as much as he would allow you to, and his lips planted on your chin as though tempted to bite you. 

“I can do that, love,” he crooned, “I can take y’where no one will ever find ya. Keep you all for m’self.” 

You whined when he only fucked you harder, tender skin of your back chafing against the grout with every jolt. Seemed he was approaching the summit of his own pleasure — huffing like a bull, thrusting with anger, not nearly as chatty as he had been for the rest of it. 

“Agh, shit—” he groaned, mouth landing on your shoulder, teeth catching your skin. “Fuckin’ hell—”

He hastily reached underneath you to unsheathe his cock from your hole, leaving your cunt bitterly empty and convulsing in its sudden vacuity — his entire body jerked against you as he came, you felt his cock jolt beneath the cleft of you as it spurted ropes come against the tiled wall he held you to. 

His climactic groans were music, to you, little lecher that you were. Some foul part of you was remorseful he hadn’t come inside you instead, hadn’t carelessly pumped you full of it — not a drop of rationality left within you, evidently. 

You didn’t expect him to kiss you, but he did; planted a slovenly kiss on the side of your neck, pillowy lips wet with saliva and the water of the still-running shower. 

He released you, then — didn’t quite drop you, lowered you as gracefully as he could before letting you land on your feet with a thud. Gave you a pet on the head as though to praise you, a prideful kiss into your scalp. 

He shut off the water with a shove of the chipping lever, and the showerhead continued to leak fat drops of water despite it being shut off. He pushed opened the shower door for you, and you slipped out, sodden feet landing on the bathmat. 

There were scant words exchanged as you handed him one of the towels, using the other to dry yourself off. You couldn’t help but watch him as he rubbed himself down with the teal-blue cotton, polishing his head like a bowling ball, flossing under his arms, unabashedly rubbing the towel under his balls to dry between his legs. Something in his nonchalance, unapologetically going about it all as if it were normal, was endearing to you. Made your hackles soften, if they were still at all raised. 

You put your t-shirt back on, wishing you had a change of clothes, and ventured back into the bedroom — the air was still thick with the dusty warmth of the heater, and ripe with the musk of both of the worked up bodies that had spent the night in it. 

“Get dressed,” came a demand from behind you, followed by a coaxing pat on your bare arse. “Need to hit the road.” 

You looked over your shoulder at him, watching as he pulled on his boxers, tucking his cock away and snapping the elastic waistband around his hips. You picked up your knickers from where they had landed on the carpet the night before, shimmying up your legs. 

Couldn’t yet believe what you were girding yourself for. What you had already accepted as the next step you would take. 

You caught his eye, a pout in your lips; 

“Can we get breakfast first?” 

i've got a pinterest board for this one. the vibes have been stewing for a long while

[jeremiahthefroge]

Wish my job would stop shooting me in the back of the head to prevent me from enjoying life (worked a few long shifts and haven't had the energy to consume mcd at a ravenous pace)

[sentientstump]

thinking... it might work afterwards ᕙ⁠ ⁠(⁠°⁠ o ⁠°⁠ ")

no jokes here, i will attempt to add colour to my comic tonight (right now)

and i humbly ask you guys to wish me luck.... ( " ⁠╥∀╥⁠)

[poetwon]

when they realize they’re in love ─── ᘛ ot7 ╱

── ⟢ ˙ ̟ cause when you know, you know . . .

pairing. ot7!enha x reader ꔛ synopsis. random small moments in which your bf realizes he's in love with you ∿ genre. lots and lots of fluff , established relationships , kissing , mentions of marriage , parenthood , crying ໒ྀི wc. 2.3k 𖥔 nae’s notes. thank u sm for the support on my first fic! i hope u like these ones as well >.< ᭥ more !

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

ᯓ lee heeseung

you and heeseung both shared a love for singing. one of your favorite things to do was go to private karaoke rooms with your friends. this is where the two of you currently were, jake and sunoo had joined him, your friends joining you as well. you sat criss-crossed on the couch in your socks, you grabbed a mic ready for your turn to sing with one of your friends.

sometimes singing with your friends had always brought you to a fit of laughter given that they couldn't even carry on tune. but your current favorite song "only" by lee hi played through the speakers so you were focused.

heeseung sat next to you, his right hand was on your lower back, rubbing it in circles as you sway back and forth, humming along to the lyrics. the song itself was already a beautiful ballad about love but something about you singing it put heeseung in a trance. he watched you, the emotions splayed on your face, you looked over at him after feeling his eyes burning into you and smiled.

he smiled back at you, pupils dilating while his ears rang with your angelic voice. heeseung already knew he loved you, but this was the moment he realized he loved you. almost as if your voice has some type of power, he couldn't rip his eyes from you even if the world was on fire.

the song finished, he wrapped an arm around you and pulled you in, kissing your forehead. "that was really beautiful baby" he mumbled against your skin, completely pulling you in, allowing you to lay on his chest.

ᯓ park jongseong

you and jay stood in the grocery line, he stood behind the grocery cart, both hands gripping onto the handle. while you were clung to his arm, squishing your cheek against it. you had just finished shopping for dinner that jay was going to cook for you two. even though he likes doing everything for you, you preferred tagging along when he would go places.

the two of you stood silently, watching all the people around you and listening to their banter.

you looked in front of you when the woman had moved out of the way to load groceries onto the conveyor belt, when a baby came into view. you immediately lit up with a smile, you always loved babies and the thought of having one on your own. the child smiled back at you 'hi there" you spoke softly catching jay's attention.

he looked at you then the baby, you were waving at the child earning giggles from them. jay started smiling at the sound and at the sight of you when you started to play peekaboo. the mom eventually noticed and acknowledged you, "she's adorable!" you say. "thank you" the mom smiled before she started pushing the cart away.

"bye bye" you waved at the baby and your hand found its way over your heart. "oh my god she was so precious" you pouted. "yeah" jay grinned, something about the interaction made jay melt. it's been known that he hopes to become a dad one day and suddenly seeing you adore babies how you did made him feel some kind of stronger and deeper love and admiration for you.

ᯓ jake sim

you had never attended a wedding before, so you were very excited to be a plus one to jake's cousin's wedding. you wore a long flowy baby pink dress to match the wedding's theme which jake couldn't shut up about. it felt like every five minutes he would take your hand, twirl you around and kiss you. "you are so gorgeous baby" he would mumble against you, making you giggle.

its true what they say about weddings, how love is literally in the air. you got along well with jake's family which was very important to both of you. it was a lot of fun too, you found yourself getting emotional multiple times, during the vows, the speeches and even just looking at jake made you emotional.

you couldn't tell because he is known for hiding his emotions but jake was feeling the same exact way, maybe even stronger. he has never really talked about marriage to you, he didn't want to scare you but he constantly imagined you in his future. but he hadn't even told you that he loved you yet, but that's because he hasn't realized that he loves you... not until today at least.

speeches were over, the two of you shared a meal with his parents and his brother. jake stood up fixing his suit, holding out his hand. he cleared his throat and you looked up, he had he biggest grin on his face. "may you do me the honors, y/n?" he joked, making you giggle. "i thought you'd never ask handsome" you hand lands in his and he pulls you up, guiding you to the dance floor where multiple couples were dancing.

you realized that you have never even slow-danced together before, you had no idea how intimate it was, mainly because of the closeness. there was music ringing in your ears but the two of you were silent. you laid your head on his shoulder, eyes closed, taking in the moment. you raised your head to meet his eyes, you held the contact for so long you felt like the only two people in the world.

"you know, i hope to get married one day" jake blurted. his comment caught you off guard but you couldn't help but smile, you felt heat rising on your cheeks. "yeah?" you ask. "me too." jake bit his lip, fighting back a smile. you didn't really have to say much, the moment alone helped the both of you realize what you felt. now you just had to see who would say it first.

ᯓ park sunghoon

while on vacation with friends, sunghoon constantly nagged about fishing. he continually watched youtube videos of people fishing and was determined to catch something before leaving. eventually you and ni-ki finally agreed to join him and try for the final day.

the three of you spread across the river, constantly casting out and reeling in. one hour felt like three so ni-ki ended up giving up and leaving. you started to feel bad for sunghoon, he got a bite but it stole the bait and that really annoyed him. you had gotten nothing, you have yet to even see a fish.

you can tell sunghoon was growing impatient when he started walking closer to the rocks. "sunghoon! where are you going?" you yell out, starting to follow. "back to the house, there's no use!" he sulked. you walked up to him, grabbing the sleeve on his shirt and started to pull him. "don't give up yet honey just try one more time!" you insisted.

he sighed, feeling no hope, but only did it because you wanted him to. he casted out his line and waited, there was no movement, nothing. until suddenly something started to tug on the hook. "oh! reel it in, hurry!" you jumped up with excitement holding onto the fishing pole.

he did it, just before giving up he actually caught one. "i told you didn't i? i knew you could do it!" you repeatedly hit his shoulder out of excitement. sunghoon's eyes were gleaming with excitement, and he honestly loved your reaction the most. the grin on his face made you back up, pulling out your phone. "hold it up! smile hoonie!" you snapped a few photos before you helped him take the fish off the hook.

he looked down at you, studying you as you focused. "thank you honey." he whispered softly, you looked up at him and smiled. "of course, i told you that you were getting a fish today didn't i?" you beamed. sunghoon felt such deep appreciation for you differently from the way he felt previously. he figured it was just excitement but deep down he knew exactly what this was.

ᯓ kim sunoo

it was mandatory that no matter what at least once a week you and sunoo spent time watching a drama together. even if his schedule was busy-- the two of you would end up on the couch watching tv with one another.

that's exactly where you were at the moment, there's a lot of room on the couch but you two had to be squished together. sunoo sat leaned against the arm of the couch, you snuggled underneath his left arm, head on his chest.

the show was at a point where it was making you and sunoo feel extremely emotional. its one of those where love gets built up over time but last minute it comes crashing down and they cannot be with one another depending on the circumstances.

being under your boyfriends arm, feeling his heartbeat and knowing he was probably feeling the emotions too, you couldn't help but start tearing up. but sunoo was doing the same, it was making him feel sentimental. his eyes filled with salty tears, he reached up to pat them off of his face as they fell.

he felt his heart breaking and it isn't even real! except it felt real in a way, he started to imagine what if this were the two of you, what if it was sunoo that was losing you. he accidentally let a hiccup slip which caught your attention, causing you to look up at him. his face was covered in tears, worse than yours.

"aw my love" you coo at him, reaching up to wipe his tears. he smiles, due to embarrassment. your hand rest on his face, thumb circling slowly, his grip around you tightened as he took a deep breath. "i know, but its just a show, its okay!" he shook his head. "no- it's not just that." he sniffled. "i think-" he stopped himself. "you think what?".

ᯓ yang jungwon

you and jungwon have been music bank mc's for a few months now. you got along very well, your personalities even matched. everyone loved the two of you being mc's together. like per usual many fans shipped the two of you together, or some sent you hate for it. either way it didn't go unnoticed by either of you, especially since you actually did end up in a relationship.

one day when mindlessly scrolling on tiktok, jungwon got a video of the two of you on his fyp. it was a cute compilation of jungwon staring at you for long amounts of time. as he watched he questioned "do i really do that?" he blushed, surely wasn't admiring you like that on live television all the time right?

this was obviously wrong, because the next week, you were hosting together like any other week. you held your queue cards in your hand, looking from the cards to the camera and even to jungwon. he nodded along while listening but when you turned to him while talking he did the same simultaneously, but when you turned back away he didn't.

it was the same thing he literally a few days ago just watched himself do multiple times. he stared as your lips move, he admired your nose, the way your hair sat neatly styled. you smile and looked back at him and he smiles too. only then he noticed it was his turn to speak, he snapped out of his trance and cleared his throat to speak.

after the show in the hallway you walked up to him "are you okay won? you seemed kinda out of it earlier." he rubbed the back of his neck embarrassed "oh yeah I'm just really tired for some reason today thank you honey." you nodded and smiled before being called to your dressing room by your manager.

he stopped you by grabbing your wrist and stepped closer so nobody in nearby rooms could hear. "can we get dinner later?" he prompted. you smiled, quickly nodding before turning back around before you were to be scolded. he watched as you walked away, he felt the giddy emotions deep is his chest, he couldn't go another day without telling you what he now knew he felt.

ᯓ nishimura riki

ni-ki was hands down one of the best dancers you knew and your boyfriend. so when you wanted to learn a tiktok dance he did you didn't hesitate to go to him. "you don't have to if you don't have time but i'm way better at learning a dance if i'm taught." you said, asking him for his time. ni-ki was actually excited and nodded "of course baby, you know I will always make time for you" he winked

and so you did just that, meeting him in a practice room and immediately got started. ni-ki never taught a tiktok dance like this before, but he started questioning why he never did. you weren't a bad dancer yourself but you were just a really fun time all around. finding everything amusing and constantly making jokes.

he was genuinely having fun blast with you. "okay now kinda act like you're stumbling back but the step forward again" he demonstrates the footwork, when you go to do the same movements you end up actually stumbling backwards. ni-ki quickly lunges forward and stops you, hooking his arms under yours.

you were merely inches from completely landing on your ass, probably harming yourself. you gasped from fear and then the two of you made eye contact in the mirror and then busted into a fit of giggles. ni-ki sat you down, arms going weak from laughing. the contagious laughter grew louder as you literally rolled around the floor.

ni-ki reached out for your hands to help you stand up "uhg i'm sorry, i don't know what the hell that was." ni-ki looked down at you as you stood close. he fixed your hair that ended up messy, he placed his hands on the side of your face. "don't worry about it baby it was cute" your eye contact lingered for a moment, a glimmer in your eyes as you blushed. ni-ki felt an urge to say it, that he loved you. he held his tongue but how long he could do that for, probably not very.

.　˚　༺̲̅ 𓊆ྀི@poetwon𓊇ྀི ༻̲̅　˚　. 　 ꙳

[ellswritings]

Double-Booked

Seth Rollins (Colby Lopez) x reader

TW: Enemies to lovers, one bed trope, real names are used simply because I can. Smut!!! Minors DNI!!!!! PnV, creampie, choking (if you squint), pet names used (sweetheart, slut, etc), dirty talk, oral (f receiving), aftercare. Okay I think that’s it, but please tell me if I missed anything. This is my first ever time posting smut (it was a struggle frfr), but I’m always open to constructive criticism. I hope yall enjoy!

Tags: @reebs-luvs-rhodes-and-wrestling

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨

It had been a long week.

With SummerSlam fast approaching, Y/N has been operating at one-hundred percent at all times. Her foot has been on the gas pedal, desperately needing to win the women’s title. With the way her story has been playing out, Paul Levesque had already assured her that the match would ultimately work out in her favor, and even lead to a bigger match during War Games season.

Things are on the up and up, that’s why she doesn’t mind putting in the extra effort. Staying a few hours later than the other stars to run over certain moves, spending more time with the writers to fine tune her story, cutting more promos, even making extra appearances on SmackDown when she’s signed to the Raw roster. It’s all been paying off.

The only time she regrets it in the slightest is on nights like this. She has to catch a red eye flight out of Knoxville Tennessee to get to Cleveland Ohio for a charity event on Sunday before Raw on Monday. Some days she truly doesn’t understand how she does it. Eventually she knows she’s going to run out of gas, but thankfully, that day hasn’t come.

The plane ride itself was uneventful. Not many people were coherent enough to bother her anyway. She didn’t see anyone else from the roster on that flight, most of them opting to take an earlier trip out. Y/N had stayed behind to do a few extra meet and greets, choosing the latest flight possible.

“Yeah, I just landed,” she says with a small huff as she walks down the stairs to find baggage claim.

“All right, well I’ll send you the address to the hotel we’re all staying at,” Paul Levesque tells her, his voice showing his lack of sleep. “There should be a rental car already waiting for you.”

“Thank you, Paul,” Y/N says gratefully, grabbing her f/c bag from the conveyor belt. “You’re genuinely a lifesaver.”

“Least I could do, kiddo,” he waves off. “You did us all a favor by staying late and doing all that extra stuff. You work hard, making sure you got a rental car and a room was nothing.”

“Well, I appreciate it nonetheless,” she replies fondly. “I should be there shortly. I’ll send you a message when I get there.”

“Thank you. All right, I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning.”

“Okay, I’ll see you then. Bye.” Y/N swiftly hangs up the phone before walking over to the rental car desk and picking up her keys.

Y/N’s eyebrows rose in surprise when she came face to face with a sleek black Mazda. It looks almost brand new and for a rental, it couldn’t have been cheap. She can’t help but shake her head with a fond smile. Sometimes Paul does too much, but she couldn’t be more grateful for the man who took a chance on a scrappy woman from y/h/t.

Arriving at the hotel, Y/N was ready to collapse on her bed and get at least four hours of sleep before heading to the arena early in the morning. She walks through the sliding glass doors, her body already winding down because of the quiet music playing in the hotel lobby. She heaves her luggage along with her, shooting the concierge a friendly smile as she approaches the desk.

“Hi, how can I help you?”

Y/N places her carry-on bag on the floor, letting out a relived exhale at the release of pressure on her shoulder. “Hi, I have a reservation under L/N with the WWE.”

The woman smiles, nodding her head as she types in Y/N’s last name. “Perfect. I’ll just need to see your photo ID to verify.”

Y/N pulls out her driver’s license, quickly handing it to the woman. She continues to type as Y/N glances around the lobby. She’ll be able to enjoy the beauty of it tomorrow morning after she’s gotten some proper shut-eye. The only thing occupying her mind right now is a pillow and warm comforter. The bed upstairs is so close she can practically taste it.

“Oh…” The concierge makes a small noise of confusion, pulling Y/N out of her daydream.

Her eyes snap back over to the lady behind the screen, “Is something wrong?”

“Um… I’m very sorry Ms. L/N, but it appears the room has been double booked.”

Y/N’s face falls at the news. She sighs, but keeps a smile on her face. There’s no point in getting angry. “Oh. Well, is there any other room’s available? I can pay extra if needed. I just genuinely need some sleep.”

“Unfortunately we’re completely booked,” the concierge says apologetically. “But, this might make things a bit easier. The room is actually double booked by one of your colleagues. Perhaps they wouldn’t mind sharing?”

A beacon of hope. Y/N nods her head rapidly. She has a great rapport with all of her coworkers, she wouldn’t mind sharing a room with any of them. “That would be great!”

“It’s under the name Lopez.”

Except him.

She has a great rapport and wouldn’t mind sharing with anyone… except him.

Colby Lopez, also known by his more colorful moniker, Seth Rollins, was the bane of Y/N’s existence. The two of them have clashed since their early days in NXT. Both of them were wildly competitive and had a strong thirst to prove their worth in the company. The two of them would always go head to head whenever they could, whether if it was backstage or in kayfabe, they always found a way to go against each other. But what they viewed as competitive, many other people would consider flirtatious.

The tensions between the two of them were constantly at an all time high. Somehow their personalities in the real world contrasted and matched each other so perfectly that they couldn’t stay apart for long. And by some cruel twist of fate the characters they chose also did something very similar. They grinded on each other’s nerves in a sickeningly entertaining way that kept the fans hooked, but also kept the other coming back for more.

Y/N huffs as the woman in front of her gives the number to Colby’s room. 608. The exhausted wrestler trudges towards the elevator, squeezing her eyes shut tightly. This was not how she envisioned her night going. A quiet, peaceful room all to herself had been the goal—maybe a hot shower, an actual bed, and a few hours of much-needed sleep. Instead, she was about to step into what was bound to be a war zone.

She knows Colby isn’t going to be thrilled when he sees her standing outside of his room. He might throw a couple of insults her way, maybe antagonize her a little bit, but she’s hoping that they are both too tired to actually engage in a fight.

When the elevator doors open, Y/N feels like the ride was suddenly much too short. Part of her wonders if she would get kicked out of the hotel if she just decided to sleep on some of the furniture in the lobby. Y/N grunts quietly before continuing forward down the hallway. She keeps track of the room numbers until she stops at the one she’s been dreading the most.

608.

She stares at the number for a beat too long, still trying to convince herself that this is the best course of action. Before her mind convinces her to go back downstairs, she brings her fist to the door in front of her and knocks. SHe shifts her weight from one foot to the other, bracing herself for whatever is on the other side.

No answer.

She knocked again, louder this time.

Still nothing.

Y/N exhaled sharply, pressing her lips together. “I know you’re in there, Lopez. Open the damn door.”

There was a beat of silence, then the telltale sound of footsteps, slow and reluctant, before the door swung open.

Colby Lopez stood in the doorway, shirtless, hair pulled back in a messy man bun. Small pieces are frizzed out at the top due to lack of hair gel. She's not used to seeing his usually luscious locks look so messy. But the real head turner was when she glanced down and noticed he was wearing nothing but gray sweatpants that hung dangerously low on his hips.

She blinks, thrown off for a moment. She forces herself to keep her eyes above his neck and that seems to help as her usual annoyance returns at the sight of his deep brown eyes.

Colby immediately is overtaken by an expression of pure annoyance. He runs a hand over his face, eyes squinting as he still attempts to adjust to the light of the hallway. “What the hell do you want?” His voice is thick with sleep, rough and hoarse in a way that makes Y/N body tingle.

She refuses to acknowledge her own body's reaction. This is Colby Lopez, the only tingle he’s ever given her is in her fingers when she gets the irresistible urge to strangle him.

“Before you decide to throw a fit, just know… this isn’t my fault,” she prefaces before pushing her way into his hotel room. He stumbles back slightly from the sudden intrusion, his eyes blown wide as he watches her set her bags down in his space.

“I don’t remember inviting you in,” he says with his usual amount of sass. “So why don’t we take this conversation back to the door where I can comfortably slam it in your face and go back to bed?”

“I don’t need to be invited in,” Y/N shrugs, bending down to unzip her suitcase. “It’s my room too.”

His brows furrow, “What the hell are you talking about?” He snaps. “And stop– stop that,” he points to her luggage. “Stop unpacking your crap. This isn’t your room.”

“It is though,” Y/N corrects, standing back up. “The hotel double booked the room. So it’s either this or I have to go sleep in the lobby.”

“So go do that,” he replies instantaneously.

Y/N scoffs, “Are you serious? You’d really make me go sleep in the lobby?”

“Yes,” Colby nods with no hesitation.

“Okay, well… tough shit,” Y/N shrugs remorselessly. “I’m staying.”

“No, you’re not,” he points towards the door again. “Get out.”

“I have a huge match tomorrow, Lopez. I need a comfortable space to rest in.”

“So go find that somewhere else,” once again he points out into the hallway. “Because I promise you if you stay here I will make sure you are anything but comfortable.”

“Knowing I’m ruining your night is actually helping me relax already,” she says with a smug smirk, enjoying the angry fumes billowing out of his ears. “So I think maybe this is exactly where I need to be to get a good nights sleep, especially if it means you won’t.”

Colby stares at her for a moment, growing more frustrated by the second. He can see that she’s not going to leave, so he angrily slams the door, no doubt waking some of their sleeping neighbors. He tries to find any hesitation in her features, but he doesn’t. He huffs out a dry laugh, shaking his head, “This is a nightmare.”

“I can assure you I’m way worse than whatever nightmare’s you have,” Y/N counters cockily.

This is what infuriates Colby the most. She has a quick quip for everything. Her mouth is the same as her wrestling style, always having the perfect counter for what’s thrown her way. She snaps fast like a shark lurking beneath the waters. Every move is cold and calculated, meant to pierce the skin of whoever she’s going against. That’s why most people don’t like going up against her on the mic. She’s too quick-witted.

But most people aren’t Colby.

He lets out a dry chuckle, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans against the door. His biceps flex just enough to make it infuriatingly obvious that he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“You know, it’s kind of cute how much effort you put into pissing me off,” he says, tilting his head as he watches her with amusement. “It’s almost like you want my attention.”

Y/N scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself, Lopez. You’re just an easy target.”

Colby smirks, tilting his head slightly as he pushes off the doorframe and prowls toward her, stopping just close enough to make it feel intentional. "Oh yeah? Then why do you keep taking shots if you know you’re gonna miss?"

Y/N scoffs, crossing her arms. "I don’t miss. If anything, I just enjoy watching you squirm."

"Squirm?" Colby chuckles, his voice dipping low as he steps even closer, his presence overwhelming in the small space. "Sweetheart, I hate to break it to you, but if anyone’s squirming tonight, it’s gonna be you."

Her breath catches for half a second before she narrows her eyes, willing herself not to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. "In your dreams."

Colby raises an eyebrow and glances at the bed—singular, of course, because fate has a twisted sense of humor. "Speaking of dreams, considering there’s only one bed, and i was here first... Hope you’re comfortable sleeping on the floor."

"You wish," she scoffs, turning her back to him and grabbing her clothes to change. "I’m taking a shower. Try not to cry about it while I’m gone."

"Take your time, L/N. Just means more peace and quiet for me."

She flips him off over her shoulder before shutting the bathroom door, locking it just for good measure. She places her pajamas onto the counter. It’s a simple oversized white t-shirt and a pair of black spandex. A small sighs escapes her lips as she enters the shower, allowing the days worth of travel to be washed off of her. The hot water however does little to cool her down, her mind still buzzing from her interaction with Colby. It’s never made sense to her how one man could possibly be so annoying. Yet she found herself wanting to antagonize him. Watching him clench his jaw tightly whenever she did something to irritate him was the best part of her day.

The water cascades down Y/N’s body as she lathers herself in her lavender scented body wash. She hums a small tune as she finishes rinsing the rest of the soap off. She steps out of the shower, wrapping one of the complimentary towels around herself as she moves towards the sink. She squeezes out just the right amount of lotion from the bottle she brought with her and runs it over her soft skin, exhaling as she rubs out a knot in one of her shoulders.

Y/N loves her job, more than anything in the world, but it does take its toll physically. Yet she wouldn’t trade it for anything. She would break every bone in her body twice if it meant getting to wrestle for the rest of her life. She understands retirement is inevitable because there’s only so much the human body can handle, but she doesn’t dwell on it, choosing to focus on the present.

That’s when she remembers who’s waiting on the other side of the bathroom door. Her relaxed expression turns back into a scowl as she realizes she’ll have to deal with Colby again before finally being able to go to sleep. Her jaw clenches as she mentally prepares a series of comebacks for anything he tries to throw at her.

Y/N gently grabs her large T-shirt, throwing it over herself before pulling on her underwear and spandex. She throws her hair into a bun, pulling out two loose strands to frame her face nicely. After taking a moment to put moisturizer on her face, she finally opens the bathroom door. The feeling of serenity she built in the bathroom vanishes once her eyes land on the cocky man sitting in the lounge chair in the corner of the room.

He looks up from his phone, no doubt with something snarky to say, but the comment dies on his lips once his eyes fall on her. The constant smirk he wears drops for a moment as he takes in her appearance. The shirt somehow manages to fit her loosely yet perfectly at the same time. It hugs her in just the right places, the hem of it reaching just mid-thigh. He has to blink a few times before he finally sees her spandex poking out from beneath the large fabric.

He’s never taken the time to actually look at her like this before. Whenever he sees her at work, he is always too busy arguing with her to truly see what she looks like. She looks so natural. The e/c of her eyes is very prominent without the mascara and different amounts of eye makeup she usually has to wear at work. The muscles in her thighs are much more prominent than he would’ve thought. Every step she takes, they flex, showing how much work and training she truly puts in.

He realizes his eyes have lingered a little too long and he forces himself to look away. He just caught himself staring, but no part of him feels guilty about it. His jaw clenches as he continues to try and act normal, turning his attention back to his phone. But Y/N doesn’t miss the sudden stiffness in his posture.

“Something wrong, hotshot?” Y/N asks with a quirked brow as she puts her dirty laundry in the spare bag she brought with her. She’ll have to wash it all tomorrow after the show if she has time. Thankfully, the amenities at the hotel are free to the Superstars.

“No,” he mutters, but not before stealing one last glance at her bare legs. He looks away once more, rubbing the back of his neck as another attempt to remain causal. “Just surprised you can actually wear clothes that don’t suffocate. With how stiff you act all the time, I just didn’t think you could dress so comfortably.”

“Funny, I was gonna say the same about you,” she fires back, turning to face him as she eyes his sweatpants. It takes every ounce of self control not to stare for too long as she crosses her arms. “Considering the fact you walk out in heels higher than mine every week, woulda thought you slept in matching leopard print.”

Colby smirks, “You saying you’ve imagined what I look like before bed?” He says mockingly. “I’m flattered.”

“Oh I’ve imagined you in lots of different ways,” Y/N says, her voice dropping an octave. Hearing that sentence leave her lips catches Colby off guard. He watches as she slowly walks over to him, like a predator stalking its prey. He hates how smug she looks, but he can’t bring himself to say anything. “Like how you would look with my foot shoved down your throat.”

And the trance was broken.

He glares at her, “Feelings mutual.”

“That all you got?” She grins. “Did I throw you off your game, Lopez? You can’t think of one decent comeback?”

“Sorry, I couldn’t hear you over the stench of your own mediocrity,” he says without missing a beat. Y/N’s cockiness falters and that’s all the victory Colby needs, “Was that decent enough for you?”

Y/N simply rolls her eyes, turning to walk over to the bed. “I hate you,” she grumbles.

“No, you don’t.”

Y/N stomach flips at the way he says it. Like he’s so sure of himself. Maybe he’s right. Perhaps she doesn’t hate him as much as she lets on, but she’s not going to let him know that. Instead of replying she simply ignores him and goes to pull back the covers. However, the sound of shuffling and his voice stops her.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Y/N looks at him like he’s stupid. Which isn’t really a change from her usual expression when it comes to him. “Getting in bed?” She says, feigning confusion. “Isn’t that what people do when they’re tired?” She stops herself, “Oh wait, I forgot– you probably sleep in tiny holes in the drywall ‘cause you’re a damn rodent.”

“Wow, you should really consider being a comedian. Maybe you’d have better luck there than with your wrestling career.” He insults with no hesitation, storming over to the mattress where she stands. “And you’re not taking the bed.”

Y/N narrows her eyes, “Last time I checked, you don’t own the hotel, Colby. We’re sharing the room, which means we share the bed.”

“Like hell it does,” he scoffs, yanking the covers towards him. But Y/N doesn’t let that slide before she’s pulling the sheets towards her again. “I’m not sleeping on the damn floor, Y/N.”

“Well, neither am I,” she snaps.

They glare at each other, neither willing to back down. The air crackles with unspoken tension, the kind that has been simmering under the surface for years. It’s in the way his chest rises and falls a little too fast, in the way her grip tightens on the blanket like she’s daring him to do something about it.

Y/N can’t help the way her eyes travel over his toned chest. She has to fight off the butterflies that erupt in her stomach from the way he’s staring at her. She bites the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from giggling at his scowl. If he’s angry with her now, that would definitely make it worse.

Colby watches as an unknown emotion briefly crosses her face. He’s not blind to the fact she’s blatantly checking him out, but he’s not going to point it out. One, because he had done the same to her not too long ago, two, he knows she would somehow turn it into a way to tease him. But it does catch him off guard when unbeknownst to her, she licks her lips before returning to her usual cocky expression.

He frowns as a mischievous smile takes over her face. Her fingers dance over the comforter before she smoothly slides one of her legs on top of the mattress. His chest puffs out with anger as he goes to protest, but her voice cuts him off.

“Well, if we’re both adamant about not sleeping on the floor… why don’t we share?” She suggests, raising an eyebrow.

Both of them know she’s bluffing. She would never want to share a bed with Colby, and vice versa. But even if they are both aware that she’s all bark and no bite with this threat, it still doesn’t mean she can’t enjoy making him squirm.

“I’m not sharing a bed with you,” Colby says stiffly. His jaw clenches, eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to physically will her to move.

Y/N tilts her head, feigning an innocent expression as she bats her eyelashes up at him. “Why not, Lopez? Afraid you won’t be able to control yourself?”

Colby scoffs, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. “Please. The only thing I’m afraid of is waking up to you stealing the blankets like the gremlin you are.”

Y/N hums, slowly shifting so she’s lying on her side, one leg bent just enough to make the movement look intentional. “I don’t know, Colby,” she drawls, dragging a finger along the edge of the pillow. “I think you’re scared of something else.”

He rolls his eyes, refusing to acknowledge the way his throat suddenly feels dry. “Yeah? And what’s that?”

She grins, biting her bottom lip as her eyes flick over him. “That you might actually enjoy it.”

Colby stares at her for half a second, then scoffs, shaking his head as if trying to rid himself of the thought. “You’re delusional.”

“Mmhmm.” Y/N stretches her arms above her head, letting the oversized t-shirt ride up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin. She sees the way his eyes flicker down for the briefest moment before he catches himself and looks away.

She has him.

“Then what’s the problem?” she presses, her voice teasing. “It’s just a bed, right?”

He clenches his jaw, taking a step back as if putting distance between them will give him the upper hand. “It’s not the bed that’s the problem.”

Y/N just smiles, barely holding back a laugh at how rigid he looks. He’s gripping the sheets like they’re his lifeline, like if he lets go, he might do something reckless.

Good. That’s exactly what she wants.

“You know, I really thought you’d be tougher than this,” she sighs, feigning disappointment. “All that talk about being a badass, being a visionary… and here you are, too scared to share a bed.”

Colby exhales sharply through his nose. “I’m not scared.”

“Prove it.”

His grip tightens. She can see the internal war playing out in his mind, the struggle between his stubbornness and whatever it is that’s making his jaw tick.

“Unless you think you’d lose control,” she adds, her voice dropping just slightly, just enough to be dangerous.

That’s when it happens.

One second, she’s feeling victorious, practically tasting the win, and then—

Colby moves.

Fast.

Before she even processes it, he’s rounding the bed, closing the space between them in two strides. Her breath catches as he suddenly looms over her, his face inches from hers. His nose brushes against hers, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Y/N’s throat runs dry at their proximity. Her smirk falters. This wasn’t what she was expecting.

“You really want the bed that bad?” His voice is low, rough, a challenge wrapped in something sharper.

Her heart pounds. “Uh—”

“Fine.”

Then, without another word, he grabs her wrist, yanks her forward, and in one swift motion, throws her onto the mattress.

A gasp barely escapes her lips before his mouth is on hers.

It’s not gentle. It’s not slow. It’s teeth and heat and frustration, years of back-and-forth boiling over into something neither of them can take back. His fingers dig into her hip, his body pressing her into the mattress as if he’s trying to prove a point.

She should be mad. She should shove him off.

Instead, she kisses him back just as fiercely, her hands tangling in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. A small whimper escapes her lips as Colby bites down on her bottom lip, a silent command to get her to submit. She allows his tongue to slip its way past her lips, the feeling of it being foreign but not unwelcome. Her nimble fingers work at the rubber band in his hair, pulling it out so she can get the full experience of tugging at his long locks.

Colby moves swiftly, pinning her to the mattress without disconnecting their lips. His fingers are still digging deeply into her sides, and part of her wants it to leave bruises. That way she has evidence that this wasn’t some fever dream. That she really let the man she’s been feuding with since they met do this to her.

Y/N carefully removed her fingers from his hair, smoothly sliding them up his back. She feels him shiver under her touch, no doubt from the tension and how cold her hands always are. Colby moves his attention from her lips to the exposed skin of her neck. His lips trail downwards until he finds her pulse point. He can feel the way her heart hammers against his lips and it causes a small growl to erupt from his chest. He bites down, sucking hard as Y/N gasps loudly, her nails digging into the skin of his back. The action only spurs him on more, the feeling of her scratching him makes it all the better.

“Tell me to stop,” his voice comes out gruffly as he continues placing chaste kisses against her neck. He has to squeeze her hips to prevent his hands from wandering elsewhere. “Tell me…”

Y/N could think of one million reasons on the spot as to why she should tell him to stop. One being that they’ve convinced themselves and each other for years that they despise one another. But feeling him this way, the way he’s looking at her like she’s the only thing in his world… How could she turn that away?

“Colby…” her voice is a mix of a plea and a whimper.

He tenses, the kisses suddenly stopping. He sits up slightly, chest heaving as he closes his eyes as a way to restrain himself. Y/N’s breath hitches as she feels him twitch in his sweatpants, his erection brushing against her thigh. “Don’t fucking do that,” he warns.

Her pupils are dilated, the once bright e/c color much darker. He can see the lust swimming behind her irises and it makes it that much harder to keep himself together.

“What?” She asks him innocently.

“You know what you did,” he replies, his muscles still taut.

Y/N suddenly leans up, reconnecting their lips in one swift motion. It takes Colby by surprise, his mind not fully wrapping around what is happening. That is until she nips at his bottom lip and it pulls his mind back into focus. Or rather pulled it towards the growing problem in his pants.

“Colby…” she whimpers again, smirking slightly when she feels the involuntary spasm of his hips. Her lips start moving wherever there’s exposed skin. His neck, his shoulders, his chest, his stomach. She teasingly slips one of her fingers in and out of the waistband of his sweats and it takes every ounce of willpower he has not to rip the spandex off of her, and fuck her til she can’t walk.

He freezes when he feels her lips ghost his ear, the feeling of her breath sending chills rippling down the exposed skin of his arms. “I don’t want to stop.”

That was all he needed to hear.

He crashes his lips against hers like a man starved. Y/N can’t help the small moan that leaves her lips as his hands start roaming beyond their designated post at her hips. She could feel the tingle that was between her legs turning into a much bigger problem, her desire growing as his skilled fingers work their way up her shirt.

Her back arches into him as he finally reaches her perked nipples. He tweaks the sensitive peaks, earning a loud noise of pleasure from the woman below him. It really shouldn’t turn him on as much as it does, but something about hearing how good he’s making her feel, hearing her mouth make noises that aren’t her shit-talking, it’s affecting him more than he’d like to admit.

“Don’t be shy, sweetheart,” Colby’s voice, raspy and perfect, coaxes her. “You like to run your mouth, so let me hear you.”

Y/N bites her cheek to keep herself from giving him what he wants. Despite how good it feels, she won’t let him win. Her eyes bore into his, a teasing sparkle within them. She smirks, “You’ll have to work harder than that, Lopez.”

Colby’s eyes turn completely black. Even when he has all the control, she still has the nerve to talk to him like she has any sort of power. Y/N feels the wetness pool between her legs as his gaze shifts into one of a predator stalking its prey rather than the man she’s grown to love making angry.

A gasp leaves her as suddenly her shirt is ripped off of her in one swift motion, her spandex following shortly after. Any creative quip she could come up with dies in her throat as she’s now left naked and vulnerable in front of Colby. However, his anger seems to subside for a moment as he fully takes in her form.

He exhales, “You’ve really been hiding all of this from me? This entire time… you’ve kept all this to yourself.”

Y/N feels her face flush. She’s never felt the urge to squirm around Colby, but with how he’s looking at her like she’s the most beautiful thing, it makes her try to cover herself up. She’s not used to this kind of attention from him. However, Colby grabs her hands, pinning them above her head to stop her from obstructing his view.

“Don’t,” he growls lowly. He can see the insecurities behind her eyes, plaguing her mind. It blows his mind that she could ever think she’s anything short of gorgeous. Even while they’ve been feuding, he has never blind to the fact that she is stunning. He meets her eyes, leaning down to place a kiss on her jaw, moving up to her lips. It’s soft, much less rough than the kisses they shared just moments ago. He’s careful with her, almost reassuring her without saying a word. They break apart for a split second, his forehead pressing against hers, “Don’t hide from me.”

Y/N shifts underneath his gaze. She sees nothing but admiration on his face, despite looking for some sort of reluctance, his expression remains the same. Even though her hands are pinned above her head still, she can’t help but lean up and kiss him again. Nobody has ever made her feel as beautiful as he did with those few simple words. She never would have thought Colby would be the one to make her feel this way, to make her feel so special. If someone would have told her this morning that she would end up in bed with the “Visionary” she would have laughed and probably thrown up directly afterwards. But now… there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles against his lips.

Colby shakes his head, removing his hands from her wrists, “Don’t apologize…” He smirks, slowly moving his entire body downwards. Y/N watches with hooded eyes, feeling herself growing wetter at the sight of him kissing down her body. “Just don’t do it again.”

His lips leave no stone unturned on her body. He kisses along her clavicle, before moving towards her breasts. He can’t help himself, sucking little marks into the supple skin before popping one of her nipples into his mouth. Y/N groans, hands moving to his hair as her hips buch upwards, begging for some sort of friction. Colby chuckles.

“So sensitive…” he teases.

“Shut up,” she says with absolutely no bite. “Are you actually gonna do something or just keep stalling?”

He laughs again, now traveling down her stomach, relishing in the way she spasms underneath his touch. “I knew you’d be impatient.” He says, pressing kisses to the top of her thigh. Y/N fights the urge to force his head where she needs him the most, knowing that will just give him more ammunition to tease her.

The moment he moves his attention to her inner thigh, Y/N physically can’t stop herself as she tugs at his hair. Seth pauses immediately, lifting his head from in between her legs. He’s so close. Her chest is heaving, breathing wild and he hasn’t even given her what she wants yet.

“Don’t be a brat,” he scolds, his voice dropping an octave. “This can either be a reward or a punishment. So don’t piss me off. Be grateful for what I’m giving you.”

What he just said wasn’t as much of a threat as he thought. The idea of him punishing her is almost more enticing than the reward. Y/N bites her bottom lip, an action that doesn’t go unnoticed by Colby. He quirks and eyebrow, his hand inching closer to her core. Y/N decides to test her luck once more, pulling at his hair a bit more roughly than before.

Colby shoots her an incredulous look. He lets out a dark laugh, one that’s not too far off from the one he used on camera. “Oh… so you like that, huh? You want me to be rough with you?” Y/N nods along with his words, and she sees something snap within him. “Should’ve known you’d be such a slut.”

Without so much as a warning, his finger plunges into her. The intrusion makes her moan much louder than intended, her hand slapping over her mouth. She gushes around him, his filthy words from just a second ago playing their part in her pleasure. He doesn’t give her much time to adjust before he’s increasing the pace.

“I didn’t have to do anything besides kiss you and you’re already soaked,” he comments, his smirk smug as he watches her throw her head back in pleasure. He wastes no time before slipping another finger in. He groans at the sight of his hand being coated in her juices, slipping in and out with ease. “Take that hand off your mouth. I wanna hear you.”

Y/N’s eyes practically roll into the back of her head as he lowers his head, tongue going to work on her clit. Pure ecstasy is all she feels. She uses her free hand to push his head even closer to her core. Colby though refuses to give her any sort of control. He immediately pulls his mouth away, sending her a pointed look. Y/N already knows what that means.

Be grateful.

She immediately removes the pressure she placed on the back of his head, but she keeps her hands entangled in his hair. It’s a guilty pleasure being able to run her fingers through it. She waits patiently for him to continue his onslaught on her pussy, but he continues staring at her.

“I thought I just told you to take your hand off your mouth.” He starts moving his fingers back and forth at an agonizingly slow pace. “Are we already having problems with listening?”

Y/N writhes underneath him, needing more than what he’s giving. Colby responds by placing his free hand over her hips, holding her in place. He starts moving his fingers in and out of her at a much quicker pace when she doesn’t answer, “I. Asked. You. A. Fucking. Question.” He punctuates each word with a strong thrust. The final one manages to hit that special spot inside of her, causing her hand to fall away from her mouth.

“Fuck, Colby,” she cries out of pleasure, grinding more into his fingers.

“Yeah?” He grins cockily. “Right there, huh?”

“Mhm,” Y/N nods rapidly. “Please…” she begs desperately. For what? She doesn’t know.

“Please what?” He eggs on, slowing his pace once more. He loves watching her fall apart for him. “Gotta use your words, princess.”

She groans out of frustration, “Stop teasing.” She tries her hardest to sound intimidating but it comes off as more of a whiny plea than anything.

“Or what?” Colby tilts his head mockingly. “What are you gonna do?”

Y/N narrows her eyes at him, “Or I’ll go find someone else to get the job done,” she threatens. As soon as the words leave her mouth, she regrets even thinking it. She knew she wasn’t going to go anywhere. But that was the threat that flew out of her mouth.

Y/N feels the air she was once privy to leave her lungs as Colby lunges forward, wrapping his hand around her throat. His other hand is still playing with her pussy as he squeezes the life out of her. Colby feels her clench around his fingers, but he doesn’t relish in the feeling as his mind is too clouded by anger.

“Yeah? You gonna go find someone else to put up with your bitching?” Colby seethes through clenched teeth. “You really wanna threaten me? Nobody can take care of you like I can, and you know it. That’s why you constantly come back to try and piss me off. You know you can’t stay away from me.”

It kills her to admit it, but he’s right. Sometimes the best part of her day was messing with Colby, getting inside his head. But right now, he’s inside of hers… as well as some other places. He’s the only person who truly matches her energy in and out of the ring. And she would never admit it, at least not yet, she’s never felt this satisfied, this turned on by anyone before, and they’ve only just started.

“Isn’t that right?” He releases the grip on her neck just barely in order for her to give him a verbal response. “You know you’re not going anywhere. I’ve got you hooked, don’t I?”

Y/N nods but doesn’t say a word. Colby’s eyes flare with anger for a moment before pinching her clit. She gasps, her juices flooding his fingers again. The pain and pleasure mixing in the most intoxicating way. “Fuck! Yes, Colby. Yeah. I can’t- I can’t. You- You’ve got me.” Her response is erratic, clouded by the aura of lust surrounding them.

He grins, “Good girl.”

And within a second, his head is back in between her thighs, his tongue working on her like a man starved. His once busy fingers are now playing with the small rose bud between her labia, making her arch further into his mouth. She can physically feel his iconic smirk against her that he wears as Seth Rollins. She wants to knock it off his face, but with how good she feels, any thought that wasn’t about his tongue has left her mind.

Colby grips her thighs, keeping her in place as he continues his assault. Y/N’s head rolls back into the pillows but Colby pinching her lightly forces her to look back down. She sends him an incredulous look, but ends up biting her lip as Colby takes one long and tantilizing lick of her before sitting up enough to speak. “Eyes on me sweetheart. I want you to watch as me as I destroy this pussy.”

The way he says it keeps her in a trance. His mouth vanishes once again and Y/N does her best to keep her eyes on him. He doesn’t make it easy as his ministrations on her clit become much more rapid, his tongue moving in sync with his fingers. Y/N can feel the coil in the lower part of her belly getting tighter with each passing moment.

Suddenly, his fingers and mouth switch places, his fingers working inside her soaked hole as his tongue and lips move to her clit. “Holy shit–” Y/N gasps, her body rocking back and forth with each violent thrust.

“Squeezing my fingers like a vice,” he mumbles against her. “Can’t wait to see how you feel around my cock.”

Then he looks up, his gorgeous brown eyes meeting hers. She can see the filthy thoughts swimming behind his eyes, most of them probably mirroring her own. Y/N can feel her climax approaching rapidly, trying to hold on for as long as possible. But the way he’s talking to her, looking at her, she knows it’s not gonna be long.

“Tastes like heaven… Could stay here forever if you let me.”

That’s when Colby’s eyes roll back into his head and that does it for her. Seeing him so drunk on her sends her over the edge. “Colby,” she whines breathily. “I– I’m gonna–”

“Let go,” he commands. “Come for me.”

Y/N doesn’t need to be told twice. Her body shakes as a wave of euphoria passes over her. She swears for a moment that she’s left seeing stars. Her mind is sent clear into hyperspace, the pleasure almost too much and she’s only orgasmed once. Slowly she comes down from her high and is met with a sight that could make her unravel all over again.

Seth’s beard is coated in her juices. His eyes are hooded, his mind clearly still on the dripping core in front of him. Once he looks back at her, Colby raises his finger, slowly sinking it into his mouth, groaning as he sucks off the remnants of her. Y/N’s mouth waters at the sight as he makes his way back up towards her.

“I’m definitely gonna need to make a habit of doing that,” he mumbles flirtatiously before bending down and planting his lips onto hers.

Y/N’s heart flutters at the insinuation, loving the way she tastes herself on his lips. She could get used to this. Him having his way with her and then going to work together the following day, sending teasing remarks to each other, trying to act like he hadn’t had his tongue buried inside her.

Her hands wander towards his sweats, her mind clearing enough to realize she’s the only one completely naked. She tugs at them, speaking between kisses. “Take ‘em off,” she begs in the most polite tone she’s ever spoken to him in.

Colby can’t help the small smile that takes over his lips as he continues kissing her. He never imagined enjoying having this much control over Y/N L/N. But hearing how small she sounds, begging for him, it makes him feel larger than life. “You want me to take ‘em off, sweetheart?”

Y/N nods along dumbly, her hand wandering over to the prominent bulge in his pants. She starts palming him gently, making Colby hiss. “Shit,” he mumbles. She moves her hand around him perfectly, pushing and tugging at all the right moments. For a second he forgets what she even requested of him. He could have let her keep going like that for hours.

“You want it that bad, you take it,” he whispers to her, granting her permission to remove the sweats off his body.

She wastes no time in easing the pants off his legs. It even takes Colby off guard how quickly and smoothly she maneuvers. He adjusts, lifting his leg up one at a time as she removes them. He didn’t even realize she managed to hook her fingers through his boxers, dragging them off along with his sweatpants.

His thick and being cock springs to life, smacking against his toned stomach. He might not have been the most girthy she’s ever seen, but he sure as hell makes up for it in length. Her mouth practically waters at the sight.

“Like what you see?” He teases, his ego inflating just by the way her eyes widened.

Y/N rolls her eyes, “You already know I do, asshole.”

Colby swiftly reaches down and smacks Y/N’s pussy causing the woman to flinch. She feels herself clench around the air, enjoying the small bout of pain. He kisses her roughly, biting her bottom lip, “Watch your mouth,” he whispers against her.

Y/N feels herself falling under his spell once more as the smoothness of his voice renders any sass useless. As soon as he sits up, her eyes zero in on what she really wants. Y/N shifts into her elbows to push herself up, desperately wanting to just feel him in her mouth. Unfortunately, she doesn’t get very far as Colby pushes her down.

“As much as I would love that… I don’t think I can stop myself for much longer,” he admits gruffly, kissing her neck as he tries not to rut against the firm muscle of her thigh. “Soon as I got you naked I wanted to be inside you.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” Y/N whispers in a tone that makes shivers roll down Colby’s spine.

In one quick movement, Colby readjusts his position before sliding his cock between her folds. He coats himself, a small moan leaving Y/N’s lips at just the feeling of him circling her hole before he finally sinks in. She gasps at the stretch and slight burn he provides, but it has to be the best burn she’s ever felt.

“Shit,” Colby hisses with a small exhale. “So fucking tight.” His hair hangs over his shoulders in a messy yet beautiful way. The corner of his lip twitches upward, an indication to her that he’s trying his hardest not to pound into her at a relentless pace. He’s giving her time to adjust to his size. Most people wouldn’t notice that little shift in expression, and to add to it, it would be extremely rare for them to know what it meant.

But Y/N knows.

As someone who dedicated most of her adult life to terrorizing the man above her, she could read him rather easily. And while she appreciates him taking her comfort into consideration, waiting is the last thing she wants to do.

Y/N laces her hands through his hair, pulling him down towards her as she roughly clashes her lips with his. She can feel him twitch inside of her as she slips her tongue into his mouth. “Move,” she commands against his lips. “I didn’t ask you to be gentle.”

Colby’s eyes darken at the instruction. He surges forward, continuing to kiss her as he pulls his cock all the way out before pistoning it back inside of her with no remorse. Y/N can’t hold back the guttural sound that leaves her as she throws her head further into the pillows.

“Oh my God, Colby!”

Her mouth falls open, any coherent thought she could have had leaving her mind. His tongue and fingers felt amazing, but this was otherworldly. She could feel every ridge and vein as he continued pounding into her. She didn’t understand how he could multi-task and continue kissing down her neck, moving to suck on her right nipple. Y/N could barely even keep her eyes open, the pleasure and Colby’s name being the only thing playing in her head.

It only gets better when she feels him sinking his teeth into every inch of her exposed flesh. It doesn’t take long for that familiar tension to build up inside of her again. Colby grabs her chin, forcing her to continue looking at him.

He’s never seen someone so beautiful even when they’re completely wrecked. He’s been with his fair share of women, even thought he loved some of them, but none of them have ever felt like this. None of them have ever made him feel the way she does. She feels absolutely perfect around him, squeezing him at just the right moments. It’s almost like she was made for him.

“Fit me like a glove, don’t you?” He grunts out, his hips stuttering as he feels his own climax approaching.

Y/N nods. She tries to verbally agree but with one strong thrust, he hits the spongy spot inside her which only permits a pornographic grown to leave her. “I’m gonna ruin you,” he tells her darkly. “Won’t ever be able to forget me. How I make you feel.”

Y/N swears she can feel her heartbeat in her head. She can only hope he fulfills that promise. The thought of walking around with a limp tomorrow because of him was enough to make her come again on its own.

“This pussy’s mine, huh? Nobody else’s.”

“All yours,” Y/N manages to get out, not finding it in her to disagree or make him work for it. “No– no one else’s,” her voice comes out shakily and that’s when Colby knows she’s close again.

“Good girl,” he mumbles, kissing her again. “You wanna come? I can feel you clenching around me.”

“Yes– fuck! Yes, yes, I wanna come. Wanna come for you,” Y/N cries out, her hands moving to his back, her nails digging deep into the skin as she feels herself unraveling. “Please, please, let me–” she cuts herself off with a gasp as he starts moving faster.

“Go ahead, sweetheart,” he hums softly. “Come for me.”

And just like that, Y/N’s sent back into that blissful state of hyperspace. She swears she sees stars as all of her senses are overcome with pleasure. Her vision goes black and the only thing she can hear is a dull ringing in her ears. It had to have been the best orgasm she’s ever had. Her body quakes under him and as she spasms. It takes her a minute to come to, but as she does she can still feel Colby moving rapidly in and out of her. Suddenly that feeling of overstimulation starts to take over. Tears start brimming at the corner of her eyes, but it’s out of pure ecstasy. At this rate she may come again if he doesn’t stop any time soon.

A low moan leaves Colby as her pussy squeezes him, still recovering from the hard hitting climax she just had. He can feel himself reaching that point so he leans down, kissing the soft spot behind her ear. “Where do you want it?” He asks her, his voice completely strained.

Without a second's hesitation, Y/N replies, “Inside me,” she continues raking her fingers up and down his back. “Please… Want it inside me.”

That had to have been the single hottest thing Colby has ever heard. That woke up something inside of him that he didn’t even know was there. Fortunately, he doesn’t think this will be the last time the two of them share a moment like this, so they’ll have a conversation about what he’s feeling later.

After one more strong thrust, Colby stills, spilling his seed deep inside of Y/N. He curses quietly under his breath as her pussy practically milks everything out of him. Y/N watches Colby, his eyes squeezed shut as he tries to bring himself back down to the real world. She can’t help the small smile that takes over her face seeing him like this. He looks almost peaceful.

Not putting much thought into it, she threads her hands through his hair again, scratching lightly at his scalp to help keep him relaxed. She feels him lean into her touch, his cock softening in the process. After a few more moments, his eyes finally reopen, gaze much softer than it was two minutes ago when he was dominating her.

He slowly and gently slips out of her, not wanting to hurt her in any sort of way. Y/N grins, moving one of her hands to cup his cheek. He shifts his head slightly, placing a soft kiss to her palm. This felt different, domestic almost. And neither of them minded it.

“I’ll be right back,” he says gently before moving to get off the bed. Y/N’s brows furrow as she watches him walk over to the hotel bathroom. She almost allows herself to start overthinking, but he doesn’t give her enough time to. In less than a minute, he’s walking back out with a damp washcloth in his hands.

Butterflies flutter in Y/N’s stomach at the sight. Colby climbs back onto the bed, carefully moving a few of the pillows upright against the headboard before hooking his arms underneath Y/N’a body and effortlessly sitting her up. She watches him with a certain curiosity. She’s never seen this side of him. Careful, gentle, tender. She winces slightly when he places the washcloth on the inside of her thigh, wiping up the beautiful mess they both created.

“What are you doing?” She asks him curiously, tilting her head.

Colby furrows his eyebrows. He nods down to the rag in his hands as he continues his mission, “Taking care of you?” He says it like a question, almost as if he doesn’t understand why she even asked that.

Y/N bites the inside of her cheek. No one’s ever done this for her before. Every time she’s had sex or any other kind of sexual encounter, no one’s ever taken the time to care for her. Normally she showers, cleans herself, has an awkward goodbye, and leaves. So this change of pace was different. Never would she have thought that Colby would be the one to show her what she was missing.

Colby can see the thoughts swimming in her mind. He raises an eyebrow, “What? No one ever wiped up their mess before?” He asks with a small laugh, not knowing he was completely right. When he looks up and watches her look away, almost embarrassed, that’s when he realizes. “Wait… are you serious?” He scoffs at the obscurity of it. “No one’s ever–”

“No,” she cuts him off stiffly, suddenly feeling much smaller than she did before. She can’t bring herself to look back at him and that’s when Colby realizes she wasn’t joking. Y/N can feel his eyes boring into the side of her face so she tries to pull her legs away from him and to her chest, but his firm hand stops her. He grips her thigh tightly enough to prevent her from moving, but with a warmth she knew couldn’t be faked.

“Hey…” he says tentatively. “Look at me.” When she doesn’t, he lets out a small sigh before lightly massaging her legs as a way to get her to not ignore him. “C’mon, Y/N/N… please?”

The sound of her nickname catches her attention. Only a handful of people know that name, and considering they’ve been feuding since the dawn of time, she doesn’t know how he came to know it. She tilts her head, “How–”

“I pay attention,” he cuts her off. “I don’t know if you realize this, but I’ve spent the past decade of my life making your life hell. I was bound to pick up a few things,” he says sarcastically, earning a small yet reluctant grin from the woman in front of him. “There it is,” he teases. “There’s that irritatingly beautiful smile.”

Y/N rolls her eyes, feeling her cheeks heat up from the comment. She grabs a pillow, smacking him with it, “I really don’t like you right now.”

Colby shakes his head, throwing the washcloth into some random corner of the room before carefully climbing into bed next to her. He props himself up on the headboard before lifting her chin up with his finger and kissing her lovingly. Y/N practically melts into his chest as he uses his free arm to wrap around her waist, pulling her into his chest.

“Yeah, really getting the feeling you don’t like me,” he says cockily.

Y/N can’t help but scoff as she rests one hand on his stomach, shoving the other under his back to get comfortable, “It’s almost like you want me to kick your ass.”

Colby hums, “Maybe I do,” he quips before kissing the top of her head. A small best of silence passes between them before he leans his head on top of hers. “I’m sorry.”

Y/N frowns, “For what?”

“That no one’s ever bothered to take care of you,” he says, disgusted with the entire male population. “That no one’s taken the time to make sure you were okay afterwards. You deserve better than that.” Y/N meets his gaze and her heart begins to beat a little faster. Since when did he become so damn charming? ���Maybe he always has been and she’s just been too stubborn to see it. “And I’m sorry for laughing.”

Y/N sits up fully, swinging one leg over his lap to fully straddle him. She collapses into his chest with a small huff, her arms wrapping around his neck as she adjusts, “You don’t have to be sorry,” she says with a small smile. She leans forward, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth before resting her head on his shoulder. “Y’know, for being my enemy, you sure seem to care about me a lot,” she teases, tracing small shapes on his broad chest.

Colby chuckles, his chest vibrating which makes Y/N smile. She loves his laugh. “Yeah, I could say the same about you. Clinging onto me like a damn koala bear.”

Y/N lifts her head, quirking an eyebrow, “Oh, I can get off if that’s how you wanna play–” she moves to get off of his lap but is halted when his hands shoot out to grab her waist, pulling her right back down.

“Don’t you dare,” he says seriously before hooking his arms around her to keep her in place. “I’m comfortable.”

“Hmm,” she hums mockingly. “Then don’t talk shit if you’re comfortable.”

Colby exhales loudly, closing his eyes, “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just shut up and go to sleep.”

Y/N shakes her head, but doesn’t argue. She knows they have plenty of playful quarrels in the future. But for right now, she’s going to close her eyes, enjoying the warmth of his body pressing into hers. She’s not sure what the morning will bring for them, but she is certain of one thing.

She’s never been more grateful to have her hotel room be double booked.

[kaciidubs]

Catnip and Kidnappings

Hi, 🧿 nonnie! This one's been a long time coming, and though it doesn't have much smut, I hope you still enjoy it! ❣ Summary: You just needed to go to the pet store for two things - so why were you suddenly in a car with a man you didn't know? ❣  ❣ Word Count: 2.5k+ ❣ Warnings: Mafia! AU, fluff, meet cute, implied danger, slight humor, cat talk, reader is a bit sassy but so is Minho ❣  ❣ Female! Reader [No use of Y/N] | You/Your pronouns ❣  ❣ Additional Tags: lightly edited ❣ Stray Kids Masterlist ❣ General Masterlist

Two things. You just needed two things from the pet store, then you would be back home with your lovely tabby cat and show you’d been putting off for the better half of two weeks because it just ‘wasn’t the right time’.

So how, you ask, did you manage to find yourself hurriedly escorted away from the storefront of the pet store by a man you’d just met?

Well, you could target the beginning of the end the moment you stepped foot into the pet store, making your way to the cat aisle on instinct with your goal clear in your mind; catnip and premium cat food.

Premium cat food - you wished you could trick your furry child into eating a cheaper form of food, but his picky eater tendencies had set him in his ways ever since your mother decided to spoil him and introduce him to the world of Sheba pate and cuts of various meat and fish flavors; the same woman who claimed she didn’t like cats, yet bought him almost all of his toys.

Huffing out a quiet laugh at her change of heart, you bent to grab a box of the food packs, silently thanking the corporate gods that it was still on sale, before heading deeper into the aisle to grab the second item on your mental list.

You scanned the rack with the box still in your arms, adjusting it slightly every now and then until your eyes landed on the empty spot that usually had the brand of catnip you needed.

“Wonderful…”

“If you’re looking for catnip like that brand, you could go with the one with the red label - they look different because of the companies, but they’re really the same ingredient wise.”

“Oh, really? Thank-” The next word immediately died on your tongue as you turned your head, ready to thank a store worker but, instead, you were met with possibly the handsomest man you’d ever laid your eyes on.

Sharp eyes and a nose that looked like it belonged on a marble sculpture, paired with lips set in a faint frown and the prettiest jawline you’ve ever seen - he was gorgeous.

He seemed to either not notice your brain freeze or blissfully ignore it as he stepped closer to pick up the container before placing it on top of the cat food box in your arms.

“I have three cats and they all like both brands, there isn’t really a difference besides the fact that you don’t have to use as much of this one as the other one, which makes it better considering the price.”

Once his eyes finally met yours, you felt your brain kick back into gear, “O-Oh, okay, thank you so much!”

He hummed out a small sound of acknowledgement, giving you a curt nod and reaching forward to grab a container of his own; his eyes scanning across the small printed words for a moment before he looked to you once more. “Do you need help? Carrying that, I mean.”

“This? No, no, I’ve got it handled.” You adjusted the box once more, the catnip container sliding to the right until you balanced it out quickly, “All good, thanks again, though.”

Before you could embarrass yourself more than you already had, you thanked him once more and shuffled past him and out of the small aisle in record time, mentally cursing whatever line of fate led you down this path.

Placing your items on the conveyor belt, the cashier greeted you as they scanned your items and you typed in your rewards card onto the card reader’s keypad.

“Are you getting this, too?”

“What?” Looking up, you stared at the catnip in their hand with confusion creasing your brow.

“Um-”

“Yes, we are.”

The familiar voice made a chill run down your spine, your head whipping to see the same man from before, the faintest of curves to his otherwise neutral expression alleviating his otherwise stoic demeanor.

Shrugging lightly, the cashier proceeded to scan the second container before announcing the total.

Pressing his black card to the one-tap reader, he seamlessly slid it back into his wallet before stuffing it back into his pocket, “Think of it as a little gift for your cat, they deserve to be treated.”

For being stunned for the second time that day, your recovery was just as fast, “I’ll make sure to let him know a kind stranger cares about his picky habits.”

He huffed out a quiet chuckle, but that was more than enough to inflate your ego and make your heart flutter, quickly taking back your previous curse to thank fate instead.

After grabbing your bag of items, you made your way out of the store with your new companion following suit.

“So… Was that really just a gift for my cat? You don’t have any ulterior motives, do you?” You mused, turning to look at him fully as you stood outside of the storefront.

Shaking his head, he raised his hands in defense, “It’s just a gift - like I said, I have three cats so I know how it can get, better than most. Besides, the picky eater phase is really rough on the pockets at the worst of times.”

“Well, Miso appreciates your generosity.”

“Miso… cute.” He hummed softly, though his true excitement was evident in the small glimmer in his eyes.

“Do I have the honor of knowing your name?” Clocking the possible unintended implication of the question, you quickly backtracked, “Um- Just so Miso knows who he can thank while eating his pate salmon, of course.”

His lips parted to speak but closed twice as fast, his once relaxed smile turning into a firm line as he looked at you - almost enough to look through you, or rather, past you.

As you went to turn your head to gauge for yourself, you were stopped by the warmth of his hand around your wrist, winning your attention for himself like jingling keys in front of a baby.

“Let me bring you home, and I’ll tell you on the way.”

You felt your heart flutter, though you couldn’t ignore the unease creeping up your spine, “I appreciate it, but you really don’t have to-”

“I just want to make sure you make it home safely.” His mouth pressed into a tight lipped smile and his grip tightened ever so slightly, “Trust me.”

Maybe it was the fact that he sounded so sincere, aligning with the image of the kind man you’d seen in the pet shop, or perhaps it was the way his firm gaze flickered with a hint of urgency, but you found yourself nodding softly.

“Okay.”

With that, you were tugged down the sidewalk and around the corner, hurried footsteps falling alongside his long strides in hopes of keeping up.

“Is- Is there something wrong? What’s happening?”

“Everything’s fine.”

You bristled at his nonchalant, clipped tone, falling back on your pace by half a step. “I have a feeling you weren’t lying to me before, so, please, don’t start lying to me now.”

Feeling your resistance, he took a short breath and spoke, “Nothing’s wrong yet, and nothing is happening - I’d rather keep it that way, if you don’t mind.”

“But what did you see?”

“Someone who has no business trying to approach me in public unless they’re looking to start something they have no chance of finishing. I have no desire in getting innocent people caught up in those types of affairs.”

“Those types?” Your eyes widened as you neared a black car - slim, sleek, and a model that you had no chance of owning for yourself on your current pay grade. “Are you-”

“I’m no one.” He shut you down with ease before reaching forward to open the passenger’s side door, “Get in.”

Putting a temporary pin in your conversation, you quickly slid into the car, the faint scent of jasmine mixing with the musk of sandalwood and leather seats filling your nose; watching through the windshield as the black haired man rounded the car before sliding into the driver's seat.

“I don’t think a nobody just casually owns a car like this,” clicking your seatbelt into place and setting your bag on the floor, you shot him a wary glance, “if you’re going to kidnap me, Miso’s going to be royally pissed.”

The car’s engine roared to life, masking his light chuckle but doing next to nothing in hiding the slight uptick of his lips. “I’m not a kidnapper, though I’ll make an exception if Miso’s as cute as you make him out to be.”

With that, he shifted the gear and drove out of the parking lot, using the one-way street to get away from the pet store and the unknown assailant. Buildings and cars passed by in a blur after you told him your address, your hands nonchalantly turning your phone while the silence was placated with the sound of the engine and the radio - though, you had no hope of hearing what the song was from how low the volume was.

Taking a deep breath, you turned toward him, eyes tracing over his unfairly handsome side profile. “So… Is this the part where you tell me who you are?”

“I told you, I’m no one,” he hummed simply, eyes trained on the road ahead.

“And I told you I don’t like liars - you still owe me your name, you remember that, right? Now, since you’re saving me from some unknown evil, you owe me a full introduction.”

He glanced over at you, amused astonishment filling his face, “For someone who’s in the hands of a complete stranger, you make a lot of demands.”

“Think of it as your atonement for giving me two new life experiences in one when I was minding my own business buying catnip.”

You could just barely catch him rolling his eyes, muttering under his breath and hearing the words ‘worse’ and ‘friends’.

“Minho.”

“Minho?”

Minho rocked his head to the side, huffing, “My name is Lee Minho, I have three cats - Soonie, Doongie, and Dori - and I’m a businessman. I like going to that pet store because they donate some of their profit to shelters, and I know about the catnip brands because I have three cats - changing brands is a nightmare whether it’s one cat or several.”

A small smile found its way to your lips at the new information, your mind running wild at the image of this enigma of a man playing with three cats of his own. “Okay… But, when you say businessman, what type of business do you do?”

“The type that prefers to go unmentioned to civilians for their safety.”

“What- Like working for some secret branch of the government? Are you a cult leader? A member of the mafia?” An incredulous giggle bubbled past your lips, though when his demeanor grew colder, your stomach dropped. “You’re… You’re not, right?”

“What’s your name?”

“What?”

The car rolled to a stop at a red light, granting him the grace to look at you, brown eyes locking to yours with a firm stare. “You never told me your name. If you tell me your name, I’ll tell you my job - it’s your repentance for asking me more questions past my introduction. If you don’t want to tell me, then don’t, but I won’t tell you my job.”

Your name for his profession, your safety in exchange for his safety - it was only fair, truly.

Taking a deep breath, your name fell from your lips with a small air of confidence, “You already know about my cat, and my job pays just enough to support his picky eating habits. I like that pet store because they hosted an adoption event that brought Miso into my life, and I’ve been supporting them ever since.”

He made a sound of confirmation before turning his attention back to the road, pressing the gas as the light turned green and continued the journey to your apartment.

His choice of silence was almost enough to have your conscience second guessing your decision, until you noted the way his fingers drummed against the steering wheel; twitching, anxious, compared to the streamlined, firm grip he’d showcased at the beginning of the drive.

Eventually your apartment building came into view, the car slowing to a stop once he reached the front door.

“Well…” Lingering for a moment longer, you looked at him in hopes of seeing him turn to you one final time to honor his end of the agreement, but when he remained staring at the road ahead, you let it go. “I guess this is goodbye - thank you for what you’ve done for me, Lee Minho, I appreciate it.”

As you went to unbuckle your seatbelt, his hand wrapped around your wrist, his touch sending a chill down your spine and stealing your attention just like he did outside of the pet shop.

“I’m part of the mafia,” Minho spoke plainly, his tone emotionless, statement oriented, “the person I saw earlier was someone we’ve done business with before, some low life’s henchman most likely sent to get even, that’s why I wanted to get away like I did. I didn’t want our chance encounter to end with you getting hurt - you did nothing wrong, and I wanted to make sure you would be safe.”

The mafia… You weren’t sure if him being a cult leader would’ve been better or worse than this, but staring into his eyes, you could feel it wasn’t a joke, nor an elaborate cover up.

“What I said before, about not mentioning what I do for the safety of others… I swear to you that you’ll be safe after this - I’ll make it my personal job of making sure nothing happens to you because of this, okay? No lingering ties or deals to be made, you’ll be under our watch until we take care of that stunt they tried to pull.”

His promise eased the first stretch of fear growing within you, though the rest would have to be handled once you had the proper time to process your less than normal morning.

Nodding, you slipped your wrist from his grasp and grabbed your bag, turning to get out of the car until you froze.

“If you’re worried, you don’t have to-”

You leaned across the center console and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, a sign of gratitude, “Thank you, Minho.”

Reaching into your bag, you placed his container of catnip in his hand then quickly left the car - making your way up the flight of stairs to the lobby’s doors,only to turn around to see him patiently waiting for your entrance before slipping your way past the glass doors.

On the elevator ride up to your apartment, you couldn’t help it as your thoughts ran through the events like a film reel, though you weren’t sure if it was to get over the shock of reality, or to commit the image of that man to your memory.

Lee Minho, cat owner and catnip expert.

Lee Minho, morally gray mafia member.

Lee Minho, a man you hoped you would see in the pet store again.

✧. ┊Tagged lovelies: Tagged lovelies will now be done within the comments of the post due to Tumblr's tagging system being broken, thank you for understanding.

@luminouskalopsia, @zaethefangirl, @chxnb97, @sometimesleeknows, @hyunjinloverrrr, @rhonnie23, @channieswife, @beautyinhypnosis

✧. ┊If your username is in bold italics that means tumblr won't let me tag you. If you’d like to be added to the taglist, fill out this form!

[pampushky]

and I hate the way the townspeople gather outside

Alpha! Lando Norris/Omega! Lauda! Reader - chapter 4 - 5.5k words

And we're back baby! Warnings for this chapter: uh, just lore building. Lando thinks maus is lying lol. apologies for the possibly incorrect german, I'm rather rusty on it lol, but I'm brushing back up on it lol

oh and eggroll the service hound is a queen ofc.

also in need of more beta readers. dm if interested.

don't worry it'll make sense soon...ish

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The Previous Day, 2024. Sakhir, Bahrain.

Lando Norris watches the conveyor belt at the baggage claim, standing next to Oscar. The Australian’s arms are folded. You’re casually drinking a tall can of Red Bull as if you hadn’t gotten them into this situation, with a hands-free leash looped around you like a cross-body bag, connected to your little beagle, sitting patiently at your feet.

His eye twitches when another bit of luggage comes out that’s not his.

“Doesn’t your sire literally own a private jet company?”

“Not anymore. He sold it. Gained quite a bit of money from it.” You shrug. Offering a sip of the can to Oscar, who actually takes a hard drink from it, tipping his head back. “Besides. I fly normally most of the time. Better for the environment, no?”

“Who gives a shit about the environment?” 

“I do. I actually quite like to hike.” You frown as you look at him, brow furrowing. Your beagle yawns. “So does Seb. Didn’t you flirt with him your first year?” 

“I did what— no! He was like my grid dam!” Lando screeches, almost immediately trying to banish the images of Sebastian and himself in any type of relationship beside that of a rookie and a veteran driver mentorship. 

“Ah.” You nod slightly, and then go back to looking at the baggage claim. Studying it. “We flew business anyway. Why are you so pissy about it?” 

“We could have flown private or— or at least first class!” 

“Why, though?” You tilt your head at him. Momentarily scowling at Oscar as he’s drunk all of your Red Bull— a fact only discovered when you try to take a drink for yourself. “It’s not even a long flight, just seven hours.”

“Seven hours is a long time,” Lando chuffs, folding his arms across his chest. “I need to be able to lay down!”

“Okay, next time, we’ll fly first class,” Oscar buts in, already trying to smooth things over between the two of you. You almost look offended until Oscar glares at you from the corner of his eye, which gets you to bite down on your cheek. “Lando can schedule that.”

“Fine.” Lando sniffs, watching as more luggage lands on the conveyor belt. “But we are so upgrading to first for the flight home.”

“But that’ll cost extra,” you whine, which makes the dog at your feet snort. Lando silently decides that your beagle is on his side, in this argument, even if you don’t acknowledge it.

“Compromises, Mousey,” Oscar just puts one of his hands on the top of your head, the way an older litter mate might do to quiet an argument. It’s quite funny for Lando to watch, especially with the little huff you let out, conceding. “Compromises.”

The little smirk that Lando gives you nearly makes you growl, until Oscar just pushes down on your head a bit harshly, saying something about grabbing his bag and leaving the two of you alone. 

“So….” Lando starts, standing a bit awkwardly as you both watch Oscar struggle with his frankly oversized duffle bag. Your dog has now sat back down at your feet, watching the Aussie nearly fall over himself. “Mousey?”

“Oh my god,” you rub your face in frustration and prepare to clobber Oscar for revealing that to Lando. “I’m gonna kill him.”

“What is it?” Lando grins widely, suddenly finding a new way to torment you. To possibly break down the walls you have set up, all in the interest as making yourself seem like a hardass. “Like— some pet name, from your Oscie?”

“My Oscie?!” You screech, just as the Australian in question lets out a loud ‘oof’ from where he’s finally managed to lift the duffel, only for it to get caught on someone else's luggage, forcing him to walk awkwardly beside it while trying to unhook it from the other bag. Both yourself and Lando watch in partial amusement on Lando’s part and disappointment on yours. “Do you think I’m— oh, no, that actually makes sense you think I’m dating him,” You murmur, more to yourself, before looking at him stoicly, as if to clear it up. “That idiot is more like my littermate.” 

“Hey! He’s not that bad, he’s quite smart.”

As if to prove him wrong, Oscar somehow stumbles over his own feet, and falls onto the conveyor belt, now moving along with all the luggage, looking somewhat surprised at his new situation.

“Okay, so he’s got some quirks,”

“Trust me, I’m aware,” you watch as Oscar just sits on the conveyor belt for a few seconds, as if relaxing, before realizing he’s tangled the strap of his duffel bag around himself. “Besides— he’s courting someone.” You follow Oscar’s movement on the conveyor belt as he further entangles himself. “And as for Mousey… it’s a stupid name the media gave me. Because my Sisi was die Ratte, so I was called die Maus.”

“Why not like— Rat two, or Rat junior?” Lando’s brow furrows. He seems genuinely confused about the nickname, instead focusing on how it didn’t seem to make sense to him. Oscar’s adventures and struggles with the luggage are completely forgotten to him, while the poor omega finally manages to free himself from the conveyor belt.

“Ich weiß nicht. The media is dumb.” You mumble. Not looking at him for fear of him calling your bluff. 

But you do know the origins. 

Before your identity was made public, a picture had leaked of you, when you were still healing. A rare moment when you were allowed outside of the hospital to get some sunlight, and to slowly introduce you to the new country you were now living in, Mathias and Lukas doing their best to amuse you.

The picture had been you, sitting on Niki’s lap, looking tiny and frightened by how loud Vienna was, despite sitting on a bench in a park near the hospital.

Your eyes were wide. Your little face was still bandaged, your hair shorn close to your scalp, and your hands so heavily wrapped in bandages that it made you look like you were wearing white mittens as your wounds healed. Sitting on Niki’s lap, oblivious to the paparazzi, while your sire was looking at the camera straight on, the calculating fury on his face a heavy contrast to your wide-eyed anxiety and innocence. Flinching at every noise that wasn’t something familiar, with a shy smile on your lips as you stretched a bandaged-wrapped hand towards Mathias. 

How had it been leaked? 

Published to the press not a day later, the front page of some gossip magazine Niki had sued into oblivion. But that was the first picture of you the public had ever seen, tucked under the headline: “Die Ratte und das Mäuschen!” The rat and the little mouse. 

The article itself was just blatant gossip. Theorizing about where you’d come from, based on the fact he’d just recently flown to the United States and returned not even a month ago. Who you were to Niki to make him so protective of you— and what an unfortunate event it was that such a pretty young girl was to be branded with the same scars Niki bore. 

Had Lando ever seen the picture before? Probably not. But you could never be certain. Especially not with your last name, and the weight it carried in motorsport. Not with how freely any information the media got its hands on became public knowledge. 

“I agree,” Lando said tartly, snapping you out of your little dissociative state. Eggroll sitting at your feet, now aware and pressing a paw to your shin. Alerting that you were experiencing the start of a dissociative episode. Not that Lando knew that part— he probably just assumed it was a pet asking for attention. “Is your dog… asking for Red Bull?”

“She’s alerting. I had a trigger, or something,” You mumble, already going to lower yourself to the ground so she can sit in your lap to help keep you calm, her weight reassuring and familiar. “Eggroll’s my service dog.” 

Before Lando can even question the fact that you have a service dog, and further, the fact that they dog's name is Eggroll, Oscar finally lets out a yelp for assistance, now pulling your bag and Lando’s from the claim, looking like he’s going to get pulled onto the little conveyor belt again by his bag.

The older driver rushes over, forgetting about Eggroll and your mystery disability that required you to have her, helping Oscar pull the two remaining bags off the track. And by the time they’re both heading back towards you, you’re standing up again, and Eggroll is alert by your side, and Lando’s already forgotten about the little talk you’d both had. 

Two Days Later, 2024. Sakhir, Bahrain. 

It’s the second day of pre-season testing. Everything is terrible. You’d always hated testing out your ideas and putting a driver in the seat. A chance to have all of your carefully laid calculations and strategies, brought to you by countless other mechanics and engineers, and then having to make the hard decisions on what should actually be included. Or. That’s what it was like at Williams. No one would dare say it to your face— but they underestimated you. You were, firstly, the child of a wealthy and famous Formula One legend. Secondly, a woman. And third, your worst crime, an incredibly well-educated and blunt omega who would never back down when you knew you were right about something. 

The Williams team who worked with you always seemed to regard you with thinly veiled loathing. Jealousy. You’d applied under an assumed name, wanting to strike out on your own without your sire’s name attached to you, cutting the symbolic umbilical cord. They’d already removed the fact that gender wouldn’t be taken into account, much less your designation. When you’d shown up, with James to back you up after you’d gotten the job, and the proof to show that all of the accolades under your name were your own, he had immediately sunk his teeth in. The investigation had revealed just how much he’d whispered about you to the rest of the team. The lies told about you from the very first moment you’d stepped in the garage. He had orchestrated it all as if it were part of his plan to have you as his mate, stuck in his web from the moment you’d joined Williams.

Only Alex had been truly welcoming. Understanding the struggles of your stepping up and the jump into Formula One after finishing your masters. And Nick… he’d been nice enough. A bit awkward. But that was alright. You’d both commiserate over being considered “outsiders” to the Europeans, occasionally joining Lance at separate events when the isolation grew to be too much.

But you were at least partially European. A dual citizen in the United States and Austria. And your name helped to at least cover more of the disappointment in your parentage, or what the public knew about. 

You were a Lauda. Plain and simple. 

The last name Lauda originated in the Latin language. Likely from the word Lauds. The Morning Office. The first prayers of the day in the old, old ways of the Catholic Church. A Lauda was someone who sang the praises of a god you’re not quite certain you or your sire even believed in anymore. 

You’d seen the way his hands twisted when he’d prayed after one-to-many accidents. How his head bowed lower with each life or career-ending injury of some promising motorsport legend. The way he had cursed and screamed and raged after Jules Bianchi had died. You were almost 15. The funeral had been quiet. 

All you remembered was how broken the F3 driver had looked as he touched the coffin before it was pushed into the vault. 

Lauda became a name that people sang praises about. Raising your beloved Sisi on their shoulders and holding their hands together, clasped in worship when they saw him in the holy red and prancing black horse on a golden background. And you. The little Lauda, the new light of the family. They stared at you and whispered as if you already had a halo about your little head, shining bright enough to hide the mottled scars on your jawline and neck, your wide eyes more reminiscent of a little mouse than the slick, calculating rat your Sisi was.

The drivers cried for his guidance there. Micheal would lean and talk with him in hushed tones, with you balanced precariously between the two of them. There’d been a picture of you looking up at the two of them from where you sat between them, as if you could understand what they were discussing. Already trying to figure out a solution to the worries that creased your Sire’s brow, and to make your uncle smile. It’d made its rounds on social media when Williams announced you were going to be a Race Engineer starting in 2021. Now with your halo photoshopped in. 

To extol. Everyone wanted to see another Lauda charge forward in a car, backed by a legendary team. McLaren or Ferrari, they didn’t care, the media just wanted to see you from the moment your identity became public. 

That’s what everyone wanted. 

But the notebooks stacked by you state a different story. An alternative ending. The true ending. The way your eyes watered from the thick contacts being in too long. But the glasses caused too much of a glare when you were out in the sun. The twitching of your hands and the lack of the compression gloves that’s stopped them from aching. 

You would not be charging forward with a team in a car. But you could atleast guide them. 

That’s what you liked more, anyway. It was what you could do. 

What you wanted to do. 

A mechanic drops a wrench behind you, snapping you from your daze. Lando talking over the radio as you sit along the pitlane wall. 

You haven’t spoken once. Just watching and listening carefully as Will walks Lando through a practice run to get an idea of what McLaren ran like. The Alpha smiles at you warmly, lifting up one side of the headphones. You follow suit, intent on listening to whatever advice he may give. Even if you plan on turning everything on its head.

“Lando does quite well with positive reinforcement! It’s really been able to drive him to success in the past,” Will explains, his voice soft and his eyes kind even as he glances at the screens with all of their data. “Would you like to try? There’s no time like the present—“

“I’d rather not,” you murmur, looking back at the screens. He was doing alright. But not what you expected out of the current car. Not with what all the calculations and simulations had been saying. Positive reinforcement or not, the results were lackluster at best, and you weren’t about to reward him for pretty much just taking the car out for a joyride when he was supposed to be getting you data to work with and to use for strategies. “I thank you for the advice. But his data is not looking good.”

“What does she mean it’s not looking good?” Lando’s voice crackles through the headsets. “That was my best lap yet!”

“I mean it’s not looking good.” Your words are blunt as ever. Will’s face seems to drop at your… rather indelicate speech. “You’re not following the race line, and you’re taking the corners much too fast. You’re just playing around with the car, honestly.”

“Better than losing speed.”

“Tell the mechanics that when you crash. You’re driving the car like it’s the shitbox you had from five years ago.”  

Will visibility winces at that comment, and Zak just raises an eyebrow as he listens in on your conversation. Andrea laughs. Then you can hear the huff Lando lets out, actively taking another corner and nearly clipping the front wing on the railing. You hear a few yelps from the mechanics behind you for the close call. 

“Rude.”

“It’s the truth. You’re understeering like crazy right now due to how fast you’re taking the corners. I’m literally looking at the data to prove it.” You close your notebook, the final page filled with ink scrawls of notes you’d taken. No more notes. Only bluntness. “Do you want to be a champion? Or are you content to be Lando Nowins?”

“You’re a fucking dickhead, you know that?” Lando starts to take the corners even faster as if to spite you. But he’s following the set path much closer now. Your brow furrows. “Just let me fucking drive!”

“Stop taking the corners fast. You will make your own calls when you have at least four wins to your name.” You snap back, adjusting the mic to be a bit closer. “A single win can be a fluke. Match your number and we will talk.”

“Just let me fucking drive!” Lando roars, the radio crackling from how loud he shouts. Another near miss with the railing seems to scare him straight, responding curtly to you as you start to give him guidance. And you just smirk, folding your hands in front of you as you watch the data start to turn upwards, Will beside you, looking shocked as you seemingly force Lando’s hand into doing better.

“He gets positive reinforcement for doing well. Not for throwing tantrums.” You say to him, muting yourself so that Lando won’t hear the little comment. Still facing forward. Will’s face flushes slightly, and Zak just leans in a bit closer, looking at the notebook you’d written in. 

“He’s not a dog for you to train,” Will mutters. “Not like that American you worked with.”

“Watch it,” your voice is cold, and your eyes narrowed to slits as you look at him. It’s bad enough that you’re already tired, and that your eyes hurt from the contacts. But having someone drag Logan’s name through the mud when he wasn’t there to defend himself nearly makes you snap, pulling your teeth back over your lips, your scarred skin making your mouth almost seem lopsided, with the way it creases under the heavy makeup you used to even out the bumps, not looking quite right to those who are too close to you. “I have my ways. You have yours. But I am the one with the job now.”

You just focus back on the screen above you, calmly giving directions to Lando, who complies with sullen responses. When he gets out of the car, you notice Will leaning down to whisper something to him. But you don't care.

You have your ways. He has his. But you will not feed yet another ego.

The debrief after the second practice session is full of tension. Thick enough that Lando nearly gags when he enters the room. Something that makes Lando’s blood boil a little, especially with how you’re sitting just relaxed, arms a bit folded, leaning back in the office chair as you look at the slide deck of all the data that’s still being edited by the strategists. You’re across from him, while Will is next to Lando. Oscar is next to you, and on his other side is his own race engineer. You should be sitting next to Lando. Will should be a bit further down, with his new position. 

Yet there you are, sitting beside Oscar and laughing as the two of you speak. 

That idiot is more like my littermate.

Your words ring oddly in his ears. Were you just trying to throw him off? The two of you have your foreheads pressed together, whispering and discussing something like it was just the two of you in that room. Oscar smells so undeniably happy, with his eyes shining, and a little smile on his lips to reveal his bunny teeth.

You seem so satisfied. Pointing out the positive turn in data when you had held Lando’s feet to the fire. Doing the opposite of what Will had recommended. Zak just listens silently while Andrea stands at the front of the room next to Randeep, the head of strategy. The praise makes you give a small smile— Lando’s not even sure he can call it that. The corners of your mouth tip up, just a tiny bit, almost imperceptibly— and you continue to pay attention as Andrea signals for everything to move on. Oscar seems to preen at your being praised, and that all-but-seals the deal for Lando, realizing you’d probably lied about not courting him, for whatever reason.

But Will raises his hand. 

“Uh— I actually have a few concerns,” The blond alpha is polite, but there’s clear agitation in his words. You stiffen a little, but ultimately tilt your head to the side, questioning. “Mainly about how Lando’s new engineer seemed to ignore my advice,”

“....Elaborate,” Andrea motions for Will to keep speaking, though he seems agitated, a prickle of annoyance scenting the air. “Please try to keep this unbiased, Will, and also remember that each race engineer does things differently.”

“Right. I’ll just get right into it. I don’t like the way Ms. Lauda talks to Lando,” Will stands, clapping his hands together, and looking directly at you. You, in response, raise both your eyebrows and meet his gaze head-on. Cold. Calculating. The way you’re addressed almost feels too formal. Like you’re not really welcome at McLaren yet, as he refuses to use your first name. 

It’s not lost on you. And it certainly isn’t lost on Lando, who suddenly realizes Will is trying to make a statement of some kind, as the other alpha smiles at him, like Lando’s his littermate, that they’re closer than they’ve really ever been. 

“Lando, in previous years, has done great with positive reinforcement, even with how often his race engineer changes—”

“He’s also never gone further than the top five in driver’s ranking, nor won a race yet.” You respond cooly. Under the table, you’re picking at your nails. The claws on your left hand extend to pick at the back of the compression glove you’re wearing, custom-made to match your skin tone and to hide the burn scars that mar your right hand. Being careful not to break the fabric. Practiced. A perfected nervous tick that had only worsened since he had been sentenced. Perhaps you should take your anxiety medication earlier, rather than at night.

Will ignores your response, though he does pause a bit, biting the inside of his cheek. “Yes, that may be so, but we’re here to uplift him, and help him go further than before. Admittedly, the car hasn’t been the best in the past few years, but that’s changing. I’m speaking as his race engineer here—”

“Former race engineer,” You remind him, looking at Will, who looks to Lando again, as if ask for him to jump to his defense. “You’re not his race engineer anymore.”

All Lando wants to do is curl up in a ball because he really, really doesn’t want to get into the political power struggle between his current and former race engineer right now, even if you’ve not exactly been the most… approachable, for this first month. 

He feels nauseous, caught between the two of you right now. With how you’re staring him down, lips turned downward. One of your upper canines slightly snagged on your lower lip. 

“Yes, but,” Will huffs through his nose, now looking straight at you. You no longer look as calm as when the conversation— confrontation, more accurately— started. Just staring down Will, sitting stiffly in your chair. Maybe trying to intimidate him, using the legendary Lauda death stare. Perhaps it’s working— Will isn’t even trying to talk to you directly anymore, looking straight at Andrea and Zak. “Be reasonable, the way she spoke to Lando is unacceptable, I mean, Lando can’t help that he hasn’t won yet— but to outright taunt him as she did, it makes me wonder why she actually left Williams!” 

No one’s quite sure when he’d started to growl. Or when his scent had turned so bitter with frustration and outright disgust as he spoke.

But the fact is, Will used his voice. The edges of his irises had flashed red, showing his designation, and showed exactly what he was doing, even if he wasn’t aware he was doing it.

The aggression from him is shocking. Completely unlike him, in all honesty. But everything is frozen by the loud, panicked baying of your dog, now pressing itself into your lap, her nose against your face and licking your cheeks. Your eyes focus on the table in front of you, while Oscar grabs you by the shoulders, turning your chair to look at him. You let out a low, defensive hiss, and Lando can see the way you bare your teeth at him.

An odd ripping sound fills the room, the tips of your fingers extending and stretching until Lando realizes you’re wearing a glove on your right hand, and that your claws had ripped through the fingertips of it as Oscar now holds to your wrists to stop you from clawing at him. The edge of a scent-blocking patch is just visible on your wrist, where the glove had partially stretched and ripped because of the extention of your claws. 

And your dog keeps baying. Ear-splitting and urgent, as you wrestle yourself from Oscar’s grip, before directly baring your teeth at Will. Sharp canines under your pulled-back lips, one side almost looking a bit… droopy, as if your skin couldn’t tighten the way it normally would.

That snaps Will out of his daze, and he pales, starting to stutter out a response. “I—I didn’t mean—”

You barely manage to make it from the room, a flash of white near the door, in what Lando can only assume is your canine form, Eggroll still hot on your heels, baying and howling as she chases you. Oscar sprints after, pushing past Zak, who tries to hold you there. You’re gone— god knows where— along with the younger driver and your beagle.

“Mr. Joseph. A word.” Andrea hisses, and motions to the door quickly, the team principal's face set in a rare display of utter fury.

Lando has no idea what to do. Because this goes against everything he’s been taught and everything he believes in, Alpha or not. No matter how angry you got, no matter how aggravating someone might be— you never, ever let it get to that point. Not like Will had just done. Using his Alpha voice and almost certainly setting off some episode that your service dog was trained for. 

Truthfully, Lando had never seen someone use their Alpha voice. Yes, he had it. All the other Alphas he knew had it. But he’d never seen it actually used on someone. Sure, he’d seen people speak with it, but that was when he was in school, in health classes, learning to control it so he wouldn’t accidentally hurt anyone. Just like how Betas had to learn how to properly recognize scents, and how Omegas had to learn how to control their own scents, so as to not cause accidental distress to those around them. That’s just how everything was. 

Zak closes the meeting with little decorum. His face is stoic, a mask that hides whatever he’s thinking. But it’s clear that not a single word of what just happened will be spoken about outside of the team and those who’d witnessed it. 

“Zak,” Lando walks up to him, flinching at how the older Beta seems to stare right through him, “I didn’t— he didn’t tell me he was going to do that. He only said he didn’t like how Mouse did things,”

“Mouse?” Zak says in confusion. “Do you mean— never mind, but— we’ll— we’ll get this figured out, Lando. Just.... take the night." 

The way he says it doesn’t fully convince him, though. Even as he trudges to the nesting rooms, following the faint trail of the heavenly scent from last night. Room 12 is open this time. And Lando is a creature of petty desires. So the moment his body hits the pre-built nest in the little room, he closes his eyes and hopes the third and final day of testing while somehow be less of a shitshow than today. 

You need to use your canine form more. The click of your claws on the floor is a dead giveaway that it was a bit... neglected.

You’re panting, trying to find a small place to tuck yourself to hide, like your instincts are telling you to do. Following your instincts is good. Great, even. But you can hear Oscar and Eggroll’s steps behind you, almost upon you.

The wind is knocked from you, and you tumble forward as a human, with Oscar in his canine form on top of you. Eggroll trots up to your face, lets out an angry bay, before sitting down and licking your face to help ground you. It takes nearly a minute before Oscar trusts that you’re not going to try and run, and turns human himself, gently lifting both yourself and Eggroll, while you try (and fail) to tuck yourself into a ball, still thinking you're being chased.

Eggroll, seemingly all-knowing, bays again. Shoves her nose against yours. And then leaves a slobbery lick up your face, forcibly grounding you as you glare at the little beagle.

“Okay. Let’s talk.” Oscar hums, taking you to the nesting rooms, haphazardly choosing one that won’t look too odd to be closed. He helps you through the paces, wiping off the remaining adhesive for your scent-blocking patches. Letting you hide slightly under him, Eggroll grumpily pushing her paws into your side. “What was that?”

"What was what?"

"That," Oscar moves his arms as if to gesture to the entire debrief. "What else could I be talking about, Mouse?!"

“I don’t know. He started getting so angry,” You mumble. And you’re genuinely confused— nothing like that, even at Williams, had happened before. There were usually warning signs, if it was something with your scent. It was hard for you to regulate it, with how damaged your scent glands were. But you could, and that’s what your scent blockers were for. 

An omega’s scent could cause those around them to feel whatever the omega felt if they so wished it. It was a defense tactic that had evolved back from the early days of humanity. To control one's scent was to control the pack, and it often became a task for any prime omega to keep the pack calm, able to make sure level-heads prevailed in any circumstance. Just as the prime Beta and Alpha served their purpose, the prime Omega had their own duties to uphold.

You’d never been able to control your scent. Even when you presented, with Marlene to guide you through your Omega schooling, the majority of your scent glands, were too damaged. Quite honestly, you were unable to scent anything. If you tried too hard, the damaged glands would start to ache, and the few untouched ones would blister from having to overproduce the scenting hormones. 

“Do you think your scent…?” Oscar trails off as you go silent. 

“Shouldn’t have. My scent blockers are prescribed.” You mumble, squeezing Eggroll a little bit tighter. “They’re meant to make it so I don’t have to try and regulate my scent.”

As if to show your friend, your pack mate, you tremble, squeezing your eyes shut to try and regulate it as you’d learned to from Marlene. The scarred part of your neck aches with the effort it takes for you to control it. The gland on the other side of your neck manages to splutter out a weak stream of your scent before it starts to sting. Trying to make Oscar feel calm. Oscar just frowns, and then lightly pushes you to break your concentration so you don’t continue to try and regulate your scent, obviously not affected.

“Point taken.” He looks at the mostly undamaged part of your neck, checking it carefully. “Jesus. That’s gonna blister.” 

Eggroll huffs, and digs her front paws into your chest. Her mournful brown eyes look up at you in seeming judgement for pushing yourself. “They always do.” You gently scratch the dog’s head. “She did her panic alert. Not the scent alert.” You look back down at her. 

“So maybe you set him off?”

“Maybe,” you shrug it off. “He probably got scared of my face, right?” You feel the uneven texture of the scar on your jaw, the makeup you’d been wearing to even everything out now sitting on a soaked cloth in the corner of the room. The media knew you had scars. Fuck, everyone did. But your strict skincare and makeup routine ensured that many didn’t know just how bad they were. 

“You have makeup on, though.”

“But it doesn’t always hide the… droopyness.” You frown. Feeling how one side of your mouth moves less than the other. “Be honest, does it look like I'm having a stroke? Like a chronic one, or some shit?”

“No, you're just dramatic. ” Oscar puts his chin on top of your head, huffing. “The new treatments have been helping.” 

The huff you make isn’t as convincing as he’d like it to be. But you’re too tired to try and argue with him anymore as you let yourself try to relax and focus on the next and final day of testing tomorrow. 

tags: @charlesgirl16 @boo8008 @the-holy-trinity-l @laura-naruto-fan1998 @amalialeclerc @vellicora @st0rmzi3 @poppyflower-22 @hiireadstuff @seonghwaexile @mrsmelinda @actuallyazriel @noam-rosier-icr

[rekino2114]

Types of dates the assistant girls like

A/n:I wanted to write for more ace attorney so here you go

Maya fey

You know maya loves to eat and especially loves burgers so it's no surprise she likes fast food dates

Girl will bring you to McDonald's and act like it's fine dining (paying with Phoenix's money of course)

Whenever it's not fast food dates she also likes to bring you to watch her medium training so you can be moral support

It's not really a date and more like you screaming encouragement at her while she's crying because the waterfall she has to train under is too cold

She will randomly call you in the middle of the night saying that you need to come to the office because something happened just so you two can hang out and have a sleepover without Phoenix knowing

You have lots of snacks and watch sappy romance movies while cuddling and Phoenix walks in the next day and sees you sleeping on each other and just can't get mad at you

"Hey hey! Y/n wanna go eat out today? Huh? N-no of course it's not McDonald's again....i-it's....burger King! Yeah!.....so wanna go?"

Trucy wright

She absolutely loves bringing you to her magic shows, just you being there makes her forget all about the rest of the spectators and give her 110% during the show

So since this happens often you have mini dates in her dressing room before and after the shows, you'll bring snacks and talk with her about all the tricks she's going to do/did

When you do go on actual dates she likes to go around the city and just do whatever, maybe do some window shopping or pick flowers together, she just likes being with you

Whenever she gets recognized while on a date with you, she'll do some tricks for her fans to entertain both them and you and present you as if you're the famous one

She also loves to go see other magicians perform to get inspiration for her tricks. After the show, she'll tease you asking if she was the better magician and you always say yes of course

"Oh hey y/n what's up? Did you like the show? I'm glad, it was all for you cutie! Want a sneak peek of my next trick?"

Kay faraday

Kay often steals edgeworth's wallet so she has enough money to bring you on cool dates

Some of her favorite spots to go are sushi restaurants, especially all you can eats and those conveyor belts ones, she'll tell you You don't need to worry about money and can order anything you want since it's not her money in the first place

Sometimes, on particularly beautiful nights, you two sneak out to go to the top of a tall tower and watch the scenery and the night sky, the view and beautiful and you and Kay love it (just make sure she doesn't fall down)

When during random walks, she sees a sakura tree she immediately takes out her camera and starts snapping pictures and selfies of you in silly poses like you're anime characters. You laugh at the pictures together later

"Yo y/n! Wanna get sushi tonight? Well luckily for us Mr edgeworth just won a case and got tons of cash, don't worry he'll never find out, I'm the great thief yatagarasu after all!"

Susato mikotoba

Definitely tea dates, she makes tea and snacks for you two and you eat while talking and staring out the window

Sometimes the tea dates are picnics and she just loves walking around the nature and getting to point at all of the things that interest her. Her food and tea are amazing and so is her curiosity

Very similarly she likes to just walk around London and nerd out about every little thing she sees that she read about in her books, her eyes sparkle every time she gets to learn about or tell you some random fact about londoners

Speaking of the books, you two definitely have dates where you read the newest herlock sholmes story and talk about it (even if you live with both the author and the protagonist you still talk basically only with each other about it) it's like a mini book club, susato brings tea and blankets so you can cuddle while reading together

"Oh my goodness! Look y/n! This place was mentioned in the last herlock sholmes issue. Isn't it amazing we get to see it in the flesh and have a date here?!"

[moutheyes]

gelboys cinematography go brrr: episode 6, part 2

I'm so sorry. blame boss kuno.

previously: episodes 1-2 | episode 3 | episode 4 | episode 5 | episode 6 part 1

OK BUCKLE UP WE'RE TALKING ABOUT THE ZOOM SCENE.

I've been wondering how this show would tackle a climactic scene like this where everyone's finally coming clean about their feelings, when these four boys have so many hangups about directly expressing themselves and only know how to perform romantic gestures via social media. would any of them actually be able to say the words out loud face-to-face?

I was so deliriously pleased by the decision to house it entirely within that most pandemic-coded of apps: zoom. of COURSE they would give each other covid, of COURSE this show could have it both ways: face-to-face yet still through a digital filter. and of COURSE the show would utilize zoom's specific functions and quirks to elevate the dramatic tension of the scene while also finding a way to drive home the humanity of all four characters.

blending zoom interface with "real space"

because we've spent so much time with these characters in their own spaces, we know the details of fourmod's graffitied bedroom walls and bua's considerable makeup collection and that conveyor belt in baabin's family's restaurant, the show is able to switch back and forth between the square-framed, low-res constraints of the zoom interface and the vibrancy of the "real space" inhabited by each character. in fact, you almost don't even need the frames on the right to identify the POV for the frames on the left.

building tension and showcasing interiority in digital space

in real space, the characters can only stare at their screens, which doesn't make for the most dynamic shots from a cinematography standpoint, as seen in the shots below. they're speaking as digital avatars, to other digital avatars, so even if they're framed as if in conversation, the eyes aren't pointed at each other.

but even in digital space, the camera can capture emotional depth through the tiny moments we're all familiar with: the slant of someone's eye line that indicates which zoom square they're looking at. this slow zoom in (pun unintended but unavoidable) on baabin, in the moments between fourmod asking bua who he likes and bua's answer, is so deliciously tense because of the way baabin's gaze moves back and forth between fourmod's square and bua's square. I think deep down he already knows what bua's answer is going to be, but he can't help the way his eyes move toward fourmod's frame despite fourmod not even having his camera on. even though the question was directed at bua; the uncertainty in baabin's heart is the true emotional focus of this moment, so the camera really closes in on him, letting the audience see his interiority and humanity brilliantly even within the digital trappings of an app with a fake background.

the inherent comedy of zoom

I cannot tell you how fucking hard I laughed when chian's heartfelt confession was interrupted by the teacher scolding her students. the contrast between the emotion of the moment and the absurd reality of his surroundings—the cutting back and forth between the zoom interface and real space—and the fact that he saw fourmod was single again and ran back to his old high school to pour his heart out on a borrowed laptop while sitting in the teacher's lounge, then had to scramble to find a more private place. all of it just makes this an insanely funny sequence.

then, of course, baabin's muted rant, which made me YELL because it's once again an apt metaphor for his inability to voice his feelings for fourmod all this time. also the way he immediately edits himself, because if fourmod stays running from his demons then baabin stays NOT SAYING WHAT HE REALLY MEANS OUT LOUD! (well, up until this point.) (Also Also! recalling his excuse to fourmod for all the deleted voice messages in episode 4, if baabin is the type to accidentally mute himself on zoom calls, then of course fourmod would buy that baabin clumsily butt-dialed him from a concert over a dozen times!!! I can't believe this show made me feel things about baabin's technology follies.)

there's also the tension of chian inviting bua in to clear the air, broken immediately because bua appears at first with a filter left over from a previous call and has to hastily change his settings. WHO AMONG US HASN'T!??

and finally, the timing of fourmod coming out of hiding and turning on his camera just to react to bua's bombshell confession... the first time all four have finally come face-to-face. I think it was significant that baabin withheld his true feelings until bua's confession; my read is that he felt he needed to answer bua's honesty with his own, and that at that point he owed everyone the truth—he was the last one to actually voice his true feelings, after all.

so now it's all out in the open, and the four of them must contend with the follow-up, fallout, and feelings to come.

even in zoom, three's a crowd

after bua leaves, baabin and chian declare their intentions to pursue fourmod, leading to a visual standoff before fourmod YET AGAIN yeets himself from the conversation, this time for good. we'd gotten the configuration before, but the context was different—baabin on mute, fourmod hiding his face. but now that everyone's declared themselves openly, the tension is now reflected in that same configuration of thirds, this time captured digitally.

...and even in zoom, fourmod is the king of avoidance

because what is turning one's camera and mic off if not an act of hiding! and what is leaving the chat if not running away!

THIS SHOW MAKES ME SO UNWELL, thank you if you read all of this.

[velchronica]

the little things ♬~*.°₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ blue lock

he’s not the best at the whole ‘talking about your feelings’ thing, or at least not the romantic side of it, but he loves you in subtle ways of his own

content: fluff, established relationship, aged up characters, gn!reader, sfw

wc: 0.8k

he typically walks fast. he takes quick, long strides and seems to cover twice the walking mileage that most people do in the same amount of time. damn him and his long legs.

but while he very much can walk that fast, and it’s probably more comfortable for him, he doesn’t. instead, he strolls idly by your side, fingers intertwined, without a care in the world. if he begins to pace ahead, he notices almost immediately, and slows back down, his footsteps matching your own.

you don’t even realise he does it, because his expression remains completely deadpan. you don’t notice his quick glance down at the pavement, or how naturally he falls into step with you. never straying too far from your side has become second nature to him. after all, he belongs with you, although it’s way too embarrassing to tell you that out loud. he’s not the verbally romantic type to begin with, so don’t expect him to go around broadcasting stuff like that.

when you’re out buying groceries at the store together, he sneaks in more of your favourite snacks to buy, even when you’ve sufficiently stocked up on them in the cart. even if he hates your favourite food—whether it’s the smell, the texture or just the taste itself that he despises so vehemently—the last thing he’ll do is deprive you of it. you shouldn’t feel obligated to not get the stuff you want just because he doesn’t like it.

while you’re browsing the aisles, he makes sure you’re always within his field of view, lest you get lost looking for a specific item. when you reach the refrigerated sections, he comes up behind you as you push the trolley together, his hands over yours on the handle bar, huddled up like penguins. he doesn’t want to see you shivering in the cold, even for a minute, and he doesn’t care if people give them odd looks as you point out a product from between his arms and the trolley.

and when you get to the counter and gasp, fretting that you’ve forgotten something, he sighs and almost rolls his eyes, but he still goes running to grab it before you get to the front of the queue. he runs like he’s on the pitch, sprinting past broke college students, off-work corporate workers, elderly couples, newlyweds, parents with brooding teenagers—everyone in the supermarket. everybody’s now openly gawking at the renowned footballer running through the store like he’s headed for the winning goal of the world cup, trainers squeaking against the tiled floor. he snatches two bottles of scented detergent from the shelf before turning on his heel and immediately heading back to you at record speed.

though he didn’t even break a sweat, and made it back to you with incredible haste, his heart flutters when you grin, taking the bottles from his hands and placing them on the conveyor belt. “i’m lucky to have you, aren’t i?” you laugh as he grumbles, taking you into his arms. “thanks, darling.”

and when he’s running late back from practice, he thinks of you as he’s driving home and pulls into the parking lot of your favourite coffee shop. he knows your order down to the smallest details of the random extras you like to ‘spice up’ your drink, so he orders that alongside a snack he knows you’ll like before heading back to the car.

upon hearing him unlock the door, you immediately get up to greet him and help take his stuff off him to put away. propping yourself up on your tiptoes to give him his daily welcome home kiss, you are pleasantly surprised by him handing over your freshly-made order. you resist the urge to tackle him, since he’s in the process of taking his shoes off at the door, so instead you opt for throwing yourself at him and smothering him with kisses, which is still an affectionate assault, but shhhh, neither of you are complaining.

“you didn’t have to, baby,” you say, beaming, “but thank you.”

he fails miserably at hiding his flushed cheeks. “it’s only ‘cos i feel bad keeping you waiting for me at home.”

“not ‘cos you love me, then?” you harrumph, pouting playfully, only for him to slither his arms around you and wrap you up in a bear hug.

“well, that too,” he relents, clicking his tongue.

“would you be willing to say it yourself, then?” you tease.

“no.”

“please?”

“(y/n).”

“mhm? alright, then,” you say, wryly, playfully prying him off you. “i see how it is.” you turn to walk away when he pulls you back into him, not done with you yet. he buries his face in your shoulder, the action muffling the embarrassing confession that he begrudgingly allows you the privilege of hearing.

“love you.”

you grin. “i love you too, baby.”

— ITOSHI RIN, (wc!)kunigami rensuke, itoshi sae, NAGI SEISHIRO, barou shoei + your fav!

© velchronica 2024

[steveharringtonat3am]

I can’t stop thinking about going grocery shopping with Steve like I can just picture him with his little list that he insists on sticking too but he doesn’t even complain when you buy snacks god he’s so boyfriend coded

Steve never lets you push the cart. Just like how he insists on driving you everywhere, he refuses to let you push the cart for a reason you haven’t yet heard. But you can’t really complain. Being tied to the cart was annoying. But by far the most annoying thing in the store was The List.

Steve would never deviate from The List. He would write it out before leaving the house, each item in order of where you would come across them in the store. He was very meticulous about it. So much so, you once tried to slip it in your pocket when you got out of the car.

It wad funny until he drove all the way back home to “go get it”.

“Come on sweetheart.” He checks over his shoulder to make sure you’re following him as he grabs a cart, pushing it into the store. He starts with the vegetables, as they reside on the top of The List. Most of the items on there were from you. Steve, for all his grocery diligence, wasn’t much of a cook so he relied on you for most of the ingredients you would need for the week ahead. Unfortunately, he was smart enough to know when you wanted something for yourself or for actual necessity.

You start to wander off as he inspects tomatoes. It’s a normal occurrence at this point. It’s boring to simply stand next to him when you’d much rather be standing in the ice cream isle, inspecting the various pints and boxes.

‘The freezer is empty enough for this.’ You think to yourself as you grab a jumbo box of popsicles and a pint of Steve’s favourite ice cream. You head back over to the produce section, eyes scanning over mounds of apples to find a mop of brown hair. As you place the items neatly in the cart, Steve catches your eye.

“Those aren’t on the list.” It’s a statement of a fact, eyebrows raised but a soft smile on his face.

“It’s getting warmer. They would have been on next weeks list.” You smile as if you won’t finish this box in a week.

“…Sure babe.” It’s a redundant yes. As strict as he is about the list, he simply can’t say no to you. Especially when you smile so pretty at him. You follow him into the bread section, picking up his usual kind for him. He nods approvingly and you try not to let the giddiness show.

He picks up a few things from the freezer section but the bag of potstickers that are not on the list makes you smile. Steve knows they’re your favourite.

As he weighs bags of frozen okra in his hand, you once again slip away. You’re right next to the candy and chips aisle so you take it upon yourself to grab some treats. Returning to the cart with an arm full of two types of chips and a few bags of candy, you once again receive an amused look.

“Did you add something to the list I didn’t see?” He teases as you put everything in the cart.

“Well, no but you always want a snack after work so this is good! And they have such good easter candy out!” You defend your choices despite the fact he’s already accepted the junk food.

“Whatever you say babe. Take it up with your dentist.” He grins as you smack his arm, following him to the checkout aisle. Of course, he doesn’t let you help put the groceries onto the conveyor belt but you can’t complain as you focus on the bright magazines.

As the cashier scans the items, you work on placing them into the bags you had brought with you. You were an expert at stacking, placing them into the cart as Steve retrieved the receipt. He hands it to you to look over for irregularities, taking the cart and pushing it to the car. He loads the groceries into the car as you settle into the passenger seat. You watch from the rearview mirror as he walks away. Thanking your past self for buying him those tight fit jeans, you put on your seatbelt as he returns, sitting down.

“Ready to go home?” He asks you, patting your thigh.

“Sure! Can we get coffee on the way back?”

“…Fine.” He loves you too much to object.

[yuzukult]

from home 03 || jjk & reader

title: from home pairing: jungkook x reader genre: richkid!jk, baker!reader, fakedating!au, fluff, angst, e2l, smut in future chapters word count: 8.1k prompt: jungkook is the youngest of five boys, the last in line to truly inherit any his parents’ money. but what if his mom suddenly cuts him off due to his current poor behavior and he’s forced to learn how it feels like to be part of the working class? a/n: .......... LMFAOOOOOOOOO SORRY FOLKS I ACCIDENTALLY DELETED THE ORIGINAL... anyways hopefully i copied the right chapter hahahhahahah

“You going to the staff dinner tonight?”

Raising a finger at Hoseok, Jungkook slips his phone from his pocket, skimming through the pages before landing on an app, typing a few things in before he looks up with a saddened expression on his face. “... I guess not.”

“Why? What’s wrong? Why can’t you go?” He turns his phone to show the both of you. 

JEON JUNGKOOKACCOUNT BALANCE: ₩33,258.75

“Jungkook!” You and Hoseok in unison exclaim in disbelief. “How the fuck do you only have $30 in there?” Jungkook shrugs, slumping his shoulders as he leans against the conveyor belt. “My mom hasn’t given me the modeling money yet. Our accountant is still calculating all of my earnings. You’d think with how much my parents pay him that he’d work a little faster...”

“We just got paid two days ago,” Hoseok points out, completely baffled as to how Jungkook was able to go through that money so quickly. “What did you do?”

Standing in the middle of Jungkook’s apartment, you and Hoseok just heave out a heavy sigh, shaking your heads in disappointment. He has new curtains, one that makes it easier for the sun to shine through in the mornings which has been an incredibly huge mood booster for him. His futons now have pillows and a blanket to claim their own. Then there was the fridge— full of almost every type of frozen meal from the aisles of the grocery store. And the pantry was an entirely different story; stacks of ramen, chips, cookies— they were practically spilling.

“Jungkook, you need to learn how to control your spending.” You say with great dismay, skimming through the labels of all the ramen bowls and packets that pile on top of each other. “If you keep going at this rate, you’re going to be so broke that you’ll be living on our couches on rotation.”

His face brightens. “You’d let me live on your couch if I needed to?” 

Ignoring his question blatantly, you start browsing his apartment with Hoseok. His suitcases and boxes remain full of things that he brought back from the estate which has you going through them in pure amusement. “You guys... wanna help me unpack or something?”

“Unpack or something. Either or.” You pull out a velvet royal blue suit from one of the boxes that’s still in its clear plastic jacket for the outer protective layer. “Jungkook, want to give me a reason why you have this?”

“Oh. That’s this year’s Hugo Boss. Haven’t worn it yet, I needed to get it fitted.”

Your nostrils flare at the words. “... OK, so why do you still have it? You’re a lower middle class guy living in a studio apartment that’s still probably being paid by his parents who have a butt load of money so they honestly don’t even know they’re still putting money into this. Why they hell would you have a suit that’s...” flipping the label around, your jaw nearly pops off when it drops to the floor, “₩665,175,000.00? Jungkook, what the flying fuck—”

“What?” Hoseok drops the bag of chips he’s in the midst of opening from his hands. Despite also coming from money, he was never that rich in comparison to Jungkook. “Yeah, Hobi, you heard that right. $600,000.00 buckaroos. That’s the cost of a house right there.”

“The Jeon estate is actually—“ You place your index finger against Jungkook’s lips to hush him. “Don’t even. You need to sell this suit.”

“Sell—“ Breathless, Jungkook looks like he’s going to pass out. “I can’t sell a limited edition suit. It was hard to even get it in the first place! What makes you think I’m going to sell it?”

“Because you have 30 bucks to your name.” You respond bluntly before picking up another suit that he has lying underneath the first. “Or sell this one.”

“Not the 2021 Vintage Gucci Men’s Suit!”

“How— One, how can something be vintage if it’s in 2021? And it’s not even 2021 yet?”

The sun begins to set; the rays peering through the curtains gradually dissipates, leaving the three of you sprawled across Jungkook’s new apartment with clothes splattered on every possible surface in the poorly lit room. He still lacked another lamp, but the one his mother left was going to have to do. The staff dinner plans are cancelled, mostly because reorganizing Jungkook’s belongings has been an unanticipatedly gratifying yet a fraught chore that took up more time than predicted. Jungkook was hoping to attend the dinner, but after seeing how much effort you and Hoseok put in trying to make his living space a bit more comfortable, the hope for going to the event has been pushed to the back of his mind.

“Do you guys want to order take-out?” Jungkook suggests, and both you and Hoseok nod while sharing each halves of the futon. “But we’ll pay since you barely have any money. You can get us next time.”

Next time, which means that you guys want to hang out with Jungkook again. 

To him, this is a huge step in the friendship direction. Throughout the entirety of his life, having friends had never really been a thing. Sure, he had play-dates per request from his mother, but those kids were fans of the stuff he owned, they didn’t even like him for him. It had become a recurrence up until high school, where the replacement for the need for friendship had been occupied with flings with women instead. People hung around him for the image, but he never felt a connection with anyone.

That was, until he met you and Hoseok.

Although he’d known Hoseok from showing up at the same parties, he never actually got to talk to him on this level until he visited the supermarket that fateful day. He was always the fun guy at parties; attention constantly gravitating toward him, whether he liked it or not, and he came from money as well, so Jungkook wasn’t sure if those people were surrounding him because of it. Sure, Hoseok’s parents weren’t as rich as Jungkook’s, but they were pretty high up there and could afford almost anything they desired.

Yet, he preferred this sight of Hoseok. Baggy hoodie and jeans, skin greasy from spending the day at work then coming to Jungkook’s apartment to unpack. He’s nagging at you for taking up too much space, covering the surface area that Hoseok had claimed to be his under an unspoken contract as you frown when he slaps your leg.

He likes this. There’s no gowns and tuxes in a ballroom with hors d'oeuvres worth the price of a car per bite; there’s no young people at a party, getting wasted and high, fucking in bedrooms that they weren’t sure who it belonged to; there wasn’t a dining room full of both family and strangers that attempted to start small talk about things he didn’t care about— there was none of that. Just comfort from people he genuinely wanted to impress and make proud of him. He’s not sure if he’s ever felt this way before and he’s barely even known either of you that long. Jungkook has been spending most of his life trying to fill a void in him and has been unsuccessful. He’s finally feeling like he’s going somewhere.

You and Hoseok finally agree on what to eat and he learns that it’s your favorite. Pizza. Extra cheese, pepperoni, sausage, spinach with an ungodly amount of jalapeño peppers, Hoseok mentioned earlier that night that your tolerance for spicy foods is stronger than the pits of hell. 

“Jesus, how are you eating this?” Jungkook cries, snot dripping from his nose while Hoseok wipes his tears after taking another bite. You sit there, unfazed, picking up the abandoned slices of peppers that sit in the box, dropping them into your mouth. “It’s honestly not that spicy. Don’t be dramatic.”

“Bitch, we are not being dramatic, your stomach is made out of whatever Captain America’s shield is made from...”

Jungkook’s phone buzzes in the midst of your argument with Hoseok and just from the name on his lock screen, his heart drops. Jeon Junghwan.

There were a couple things in life that Jungkook wanted to attain— the acceptance from Junghwan and his parents being on top of that list. Ever since Jungkook was younger, Junghwan had been the golden child, the rest of the four were just barely making it, arduously following in his footsteps. But he failed, he hasn’t been able to win the approval from him.

Jeon Junghwan [7:55PM]: Mother is having a charity banquet on Saturday. She would have called you but figured it’d be best if I contacted you instead. Something about ‘inspiration’. Please be at the estate at 7:00PM sharp.

Jeon Junghwan [7:55PM]: Goodnight, Junghwan.

“Why does he text like an old man?” Jungkook flinches, head turning sideways to meet with Hoseok hovering over his shoulder. “Junghwan, I mean. But cool, I was supposed to go to that banquet too, until I got called on a shift. Luckily you’re not scheduled.”

“Yeah...” He says quietly, seated on the floor as he leans back against the sides of the futon. “This is the first time I’m seeing my family after moving out. I need to plan this out right.”

“Well, what’s the plan?” Cheeks full of fries, you’re munching away on the other side of Jungkook as he contemplates the next steps he’s going to have to make in order to reach his goal. “One thing is for sure. You’re going to be my date.”

The breath has been stolen away from his lungs and his heart feels like you’ve pierced through his chest cavity and squashed it into the palm of your hands. He doesn’t know what it’s called (maybe a blowout) but the way your hair cascades down to your shoulders is marveling. In a black long dress with a slit that exposes the entirety of your legs, his breath hitches when his eyes meet the skin of your thighs, the spaghetti straps drape over your décolletage with the v-cut neckline only finishing it off right. He thinks this is his fatal moment. He’s never seen you dolled up like this before; cheeks brushed with a peach blush, lashes emphasized with mascara, liner that makes you look even more fierce, and lips... so buttery pink and plump that almost wishes he could—

“Jungkook?” He shivers, immediately pushing the thoughts out of his head. You’d probably stab him in mere seconds if you knew what he was thinking about. “H-Hey. You look good.” 

You grin, adjusting the fabric that hangs around your legs. “Thanks, you don’t look so bad yourself. Anyways, let’s get going. You said your brother sent a car for us?”

Even though Jungkook is a model and has posed in magazines in suits, it’s still a surprise to see how stunning he manages to look in person. He keeps his hair casual today, despite the formal attire, but when his fingertips rake through those luscious locks, it makes sense why he went with that decision. If you didn’t know any better, you wouldn’t believe that this hunk was living off of frozen meals and instant ramen for the past week. 

He’s pretty, yet there’s something that you can’t help but loathe about him. 

Jungkook is still from money, despite the amount of times you’ve seen him in the supermarket’s uniform and apron. It’s something you’ve been trying to force yourself to remember when you feel yourself slowly falling into the traps of his smile and looks. The reminder is there when a Mercedes Benz S-Class pulls up and Jungkook isn’t as astonished as you are. The window of the driver’s side rolls down, revealing a middle-aged man who wears a chauffeur’s hat and a grin upon his lips. “Jeon Jungkook, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“Hyungjin,” He dips his head in acknowledgement before saying your name, “... this is my date. This guy has been my driver since I was born. Park Hyungjin. He’s going to be taking us to the estate tonight.”

Jungkook opens the back door for you as you slide in with ease, completely in veneration at the characteristics of the vehicle. It feels luxurious, from the leather seats to the center console, and when you see Hyungjin beginning to raise the customized partition between the front and back seats, you’re shocked it can even do that until Jungkook halts him from doing so. “Uh, sorry, Hyungjin, she’s not one of those nights.”

Oh, you think to yourself, this was a routine. His preceding lifestyle is starting to unfold before you.

Arriving at the ‘estate,’ which was something you’d had been stuck with trying to adjust yourself in calling Jungkook’s family home, it’s an unreservedly different part of the home compared to your first visit however a sudden coldness hits your core from incredulity. How could anyone need a home this big? Jungkook guides you out of the car before you could even register the visuals of the home, waving Hyungjin goodbye and brisk “thank you.”

“Hold my hand.” His fingertips brush against the back of your hand discreetly, and as a reflex, you slap him away while he whimpers in pain. “What the hell was that for?”

“Sorry. Habit.” When you try to reach for him again, he opts for resting his palm on your lower back instead, keeping you close. “It’s okay. Is this alright?” You nod. “This is better anyway. We look close yet at the same time professional.”

When you step into the ballroom, you quickly learn that your previous time at the Jeon estate had only been a glimpse of what Jungkook’s sumptuous home had to offer. There’s something of a mezzanine or indoor balcony of some sorts with staircases that branch around the perimeter where a couple people stand idly. The chandelier that you saw in the dining room before was no comparison to what was currently hanging from the ceiling right now— there’s diamonds that hang like raindrops, intricately scattered with clear clarity that only the rich could identify and have the opportunity to see in person. The guests are dressed like those diamonds— sparkles and jewels of women that bathed in the crystals, accompanied by men who simply wore tuxedos and suits. 

But the real stars of the show were the Jeons. With Mrs. Jeon’s hair in an updo, it accentuates her collarbones and shoulders where her dress lies; a beautiful detailed lavender gown that you can already sense the weight of when she drags it behind her. You see where Jungkook gets his genes from.

The filler music from the orchestra that plays in the corner stops, the chattering along with it as they all divert their attention to the Jeons that stand by the railings of the balcony— the four boys and their dates. All that’s missing is Jungkook who stands beside you, hand graduating from your lower back to your waist. 

“Hello, everyone,” Mrs. Jeon greets, a pearly white smile upon her lips. “I am so thankful for your attendance here. As you know, tonight is dedicated toward the Cancer Research Foundation of Seoul, known as the CRFS, and I will be the host tonight but the true genius behind this all is my son, Jeon Jungsik.”

Jungsik approaches his mother from the side, dressed just as well as the rest of his siblings, shaking his head in disapproval. “Mother, I couldn’t have done this without you,” He says humbly, eyes browsing the crowd but pauses when he sees Jungkook with you by his side. There’s something hidden behind his stare, Jungkook hypothesizes, because his modest brother suddenly wants the spotlight whereas previously, he’d be standing in the audience. He can’t tell if it’s because it’s the first family event where he’s sober or if truly there’s something about Jungsik that’s different. “But tonight is a different kind of night. We’re here today not to just donate what we can to a good cause, but celebrating as well. I’m announcing my engagement with Kim Nari.”

An abrupt realization washes over Jungkook.

Kim Nari. The daughter of a tech mogul whose relationship with Jungsik would further advance the Jeon Corporation and skyrocket their profits. Her marriage with Jungsik would link the two companies together, creating possibilities for what seemed to be impossible. Which brings to question, why would Jungsik be interested in Nari? She’s a reflection in the mirror of Jungkook himself— uncontrollable, spoiled, and dependent with no future planned. Why would Jungsik, someone with passions, dreams, and stability want to be with someone like that? Something was up, and Jungkook can taste the bitterness in his mouth.

“Penny for your thoughts?” You ask, but you genuinely don’t care. Anything would be better than listening to conversations that were beginning to start up again at the hasty announcement. Nari has one of her hands sitting upon the rail, waving as if she’s the Queen of England, with a dress that may be deemed inappropriate for a setting like this. It seems that the rest of the family is hearing the engagement for the first time though because Mrs. Jeon looks like she’s going to faint and Mr. Jeon is holding in his anger rather than noticing Nari’s attire.

“Nothing, just... something weird with my brother.” He says before turning to give you his attention again. “Anyway, should I introduce you to my horrific bloodline?”

When Jungkook guides you toward his family members that have begun trickling down the staircase, you’re appearing to have heart palpitations from the suspense. The way the Jeons walk is intimidating alone; shoulders pushed back, straightened posture, and smiles that resemble authenticity on the surface but daggers will be pulled at their disposal if anything goes haywire.

“Mother, Father, this is my girlfriend...” You altogether miss when Jungkook says your name from the sight of his family up close until he squeezes your waist gingerly to capture your awareness again. “Oh, yes, hi,” You bow speedily, “I’m uh, Jungkook’s girlfriend.” Wait. Didn’t he just say that?

“Are you now? Last time we spoke, you said you weren’t,” Mrs. Jeon comments, and albeit her words sound harsh, the draw of her lips upwards say otherwise. It feels a bit forced, but you know it’s from the sudden news coming from Jungsik. There’s a façade of happiness when deep down, she’s disappointed. “We... we met after that night and he treated me to dinner for taking care of him. We’ve been... seeing each other ever since.” 

Mr. Jeon stands there in silence, observing the conversation between you and his wife before unexpectedly speaking up. “Did you attend University? And have you graduated yet?”

Jungkook knows what this is. The Interrogation. Every Jeon child’s significant other has gone through this and you were next. He had completely forgotten about it— mostly because his other brothers had gone through it years ago, and Jongseok’s ‘girlfriends’ had never really been girlfriends, so their dad had given up on that until someone serious came by.

He never thought it’d be him before Jongseok.

“Yes, back in 2016.” You state, fingers fidgeting with the metal chain of your purse. It was a simple question yet the way it’s executed is as if he’s searching for a particular answer.

The older gentleman tilts his head, the space between his brows crinkling in perplexity. He looks so much like Jungkook, except matured with wisdom, and if Jungkook was of any replication of his father when he’s that age, he’d probably still have a line of women after him. “So you’re older than Jungkook.”

“No, father,”  Jungkook chimes in, “... Quite the opposite. She’s actually a year younger than me. Graduated University rather early. Or... well, she finished high school early.” He can see from his peripheral vision that he has captured the ears of his other siblings that stand languidly. “Gifted, really. Child prodigy. Despite all the talented Jeon children, we’ve never had one of those.”

There’s a glimmer in his father’s eyes. He’s impressed. “Really?” His stiff tone has shifted to a lighter one. “Did you study in Seoul? What was your degree in?”

“No, uh, I actually studied abroad in New York after graduating high school. I was about... maybe fifteen at the time? I chose Food Science— I thought about being a Chef because my inspiration is Guy Fieri but someone told me to be a bit more realistic with my brain so here we are.”

Guy Fieri? Jungkook stifles a laugh at your secretive role model, rubbing your sides comfortingly. It’s something to tease you about later, but right now, you have a job to do. Swoon his father.

Mr. Jeon nods, hands slipping into the front pockets of his slacks. “Remarkable. We could use someone like you in the Jeon Corporation.”

Both you and Jungkook choke, clearing your throats at the sudden suggestion, glancing at one another. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m thinking about opening a chain of restaurants, something high end, something different.” Jungkook’s brothers are stepping in closer to listen shamelessly to the conversation, the look of disarray stamped onto each one of their faces as if it’s the first time they’re hearing this information, for the second time tonight. “I would love it if you gave me your take on how to proceed on some things, and help the chef formulate something that makes sense without him cheating me out on prices. Jungkook, tell Maeri to schedule something for us so I can discuss further details.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” You blurt, palms growing sweaty. “But you just met me, and Jungkook and I just started dating. Are you sure you trust me?” It’s another experience of déjà vu; Jungkook mirroring his father’s actions at the yacht party when he claims that he’d pay for your aspirations.

“Of course. Jeon Jungkook doesn’t have girlfriends.”

Just then, someone taps his shoulder and whispers something ineligible into his ear before he turns to you with his hand extended, and you take the offer with a firm shake. “I’m needed elsewhere. It was nice meeting you. Glad to know Jungkook chose someone fitting.” And with that, he leaves.

“Well, that was pleasant,” Mrs. Jeon comments, hand resting on Jungkook’s shoulder. “Seems that sending you off to live alone has brought nothing but good impressions on your father. Keep it up, Kook-ah. I’m going to go accompany him, so in the meanwhile, introduce her to your brothers, why don’t you?”

Turning your body to face Jungkook, you let out the hugest breath you’ve ever held in your entire life. “What was that?”

He looks equally as stunned as you. “I don’t know but that went so much better than I actually thought. I think that was the fastest he’s ever been fascinated by any of our girlfriends.” 

Jungkook’s father had strict outlooks for the company, one of them being that he wanted nothing but pure Jeon blood leading the corporation. This meant that the significant others of any of his children weren’t allowed to be part of the trade. So why did he ask you particularly for a hand in the family business?

“Jungkook,” One of his brothers calls out, your heads sharply jolting at the sound of his voice.

Have you ever watched Boys Over Flowers? When the Flower 4 walk through any entrance, it’s like time slows down and their hair flows through the wind like they’re models?

That’s what pretty much happens.

“Hyungs.” He says; it’s their own version of a hello and the atmosphere between them is tense. “It’s nice to see you sober, Jungkook.”

His jaw tightens. “I wasn’t an addict, just you so know. Made it easier being around you all.”

“Yeah, yeah,” The one you assume is Jongseok from your previous google search waves his hand, disregarding Jungkook’s statement before pointing his finger directly at you. If only you could bite it off along with his rude mannerisms. “Girl toy?”

“Girlfriend,” Jungkook corrects him and his other brothers are intrigued. “This is my girlfriend,...” As he says your name, your eyes immediately are drawn to the woman behind one of the males; shiny caramel colored hair with the simplest white dress that hugs her small waist that still manages to make her look like a goddess with a smile that was so sweet your teeth start to hurt. You recall catching a sight of her in the same magazines that Jungkook featured in and on the posters at the mall whenever you’d walk into a store but how she looked in person was flawless compared to those photos. She was like the real life version of a photoshopped picture.

“This is Hayoung, my brother Junghwan’s wife.”

“Uh, H-H-Hi,” why does she make you so nervous? Do you get anxious around extremely beautiful women? “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” She hums, cheekbones high with her grin. “Kookie never mentioned he had a girlfriend, let alone brought anyone to meet his family before.”

“Kookie?” You reiterate with a mocking tone. He knows you’ll never let him live this down. Least he still had the Guy Fieri thing up his sleeve. “Noona, it would’ve been nice to keep that away from her for a bit. I’m trying to ease her into this madness. She’s probably still recovering from that conversation with our father.”

“As if!” Hayoung counters back. Her husband, Junghwan, wraps an arm around her waist before dipping his head slightly toward you. “I’m Junghwan, Jungkook’s older brother.” He then begins to point at the other gentlemen. “Jonghyun, Jungsik, and Jongseok, respectively.” 

Frankly, it had been a lot to unpack for the night, and you assumed that the boxes back at his apartment were a lot, but this was truly a lot. Within an hour, Jungkook introduces you to almost anyone that plays a significant role in his life and elaborates on each of their backgrounds. 

Junghwan, his eldest brother, is married to the international supermodel Na Hayoung, and he’s the next in line to inherit the CEO position when his father steps down from the company. He’s been trained all his life for this role, apparently, and it’s evident in how he carries himself. Jonghyun, the second oldest, stands behind Junghwan in the company, supposedly his right hand man when it comes to business, joined at the hip although their personal relationship with each other isn’t as close. He’s also married, Jungkook mentions, but his wife is currently very pregnant and at home. He skips over Jungsik, only because you’ve met him over dinner, but he doesn’t miss a beat when he says that Jungsik is purportedly the angelic Jeon. Lastly was Jongseok, the last sibling before himself, and was described as something along the lines of, “the most useless, right after myself, and if it weren’t for his involvement with the marketing department because of his diploma, he’d be living in a studio apartment downtown, cut off from this family too.” Jungkook’s words, not yours.

The night slowly reaches an end, people scattering to leave the estate, thanking Jungkook’s parents for hosting such a charitable event. Just before you’re about to step out along with Jungkook, his mother had her fingers wrapped around your wrist. “Jungkook, you and your lovely girlfriend should stay the night. Downtown is far and your siblings will be here as well. Maybe you can show her to your bedroom? I know you’ve been missing your bed and well... maybe show her around your childhood home.” She pauses for a moment as Jungkook hesitates as you eye him suspiciously before interrupting his thoughts. “Your father wants to speak to you and your brothers in the morning anyways, so it would be nice for you to stay for breakfast, dear.”

“Are you fucking dense, Jeon Jungkook? I do not want to stay the night here.” Contradicting your angry words, you’re already unlatching the attachment on the straps of your heels, sliding them off while seated on the bay window seats of his bedroom, rubbing the soles of your feet. “I’m sorry,” He mutters weakly, falling on the foot of his bed. “I don’t know how to say no to my mother.”

“Well, quit being a fucking momma’s boy and call an Uber. I want to go home, Jungkook.”

“Uber’s don’t run this late at night in the area. We live too far off the grid.”

“Well, then ask Mr. Hyungjin to pull up in his whip and take us home.”

His face drops, a guilty look pooling in his orbs. “We sent him home. He’s technically off on the weekends. Hyungjin only came out because Junghwan asked for him beforehand.”

You grumble, laying back on the cushions, locks tangling along with your mood. “What are we supposed to do here? Share a bed? What am I supposed to wear to sleep? Did you already ask your housemaids?”

“No,” He answers bleakly, standing up. “But I’ll go ask now. In the meantime, you can watch some TV? Then when I come back you can shower and do whatever you need. I think I have a spare toothbrush for you to borrow. As for the bed thing...” Jungkook looks over at that California King that he misses so much. “... it’s more than big enough for the two of us, I’ll keep my distance from you without a problem.”

Before you can counter the suggestion, he’s already out the door.

Perusing through his bedroom, you soon learn that this ‘room’ of his is the size of your childhood bedroom times five with a closet the size of your apartment with a connecting bathroom that was equivalent in surface area.

Then it has you thinking. Jungkook grew up like this, in a life of grandeur where everything he had, he had a plethora of. Whether it be education, belongings, or the aid of people who tended to every need he had, it never seems to run out. He had a driver since he was born while you struggled to learn how to take the bus alone at the age of 7. Or running out of money to pay for a new notebook for class since you’ve been using the same one for the past two grades in order to save cash so your parents could put food on the table. While Jungkook over here was probably tearing down trees in his yard to make all the paper in the world. What about noticing that you were ahead of the kids in your class? No one seemed to have realized it until you said to someone that you were bored, and needed more challenging material when you got sent to the Principal’s office per request, begging to be with the bigger kids.

If you had the money Jungkook had, you would’ve been able to pay off both yours and your parents’ debt in addition to opening your bakery all within the same year. 

But you aren’t Jungkook, and jealousy just runs through your veins alongside the enmity. 

Entering through the housemaids’ chambers was a nostalgic feeling that he couldn’t exactly say was his favorite. Sneaking down here during the late hours of the night for quick sex and running back up to his bedroom felt like such a teenager thing to do at the age of twenty, so he instantaneously gave up on that. 

There’s two wooden doors to choose from. Nayeon, the house servant he slept with several times before realizing that she had falling for him while thinking it was some forbidden love, and Hana... also a servant that he had sex with until she also fell in love with him.

So which one of them would be less upset about him asking to borrow their sleepwear for his new girlfriend?

Answer to that question: neither because they both slammed their doors on him after asking. He should’ve figured that sooner.

Next stop: Junghwan’s room. Maybe Hayoung had something for you. 

He hesitates when he’s standing outside of his brother’s bedroom door. It takes him back to when he was a kid all over again, desperate for his big brother’s attention who didn’t even have enough time to dedicate to him. Taking in a deep breath of courage, he does it yet again, his knuckles tapping against the wood that makes the same knocking sound.

Peeking out, Junghwan looks at Jungkook with a perplexed expression. “Jungkook, what’s up? Are you alright?”

“Uh, yeah. Is noona with you?” He nods. “Yeah, of course. She’s washing her face right now, wanna come in?” Jungkook steps into the room, ambivalent with each movement because he’s never been invited into Junghwan’s room before. It’s almost exactly what his room looks like, except all the shades are dark, varying from grey to navy, with his bed, closet, and bathrooms in the same locations. 

“Hayoung, Jungkook is looking for you.”

“Kookie?” Coming out the bathroom with a robe on, her hair is drenched as she attempts to towel dry it, face pretty even without makeup. “What’s up, bub?”

“Uh, my girlfriend,” He starts, rubbing the back of his nape anxiously because he’s never said those words before, “She doesn’t have anything to wear tonight. I have some clothes, but I think she’d feel more comfortable if she at least has some pants.”

“Tell her to sleep in her underwear, what’s the problem?” Because she’s not really my girlfriend, is what he wants to say, but he takes a different approach. “We’re... still in the early stages. So, uh, you know. She’s shy.” She shakes her head with a smile upon her lips. “Okay. Give me a second. I have a bunch of clothes that I left when we used to live here.” With that, she disappears into the closet.

“I’m... proud of you, Jungkook.” Junghwan speaks up, protruding through the silence. Jungkook just stares in bewilderment, unsure what he even did to make Junghwan say those words he had dreamt to hear coming from his eldest brother. “Other than landing a girlfriend who is definitely way out of your league, you’re actually showing some progress living alone. I honestly didn’t really agree with the plan that Jongseok proposed but... I see it’s working well.”

“W-What do you mean?” Jungkook questions. He still can’t believe what he’s hearing.

Junghwan hums. “You were able to find a job yourself. I haven’t seen you coming back begging for money again, and you found someone who doesn’t have the facilities to give you the lifestyle that our parents gave us. You found love without money and I think it really makes a person humble.” He’s fiddling with the strings of his sweatpants now, comprehending that the two of them don’t really talk one-on-one. “I know I changed a lot when I met Hayoung.”

“Kookie, I think I have a couple options for you— whoa, why does it feel so sad here?” She remarks, stopping in the midst of her walk toward Jungkook. “You guys... alright?”

“Nothing,” Junghwan responds quickly. “I just wanted to tell Jungkook that I’m proud of him.” This does nothing but prompt Hayoung to roll her eyes, laying out a pair of shorts and a silky baby blue nightgown. “Junghwan is always proud of Kookie, just not always the decision he makes. Anyways,” She completely brushes off the topic that Jungkook wants to hear, but he’ll circle back to that later. He had a pretty girl waiting in his room who had the temper of the Hulk. “I have two options for you to give her. Maybe you’ll get lucky and she’ll wear the night gown?”

Jungkook scoffs. “If I brought that to her, she’d probably wrap it around my neck and choke me within seconds. Keep the gown, I’m taking the shorts. I’ll let her wear one of my T-shirts.”

“Are you sure?” Hayoung sings and Jungkook tells her he’s almost confident that he’s going to die tonight if he so much reaches the door with that thing in his hands.

Jungkook chucks the shorts at your face while you’re laying on your back on his mattress. “Here you go, Mrs. Fieri. The girls wouldn’t lend me anything because well... I may have slept with them both and they were hopelessly in love with me. Hayoung noona gave me those shorts instead.” He’s babbling on about how rude the housemaids had been when he asked, but you’re canceling his voice out because the coolest chick you’ve ever met just lent you her shorts.

“... Are you even listening to me?”

“Huh?”

He snaps his fingers in front of your face but registers that it’s no use. You’re too busy trying to decipher how God decided to gift Hayoung the looks and the personality that you miss when Jungkook leaves the closet, throwing a plain white t-shirt at your direction. It’s huge compared to you, yet seems like it would fit him well. “Go shower. I’ll be in there after you.”

It’s awkward.

So goddamn awkward. 

Jungkook is wearing a black T-shirt of some band you can’t recognize because the majority of the print has been worn off paired with grey sweatpants that hug his ass so beautifully. Scratch that. You never thought that. They look soft. That’s what you meant.

While you’re currently occupied with attempting to avoid looking at Jungkook, he can’t stop staring at your exposed legs and notice how small and cute you are. Soft. It’s tempting him to want to wrap his arms around your frame and snuggle his nose into the crook of your neck while inhaling the scent of his body wash on your skin. He wants to blame it on the dry spell he’s having because all he does is work nowadays that once he gets home, he’s completely drained. Alcohol doesn’t even appear in his mind either. Or maybe he genuinely thinks you’re pretty and having you in his bed doesn’t make it any better.

Sitting on the farthest opposite ends of the bed, Jungkook clears his throat. “See? I told you that the bed is way too big for the two of us. Should be easy to steer clear from each other.”

Wrong. Incorrect. You should’ve known that Jungkook would be fallacious.

The sun gleams through the sheer white blinds of his prodigious windows, illuminating your faces on an unironically Sunday morning, emitting a groan from a stiff beside you. Your body feels heavier than usual, almost like something was pressing down on you. 

You panic. Were you having a stroke?

After forcing your eyes open from the dry boogers, you can’t believe the sight. Jungkook has his arms and legs tangled in the sheets with yours, nose brushing against your shoulder. He’s so cosy, the most he’s ever been, and the warmth from your body is like a different feeling of home for him. It’s comforting like a cup of hot chocolate during the harsh weather in the Winter or swaddling yourself in a blanket in front of the fireplace. Now knowing how it feels to be in your embrace, he’s not sure if he wants to let go.

“Jungkook, please get the fuck off me.” You bite. Cuddling was not what was discussed in the terms of agreement. Not that there was one but having a buff guy curled up beside you that wasn’t actually dating you was making your heart do cartwheels when it shouldn’t be. He doesn’t seem a bit rattled knowing that he’s snuggling up against you because he scoots even closer. “Five more minutes.” He mutters. His dreams of taking in the aroma of your natural scent mixed in with his shower gel were coming true.

You push him off with as much strength as your body could gather, yet you fail underneath those muscular arms. Those big, thick—

There’s one knock and someone just immediately flings the door open with a gasp. 

But then you see them. Jungsik and Jongseok. 

You don’t know why but you care about how Jungsik sees you, but you care. He’s the closest to your ideal type— as unrealistic as it is for him to ever have a relationship with you, especially since he has a fiancé now— yet at the same time, he knows you’re ‘dating’ Jungkook, and whether or not he believes it, you’re not sure, but your chances were already wearing thin as it is, even worse now that he’s witnessing you in the same bed as his youngest brother. You may have a teensy weensy little crush on your fake boyfriend’s brother.

“Cute,” He chuckles, already dressed in his daily attire; grey slacks that crop at the ankle and a navy dress shirt that doesn’t button up all the way, hugging tightly around his pecs that doesn’t leave much to the imagination. “Well, we’re sorry for intruding. Father wants us down for breakfast within an hour. Wake up your boyfriend for us, will you?”

“I’m not sorry,” Jongseok adds with a devilish grin before he quickly shuts the door and leaves promptly with Jungsik. Jungkook hasn’t even moved, not even twitching the slightest bit despite his brothers’ abrupt invasion.

You officially hate Jungkook even more... if that was even possible.

There's an abundance of choices for breakfast foods that sits on the length of the dining room table that you had gotten a glimpse of during your first visit to the Jeon estate, more food than you've ever seen in one place. They had waffles, pancakes, sausages, bacon, toast—all that’s expected of a typical American breakfast laid out like it’s a picture from the Food Network Magazine. He has servants, shuffling through in and out of the room, placing plates and utensils in specific detailed orders before they pull out the heavy upholstered wooden chairs for each and every member of the family in invitation. 

"Uh, it's okay, thank you, I got it—" The woman who has her hands gripped on the framing of the seat tightly as she clenches her jaw, has a glare shooting lasers in your direction. Maybe you'd just take the offer and sit instead. She might be one of Jungkook's late night affairs, you never know what she'd do to your food if you didn't comply.

Sticking out like a sore thumb, you settle yourself by your now claimed to-be-boyfriend who sits comfortably in his own seat since he's owned it for two decades now. You, however, it's your first day and you're not even sure how to feel. Hayoung seems to be doing the opposite; eyes shiny from excitement at the sight of all the options that are laid out in front of her. You can agree to her interest, the Belgium waffles that's stacked at the center of the table with a square of butter residing on top makes your mouth water.

"Thank you all for coming," Jungkook's father announces, the chair he's rested on makes him look so tiny at the head of the table. "I want to discuss some matters with all of you and also invite Jungkook's new love into the family. Honestly never thought this day would come where I'd see my most troublesome child make such advancements in a short span of time."

There's reticence along the table, Mrs. Jeon beside him, eyes searching the table for something in particular. "The proceedings with this engagement with Kim Nari, Jungsik. What did you expect would happen with that?"

And there it was. The conversation that had been put off last night due to guests being on the residence. It's because of two of the things that Mr. Jeon stood by when it came to his family and business: no bloodline, no business entrance had been challenged and the Interrogation had never been in place. 

"Father," Jungsik clears his throat, pressing his back against the cushion. "I'll have you know that I'm only thinking of the future of our company."

"Without talking to me about it?" He snaps, agitated. He doesn't even care that a complete stranger is sitting at the table with them. "What gives you the right to be the only person to know what's good or not for the company? Why not consult with Jonghyun and Junghwan? Why am I told that no one knew about this?"

"Well, I thought—"

"You thought wrong." He confirms, and the Belgium waffles don't seem as appealing anymore. His firmness makes your stomach queasy, despite not being his current victim. "Terminate your engagement. You don't love her anyways. I don't need any affiliation with a self-obsessed tech company."

"But father—"

"None of that." He shushes his son, laying a beige cloth napkin on his lap. "I'm tired of having to teach you how we run this business. I gave you a percentage of the company and I expect you to know what to do with it, which is not to share it with some airhead who doesn't even understand what her own father's company does." Jungsik's body stiffened at his father's lecture after he made a decision solely for what he believed was beneficial for the family business. "Anyways, let's eat." 

"Why do you favor Junghwan over the rest of us?" Jungsik spits, fist slamming against the table. The cups, silverware, and plates trembled underneath his strength, startling you. "I can't believe that I let you walk over us for so long. I can't believe that any of us has let you do it. In reality, none of us get your fortune, just Junghwan. What about the rest of your children? Do you have the only one? Or did mother have an affair for the remaining four?"

Yum, drama. You admit you were getting a little bored last night at the banquet, but his conversation was perking you up in interest. Jungkook oddly remains cool, turning to tap one of the housemaids to pour you some apple juice, patiently waiting for the go to eat. 

Jungsik is disparate in this light because he's not the compassionate and gentle soul you had assumed he was during your first encounters and what was seen on the internet. He’s fierce and competitive, in actuality, with this hidden duel behind doors against his eldest brother. The description written of him was all an image that was portrayed to the public and you start to see what Jungkook means now when he says "apparently" or "supposedly" whenever talking about his older brother.

And Jungkook... he's strangely distinctive as well when sitting amongst his siblings. He's quiet, actually, and attentive, but you take note that he mentions before how he often comes to these things under the influence, and that your presence was what halts him from doing so. 

"Just eat. We'll talk privately later." Mr. Jeon says through his gritted teeth, tips of his ears fading red from Jungsik talking back.

"I saw you eying that waffle earlier," Jungkook says in a hushed tone, leaning into you. "Want one? I'll grab it for you."

OK, maybe he wasn't that bad. He knows what you like and he’s getting it for you. You’ve waited long enough.

The Jeons are awfully good at pretending the argument between Mr. Jeon and Jungsik didn't occur. Everyone sits in lull, occasionally exchanging comments with whomever sits beside them but consuming their breakfast with glee. It wasn't something you were used to.

When you're back into Jungkook's room, you slip on a jacket that you brought the night before, zipping it up. "Is that... normal?"

"What's normal?"

"That whole thing with Jungsik and your dad. Do they fight often? And do you guys normally just... sit there and forget it even happens afterwards?"

He slides onto the bed one last time, inhaling deeply in the scent of lavender, wishing he could take this bed with him as he absentmindedly responds, "Mmm. Yeah."

What kind of family dynamic is this? "Yeah? And you just... watch?" 

"Well, what else are we supposed to do? Join in? Take sides? Hell no. It's a different sibling each meal and every time there’s always someone being jealous of someone else. We don’t really get along here and it’s just what we’re used to.”

Treading into Jungkook’s reality was starting to become comprehensible. Almost justifying the way he is, how he’s utterly clueless in basic situations and disconnected he was from the world. Because this is his world; his parents, four brothers, and house full of servants, and he knows nothing outside of it. Their home is completely off the grid, separated from people living regular lives, he even has his own tennis court (you learned from the view from his bedroom), and no one normal has their own private tennis court. His mother has been shielding him his entire life, letting him grow and become a shell of a man in an empty home.

Family isn’t family to him, is what you’ve come to terms with and something he hasn’t yet accepted because he hasn’t seen what a real family looks or feels like. His home isn’t a real home but brimming with employees who work for his family that probably see him more than the people who he called relatives.

It makes you pity him and want to show him what it’s like to be home.

[taffywabbit]

[kind of a longwinded vent post i guess, i was gonna just make a sort of tired joke post but then it actually wasn't a joke oops. don't feel obligated to read this, i just need to put my thoughts somewhere]

man. i am wayyy too damn busy this week to be getting hit with as many heavy thoughts and potentially entire-perspective-on-life-altering realizations about my identity and mental health as i have been. why can't i ever have important stuff to think about during literally any time when my life affords me the time and energy to think about it properly. it just ends up being loud background static behind my existing stress every time because it's like... i obviously do have tangible stuff i NEED to prioritize, and it's reasonable for me to put that first, but i still end up feeling like i'm somehow being cowardly or irresponsible by putting off the internal processing that's demanding i pay more attention to it.

i'm literally just living that one post that's like "i'm probably nonbinary but i have a job so i don't really care about that right now" or whatever, except i'm already trans so swap that first part out for a growing list of possible untreated mental illnesses, an increasingly-hard-to-ignore identity crisis, the looming dread that i cannot keep treading water in my current stagnant career forever. also, most notably, a general sense that i have no idea where my life is going or what i want from it now that i've finally broken down my mental wall labeled "you can't pursue anything else you want until you get your ass in gear and start transitioning already", gotten some joy out of that, and then realized there wasn't much else it was actually obstructing. and it's like. breaking that wall DID at least give me a clearer view of things and now i have plenty of other important stuff i could unpack, but it feels like i'm just stuck on a nonstop conveyor belt of "actually i don't have time for that because i'm behind on work again" that prevents me from making real tangible progress in figuring my shit out, even now.

like i am aware this is very much a "GOD i need to talk to a therapist" type situation but guess what! seeing a therapist costs a lot of money (yes, even in canada) and takes time and effort to set up, and if i want those things i'd better get my work done! except oops now i'm once again too busy to do anything BUT work, because i burned out and slowed down and the work took too long again and now i no longer have the time for the genuine proper break i needed in order to do anything for myself besides earn money.

one of the most frustrating parts is that HRT has seemingly made me a lot more emotionally sensitive and outwardly reactive (as it reportedly does for many people), and instead of that being the cathartic experience it should be, it usually just manifests as all my shit very visibly unraveling at the seams as i spiral and make an ass of myself and push people away, where i previously would've at LEAST been able to hold it together a bit better. so not only do i feel like i'm not making progress, it's constantly taking all the energy i can spare just to avoid crashing out and burning all my bridges and leaving myself with no external supports. my friends are kinda all i have right now, and i'm painfully aware that the more i procrastinate sorting out my issues, the more danger there is that i'll damage my relationships with those i care about if any of this internal pressure leaks out at the wrong time. which then becomes yet another fear to add to the pile of stuff i'm not equipped to deal with right now

idk. i was about to instinctively say "i'm fine tho" and that's very clearly a lie, but like. i WILL continue to manage at least. i'm not in any physical danger from myself or others, nothing is gonna happen to me, you don't have to worry about anything like that. i'm just overwhelmed and exhausted, and i don't have any good outlets for talking about this shit anymore besides just dumping it on friends at random, which feels shitty and i would really prefer not to make a habit of it. i just feel like i'm waiting for some kinda stroke of good fortune to come along and perk me up and give me enough of a jolt of extra energy to start doing things differently, kinda like last year when i suddenly stumbled into getting my transition stuff started and then THAT gave me enough confidence and excitement to seek out an ADHD diagnosis a couple months later. just something to break me out of this routine temporarily and help me feel unburdened enough that i can do SOMETHING, y'know?

but in the meantime i feel like i just need to like. signal in some way that i am Really Going Through It, if only to counter my own instinctive efforts to always maintain this illusion of perfect functionality and never cause any problems or allow anyone to worry about me or be annoyed by me ever. professionalism be damned, i make art for a living, i do not have the luxury of separating my job from my self-expression and trying to pretend everything's going smoothly in terms of work will always kinda inherently come at the cost of trying to convince myself it's going smoothly in my personal life too. to some extent i suppose MOST people don't - the shit that affects you at home is gonna affect you at your office job too, sooner or later - but in my case the false wall of work-life balance is like a two-way mirror, because drawing is also my most treasured hobby and lifelong source of comfort, and any outward-facing concept of professionalism i construct only exists for my audience. there's no fooling myself with this stuff, it's all i have and all i do and the only difference is that sometimes people pay me for it so it becomes "work", but not the kind i get to clock out of at 5pm on weekdays. if i'm going to talk about what i'm going through and be open about my feelings at all and encourage people to see me as a living breathing person, it inherently is going to make me look like i'm also complaining about my job, because my job is to make art and my art (paid or not) conveys a part of who i am. i cannot present myself as brand-safe and a human being at the same time, at least not without driving myself (more) insane

anyways this isn't an essay or anything, i don't have a conclusion? thank you for being here i guess. i feel like i'm at least breathing like 5% easier after getting all that rambling out of me, so that's something at least? i will now go buckle down and try to finish my remaining art obligations and then hopefully when that's done i will make a responsible choice and wait long enough before piling more work onto myself to just like. breathe for a sec and seriously consider if there's perhaps a better way to be doing what i'm doing so it does not make me crumble into dust. and also maybe pick like ONE life-shattering realization or crisis to poke at a little bit, if i feel up to it. hey btw did you know this whole post was originally going to just be a very short one where i half-jokingly reflected on the possibility that i might actually be autistic, but then started thinking way too much about why my brain refuses to latch onto that thought and keeps pushing it aside with a big stick labeled "who cares, i'm tired" and this post happened instead. yeah. anyways that's the most recent small addition to The Pile in case you were curious, yippee

[asordinaryppl]

A3! Homepage Lines - White Day (2025)

graphics and proofreading by myuntachis! text version under the cut!

Spring Troupe

Sakuya: This is my thank-you gift for last month. I chose it while thinking of what would make you smile.

Masumi: I put a lot of thought into what to give you, but… In the end, it had to be chocolate and a letter. Will that still make you happy?

Tsuzuru: I made curry fried rice as thanks for the gift you gave me last month. I hope you like it.

Itaru: I want to give you my White Day gift so… Could we meet up tonight? JK.

Citron: I’ll take you to a conveyor belt sushi place for my return gift, yes? I will be happy if we get to eat sweet shrimp sushi~!

Chikage: Haven’t you gotten sick of curry by now? … Well, I guess having something that doesn’t ever change is one form of happiness.

Summer Troupe

Tenma: Heh, are you waiting for my return gift? I was right about expecting something at times like these, wasn’t I? Here you go.

Yuki: Here’s my return gift for last month. I embroidered a teddy bear on a hand towel. It came out pretty cute, didn’t it?

Muku: This is my return gift. I put all my heart in it so that it’ll taste special to you…! 

Misumi: Here you go, triangle chocolates and a letter I wrote! Ehehe, read the letter later, okay~!

Kazunari: This year’s return gift isss… Lemon candy! Maybe you’ll get hooked on the bittersweet taste?

Kumon: I’ll treat you to ramen as thanks this year! Director, you liked that limited edition curry ramen, didn’tcha?

Autumn Troupe

Banri: I cleared up my schedule for you, Director-chan. Basically, my return gift to ya is my free time.

Juza: It ain’t no match for the chocolates you gave me, but… I picked out some tasty Japanese sweets I found the other day. Please try ‘em.

Taichi: Thanks for going so far as to give a return gift to Mii-chan! I’m so happy you thought of my little sister too!

Omi: How about we eat the sweets we exchanged together this time? I’d also be happy if I could take up some of your time… Just kidding. 

Sakyo: Have you gotten everyone’s gifts? I’ll let you spend the rest of our free time with me, then.

Azami: This is for the chocolates you gave me. I got you a face pack that’ll be good for your skin type, so try it out.

Winter Troupe

Tsumugi: I’ve made a reservation for a limited White Day sweets buffet. Would you like to come with me?

Tasuku: I got these macarons while I was out. I heard these kinda trendy sweets are good return gifts but… was I wrong?

Hisoka: Director, let’s meet in the attic later and eat my favorite marshmallow set together.

Homare: Thank you. I have prepared only the finest black tea to accompany these absolutely splendid sweets you have gifted to me.

Azuma: You’re giving me a return gift? Fufu, that makes me happy. Say, I’d like to eat these sweets with you, Director.

Guy: I will hug you as thanks for… There is no need? Citronia told me this would make you happy… 

Backstage

Matsukawa: Get this! The song I’ve written as thanks this year has a secret code in it! Make sure you listen to the lyrics!

Tetsuro: …This is… my return gift… If you’d like to… I want you to… try it…

Akashi: Um, this is… my return gift. It’s not much, but please have some when you’re feeling tired.

Rento: This is my thanks for the chocolate ya gave me… and this is a souvenir from ma trip. Sorry for puttin’ ‘em together.

Sakoda: I thought of this gift so I can give you back three times what ya gave me! Please accept it!

[lifesteal-headcanons]

me: oh my god i love lifesteal!

also me: puts its characters through immense pain

anyways:3

after a player *die* dies in lifesteal(like, losing their last heart) they get transported to purgatory. however, everybody has a purgatory custom 'made' for them based on their actions and role

clownpierce's is the stage in the middle of a circus, balancing on a tightrope with bloody weapons stuck in the ground above him. red and white blinking lights shining on him, surrounded by manic laughter and circus music and shadows with eyes blown out wide in excitement, watching his every move. he lived a performer, so he will stay a performer.

zam's is an infinite castle, a maze of cobblestone and stone bricks. sometimes he comes across guards in full armour, who just echo all his paranoia back to him. 'its all your fault' 'youre here for a reason' 'youre a horrible person', their voice sounds like multiple people talking at once. no, multiple players talking at once. people who betrayed him, people he betrayed.

squiddo's, as seen in her video, is a graveyard. of everyone she lost, everyone she failed to protect. only the sun itself keeping her company. its peaceful, just like she tried to make the server be

branzy's is a massive conveyor belt, surrounded by turning gears and mechanisms and so much redstone dust in the air. avoiding arrows and tnt. a cat and mouse chase even after death.

ashswag's is a massive space of ones and zeros floating through a void, the sounds of keyboard typing echoing through it.

planetlord's is a dark hallway with mini figures of planets and stars hanging from the infinitely tall ceiling. he cant explore the galaxy, but he can atleast take a look at it.

-🔔 anon

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