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alyrasturnz · 2 months

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pls write an angsty fic where matt gets mad at reader for being too clingy but he finds her shivering on the couch and yeah just a happy ending

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎TOO CLINGY ?

❐ summary » when matt falters and, in a moment of weakness, channels all his pent-up anger towards you, the weight of his mistake hangs heavy in the air. his frustration, like a storm, lashes out, leaving emotional wreckage in its wake.

❐ pairings » bf!matt x fem!reader

❐ warnings » angst, argument, lowkey toxic!matt

❐ a/n && w/c » this was sloppy af.. my vision is so blurry dude its so late and im so sleepy i cant think straight • 2.80k

the tension had been simmering all day, a cauldron of unspoken words and unacknowledged feelings, teetering on the brink of eruption. you had sought refuge in his presence, your touches and embraces a desperate attempt to bridge the widening chasm between you. yet, he remained indifferent, his demeanor as impenetrable as a storm cloud brooding on the horizon, casting a shadow over every fleeting moment of intimacy.

each time you endeavored to initiate any form of physical connection, he would instinctively recoil, as if your touch carried the weight of an unspoken burden. his reactions were swift and unyielding, a silent rebuke that deepened the chasm between you with every attempt.

»--•--«

9:37 AM, saturday

your eyes fluttered open, the absence of matt's arms around your waist immediately unsettling you. this deviation from the norm sent a ripple of unease through you. as you rolled over, you were met with the sight of his side of the bed, meticulously made and conspicuously empty, a silent testament to his early departure.

you cast your gaze over to his desk, where he was seated with an air of quiet concentration. his hair, still tousled from sleep, framed his face in a disheveled halo. before him, the glow of his open google docs illuminated the scene, a silent witness to his early morning endeavors.

you smile softly, the gentle curve of your lips a fleeting expression of warmth. sitting up, you rise to your feet, the chill of the ground seeping through your soles as you make your way towards him, each step a delicate bridge between the realms of your shared solitude and his focused sanctuary.

you wrap your arms around him from behind, feeling the subtle shift in his posture as he tenses beneath your embrace. the tension radiates through his frame, a silent testament to the unspoken complexities that linger between you, each heartbeat a whisper of the uncharted emotions that bind you together.

you furrowed your eyebrows, a fleeting expression of concern that you quickly brushed aside. leaning down slightly, you planted a soft kiss onto the top of his head, the tender gesture infused with unspoken affection, a delicate attempt to bridge the silent chasm that had momentarily formed.

"hi baby," you muttered into his hair, your voice a gentle murmur that wove through the strands like a whispered secret, carrying with it the weight of unspoken emotions and the subtle promise of comfort and connection.

"hi," he said, his voice cold and distant. you furrowed your eyebrows once more, the chill of his tone reverberating through you as you straightened up, the moment heavy with unspoken questions and a palpable tension that seemed to hang in the air.

"you okay? something bothering you?" you ask, your voice laced with concern. he responds by shrugging your arms off of him, the gesture a silent yet poignant rejection that leaves a lingering ache in the space where your touch had been.

"i'm fine," he muttered, his fingers dancing around his keyboard with a restless, almost mechanical precision, each keystroke a testament to the emotional distance he was trying to maintain.

"okay, i'm gonna go make breakfast," you say, walking around him with a measured grace until you're beside him. you cup his face gently, leaning in for a kiss, but he subtly swerves, the motion a silent yet unmistakable evasion that leaves your gesture hanging in the air.

"mm yeah okay," he mumbles, shrugging you off again, leaving you perplexed. the weight of his dismissal lingers, but you choose not to dwell on it as you walk out of his room, the unanswered questions trailing behind you like shadows.

»--•--«

3:34 PM, saturday

matt was on the couch, his eyes glued to the tv screen. a small smile crept onto your lips as you watched him, the flickering light casting a warm glow over his focused expression, creating a momentary haven of tranquility amidst the chaos.

you saw this as the perfect chance to cuddle with him, the opportunity presenting itself like a rare gem. you moved towards him, the anticipation of his warmth drawing you in like a moth to a flame.

you walked towards him, each step deliberate and measured, before settling down next to him on the couch. he slightly shifts in his seat, his eyes still glued to the screen, the flickering images reflecting in his gaze, creating an almost hypnotic trance.

"what are you watching?" you ask, your voice a soft murmur as you gently rest your head on his shoulder. the question hangs in the air, mingling with the ambient sounds of the television, as you seek to bridge the quiet distance between you.

he gently shrugs you off, his voice still cold as he mumbles, "10 things i hate about you." the words, though simple, carry an undercurrent of detachment, creating a chasm between the two of you that feels both vast and unbridgeable.

"you love that movie, don't you?" you giggle softly, inching closer to him, your attempt to rest your head on his shoulder interrupted as he abruptly gets up. the suddenness of his movement sends a jolt through you, and you watch as he stomps away, the sound of his footsteps echoing the unspoken tension in the room.

you furrow your eyebrows, a deep crease forming as concern washes over you. he's been acting strange and distant, his avoidance like a shadow that has lingered over you both all day.

have you done something to provoke his ire? you wonder, the question gnawing at the edges of your mind, casting a long shadow of doubt over your thoughts.

»--•--«

11:12 PM, saturday

now, you find yourself lying on his bed beside him, his back turned towards you in a gesture that feels like a silent barrier. the room is filled with an unsettling quiet, each second stretching into an eternity.

as you gaze at his turned form, a frown tugs at your lips, the weight of his silent withdrawal pressing heavily on your heart, leaving you to ponder the invisible chasm that has grown between you.

as the night deepened, you made another attempt to bridge the ever-widening gap, slipping your arms around him in a tender embrace, hoping your warmth might melt the icy fortress he had built around himself.

"can you just give me some space?" he snapped, his voice cutting through the quiet room like a whip crack. "i need to breathe without you constantly clinging to me," he continued, each word a sharp, stinging rebuke that left you reeling in the wake of his sudden outburst.

your heart felt as if it had been struck by a hammer, the sting of his words reverberating through every fiber of your being. "i was just trying to be close to you," you said, your voice trembling with the weight of your hurt and confusion.

"why do you have to be so cruel?" you continued, each word laced with the raw pain of his unexpected harshness, leaving you to grapple with the emotional chasm that seemed to yawn wider with every passing moment.

he turned to you, his eyes cold and unyielding, like shards of ice piercing through the dim light. "because i can't stand it anymore," he spat, his words dripping with venom. "you're suffocating me with your neediness. it's pathetic," he continued, each syllable cutting through the air like a blade, leaving you feeling exposed and vulnerable under the weight of his cruel declaration.

the harshness of his words cut deep, leaving you feeling exposed and vulnerable, as if your very soul had been laid bare. "i'm not trying to suffocate you," you whispered, tears streaming down your face like rivers of sorrow.

"i just want to be there for you," you continued, your voice trembling with the weight of your earnest longing and the pain of his rejection, hoping against hope that he might see the sincerity in your eyes.

he scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "you think you're helping? you're just making everything worse," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "i can't even think straight with you around, always needing something from me," he continued, each word a dagger aimed at your heart, leaving you to grapple with the crushing weight of his contempt.

you felt a tempest of anger and sorrow welling up inside you, your hands trembling as you struggled to hold back the flood of tears. "i never knew you felt this way," you said, your voice barely audible, a whisper lost in the storm of emotions. "why didn't you tell me sooner?" you continued, the question hanging in the air like a fragile thread, seeking answers amidst the turmoil of your heart.

"because it's pointless," he said, his tone dismissive, like a door slamming shut. "you wouldn't understand. you're too wrapped up in your own world to see how you're dragging me down," he continued, his words like heavy chains, binding you in a prison of misunderstanding and despair.

the weight of his words settled heavily on your shoulders, leaving you feeling small and insignificant, as though the very ground beneath you had shifted. "i'm sorry," you said, your voice breaking like fragile glass. "i didn't mean to hurt you," you continued, each word a plea for understanding, a desperate attempt to bridge the chasm that had opened between you.

he rolled his eyes, his expression one of contempt, a cold mask that concealed any trace of warmth. "save your apologies," he said, his voice like ice. "i don't need them. i need you to back off and give me some space," he continued, each word a barrier, pushing you further away, leaving you to grapple with the chasm that now yawned between you.

with a heavy heart, you nodded, the weight of resignation settling over you like a shroud. "fine," you said, your voice barely above a whisper, a fragile echo of your inner turmoil. "i'll give you the space you want," you continued, each word a reluctant surrender, an acknowledgment of the widening distance that now separated your worlds.

you turned and walked away, each step a painful relinquishment of hope. the sound of the door closing behind you echoed through the room, a final punctuation to the conversation, leaving him alone with his anger and the oppressive silence that followed, a silence that seemed to swallow all the unsaid words and unresolved emotions.

»--•--«

2:45 AM, sunday

matt had been caught in a relentless dance of restlessness, his body twisting and turning in the sheets as the hours dragged on. sleep eluded him, a distant and unattainable dream, for the absence of your presence left a void too vast to ignore.

without the comforting weight of your head resting on his chest or the warmth of your body nestled in his arms, tranquility slipped through his fingers like sand, leaving him adrift in a sea of sleepless longing.

he extended his hand toward the vacant expanse of the bed, the emptiness a stark reminder of his solitude. guilt, like a relentless specter, tugged at the delicate threads of his heart, weaving a tapestry of remorse and sorrow. a frown, unbidden and sorrowful, etched itself onto his lips, a silent testament to the ache of your absence.

he was acutely aware of the distance he had imposed between you both today, a chasm carved by the weight of his own burdens. guilt gnawed at his conscience, a relentless reminder of how he had unfairly unleashed his stress upon you. you, with your unwavering patience and kindness, did not deserve to bear the brunt of his turmoil.

he swallowed his pride, the bitter taste lingering as he rose from his bed. with a heavy heart, he made his way out of his room, each step echoing the weight of his resolve, and ventured into the living room, seeking solace or perhaps redemption.

he discovered you shivering on the couch, your delicate frame curled up in a futile attempt to capture any semblance of warmth. the sight of your vulnerability pierced through him, a silent plea for comfort etched in the contours of your form.

a blanket was draped over you, yet it did little to stave off the shivers that coursed through your body. the sight of you, cold and vulnerable on the couch due to his actions, tugged painfully at his heartstrings as he approached, each step laden with the weight of his remorse.

his heart clenched at the sight, the pang of guilt nearly overwhelming. without uttering a single word, he gently scooped you up, cradling you in his arms as he carried you to the room, each step a silent vow to make amends for the pain he had caused.

you stirred, drowsy and disoriented, your eyes fluttering open in a futile attempt to grasp the reality unfolding around you. "what... what's going on?" you murmured, your voice a fragile whisper, barely audible in the quiet of the room.

"shh, it's okay," he whispered, his voice a soothing balm as he gently laid you down on the bed, tucking the blanket around you with tender care.

his eyes, brimming with remorse, held a depth of sorrow as he sat beside you, delicately brushing a strand of hair from your face. "i'm so sorry," he said, his voice cracking under the weight of his genuine regret. "i never meant to push you away. please, forgive me."

you reached out with trembling fingers, your hand finding his and giving it a reassuring squeeze. "it's okay," you whispered, your voice a soothing melody amidst the tension. your eyes, softening with forgiveness, met his with an understanding that transcended words.

"i understand," you continued, each word a gentle balm to his aching heart, conveying a depth of empathy that only the closest of bonds could foster.

but he couldn't shake the guilt that gnawed at him, a relentless specter haunting his conscience. "no, it's not okay," he insisted, his voice quivering with the weight of his remorse. "i was wrong, utterly wrong. i should have never treated you like that. you deserve so much better, more than i have given."

you shook your head, a small, bittersweet smile playing on your lips. "what matters is that you're here now," you said softly, your voice imbued with a gentle warmth. "and that you're truly sorry. that's enough for me. the past is a shadow, but your presence now is the light that dispels it."

he looked at you, his eyes a tumultuous sea of guilt and gratitude. "i promise i'll make it up to you," he vowed, his voice resolute despite the emotion that threatened to choke him. "i'll never hurt you like that again. i'll spend every moment proving that you're cherished, beyond words and beyond measure."

you nodded, your heart swelling with a profound mixture of love and forgiveness. "i believe you," you whispered, and in that moment, the oppressive silence that had once filled the room began to lift, replaced by a fragile yet hopeful sense of reconciliation, a delicate promise of mending what was once broken.

he sat there for a moment longer, his hand still holding yours, as if afraid that releasing it would shatter the fragile bond you were rebuilding. "i just... i can't forgive myself for making you feel this way," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, laden with sorrow. "seeing you like this, it breaks my heart into pieces."

you squeezed his hand tighter, your eyes locking onto his with unwavering resolve. "we all make mistakes," you said gently, your voice a soothing balm. "what matters is that we learn from them and grow, becoming better versions of ourselves. and i believe, with all my heart, that you will."

he nodded, swallowing hard as he fought back the tears threatening to spill. "i will," he promised, his voice trembling with emotion. "i'll do everything within my power to become the person you truly deserve."

you smiled, a serene sense of peace washing over you like a gentle tide. "that's all i ask," you whispered, your voice imbued with a quiet strength. your eyes fluttered closed as the weight of exhaustion began to envelop you. "just be here with me," you murmured, the words hanging in the air like a delicate promise, an unspoken plea for presence and companionship in the face of weariness.

he watched as you drifted off to sleep, his heart a tumultuous blend of guilt and unwavering determination. he understood the arduous journey that lay before him, a path fraught with challenges and the need to earn back your trust.

yet, he was resolute, ready to traverse every step, no matter how treacherous. for you, he would move mountains, conquer any obstacle, and face any hardship.

tags — @imwetforyourmom @meatballzerz69 @pinkishpearls @thedangerousalleyway @muchloveforhacker @stinkytinkywinky @jetameivous @everleiqh @conspiracy-ash @ifwdominicfike

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taexual · 11 months

Text

sleepwalking ● 9 | jjk

pairing: jungkook x fem!reader

summary: due to unfortunate circumstances, you ended up managing your ex-boyfriend’s band. you thought you’ve both made peace with it, but suddenly he’s very eager to prove to you that first love never dies.

genre: rockstar!jungkook / exes to lovers

warnings: explicit language, mutual pining, angst, SLOOOWW BUURNNN

words: 9.9k

read from the beginning ○ masterlist

chapter 9 ► the silence is one thing that i’ll remember you said. well, it’s better than nothing when nothing’s all that you left

The next morning was warm.

It was such a stark contrast to last night that you couldn’t help but still feel phantom shivers on your skin when you got off the bus to stretch your legs. It was still two more hours to Oslo, and it was unreasonably early to be awake, considering you did not return to the bus until sunrise—a mere half an hour before the scheduled departure for Norway.

Everyone else was still asleep, which made sense: they must have returned to the bus sometime very late, too. Granted, when you and Jungkook reached the restaurant on Strandvägen yesterday, your team was no longer there—but that didn’t mean they went to sleep as soon as they returned.

To be fair, you hadn’t expected to find them at the restaurant anyway. But after the abrupt end of your conversation with Jungkook on the bridge, you had hoped for a distraction. Something to take your mind off the uncomfortable gaping hole inside you.

Jungkook had suggested last night that you take a taxi back to the tour bus, and you were almost ready to walk back on your own.

It confused you—this unexpected longing for something you dared not name—but it also frightened you. Therefore, you were glad that when the bus reached Oslo, Jungkook was still asleep.

You felt like you needed a minute—to convince yourself that whatever you thought you’d felt in the air last night was more wishful thinking than anything else. Because here’s the thing about wishful thinking: it was yours. And everything that was yours, you could extinguish. You could put it out like you’d done countless times before.

So, several hours later in Oslo, you gave Yoongi very strict instructions to keep the band close and make sure they rested before tomorrow’s performance. And then you took your girls to explore the city, sightsee and drink as much coffee as you could find.

Unfortunately for Jungkook, sightseeing was something he also wanted to do with you once you arrived in Oslo. He had a lot to tell you; he knew he owed you an explanation. He just wasn’t sure how to explain what had happened, let alone what hadn’t happened.

But when he woke up on the bus, you had already left, taking Maggie and Luna with you. So, not only did he have to wallow in his thoughts, but he also had to deal with a sulking Taehyung, who never openly admitted why he was sulking, but it was obvious enough. Even though he texted Luna all day, she wasn’t physically there with him, and that wasn’t enough.

Jungkook was annoyed. He should have seen this coming—he tended to sleep in while you tended to not—but he realised he had expected you to stay. He’d expected a reaction. Perhaps he’d hoped you would demand that he explained himself and why the two of you had gone from I-miss-you to let’s-walk-and-not-look-at-each-other.

Your reaction, however, was no reaction at all.

You and the girls went out, which for the three of you, meant getting ice cream and walking the city streets until you found something interesting. Sometimes this took up the whole day. You loved it—especially today.

But then, just as you were approaching what looked like a castle with crowds of tourists flocking to it—Luna discovered it was the Royal Palace, which should have been obvious, but you and Maggie still ooh-ed and ahh-ed at Luna’s Google Maps skills—your phone started to ring.

Licking your ice cream hurriedly so it wouldn’t melt completely while you talked, you walked away from the girls to take the call.

You were half-expecting an emergency, but before you could really be disappointed that you had to end your excursion, you noticed the unknown number on the screen of your phone. You briefly considered not answering, but you saw that the number had an area code from home.

You thought it might be your brother calling. Once again, you considered not answering, still angry at him for his recklessness and your mum’s tears. But responsibility won over, and you picked up.

On the other end of the line was a man asking for you. For a moment, you were confused, because the voice sounded familiar, but the owner of it didn’t seem to know who he was talking to.

“This is she,” you responded to your own name. “May I ask who’s calling?”

“Oh, you sound so different for some reaso—it’s Nick,” the man said, and you stopped chewing on the waffle cone of your ice cream in surprise.

Nick Zhou had been your supervisor after you graduated and started to work at the company where you now managed Rated Riot. Back then, you were just an intern before being promoted to assistant manager for an indie rock band with the ominous name The Jungle Will Get You, when you were only 23 years old. Nick was their manager then, and he never admitted it, but you knew he’d pulled some strings to get you that job.

A little over a year later, you took over the management of Rated Riot, and you haven’t spoken to Nick since. He went on to manage Reconnaissance, one of the biggest alternative rock bands in the country, if not the world. Just being their manager made Nick more popular than Rated Riot at the moment.

You thought things had worked out well for you both, so there was simply no reason for you to stay in touch.

You figured the reason he was calling you now had to mean good things for Rated Riot. Supporting Reconnaissance on tour? Perhaps a collaboration?

“Nick!” was the first word out of your mouth after the surprise had subsided. “So nice to hear from you again.”

“I heard you were in Europe? That’s huge!” he said, which was kind of him, because Reconnaissance were selling out stadiums.

“We are, yeah. Oslo right now,” you said, smiling at Maggie, who approached you and tugged on your arm like a toddler wanting to go on a ride at an amusement park. Except in this case, the ‘ride’ was a wine bar down the street from the palace. You nodded, and that was permission enough for her to jog over to Luna and drag the two of you towards the bar, never mind that it was 3 PM. You said into the phone, “how are you? You’re going to Australia soon, right?”

“Next week, yeah,” Nick said. “The new album’s coming shortly after that.”

“Ah, another tour,” you said with a teasing chuckle—you knew how much Nick hated flying. Even the Reconnaissance members talked about their ‘air-sick manager’ in almost every interview they did. “Good luck in advance!”

Nick chortled in irony. “Thanks, I’m going to need it. That’s actually, uh, the reason I’m calling.”

Your heart rate picked up as the ice cream melted in your hand. “Yeah?”

“Yes. See, we had some—er, situations,” he paused here as if searching for a better word. After he didn’t find one, he continued with the one he had picked, “and because of these situations, I’m putting together a new team. With the new album coming out soon, we’re on a really tight schedule.”

“Right,” you said. You could already hear him asking if Rated Riot would like to be the supporting act, and maybe even participate in Reconnaissance’s new album.

“Well, that’s why I’m calling you,” he said. “The management here is just me and this guy, Mark, who can’t dial a phone number to save his life, but he’s a great sport. Keeps the band alive. But I need more people. Preferably someone with, uh, experience.”

He paused meaningfully, but it still took you a minute to realise that he hadn’t contacted you about Rated Riot. He had contacted you about you.

You watched Maggie and Luna enter the wine bar, take your ice cream from you, and make a beeline for the cash register, all while you stood in the doorway.

“I’m—uh—Nick.” There was an uncomfortable lump of surprise in your throat. Your hands felt sticky and your mouth felt dry. “I’m—I manage Rated Riot.”

“I know,” he said, “and they’re a very promising band, tons of potential,” he paused here, hesitating, “but I thought—well, this is sort of different, isn’t it?”

You would have scoffed if you weren’t so stunned. “Well, of course.”

“Yeah. So, I just—we need an assistant manager. Fast,” Nick said. “And you were the first person I thought of. I mean, we’ve worked together before. I know your strengths and I admire your work ethic. I think you’d be a great addition to our team.”

Overwhelmed, you barely managed to find your words. “I… appreciate the offer. But I don’t think I can just—”

“Think about it, okay?” he interrupted you, aware of the abruptness and sheer mass of this offer. “We’ll be back from Australia next month, so you don’t need to give me an answer right away. Just—the sooner the better, of course. But you can think about it. I just wanted to let you know that I have an opening, and I’d love it if you joined us.”

“I—okay.” The faint smell of grapes and old wood around the wine bar seemed to grow stronger the longer that you stood here, still frozen. “Thank you, Nick.”

“I’ll be waiting to hear from you,” he said. “Take care, yeah?”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. “Yeah, you too. Thanks again.”

The three beeps after he ended the call reverberated in your head, and it was another half-minute before you moved the phone from your ear. You looked at it in disbelief, as if it had been someone else who’d just had this conversation, and you had merely overheard it.

In an attempt to ground yourself, you tried to simplify your loud thoughts into whispers of an adequate noise.

There was an opening to be Reconnaissance’s assistant manager.

You’d have to take a step back, do more mundane tasks, similar to the ones you did back when you were Nick’s assistant that first time. But if you said yes, you’d be working with one of the biggest bands in the world right now.

But you couldn’t leave Rated Riot. You were their manager. You believed in them, and you loved everyone on this team.

“You look like you just found out Santa isn’t real,” Maggie’s voice brought you back to the present. She had come to get you, so you’d stop blocking the entrance for others. “Who was that?”

You still felt very hot and half-choked, so you tried to loosen the collar of your white tank top. The denim jacket you wore over it didn’t help much with the heat inside of you, either.

“Um,” you looked around as you slipped out of your jacket. “Can we get some wine first?”

Maggie raised her eyebrows. “Oh, it’s like that, is it?”

You nodded, and before you could give a verbal response, Maggie was already calling out to your friend, who was about to place her order, “Luna! Grab some doubles! We have something going on.”

It took the girls about two minutes to find a table—granted, a couple of tourists who saw Maggie dragging you through the wine bar while you were trying to regain proper consciousness got scared and left, which helped a lot—and settle down.

As soon as you took the first sip, catching the rich and savoury taste—perhaps a bit too savoury; it immediately made you scrunch your nose—Luna scooted closer to you on the navy-coloured velvet couch.

“What happened?” she asked. “Who was that on the phone?”

You set your glass down. “That was Nick. My former supervisor. Before I started to work with Rated Riot. He, um—he manages Reconnaissance.”

“Oh, shit!” Maggie exclaimed at the same time as Luna muttered, “I don’t really know them.”

“Oh!” Maggie gasped, turning to Luna. “Wait. Weren’t you at their show a few days ago? I saw on your Instagram.”

“Yeah, Taehyung took me. He brought me to the after-party, too, but—” she paused as she noticed that Maggie’s eyes looked ready to pop out. She explained, “oh, that was just to babysit Jungkook. He’s the one who really listens to Reconnaissance. I don’t know any of their songs. They sounded good, but I’m—”

“Oh my God!” Maggie gasped again. She had glitter in her eyes and all over her face. “Wait until we get back on the bus! I probably have five different notebooks full of their song lyrics. You’ll love them.”

Luna nodded her head once, then paused in the middle of the second nod. “Wait, you brought those notebooks on tour? Aren’t they heavy?”

“Kind of. But I like to have them with me. And I keep adding to them, so—” Maggie stopped when you picked up your glass again. Your movement seemed to remind her what the topic was before she digressed. She leaned back in her bright yellow armchair. “—which is not the point. So, what did that guy want? Nick.”

Both girls turned their attention back to you.

You took another sip of your wine and said, “well, I thought he wanted Rated Riot.”

Swirling her glass, Luna asked, “he didn’t?”

“He didn’t,” you confirmed. “Apparently, he wants me.”

Luna was the first to understand the implication as her eyebrows lifted and her chin dropped. Maggie, on the other hand, looked at Luna, and then back at you.

“Like… to work with him?” she asked. “To manage Reconnaissance?”

“Well, obviously not to perform with them on stage,” Luna said to her impatiently, then turned back to you. “Why does he want you?”

“He said he needed to find an assistant manager quickly,” you explained, “and since he knows me, he thought I’d be... suitable. For that job.”

You didn’t know what words to choose so you wouldn’t feel so uncomfortable talking about this. And, as you sat here with your friends and your glass of wine, you realised that a part of you didn’t believe you were even ready to work with someone like Reconnaissance. For the most part, you were terrified of it.

You hoped Rated Riot would reach their level one day, that’s true. But starting to work with a band that was already so outrageously popular felt a bit like being thrown into a pot of boiling water.

“Well, what did you say?” Maggie asked.

“I said no,” you replied, your vision blurring again. “I think.”

The two girls spoke up at the same time.

Luna repeated, “you think?” while Maggie asked, “why not?”

They exchanged a look – Maggie, surprised; Luna, slightly accusing.

“What?” Maggie said in response to her look. “This is big!” She put down her glass and leaned over to touch your knee, wanting to emphasise her point, “I love you, okay? And I love working with you and everyone else here, and I know you do, too. But this is just… huge.”

“I know,” you said, your gaze still wandering along the tiled wall behind Maggie’s armchair. You felt disoriented and the wine had very little to do with it. “But I—I mean, I can’t just leave.”

“I think you should talk to the guys,” Luna suggested. She managed to come to terms with the heaviness of the offer that Nick had made much faster than you did. It helped, of course, that she wasn’t the one who had to make a decision here, but she was making a reasonable point regardless.

“Yeah,” Maggie agreed, pointing at the girl on the couch next to you, and nodding eagerly at you. “Yeah. You should.”

You looked at both of them, then down at your glass, as if you could take a sip and it’d give you very clear directions of what to do next.

“But what can I say to them?” you asked. Then, in a voice meaning to imitate yourself, you said, “‘I might have an opportunity to leave you and work with a much bigger band.’ No. No, I don’t think so.”

Maggie squinted at you, unsure if she was the only one confused again. She asked carefully, “you… don’t think you’ll tell them this? Or you don’t think you’ll work with Reconnaissance?”

You finished your wine and set the glass back on the tray. The other girls’ glasses were still half-full.

“Neither, probably,” you replied. “I’d be—you know. If I went to work with Nick, I’d be fetching coffee for the other staff members and filling out paperwork. I already do that for Rated Riot anyway, but I don’t mind, because I don’t think we’re at a level where I’d need an assistant. But I—I want to reach that level with them. I want to be here every step of the way.”

If you’d lifted your eyes from the table in front of you, you would have seen the soft smile on Luna’s face. Instead, you heard it in her voice when she said, “that makes sense.”

Finally, you looked at her. “It does?”

“Yeah.”

“Uh, I think you should sleep on it,” Maggie said, a different voice of reason. “Make sure this isn’t something you’ll regret later. Oh!” she clapped her hands. “You can even make a pros and cons list!”

You smiled while Luna snickered. She said to you, “pro: obviously, you wouldn’t be managing your ex-boyfriend—”

“Um?” Maggie cut in. “Con: you wouldn’t be managing your ex-boyfriend.”

Luna frowned at her. “How is that a con?”

Maggie raised her eyebrows. “Have you seen her ex-boyfriend?”

Luna’s frown dissipated as she laughed, and even you chuckled, too.

In her whole life, Maggie might have had one and a half doubts about not actually being gay; she was simply an artist to the core. And she was very vocal about how unbelievably easy it was to photograph Jungkook when he was on stage. He was, in a truly annoying way, effortlessly photogenic.

“I guess that’s a pro and a con,” you said. There was a lingering smile on your face—this time, the wine did have something to do with it.

When paired with the sudden anxiety of Nick’s offer, the wine helped you distance yourself from the last conversation you’d had with Jungkook. And maybe it was better, you decided, that your friends didn’t know about the walk you two had taken. You preferred the conversation as it was now — cosy, safe, and almost buoyant.

“Is there a time limit?” Luna asked suddenly. “Did Nick tell you a date?”

“No,” you said with a sigh. “He said he wanted an answer soon. So I don’t have to decide right this second. But I’m not really considering it, to be honest. It’s a great opportunity, sure, but I think working with Rated Riot is a great opportunity, too.”

Both girls nodded in unison, their expressions brightening. Slowly, as you felt the support in their warm gazes, the atmosphere in the wine bar began to lighten, too. They understood. And they agreed with your point.

Luna teased, “does the band pay you extra when you say nice things about them? Because I really love Rated Riot.”

You chuckled. “I wish they did.”

Maggie lifted her glass. “Be careful. If you start complimenting them to their faces, it’ll go straight to their heads. And then we’ll have to give their shows an R rating.”

“Well, that would help them live up to their name,” Luna pointed out and the three of you burst into a fit of giggles again—partially because of the wine, but in your case also because of relief.

Nick’s offer and the confusing feelings from last night did not seem all that troublesome at the moment. You could almost forget about them, focusing only on the way things were right now.

You were happy like this. You didn’t want anything to change.

As dusk fell, Jungkook began to hover his finger over your name in his contact list. Just then, Sid burst into the otherwise empty bus and slammed the door with so much force that the whole vehicle swayed a little.

Startled, Jungkook looked up.

“Dude!” he called out, poking his head out of his bunk to see his friend’s proud face. “Gentle.”

“I have the best plans for us tonight,” Sid said as if he hadn’t heard him. “You will not believe the kind of bars they have here in Norway.”

Although Jungkook doubted that the bars here were any different from the ones back home, he still climbed out of the bunk, more intrigued by the idea of having company than by the supposed uniqueness of Norwegian bars. “Yeah?”

Sid’s smile grew wider still when he saw the same reaction mirrored on Jungkook’s face.

“Yeah,” he confirmed. “Let’s go.”

Jungkook hesitated. He had told you last night that things wouldn’t be the same between him and Sid when they returned home. And he meant it; he would have preferred to spend time with you—right now and back home. But you weren’t here, and while he was waiting for you, everyone else made different plans. Even Taehyung. And Jungkook hated being alone.

Grabbing his jacket, he climbed out of the bunk and allowed Sid to lead him outside, where the rest of their friends were already waiting.

They were like a herd of sheep, Jungkook thought unexpectedly while Sid ushered him out of the bus, the way they followed Sid. Why didn’t they ever protest or suggest their own ideas?

But as he looked at his friends – Jude and Minjun fighting over something on Jude’s phone, shoving the device in each other’s faces and shouting; Sid smacking them both on the backs of their heads, providing his own wisdom to their argument – he knew.

They stayed quiet, because the four of them were always together in the same way: with Sid in the lead, and the others following behind him. That’s the way it has always been. Jungkook knew that if one of them had a genuine problem with this, he would not be taken seriously. Or it would be the last time he could call them friends.

It was either this, or nothing at all.

That night, the four of them ended up in a cocktail bar in Oslo, a significant distance away from the tour bus and the rest of the crew. Jungkook didn’t understand why Sid had chosen this particular place until his friend winked and gestured towards the stairs leading to the basement.

“What’s down there?” Jungkook was dumb enough to ask.

Grateful for the chance to show off, Sid grinned and draped an arm around Jungkook’s shoulders as he led him—along with Jude and Minjun, who were looking around like this was a zoo—to the basement.

“Only the greatest thing to come out of Europe,” Sid explained. “You can thank me later.”

He didn’t.

It was an underground burlesque club with only three dancers, all of whom appeared so intimidating that Jungkook was convinced they could stab the four of them with their nails alone, if any of the boys looked them in the eye for too long. He didn’t dare to try.

Sid loved it.

Jungkook preferred the bar upstairs.

Minjun seemed to agree, so the two went back up for another round, while Jude stayed back. Despite occasionally acting like he hated Sid’s guts, Jude always stayed close to him, almost like an addict, who knew that this drug was bad for him, but still couldn’t break the habit.

“Do you think they’ll make it out alive?” Minjun asked as they waited for their drinks at the bar.

“I don’t think they’re getting out at all,” Jungkook replied. “It’s like siren screams for Sid.”

“That’s true. And if Sid stays, Jude stays.”

Jungkook nodded, his expression grim.

“So, D-11,” Minjun said. It took Jungkook a second to realise that he was counting down the days to the end of the bet. “How’s it going?”

He gave his friend a look. “I’m in a bar with you. How do you think it’s going?”

Minjun smiled and nodded to the bartender to thank him for bringing the drinks. Then he held his glass out to Jungkook.

“A toast,” he declared. Jungkook rolled his eyes and picked up his own glass. “May you win this bet, because Sid on a motorcycle is a menace I want nothing to do with.”

Snorting, Jungkook clinked his glass against his and they both downed their drinks in several big gulps.

“He’s not getting the bike,” Jungkook said, setting his glass down with new-found determination. Hearing Minjun mention the possibility of Sid winning the Katana made it feel more realistic. He had to make sure that didn’t happen.

“Do you need my help?” Minjun asked as if reading his mind.

Jungkook looked up from the bar top. “You couldn’t help even if I asked. We signed an agreement that we wouldn’t tell her.”

“You and Sid signed it,” Minjun pointed out. “I was just the person who typed it all out in my fucking Notes. I’m not legally bound to abide by the conditions of the deal. And, actually, neither are you. It’s just a—”

“Why would you help me?” Jungkook interrupted. His friend’s final sentences had evidently flown over his head. “I’ve hardly got anything to offer you in return.”

Minjun shrugged. “I just don’t want Sid to win.”

Jungkook swallowed. He found himself hoping, suddenly, that there was more to this. That if he really kicked Sid off the tour and out of his life, there would at least be one person who wouldn’t leave with him. One person who would stay.

“I don’t know what you could do,” Jungkook said. “Putting in a good word for me probably wouldn’t do much.”

“No?” his friend said, then looked down at his glass thoughtfully. “Okay. We can go full mentalist on her.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Dropping certain objects in her living space that leave imprints of you in her subconscious,” Minjun said completely seriously. “It’s simple.”

“Dude.” Jungkook blinked. “I don’t know where this—this Sherlockian shit is coming from, but I’m not going to mess with her head.”

Minjun was about to scoff, but held back because the offence on Jungkook’s face at the—apparently, preposterous—suggestion seemed genuine. As if Minjun didn’t know what he was saying. As if this was serious, and Jungkook didn’t want to ruin it by playing games.

Minjun pointed out, “but you already are messing with her head.”

If possible, Jungkook looked even more appalled. “I’m—that’s not what I’m doing.”

“Then what’s the difference between what you’re doing and what I’m suggesting?”

“Well, I’m not trying to—I’m not sneaking around and forcing her to think about me,” Jungkook said, looking away from his friend and meeting the bartender’s gaze. He nodded, and the man behind the bar approached the two friends with a bottle of whiskey.

“It’s not force, technically,” Minjun explained as they watched the bartender refill their drinks. “It’s just how your brain works. You see something that reminds you of someone, and it sticks with you whether you’re aware of it or not.”

“I’d like for that to happen naturally,” Jungkook said, aware that he was the naïve one here. But he liked to think of it as hope. And he had that right—he was the only one who really knew you. The only one who could guess whether you were thinking about him or not.

Minjun shrugged and picked up his glass as soon as it was filled. “It’s your call. I’m just trying to speed up the process.”

Jungkook brought his own drink to his lips, but paused when Minjun spoke up again.

“Let me ask you something, though,” he said. “Before you get too far ahead of yourself.”

Even before he heard the question, Jungkook already felt queasy. “What is it?”

“Do you genuinely want to get back together with her?” Minjun asked.

There seemed to be no ill intentions behind the question, but Jungkook spent a full minute watching him and reading his expression.

Minjun was quick to notice his uncertainty. He reassured, “I’m asking because I care. Not because I want to make fun of you. I know you love her, but this—well, I’m just wondering if you want to act on these feelings.”

Jungkook looked down again. “Yeah, uh, I do. It’s not just about the bet for me.”

Minjun had suspected as much, so he wanted to broach the subject when no one else was around.

“But you still think making a bet out of it is the way to go?” he inquired.

Jungkook knew where this was going. And he still tried to appear nonchalant.

“I mean, I’m in this mess anyway, so why not actually win this?” he replied with a laid-back shrug that was so laid-back, it only amplified the fact that it was not laid-back at all.

“Jungkook,” Minjun said, startling him. Normally, the four of them addressed each other as ‘dude’ or the occasional ‘what the fuck is wrong with you?’. Hearing his name felt strange, almost foreboding.

“There’s so many reasons why not,” Minjun continued. “The most important one being that you come out of this as a winner twice. You get her and you get the bike. But all she gets is the realisation that someone she’s letting back into her life has lied to her.”

Defensively, Jungkook demanded, “when did I lie?”

“You’re getting back together with her because of the bet!”

“It’s not because of—it’s not just because of the bet. I just told you.”

“But she doesn’t know about it,” Minjun countered, poking holes in Jungkook’s feeble defensive shield. It was more like a flimsy piece of paper than a shield, really; just something he’d hoped to fool himself—and you—into believing. “She doesn’t know what else is at stake. It’s not fair.”

“Okay,” Jungkook turned in his seat to face Minjun, leaning his elbow against the bar top. “What are you trying to tell me? That I should lose the bet on purpose? To show her that I care about her more than anything else?”

“No,” Minjun replied, less confident. Jungkook was likely not aware of this, but he could be very intimidating. For Minjun, who considered himself immune to most forms of intimidation after years of being friends with Sid, this was unusual and unsettling. “I’m not telling you anything. I’m just suggesting you think about it. You can’t have your cake and eat it, too.”

Jungkook swallowed, his throat dry.

He knew that he had already drawn a subconscious line between simply wanting you back and wanting you back to win the bet. He worried about the exact thing that Minjun had just mentioned—that he couldn’t have both. He worried that it wouldn’t be fair to be with you again if he won.

This was what stopped him on the bridge. It’s what haunted his mind every time he thought about talking to you.

Deep down, he knew he would have to make a choice: either he won the bet, or he got back together with you.

And yet, he couldn’t let Sid win. The thought pressed on his mind with so much weight that he knew it wasn’t just you that he didn’t want to lose, and it definitely wasn’t just his bike. It was a matter of pride, too.

He was proving a point for all the years that Sid had asserted his superiority over him.

“You know, that never made any sense to me,” Jungkook said. Alcohol helped him feel more confident and less self-conscious. Maybe he should stay tipsy until the end of the bet. “That’s the whole point of the cake. You get it, and it’s not just there to fucking look at. It’s there to be eaten.”

Minjun could tell Jungkook felt defensive, so he didn’t take the aggression personally. Instead, he took a sip of his drink.

“Whatever, man,” he said. “It’s your life, in the end.”

“Yeah. It is,” Jungkook replied so firmly that it just sounded childish. He tried to soften his tone, “I appreciate yo—your concern, but I got this.”

“Okay,” his friend agreed because that was easier. They could have been at it for hours—and God knows, Jungkook and Sid had been at it for hours—but Minjun didn’t think it was worth it. He concluded, “that’s fine.”

“It is,” Jungkook agreed.

But it was clear that it wasn’t fine. Jungkook looked flushed as if he’d bathed in a barrel of whiskey, not merely drank two glasses of it.

After about half an hour, the silence became heavy. At first, Minjun had thought that he would rather throw himself down the stairs than return to the basement where Sid and Jude were. But now that seemed like a better alternative than sitting here with a sulking Jungkook.

“You know, uh, I think I’m going to go check on Sid and Jude,” he said while Jungkook ordered another—his fifth—glass. “Don’t want them to die in Oslo. Too big of a hassle to bring their bodies back home.”

Jungkook’s lip did not even twitch. But he nodded and Minjun slid off his chair. He glanced back at his friend as he went, not wanting to leave him alone, but also feeling like Jungkook was already alone anyway, even with him here.

Jungkook had always been good at isolating himself, even when surrounded by other people. Honestly, Minjun wasn’t sure if Jungkook even realised that he wasn’t sitting at the bar alone. He told Minjun once that he couldn’t stand silence, but Minjun knew that sometimes, Jungkook’s thoughts overwhelmed him without his consent. And once he got lost in his own mind, the rest of the world ceased to exist for him.

However, now that he was truly alone, Jungkook was struck by the heavy weight of his solitude. He would have agreed with Minjun – he really did have a monumental talent for disassociating anywhere, anytime. But to be able to drift off into his thoughts and turn the crowd into a blur, he needed a crowd in the first place.

Now that he was alone, all he could think about was that he was alone.

He certainly wasn’t going to follow his friends into the basement, so he got a few more drinks into his system for courage, and pulled his phone out—a painful reflex—to dial your number.

Needless to say, by the time you answered—it was 1 AM, but, of course, you answered—he was already slurring his words as he tried to explain why he’d called.

“Are you drunk?” was your first question as soon as you heard him try to introduce himself—pointlessly so, because at that point in your life, he was the only person who called you after midnight.

“Of course,” he said, with hints of offence in his voice. Why would he not be drunk? he rationalised. “Do you want to come?”

He heard shuffling on the other end as he played with the napkin on the bar top. Funnily enough, despite his mind feeling pleasantly numb, he still felt twinges of anxiety in his stomach.

“Where even are you?” you finally asked. He was too drunk to notice the coldness in your voice.

“Sid took us to some bar,” he replied. “In Oslo.”

While you were relieved that Sid hadn’t driven them out of Norway before Jungkook even performed here, you also felt concerned that Jungkook was so disoriented that he needed to remind you of the city you were in.

“Are the rest of the guys there?” you asked. His friends were useless, of course, but perhaps Minjun could be trusted to take care of Jungkook if he blacked out.

“They’re downstairs,” he answered. “There’s some club. I didn’t want to go, so I called you. Do you want to come?”

You were confused by the repeated question—was this a matter of you wanting to come, or were you obligated to come as his manager?

He sensed your apprehension through the phone despite being intoxicated.

“I’m trying to see you,” he explained, his tongue struggling to bend the right way. All his Rs sounded like sloppy Ls and Ws. “You weren’t there when I looked for you earlier today.” You heard a bang – he’d slammed his palm against the bar top, forcing the nearby glasses to rattle – and he continued, whining now, “why are you so difficult for me to find?!”

“You’re drunk,” you stated in response. “And you’re not making any sense. Can you find your way to the bus, or do I have to pick you up?”

Half-mumbling, half-whining something incoherent, Jungkook leaned his arms on the bar top. He rested his head on them and pressed his phone against his ear harder as if that’d make you understand him better, make you enter his head somehow.

“You should come,” he said. “I’ll order for you.”

“How about you tell me exactly where you are first,” you replied.

He did – to the best of his ability in his current state – but Google Maps could hardly help you find the directions for “then we took two left turns and came up in front of his huge red brick building, might have been brown, I’m really drunk.” Finally, you managed to get him to just send you his pinned location and headed over there.

He stayed on his phone after you hung up, opening the Notes app and scrolling through his older notes to pass the time.

Some of them were lists of things he wanted to remember – films to see, songs to listen to – while others were harder to decipher: drunken reminders he had made for himself and forgotten as soon as he sobered up.

Some of the notes were song lyrics, and some were just your name—he’d begun to type out a message? a letter? and abandoned it, scared of the weight your name alone carried—and his finger lingered on those for a minute before he pressed the New Note button and began typing immediately.

Normally, he didn’t write lyrics when he was drunk. Tipsy, maybe—one of Rated Riot’s most popular singles was born after he and Yoongi tried absinthe for the first time at one of the label’s parties last year—but never so drunk that the room felt wobbly.

He kept pressing the wrong buttons on the keyboard and autocorrect kept making it worse; shocking even his drunk mind with how completely wrong the corrections were.

But he managed to get two full lines – I fucking miss you when I drink / You burn my throat when I sing – and he stared at them for a minute, a deep frown on his face.

He hated it. Deleting the words with angry force on the backspace button, he began typing again, feeling furiously alone with every passing minute that you didn’t come—and knowing that when you did come, you would be you. And he couldn’t love you the way he did.

For years, even when he thought—hoped—that the feelings he had for you were not real, even as he insisted to his friends that he couldn’t possibly still love you, even as he tried to meet someone new despite only seeing faint echoes of your absence on every face, even then he wrote about you each time that his mind wandered.

You continued to be the subject of his music, the lyrical lover in every song he wrote.

Now, as he entered line after line, the lyrics writing themselves as he watched the screen, he could feel his heart thumping in his chest—as drunk as his mind was.

When the absence of you is all that inspires / I allow for the pain to turn into fires / It will burn when I write, when I think, when I sing / Flames will turn to ashes, turn to words, turn to ink

He held his phone with one hand as he folded and unfolded a napkin with the other one, reading the words and then re-reading them again.

He wasn’t sure if he liked it. He needed Namjoon to take a look at this—the producer knew better—before he could show it to anyone else. Especially before he sent it to—

Jungkook jumped up when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned his head and his vision seemed to brighten when he recognised you.

“I came as quickly as I could,” you said, out of breath as if you had run all the way here. You took a seat on the stool next to him at the bar, using his shoulder to steady yourself as you climbed onto it. “Where’s your tail?”

Even drunk, he understood you meant his friends.

“Downstairs,” he said, nodding his head towards the door leading to the staircase in the back. “Drinks?”

You assessed him. He didn’t appear to be in need of having his stomach pumped, but he was slouched over the bar, tightly clutching his phone in his hand, which was a good indicator that the night should have ended there.

“I think it’d be better to—”

“Strawberry daiquiri,” he said loudly—to the bartender, but it took you a second to realise that—then he turned to you for confirmation. “Right?”

“I’m not drinking,” you replied firmly enough for him to give you a long look.

“Why not?” he asked. The bartender politely waited for your consent before he started to make the cocktail. “You’re not driving.”

You swallowed. There were many – countless, really – reasons why not. You were confused about yesterday, confused about Nick’s offer, confused about what you were doing here tonight.

This was dangerous. Reckless, even, and very out of character for someone like you. You knew you shouldn’t dive head first into this, not after what happened—what didn’t happen—yesterday.

But you gave the bartender a light nod.

“One drink,” you said. “And we’re going back.”

But, of course, going back is not at all what you did.

Jungkook, his highball, your daiquiri, and you all found yourselves on the empty terrace on the roof not ten minutes later.

It was a relatively warm night, but it was the empty space, the dark night and the faint scent of rain that captivated you more than the warmth. It was so beautiful here; very hard not to be grateful to be alive on a night like this. And you realised you didn’t blame Jungkook for making you come here, after all.

“What were you doing before I came?” you spoke softly, not wanting to disturb the peacefulness of the night.

Jungkook took a sip from his glass and placed it on the small round table between your patio chairs.

“Writing,” he said.

You were surprised. “Writing?”

“Yeah.”

“As in, song lyrics?”

“Yeah,” he repeated. Then—his mind travelling a thousand miles per hour—he added, “you know, I wrote “Haunting” about you.”

Weirdly enough, while alcohol made most people sleepy or, at least slower, it seemed to ignite Jungkook’s mind instead. He wanted to see your reaction when he said this. Wanted, even drunk, to see if there was a reason for him to worry.

Meanwhile, you needed a moment to process what he’d just said and, even then, you weren’t entirely sure if you understood him.

“I—you did?” you stumbled, awkward.

“Yes.”

You looked away, the song fresh in your mind, because it wasn’t just the first Rated Riot song that you’d heard. It was also one of your favourites. You loved the ethereal melody—a strong focus on piano, the guitars reduced to the background and the bass only joining in on the chorus—and Jungkook’s raw vocals as he sang about resisting his dark urges.

You knew all of Rated Riot’s lyrics—hearing their songs every night paid off, but you’d have been lying if you said you didn’t like to listen to them in your free time as well—but it was the first verse and, particularly, the breathy, pained voice with which Jungkook sang it that always tugged at your heart:

It's wandering in my mind / It's haunting my daydreams / I follow after it, blind / I fall apart at the seams

After a minute, you finally spoke—awkward as you explained the meaning of his own lyrics to him, “I always thought it was about… well, searching for thrills even though that’s not good for you.”

“It is,” Jungkook said. “The beginning is. But the chorus is about you.”

Before you could ask anything else, he mouthed the lyrics under his breath so quietly that you were unsure if you weren’t only imagining him singing it since you’d listened to the song so many times before.

Can I find you when I break? / Can I find you when it’s too much? / Can you forgive all my mistakes? / Can you save me with your touch?

Jungkook had written plenty of songs on his own, but from what you’d heard in the studio, his lyrics used to be too abstract. That was the main reason why Namjoon used to scold him.

“It lacks feeling!” he’d shout, agitated by his own expectations for the vocalist. “It’s like you’re singing about a bag of bricks!”

You knew that many of Jungkook’s early songs didn’t have a specific subject in mind. In this particular case, you assumed he was singing about someone—anyone, really—extending a helping hand or providing a shoulder to lean on. It was a comforting song, nothing more than that.

Jungkook was almost grateful for the surprise on your face—he was worried you’d tell him that you knew. He’d always thought it was obvious that this song was about you. After all, you were the only one who was always there for him.

And, in any case, who else would he write about if not you? As soon as he was criticised for lacking emotion in his lyrics, he started to write from experience. And you were his experience.

But, of course, you didn’t think to look for yourself in his lyrics. You didn’t want to find yourself there.

And now you weren’t sure what the appropriate response was when someone told you they wrote a song about you. “Thank you” didn’t seem sufficient, because the song was about you, not for you. “I love it” also didn’t capture it, because you didn’t love it because it was about you. You just did.

So, you remained silent, watching the lights on the skyscraper across the street and the reflection of the dark clouds in the dark windows. The people behind them were likely asleep, resting before they started their day in a few hours.

“I think…” Jungkook began, his sentence ending sooner than he’d expected. His eyes were glossy when you looked at him. “I think I’m writing about you again.”

You swallowed and nervously bit your lower lip. The night was warm, but the wind on the roof was relentless. You couldn’t help shivering.

Your mind was running before you could stop it. You didn’t want to resume your conversation from Stockholm; it had managed to be too much by not being nearly enough. You couldn’t return there again.

But you still asked, “what were you writing?”

“About missing you.”

You sat there, absentmindedly tracing patterns on your dark jeans with the tip of your index finger. You tried to suppress the anticipation building in your stomach before it could fully manifest. Before it could turn into a terrifying disappointment. Before it could show you that you were lying to yourself when you said you’d moved on.

“Please don’t ask me why I’m doing this now,” Jungkook said in a strained whisper.

Your voice faltered as you said, “I won’t.”

“J-just so you know, I felt the same way back home,” he said. “The only difference is that here in Europe, you have no choice but to be around me.”

The implication was clear, even if his voice wasn’t accusing you of anything. He believed you were only spending time with him because your job required you to.

“I don’t… avoid you back home,” you defended weakly—the only way you knew how right now.

Last night, you’d told him you missed him and it didn’t end well. Actually, it didn’t end at all—it sort of hung over you and made this conversation uncomfortable. Like a scratchy sweater, rubbing on your skin in all the wrong ways.

“I know,” he said. “But you never put in special effort to see me, either.”

You took a sip of your cocktail, tossing your head back to finish it.

Placing the glass back down on the table between your seats, you finally said, “I didn’t know you wanted me to, until you brought it up the other day.”

“Yeah. I know that, too,” Jungkook said sadly. His moves mirrored yours as he picked his glass up, but stopped before bringing it to his lips. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. About Stockholm.”

The pounding of your heart was very loud, and your voice was very quiet.

“What are you sorry for?” you asked.

He looked down. “There were a lot of things I wanted to say to you, but I… didn’t know how. It got kind of, um, weird.”

He scoffed at his own choice of words, and you realised that you weren’t alone on this rooftop. There was Discomfort, Awkwardness, and Avoidance dancing around you two.

“It…” you began, but words didn’t come easy. “It shouldn’t have been weird.”

He shook his head. He was worried that this would happen. Worried that you’d take responsibility for last night. You’d say you were the manager, so you should have known better. Should have set stricter boundaries. Should have never crossed them.

Now, you added tentatively, “I-I mean, we’re friends, right?”

You could have smashed your glass on his head and that would have hurt less than the cursed word.

This wasn’t about friendship and you both knew it.

But you needed to feel better. Last night had scared you, he could tell as much. And now you needed to make sense of it. You needed to find a way to interpret it in a way that felt right to your standards.

Normally, he would have helped you. Anything to make you feel comfortable, that’s all he wanted anyway.

But, tonight, he was drunk. And so in love with you that it hurt.

“I don’t know what we are,” he said.

Your hands were restless as you tapped your fingers on your legs.

“I thought that’s what you wanted,” you said. “For us to be friends.”

“It is what I want, but it’s also—it’s much more than just—I’m sorry.” He slid his palms over his cheeks and pressed his hands together against his lips. “I don’t know how to—I could never put my thoughts into words in a way that wouldn’t be too much. Or too little.”

He thought that if his friends would have been here, they would have laughed. Four years he’s wanted you, waited for you, but pretended he didn’t.

Clearly, he needed lessons on how to openly discuss his feelings.

He inhaled—or tried to, anyway—and picked up his drink. You took this as an opportunity to look at him.

“You’re, um—you’re good at putting them into song lyrics, though,” you said.

He chuckled weakly and placed his empty glass down next to yours. There was Sadness, too, twirling on the rooftop. And faint traces of Regret.

“Yeah,” he said. “Maybe I’ll write another song about how much I want you.”

You inhaled too sharply to appear nonchalant. The consecutive “another song” and “I want you” pulsated painfully in your chest.

Alarmed by the sound of your breathing, Jungkook turned to look at you.

“I—sorry,” he said, reading your expression. “I can’t say that, right?”

The fingers of your right hand nervously grasped at the fingers of your left. You regretted not wearing longer clothing that you could pull on.

“No, you, um—well, you can say whatever you feel,” you said. “I just, uh… you know that I can’t say it back.”

He observed your fidgeting and initially interpreted it as discomfort. But now he believed it to be something else—a more prominent emotion, brought on by something other than just this conversation.

Uncertainty.

You said you couldn’t say it back. You meant that you weren’t allowed to, as his manager.

But you didn’t say that you didn’t want to say it back.

His voice trembled when he spoke, the words pouring out in one breath, “but what if we weren’t working together? What if we were somewhere in Oslo, on the roof of some bar, just the two of us? And this fucking never-ending Scandinavian wind, of course,” he paused when he saw a small smile make its way to your lips. “But the wind isn’t telling anyone anything, either. Wh-what would you say then?”

You looked up as if you could actually see the wind. You didn’t know what scared you more: thinking what it’d be like if you weren’t working together—because a few hours ago, that possibility seemed almost real—or admitting your thoughts out loud.

It returned, the heaviness of anticipation that you’d felt last night. You were very naïve to think you could stop it from coming back. To think you could quench the wishful thinking.

This anticipation seemed to control you more than you could control it.

“I’d say that this wind feels like we’re back on campus, loudly talking about our mid-terms and chasing after loose papers that wind had blown out of our hands,” you said. There was a reluctant, nostalgic smile on your face. “Then returning to my dorm room and listening to my neighbours argue about their dead plant, even though they’re both guilty of not looking after it. T-this feels like back then.”

“And how do you feel?” he asked near desperately.

You exhaled, but did not reply. Your skin tingled with pins and needles.

“It’s me,” he said, his tone gentler now. “There’s no one else here.”

And there it was – the moment that didn’t come in Stockholm.

Dizzy, you said, “I feel the same way as I did back then.”

Jungkook held his breath.

“I really need you to tell me,” he pleaded, “what way.”

You pushed a strand of your hair behind your ear and focused on suppressing the goosebumps that arose on every part of your skin that his eyes touched.

“Just… exhilarated. From life. From love,” you spoke, your eyes fluttering to him. Frightened by the intensity of his gaze as he watched you, you looked back at the edge of the roof. “From you.”

You heard his breath quiver.

“Look at me,” he asked in a stern, yet powerless whisper.

You did—and he forgot what he was going to say.

He felt like you were both back there again, too. Like nothing had changed—because nothing had, not fundamentally—like he could reach out and you’d be there. Providing him with the noise he needed to not feel alone, and the comfort he needed to not feel overwhelmed.

Neither of you realised that he had leaned in until you felt the warmth of his breath—laced with a strong scent of whiskey—on your lips. Until your lungs started to burn from holding your breath so hard. Until you parted your lips slightly and the oxygen that slipped in was so full of echoes of his taste that you felt the roof turning upside down.

He closed his eyes as he lingered millimetres away from you, the close proximity putting you both in a trance so painfully blissful that not connecting your lips seemed almost sacrilegious.

You were hypnotised, too overwhelmed by the familiarity of the feeling—the barely thereness of his lips against yours—to think of anything else.

You couldn’t pull away.

But, in a blind panic, he was the one who did.

Blinking in surprise as he moved away, you found yourself frozen, eyes locked on the empty space in front of you.

Jungkook stared at the ground, breathless and wide-eyed.

Even drunk, he couldn’t do this.

There was Minjun’s face in his head—his initial discomfort the first time he found out about the bet. There was the conversation in the bar—and the cake metaphor, even though Jungkook thought he neither had the cake, nor could he eat it. There was Sid in his head, too—his smug grin as he insisted Jungkook would lose.

He couldn’t breathe.

He could hear white noise in place of thoughts, and something else, too—his own screams.

What did I do, what did I do, what did I do, what did I—

You couldn’t hear his attempts to inhale because as soon as he pulled away, your own thoughts grew louder. The realisation of what had happened again—what had almost happened again—was so strong, it almost pushed you down to the floor. You had to grip your chair not to double over from the weight of it.

You knew he was drunk, despite seemingly sobering up a bit on the roof. And he pulled away. Meanwhile, you’d had a few drinks tonight and you were going to let him—were waiting for him to—kiss you.

Somehow, he’d managed to exhibit more rationality while intoxicated, than you could while nearly sober.

You stood up.

Pausing for a second as you debated if you should give him an excuse for why you were leaving, you mumbled something about calling him a taxi, and walked away without turning back.

The door slammed shut behind you, but Jungkook still didn’t dare to lift his gaze. He was too focused on clenching his fists so he wouldn’t throw the empty glasses down the side of the roof.

Alone on the staircase, you welcomed the emotion that had trailed after you all the way from Sweden.

You were angry.

But not at this. Not at what could’ve happened and didn’t. Not at him, not for leaning in, and not for pulling away.

You were angry at yourself. For letting yourself wish for something you shouldn’t have wished for. And for feeling disappointed when your wish didn’t come true.

Twice, you’ve found yourself on the edge of almost. Twice.

Last night, you’d told him it was easy to get overwhelmed by all the memories that your time together has brought back. But perhaps it wasn’t him who got overwhelmed. Perhaps it was you.

Perhaps seeing each other so often had blurred the lines, and you found yourself forgetting. Found yourself yearning. Hoping.

But the fact remained—and you repeated it in your head over and over again as you climbed the stairs down from the roof, clutching the railing as if your life depended on it—you broke up for a reason. You broke up for a reason. You broke up for a reason.

It was shocking how little that reason mattered when you closed your eyes in the taxi ten minutes later, and all you could picture was what it would’ve been like if you’d been the one to close the distance between your lips tonight.

And as thoughts of Reconnaissance and Nick’s offer returned to your mind on the ride back, you wondered if tonight was a pro or a con.

chapter title credits: bad omens, “careful what you wish for”

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#jungkook x reader #jungkook angst #jungkook fluff #jungkook smut #jungkook au #jungkook fanfiction #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook fanfiction #jeon jungkook fanfic #bts au #bts x reader #bts angst #bts fluff #bts rockstar au #jungkook rockstar au #bts reactions #bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #bts fic

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wearebarca · 4 months

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5. Captured // Alexia Putellas x Original character pt. 5

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

synopsis: Rosalie has never stayed too long at the same place. When the opportunity of a lifetime presents itself critical moment in her life, the photographer decides to once again leave behind what she knows and joins the staff of Europe's best football team.

Word count: 4,6k

18+ (eventually)

A/N: Spanish is from google translate so please be nice. French is my first language so all should be good on that part. Tell me what you think, be nice, enjoy.

The return to Barcelona wasn’t as smooth as their arrival trip. Rosalie had ended up with a seat next to Lucy, which was good because Lucy knew how to handle the younger brunette on a plane, but she couldn’t shake the slight disappointment she felt when she realized that she wouldn’t be sitting with the captain. Nonetheless she was still happy with her flight partner since she hadn’t seen much of the English woman during this trip.

Lucy had shown up at six at the photographer’s door, in full training gear and running shoes in her hand, and had forced the brunette to go out on a run with her to relax a little before the flight. They had ended up in a park with a track that circled a nice football pitch, and Lucy decided that it would be a great idea to challenge the runner on a race. Rosalie might be an experienced runner, but explosive speed was the older woman’s strength and an hour later, they were both lying on the field, panting like dogs, with Lucy undefeated. Running back was a completely different story for the defender who had used most of her energy on beating the younger woman in sprints. She was glad when she could see the hotel in front of us but groaned when the photographer lightly shoved her and yelled “ Race you there!”

At breakfast, Rosalie sat with her usual group, sandwiched between Keira and Ingrid, who made sure the brunette was occupied with conversation the whole time. Their goal was clear to the photographer who knew that they wanted her to focus on anything other than the plane trip ahead. Unbeknown to the pair, the task of keeping her distracted was already being fulfilled by the blonde sitting a few seats away from her.

Rosalie’s perception of the blonde had changed since their dinner the night before. Being able to spend some time with the captain without the pressure of work or football allowed Rosalie to see another side of the blonde that she hadn’t encountered before. Now, Alexia intrigued even more the photographer who wondered just how many sides the footballer keeps hidden.

Her daydreaming was interrupted by Keira who had been trying to get the French-Canadian's attention for the past minute. “ Hey, Frenchy are you still here with us?”

“ Oui, yes I’m sorry I was caught up in my own thoughts.” The brunette said, turning towards her friends.

“ It’s ok really, we just wanted to know if you were coming to team building night with us?” Ingrid said.

“ Isn’t that for players only?” the brunette said confused. Back with Arsenal, she never got invited to this sort of night, even if she was, or she thought, one of the player’s girlfriends.

“ Not necessarily no. It is just a normal night with friends and we’d like for you to come.” Keira said, smiling at the photographer.

“ I’d love to.” Rosalie said, turning towards Ingrid. “ When would that be?”

“ We were thinking about two weeks from now, after the game against Levante. I’m just trying to see how many we’re gonna be so I can make a reservation at the restaurant.” The Norwegian said, picking up her phone to look at options. The rest of the breakfast was spent organizing the supper, allowing the photographer to forget about their approaching departure. Unfortunately, her feeling of dread and anxiety came rushing back as soon as she picked up her luggage from the bus and walked towards the terminal. The flight went relatively well for the brunette, who stayed wide awake this time, leaning against Lucy while a bad comedy was playing on the small screen in front of them.

Alexia, who was a few seats behind the duo, could not help but wonder how the smaller woman was fairing and finally succumbed to her urge to make sure the photographer was alright by getting up and quickly trying to find something to say to justify her presence next to them. As she arrived at their seat, a small smile crept on her face at the sight of the brunette bundled up in her oversized hoodie, with her hood engulfing her head almost entirely. She crouched down next to her and took her hand in her own to give it a light squeeze. Without letting the photographer’s hand go, she turned her attention to the defender. “ Could you remind me again of yours and Keira’s departure dates for international break?” She asked the English woman who seemed surprised by the question.

“ Yeah sure mate,” she said, pulling out her phone to check her emails. “ Why do you need to know so soon? Isn’t it in almost two months?” she asked

“ Uhh, I’m just planning ahead.” She said, hoping that the older woman would not see through the real reason for her presence here. Meanwhile, the photographer had significantly relaxed since the captain had arrived next to her, and was putting all her focus on the way the blonde’s thumb was tracing soothing patterns on the back of her hand.

Too soon for the brunette’s liking, Lucy found the email with the dates she was looking for and gave them to Alexia, who had no more reason to stay with them. She gave one last squeeze to the photographer’s hand and walked back to her seat. Lucy, who was far from dumb, had a good idea of exactly why her captain had come to their row, and it surely wasn’t to know their departure’s dates. She sent a look to the younger woman, who simply answered with one that clearly said, : “Not now Luce.”

It was the middle of the afternoon when the brunette finally stepped in the comfort of her small apartment. She refused to let it show too much during their trip, but she was truly exhausted from the strain two plane rides in such a short amount of time had had on her, and as soon as her body hit the bed, she was gone and did not wake up until the morning after. The rest of her weekend was spent mostly working on the editing of the shots she had taken during their day off and training. She decided to go check out the Olympic pool near her place and swim a few laps to allow her body to recover from the week's intense running sessions.

For the players, the week after a match was always slower than their usual training, but for the rest of the staff, it was when their schedules would be the most hectic. Rosalie started her week by following a few players on a media appearance for a foundation that helps little girls persevere in sports, then it was media day which took by storm the whole training complex. Various interviews and fun videos were being filmed all over the facility and Rosalie’s job was to roam from station to station and capture the girls during their appearances. On top of that, the brunette had her usual training content to shoot and edit.

This week’s workload meant that coffee with her favourite couple wasn’t possible, which saddened them even though they understood why. Rosalie also postponed her night with the English couple who were very eager to bombard the Canadian with all the questions they had so nicely kept to themselves during the trip. It was a relief for the brunette, who knew that sooner or later, she would have to go through her best friend’s interrogation.

Weekend couldn't come soon enough for Rosalie. Friday would be a bittersweet day for the photographer who had to finish and send the media day content tonight at the latest for their release the next day, which most likely meant a late night at the office again. Her hunch turned out to be right as she checked the clock around four and realized that she wasn’t nearly done. The girls had already left and the training facility was dead silent when the photographer left her office. Rosalie almost jumped at the sound of her ringtone echoing in the empty car park. The name that lit up her screen made the brunette’s eyes roll as she picked up the call.

“ Non.”

“ Oui.”

“ Non, je viens de finir de travailler, Je suis complètement brûlée, pas ce soir.” Rosalie said in a whiny tone as she all but threw her bags in the backseat of her small sedan.

“Too late, we're already at your place darling.” Lucy said laughing. Rosalie could hear Keira whine in the background for her to come quickly because she was tired of waiting to eat. “ We brought your favourite, now get your arse here, we’ve got questions that need answering.” The defender didn’t even wait for the younger girl’s answer and hung up.

“Mais quel enfoiré.” Rosalie took all the detours humanly possible, just to annoy the older woman. At the sight of Lucy waiting by the stairs of her apartment, Rosalie felt like a child getting scolded by her mum. She took a deep breath and climbed the few stairs that were left between her and her apartment.

“ Took you long enough.”

“ Traffic, ya know”

“ Fuck off you cunt you did this just to fuck with us.” Lucy said as she followed the Canadian back in her flat.

“ Woah woah votre langage madame Bronze.”

“ You’re lucky we like you Frenchy.” She pulled out the bags of fish and chips she had brought while Rosalie pulled out beers for everyone. She eagerly took the plate that was handed to her and made a face at the first bite.

“ I know, it’s not like back home.” Keira said, stealing a few chips from Rosalie’s plate.

“ It doesn’t taste bad, it just does not deserve the title of fish and chips.” Rosalie said, bringing her plate and beer to the couch. The two women followed her, Keira beside her on the couch and Lucy on the ground, on the other side of the coffee table.

“ Ok I’m done waiting so now, what the hell is going on with you and Alexia.”Rosalie almost choked on her fish at the younger English woman’s question.

“ There’s nothing going on”

“ What do you mean? There’s nothing going on. She keeps staring at you!” Keira said in an animated tone.

“Rosalie, you fell asleep on her shoulder, in the goddamn plane.” Lucy added. The brunette was cornered, she could not lie to these girls, they were her family, they knew her too well.

“ She’s just.. she’s easy company you know. We get along nice.” She said, hoping that would be enough for them, but she knew it definitely would not be.

“ We all saw how you were looking at her on the last morning of the trip. You haven’t looked at anyone like that before, not even…”

“Don’t,” Rosalie quickly interrupted. She didn’t want to compare Alexia, even in the slightest bit, to the Irish defender. “ She’s just very intriguing, you know. I haven’t quite met anyone like her before.”

“ She’s a pure soul, that one,” Lucy said, staring at her best friend who was currently looking everywhere but at the two friends. “ She’s shy and closed off but once she opens up, she is truly one of the most authentic girls I’ve met.” She said with a fond smile playing on her lips.

“ Why are you guys telling me all this?” Rosalie asked. Sure, she understood that these women were her family and they simply wanted to know what was going on but this felt like more than the usual interrogation she would be subjected to. It almost felt like they were encouraging the photographer to pursue whatever was going on between the brunette and the blonde.

“ No reason in particular, we just want you to be happy.” Keira said, trapping the brunette in a hug.

“Ok you can let me go now, you’re crushing me” they stayed silent for a moment, contempt in eating their food and unwinding after their week, until Keira decided to break the silence.

“ She talks about you, you know? With Mapi and some of the Spanish players. They think I’m not good enough in Spanish to understand when they speak fast, but I’m better now, and I can understand some stuff.” Keira said, happily stealing more chips from the photographer’s plate, who was too stunt by the woman’s statement to react. Lucy on the other hand, could not hold back the laugh that came out when she saw the look on the younger woman’s face. A deep blush formed on her cheek as she got off the couch and walked to the kitchen to put away her plate.

“I’m sure it was probably something about the shoot or the most recent post.” Rosalie said, trying to occupy herself until her face would turn back to its original colour.

“ No, no I heard your name, than “guapa” was somewhere in there and then they all agreed.”

“ Kei seriously, that could be about anything.”

“ I’m telling you, they were talking about you.” Keira said with a wide teasing grin on her face. They went back and forth like that for a few minutes while Lucy was laughing at the interaction. The couple ended up staying over until past midnight before finally deciding to make their way home.

“ By the way, you’re coming to the beach tomorrow, I’ll send you the time and address!” Lucy said as she stepped out of the brunette’s apartment and closed the door behind her, not leaving time for her to give an actual answer.

The next day she woke up with a text from Lucy only containing a time and an address for a beach not too far from the city. Rosalie had no idea what to bring for this occasion so she assumed that since they were meeting up around lunch time, she should probably pack some food, a quick call to Keira confirmed her suspicion and allowed her to also add beer to the list of things to bring. She put on her favourite bikini with a pair of linen shorts and a swimsuit cover, grabbed her camera bag and her backpack and hopped in her car.

The Canadian had never gone through this part of the city and decided to go explore it on her next run. Her GPS led her to a small parking area in front of a path in the woods. She parked between Lucy’s Cupra and another car that looked similar to Lucy’s but wasn’t familiar to the brunette. On the other side of the car park, she spotted Mapi and Ingrid’s car as well as other nice vehicles that probably belonged to Barça players. When she arrived on the beach, Rosalie realized that this was more than just a hangout between a few friends. Lucy and Keira were here, along with Mapi and Ingrid, Patri, Pina, Vicky, Jana, Aitana, mariona and finally, Alexia.

Barking was heard along with the sound of rapid little steps coming her way. She was greeted with a small white dog she knew very well, along with a small pomeranian. Narla jumped around at Rosalie’s feet, too excited for the Canadian to pet her, but the small pomeranian kept scratching at her leg. The photographer bent down and picked up the small fluffy dog, who immediately licked her face.

A chorus of “Hola”’s and happy cheers was heard as the French-Canadian made her way towards the group, with the small dog still in her arms. “ Finally! We were starting to think you got lost on your way.” Mapi said, hugging her friend tightly and taking the bags in the brunette’s hands so she could greet the rest of the girls.

“ Blame Lucy, she told me to be here at twelve.”

“ I see you met Nala.” Ingrid said, approaching the photographer, hugging her gently to not crush the ball of fur who was getting comfortable in the brunette’s arms.

“ Oui, she’s a little angel,” She said, kissing the top of the dog’s head, “ Who’s the lucky owner? Gotta know who I need to fight in order to bring her home.” She said laughing.

“She’s Alexia’s.” Mapi said, with a cheeky smile, “ She usually takes a while to warm up to people.” Rosalie could feel the blush that was creeping up her cheeks.

“ Good to know…”

“ Ok, can we eat now? I’m starving.” Mapi said as she turned around, to make her way towards the coolers. Ingrid smiled at her girlfriend’s antics and beckoned the French-Canadian to follow her towards the rest of the group. She helped Ingrid and Aitana set up the little potluck while the rest of the girls were setting up some beach chairs and towels around. The sun was high in the sky and not a single cloud could be seen, the heat was quickly getting to the Canadian who decided that the swimsuit cover was not helping cooling her off. She got up and took off the shirt, her actions not missed by a certain blonde, who was in the middle of a game of touch. The action made Alexia completely miss, which made the little group snicker at their captain.

“Capitán, debería limpiarse la baba de las comisuras de la boca.!” Patri said, laughing at her captain 's flustered face.

“ Oy, callate idiota!” To be fair, Alexia was not the only one staring. The photographer had put on a dark green bikini that complemented perfectly her tanned skin and showed off her athletic figure.

“ Ella es muy caliente.” The comment came from Pina, who received a sharp slap to the back of her head.

“Behave”

“ Si Capitana.”

The food was finally set up and the group was called back by the rest of the girls to come eat. Rosalie mainly stayed with Ingrid and Aitana since she still wasn’t used to being with this many new people at once. She quickly found out that there was absolutely no reason to be shy around the girls. The atmosphere was very playful and the air was filled with laughter and bickering in broken English since they all knew that Rosalie and Keira weren’t completely comfortable in Spanish.

“ Rosie! If you want to make your Spanish better, I know someone who’s a very good teacher.” Patri said with a shit eating grin.

“ Si, si very patient, very good teacher. She would love to teach you, right Capitana?” Pina added, trying to hold back her laugh. The look the captain sent the girls would have scared anyone in their right mind, but the younger players were too busy laughing to notice their captain’s wrath coming their way. A sharp cry and a whine was heard when the football connected with the side of Pina’s head.

“Cállate, te lo merecías.” Alexia said as she pushed the younger girl towards the area they had been playing previously.

“ I don’t know if they were serious or not, but I kinda really do need help with Spanish. The online courses I’ve been taking are little to no help with understanding native speakers.” The brunette said as she set up her towel between Ingrid and another towel.

“I’m sure she would love to help.” Ingrid said with a knowing smile. The light sound of little paws hitting the sand caught the attention of the photographer who turned her head to see Nala strut her way. The little dog came over to the photographer to get a few pets then made a beeline to the towel next to her to pick up a little chew toy. Nalla then turned to make her way back to Rosalie to lay right in the middle of her towel. Rosalie laughed at the little dog’s antics while Ingrid smiled and turned to her friend.

“Now that your spot has been taken, you should go show these children how it’s done.” She said, motioning to the little group playing a game of touch. Mapi’s head shot up at her girlfriend’s words.

“ Yes, yes, let’s go, I want to see what you are capable of.” Rosalie let Mapi drag her up and to the group. She stood between Patri and Mapi and after a few passes, she was just as excited and hyped as the rest of the girls. They played for a while, working up a sweat with the sand sticking to their skin. Even though the brunette was focused on the game, she couldn’t stop herself from glancing at the blonde captain. She looked gorgeous in her light blue bikini, tanned skin glowing in the sunlight. She looked so carefree and genuinely happy. Their eyes met and both the women smiled wildly, until a particularly daring kick sent the ball straight to the ocean.

“ Rosie! You are a runner, si?” Patri said, lightly shoving the brunette to get her attention. “ The first to get to the ball gets to dunk the other one in the ocean!” She yelled, already taking off full speed towards the waves.

“ Hey! Non, that’s not fair!” She said laughing as she took off behind the midfielder who had too great of a head start for the Canadian to be able to catch up to her.

As soon as she reached the ball, she felt hands grab her by the waist and hoist her up only to launch her straight in the water. The photographer let out a loud shriek as she hit the cold refreshing waters. She could hear behind her the cheers of the rest of the girls who had made their way to Patri.

Rosalie walked out of the water, slicking her hair back with a sinister smile as she approached Patri, who was still caught in an uncontrollable laughter. She jumped on the player’s back and dragged her down in the water with her. Alexia saw this as an opportunity to get back at Pina for the teasing and grabbed the younger player, hoisting her on her shoulders and walking off in the water to dump her near the two other women who were busy splashing each other.

They all stay in the water for a while, teaming up against one another in a slashing battle. Patri and Rosalie against Claudia and Alexia. The footballers weren’t playing around and Rosalie quickly realized that she was in over her head. For the second time today, a pair of hands landed on her hips but this time, the touch sent shivers down the brunette’s back. She went still which allowed Alexia to swiftly pick her up as she carried the photographer away from the two other Spanish women, too busy bickering and slashing each other to notice the absence of their friends.

The midfielder set Rosalie down, but her hands on her hips stayed until she decided the woman was stable enough on her feet. “ I am sorry, I thought that you looked a little overwhelmed out there," she said, smiling at the smaller woman.

“They do play a little too rough for me.” she said, following Alexia as she started walking deeper in the sea. She was silent, only looking at the water stretching endlessly in front of her. Rosalie could see that something was bothering the blonde. Her beautiful smile had faded and her eyes held a worried look. “I can sense something is not right.” She said softly to the blonde who turned to look at the photographer.

“ It’s just that, the euros are getting nearer, national camp is in a few weeks and the girls are a little on edge with everything that has been going on lately.” The photographer was aware of the tensions in the national football scene in Spain. She knew that the players were fighting for better conditions and better treatment from the coaches, and she knew that this fight had cost some of the girls their chance to represent their country in some of the most important sports events. It was hard for the girls who had to stay behind . It was also hard for the ones who had decided to stay with the team but were enduring the poor treatment from the staff and management. Seeing these girls today, so happy and carefree, she could not fathom just how much pressure was resting on their shoulders.

“ Days like these are important, you know,” The photographer said, getting closer to the captain. “ They help unwind, allow you to forget about everything you know?”

“ I’m not very good at relaxing.” The blonde said, chuckling.

“ What do you like to do on your days off?”

“ I don’t know, I don’t get a lot of those.”

“ Ok, so what would a perfect day off be for La Reina?” The photographer said with a cheeky smile. Alexia gave the photographer a big eye roll before answering.

“ Probably going to get coffee, walk around the market. Maybe buy supplies to cook a nice supper and relax with a movie. Something simple I guess.” Alexia said with a distant look in her eyes. In this moment, Rosalie wished she could take all the pressure on the blonde’s shoulders and carry it for her for a little while, just so she could catch her breath. Unable to do such a thing, the brunette thought of the next best thing.

“ Tomorrow there’s no training right?”

“ Si, no training.”

“ And you don’t have anything planned?”

“ I was gonna train alone and work on some side projects, why?”

“ No you are not, because tomorrow, you are bringing me to your favourite coffee shop and to that market you talked about. Then you are coming back to my place and I’d like you to show me how to make Paella. I've always wanted to try making it but my cooking skills are horrendous.” Rosaie said in a tone that left no space for arguing. Alexia smiled at the smaller woman, she was surprised by the French-Canadian’s proposition but could not be happier with the turn this conversation took. She took the brunette’s hand and brought it to her lips. The action made Rosalie freeze on the spot as she felt the blonde’s lips graze the back of her hand, which sent a shock wave that traveled her whole body and made her breath hitch.

“ It is a date then.” Alexia said, letting the brunette’s hand go and walking back to the beach with a wide smile plastered on her face. Rosalie on the other hand, was still frozen at the same spot, trying to gather exactly what had happened between them. A deep blush had crept on her face and the woman felt hot all over. She lowered herself in the water, dunking her head to try and cool herself off, or wake up for this dream, but she emerged at the same spot, with the silhouette of the footballer walking in front of her, almost reaching the rest of the group, who was now sunbathing.

Walking back to her towel, she could see that Nala had moved to the top of Alexia's towel, near the blonde’s head. She was laying on her stomach, which allowed the photographer a clear view of the multitude of tattoos on the captain’s back. The photographer got comfortable on her back and shoved one airpod in her ear, leaving the other one free to hear the crash of the waves on the sand. She felt something fluffy brush against her hand and opened her eyes to see Nala had changed spots again, deciding to lay between the two women, making sure she was touching Alexia and Rosalie’s hand at once. With the soft music playing in her ear, the sound of the ocean and Alexia’s calming presence, Rosalies quickly surrendered to the week’s exhaustion and let herself drift to sleep.

#alexia putellas #barca femeni #barcelona femeni #keira walsh #woso community #woso fanfics #woso imagine #ingrid engen #mapi leon #alexia x reader #alexia putellas x y/n #futfem #lucy bronze

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biahouse · 7 months

Text

Important, Gregory House x Reader

(This is my first story on Tumblr, and also my first Gregory House story. English is not my language, technically all of this is Google translate, so I apologize for any mistakes. But I hope you like it, I have a lot of ideas about our crazy doctor)

You love House. He doesn't care about anyone, but he cares about you. That's something, right?

The first time you met Gregory House was at your job interview.

You knew House's fame in the medical field, so your dream was to work with him and learn about his somewhat orthodox methods.

What you didn't expect was to be completely enchanted by the man 15 years older than you. House was moody, irritating, stupid, arrogant. A card-carrying asshole.

But there was something that made you suspicious every time he entered the diagnostic room. However, you weren't the only one.

You were good at hiding your crush on House, but Cameron always let it be known how much he liked his boss and what deeply upset you.

You were nothing compared to Alisson Cameron. Cameron was beautiful, kind, hardworking, confident. Everything you could never be, even if you tried hard.

That's why you shelved your feelings, buried them at the bottom of your chest and tried to hide as much as you could.

3 years have passed since you joined the team, and now with the departure of Chase, Cameron and Foreman, you were the only original member and House became more and more dependent on you. You have now done the work of four people.

And like a good doctor, you did your best to treat every patient who arrived at the department in the best way possible. But it was exhausting you.

The dark circles became increasingly prominent. You were sure you had lost 2kg in that week alone, since you didn't have time to eat and your hair fell out more and more every time you combed your hair.

But it was three weeks after you were working almost alone in the diagnostics department that your body reached its limit.

House and you were discussing what could be ailing an elderly man when he came up with a really interesting theory.

As always, you were sent to do tons of tests, but the moment you got up from the chair, your entire body lost consciousness.

“House” you mumbled the man’s name as you felt your entire vision blur.

"Yes?" The man responded, distractedly analyzing the symptoms chart.

"I think I'm going to pass out" was the last thing that came out of his mouth before the world went black.

•••

You heard the machine beep before your eyes could discover the place around you. It was hard to open your eyes, the bright lights of the hospital room shining brightly into your eyes.

You could feel your throat dry, and the various threads clinging to your body. It was uncomfortable and you tried to adjust yourself on the hard bed.

"I wouldn't move if I were you" House's unmistakable voice sounded in the room and his gaze shifted to the man lying on the bedroom sofa. "Welcome to the world of the living"

“Hi,” your voice sounded hoarse and you coughed, feeling your throat raw.

"Here" House stood up at an impressive speed and handed him a glass of water with a straw. You sipped the liquid with relief, your throat feeling better within seconds.

"How long was I gone?"

"2 days" House limped so he could check his devices. "You were exhausted, dehydrated and malnourished. New diet?" The man joked.

"The patient..." You started to get worried about the man they were treating.

"You're impressive" House looked at you curiously. "I tell you she's a living dead woman and you care about the patient."

“I’m fine” You waved your hand at him.

"It's not what your scans say" He shook the folder in his possession. "Why didn't you tell me that you couldn't do everything alone?"

“Because I can do it” You insisted.

"You're going to have a week off, until you can recover. In that time, I'm going to review some resumes, you need help" House said once again looking deeply at you.

"Why? You don't want new people on the team, you hate change" you tried to argue, knowing what the man was like.

"But I care about you. I think that's more important than my distaste for people" His admission scared both of you, but neither would admit it."Rest, I'll be back in a bit, with something called food"

And with that he left the room. Leaving behind your flushed face and your racing heart.

#gregory house x reader #gregory house #dr house #james wilson #house md

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whoyacallinyellow · 7 months

Note

Borrowed Time hurt me a lot omg- Now I offer you even more angst.

It's sad that Javier became the very thing in 1911 that he swore to destroy (working as a hitman for a tyrant government) but it would be even sadder if (as a part 2 ig of borrowed time) Javier and his love meet again but this time, he was there to arrest her and bring her to town to hang.

Borrowed Time II

Javier Escuella x F! reader

Spoilers: major RDR1-2 events Content: 18+, low honor Javier, angst, betrayal, loyalty, dramatic, possessive, referenced/implied sex, canon typical events & violence, possible unintentional spelling mistakes, google translated Spanish Type: I-II changed to second pov (wc - 4133) / pc: pinterest a/n: i can feel this request in my veins, so here’s my mediocre yapping! live, laugh, angst

Summary: Following the events of Beaver Hollow and your departure, Javier falls into work with Allende. After your reunion he reflects on his time with you, to only turn you in by nightfall.

It was a warm day in New Austin, the orange rays blanketing the barren dirt landscape, and not a cloud in the sky. Javier only imagined finding himself wandering these lands again, but yet he returned on what seemed to be borrowed time.

A few years had passed since he last saw you at Beaver Hollow. The man could not bear to show his face, the embarrassment of being wrong about Dutch was an ego check it say the very least.

Yet your note lived in the far corner of his mind, a small cabin just north of MacFarlane's Ranch from his understanding.

It did not take the man long to find it, local cowpokes cowered at the sight of the large Mexican outlaw sitting upon an even larger steed, interrogating them about a maiden. It was almost as if the best pieces of you resembled him, immediately reminding the folk of who it was he was searching for.

Boaz grunted against Javier’s spurs, digging deep into the loose red dirt below. The sunbeams which crept through the dry pine trees created quite the atmosphere, allowing Javier to get lost in his head, even if it were just for a few moments of bliss.

Despite the directions given to him, Javier hoped you had moved on after all these years, fled somewhere safer, started a new life, perhaps changed your name as well. Somewhere he would never find you.

Boaz continued to race down the winding path, feeding Javier’s anticipation against the warm breeze. As it gusted past the side of his head, loose strands from his tied hair tickled his ears, merely reminding the man how badly he needed a haircut.

The starving grass which bordered West Elizabeth held a yellow tinge, the land rolled and waved, flourishing with birds and wildlife. Javier reckoned he has not been to the area before, but you were not lying about how appealing it was— a perfect home for you two.

Upon whipping around the corner, abruptly revealed a small cabin with songbirds singing to him in the trees. The place was quiet, cozy, and seemingly inhabited, with small smoke stacks exhausting from the brick chimney.

Bringing Boaz to a halt, there was no sign of you— but sure enough a big black cloud skulked in the nearby pen, following you wherever you wandered like a burden.

Javier stiffly slid off Boaz, his knees nearly giving out from under him as his boots crunched onto the dirt. The beast was grazing on hay as he approached the fence post

After whistling and calling your shire a few times, Javier was promptly ignored, perhaps the slow and ominous brute heard the man call him el diablo one too many times.

He was still a strong believer the only reason the horse broke for you was out of pity— you looked like a child struggling to climb him every endeavor. Maybe the beast had a soft spot for you, just like himself.

But now the old shire was relieved from his saddle, serenading in the New Austin sun, not bothered to obey the envious man’s command.

Javier leaned against the corral post, admiring what he could have had with you, the thought of being a family man loomed over his shoulders and displayed no signs of leaving.

You and Javier ran together prior to joining Dutch, less for money and more for survival. Your past crimes covered bounty boards and train stations as a permanent reminder, never forgetting the wrongs that were written. That price only increased once Mexico inevitably caught wind of all the messy jobs in neighboring lands.

He drowned and you sank with him, the price of his sins were bricks added to your back. Being his accessory, the government saw you as a pawn, smart and knowledgeable, if caught— Javier would come for you, and they would be ready for him.

Those days were nearly from another lifetime.

Now under Allende’s ruling fist, he offered him a twisted plea deal of sorts; protection at the cost of something the man held more dearly than life itself—you. Your capture was not about the money nor status, but simply a test of his loyalty to Allende; if Javier did this job, he’d do anything.

The poor man’s convoluted loyalty never got him far, proving time and time again, leading him only to dead ends and false hopes. Charismatic attributes and big promises was something Javier foolishly gave everything to with a blind eye, something you always warned him about.

“Javier?—“

Your voice could have made him leap out of his own skin. As he hesitantly turned towards you, his gut twisted into something mean. You were beautiful as ever, after all these years you waited for him— just like you promised.

“Never thought I’d see you again, especially in the west.” You spoke again in disbelief, rag wiping your hands clean of a job he should have been doing.

Your voice only lived in his memories, hearing it again nearly whipped Javier back into shape, feeling sick for your puppy love he desperately relied on so long ago.

“Home sweet home.” The man swallowed dryly, throwing his arms out awkwardly and gesturing towards the open lands around you both.

Before his thoughts could catch up to the moment, you ran to embrace him, flinging yourself into his arms with a long awaited kiss. Javier grunted softly against your lips, staggering back to support you, the extra attention only reminding him how saddle sore he really was.

Just for a moment things felt normal, a feeling he was searching for since you split. He had a place in this cruel world once again, everywhere had a price on his head, no place to retreat to besides you— you were home.

Perhaps he could head tail between his legs back to Allende, saying you disappeared.

Maybe he could take you to Canada, or a tropical island— oh, anywhere but Guarma.

We must leave,

Javier’s unsaid words pricked beneath his skin, prodding relentlessly at his deepest desires for redemption.

“Oh—amor.”

Was all the man could choke out, the words exiting pitiful and weak, a near cry for help you assumed was just your bittersweet reunion.

Leaning away you smiled coyly at him, admiring your lost cowboy;

Your time apart was not easy on Javier, his hardened stare and the chip on his shoulder now set in stone.

The constant blazing sun of Mexico, along with surviving off rationed canned beans really took a toll on the man. His face was dull and lacking the usual pigment he wore so handsomely when Mr. Pearson cooked for everyone.

Javier’s newfound demeanor only put emphasis on his sharp brows peeking from under his bowler cap brim, residing above dark cunning eyes, ready to match any cowpuncher who dared challenge him.

Over Javier’s shoulder was where his mount rested, hoove digging into the dirt at the end of the cabin’s path.

“—and Boaz?” You began after a shared silence, slowly approaching the overworked horse.

“Still kickin’.” He uttered gently, a large hand scratching the back of his neck.

Boaz never really liked you, or anyone besides Javier that is. It wasn’t until the gang hunkered down in Colter for the stubborn bastard to take a liking to you.

The weather and unpredictable circumstances was not easy on the gang, including the horses, causing rations to be small among the mounts.

You always carried treats in your satchel to gain Boaz’s affection, and your efforts would eventually succeed in Colter. You would secretly slip him sugar cubes every time you left the shack, he must have appreciated the extra attention. Javier barely recognized Boaz trotting up to him in the snow, you mounted on top wearing a proud grin.

You wore a similar grin now, full of satisfaction and pride that he returned to you— with warmth flowing through him, his heart rapidly thumped in his ears, all the pent up feelings for you were reopening like floodgates.

“What’a nice feller, huh.” You cooed to the mount after a slow approach.

Showing no distress Boaz allowed your kind pats and rubs. Tenderly nudging you, the horse’s chops tried sneaking its way into your pockets, searching for the snacks you usually held after a long journey.

“Ai, fácil!”

Javier exclaimed, quickly guiding Boaz’s large snout away, the loving gestures nearly toppling you over.

“Guess I’m glad he still remembers me.” You beamed, tipping your hat lower to shield yourself from the beating sun.

“Or perhaps your donations, amor.” Javier quipped softly, his eyes wandering meekly.

Something besides time passing seemed different about him, you could not quite pinpoint it. Javier was always a timid man at first when it came to his lover, maybe your time apart presented this old side of him.

You knelt slightly, peeking under his sunken head which hung towards the ground.

“Javier? You don’t look so good.”

Your soft words managed to dig their way through his ringing ears, the man squinted his eyes tightly before swiping his lids with rough fingers.

“Uh— maybe you oughta sit for a bit, I think you’re overdressed for this heat.”

Your words broke through once again, giving a small tug on his poncho, his disoriented vision cluttered with black floating spots as you guided towards the porch.

As his vision continued to warp, the cabin doubled and skewed while you put him in the shade.

Javier knew you were speaking, your voice fading in and out irreguarly, piercing his ears every so often.

The words felt like they were being consumed by the ocean, his head bobbed up and down as if he were drowning. All he could think about was Dutch’s screams over the storm and waves, as he was about to be consumed by the large void.

But Dutch snagged him before being swept away, yanking him upon the tiny rowboat that threatened to tip from the added stress. Javier’s senses were waterlogged, rejecting the mean salty water from his lungs. As he gasped for air; the only thing he thought of was you.

“S’alright, son, You’re not dying today!” Was the first thing he heard. He faded in and out of consciousness as Dutch beat the sea water out of him, his ribcage rattling under each and every smack.

Javier sometimes wonders if Dutch should have just let him die, abandon him and allow the dark waters to engulf him whole, repaying his sins to his maker. Maybe his death would free you of your burdens.

He felt like his time had withered before Dutch had saved him anyways. Being a prisoner in Guarma is what convinced him that he would never make it back to you, sealing the deal. Your previous words borrowed time scratched at his skin again, yearning to be acknowledged.

“Ah well, I knew you’d come crawling back, you’re here for a reason.” You would always say to him after a particularly dangerous run with the gang. He would dismiss you with a mumble and a kiss, but always knew he was lucky to be alive as more of his brothers began to fall.

Sometimes he would catch you talking to a disgruntled Arthur as he packed his horse.

Upon inquiring about your words, Arthur being a somewhat vague man would shortly grumble;

“Jus’ focus on the job, and returnin’ to your woman, Javier.”

—and he always did. Javier knew you did not worry about him much, at least outwardly. But he did notice Arthur’s presence whenever trouble presented itself.

“Javier— some water.”

Your words along with a canteen dangled in front of him, the prior hallucination of a watery grave was almost enough to empty his stomach.

Javier stared back towards your shire lounging in his corral, his mind once again wandering back to the life he could have had with you.

In the midst of his tunneling vision, a lean coyote lingered through his gaze, stalking towards him, icy eyes sending daggers into his before diminishing.

“Javier. Say something.” Your words were now much clearer to him, breaking through his consciousness, the ringing disappeared from his mind fog.

“‘M alright.” He muttered, spitting out the bitter taste from his mouth.

“I reckon you oughta take it easy, being an old man n’ all now.”

Javier frowned at you and blinked a couple times, jaw agape, processing the pun you made at his dismay.

“Ha— so sorry, chica, ‘suppose I’m no longer the young buck you remember.”

He replied sarcastically, his voice both bold and hoarse as he raised back to his feet, every step whining for rest.

“Ride with me?” Javier suddenly asked as if nothing happened. It took you by surprise, he had just arrived after all.

“Alright.” You obliged shortly after a pause. “Let me grab my belt.” You continued, motioning towards the missing holsters on your frame.

“No need.” He cut you off quickly, his voice leaving traces of urgency.

“Boaz is packed.”

You eyed him up, watching the man shutter under your antagonizing gaze, how he hoped you were not suspicious of his intentions after all this time. But rightfully so, the man was yellow-bellied.

But you had no reason not to trust him.

You were not exactly sure where Javier was taking you, but for now his company was enough to keep you satisfied. The ride was eerily quiet, even for his standards, being a man of few words.

After riding a little down south he brought you to a small mountain that overlooked Mexico. He perched you both on a small flat area, just in time for the sun to sink below the land.

Javier stared over the horizon, he never really did think about how big the south was, yet how small he felt in comparison. A glimmer caught onto his peripheral, turning towards the shine was the pendent he had given you, when you both first started running with the gang.

The feeling presented itself again, feeling so small in the world— you were the home he had been searching for since the gang's fallout. It was always you.

He sank into his memories, a vessel of his former self was all that remained.

You two were quite away from your newly shared camp, with all the members and leads, the moments you had alone became quite sparse.

“What do you think, Javi?” Your sudden presence caught him off guard.

“The gang?—“ he pondered your words, leaning against a shady oak.

“I suppose they’re family for now, señorita. We’re much safer, and they’re good to us.” Javier replied, a hand brushing over the stubble on his jaw. You smiled gently with a nod, making your uneasiness all too obvious.

“It’s just temporary, amor, once we have the money to get on our feet— it’ll be the two of us again.” He reassured, a polite arm sliding around your waist.

Javier remembers the look in your eye, doubtful and full of sorrow, but you still trusted him, knowing he would never lead you astray. The same he thought about Dutch.

Repositioning himself behind you, he dug a necklace from his pocket, draping it over your chest and clasping it. You fidgeted in surprise against his movements, gazing down at the beautiful silver pendant that glistened off the very same sun. Before you could say a word he planted a kiss on your lips, gentle and quick before mounting Boaz.

“I promise!”

He called out. After blowing a kiss to you, he was off to assist the gang. He didn’t have much money at the time, but Javier always knew how to make things work—

Oh how naive of him— bright eyed and lovesick, he wanted to make a woman out of you, settle down. That is, before Dutch’s plan captivated him. Which ultimately led to this mess, but who is he kidding, he never really had a chance anyways.

Javier thought back with immense regret, wishing he was more romantic with you in a way, officially making you his chica earlier on, instead of prolonging it due to the possibility of death. He always feared that courting would further your heartbreak if something bad were to happen.

It was his own unaddressed way to cope with the harsh reality of survival and being an outlaw, he always prioritized your safety over intimacy until joining the gang. When he looks back on it, your shared time at Horseshoe Overlook and Clemons Point were some of the best times of his life.

Around that time of riding with the gang was when your relationship with him really began to evolve. The potential competition of other men drove Javier and his intimacy up a wall— his usual gentle lips ghosting over yours turned into small nips, and purple blotches he would mark on your neck late at night. A tight palm covering your mouth which muffled the moans of his name, words the man would kill to hear in such an uncaged manner. He entertained no confusion of who you belonged to; even if he did not make things official until that night at the lake.

Javier had nearly forgotten the sun had already set, and he somehow had no recollection of it. He looked down at you, only in a thin shirt as you gazed longingly off the mountain side.

The final sunset you shared was simply a ticking clock for him.

“Cold?” He whispered, words he could barely choke out.

“A little.” You replied, big doe-like eyes staring up at him, holding so much love for the man. Love he was not sure he ever deserved.

Forcing his gaze away quickly he arose, soles of his feet vibrating and pulsing with each step. After approaching Boaz his shaking hands freed his bedroll clasps, attention locked upon his rifle poking out of the saddle.

His head spun, finally digging himself out of his trance. After returning to you, he draped the cloth over you coyly.

“You okay?” You suddenly asked, your hush voice startling him, he sighed in despair.

The words you said to him at Beaver Hollow replayed through his mind,

Leave with me. Let’s run away.

But he could not get them out, his chest quivered under the constraint of his uneven breaths.

“Course.” He managed to form the word, you nodded in contentment, fresh air filling your nose.

His response would have to do for now, you decided to cut him some slack since he returned to you, after all.

By now you knew him well enough. Some nights he would stay up and collect his thoughts before laying beside you. You always respected his space, he had his demons, like everyone else. Soon enough in your slumber you would feel his protective arms drape around you, his steady breaths hitting the nape of your neck, tense body encapsulating yours— those were the nights you felt the safest, and knew he was going to manage just fine.

Other nights Javier would stay up while you were by your lonesome. He always feared something would kill the both of you while asleep, reluctantly you agreed. But the man always let you rest, you needed it more, that is for putting up with him all day round.

Your memories swam with always being coaxed to sleep, eventually giving into the soft lulls he would sing. A wordless agreement that there was no point for the both of you to be cranky and tired in the morning.

—But there he sat, only to turn into the monster he swore to protect you from.

“I love you, Javier.”

Your words racked his brain, digging and clawing invasively into each one of his bones. Javier thought he imagined them until he looked over to find you staring this entire time. You knew there was something seriously wrong, but surely he would tell you within due time.

Javier’s voice was lost, swallowing suppressed sobs down his dry throat, he nearly felt like he was drowning once again in the frame he called a body.

Just like the days he would not say it back while pursuing a lead, with doubts he would not make it back to your arms— but he always did, it was the least he could do. It felt like lifetimes ago to him, how could the man choke out a te amo before sending you in?

Instead, he planted a kiss on your soft lips, lingering there for a moment, knowing it would be your last.

Looming below in the shadows, trailing to the border resided monsters he used to protect you from— two Mexican soldiers camped out by the tracks. Their lanterns flickering softly in the distance, patiently waiting for the man to arrive at the agreed meeting spot.

Javier shivered, feeling like a young boy again. His eyes fixated on the stock of his rifle that Boaz held.

Your breaths became shallow, harmonizing with the warm night’s breeze as you fell into a slumber. You trusted Javier’s judgment on setting up camp or heading home, you perhaps allowed yourself to get a little too comfortable.

It all happened so fast for him, and there was no going back. Javier’s mind blurred as he rode, Boaz fussing and fighting under his control. His very own horse feared the monster he had become, maybe poor Boaz thought he was Javier’s next victim.

He rode fast— but not fast enough to flee from himself.

A coyote lurked around the darkness, gazing at Javier from behind the two Mexican soldiers who taunted him, puffing on their big cigars from Uncle Sam.

The coyote disappeared as Javier reached for his revolver, patiently waiting for the man to shoot him— but he never did.

The soldier simply laughed, knowing Javier’s bark had no bite. While under Allende’s power, he was simply a coward a soldier would not even match out of pity.

Soon enough the two men fled into the night, banter that could be heard a mile away through the ravines. Anyone could have mistaken them for sick hyenas.

He could hear their stallions riding hard in triumph, with a new prize Javier held so close for many years, he watched the soldiers grow smaller and smaller over the uneven land until the darkness swallowed them whole, taking a piece of him along.

The nighttimes ahead would find Javier in a one horse town saloon, nodding off more times than he could remember. His glass turned from full to empty until his vision doubled.

Javier was not sure how many days had passed, the whiskey dulling his mind and senses, but the thoughts still ate him alive.

Did you think he would come for you? Or would you be envious, spilling everything you could before meeting the gallows.

Javier hid in his palms, knowing he got it all wrong— it should have been him.

It did not take too long for the man to get kicked out from the saloon due to his drunken stupor, not even the bartender wanted his dirty money.

Javier took Boaz to what he thought was east, the coyote returned to accompany him, lurking around on the monotone forest floors he traveled.

The night breeze made Javier reminisce of the times at camp, the very same breeze that whipped through your hair as you would drag him off somewhere secluded, your mischievous grin reflecting off the summer night's moon as you snuck off into the bushes.

You gave everything to each other— all for nothing it seems.

Javier sank lower into himself before eventually staggering off Boaz. It only took him a few unsteady steps to empty his bowels on the dirt path, elbows hoisting him up on his shaky bent knees.

Peeking out from his jacket cuff was a scar he once wore proudly on his wrist. A scar he earned in some honky tonk town just because another man looked at you wrong. The mere thought of it worsened his nausea.

All signs pointed to you, and you were gone because of reasons he barely understood himself— He feared he didn’t know what loyalty was anymore. Or what he stood for in fact.

Your blind love killed you in the end, and it was his cross to bear.

The sky was dark and dull, which was just as familiar as a bottle and a glass. Not a single star in the sky greeted him, leaving him to fester alone.

The wind howled violently through the trees, causing the leaves to rustle and sway. A northern was quickly sneaking upon the lands of New Austin.

His lone coyote joined him on a distant cliffside, coat black as sin, mocking the cowboy who lingered below.

#rdr2 headcanons #javier escuella #x reader #javier escuella x reader #headcanons #red dead redemption 2 x reader #rdr2 x reader #rdr x reader #red dead redemption fandom #tried using metaphors and connecting it to both the in game lore and part 1 #i think i like it???#low honor #but could be occ still?

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mostlysignssomeportents · 1 year

Text

America's largest hospital chain has an algorithmic death panel

It’s not that conservatives aren’t sometimes right — it’s that even when they’re right, they’re highly selective about it. Take the hoary chestnut that “incentives matter,” trotted out to deny humane benefits to poor people on the grounds that “free money” makes people “workshy.”

There’s a whole body of conservative economic orthodoxy, Public Choice Theory, that concerns itself with the motives of callow, easily corrupted regulators, legislators and civil servants, and how they might be tempted to distort markets.

But the same people who obsess over our fallible public institutions are convinced that private institutions will never yield to temptation, because the fear of competition keeps temptation at bay. It’s this belief that leads the right to embrace monopolies as “efficient”: “A company’s dominance is evidence of its quality. Customers flock to it, and competitors fail to lure them away, therefore monopolies are the public’s best friend.”

But this only makes sense if you don’t understand how monopolies can prevent competitors. Think of Uber, lighting $31b of its investors’ cash on fire, losing 41 cents on every dollar it brought in, in a bid to drive out competitors and make public transit seem like a bad investment.

Or think of Big Tech, locking up whole swathes of your life inside their silos, so that changing mobile OSes means abandoning your iMessage contacts; or changing social media platforms means abandoning your friends, or blocking Google surveillance means losing your email address, or breaking up with Amazon means losing all your ebooks and audiobooks:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2021/08/facebooks-secret-war-switching-costs

Businesspeople understand the risks of competition, which is why they seek to extinguish it. The harder it is for your customers to leave — because of a lack of competitors or because of lock-in — the worse you can treat them without risking their departure. This is the core of enshittification: a company that is neither disciplined by competition nor regulation can abuse its customers and suppliers over long timescales without losing either:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/21/potemkin-ai/#hey-guys

It’s not that public institutions can’t betray they public interest. It’s just that public institutions can be made democratically accountable, rather than financially accountable. When a company betrays you, you can only punish it by “voting with your wallet.” In that system, the people with the fattest wallets get the most votes.

When public institutions fail you, you can vote with your ballot. Admittedly, that doesn’t always work, but one of the major predictors of whether it will work is how big and concentrated the private sector is. Regulatory capture isn’t automatic: it’s what you get when companies are bigger than governments.

If you want small governments, in other words, you need small companies. Even if you think the only role for the state is in enforcing contracts, the state needs to be more powerful than the companies issuing those contracts. The bigger the companies are, the bigger the government has to be:

https://doctorow.medium.com/regulatory-capture-59b2013e2526

Companies can suborn the government to help them abuse the public, but whether public institutions can resist them is more a matter of how powerful those companies are than how fallible a public servant is. Our plutocratic, monopolized, unequal society is the worst of both worlds. Because companies are so big, they abuse us with impunity — and they are able to suborn the state to help them do it:

https://www.cambridge.org/core/journals/perspectives-on-politics/article/testing-theories-of-american-politics-elites-interest-groups-and-average-citizens/62327F513959D0A304D4893B382B992B

This is the dimension that’s so often missing from the discussion of why Americans pay more for healthcare to get worse outcomes from health-care workers who labor under worse conditions than their cousins abroad. Yes, the government can abet this, as when it lets privatizers into the Medicare system to loot it and maim its patients:

https://prospect.org/health/2023-08-01-patient-zero-tom-scully/

But the answer to this isn’t more privatization. Remember Sarah Palin’s scare-stories about how government health care would have “death panels” where unaccountable officials decided whether your life was worth saving?

https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/26195604/

The reason “death panels” resounded so thoroughly — and stuck around through the years — is that we all understand, at some deep level, that health care will always be rationed. When you show up at the Emergency Room, they have to triage you. Even if you’re in unbearable agony, you might have to wait, and wait, and wait, because other people (even people who arrive after you do) have it worse.

In America, health care is mostly rationed based on your ability to pay. Emergency room triage is one of the only truly meritocratic institutions in the American health system, where your treatment is based on urgency, not cash. Of course, you can buy your way out of that too, with concierge doctors. And the ER system itself has been infested with Private Equity parasites:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/17/the-doctor-will-fleece-you-now/#pe-in-full-effect

Wealth-based health-care rationing is bad enough, but when it’s combined with the public purse, a bad system becomes a nightmare. Take hospice care: private equity funds have rolled up huge numbers of hospices across the USA and turned them into rigged — and lethal — games:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/26/death-panels/#what-the-heck-is-going-on-with-CMS

Medicare will pay a hospice $203-$1,462 to care for a dying person, amounting to $22.4b/year in public funds transfered to the private sector. Incentives matter: the less a hospice does for their patients, the more profits they reap. And the private hospice system is administered with the lightest of touches: at the $203/day level, a private hospice has no mandatory duties to their patients.

You can set up a California hospice for the price of a $3,000 filing fee (which is mostly optional, since it’s never checked). You will have a facility inspection, but don’t worry, there’s no followup to make sure you remediate any failing elements. And no one at the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services tracks complaints.

So PE-owned hospices pressure largely healthy people to go into “hospice care” — from home. Then they do nothing for them, including continuing whatever medical care they were depending on. After the patient generates $32,000 in billings for the PE company, they hit the cap and are “live discharged” and must go through a bureaucratic nightmare to re-establish their Medicare eligibility, because once you go into hospice, Medicare assumes you are dying and halts your care.

PE-owned hospices bribe doctors to refer patients to them. Sometimes, these sham hospices deliberately induce overdoses in their patients in a bid to make it look like they’re actually in the business of caring for the dying. Incentives matter:

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2022/12/05/how-hospice-became-a-for-profit-hustle

Now, hospice care — and its relative, palliative care — is a crucial part of any humane medical system. In his essential book, Being Mortal, Atul Gawande describes how end-of-life care that centers a dying person’s priorities can make death a dignified and even satisfying process for the patient and their loved ones:

https://atulgawande.com/book/being-mortal/

But that dignity comes from a patient-centered approach, not a profit-centered one. Doctors are required to put their patients’ interests first, and while they sometimes fail at this (everyone is fallible), the professionalization of medicine, through which doctors were held to ethical standards ahead of monetary considerations, proved remarkable durable.

Partly that was because doctors generally worked for themselves — or for other doctors. In most states, it is illegal for medical practices to be owned by non-MDs, and historically, only a small fraction of doctors worked for hospitals, subject to administration by businesspeople rather than medical professionals.

But that was radically altered by the entry of private equity into the medical system, with the attending waves of consolidation that saw local hospitals merged into massive national chains, and private practices scooped up and turned into profit-maximizers, not health-maximizers:

https://prospect.org/health/2023-08-02-qa-corporate-medicine-destroys-doctors/

Today, doctors are being proletarianized, joining the ranks of nurses, physicians’ assistants and other health workers. In 2012, 60% of practices were doctor-owned and only 5.6% of docs worked for hospitals. Today, that’s up by 1,000%, with 52.1% of docs working for hospitals, mostly giant corporate chains:

https://prospect.org/health/2023-08-04-when-mds-go-union/

The paperclip-maximizing, grandparent-devouring transhuman colony organism that calls itself a Private Equity fund is endlessly inventive in finding ways to increase its profits by harming the rest of us. It’s not just hospices — it’s also palliative care.

Writing for NBC News, Gretchen Morgenson describes how HCA Healthcare — the nation’s largest hospital chain — outsourced its death panels to IBM Watson, whose algorithmic determinations override MDs’ judgment to send patients to palliative care, withdrawing their care and leaving them to die:

https://www.nbcnews.com/health/health-care/doctors-say-hca-hospitals-push-patients-hospice-care-rcna81599

Incentives matter. When HCA hospitals send patients to die somewhere else to die, it jukes their stats, reducing the average length of stay for patients, a key metric used by HCA that has the twin benefits of making the hospital seem like a place where people get well quickly, while freeing up beds for more profitable patients.

Goodhart’s Law holds that “When a measure becomes a target, it ceases to be a good measure.” Give an MBA within HCA a metric (“get patients out of bed quicker”) and they will find a way to hit that metric (“send patients off to die somewhere else, even if their doctors think they could recover”):

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Goodhart%27s_law

Incentives matter! Any corporate measure immediately becomes a target. Tell Warners to decrease costs, and they will turn around and declare the writers’ strike to be a $100m “cost savings,” despite the fact that this “savings” comes from ceasing production on the shows that will bring in all of next year’s revenue:

https://deadline.com/2023/08/warner-bros-discovery-david-zaslav-gunnar-wiedenfels-strikes-1235453950/

Incentivize a company to eat its seed-corn and it will chow down.

Only one of HCA’s doctors was willing to go on record about its death panels: Ghasan Tabel of Riverside Community Hospital (motto: “Above all else, we are committed to the care and improvement of human life”). Tabel sued Riverside after the hospital retaliated against him when he refused to follow the algorithm’s orders to send his patients for palliative care.

Tabel is the only doc on record willing to discuss this, but 26 other doctors talked to Morgenson on background about the practice, asking for anonymity out of fear of retaliation from the nation’s largest hospital chain, a “Wall Street darling” with $5.6b in earnings in 2022.

HCA already has a reputation as a slaughterhouse that puts profits before patients, with “severe understaffing”:

https://www.nbcnews.com/health/health-news/workers-us-hospital-giant-hca-say-puts-profits-patient-care-rcna64122

and rotting, undermaintained facililties:

https://www.nbcnews.com/health/health-care/roaches-operating-room-hca-hospital-florida-rcna69563

But while cutting staff and leaving hospitals to crumble are inarguable malpractice, the palliative care scam is harder to pin down. By using “AI” to decide when patients are beyond help, HCA can employ empiricism-washing, declaring the matter to be the factual — and unquestionable — conclusion of a mathematical process, not mere profit-seeking:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/26/dictators-dilemma/ggarbage-in-garbage-out-garbage-back-in

But this empirical facewash evaporates when confronted with whistleblower accounts of hospital administrators who have no medical credentials berating doctors for a “missed hospice opportunity” when a physician opts to keep a patient under their care despite the algorithm’s determination.

This is the true “AI Safety” risk. It’s not that a chatbot will become sentient and take over the world — it’s that the original artificial lifeform, the limited liability company, will use “AI” to accelerate its murderous shell-game until we can’t spot the trick:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/10/in-the-dumps-2/

The risk is real. A 2020 study in the Journal of Healthcare Management concluded that the cash incentives for shipping patients to palliatve care “may induce deceiving changes in mortality reporting in several high-volume hospital diagnoses”:

https://journals.lww.com/jhmonline/Fulltext/2020/04000/The_Association_of_Increasing_Hospice_Use_With.7.aspx

Incentives matter. In a private market, it’s always more profitable to deny care than to provide it, and any metric we bolt onto that system to prevent cheating will immediately become a target. For-profit healthcare is an oxymoron, a prelude to death panels that will kill you for a nickel.

Morgenson is an incisive commentator on for-profit looting. Her recent book These Are the Plunderers: How Private Equity Runs — and Wrecks — America (co-written with Joshua Rosner) is a must-read:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/02/plunderers/#farben

I’m kickstarting the audiobook for “The Internet Con: How To Seize the Means of Computation,” a Big Tech disassembly manual to disenshittify the web and bring back the old, good internet. It’s a DRM-free book, which means Audible won’t carry it, so this crowdfunder is essential. Back now to get the audio, Verso hardcover and ebook:

http://seizethemeansofcomputation.org

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

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/05/any-metric-becomes-a-target/#hca

[Image ID: An industrial meat-grinder. A sick man, propped up with pillows, is being carried up its conveyor towards its hopper. Ground meat comes out of the other end. It bears the logo of HCA healthcare. A pool of blood spreads out below it.]

Image: Seydelmann (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:GW300_1.jpg

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

#pluralistic #hca healthcare #Gretchen Morgenson incentives matter #death panels #medicare for all #ibm watson #the algorithm #algorithmic harms #palliative care #hospice #hospice care #business #incentives matter #any metric becomes a target #goodhart's law

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peacereturnedtothevalley · 6 months

Text

what's a better departure than disappearing to never return?

[Audio Transcript Below]

JACK: Out comes a woman dressed in black. Like a fairly normal—well, she looks normal, but she doesn’t look normal for a circus. Slim-faced, pale woman, wearing black, people behind her wheeling a huge cart covered in a black cloth. And the lights in the circus dim, and she pulls the black cloth off to reveal a sort of gigantic—you know those, like, those doors that look like a mouth that you sometimes see? Like, big, weird, grotesque carnival door that’s also a mouth? Door that’s a mouth.

AUSTIN: Ah. Yeah. Yeah, I think I know what you mean. Yeah, yeah, yeah.

JACK: Yeah, if you Google image ‘door that’s a mouth—’

AUSTIN: You’ll find things like this.

JACK: Yeah. And she says, ‘You know, ladies and gentlemen, this next act is called Disappear Altogether and Never Return. I would like a volunteer.’

[SYLVI AND KEITH LAUGH]

JACK: And there’s like a murmur among the crowd, and she begins to make her case. Which is that this act will cause one member of the audience who steps into the mouth to disappear altogether and never return. They will be free of all obligations, she can’t tell you where you’re going to go or what you’re going to see. But she speaks about it with a kind of reverential purity, that there is something majestic and terrifying here. And, you know, lads in the crowd, young lads try and egg each other on to like, ‘oh yeah, you go do it, Dave. Sangfielle Dave.’ Or whatever, and ‘you’re too scared’ and—

SYLVI: Oh, Sangfielle Dave.

AUSTIN: Sangfielle Dave.

JACK: Until eventually, you know, a small man is like ‘I’ll do it, I’ll do it.’ And he comes down the stairs and the crowd goes deathly quiet. It’s sort of the mood of a public execution or some sort of bizarre piece of church performance. And he steps—

KEITH: It’s sort of is a public execution.

JACK: Well, no, he’s not being killed. He’s disappearing altogether, and he will never return. Steps into the mouth.

SYLVI: We’ve already had a public execution today.

JACK: Yeah, we’ve already had one!

SYLVI: It’s a little same-y.

AUSTIN: You’re back at ‘I didn’t kill anyone’ real quick there, Jack.

[JACK LAUGHS]

AUSTIN: They just—Sangfielle Dave just walked through the door.

JACK: Well, no, it’s not a door. He just stands in the mouth of the door.

AUSTIN: Oh, right. Uh-huh.

JACK: And you know, other acts have a curtain involved, or whatever. But no. He just disappears. And there’s like a shocked moment of silence for about 15 seconds, and then the pale-faced woman and her attendants put the black cloth back on the mouth, and they wheel it back out of the arena. Nobody quite knows what they saw.

SYLVI: ‘Woo-hoo!’

#sangfielle #fatt audio #15 days of fatt #sort of. enjoy this clip-#fatt #friends at the table #i hope this lady comes back for sf2

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fanaticsnail · 10 months

Text

The Apprentice - Part 5 (NSFW)

Ohhh boy. This was a big one.

Warnings: Sex, p in v, romance, small angst, little fluff, mostly smut, barely proofred (it's 12:30am here right now, but plot was required to be written)

Word count: 6,888

Disclaimer: I do not speak Romanian, resources were googled. Iubițel is a men's term of endearment (meaning: sweetheart, lover and darling), Iubi is it's feminine counterpart, puișor is something like "dove" or "small animal", and draga mea is "my dear".

Part 4 here, Masterlist here.

As the wooden dock of Baratie began to bring itself within your sights; a warm, giddy smile drew itself onto your face. You had never seen its equal; a large floating restaurant in the middle of the ocean. The smells wafting from the building was enough to overcome your senses; sweets, savouries and a smoke-forward smell from an open firepit engulfing you in your approach.

You felt a hand creep along your upper forearm to rest itself atop your shoulder, prompting you to rise your gaze up to meet with the bearded jaw of your sword master. Your eyes upturned and your brows furrowed in anticipation, truly not knowing where these next few moments would take you.

Sensing your unease, Mihawk drew you into himself; cradling his arms around you and pulling you into his torso. You felt eclipsed by his warmth, his heat overwhelming you; prompting you to flitter your eyes shut against his bare chest beneath his lengthy overcoat. The small crossed blade felt warm to the touch as your chin fell towards the hilt at his neck; Mihawk’s chin rest atop your head as he brought his other arm to complete his embrace. You felt his lips possessively press themselves against your hair, his silken dark and cropped beard scraping lightly against your forehead as he completed the chaste caress.

Feeling overwhelmed by anticipation, you sighed out against his chest; almost feeling a similar sense falling from his own body in a more refined and controlled way. You felt drawn back to a moment from the very beginning of your ‘true apprenticeship’ beneath the mighty warlord as he held you now clasped into his chest: one such moment where he deemed you truly worthy to challenge him equipped with Yoru.

------

A rough growl escaped from your lips; frustration fleeing as you launched yourself forward to strike another blow towards your sword master’s belly, only for him to successfully jolt forwards to meet your blade with his own.

“Come now, Apprentice,” he reprimanded you with a taunting sarcasm purring at you, “is that any way to behave?”

Your lips curled into a snarl as you flurried your balanced blade in a circular motion to break away yourself from his contact.

Eight hours. You had been at this for hours; eight of them, in fact. Dracule Mihawk was barely breaking a sweat as you continued to push yourself over the edge of exertion to chase the opportunity to land a single blow against his stance. The opportunity Mihawk had presented you was to disarm him only once, a single blow, and he would allow you to have a week off from his harsh training regimen.

He had you working hard for the past few weeks: training your body for him day in and day out. Your day would commence as soon as the rays of the dawn would break through the horizon line, to the setting sun would flee from the clouds; leaving hints of purple and teal within its departure. Your body was broken, was worn out, exhausted; yet you continued to push forward.

Skin cracked and littered with small, sharp, exact wounds; you attempted to sweep your legs forward in hopes of a break in swordplay would disarm your opponent. Your lengthy skirt flurried out, fanning at your ankles as you attempted to sweep his while dodging his large blade from impacting you further.

Graduating from duelling the small dagger hanging loosely from his neck was a mighty feat in and of itself. He finally deemed you worthy to be at the business end of Yoru, his extremely large sword towering over your perfectly proportioned one as you dodged an incoming thrust from him. He was aiming for your chest, prompting you to dodge while leaning away from him; arching your back and tilting your head to the side.

A small smirk pulled at his lips as he stepped into your oncoming attack, bringing his knee forward suddenly towards your ribcage. You gasped a whimper and completely dropped to your knees in a last ditch attempt to bring yourself away from his oncoming onslaught.

Your head hung low as your breaths hissed out exhausted puffs of air in an attempt to fill the overused lungs within the chasms of your chest. Your eyes prickled with frustrated tears. Exhaustion raked at you with its claws, a heavy weight baring down on you as you readied yourself for another well-timed and thought out insult falling from the lips of your boss.

In its stead, you heard footsteps circling your body, bringing themselves to the front of you. Your eyes met with the blackened leather boots of the mighty warlord who had taken you under his wing for training.

Feeling a small scratch against your throat, the blunt end of Yoru found its way to your chin while the piercing tip threatened to break through the skin of your throat. You gulped to rid yourself of the dryness within your mouth at the action, your tongue flicking out to dampen your dry lips from the prior overexertion.

“Eyes-,” he commanded you in a low taunt, feeling the cool edge of the mighty blade flick your chin to tilt your head towards him, “-on-,” his boots shuffled, his body falling closer to your own, “-me.”

You scrunched your nose up and furrowed your brows at him, before apprehensively bringing your gaze forward to meet his intense amber stare. You scowled at him through your eyelashes, your lips crawling upwards to bare your teeth at him in displeasure; a smirk rising to his own lips.

“There you are,” he taunted you, bringing himself closer; stooping his body down towards you. You broke your eyes away from his and off to the side, ashamed at yourself for failing to land no impact on his body over the past daily trial.

He clicked his tongue at you, disciplining you for your retreating gaze; “no, no, Apprentice. Let me see those eyes. Let me get a glimpse of your fury.”

You snapped your gaze back towards him, your chin still remaining collected above the flat end of the large sword. You arched your body upwards towards him, maintaining eye contact while pressing the sharpened edge further into your neck. Eyes darkening, you arched your back upwards; paying your skirt no heed as it blew within the wind beneath your knees on the ground.

“Good girl,” he smirked, tapping your chin once more before releasing it from the end of the blade and twirling it to the side of his body, “show passion in your mastery, and never relinquish your gaze in the face of defeat. Learn.”

You ignored the comment he made, alongside the chills that spring from your tailbone up your spine to collect itself tangibly at the follicles on your neck; prompting the hair to stand on edge at his condescending praise.

“You had but one task,” he taunted you, ushering you to rise to your feet with a curl of his index finger on his left hand, “you were to disarm me, and we would call it a day.”

You growled again through your clenched jaw, Mihawk chuckling at the reverberations presenting themselves from your chest.

”And we need to work on your noises, Apprentice,” he reprimanded you, “can’t have you whining like a braying Jennet in anticipation of being mounted by her overzealous Moke when you’re conquered.”

The shock of his comment attempted to break onto your face, relieving your skin from its permanent scowl; but fortunately your frown held its ground. His taunt made the fury rise further within your chest further as you readied yourself to respond to him.

You reclaimed the handle of your blade, rising to your feet swiftly at his latest challenge. His smirk broadened at the sight, almost giddy at your willingness to continue.

“My lord,” you commented once your breath returned to you, “I hope you’ll find-,” you rose your non-dominant hand up towards your waist, “-I don’t back away from a challenge so easily.”

“That remains to be seen, yes,” he confirmed with you, leaning back onto his bent leg in anticipation for your incoming attack, “but you do require discipline with the tones fleeing from your lips in combat. I hope to break you away from the habit.”

You huffed out an air of frustration while side-stepping him in a slow, calculated motion.

“I am your humble pupil, my lord,” you confirmed, a smirk rising to your lips as your fingertips found the tie of your skirt and began to tug on it, “and I think you’ll find that I know more than one way of disarming a man.”

At that comment, you released your waist from your lengthy skirt, brandishing it within your non-dominant hand and flourishing the material beside yourself while launching your blade towards him in the wake of his distraction. In nothing more than your tight training shirt and lingerie, you managed to brush your blade on the lefthand shoulder of the dark-haired, amber-eyed Dracule Mihawk; successfully landing a whisper of a disarming blow against him.

His eyes widened in shock as he raked his gaze over your exposed lower body before trailing them back up to meet with your gaze. He narrowed his eyes at you and stepped towards your body; placing Yoru firmly within the ground by sinking the blade into the hard soil and using his dominant hand to collect the wrist you were using to flurry the material within.

Baring his gaze down into your own, you couldn’t help the smug expression from drawing itself onto your cheeks at the knowledge that you had successfully disarmed your trainer with something as unexpected as utilising your skirt as a material shield while you struck him.

“Apprentice,” his tone warned you, prompting the smile to drop from your face at his reprimand. Your chest filled with anxiety at his disciplinary and authoritarian voice, feeling yourself cower away from him. He gripped your chin with his non-dominant hand and held you firmly, forcing your eyes to remain firmly fixated onto his own.

His lips curled into a warm smile, his voice softening; “that was incredibly clever.”

You gasped at his praise, feeling disarmed yourself at the softness he utilised within his tone and also how his hands felt as he held your wrist and your face within his calculated clutches.

“Well done,” he commended you with a humming tone, a smirk drawing itself to his face in place of the soft smile. He released your wrist and chin from within his clutches and turned away from you, making his way towards the mighty castle atop Kuraigana island and calling to you over his shoulder, “now come. I have a vintage for you to sample as a reward for your efforts.”

You breathed a sigh of relief and hung your head. You felt the tug of a small smile begin to rise upon your cheeks once more before the emotion halted at the warlord’s next words: “and do try to at least keep your skirt on for this next venture. I’d hate to see you come undone further in your training today, swords or otherwise.”

The air all but relinquished itself from your lungs at his comment, fury building instead of your prior pride at besting the swordsman.

---------

“We have arrived,” he commented atop your head, tracing the flesh of your shoulders beneath his thumbs. You rose your own to rest against his hips, holding firm to your grasp but pushing his body from yourself in preference of the view of his broad-hat adorned face.

“How do we locate our mark, Luffy was it?” you asked him, quirking up your brow and tilting your head to the side.

“Work, work, work,” he chastised you with a low, purred taunt, floating his hawk-like gaze between your two orbs, “I appreciate your loyalty to completing the task that lies ahead, Apprentice.”

“You’ll find that’s not all a task I’m loyal to completing this night, my lord,” you whispered up into him; lips almost brushing with your eyes becoming half-lidded, as they bore into your mentor flirtatiously.

A low rumbly growl escaped from between his lips, a noise that seemed completely involuntary in nature; surprising the both of you. You giggled, raising your lefthand fingertips to hold firm against his lips and giving him a soft push away from your body. You felt the tingle of his moustache against the tips of your fingers as you traced his lips with them, halting them against his lower lip.

“Now, now, my lord. What has come over you?” you hummed at him, drawing your face closer towards him and arching your body upwards into his chest further, “I thought you weren’t one for engaging in lewd and overzealous vocalisations.”

He immediately released your shoulders from his grasp and claimed your left wrist at his face and pulled it towards his mouth, trailing his beard-clad lips over your forearm and upwards towards your bicep with a trail of passionate, open mouthed kisses. A gasp was immediately pulled from your lips at his action, his lips now finding themselves attached to your shoulder and drawing further into your neck, prompting your jaw to fall slack, brows furrow upwards and you to arch your neck to expose more of your skin towards his affectionate and relentless attack.

“M-my lord?” you questioned him, prompting another feral growl to fall from his lips and muffle themselves at your neck, “m-my lord, we’re not yet docked at Baratie.”

He bore his teeth into your shoulder as he bit the skin and sucked a harsh, red mark into your flesh where your shoulder met with your neck; a hissed gasp falling from your lips at the harsh action he was presenting against you. You closed your eyes at the feeling, his tongue swirling at your skin and raking his teeth upwards towards the shell of your ear.

“You make a fair point, Apprentice,” he whispered into your ear before completely retracting his body from you. A small whimper escaped your lips at his departure, a smirk rising itself against the lips of the great warlord of the sea. He moved his body to the navigator’s pole and steered the ship effortlessly to align itself against the peer of Baratie.

He gestured to one of the men at the makeshift peer as your ship had begun its descent to lie adjacent at the wooden dock at the base of the sailing restaurant to throw a looped rope towards the ship. Your body began moving on its own, immediately readying yourself to catch the rope thrust into the air with ease. Feeling the fibrous material within your fingertips, you began to secure the ship with it, under the doting and watchful gaze of your mentor who’s eyes softened in a way only meant for you.

After securing the ship against the wooden dock, you turned to face him once again; straightening up your shoulders and lacing your fingertips to hang lowly behind your back. He raked his eyes over your body, face remaining completely expressionless as he did so. You remained stationary as he moved to circle your body, examining your form as a general would inspect the uniform of their underling in search for any blemish beneath his hawk-like gaze.

“The ship is secure, sir,” you informed him confidently, looking through the corner of your eye to witness him completing his circular inspection. He halted in front of your right shoulder, stooping low and bringing his index finger and thumb to your chin; tilting your face towards his.

“So it is,” he uttered, leaning his face forward to bring his lips up to your cheekbone, His lips ghosted over your face, stalking you with his intimate touch as he raked them lower towards your lips.

As his lips travelled to lie at the corner of your mouth, you shut your eyes; feeling his fingertips drag themselves over your shoulders, down your forearms and still themselves against the hilt of your belt. He tugged his hand against your belt, pulling you closer to himself as his lips finally found their way back against your own.

You froze, unsure of how to respond in this moment. Mihawk furrowed his brows, feeling your hesitation against his lips and breaking away from them. His eyes remained shut as he pressed his forehead against your own, asking you: “why do you hesitate, Apprentice? You were so eager to engage in such a manner earlier.”

You exhaled a breath you did not know you were holding, relieved at his question.

“The dynamic, sir,” you voiced your concern in a small, reluctant voice, “I desire to return your affections to you, but-.”

“-This will not impact your training, draga mea,” he whispered against your lips, bringing one hand to cradle your cheek, “in fact, I desire to train you harder.”

You leant into his touch, feeling his remaining hand resting against your belt flick open the buckle; the leather strap falling slack against your waist. You instinctively drew your hand out to catch your scabbard to ensure your blade did not fall to the floor, grasping it firmly in your hand. Mihawk chuckled, prompting you to open your eyes to be greeted with a warm and sincere smile upon his moustache-clad lips. Your eyes softened, lips parting at the sight while you openly drew your eyes over his face to permanently brand the image into your mind.

He was so, unbelievably handsome. You had only ever seen this particular smile briefly once prior; when you bested him with your skirted flourish: the image returning to your mind. You stood atop your toes to press a chaste kiss against his smiling lips, withdrawing them quickly to ensure his smile remained.

“When you are without your blade at your hilt or in your hand,” he informed you, the wide smile leaving his face and momentarily replaced my its softer counterpart, “you are my iubi, my puișor-,” he raked his fingers over your cheek to fall within your hair, pooling the strands to fasten themselves behind your ear, “-my equal.”

A gasp fled itself from your lips as you focussed on his words, your gaze fluttering between his amber eyes in search for hidden agenda; finding only desire in its wake.

“You are first and foremost my apprentice,” he informed you again, breaking his forehead away from yours as he leant upwards from his stoop, “and I would not want this to ruin the rapport we have built between us: especially the taunting.”

“I do enjoy your taunting now, my lord-,” you began, only to have your comment halted by the warlord’s words.

“-Mihawk,” he informed you, gesturing to the sword in your hand, “while you are unequipped, to you I am Mihawk; or any other endearment that falls from your lips to bestow to me.”

He placed his lips against your forehead, pulling you into himself as he affectionately held you against him. You smiled into his caress, your hands finding their way around his waist to pull his body flush against yours once more. You felt on his back the large scabbard containing his mighty blade still remaining clutched against him. You flicked it with your right hand, bringing Mihawk’s lips away from your head in response.

“You remain armed,” you commented, arching your brow upward in question, “do you desire first to locate our mark-?” you trailed your index finger upwards to fall against his bearded jaw, tracing its way towards his mouth and pressing your thumb against his lower lip. You arched your chin upwards and looked up at his honeyed eyes through your eyelashes; “-or do you long to join me below deck?”

His eyes widened at your abrasiveness while a curl befell to his lips as he broke away from your embrace, rotating his shoulders back to rid itself of the harness containing the scabbard of Yoru and firmly lying the blade beside his captains-chair. The giddy feeling once again rose within flutters of your chest, warmth drawing itself to your cheeks as he drew his attention back to you. He beckoned for you to follow him below deck with a tilt of his chin upwards with his signature smirk once again returning before strutting himself beneath the deck. You grinned like the cat that ate the canary, rotating your shoulders back and clicking your neck upwards before placing your own scabbard beside your master’s at his chair.

Your feet rapped against the wooden floorboards of the coffin-shaped vessel, your head bowing ever so slightly to fall beneath the frame of the lower deck entrance. Feet falling effortlessly against the steps below, you felt two hands rise up out of the darkness and grip your hips in a tight vice, lifting your body down to the depths in the dimly lit corridor.

There he was; your mentor and sword instructor, a man possessed by feral intensity and complete abandonment to prior mentality of taking his time, dragging you down into the depths of the corridor and pressing you by your hips against the wooden walls within. The rays of the sun flittered through the port windows to bring some semblance of light casting shadows against the bare back of Dracule Mihawk; who seemed to have ridden himself of his great-cloak and feathered hat impatiently as he waited for you to descend.

His lips drew themselves against your pulse, grazing his teeth against the skin and pressing his lips over the mark he drew onto you moments earlier to deepen the shade. Your breath hitched in your throat and your eyes squeezed shut in surprise, his leather clad knee pressing between your thighs as he drew himself closer into you. Lacing your arms around his neck, you felt him lift you effortlessly once more to angle his entire body between your legs; bullying you to reveal more of your clothed self against him. He hooked both of your knees over his hips as he nudged the material of your shirt with his bearded chin to expose more flesh for him to assault with his tongue and teeth.

You were expecting ferocity, but clearly missed the intensity of his relentless abandon. In your training with swords, Mihawk was always completely in control of his actions. Precise and akin to a surgeon, he would always meet his mark with swiftness and cleanliness. He would often reprimand you for your own ferocity within the heat of combat as he lazily drank a glass of crimson wine as he studied your form, critiquing you on your lack of control.

“M-Mihawk,” you uttered in a small voice, prompting him to break away his rage from your body to snap his sights upwards. You felt small within his hunted gaze, his eyes widening at your expression and slightly wavering his hold against you.

“I apologise, puișor,” he gasped into you, holding you completely stabilized by his hips pinned to the wall and bringing his hands up to caress your cheek and neck repentantly, “the intensity of our little dalliance over this past month seemed to have rattled me more than I expected.”

He kissed your chin, his moustache tickling your bottom lip as he did so. He caressed your cheek before firmly clasping it within his palm and steadying your face within it, bringing his eyes up once more to stare within your own.

“You are my equal here,” he emphatically phrased to you with confidence, “not my prey.”

He lowered you to the floor and pressed his lips against your cheek and lowered the hand clutching your neck to claim a hand lying at your side within his own.

“It has been a while since either of us have had an encounter with another intimately,” you stated in a low tone, bringing your own hand up to press against his cheek, “I don’t blame you in the slightest for your intensity. I was simply caught off-guard.”

Mihawk began to open his mouth to chastise you, his apprentice, for dropping your guard; only for his words to halt within his throat regarding his earlier relinquishment of that title to you. You smiled as you watched his mind search for an appropriate quip, only for his lips to be met with your own as you chased him. His lips felt soft, but blown out and swollen from his earlier bruising intensity. His slower movements feeling more affectionate than marking ferociously.

Breaking away from your lips, murmuring in a hairlines distance from them; “I thought you wanted to see me angry. To see how truly desperate I am to feel you within my arms once more.” Your eyes widened, recollecting your prior conversation with the red-haired pirate within the onsen:

“Good girl,” the redhead praised you in a low tone before whispering, “now let’s make him angry.” He brought his lips within close proximity with your own but holding them away from completing their connection with your own out of respect for your prior apprehension. He squinted his eyes into a broad smile as he held your gaze, prompting you to allow a small, nervous smile to fall over your own.

You never thought you would have the opportunity to see him like this; your sword master and mentor desperately wanting to overwhelm you with ravenous intensity as he held you in his arms but withholding truly for your comfort.

It began with you wishing to finally be rid of his apprenticeship due to resentment, flowering into a semblance of mutual respect for wine while training you in mastery of your craft. Now it had truly blossomed into something more feral; the month of dancing the line between insubordination and true obedience with more exact flirtations coming crashing at this moment.

“As per your earlier invitation, I desire to have you intimately,” he sighed his confession against your lips as he brought his hands up to hold your cheeks within his grip, “and then I think I’d follow that act with a vendange tardives before locating our mark and extracting him.” He sighed, looking to the floor before once again searching your eyes.

“What do you want from me, iubi?” Mihawk whispered into your face, his breath blowing against your chin. His tone harboured a small amount of pleading desperation, truly desiring to be with you but withholding himself as he restrained his affections from you.

“My lord-,” you began, halting your words and correcting yourself under his searching gaze, “-Mihawk-.” He smiled again at your title, pleased you managed to catch your mistake.

“-Iubițel,” you uttered affectionately into him with your eyes half-lidded, swaying your head at him with a small smile forming against your lips, “-It’s dark here, and I don’t want to miss a single moment. I want you, and I want to at least see you the first time we engage like this.”

You felt him release a sigh of relief into you, prompting a small giggle to rise within your chest. Immediately he stooped down and lifted you once more by your thighs, hoisting you upwards into him and carrying you finally towards your crew quarters.

“I like the title,” he admitted to you in a purr, utilising his back to push open the door; the light flooding against his body under the illuminance from the broad bay windows facing outwards into the ocean, “though your accent is another thing I fear I need to drill into you.”

“Training hours are officially concluded by your orders, iubițel,” you warned him as he turned to place you atop his hanging bunk, “the only drilling I am keen to receive-,” you curled your finger beneath his chin to angle his face upwards to hold his lips almost against you own, uttering in a low whisper; “-is from the cock trapped beneath your pants.”

A rough growl fled from his lips as he crawled atop his perch, completely caging you beneath him as his lips found your own. A month of pent up emotion finally granted permission to release itself within the arms of one another. Three years of vigorous training and getting to know each other in all aspects other than this one area of taboo entanglement finally being released as his hands located the material shielding your lower half from revealing yourself to him.

He pushed the material lower, you arching your back upwards as your lips found his, pressing a warm and open kiss against his lips; completely submitting to his dominance. He smirked into your kiss, completely pushing your pants and overskirt from your body along with your undergarments; pooling the material at your ankles. You kicked the material to be completely rid of them, the soft thud of the material falling to the floor prompting a small laugh to flee from you at the giddiness you felt from the warlord above you.

Trailing his lips from your lips to brush against your check, before his teeth began to nip and graze at your jaw; Mihawk pushed the fabric of your shirt to reveal your shoulder and clavicle to submit itself to his fingertips. You utilised his momentary distraction to bring your feet upwards towards his hips, your toes successfully locating the buckle fastening his pants securely covering himself.

You threw your head back and gasped as he began to grasp at your breasts and mould them beneath his palms, halting your prior action. He smirked against your neck, causing you to harden your resolve and pick the lock of his belt buckle with your toes, successfully unclasping the buckle and removing his pants from his hips by dragging the leather material downwards with your heels.

He gasped in surprise into your neck as he felt the slap of his hard cock meet with his stomach, catching him off guard with your eagerness.

“Iubi-,” he growled into you, his teeth meeting the flesh just above your areola; his brows furrowing and his grip holding firmly against you, “-I made it clear I wanted to take my time.”

A small giggle fled from your lips as you felt his cock twitch against your thigh as he crawled further upwards and caged you below himself. He reached his right hand down towards your left thigh and raked his spread fingertips down your thigh to claim your knee beneath his palm and hook it over his hips.

“I wouldn’t be laughing, if I in your place,” he warned you, his tone halting the humour in your throat. He brought his lips down to the shell of your right ear and whispered into it; “I wanted to have you yearn for me as much as I do you. I wanted to taste every inch of you until your mind was rid of any utterance of coherent thought other than how good I make you feel.”

Your eyes widened as he maneuvered his left leg over your right and rake his other hand down to claim your right thigh and lift it over his waist, his cock lying flush against your pubic bone, uttering darkly: “I wanted to feel you squirm and quiver beneath me multiple times as I basked in your pleasure alone, witnessing your toes curl and legs shake at the complete intensity I grant onto to you.”

Your jaw hung slack as you felt your pussy clench under his crass words, completely soaked in anticipation of his next action. His tongue flicked out to trace the shell of your ear, a shudder overcoming you as a whine fled from your lips. Your nipples hardened as his breath felt cool under the stripe he traced with his talented tongue.

“But, unfortunately,” he whispered into your neck, “you have a keen sense for bringing out the worst in me.”

You felt the tip of his cock press itself against your entrance, your eyebrows furrowing in anticipation as you fluttered your eyes shut in expectation. You felt his weight shift and his head leave the side of your face to hover over your own.

“Eyes-,” he whispered, nudging your chin with his nose, “-on-,” your eyes flickered open to meet with his lips, “-me.” Your eyes floated up to search his amber orbs, a smile falling to his lips as he pressed a gentle kiss against your lips before retracting them.

“There you are,” he gasped at you, smoothing over your hair with his right hand, “good girl.” Your eyes glazed over at his commendation but remaining held to his yellow, hawk-like gaze. You felt your pussy involuntarily clench around nothing, eager to be filled and claimed by the man above you.

His eyes shifted from their softness to an intimidating and fierce expression once again as his tip prodded against your soaked cunt. You gasped, feeling the girth of his cock measured against your hole, poking in a small precise motion against you and slowly pressing into yourself. A groan escaped his lips as he sheathed his tip completely, halting to give you opportunity to adjust to his size.

You held his gaze, your peripherals noticing his jaw began to slack and brows furrow against the feeling of stretching you to size. He brought his left hand down to cage your head, right hand steadying your high against his hips as he continued to sink down into you. You hissed as he continued to push himself into you, feeling the muscles of his lower abdomen shift to withhold himself from commencing a relentless and unforgiving pace without you being fully prepared and stretched for him.

You had taken lovers prior, but none that had managed to completely listen to your body and its responses in this completely controlled way, instead enthralled in seeking their own pleasure and you your own. You found yourself desperately wanting to please him, but unable to pull your eyes away from his own as he completely sheathed himself within you; his cock arching up to brush against your g-spot while his pelvis and pubis raked effortlessly and skilfully against your clit.

A sigh-like cry fled from your lips to meet out and harmonise with the low groan falling from the lips of the warlord; his eyes the first to tear away from your own as he retracted down to the tip before shifting back into you once more; hitting the exact same spot as it did prior with surgical and calculated precision.

“Wanted-,” Mihawk gasped out as he began to pick up his pace, “-to unravel you-,” he growled, his pace beginning to become ferocious as his hips painfully clapped against your own, “-and make you scream for me.”

You brought your wrist up to clasp your left palm over your lips to muffle your cries of pleasure beneath it. Mihawk immediately snapped his head upwards your own and claimed your left wrist within his right hand and forced it above your head, lacing his fingers within them.

“Now’s not the time to withhold your sounds, draga mea,” he captured your lips within his own, his lips releasing a groan of his own as his pace began to build up in intensity. You felt the familiar tightening of the pit in your stomach bind tightly together; tingles shooting down to your toes laced atop the hips of the warlord above you.

He pulled his left hand over to guide your right hand to his back, instinctively pulling at the flesh and raking your fingernails down his flesh to leave red stripes of passion trailing from his shoulder blade to his ribcage; a groan-like whimper falling from his lips into your own.

As his vocalisation falling into your mouth, your eyes began to roll back into your head and your lips became desperate in its attachment against his own as heat began to pool upwards in your chest and your mind became foggy at your approaching orgasm.

Mihawk broke his lips away from your own and pulled his left hand to hold your chin, prompting your gaze to fall back to meet with his own; his jaw clenched tightly and pupils blown with lust.

“If you’re going to cum on my cock,” he panted out between dishevelled puffs of air, “you’re going to hold your gaze firm to me as you do so.”

You furrowed your brows and managed to form a coherent sentence, much to both your and Mihawk’s surprise: “-I don’t back away from a challenge so easily.”

Mihawk snarled with a small smirk following your challenge, baring his relentless and unforgiving pace further diving into the depths of your soaked cunt with his painfully hard cock. He almost tore his own gaze away from your own as he became overwhelmed with the flutters of your inner walls at the approach of your orgasm.

You held contact between your eyes as you felt your inner walls clench around his cock, the tightly wound coil within the pit of your stomach feeling tightly bound as Mihawk’s movements actively sought out the release from your body.

“M-Mi-,” you began, your jaw falling slack and eyes beginning to prick at the corners under the intensity, “Mihawk, I’m-,” his eyes began to glaze over, the yellow almost dissipating with how truly taken he was with hunting your pleasure alongside his own, “I’m going to-.”

“Cum on my cock,” he ordered you, his fingers flattening against your jaw with his thumb remaining below your chin to hold your gaze firmly against his, “let me see you snap.”

At his words, the coil within you shattered; tingles shooting down your legs and lower stomach as you screamed his name with reckless abandon; his own orgasm triggered in response to your soul calling for his as they met in a dance of mutual pleasure. Ribbons of hot cum shot within your core, pooling within the back of your completely dishevelled cunt. Mihawk called your name and a string of incoherent Romanian words you had yet to comprehend as his body shuddered against your own completely ridding himself within the thralls of pleasure; succumbing to the call of your femininity.

Your breaths met as your eyes held firmly against each other’s; Mihawk being the first to fall his face into yours after coming down from his high to press his lips against yours in a tender and slow kiss. His curled black hair fell over his eyes and onto your forehead below him as he reached his hand down to unhook your legs from behind his body and pull his cock from your walls slowly.

You felt the pool of the cocktail of pleasured release fall away from your entrance and fall onto the sheets of his bed. Mihawk chuckled at your whine in protest of being completely empty of his body from its place above your own.

“Iubi,” he whispered into you, bringing his right hand to cradle your face within his palm. You pressed your lips against his warm hand, uttering back the title you gave to him in playful response: “Iubițel.”

He sighed against you, pressing his forehead against your own and whispering lovingly into your face, you enchanted by the beauty of his afterglow: “let’s get you cleaned up, vendange tardives at Baratie with some camembert, gorgonzola and quince paste sounds like the perfect end to an evening.”

You giggled at him, sitting yourself up on your elbows beneath him; nuzzling your nose against his own.

“And what of the job we were tasked to complete? Are you going to blame this one on me also?” you quirked up at him, your eyes innocently searching his face.

“Let them have their fun for a while,” he responded, reaching up to your hair and tucking it behind your ear in response, “it’s only early in the evening, draga mea. We could even sample some of the reds at the bar after our dessert wine.”

“Breaking your sacred wine rules, are we?” you teased him while furrowing your brows.

“That is likely not the only rules we’ve broken today,” he confirmed with his signature smirk while crawling backwards off of his suspended perch and reaching his arms towards your own to pull you towards him, “but pay that no mind now. I have something I’d like to see you wear.”

You quirked your head to the side in question, your legs hanging over the side of the bed before Mihawk lifted you against his warm torso and placed you onto the ground; hovering his arms to steady you. He sought out your gaze by lowering his face to you and capturing your attention.

“You have no need to equip yourself at Baratie,” he informed you with a softness to his eyes, “the task was appointed to me, and I do not desire to relinquish it to you.”

“What would you have me do, Mihawk? I am your apprentice and I am here to learn from you,” you asked him, unsure waters lying ahead at his comment and needing further clarification.

“You will simply be my Iubi,” he whispered into you, “not only my apprentice, but my lover. My sweetheart, and my darling. Whatever role you choose to don yourself with tonight; I plan on wooing you aboard Baratie further.”

“Vendage Tardives?” you asked him with a soft smile falling to your face.

“Vandage Tardives,” he confirmed, pressing his lips against your forehead in a gentle caress.

Tag List:

@sapphireonline, @whatthemonsterfuckisthis

#one piece #opla #opla fic #one piece live action #x reader #mihawk #mihawk fic #mihawk x reader #dracule mihawk #opla mihawk #one piece mihawk

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ohnogachaverse · 3 months

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They released the Penacony soundtrack vol.2

And I like the name for the Aventurine's boss fight Hell is preferable to Nihility. I can't properly word why, but I think it's fitting.

Also, the music that plays during Aventurine and Kakavasha's last talk is titled Nought May Endure But Mutability which is a line from a poem Mutability by Percy Shelley thank you google

We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon;

How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver,

Streaking the darkness radiantly!—yet soon

Night closes round, and they are lost forever:

Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings

Give various response to each varying blast,

To whose frail frame no second motion brings

One mood or modulation like the last.

We rest.—A dream has power to poison sleep;

We rise.—One wandering thought pollutes the day;

We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep;

Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away:

It is the same!—For, be it joy or sorrow,

The path of its departure still is free:

Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow;

Nought may endure but mutability!

Nothing is forever, both sorrow and joy will pass. And I think that's incredibly fitting for this scene.

#aventurine #ohnotalking #honkai star rail #hsr #hsr spoilers #version 2.1 #because spoilers are from that one #Aventurine hsr

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cherubispunk · 5 months

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NEPHILIM: THE FALLEN - Jackson-era!Joel Miller x AFAB!Reader

summary: fallen or damned? who's to tell when it's joel miller?

a note from Lucy: DONT HATE ME I KNOW ITS BEEN A LONG TIME!! Not entirely happy with this but it's been sitting in my docs for months now and i had to get it out there to give me some peace of mind so please be aware it may well be riddle with grammatical mistakes and typos galore. as always like, comment and reblog to save a sinners sanity!

playlist | moodboard + poem

wc: 2755

Warnings: 18+ MDNI DARK CONTENT! Jackson era!post outbreak!Joel, no use of y/n, reader is referred to as ‘Bambi’, verbally constipated Joel Miller, brief gore descriptions, heavy religious imagery and references to the bible, biblical lore, yearning, idiots in love, angst angst angst!!!!!!, bombastic age gap!!! yahhhhh! (reader is in her 20’s/ Joel is in his late 50’s), smut, oral sex (m! receiving), rough oral sex, possessive!joel, dom!joel/sub!reader dynamic, you know the drill with my writing, there’s probably some form of cannibalism as a metaphor, or brutal violence as a metaphor, religious imagery as a metaphor, etc. (aka, fancy word vomit) - Lucy crying over a bloody google doc :)

series masterlist | m.list

Ephesians 2:3 Among them we too all formerly lived in the lusts of our flesh, indulging the desires of the flesh and of the mind, and were by nature children of wrath, even as the rest.

The sky was bruised. It was like God– or whatever resided up there– knew. The grey clouds, and the garish yellow of the setting sun, and the deep blue that ebbed into purple…they all knew. Your heart ached too. Bruised. It seemed to crack a little more each day. What started as nothing more than a hairline fracture had split into a gaping, weeping slice. Why? Because Joel was always quiet. For such a large man he had a ghostly habit of creeping into a room without notice. Creeping into your heart too through your hollow ribs. You could feel him behind you now though. His breath thick on the nape of your neck and it cooled the thin sheen of sweat on your skin. Soothed your burning flesh while saving it from the inferno. The tension became bearable. These little spaces of empty matter between all else. That slight awkwardness about his usual stoic yet confident demeanour…it was endearing now.

You were easing into the silence, content with watching the bruise darken from purple to midnight blue. The sky would turn on its bright little stars, and the moon would slice through sapphire as the early evening aged. The sun was going to rest now, the greying moon taking its post to watch over the town. You should follow the sun’s direction. Close your eyes so as to not have to witness his all too soon departure.

His fingers, so gentle, so strong, gently traced the curve and divot of your hip under the covers. It was strange to think just moments prior they had been inside you. Making you feel boneless in bed.

“Bambi?” He asked, tentative and uncharacteristically uncertain. He loathed it; the change in him.

“Mhm?” You hummed lazily, your hands tucked under the pillow to keep them warm, knees curled up to your chest. But no answer nor following question came. You knew what it was. He was cramming something back down his throat before he had the chance to say it for fear of being out of line. One day it shall choke him blue. He was strung so tightly. Tension in his shoulders that made them rise uncomfortably. And you noticed this when you turned to face him. Neither of you spoke for a moment, as if you were fooling yourself into believing he might continue. Your heart cracked a little more when he turned to face the wall,

“Never mind. It’s nothin’.” He had no reason to be weary of you. However in the past few weeks, coming up to a month, there was subtle, almost imperceptible unease that lingered. And festered. Palpable. Tangible. You could feel it when you reached out to touch his skin. So warm and gorgeous. Golden like ichor in this setting sunlight. You dared to press your lips to the wing of a shoulder blade, skin mangled with scar tissue where you liked to imagine wings once resided, and felt him flinch under your featherlight kiss. “Don’t, Bambi.”

“Joel-“

“I said: No.” His voice was firm, and didn’t give much leeway for convincing. “It’s not somethin’ you know how to fix.” But you were stubborn now. You’d found your feet. You stood your ground more, imitated behaviour. Before he could turn away again you reached to right him, set him flat on his back upon the mattress and splay your hand over his soft stomach under the covers. His throat tightened when your hand ventured timidly south. Then his breath tangled in his throat when it wrapped loosely around his half hard cock. Gently stroking it until it stood to attention in your palm. “Let me help…the way I know how.” You whispered into his ear, running your tongue under his earlobe to bring it between your teeth. Voice like honey, so sweet, and smooth, and slow pouring enough to get stuck in. Jesus Fucking Christ, he hated himself for even entertaining the idea of letting you do this for him. For being the one to help you find your feet. For being the man who tarnished innocence. It seemed all he did these days was ruin what little good there was left in the world. He’d taken an entire inkpot to a pristine sheet of paper, splattered black all over it without a care in the world until now. He felt like the space between you was stygian and reeked of his own sin. It simmered and spat and writhed and any moment now I would boil over the second you came to terms with the fact you were too good for him.

His nostrils flared with the thought but with a twist of your wrist he melted. Because at the base of it all, the very depth of his humanity, he was a selfish, selfish man. You watched a swallow pass down the thick column of his throat and rested your head on his shoulder while your hand dragged up his thick, full shaft, thumb smearing a bead of precome over the delicate flushed skin of its head. Joel watched the ceiling and wallowed in pathetic self pity as you kissed your way down his navel, lips moving in a mumbling of words he couldn't quite hear. He let out a breathy moan when you wrapped your lips around the tip, pressing your tongue flat to the underside to let the taste seep onto your tongue. He then closed his eyes trying to imagine anyone other than you between his legs. Another mouth. Another tongue. Someone else's voice.

It was no use because it seemed your eyes, the shade, the shape, were printed to the back of his lids. He gave up. He was too old to try to partake in sisyphean tasks.

Joel sat up and you moved between his legs as he threw the covers off to watch you. His back to the headboard, your warm mouth inviting him deeper, he hesitated to press a hand to the crown of your head, but when you pulled off to lick a flat tongued strip from base to tip, he found himself taking a fist of your hair and righting you over the head completely, pushing down so he slipped into your mouth. Muscle memory had the twitch of a smirk forming at the corner of his lips. The sight of you was enough to have his hips begging to buck, chasing the back of your throat, attempting to find that reaction again.

What you couldn't take of him you wrapped loosely in one hand and the other cupped his balls, adding the slightest pressure that had a dirty cuss passing his chapped lips. Deep inhales billowed in his nose, nostrils flared slightly as he dragged your open, salivating mouth up and down on his length. What he would never understand is how much you hungered for this every time. There was a pain in wanting him like no other, and a reward this great sowed the seed of pleading. You didn’t mind yearning for him because, to you, being hungry was quite a satisfying feeling. It feels nice to want something. To yearn. To have a purpose. You imagined he felt quite the same with the way he could hardly keep his hands from your cunt or your mouth when you passed his front door’s threshold.

“Look at me, Bambi.” He grunted, and your eyes fluttered slightly before the hue of them locked on his through your tear clumped lashes. “I’d like this mouth a whole lot more if it didn’t say such pretty things to me.” He almost lamented, and you felt a tug at your heartstrings. “Makin’ a man hope again.”

Joel sighed, eyes closing for the briefest second. His large hand was still pushing your head with the gentlest of force back down, then his fingers gripped at your hair, dragging you again so the warm, silken touch of your lips and tongue made the fire in his belly start to burn. It was aching, and deep rooted, and had a slow simmer to it. One he begged to hurry along. Joel wanted nothing more than his release so he could set you free again. Set the bird free of its cage. So he threw caution to the wind, and soon you felt the tip of his thick cock reach the back of your mouth again, your throat constricting. “Why won’t you hate me, huh Bambi? What did I do to deserve this?” He asked. If you knew no better you’d have thought his tone implied he hated it. His teeth gritted, words seethed between them. He spat it out in a way that made him seem unworthy of your attention— or the very taste of the thought disgusted him and made his stomach pull up in a wretch. Joel bit down so violently on nothing he swore his molars might turn to dust and clag in spit with the way he was salivating over the sight of you; Puffy lips, bloodshot watering eyes, messy hair. Bent over him and sucking on his cock like it was your only goddamned purpose in life.

You wanted to reply, splutter out the words, but he silenced you. The tip of his cock brushing the back of your throat, and causing your stomach to recoil, tensing as you gagged. Retching slightly as he grimaced at the sound. “You know I can’t love y–” he stopped mid sentence as the ache bloomed into a deep burn. You were oh so grateful because it meant you wouldn’t have to hear what you yearned not to. What you buried deep beneath your stomach and above your diaphragm— that slow, blooming ache. The feeling would never see the light of day. You’d rather die than come to terms with the fact that Joel would not be yours. He belonged to the world. The mass of nature that befell you. That which kept you human and incompetent. He was large, untamable, and oh so delectable in all ways other than matters of love. Joel Miller could not love you.

“Fuck- gonna come, Bambi.” He choked out, head falling back. You looked up at the sight of him through your lashes, lips parted, his brows creased gently in the space between them. Just as you yearned for him to love you, you yearned to be destroyed by him. Coated in him, broken down to pieces by him. Joel Miller could quite literally break you in half, then half again, and again— to the point where nothing was discernible— and you'd get on your knees to thank him for it all. Maybe loving him and being destroyed by him were two in the same?

In the months you’d known him you’d grown to learn that this was as close to a purpose as you’d get. The world robbed you of one, so you searched for it. Selfish enough to keep digging to find one. Only it had no purpose. It has a pattern now, and patterns trick and deceive people into believing in divine intervention. Joel was your divine right. Your purpose. That was what you believed. What you thought about each night. What you thought about now as you took his cock down to the base, the head of him brushing the back of your throat and folds soaked– drenched in the essence of your own arousal. All of which was emphasised by the ache you felt between your thighs that ebbed a little deeper with wanting. A ghost of the pleasure you felt when he was inside you. You entertained it with two fingers slipping between your thighs, teasing your clit. “God— Bambi…” He groaned, eyes rolling back in his head as he let go. Hot ropes of his release flooding your mouth with their heady, salty taste.

You pulled off his shaft, now wet and slick in your own saliva, swallowing a mouthful of his release. His eyes never left you, honing in on the ripple of your delicate throat as you swallowed his come down. Joel couldn't help but hook a thumb into your mouth to unhinge your jaw— to see if anything was left. Nothing was. There never was. Like him, you were too selfish to leave anything.

He should have known better. You never disappoint. “Bambi, you’re too damn good for me.” he panted, skin sweat slick and flushed.

“I promise I'm not.” you whispered to the skin of his lips before he wrapped a large, steadying hand around your arm and pulled you up to his chest. His face met yours and when you looked into those hickory eyes you could have melted on the spot; For the hue of them was nothing like you'd ever seen before, and could command nations to their knees. And if not nations then it could certainly do so to you. “I’m just as damaged as you.`’

The words had his gut in knots because they were akin to holding up a mirror to his visage. And holding his head in place. Holding it still so he was forced to look himself in the eyes and reflect. Reflecting on the monster he’d become. The monster he would always be.

“I’m not asking you to love me, Joel.” You spoke, your voice quiet, slight and timid. Uncertain of his reaction. The way your eyes met his was proof of that. Wide like a foal, wide enough to register the unjust curl of a lip. “ I’m just asking you to stay…”

The words had been burning the tip of your tongue red raw. Each night as he lay beside you, the same questions— words made up of nothing but consonants that had a profound effect on you– would hardly let you rest in his arms. They tortured you instead; Mocked you. It was the equivalent of hanging. You could feel the ghost of a noose around your neck. It might as well have been His hands. It was as rough as them after all.

What is wrong with you? What is so repulsive about you that warrants his departure? Was it the curve of your hips– their dips? Or even the bump on your nose– how dare it not have the perfect influxing curve! The slant of your eyes? The jagged stretch marks on the inside of your thighs! Not only had they the nerve to exist in their silver, shining mockery, posing as a diamond, but they had the fucking nerve to sit where others could see. Fuck them entirely and their very existance. Were those very thighs plump enough? Too plump? Why was there no gap between? Was there too much of a sag to your breasts? The colour of your nipples– why did they have to be that colour? Were the lines on your forehead marring your skin? What on you– about you– detested him? Because if you knew you'd cut it off. You'd change it. You take a knife to your nose and cut it off even if it was just to spite your own face. Now, laying here with him, you wish to be anyone but yourself. Yourself was the woman that disgusted you. It would always be the woman that disgusted you if he didn’t fall in love.

“That's jus’ the thing, Bambi.” He sighed, his mouth moving in a slow hushed mumble. His wind chapped, weathered lips grazed the shell of your ear, “I already do.” Followed by silence, and then: “An’ I ain’t no good at it, I’m afraid.”

That was the problem. Joel thought it had to be a life lived in an entirety of carolling laughter for you. A warm, joyous time. The kind of peace the world seldom granted anyone anymore. Not bound to him by the twine of his selfish nature. In the wrong man’s bed. If the world had told him anything before it was that he deserved to be alone. First Sarah. Then Tess. Ellie too. It was only a matter of time before you left too. He had no clue that what you wanted was just to be held. To be kept. He didn’t have to carve out a hole in himself to accommodate you. Nor give an arm or a limb. He just had to stay. Exactly where he was now. Exactly as he is. But selfish men believe in selfish things. And Joel Miller was a selfish man.

Maybe he wasn't. Humans are, after all, selfish creatures. If we are innately selfish does that make us selfish, or just human. Regardless– Joel was selfish. Yes. But more importantly: He was the damned, the scrutinised, the beggar. All of the above.

Joel Miller was, and forever will be, the fallen.

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sgiandubh · 5 months

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But first, time to say good-bye

It was to be a late departure (bureaucracy will someday kill us all...) from Athens, an endlessly diverted way North through a very early summer and some fitful sleep near the border, where poppies were already in bloom and elusive to the camera:

I promised to share with you my story with Mycenae the day I would leave Greece for good. Yesterday was the day, so here goes.

I first went to Mycenae on a horrendously rainy day, in November 2018. The place struck me as a haphazard settlement of sorts in the wake of some ancient apocalypse, which was absolutely correct. We stayed in my colleague from Culture and Press' car, munched on some horribly stale koulouria as all hell broke loose outside, when she finally told me: ' you know what, I am happy we made it here: in Mycenae, you can only hear and tell the truth, you know'.

I have to say I ogled in suspicion. I was wet, hungry and completely unused to the Greek way of dressing everything up in mythology. She spoke Greek as I speak French and knew perfectly well what she was doing. She was casting a spell - an unbreakable one, for which I will forever be grateful. Oh, and as all myths would have it, the Lion Gate was closed, by the time we arrived.

It took me almost two years to go back there, during the pandemic, scared summer of 2020, when everything was empty and glorious to fully take in, like a big gulp of colors and sounds and life. My digs were to be always the same: unassuming Petite Planète, the last B&B in town, a stone throw away from Agamemnon's treasury, owned by the Dassis clan of archaeologists.

Their story begins in Constantinople, around 1875, when Konstantinos, a young orphan, begged Heinrich Schliemann to take him along to wherever he was traveling. He quickly became indispensable and helped with the first digs in Mycenae. He was the one who found Agamemnon's mask:

When the digging was over, Schliemann bought him a tiny house for two pence and a half and told him to stay there. 'Many people will come to visit and they will need food and a roof. Make sure you do your best and it will make you a rich man.'

And they came. In droves. If you ask nicely, V. will show you their reception rosters, safely tucked away in a bank vault, in Argos. I had the privilege to see Virginia Woolf's signature and I was stunned. Schliemann's two pence house is now doubled by a garish modern addition you can see from the main road as La Belle Hélène B&B ('my cousin Agamemnon is a greedy idiot', says V), but Schliemann's room is piously kept as it was when the strange German gentleman left them to their fate. As is, they did not become rich, but that does not matter. You will always find a place at their wonderful table, where Mamma Dassis cooks the same food they ate back in Constantinople and they would not have it otherwise. The new, bigger and better B&B is called Petite Planète because of V's father undying passion for Saint Exupéry's Little Prince. It permeates everything without being obtrusive, because sometimes 'the essential is invisible to the eye'.

Back in 2020, they were worried. Very worried. The Lion Gate was open again, but the 'cretins at Google' wouldn't have it and kept on listing it as closed, on their maps. People were canceling their bookings. The village stood unusually quiet and forlorn.

I made no promises. But I did phone some people at the Greek Ministry of Culture. The least person I expected to be of any help, H, a transparent, mousey freeloader, who was always the last to leave all of our events in the hope we'd take her to dinner in town, happened to be some sort of underling at the Archaeological Sites Department. She immediately understood what I wanted her to do.

Three days after I left Mycenae, on my road trip to the Mani peninsula, I received this message in my Booking inbox:

This started it all. And from that moment, all my Greek roads will lead there. It's also been a long time since I have trouble forcefully paying them for my monthly stays (booking and paying in advance helps, though), something they adamantly refused last time I went there:

'G., the girl wants to pay.'

'This is ridiculous, of course. This girl is family.'

Someday, I just know I will be back. For good.

After five years and a half, many more fabulous stories (Mycenean potter and poet, anyone? mad postman? Kyria Stamatoula and her goats? Kyrios Pandelis and his jams?) the only thing I know about Greece is that, for all its (many) misgivings, this land is about two things:

Friends and Heroes.

#psa #life as is #Peloponnese #mycenae

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in-death-we-fall · 7 months

Text

Out Of The Shadows

Since his shock exit from Slipknot, Joey Jordison has remained silent. For the first time, he opens up about the split, the debilitating condition that left him unable to walk, and how he's been reborn anew

Words: Dom Lawson • Pics: Travis Shinn

Metal Hammer 285 - August 2016 (google drive link) Full disclosure I pasted the main article from Metal Hammer's awful awful website because my hands are sad (from doing things like this, yes. Don't keep doing things if they hurt, yes even if you're super super excited about a guy.)

There is life after death. First, there’s Hell.

When the news first broke that Joey Jordison was no longer in Slipknot, it sent shockwaves around the world. Here was this icon of our world and one of the founding members of one of the greatest bands to emerge in all of 30 years suddenly, inexplicably gone. In the heavy wake of Paul Gray’s passing it seemed almost too great a blow for any band, even one with nine members. Anyone who knows their travails understands that they’re less a band and more like a dysfunctional family – had their problems caught up with them? But reappear they did, to the sound of a rapturously received album, and the three-ring circus of Knotfest, and yet still questions remained about the circumstances of Joey’s departure. Slipknot were tightlipped, and Joey? It was anyone’s guess.

I’m humbled to say that we now have Joey’s side of the story, and this month’s world-exclusive journey to Des Moines is one of the most powerful, saddening and inspirational stories you’ll read in these pages. Sure, there are the new records – Vimic and Sinsaeneum (sic) herald one of our world’s greatest musicians returning to the fold and from the sound of things we’ve some tremendous records ahead of us.

More importantly though, we have one of metal’s greatest figures back, and we couldn’t be more delighted to see him back on his feet – literally. To read Dom Lawson’s tale of a man who’s truly been there and back again, see p.38. Make sure you’re sitting down, because Travis Shinn’s remarkable photography is as stark as it it worth not one, but over 3,000 words.

Thank you for reading, and… Stay metal! Alex, Editör-In-Chief

Out Of The Shadows

Words: Dom Lawson • Pics: Travis Shinn

Joey Jordison unmasked: the ultimate interview

Part One - Revelation

“This is very important to me. You’re getting something that I have not told anyone. It’s very emotional. It’s fucking hardcore, man.”

Joey Jordison has got a few things to get off his chest. More importantly, the world has got a few questions for the erstwhile Slipknot alumnus and the 21st century’s most celebrated percussive polymath, not least because he has been resolutely off the radar for the last few years.

The last time Metal Hammer spoke directly to Joey, he was promoting his then-newly-formed band Scar The Martyr, who released their self-titled debut album in September 2013. Three months later, he was seemingly dismissed from Slipknot, the band he had enjoyed huge global success with ever since they exploded into our world back in 1999.

Since that startling news broke in December 2013, Joey has been conspicuous by his absence from our ears, eyes and screens. This being the age of endless social media speculation, his disappearance and departure from Slipknot have been widely discussed online, one commonly espoused theory being that the diminutive drummer had gone spectacularly off the rails and was simply unable to fulfill his usual duties, thus prompting his bandmates’ decision to effect an unexpected lineup change.

In truth, only Joey’s closest friends and business associates know what he’s been up to for the last couple of years, but as he warmly greets Hammer at the door of the house he shares with girlfriend Amanda in Des Moines, it’s immediately apparent that today’s interview is much more than just an opportunity to herald the arrival of not one, but two new bands and Joey’s wholesale return to action. Instead, this is what he describes as “an opportunity to tell everyone what the fuck has been going on”. And it’s almost certainly not what anyone is expecting.

“It was at the end of the memorial shows we did for Paul,” Joey begins, referencing the death of bandmate Paul Gray and the subsequent world tour that began in the summer of 2011 and continued until August 2012. “We were in Canada, at the end of my last run of shows with Slipknot, and something happened to me but I didn’t know what it was. I was super ill. You can be sick and still play, but this was something I’d never felt in my life before.

“We found out that what I have is acute transverse myelitis. It’s a neurological condition that hits your spinal cord and it wiped my legs out completely. It’s like having your legs cut off, basically. I played those last couple of shows and it scared the living shit out of me. I didn’t know what it was. Everyone thought I was fucked up, but it wasn’t the case. I wasn’t even drinking. Everything was straight-laced and fucking perfect. Everything was on point. But I had to be carried to the stage…”

Joey pauses, wincing at the memory. “The pain was something I’d never experienced in my life before, and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”

When he arrived home from the Slipknot tour, Joey could barely walk. On August 21, 2012, he was admitted to Mercy West hospital in Des Moines, diagnosed with some form of leg paralysis but unaware of exactly how or why this was happening to him. Ten days later, he was transferred to the neurological unit at University Of Iowa Hospital in Iowa City, understandably terrified and extremely confused about his physical deterioration.

“It was fucking bad, dude,” he recalls. “My lady has everything documented. I got struck with this fucking thing that I couldn’t control. The doctors said I might not be able to walk again. Today, I can almost run, but back then I couldn’t even stand up. I was bed-ridden. If I wanted to turn over in bed, I had to move my legs with my hands. I was in and out of the hospital for months.

“Some beautiful people have helped me out and got me back stronger and taught me how to walk again, but at that moment my whole life was screwed, man. Acute transverse myelitis is a fucked-up disease and a lot of people don’t recover from it and they’re paralysed forever.”

After having braces fitted to prevent his weakened legs from buckling, Joey was finally discharged from hospital in October 2012. Thus began an extremely lengthy, challenging and physically exhausting regime of physical and occupational therapy, as Joey tried to summon the energy and determination to beat the bizarre neurological condition that had wrenched the carpet from under his feet and left him both horribly vulnerable and understandably bewildered.

Early in 2013, work began on Scar The Martyr’s debut album, as a further batch of Slipknot shows in Japan and Europe – including a headline slot at Download – loomed over the horizon. Still recovering from the worst of his illness, Joey somehow managed to recover to the point where he was able to perform at those gigs, after which he threw himself wholeheartedly into launching Scar The Martyr by hitting the road as main support to Danzig in the US.

All the while, of course, his global army of admirers remained entirely in the dark about the turmoil and trials going on behind the scenes. It was widely noted that Joey was looking overweight and far from healthy during Scar The Martyr’s debut UK tour, but the conclusions that most people were jumping to – in essence, that he had a problem with drugs and/or drink – were completely off target. Unfortunately, when Slipknot announced on December 12, 2013, that they were to forge ahead without their talismanic drummer, those rumours seemed to gain a little extra momentum.

“Yeah, and that’s why I love being able to do this interview, because finally I get to tell the fucking truth!” Joey declares. “It’s been really frustrating, but I can only bless the people that have been around me and helped me to get back to this point. And this is what I want to clarify for my fans…” – he punches his hand to emphasise the importance of this statement – “…it had nothing to do with fucking drugs or fucking alcohol!”

Several times during our interview, Joey’s eyes fill with tears. It’s abundantly clear that the extraordinary effort required to confront acute transverse myelitis and doggedly chase a light at the end of a seriously dark and bleak tunnel has taken a lot out of him, particularly on an emotional level. But now that he is about to click into top gear once again, via new bands Vimic and Sinsaenum, Joey is channeling his energies towards a cathartic clearing of the decks, and setting people straight about his life over the last five years is top of the agenda.

“Life takes you on weird trips and you just have to hold on, ride the wave and be as strong as you fucking can,” he shrugs. “I’ve been through so much fucking shit over the last few years and people just don’t know.”

Part Two - Struggle

The news that Joey had seemingly been sacked from Slipknot came as a huge shock to everyone, even without the additional knowledge of his devastating health problems. From the band’s enormous fanbase, through to many of us in the metal world that have always known him to be, at the very least, a wholly dedicated and passionate member of that 18-legged, arena-smashing entity, it was a wildly unexpected turn of events.

The band’s own public statements at the time took a predictably passive course, the relatively benign implication being that Joey and his former comrades were simply heading in different creative directions and could no longer work together effectively.

On January 2, 2014, he made his own statement on Facebook, making it plain that as far as he was concerned, there was no mutual agreement and he had been fired from Slipknot for reasons unknown.

“I was laying in bed with my lady, I’d been in rehabilitation for my health issues but everything was good, and the next thing I know…” he pauses, visibly upset. “No band meeting? None. Anything from management? No, nothing. All I got was a stupid fucking email saying that I was out of the band that I busted my ass my whole life to fucking create, you know?

“It was the weirdest fucking thing. I can’t imagine just sending Corey or Shawn or Mick a fucking letter, without a band meeting. We’re friends and we’ve been through so much shit together, but that was all it was, a fucking letter. That’s exactly what happened and it was hurtful, man. I didn’t deserve that shit after what I’d done and everything I’d been through.”

In light of revelations about his state of health at the time, it does seem an unusually abrupt way to bring such a longstanding partnership to an end. Joey even claims to have written and demoed a batch of new material, aided by Slipknot’s then-touring bassist Donnie Steele, and circulated it among his bandmates in an attempt to get the compositional ball rolling. But, according to the drummer, no one got back to him to discuss the new songs: subtle evidence, perhaps, that wires were distinctly crossed.

“They got confused about my health issues, and obviously even I didn’t know what it was at first,” Joey sighs. “They thought I was fucked-up on drugs, which I wasn’t at all. I don’t blame them for being concerned, but when you’re friends and you’ve been through so much stuff, you fucking talk to each other. But I harbour no bad feelings toward them at all, because I’ve moved on with my life. I’m happier than I’ve been in years. You need to move on, close the fucking chapter and, in the end, it is what it is.”

It is a testament to the positive way Joey has endeavoured to overcome his severe health problems that today, even after having been unceremoniously ejected from one of the biggest metal bands on the planet, he is hearteningly sanguine about the way things have turned out.

During our conversation, he repeatedly declares how grateful he is for the friends, family and life that he has, and even when discussing the end of his tenure as Slipknot’s drummer, he is eager to state how much he still loves and admires his former bandmates. What is perhaps more surprising is that Joey not only made a point of checking out .5: The Gray Chapter, the album Slipknot made without him and released in 2014, but is also effusive in his praise for it.

“Honestly, I have a long history with those guys, so I give them the respect they deserve and I listened to the whole record multiple times,” he smiles. “And I think it’s great! It’s fucking cool and I’m glad they moved on. I’m not like, ‘I’m not gonna give them respect!’ – I’m not a coward like that. I’m glad they’re carrying on the name, because what’s important is the fans. There’s no stupid battle going on. There’s no point in saying, ‘Fuck them!’

“No, I’ve been through so many things with those guys and I love them very much. What’s hurtful is that the way it [being fired] went down was not fucking right. That’s all I want to say. The way they did it was fucking cowardly. It was fucked up. But the love in my heart for those guys, that stays the same.”

It is at this point that Metal Hammer asks the inevitable and unavoidable question: despite everything that has happened, would Joey be willing to rejoin Slipknot further down the line? As much as his successor, Jay Weinberg, has acquitted himself brilliantly while filling the shoes of a contemporary drumming legend, it’s hard to deny that most Slipknot fans would be beside themselves with joy if Joey were to return to the fold. He takes a deep, measured inward breath and fixes us with a stern stare…

“Let me think about how to answer that, because it’s a big one,” he nods. “Honestly, I’m not trying to be dramatic, but if that was brought up, what I’d want to do would be to get together. Not just have a phone call or some stupid email. I’d want to see them, just hug it out and feel that energy that we had when we were fucking young and hungry and all that shit. They’re my brothers. We’d hug and talk and do shit like we used to do. We used to sit up all night long planning this shit and what we wanted to do. So that’s how I’d wanna do it. It’d have to be in person. If it happened, that would be fucking awesome, but only time will tell.”

Part Three - Rebirth

Back in the here and now, Joey Jordison is well on his way to being fighting fit once again. His recovery is still ongoing, of course, and daily trips to see his trainer at the local gym have now become an essential part of his day-to-day schedule, but as he speaks, he radiates sincere positivity. That said, the effort it has taken Joey to get from suddenly and horrifyingly being robbed of the use of his legs to a point where he is able to unveil two brand new albums with different bands is etched into his subtly expressive face.

He and better half Amanda have kept a detailed scrapbook of photos and other memorabilia from the long, hard road back from the onset of transverse myelitis. They allow us to leaf through it, and it brings the jarring reality of Joey’s last few years vividly to life. It’s a litany of woes, pain and frustration that many of us would regard as insurmountable, but even when faced with yet another grim obstacle, when he fell and broke his leg while in the studio recording Vimic’s debut album in the autumn of 2014, leading to his leg being cut in half and the insertion of steel rods and bolts, Joey’s determination to prevail and come back stronger than ever has been unwavering.

“I did question everything, like, ‘What am I going to do?’, not knowing if I was going to recover,” he admits. “It hurt a lot. It was a big question. But there was a definite point where I thought about all the blessings I’ve been given in life, being part of Slipknot and playing with Korn and Ministry and Rob Zombie and doing Roadrunner United and all those things, and you look at that and you’re grateful, and so you bust your ass to get back. I didn’t feel sorry for myself. I do not quit. I’ve got fans I’ve got to take care of, you know? So there’s no hiding right now.”

If you want to know what the opposite of hiding sounds like, you need only lend an ear to either or both of the new records that Joey is releasing this summer. The first is Echoes Of The Tortured, the debut album from Sinsaenum, Joey’s collaboration with Dragonforce’s Frédéric Leclercq and a host of underground luminaries. A monstrous but eminently accessible death metal record, its jaw-shattering eruptions of blastbeats and epic fury showcase the full extent of Joey’s physical recovery in no uncertain terms.

The second is Open Your Omen, the first album from Vimic, which is essentially Scar The Martyr with a new vocalist, former Korn percussionist and back-up singer Kalen Chase. It’s a sharper, more focused record than its (sort of) predecessor, planting Joey firmly back in belligerent mainstream metal territory, with plenty of the huge hooks and irresistible riffs that his loyal fans will be feverishly anticipating. But beyond the new music itself, Joey’s true focus is on the unparalleled joy he is currently experiencing as he escapes the nightmare of the last few years and returns to what he does best.

“This is a rebirth, and reaching this point is the ultimate reward,” he states. “It’s like having the ultimate trophies, having these two bands. These opportunities are coming back to me and it feels like a complete renewal. These are real bands, not side-projects. Everything I do goes at 100%… maybe even 666%, ha ha!

“At a certain age, a lot of people] become vegetarians or they find religion, but I’m never gonna stop being a fucking weirdo and a fucking metalhead! You wake up one day and you realise that nothing’s ever gonna change and you’re fucking committed. I’ve been like that since I was five years old, man.

“Right now, I just want to keep creating. These bands are two huge fucking journeys for me. It’s like when you see a rollercoaster that you’ve never ridden before, and you’re fucking scared, but you’re in line and waiting, like I am now, and then once you step on? You’re in!”

There are a few lessons to be learned from the story of Joey Jordison’s last few traumatic years. Firstly, maybe we should all be slightly less eager to jump to hasty conclusions when faced with only one side of a story (or, indeed, no verified information whatsoever). Secondly, never underestimate the strength, persistence, passion and potential of the human spirit.

“The most pertinent lesson of all, however, is one we all should have learned a long time ago: Joey Jordison is an unstoppable force of nature and, after fighting the toughest battle of his entire life, he’s primed and ready to make up for lost time and to remind the world that loud, angry, fucked up and furious music remains the best medicine of all.

“I have this weird-ass condition, but it doesn’t limit me and I’m getting better all the time,” he concludes with a confident grin. “I can play just as fast, or faster, than I ever have. Everything is fucking cool and I’m at the gym every day and it’s all going well. That helps me out so much.

“I went through some serious fucking shit. People didn’t know and I can’t blame them for that. But the thing is, you get up in the morning and you look in the mirror, and then you go off and fucking do it. You live your life the way you want to, and get the work done! What else can I say, dude? It’s good to tell my story. I’m fucking back and I’m ready to go full force. This is the best fucking job in the world. I’m never gonna stop.”

What Is Transverse Myelitis?

We spoke to Lew Gray, secretary of UK charity the Transverse Myelitis Society, to understand what Joey’s batling…

Can you explain what the condition means? Lew: “Transverse myelitis is an inflammation of the spinal cord. You have a lot of nerves doing different things in your spinal cord, so the facts of each case depend on which part of the spinal cord is affected. It can be high in the spinal cord affecting the arms, or you may struggle to breathe because the muscles in your lungs don’t work. It could be lower, affecting different sensory nerves. Some people with transverse myelitis can walk but can’t feel the floor beneath their feet, or they can’t feel hot and cold or pain. We think there are about 250 cases a year in the UK.”

Does it typically come on quickly or is it more of a gradual process? “It can be either. A lot of people are paralysed within an hour or two. But then for other people it can be very gradual and come and go over a period of months. It takes some people years to get a diagnosis.”

What treatment is available? “Really, the only treatment is to dose you with steroids. They will reduce the inflammation, and therefore you’re not curing it, you’re minimising the damage until it goes away by itself. Physiotherapy is very important. Almost everyone gets some spontaneous recovery over time after transverse myelitis, but the body and mind ‘forget’ how to use muscles and nerves that are not working, so the purpose of neurophysiotherapy is to ‘guide’ the recovery.”

What is the long-term prognosis for someone with transverse myelitis? “The nerves are capable of regenerating themselves. Nobody can predict though how well they will regenerate, how long it will take, or if they will at all. The majority of people get improvement, but there is no cast-iron guarantee.”

How common are relapses? “We do know people who have had recurrences, however that is rare. Sometimes a reoccurrence of transverse myelitis leads to a diagnosis of MS [multiple sclerosis].”

For more on the Transverse Myelitis Society, visit www.myelitis.org.uk

Beating The Odds

How Joey Jordison fought his way back from paralysis to prosperity

The full extent of Joey’s arduous battle with acute transverse myelitis is brought into sharp focus when we visit Absolute Performance Therapy in Waukee, Des Moines. Joey spent months here, working on his recovery, and the mere fact that today he is able to walk through the front door without assistance speaks volumes about what he has achieved. His therapist, Alyssa Subbert, has nothing but praise for his determined approach.

“Being stubborn helped the most!” she laughs. “To go from being someone who could do anything to not being able to get out of a chair, then to get back to being able to do everything again, it was a huge process. He wanted to drum again so bad, and as long as we made every exercise about drumming, he’d do it. He was very stubborn and very ornery, but he’d work and work until his body was too sore.”

Gruelling physical work aside, it is obvious that Joey’s time at APT was also hugely emotional. He hasn’t been back since finishing his treatment, and there are tears as he and Alyssa recall the intense therapy sessions and ferocious perseverance and teamwork that were needed to make each successive triumph a reality along the way.

“This was a huge wake-up call to Joey’s health and lifestyle, and how physical his job is,” Alyssa states. “When you’ve done something like that forever, you have no concept of it. He has to play in a drum set that rotates and goes upside down?! It’s not a regular job, sitting at a computer. We even practised mobbing him! Does he have balance when a whole bunch of people mob him, you know? It’s a whole different life, and very physical. So this was a completely unique process we went through.”

Joey’s physical therapy may be over, but his daily trips to local gym Life Time Athletic are an essential part of his recovery, not to mention his ability to play drums with the power and skill that fans have come to expect. His personal trainer, Caleb Herman, is a Slipknot fan who’s full of admiration for his client’s dedication.

“When Joey came in, he could hardly walk,” Caleb recalls. “Now he’s pressing 700lbs and he can do a step above what most people can do. He’s got one of the strongest back muscle groups I’ve ever seen. He couldn’t stand without help, but now he can stand up by himself, so his progress has been awesome. When he sees progress, he becomes motivated, and he tells me he gets the chills, and that gives me the chills. It’s really exciting to see him get to this point.”

Battle Of The Bands

After a long absence from our world, Joey’s returning with two new projects. But how do Vimic and Sinsaenum stack up against each other?

Vimic

Members: Joey Jordison (drums), Kalen Chase (vocals), Matt Tarach (keyboards), Jed Simon (guitar), Kyle Konkiel (bass). Sound: Crunchy, state-of-the-art modern metal with big, anthemic melodies and plenty of snotty aggression. Image: Lots of black leather, long hair, beards and menacing scowls. Sample lyric: ‘Simple skeletons, playing God again/We’re getting higher, we’re getting higher, and the truth will set us free’ (Simple Skeletons). Drumming: Lashings of classic Joey, from that Slipknot stomp and big, muscular grooves to bursts of high-velocity blasting. Joey says: “Scar The Martyr was the blueprint, but we wiped the slate clean. This is heavy shit. Kalen killed it on this record.” For fans of: Slipknot, Disturbed, Fear Factory. Check out: Earth Stood Still. Lurching, syncopated grooves and soaring, post-grunge melodies collide in a brutish, multi-tempo anthem that deftly showcases singer Kalen’s versatility.

Sinsaenum

Members: Joey Jordison (drums), Frédéric Leclercq (guitar), Heimoth (bass), Attila Csihar (vocals), Sean Zatorsky (vocals), Stéphane Buriez (guitar). Sound: Epic, imperious, blackened death metal with tons of eerie atmosphere. Image: Classic, dark, extreme metal attitude with a dash of theatrical corpse paint and a blood-splattered logo. Sample lyric: ‘We are the pain inside your head/We are the sorrow in your soul/We are the fire/We are the rusty nails’ (Army Of Chaos). Drumming: A masterclass in death metal precision and power. Proof that Joey is back and blazing. Joey says: “Sinsaenum is probably one of the most extreme and proficient bands I have ever been in. These guys are fucking on point at all times. We’re a fucking army!” For fans of: Morbid Angel, Dimmu Borgir, Behemoth. Check out: Inverted Cross. It’s blistering, heads-down death metal grandeur with anti-Christian lyrics, fret-melting solos and countless warped twists and turns.

Sin City

As well as making his comeback with Vimic, Joey Jordison’s taken up the drum stool for death metal project Sinsaenum. Mastermind and Dragonforce bassist Frédéric Leclercq explains how it came thundering to life

Words: Dayal Patterson

While Vimic represents a beefed-up reboot of Scar The Martyr, Joey’s also been behind the kit for a second, brand new band - Sinsaenum. The brainchild of Dragonforce bassist Frédéric Leclercq, it’s a more murky blend of death and black metal, featuring the twosome alongside some of the leading lights of the extreme scene, including dual vocals from Mayhem’s Attila Csihar and Dååth’s Sean Zatorsky. We asked Frédéric what the supergroup have planned for their dark future.

How did Sinsaenum first come about? Frédéric: “Oh Christ, even I have trouble remembering when it started! I always wrote death metal songs. I started to write in 1998, then I was doing something else [he played in the French bands Memoria and Heavenly], and I’m still doing something else, with Dragonforce. The first person I spoke to was Stéphane [Buriez, guitar] from Loudblast. It must’ve been in 2010 that we said, ‘Let’s really do something about it.’”

How did Joey get involved? “I kept writing more songs, and one day in 2013 I got a text from Joey. We call each other ‘Morbid Angel” – don’t ask why – so the text said, ‘Morbid Angel, what you up to?’ I was like, ‘Well, I just got back from tour… talking about Morbid Angel, I have these death metal songs.’ He was like, ‘You should send them to me!’ Two days later, he came back like, ‘Fuck yeah, that’s really cool. Who’s playing drums? I want to do it.’ So I started to ask more people that I had in mind.”

How did you guys meet? “We did the Mayhem tour together in the US, in 2008. One day drinking we were talking about death metal, and then we got to talking about it more and more. That’s how you get to know people – you find what you have in common. We had drinking and Morbid Angel.”

What about the other guys? “Stéphane I’ve known for 20 years. I played in a band in my hometown, Charleville-Mézières, and we supported his band, Loudblast. They were a big influence, and the first death metal band I heard. We kept in touch because France is a small country when it comes to metal. With [bassist] Heimoth from [French black metal band] Seth, it’s the same – there’s a small metal community. Dragonforce and Mayhem did a festival together, and Attila came onto the bus and said: ‘My son is a fan and would love an autograph – by the way, I’m the vocalist of Mayhem.’ He’s such a nice person – maybe you shouldn’t write that, keep the mystery! Sean and I met when Dååth was opening for Dragonforce in 2009. I really liked his voice and his attitude.”

How much music was written before you started working with them? “When Joey sent that text, all the songs were half-written, because I’ve a tendency to write a song with just a verse and a chorus, maybe a mid-section, because I know the rest is in my head. So when he said, ‘I’m interested,’ I was like, ‘Oh shit, I have to finish the songs!’ I sent out files, because it was clear that people trusted my ‘vision’. They didn’t want to change too much. I had to finalise lyrics with Sean and Attila, and Stéphane contributed to the structure. Joey added some fills. I decided to make it a concept album using interludes like Tiamat, or Pestilence, or even Type O Negative did to create atmosphere, so I had to write those.”

What was it like working with your heroes? “I felt like a kid in a toy store! Being in a studio with Attila singing songs that I wrote, and saying, ‘Oh, you should do this song like [Mayhem’s] De Mysteriis Dom Sathanas, and him being like, [adopts a Hungarian accent] ‘OK bro’, it’s like ‘Fuck, this is happening!’ I shouldn’t sound so excited, ‘cause this is black and death metal, but I had a big smile during the whole process – we all did. On Army Of Chaos we have Schmier from Destruction and Mika and Mirai from Sigh. Mika and Mirai are good friends of mine and are doing the big choirs, the choruses… like Sepultura’s Stronger Than Hate [from 1989’s Beneath The Remains]. I remember reading the booklet as a kid… they had the guys from Obituary and Atheist on it, and I was like, ‘Fuck, that’s cool.’ And it’s Schmier who’s singing on the last pre-chorus.

Did Joey’s health battles affect Sinsaenum? “Not at all. He speaks about it way better than I, so I won’t comment on that. I’ve kept away from all the troubles. I was like, ‘I’m a friend. If you want to talk, I’ll listen, but I just want to make sure you’re happy.’ As far as health problems, he was fine – he killed the drums. I don’t know how he did it, but he said, ‘Dude, I’m on fire.’ He was angry, I guess.”

Will Sinsaenum tour? “It’s definitely something we want to do, but there’s no rush. I want to do everything the same way I lived it as a kid. These bands I loved, I loved their albums, but I didn’t see them live for a long time and it didn’t bother me. I want people to digest the album – there’s a lot of information on there. Plus, we’re all busy; it’s difficult to get us all in a room. We rehearsed before doing the videos, and being in the same room, it was like, ‘Fucking hell.’”

What’s happening with Dragonforce right now? “We’re doing summer festivals and writing the new album that will come out next year, so I have to juggle between doing Sinsaenum stuff and writing and recording with Dragonforce. So my head is about to explode, but that’s fine!”

What do you get from Sinsaenum that you don’t get with Dragonforce? “This is really the music I love. I like Dragonforce stuff, and I write more of it now, but sometimes I don’t agree with all the decisions. With Sinsaenum, from A to Z it is exactly what I want. I guess it’s my baby. It gives me a way to express the dark side of myself and show it to people – if they care or not, that’s another issue!”

Sinsaenum release Echoes Of The Tortured on July 29 via Earmusic

#after ten thousand years here it is #if you want anything else from this issue scanned just lemme know (there's already a couple other pages in the google drive folder)#joey jordison #sinsaenum #vimic #slipknot #metal hammer 285 aug 16 #those photos with the black stuff dripping down his face are truly egregious i am incredibly gay why would metal hammer do this to me #why not give us pictures of all the cats huh??#like yaknow instead of his leg with all the stitches. the other four cats. just sayin #fred is so ae;gihas;kdf;h #interview

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