#Job Negotiation Strategies

[ourjobagency]

How to Develop a Winning Job Negotiation Strategy

Negotiating a job offer can be a daunting task, but it is a crucial step toward achieving professional success and satisfaction. A well-executed negotiation strategy not only ensures that you are compensated fairly but also sets the tone for your entire employment journey. I

In this article , we will explore the key steps to develop a winning job negotiation strategy that empowers you to secure the best possible terms for your next career move.

Research and Know Your Worth:

Before entering into any negotiation, it's essential to have a clear understanding of your market value. Research industry standards, salary ranges for similar roles in your location, and consider your skills, experience, and qualifications. Websites like Glassdoor, Payscale, and LinkedIn Salary Insights can provide valuable insights. Armed with this knowledge, you'll be better equipped to make a compelling case for your desired compensation.

Prioritize Your Needs and Wants:

Identify your non-negotiables and prioritize your needs and wants. Consider not only the salary but also other benefits such as health insurance, retirement plans, vacation time, and remote work options. Knowing what matters most to you allows you to focus your negotiation efforts on the aspects that will have the most significant impact on your overall job satisfaction.

Timing Is Key:

Choose the right time to initiate negotiations. Ideally, this should happen after you've received a formal job offer but before you've signed a contract. Express your enthusiasm for the offer and request some time to carefully review the terms. This provides you with the opportunity to conduct thorough research and prepare a well-thought-out negotiation strategy.

Craft a Persuasive Argument:

Prepare a compelling case for why you deserve the terms you are requesting. Highlight your skills, experience, and achievements that align with the position. Emphasize how your unique contributions will add value to the company. Back up your requests with data and concrete examples to demonstrate your worth.

Practice Effective Communication:

Negotiation is a conversation, not a confrontation. Approach the discussion with a positive and collaborative mindset. Clearly articulate your points, actively listen to the employer's perspective, and be open to compromise. Practice your responses to common objections or counteroffers to ensure you can navigate the conversation smoothly.

Consider the Entire Compensation Package:

Don't fixate solely on salary. Consider the entire compensation package, including bonuses, stock options, and other perks. Sometimes, employers may be more flexible in areas other than base salary. Be open to creative solutions that can meet both your needs and the company's budget constraints.

Be Prepared to Walk Away:

While you want to approach negotiations with a positive mindset, it's crucial to be prepared to walk away if the terms offered don't align with your priorities and values. Knowing your bottom line and being willing to stand firm on it demonstrates your commitment to your own professional worth.

Conclusion:

Developing a winning job negotiation strategy requires preparation, research, and effective communication. By knowing your worth, prioritizing your needs, and approaching negotiations with confidence and flexibility, you can secure a job offer that not only meets your financial expectations but also sets the stage for a successful and satisfying career journey. Remember, negotiation is a skill that improves with practice, so embrace the process and advocate for your professional future.

[businessabroad]

United Nations Steps and Contract Negotiation #7

Seal the Deal: Mastering Contract Negotiations at the UN

Stepping into the United Nations might seem daunting, but what happens when you get through the door? "United Nations Steps and Contract Negotiation #7" is your insider's guide to understanding the pivotal stages of becoming part of this global organization.

Contract negotiations can be a game-changer in your career. This video is your mentor, unpacking the essentials of negotiating your UN contract. Learn to articulate your value, negotiate effectively, and steer clear of common pitfalls.

Whether you dream of working in peacekeeping, development, or any other UN field, mastering the art of negotiation is key. Join us as we reveal the strategies to help you secure the UN position and contract that fit your career goals.

#UNContractNegotiation #CareerAdvice #GlobalImpactJobs

Here are all the videos in this course.

The Benefits of Working at the United Nations

UN Duty Station: What it is and What you Can Expect

The Process of Getting A Job at the United Nations

How to Apply For A Job At The United Nations

United Nations Levels and Salary - What are they?

Type of Contract at the United Nations

United Nations Steps and Contract Negotiation

United Nations Jobs, Job Role, and Posting Locations

UN Job Opportunities - How to Increase Your Odds

Best Places for Your Family to Live

How are you Competing Against

United Nations Official Languages

This is What the UN's Application Process is Like

How to success your test at the United Nations

Before Passing Your Interview at the United Nations

How to Successfully Interview For a Competency-Based Job

List of Questions used in Competency-Based Interview

What to do After the Interview at the United Nations

[mentorshelly]

What to Say If The Employer Won’t Budge on Pay

You’ve done all the right things.You nailed the interview.You highlighted your experience like a pro.You even brought your receipts—skills, results, and receipts. Then they hit you with a number that makes your stomach flip. You were ready to negotiate… but they’re not. “They say this is the best they can offer.”“They say the budget is tight.”“They say they really want you… but can’t go any…

[gabrielbasco]

Out. Burned.

I am burning myself out with all the hats I’m wearing and not getting paid like most would expect for it all. Although, this is an independent studio with no corporate-sized financial backing, there does have to be a boundary. I asked a certain AI engine for help on what I could focus on using data and knowledge that’s already out there. Here’s what it generated: In today’s hustle-obsessed…

[lightbeamtarot]

Pick a card: What archetypes does your future spouse posses

Hi loves! Welcome to this pick a card! In this reading we will be looking at what archetype your future spouse posses. I will be channeling these archetypes and it will be based on the work and research from Caroline Myss. Caroline Myss believes there is light attributes and shadow attributes for every archetype so I will be sharing both. As this is a collective reading just take what resonates and leave what doesn't. I hope you enjoy your reading loves. 💖

If you have trouble choosing a pile you can check out this post! How to choose a card

Pile 1

Hi Pile 1 this is your reading! The archetypes of your future is:

Dilettante

Light attributes: Delights in the arts without having to a professional. Alerts you to the of being superficial in your pursuits.

Shadow attributes: Pretention to much deeper knowledge than you actually possess.

Seeker

Light attribute : Thirst for wisdom and truth wherever they are.

Shadow attribute: Inability to commit to a path once found.

Poet

Light attribute: Expresses soul insights in symbolic language.

Shadow attribute: Turns a lyric gift to negative or destructive effect.

Channelled messages

Pile 1 I think for some you your future spouse could be like one those men that try mushrooms once and feel like they hold all the knowledge in the universe but in a sweet way. They are seekers of the world they want to experience everything that life has to offer. They love the outdoors I can see mountains and lakes specifically as well as camping. Your future spouse would rather live in a little flat and save money on material things and see the world rather than live in a big house and have no money to do anything else. Its funny I can see a clear image of a very cozy flat that is filled with a lot of love from the both of you. I think this person is very much a creative and likes to sketch I can see but they might not have a creative job. I'm seeing something in tech that pays well so that you both can travel a lot. Within your relationship they will be a great navigator through life. Like they know every solution to every problem and they are very much laid back because they know everything will be okay. I hope you enjoyed your reading pile 1!

Pile 2

Hi Pile 2 this is your reading! The archetypes of your future is:

Mediator

Light attributes: Gift of negotiating fairness and strategy in personal and professional life. Respect for both sides of the argument

Shadow attributes: Negotiating with an ulterior motives or hidden agenda either personally or professionally.

Seeker

Light attribute : Thirst for wisdom and truth wherever they are.

Shadow attribute: Inability to commit to a path once found.

Angel

Light attribute: Helping those in need with no expectation of return.

Shadow attribute: Acting innocent or angelic to mislead others. Falsely claiming to be in touch with angelic guidance.

Femme fatale

Light attribute: Highlights the erotic energy of the feminine opens your heart when your dependency is rejected.

Shadow attribute: Inappropriate use of sensuality. Attachment to money and power.

Athlete

Light attribute: Dedication to transcending physical limits. Development of personal willpower and strength of spirit.

Shadow attribute:Misuse of athletic ability for selfish ends. False sense of invulnerability and entitlement.

Channeled messages

Hi pile 2! I feel like your future spouse leans more masculine but they are very comfortable with their feminity as well as a more sensual side to them. They aren't afraid of their sexuality and likes to embrace that apart of them. I can see that they are quite tall with a slim build and is pretty attractive and they use this sometimes to their advantage. You future spouse really gets what they want and can charm anybody but they are really just a sweet person. They definitely have a kind of boyish energy like a youthful energy I can see their smile is very sweet. Your future spouse really wants everything good from life. They want to be healthy and work out so they can do the most amount of fun physical activities like hiking in a beautiful landscape. They also want to make a lot of money they enjoy having a comfortable lifestyle. Your future spouse takes a lot of precautions to make their life easier and are very organised. I can also see that when you are together they are very sweet to you. They make sure to check in with you and see if you are okay, if you need anything and when you are out together i can see them having their arm around you guiding you through the world making sure you feel safe. I hope you enjoyed your reading pile 2!

Pile 3

Hi pile 3 this is your reading! The archetypes of your future spouse is:

Pioneer

Light attributes: passion for doing and creating what has not done before.

Shadow attributes: Compulsive need to keep moving on.

Angel

Light attribute: Helping those in need with no expectation of return.

Shadow attribute: Acting innocent or angelic to mislead others. Falsely claiming to be in touch with angelic guidance.

Servant

Light attribute: Delight in serving others with a free and loving heart.

Shadow attribute: Using lack of money as an excuse not to , move forward in life.

Guide

Light attribute: Represents the nature of the divine in life and in yourself.

Shadow attribute: Places financial gain and control over imparting spiritual insight.

Seeker

Light attribute: Thirst for wisdom and truth wherever you are.

Shadow attribute: Inability to commit to a path once found.

Channeled message

Hi pile 3! For some of you this person is going to come into your life at a time that you need guidance and support. This persons has a lot of wisdom and understanding of this world and will help navigate it. This person is very much a comforting presence. Your future spouse wants to take care of you and make your life easier. I also get that things that you might find anxious doesn't make them anxious. For example going to the shops, paying bills and life stuff that might feel daunting for some doesn't bother them and theyveant tobte this nursing from you. I can also see for some they might be a little older but not much i would say no more than 7 years older. They are however very wise so they may seem older than they actually are. This person will be very sweet and doting and will never want to argue with you. I hope you enjoyed your reading pile 3!

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - the price of desire (part seven)

warnings ; they’re speaking through sex again :’( slight choking, slapping (it’s one time!), they talk through the entire sexual encounter except she’s just being a bitch and so is he, unprotected sex

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

note ; three things. 1) i may have taken it too far. 2) midnight rain by tswift should be your preferred song for this chapter. 3) this is actually the longest part of tpod. idk where we took a left turn chat but we did. i swear i didn’t mean to make this part as solemn as i did but as we near the end of tpod (tears.), i felt like it was only right to understand oc at her core so here’s the result of that. also — to understand where i got jungkook’s backstory with his parents from, this tiktok is a good place to start!

playlist here

series masterlist here

No one warns you that the final stretch is the most brutal. That success feels just as suffocating as failure when the entire world is watching.

The campaign is nearly done. Months of work, endless negotiations, photoshoots, and strategy meetings all culminating. It’s the moment where everything either clicks like a symphony or combusts in front of the entire fashion world.

Your inbox has been a battlefield. Your phone doesn’t stop buzzing, notifications piling on top of more notifications until it feels like your brain has been rewired into a crisis-response machine. There’s always something, always someone asking, demanding, needing. Your calendar bleeds red with the words URGENT. FINAL. APPROVAL NEEDED. Stores in Milan are delayed, Tokyo wants new creative, LA’s billboard specs aren’t matching the mockups.

Every second is accounted for, every breath calibrated. Still, it’s not enough. There’s not enough hours in the day, not enough you to go around. You take passion in every single project you’ve ever spearheaded — and no, it has nothing to do with the fact that Jeon Jungkook has some entanglement with your priorities.

Every single frame, every image of Jungkook’s face stretched across Times Square, across Paris, Seoul, London, has to be perfect. It has to work.

You really should be relieved this is all coming to an end shortly. Each campaign you work on gets more tedious, takes more out of you mentally, but somehow this time the relief makes it nowhere near your brain.

The strangest thought keeps entering your consciousness, and you have trouble shaking it out — you can’t tell if you’re more afraid of it ending or it continuing forever.

When this campaign ends, so does everything else. The excuses. The built-in justifications for why he’s still around. There’ll be no more moments where his thigh brushes yours and he pretends not to notice. No more mornings on set where he leans too close and murmurs “Did you sleep?” like he didn’t spend the night in your bed.

The truth is louder than every thought you’ve had in the past week. The problem isn’t that you’ve slept with him.

It’s that you haven’t stopped.

Every spare moment, every sliver of stillness not swallowed by meetings or mayhem or managerial fires, you spend with him. It started innocently enough; one night, when you couldn’t sleep and had downed two bottles of apple soju alone in your hotel room, you knocked on his door and asked if you could sleep in there. Technically, you could blame it on soju and loneliness and ‘he was just there’.

But then it happened again… and again. And now it’s every night.

In his hotel room, where his bedframe slams against the walls multiple times before you have to yell at him to stop it before the people next door hears.

In his trailer, where you tell yourself you’re just checking on wardrobe or last-minute adjustments (even though clothes have never been part of your job description), only to end up with your skirt bunched around your hips and his cock pounding up into you.

In your hotel room, where he shows up unannounced, backs you against the wall, and makes you forget why you ever built walls in the first place.

You keep having to tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. You can’t stop insisting it’s just sex. Just stress relief. Just bodies crashing into each other because neither of you have time to feel anything else.

You’re a terrible liar, always have been. You could never even get away with sneaking an extra rice cake as a kid; your mother would take one look at your face, at the twitch of your mouth or the way your fingers fidgeted with your sleeves, and sigh like she was exhausted by how transparent you were. You’d try to deny it anyway, cheeks flushed, the truth practically dripping off your skin. She’d just shake her head and say, “Don’t lie if you can’t carry it.”

With Jungkook, it’s not just twisted idea of sexual release anymore.

He brushes the hair off your face when he thinks you’re asleep. His fingers trace idle circles on your thigh like he doesn’t want to move. He lingers around you, waits for you.

It’s not like you’re any less guilty. Your hands find him without thinking. Your head always fits perfectly on his chest. Your breath evens out the second you hear his voice.

You hate that this messy, reckless, undeniably complicated situation has somehow become a place you seek out, a weakness you swore you didn’t have.

For all the chaos, all the pressure, all the madness of a global campaign hanging by a thread, he’s the only part of it that feels like breathing.

You’re already two coffees deep and three interns down by 10 a.m. The first one had emailed you a question you answered in the kickoff deck. The second brought you the wrong mockup. The third called you ma’am.

Your phone hasn’t stopped vibrating since sunrise, updates from 4 different countries, each ping a reminder that the final rollout is less than a breath away. You can practically hear the plastic peeling off the billboards, the glass being polished on storefront displays.

You haven’t eaten or even blinked. Your brain is a latticework of numbers, dates, time zones, PR contingencies, and the endless, echoing drumbeat of what if it all falls apart.

You’re seated at the long glass table in the Calvin Klein Seoul office, surrounded by executives from three continents. Stylists, art directors, logistics leads, all of them watching you click through the final rollout deck you spent all night walking through, dressed in Jungkook’s oversized t-shirt, while he had watched you with a little glimmer in his eyes . You’re walking them through the launch cadence, slide by slide, one city at a time. “And when the Seoul flagship hits its first 24 hour mark, we immediately cue the social media team to drop another teaser—”

The wooden door creaks opens. You don’t dare look up. You can already feel it, that little shift in the air, the flicker of attention from the far end of the room, executives perking up at the sight. Something in your chest tenses before your brain catches up.

The person doesn’t interrupt or make a sound. They slide into the room like smoke under a door, low-profile but impossible to ignore.

Without a word or so much as a glance at you, you realize Jungkook sets something down beside you. It’s a paper bag, small, folded once at the top. No label. No note. Just… placed at the edge of your space like it belongs there.

Your words catch mid-sentence. Your mouth stays open, but your voice doesn’t follow.

You keep talking. At least, you think you do. The rest of the sentence escapes your mouth, but it doesn’t sound like you anymore. Because then your gaze snags on him in your peripheral vision; black hoodie, Calvin Klein embroidery at the sleeve, hands in his pockets like he’s some kind of sniper, and your nerves flare like firecrackers in the pit of your stomach.

He moves slowly behind the row of seated execs, ducking his head slightly in polite apology, brushing past some stylist from Paris and the campaign director from London.

You stare down at the bag as if it’s a live grenade. Somehow you already know what’s inside. The shape gives it away. The crinkle of the wrapper when he set it down. The faint, familiar scent.

You only mentioned it once a few days ago.

Late at night, half-asleep, your cheek pressed to his chest, his tattoos warm beneath your fingers, you were tracing one lazily when you said it, half a joke, half a memory. Something about how your mom used to buy you honey-butter rice crackers from a specific stall near Jagalchi Market. You hadn’t had them in years. You didn’t think they even existed anymore. You also didn’t think he was listening.

Certainly not enough to track them down, to bring them here, to drop them beside you in a boardroom full of Calvin Klein power players like it was nothing. Like this isn’t about to ruin you in ways you don’t have the language for.

Because now, your voice is gone, stomach is in knots and your heart is doing something stupid and traitorous in your chest.

You force yourself to keep going, click to the next slide, pretend that your hands aren’t shaking. Pretend you’re not unraveling, one honey-butter memory at a time.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Your hotel room in Korea is technically five-star; minimalist, modern, all black slate and cool steel, with blackout curtains that seal out the city and a minibar stocked with items that probably cost more than your old New York rent.

But tonight, it feels lived-in.

Your heels are discarded near the entryway, blouse tossed over the arm of the chair without a second thought. The table is cluttered with evidence of your unraveling; printouts, lipsticks without caps, a mangled pen you’ve been chewing to death all week. Three water bottles, none of them finished. A wrinkled Post-it with the wrong font code scribbled in your own handwriting. A half-eaten package of the honey butter cookies you and Jungkook shared a few moments earlier. You can’t remember when the room got like this. You just know it reflects some incredibly disorganized part of your brain.

And in the middle of it all, there’s Jungkook. Or rather, you, under him.

Jungkook’s mouth is warm against your skin, dragging slow along your neck, his lips parting slightly as he kisses the hollow just beneath your collarbone. The mattress dips under his weight, one arm braced beside your head, the other sliding down the curve of your waist, fingers splayed. You arch into him before you can stop yourself, chest rising to meet him.

He hums low, the sound buzzing where his mouth meets your skin. “Stress looks good on you.”

You don’t even open your eyes. “Shut up.”

He chuckles quietly, his nose nudging just under your jaw, “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Your eyes flutter open, heavy-lidded and already dizzy. “..For what?” you manage to get out.

Jungkook pulls back just enough to look at you, dark eyes glittering. “Your snack.”

God, there it is again. That stupid flutter. That microscopic internal panic. That ache in your chest you keep calling indigestion.

You groan, dropping your head back into the pillow. “You can’t do that.”

His brow lifts, completely unbothered. “Do what?”

You shove at his shoulder playfully, “You know what. You can’t just bring me something like that, not in front of the team.”

He blinks with wide-eyed innocence. “Why not?”

“Because it’s—” you flail, exasperated, “weird. It’s unprofessional. It’s—”

“It’s not like I kissed you in front of them,” He shrugs.

Your mouth drops open. “Jeon Jungkook.”

He grins, his even stupider bunny teeth poking out with no remorse. “Wait, should I have? I can schedule it for tomorrow if that’s easier for you.”

“Shut. Up.”

“I’m serious. I could do a casual peck in the meeting room. Or, I don’t know, something soft and respectful, like neck biting.”

Your hand flies up to cover your face, laugh muffled against your palm, already hating how much he’s getting to you. “You are the worst.”

“And yet, here I am,” he says with a shameless grin as he lowers his mouth to your collarbone, brushing it with a kiss that feels deceptively light. “Feeding you. Stressing you out more. What a catch, huh?”

You don’t laugh at that. The truth is, you’re still thinking about it. The snack. The paper bag. The quiet way he placed it beside you like it was nothing, like it didn’t detonate right there on the boardroom table, splitting something open inside you so violently it still hasn’t settled. It could’ve been nothing, could’ve been a small, forgettable passing gesture. And for a moment, it was. Until suddenly it wasn’t and it was the idea that he’s noticing you, listening to you, remembering.

You’re not sure anyone ever has before.

You can’t want that. You’ve spent your entire career making sure you didn’t need that.

His mouth is on you again, trailing lower. Warm lips, slow kisses, fingertips slipping beneath the wire of your bra like he has all the time in the world.

You feel yourself slipping again. The thread you were holding onto, gone. His touch undoing whatever discipline you had left.

And then, as if he can hear the chaos in your head, he murmurs against your ribs, “You’re thinking too loud again.”

“You’re being too annoying,” you snap, though it comes out weaker than intended, barely hanging on to its own conviction. What a comeback. Are you 5? Is this a playground? Is your crush really biting your collarbone while you pretend it’s not affecting you?

He hums against your skin, teeth grazing before he bites, your spine curving into him involuntarily. His mouth keeps moving, lower now, and you pathetically keep talking.

It’s not in full thoughts or arguments that matter. Just stray words, loose complaints, flung into the air between shallow breaths and the rising ache in your throat.

“You’re not funny,” you murmur, voice barely there as his lips ghost along the slope of your ribs.

“Never said I was,” he mutters back.

“And I still think you shouldn’t have brought that snack—”

“Mmhm.”

“It’s weird,” you go on, even as your fingers curl in the sheets, “It’s too thoughtful. You don’t get to do that.”

“Okay.”

“I’m serious, Jungkook, you—”

“Baby,” he says, and the word lands like a spark. “Shut up.”

You blink at him, not because it’s crude or sharp or surprising — he’s said worse to you in moments less intimate — but because it works. His hand slides up your side, fingers spreading across your ribs like he’s calming you.

“I’m trying to kiss you,” he whispers, mouth brushing beneath your breast now. “And you’re out here giving a speech.”

Your jaw drops at him, and you stare, half-shocked, half-infuriated. “You are so—”

But the sentence breaks apart in your mouth before it can land, because you don’t even know what you’re trying to say. You’re too wired on the cocktail of adrenaline and intimacy and all the feelings you’ve been swallowing down like pills you can’t afford to miss.

You opt for the kindergartener route you have going for you, and shove him. He barely has time to react before you’re pushing him onto his back, straddling him, arms folded tightly across your chest like you’ve just declared emotional war.

He looks up at you from the mattress wide-eyed, hair a mess, lips pink and swollen from the trail he’d been tracing down your body.

“I’m grumpy now,” you announce, “And it’s your fault.”

Jungkook pauses in his tracks, and then he laughs. It’s a real expression, cracking open the air between you like it’s never carried tension at all.

You narrow your eyes, unimpressed. “You think this is funny?”

“I think,” he says as his hands slide slowly up your thighs, “you’re so hot when you’re pissed off.”

You scoff, but you don’t move. “You think everything I do is hot.”

“Because it is.”

“Even when I’m annoying?”

Lightly, his thumbs press against your skin, steady and unrepentant. “Especially when you’re annoying.”

Your pulse is roaring in your ears, and his hands stay exactly where they are. It’s almost like he’s waiting for you to lean in, waiting for whatever version of you breaks first.

Before you can stop them, your lips twitch. “Fine,” you roll your eyes, the words dragging reluctantly out of your mouth. “Maybe I do talk too much.”

He grins ridiculously wide and so outrageously beautiful it makes your stomach twist in protest. “Told you.”

You roll your eyes again, but it’s half-hearted now. You’re already caving. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Jungkook tilts his head, eyes still locked on yours, like he’s enjoying every second of this unraveling. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “It’s already there.”

And then you kiss him again, desperately in a way you’ll hate yourself for later. It’s full of every word you won’t let yourself say, every truth lodged somewhere between your chest and throat, caught like a warning. Because if you keep talking, you’ll say too much. And if he keeps listening, really listening, he might hear it.

You kiss him like it’s the only way to shut yourself up.

You’re still straddling him, knees digging into the mattress, hands sliding up over his chest, tracing the fabric of his shirt that’s too soft, too in the way, too much when all you want is skin and something to grip onto when the rest of your world keeps spinning.

His mouth moves with yours, not in a hurry at all. Yet for some reason your lips cannot stop flapping even as he kisses you like he’s trying to teach you silence.

You mutter between breaths, the words slipping out faster than you can catch them, strung together by nerves and some long-forgotten version of logic. Half-formed thoughts. More pointless complaints. The last flailing attempts to keep control in a situation where you’ve already lost it.

“You’re so annoying,” you mumble, teeth grazing his bottom lip as your lips move against his.

He laughs into the kiss warmly “Is this foreplay?”

“Want it to be?” you murmur, already leaning in again. Your mouth finds his like it’s been waiting all day (Mostly because it has.)

He hums lowly, tongue dragging down the sharp line of your jaw. “We could at least make it original,” he whispers, and you feel his teeth brush your pulse point.

“You make everything complicated,” you breathe out, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, your nails dragging slightly over the skin of his stomach.

“And you,” he says, “make everything dramatic.”

You pull back enough to shoot him a look, the kind that could kill if your blood wasn’t already on fire. “You kiss me with that dirty mouth?”

Jungkook smiles infuriatingly and raises his arms without a word. You yank his shirt off in one swift motion and toss it aside like it’s offended you just by existing.

He’s bare beneath you; golden skin, lean muscle, smooth lines and sharp edges. He’s the kind of stunning that should get less shocking with time, but it doesn’t. No matter how many times you’ve seen him like this, it still stops you for a second.

Looking at him like this, laid out beneath you, like you’re the one with the upper hand, it does something to you. His thumbs stroke slow, lazy circles into your skin, gentle in a way that feels unearned.

“You’re staring,” he says softly.

“I’m thinking,” you retort a little too quickly, fingers dragging over the center of his chest.

He raises an eyebrow, waiting. “Thinking about what?”

You shrug, playing it off like your heart isn’t thudding against your ribs. “About how stupid you are.”

And he laughs again, head tipping back, throat exposed. “You know,” he says, still catching his breath, “most people find better ways to compliment me.”

You shut him up with your mouth, kissing down his neck, biting lightly at his collarbone, your hands moving with purpose now. He groans, his hips twitching beneath you, but he doesn’t stop you.

But even with his body under yours, even with your hips beginning to grind slowly into his lap, even with all that heat simmering between your thighs, your thoughts won’t quit. They spin like a storm behind your eyes.

You actually have no idea what the fuck you are going to do when, in a short amount of time, you kiss goodbye whatever this is between you and Jungkook.

This arrangement, this twisted little thing you swore was temporary and physical, has spiraled into something else entirely.

You were supposed to be smarter than this. You were supposed to know better. Actually, you do know better.

But how do you walk away from the only thing that makes sense when everything else is spinning? How do you stop when his hands are on your waist and his mouth is stealing the air from your lungs and the only time you feel like yourself is when you’re pressed against him like this?

Now it’s going to be a bitch to walk away from. Somewhere between “just this one time” and the fifth time you woke up in his arms, it stopped being casual. Somewhere between a breathless fuck in his trailer and that stupid paper bag left beside you in the middle of a meeting, it became a cautionary tale for everything you’ve ever believed in.

And for just a second, you wonder if maybe this is what being alive is supposed to feel like. It’s a thought you shove down the moment it surfaces, because god, how cliché. How humiliating. You’ve spent your whole life rolling your eyes at that exact kind of sentiment. At those stupid American rom-coms where the grand romantic arc begins with a spilled coffee and ends in a rain-soaked confession at JFK. You’ve never been that girl. Never wanted to be. You don’t believe in fate or big love declarations at airport gates. You believe in cause and effect, in strategy.

You barely notice when his hand finds the clasp at the back of your bra, his fingers moving deliberately slow like he knows what it means for a woman like you to let someone like him this close to something soft.

The straps slip off your shoulders, snag at your elbows, then fall. Somewhere between the edge of the bed and the frayed edge of your sanity, it’s gone.

You’re bare on top of him now, and his eyes are on you, trailing over every inch like he can’t decide where to look first.

And then because you’re an idiot with a long-standing habit of self-sabotage, you open your mouth again

“So,” you start, “how many girls have you done this with on a press tour?”

He stills, hands pause on your waist. His head lifts slightly, eyes narrowing, like he’s trying to make sense of the sudden shift. “I’m sorry,” he deadpans, confused. “What?”

You blink down at him. “You know. Girls on your team. Staff. Stylists. Whoever.”

His brows lift slowly, the beginning of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’s weighing whether to be amused or offended. “You want to talk about this,” he murmurs, “right now?”

His hands move again, this time sliding up your front, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts before cupping them fully. The way he touches you is infuriatingly natural, clearly enjoying the contradiction of you scolding him while arching into his hands.

“I just think it’s a valid question,” you reply, which would sound far more convincing if you weren’t already tilting your hips forward.

He raises a brow. “While you’re straddling me? Shirtless? After kissing my neck two minutes ago?”

You glare, unamused. “Answer the question.”

Jungkook sits up slightly, bringing your bodies flush, his chest against yours, his lips brushing the curve of your collarbone as he speaks.

“If I did…” he begins, mouth skimming the edge of your shoulder, “would you be jealous?”

You scoff, but the sound lacks any real bite. “I just want to know what kind of PR nightmare I’ll be cleaning up next.”

“Liar.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re spiraling.”

“I’m not.” You clarify.

“You are,” he exhales, his mouth now at your throat, “And it’s adorable.”

You want to fight back but his lips are moving down your chest. His teeth graze the swell of your breast, and then tongue follows. Argument folds in on itself. Brain goes brrr.

Whatever the answer was, it doesn’t matter. Right..?

You slide off his lap just long enough to push your skirt down, the fabric gliding over your hips and slinking down your legs in one smooth motion. It falls to the floor, pooling quietly beside his forgotten shirt like it’s grateful to be dismissed.

You’re back on top of him, barely even clothed, one flimsy thong on your body, saying things you shouldn’t say in a voice that sounds dangerously close to jealousy.

“I mean,” you murmur, your hips shifting enough to feel him through the frustrating layers still separating you, “it wouldn’t surprise me.”

He tenses beneath you, but you keep going because you’re already too far gone. “You’re always surrounded by women,” you continue, even as your fingers curl into his shoulders. “Stylists… assistants… makeup artists practically sitting in your lap. All of them obsessed with you.”

His grip on your thighs tightens. “And you…” you breathe, eyes locked on his as you roll your hips once, “you like being adored, don’t you?”

Jungkook’s eyes are half-lidded, his mouth parted like he wants to answer, like he might, but the words never quite make it out.

You don’t even know why you keep talking. The longer you speak, the more ridiculous it sounds. The more foreign it feels coming out of your mouth. You don’t recognize yourself like this — you are not inherently petty or insecure. You know damn well who you are.

You don’t need the answer to any of this. Because he already gives you everything else. When you rock your hips again, his breath stutters. His hands slide up your sides, fingertips skimming your ribs like he doesn’t know whether to stop you or pull you closer. You brace your hands on his chest, breath halting in your throat.

He exhales sharply as if he’s been holding it in since the moment you climbed back onto him. “Jesus,” he chokes, head tilted back, throat working as he swallows hard.

He still hasn’t touched you the way you want him to. Still hasn’t said the thing you’re almost certain is sitting right there on his tongue.

Your thighs tighten around his waist without thinking, your arms wrapping around his neck like your body’s already decided you’re staying, even if your mouth is still trying to fight its way out.

God, your mouth. It’s still poking at bruises that might not even be there.

“I mean, I’m sure they all throw themselves at you,” you speak against his jaw, your lips brushing the curve of it “You’re famous. You’re pretty. You walk into a room and girls practically trip over themselves to be noticed. Of course they want you.”

“And I bet you let them,” you whisper, quieter now. “I bet you don’t even have to try. Just one look and—”

“Okay,” he says finally. “Where are you going with this?” It’s not a snap, more of a low, tired rumble from somewhere deep in his chest.

You freeze, arms still looped around his neck, “Your dick’s been inside me, Jungkook. God forbid I be curious.”

He exhales slowly like he’s not sure whether to laugh or call you out again. Instead, he reaches for his waistband, shoves his pants down far enough to get them off with your help, your hands sliding down his thighs, helping even as the tension between you simmers.

He shakes his head, lips twitching with disbelief. “So, what, should I start asking about your history too?”

You shrug, eyes locked on his, your legs bracketing his hips again like the conversation isn’t tearing you open. “I’m an open book,” you say, voice too calm to be sincere. “Ask me whatever.”

His hands find your waist, fingers gripping tighter now, your clothed core dragging over the thick line of his cock through his boxers, and the sound he makes isn’t quite a moan but it’s not far off.

“Yeah?” he tilts his head back, eyes dark. “You fuck other guys like this, then?”

You don’t answer with words. You respond with another slow grind, as the weight of what’s really being asked sinks into the silence between you. “I could,” you say, the lie slipping out so fast it almost convinces even you.

The truth is actually laughable. You haven’t had a good fuck before Jungkook, not in months. Not since that work trip to Dubai, when you let some stranger talk his way into your hotel room after a rooftop dinner and two glasses of wine you barely tasted. It was fine, technically. He was attractive, charming enough, said all the right things. You came. You faked it the second time. You deleted his number from your phone the next morning.

And yet, that dude still texts you sometimes when he’s bored and nostalgic. The thought makes your stomach turn.

You don’t know why you said it. Maybe to win. Maybe to deflect. Maybe because if you keep reaching for the upper hand, you won’t have to admit how far beneath him you already feel.

Jungkook’s expression doesn’t shift right away. He inhales, sharp and deep through his nose like he’s swallowing back whatever instinct is clawing its way up his throat.

“Yeah?” he says, almost calm. “Are they here right now?”

Before you can answer, his hands are on your waist, pushing you back enough to slide you out from under him a little. He shoves his boxers down with a kind of frustrated urgency, his cock springing free and slapping hard against the taut line of his abs.

You already know what kind of sex this is going to be. The kind where no one says what they mean. The kind where jealousy and resentment and desire all tangle into something loud and wordless. To put it very nicely, he’s going to fuck the attitude right out of you.

But you’re past the point of caring. You’re on a blind rampage now, the dam cracking wide open, and whatever damage comes next, you’ll deal with it later.

“We can call them up if you want,” you snap, teeth bared in something that’s not quite a smile.

He wraps a hand around his cock, stroking slowly, eyes locked on yours with a look that is so far from the man who brought you your favorite childhood snack in a paper bag. “Let’s fucking do that, why don’t we?,” he growls, as his hand moves up and down, “Call them up right now. Let’s see if they fuck you as good as me.”

You kick your panties off, flinging them somewhere toward the foot of the bed without a second thought. There’s this self-destructive little ache that lives just beneath your skin, the one that wants to push him until he snaps. That sadistic little part of you that’s already soaking wet from how far you’ve pushed him, and how much further you plan to go.

He asked a question earlier you have to ponder: Is this foreplay? It has to be. Because if it’s not, then what the hell is it? A psychological experiment? An Olympic sport in emotional repression? Some new form of torture designed specifically for overachieving women with control issues and a deeply repressed praise kink?

Either way, it’s working. Your body is humming, your brain has turned into jell-o, and your dignity is already halfway to hell. So yeah. If it’s not foreplay, it’s a very convincing impersonation.

“Hm,” you hum as you settle over his lap again, letting your fingers graze his chest for balance. “One time, this guy had my legs on his shoulders, I nearly had my feet on the wall behind me.”

The lie drips from your tongue like a challenge. His jaw flexes at the words,pressing the tip of his cock against your folds, dragging it through your slick. You both moan in an unrestrained, ugly, desperate fashion.

“Oh, really?” he grits, dragging the head of his cock through your wetness again,“Didn’t we do that two nights ago?”

You bite your lip, fighting a whimper that threatens to shatter the act. “Did we?” you murmur, dumbfounded, “I don’t remember.”

You’re playing with fire. You know it. The look in his eyes is a warning — you’re as good as dead.

“Don’t worry,” he growls, his voice scraping over your skin like sandpaper, his tip circling your clit, “this is just my nighttime shift. Probably gonna call Jennie tomorrow. It’s been a minute.”

He’s hit something raw now, a nerve buried so deep beneath your indifference, you didn’t even know it was there. Because you don’t care about Jennie. You don’t. You’re not even sure if they ever actually fucked. Maybe they did. Maybe they didn’t. They probably did. Right?

Why wouldn’t they?

They looked close enough together. Seemed to be the kind of comfortable that doesn’t just happen unless you’ve seen someone naked or nearly naked or laughing in your hotel bed at two in the morning.

You moan involuntarily as the head of his cock slides over your clit, the friction sparking between your hips that makes your fingernails dig into his shoulder. “Y–Yeah?” you gasp as your body clenches around nothing. “Is she as good as me?”

“Sometimes,” he fires back. He presses in, just the tip. Your mouths both fall open like it’s instinct. “You play your cards right tonight,” he grits, breath hitching as his fingers bruise into your hips, “and I’ll bump you up to my number one option.”

You want to hit him. You want to kiss him. You want to sob into his shoulder and tell him you’re sorry, even though you don’t know what for.

You feel so full and he’s barely inside you. “Hnnh, fuck,” you exhale, trying to blink through the haze. You’re bleeding pride and panic and can’t let him win, so you say the worst thing possible. “You know,” you bite your lip to restrain another moan, “we’re thinking of doing another idol for the next campaign.”

His eyes narrow into hateful little slits.

“Might go with Mingyu.”

You twist the knife all the way in. “He’s fucking hot.”

You feel his body go still, every muscle wound tight.

You don’t even know why you said it. You just remember reading something on a gossip site once, some stupid headline about the ‘97 line’ and how close they all were. You don’t really get it. Also don’t really care.

“Yeah?” he grits out, the words slipping between clenched teeth, “Fuck. You’re a real bitch sometimes, you know that?”

His head falls back for a beat, jaw tight, breath ragged. “Why are you doing this to me?”

It’s not a threat or even anger. He’s genuinely asking, vulnerable in a way you’re not ready for. You’ve taken it too far, and you know it.

You always know it, right before you feel the consequences.

You sink down fully onto his cock, guided by the firm, trembling grip of his hands on your waist. Your body jolts from the stretch, from the violent relief of finally having him inside you again.

Jungkook fills you slowly, inch by inch, and your walls flutter around him tightly. You’re already clenching around him when he speaks again,, every word punctuated with a thrust that makes your body seize and your mind go white. “Talk all you want about other guys,” he growls, thrusting up into you again, harder now. “But we both know—” another thrust. “it’s my cock you keep coming back to.”

You try to say something, but nothing comes out. All you can offer is a moan, your head falling back as your hips roll against his, matching his rhythm even as your body trembles from how much he’s giving you.

The only sounds left are incoherent — some cock-drunk babbles and gasping praise neither of you have the presence of mind to translate. But somehow, he feels deeper tonight. His eyes open, and when they meet yours, something inside you stops.

“I don’t care about anyone else,” he says like the words are being torn out of him. “I’ve never — fuuuck — looked at anyone else the way I look at you. Not one fucking person.”

That sentence shouldn’t make you want to hurl but it does. Not because it’s some grand ideology , or because it’s unexpected, but because for the first time in your life, you believe it. No one’s ever looked at you like that before, not even your ex, not even the men who promised things they never meant. No one’s ever made you feel like you were the only one in the room, like you were something chosen. It’s not the thrusts or the stretch or even the way he holds you that finally breaks you; it’s the quiet, devastating truth of being seen.

“Fuck, baby,” he gasps, head pressing into the pillow, jaw clenched trying not to cum too fast. “Still so tight.”

His hand drags up your thigh, then curves around your waist again. “Always feel so fucking good around me,” he gasps.

“This pussy,” he rasps, voice fraying as he thrusts up into you with a force that steals the air from your lungs, “was fucking made for me. Say it.”

The words hit like a pulse between your legs and you swear you feel your brain glitch. You blink down at him, completely drunk, lips parted, a blissed-out smile threatening the corner of your mouth. You don’t even bother pretending to hold back. “Yours,” you whisper breathlessly, “All yours, Jungkook.”

He makes some satisfied move and your rhythm builds with every roll of your hips, every grind that forces him deeper, and then you’re bouncing, chasing friction like a madman. Your arms wind around his neck, dragging him up, chest to chest, your mouth brushing the shell of his ear as your body fucks him with all the fire you’ve been holding in. Every wet snap of skin echoes through the room loudly.

“Shit, baby,” he chokes, hands slipping down to grab your ass.

You grab his jaw, fingers firm, forcing his face back to yours. “Don’t you dare fucking look away from me.”

His eyes fly open, drowning in black. He stares at you, and your hips move faster, sloppier now, thighs burning. You can feel him twitching inside you, every nerve in his body pulled tight and shaking. “You promise there’s no one else?” you murmur, voice even as it splinters at the edges from how fucking good he feels.

He groans like he’s dying, as if the question alone might undo him. “Fuck, baby no,” he gasps, nodding so fast it’s practically frantic. “You’re it. You hear me? You’re the only one who fucks me this good. And I’m the only one who knows how you like it.”

You lift yourself the entire way off his hardened length, and then slam yourself back down, squeezing around him just to watch his face go slack, mouth falling open in a silent curse. “That so?” you tease, “You swear I’m the only one?”

He shudders beneath you, hands everywhere now, “No one else,” he groans, “There’s no one else.”

He pulls you closer, foreheads pressed, skin slick with sweat. There’s nothing between you now. Not pride or distance or a single lie.

Your hips find a rhythm that borders on reckless. It leaves no room for thought, only sensation. You only feel the stretch of him inside you, the way he fills you so completely it’s a miracle you can still breathe.

“You look so good like this,” he grits out, his fingers sliding up the column of your throat, “Can’t even hold back anymore, huh?”

You really can’t. You’re past that now. There’s no pretending anymore. There’s no compartmentalizing the way he makes you feel from the way he’s already carved himself into every part of you that was supposed to stay untouched.

His mouth brushes your ear, hips snapping up into yours with a sharp, brutal slap that makes your whole body jolt. “What were you saying about those other guys?” he pants, teeth grazing your skin. “Because your pussy says otherwise.”

Your head drops forward with a whimper, fingers clawing at his shoulders, tangled in his damp hair like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

“Shut up,” you gasp. Your heart kicks hard against your ribs, panic and pleasure all tangled up together, no way to pull them apart now.

Before your mind has a chance to pause your actions, you slap him. A quick, sharp smack across the face. Not enough to hurt.

It doesn’t deter him, not even a little. If anything, it makes him grin harder, all flushed and delirious like you just did him a favor. His hand at your throat tightens slightly, encouraging your worst instincts.

His tongue drags across his lower lip, catching on the silver ring that gleams when the light hits just right. “Feels so good, Jungkook,” you choke out, voice dissolving into air.

“No one else,” you manage, the sound soft and shaky, like it’s been dragged from the pit of your chest and barely survived the journey. “No one’s ever made me feel like this.”

The admission slips out before you can stop it, suddenly too exposed under the dim lights in your room, and it’s immediately followed by a cry when his hips slam up into yours.

“I want to cum,” you gasp, the words tumbling out as your back arches, nails embedded into his shoulders. “I want to cum so bad.”

Jungkook’s grip at your throat softens, thumb brushing along the line of your jaw, “Say that again,” he begs, pleading.

You hesitate long enough to panic. Your heart’s in your throat, your brain’s short-circuiting, and suddenly you have no idea which part he means. But you’re not about to repeat the one that sounds like a confession. You default like you always do and dodge the feeling that has bloomed in your chest like an unwelcome old friend.

“I w-want to cum,” you repeat, lips trembling. It’s quite embarrassing how quick you wither from his touch. He’s fucking you in earnest now with deep, relentless thrusts that make your whole body shaking from the sheer force. Your breasts bounce with every snap of his hips, hands grasping for anything solid — his shoulder, the back of his neck, the sweat-damp strands of hair curling at his nape.

And then he’s just pouring unholy words into your ears and it’s somehow the sweetest noise you’ve heard all week. “You feel that? That’s mine. Every inch of it. Every fucking inch of your pussy… mine.”

“Jungkook!” you practically scream, his name tumbling out like a broken prayer. You try to say more, but nothing actually forms. His head drops against your shoulder, mouth open against your skin, breath coming in short, uneven bursts.

“I know,” he speaks into your skin, cock plunging so deep you swear you feel him in your stomach. “I know, baby. Cum with me. Please, just like that.”

Your body is on fire, everything pulling tight at once. Your nails are buried in his shoulders now, deep enough to leave marks he’ll have to explain later. “Jungkook, fuck, aah, I—“

And then you’re falling down… down, crashing somewhere in your sheets. Yet the only image that flashes, all you can think about is those honey-butter cookies. The ones your mom used to bring home in paper bags. The first time you tasted them, you remember thinking: this is the best thing I’ll ever feel. Somehow, this feels like that again. Like safety. Like sweetness. Like something you weren’t supposed to have but got anyway.

You cum with a cry that tears straight from your throat, body seizing around him so tightly it drags a broken grunt from his chest. The release is blinding, back arching so sharply it feels like your spine might snap, your limbs useless and numb, your mind nowhere and everywhere at once. Blood roars in your ears, heart pounds similarly to a war drum, arms locked around his neck like you might float away if you don’t hold on.

He tries to move, to roll off you like he’s already thinking about cleanup or consequence, but you tighten your grip — arms around his shoulders, legs around his waist — locking him in place with the kind of desperation you don’t even bother hiding. You want him to stay. In you, on you, with you. Your hearts are thudding so hard it feels like they’re trying to break through your ribcages just to reach each other, like even now, even here, it’s still not close enough.

You know you’ll have to get up soon, do all the very normal, very unsexy things: pee, breathe, pretend like this didn’t mean more than it was supposed to.

Not yet, though. Not when your body still feels warm from the inside out. Not when he still faintly tastes like honey butter.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Busan looks different when you return with everything you once swore you needed to prove.

The sea still stretches wide, unbothered by your ambition. The wind still catches at your clothes the same way it did when you were a little girl except now the fabric is designer, and your heels leave imprints in sand that once knew you barefoot.

It’s just another set. Another location added last minute to an already bloated campaign schedule.

It wasn’t even supposed to be part of the rollout. But Jungkook asked for it, a final shoot in the city that made him, to be plastered all over the country like a love letter. He said it with that easy comfort of someone who’s never needed to run from the place that raised him.

You couldn’t argue with him.

The second your feet had hit the boardwalk, you felt it. It was a slow, gnawing ache in your chest, the kind that smells like sea air and old wood and guilt.

You haven’t seen your parents in months. Haven’t spoken to them, either. You run through the excuses you gave yourself in your head, ready to recite them at a moment’s notice — too busy, too tired, too afraid.

Now, here you are, back in the city that built you, standing in the middle of a place that should feel like home. It couldn’t be far from that demented word.

You’re the most successful stranger this town’s ever seen.

Jungkook glows under the sunlight, dressed in pale denim and soft white cotton as he leans against a sea-worn railing, the camera clicking in frantic bursts around him.

You haven’t said much today, barely offered any notes. The comments to the stylists have been short, distracted, your arms crossed too tight across your chest as you chew the inside of your cheek raw.

He smiles for the lens, shifts his weight, lets the wind lift his hair just enough to catch the light, but his eyes keep drifting. Away from the camera, past the crew. Back to you, again and again. You might need to call him out for his staring problem.

You don’t want to explain why your stomach’s been twisted since you got here, why the smell of sea salt and tteokbokki stalls makes your chest go tight, why your parents are twenty minutes away and still have no idea you’re here.

So you keep your arms crossed and your eyes moving from the ocean, to the clouds, to a rusted street sign you swear you used to pass on your way home from school. You’re just not that girl anymore, the one who used to run barefoot across this boardwalk and dream of anything bigger.

Still, when the stylist asks you to step in while she goes to the bathroom and adjust Jungkook’s collar, you hesitate. It feels oddly domestic, despite being surrounded by over ten crew members.

And then you’re in front of him, fingers brushing the edge of his shirt, smoothing the fabric back from his skin. His neck is warm beneath your touch, flushed from the sun or the attention or maybe from the way your hand lingers a second too long. You can’t tell if it’s the wind that makes you shiver or the fact that you’re touching him.

“You good?” he murmurs, meant only for you.

You look up, caught off guard, your hand still near his collarbone. His eyes are already on you, steady and far too gentle for someone who’s supposed to be your problem.

In that second, you swear he knows. Nothing to the extent of the constant inner turmoil your brain is under, but that he watched the way your eyes keep flickering back to the sea and has deemed you mentally unstable.

You don’t say anything. You nod too fast, like that makes it casual, like that makes it fine, and step back like you didn’t just give yourself away.

For the rest of the shoot, his eyes keep drifting back to you, thankfully not in a way that gives him away. It’s more in that quiet, insistent way that makes it impossible to ignore.

Later that night, the world finally shuts up.

The shoot’s been over for hours. The lights are packed, the cameras wrapped, the team scattered across Busan in waves of laughter and secondhand adrenaline, spilling into barbecue joints and neon-lit bars.

You told them you were exhausted from the travel, that you wanted a reprieve in the form of a good book and your mattress.

You’re a better liar than your mother thought you were.

You’re here instead. Barefoot in the sand just beyond the edge of the hotel’s private beach, your heels abandoned somewhere behind you, your white button-down rolled to the elbows, a half-drunk bottle of soju dangling from your fingers like an afterthought. The wind nips at your cheeks, and the ocean keeps moving, loud and endless and entirely uninterested in you. The sky stretches above you like black velvet, stars painting the horizon.

You stare out at the waves as they crash against the rocks, steady and relentless. You let the sound fill the hollow space in your chest where something used to be.

Your phone is off. Your mouth tastes like salt. You haven’t cried, not really, but your throat burns like you’ve been swallowing it all day.

You don’t even register him at first.

“Drinking alone? Brutal.”

You flinch visibly and immediately curse yourself for not hiding better, for letting your guard slip when you’re this close to falling apart.

You turn your head, slow and unwilling. He’s standing a few feet away, hands stuffed into the pockets of a hoodie, his hair still a little windswept from the shoot. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are soft in that way you’ve come to dread, uncomfortably observant.

Tiredly, you exhale, and look back at the sea. “Not right now, Jungkook.”

There’s a moment of silence, an unfortunately long one. It stretches enough to feel intentional, like it could tip either way. The waves speak for you, crashing steady and loud, giving you something to focus on that isn’t him.

But he doesn’t leave. He sinks down beside you with an exhale, arms draped over his knees, shoulders slouched in that unbothered way he gets when he’s just existing.

Without turning, you tilt the bottle in his direction. “You want?”

He takes it without a word, drinks, passes it back. The glass clicks softly between your fingers.

“Your jaw was locked all day,” he says, almost thoughtful. “Didn’t yell at a single photographer. Honestly kind of alarming.”

Technically, he’s not wrong.

You scoff, trying to play it off. “That’s poetic.”

He shrugs, “I’ve had time to study the source material.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s lazy. The waves fill the space again, stretching wide between you, all sea breeze and salt and unspoken memories filling your brain.

After a moment, he glances sideways. “You okay?”

It’s a simple inquiry. One of those questions you’ve answered all week with a nod and a forced smile and some bullshit about sleep deprivation.

Tonight, it lands differently.

You keep your eyes on the ocean. On the white spray hitting the rocks again and again “Just tired,” you say.

“Yeah,” he replies. “You’ve been carrying this whole thing.”

You blink, caught off guard by the gentleness of it. “Not alone,” you answer automatically, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek, “I have a team.”

“You don’t let them carry it the way you do,” he says. “You hold it like if anything goes wrong, it’s your name thrown in the dirt.”

He’s not wrong. Your whole life has been defined by approvals, by acceptance. Admitting it just doesn’t come as naturally to you as you like.

You tip the bottle back again. The soju doesn’t burn as much now. Slides down easy. Maybe it’s because of the cold numbing of your lips or the ache between your ribs. The waves crash ahead of you, rhythmic and unbothered. The seafoam bursts white against the dark curve of rock, and somewhere beneath all of it, something small gives way.

The words slip out before you even realize you’re speaking.

“There used to be this one stretch of beach my sister and I would sneak off to when we were kids.”

Jungkook shifts beside you, but thankfully says nothing in response.

“It was maybe ten minutes from where we lived. Nothing fancy. Mostly local. Never crowded.”

You don’t know why you’re saying it. Why you’re letting the words drift out like this. Why your lips won’t keep still.

“We didn’t have swimsuits. Not real ones, anyway. We used to cut up old t-shirts and tie them with elastic bands, like we were designing our own line or something.”

You almost laugh at the fond memory. Your sister was somewhat of a eccentric kid, always dragging you along on journeys your mother didn’t want to put a stop to as she cried over bills overdue on the table, as your father drank himself into a hole so deep he couldn’t bare to dig himself out.

You glance down, dragging your thumb along the green glass of the bottle, your hair catching in the wind, brushing against your mouth almost to remind you you’re still here.

“One summer we went every day,” you murmur. “Took leftover rice balls, bruised fruit, whatever we could sneak from the kitchen. Sat on a plastic mat and swore we were queens of the coast.”

Another sip, let the silence settle over the story like a tide pulling back.

“I remember the sand being warmer than this,” you say after a moment. “And the wind smelled different. Less like salt, more like sugar.”

You’re not really sure you want a response from him. This isn’t something that needs fixing. The bones in your jaw tighten, as if that might be enough to keep everything else from slipping out.

Jungkook shifts a little closer. The wind picks up around you, sharp and briny, curling through your hair and catching on your shirt. Somewhere behind you, far beyond the sand and the silence, the city is still awake. But out here, it’s just water and breath and the kind of quiet that makes your skin feel too thin.

“Do you know when the last time I spoke to my sister was?”

Your eyes stay fixed on the shoreline, glazed and distant. Kind of hoping the sea might offer a version of the truth that hurts less.

“Or my parents?” you add.

You let out something that resembles a laugh but comes out dangerously close to a sobbing gasp.

“Five months ago,” you say.

The wind shoves harder at your shoulders, like it’s trying to force the words back into your chest, but it’s too late. They’re out now. Floating in the space between you, real and impossible to take back. “I’ve declined every call.”

“I keep telling myself it’s because I’m too busy,” you murmur, eyes still locked on the waves. “That I’ll call tomorrow. That it’s not the right time. That I’ve got too much going on.”

“But the truth is…” You breathe in slow. “I don’t even know what I’d say.”

It slips out like seawater, salty and sharp and heavy. You don’t know why you said it. Why you’re saying any of this. Why the silence next to him feels like the safest place you’ve had to fall apart in years. Why the words keep showing up uninvited, too heavy to hold and disgustingly honest to bury.

Your career was built on knowing when to shut up. Spent years learning how to compartmentalize, how to file grief under “later,” how to turn pain into something manageable. Now your ankles are in the sand, shoes discarded, spilling your family guilt to Jeon fucking Jungkook.

“I think I’m the worst daughter in the world.”

You half-expect him to laugh at you, or say something about how this is above his pay grade with his position in your life as the dude you fuck. Or try to fill the silence with a joke or a solution or whatever it is people usually offer when they don’t know what else to do.

The problem about it all is you can’t erase the image from your mind of you and your sister playing on the beach, who wore dresses made from seaweed and had dreams sculpted in the shape of seashells. Now, you’re just the girl who ran. The girl who hasn’t called home. The girl who isn’t sure if there’s anything left to run back to.

You swipe at your cheek even though there aren’t any tears yet. The threat of them is there, high in your throat, burning at the edges.

And in the back of your mind, there’s a voice. Your own judgmental one. Why are you telling him this? Why does it feel easier to say it here, now, to him?

His voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it, low enough that the waves almost swallow it whole. “I didn’t talk to my parents for a while either.”

You freeze, fingers tightening instinctively around the neck of the soju bottle, eyes locked on the ocean even as your focus fractures. Tide foams white at the edges of your vision, but it’s his words that drown you.

Jungkook keeps his gaze trained straight ahead, like he’s talking to the horizon instead of you. “It wasn’t some big dramatic fight or anything,” he says, almost as if he’s still deciding if it’s worth saying out loud. “No ultimatums. Just… time and my pride. Too many excuses that felt valid until they didn’t. And then suddenly it’s been two months, and calling starts to feel harder than not calling. Because if you do, you’ll have to explain why it took so long.”

Your breath catches somewhere in your chest.

“I love them,” he continues, “They know that. But when the whole world starts looking at you a certain way, it’s hard to go back to just being their son.“

He looks down, brushes his hands together absently, and sand is clinging to his palms. “I think part of me thought I’d disappoint them just by being… myself.”

You stare at him blankly. Finally seeing him clearly for the first time.

There’s a man underneath it all, a man who’s known guilt. A man who’s run too far and too fast. A man who is still, somehow, trying to figure out how to come home to himself.

Something inside you twists like the nauseous thrum after one too many drinks on an empty stomach.

He looks over at you then, and the moonlight catches across his face. You can see it now, the weight he’s still carrying as he tries to make room for yours.

“You’re not the worst daughter in the world,” he says. “You’re just a girl trying to survive.”

Throat is tight, chest tighter, and head feels like it’s slowly filling with static. But the worst part, the part you weren’t ready for, is the way your heart aches not just for yourself but for him.

He inhales slowly, eyes still fixed on the ocean ahead, “I saw them again,” he goes on. “After everything, after the time apart.”

“My mom made all this food,” he smiles without humor. “Like it was Chuseok or something. I think I cried before I even got my shoes off.”

He glances down at the sand, his tone softer now, afraid of breaking whatever’s holding this moment together. “And I remember thinking… no matter how far I go, no matter who I turn into, there’s still a place that’ll wait for me that doesn’t care about the stadiums or what the numbers say.”

“I knew I had to come home,” his final line delivers like a punch straight to the nose. “Not just for them. For me.”

You don’t fight the tear that slips down your cheek without permission or preamble. No wiping it away or any acknowledgment of it. Saltwater on skin.

“I feel so lost,” you whisper so quietly it barely counts as sound.

Jungkook already knows that saying ‘okay’ wouldn’t help. The wind threads through your hair like a ghost of comfort. You literally don’t know why you’re still talking. Why you’re letting the softest, most wrecked parts of yourself spill out here at his feet, under this sky.

Yet, he hasn’t flinched and somehow he’s the only person who hasn’t asked you to be anything but exactly who you are right now.

Jungkook hasn’t touched you the entire time which makes you feel like a basket case. He’s supposed to be making some remark about how your tits look great in your top, or trying to grope you through your pants. He’s choosing instead to let you break without rearranging the pieces to make them prettier.

You take another sip. The bottle’s gone warm now, bitter at the bottom.

“Maybe it’s time to call them.”

His advice doesn’t come with weight or warning. It lands like a paper cut and it stings in a way that makes you go still. “Not because you owe them anything or because it’ll fix everything. Just… because it might fix a part of you.”

Saliva trickles down your throat like molasses. Your hand tightens around the bottle, your knuckles pale where they catch the moonlight, as if holding onto something will stop the rest of this. “And maybe,” he continues, talking more to the sand than to you, “… maybe, they’re waiting. They’re probably scared to try again or say the wrong thing. Scared to lose you completely.”

You hate the way your chest clenches at that. Hate the calm in his voice, the certainty in it.

Hate how he says it like he knows something you don’t, something you’ve spent too long trying not to think about.

You wipe at your face with the back of your hand. Another tear slips free anyway, trailing down your cheek before you can catch it. You drink to chase it down, hoping the burn will swallow the emotion with it.

“You don’t know them,” you retort.

“You’re right,” he says without hesitation. “I don’t.”

You bite the inside of your cheek so hard it stings. “And you don’t know me.”

The silence that follows feels like a dare.

“I’m starting to.”

Your throat closes around it, tight to speak. You stare at the waves again, vision swimming, heart caught somewhere high and trembling in your chest. Shoulders tense like your whole body’s trying not to fall apart under the weight of being seen.

“Why are you right about this?” It’s not really a question. Not one that needs an answer.

Jungkook shrugs, “High chance I’m not.”

“What would I even say to them?” You expect yourself to start crying harder as you imagine the look on your mother’s face when she swings open the wooden door that divides you two, but instead you let out some strangled breath.

And then, with that same quiet certainty that’s been threading through everything he’s said tonight, he replies. “Hi is a good start.”

You huff a laugh, if you can even call it that. There’s nothing bitter in it, not really, just the frayed underside of someone who hasn’t let herself admit how much she wants something to feel easy again.

You turn back to the water, and in what feels like days or maybe weeks, you let your shoulders fall. The tension doesn’t vanish, but it loosens. Before you realize what your body is doing, you shift.

Slowly, almost cautiously, your head finds his shoulder.

His hoodie is soft where it meets your skin, worn cotton and faint woodsy notes of his cologne. He stiffens for half a second, long enough for you to wonder if you should pull away. But then he exhales, and you feel it beneath your cheek as he settles.

You close your eyes. It’s the first thing you’ve done with him that isn’t laced with tension or a good fuck or something to prove. Like something steady beneath your feet for the first time in months. You’ve spent your whole life staying ready. Even in bed with him, you’re still half-armored, still controlling the pace, the narrative, the exit plan.

Your mind is spiraling. This man, who you swore was just a complication to manage, another name on a campaign, has somehow managed to see more of you tonight than most people ever do. It almost feels like the first real thing you’ve had in a long time.

For a moment, you let yourself wonder what he’s thinking. Then you really don’t have to wonder as his voice slides into the quiet.

“You know,” he murmurs, “if you keep drinking that, I’m going to have to carry you back to the hotel.”

You scoff against the fabric of his hoodie, breath mingling in the cotton. “Please. I’ve survived four week campaign launches on three hours of sleep and a melted protein bar. I think I can handle a little soju.”

“You’re really bad at accepting help,” he says, not unkindly.

You don’t miss a beat. “You’re really bad at minding your business.”

Jungkook takes the bottle from your death grip on it. “You know that’s mine,” you mutter, not bothering to move.

“You offered it earlier,” he snickers, not looking at you.

“That was out of pity. You looked cold.”

The corner of his mouth lifts as he tilts the bottle back and takes a sip. “Mm,” he hums, swallowing. “Tastes like judgment and unresolved emotion.”

A snort exits your body at that statement, and without thinking too hard about anything else, you reach for him, loop your arm through his. You curl into his side, your fingers sliding into the bend of his arm.

Your heart pounds harder than it should. This touch, it’s nothing like what you’re used to.This isn’t about sex or dominance or who will give in first.

Your pulse hammers as you stare at the waves, trying to calm yourself. You’ve had his hands all over you. You’ve kissed him until your mouth went numb. You’ve slept in his bed and cursed him and come undone beneath him.

He leans his head slightly toward yours when he says, “You’re not what I expected.”

You gulp. “What did you expect?”

He pauses, choosing his words carefully, “I honestly don’t know.”

Waves answer for you, their rhythm steady, the only constant in a night that’s shifting under your feet. You take another drink from the bottle he passes back, let your hand stay exactly where it is.

The bottle moves between you two so many times you lose track. When it’s empty, you reach for the rest of the pack you bought and open the next one. And… then another. Neither of you keeping tabs nor trying to.

You’re too warm now to feel the breeze. The moon hangs low and heavy over the water, dim and pregnant. The waves shimmer beneath it, silver and restless.

You’ve stopped talking about work and pretending this warm feeling that’s spread from your scalp to your toes isn’t nice. Now it’s smaller things.

Jungkook tells you about his first performance in elementary school, how he nearly threw up behind the curtain, convinced he’d forget all the words. How he still remembers the way it felt when the crowd clapped at the end.

You tell him about your first pitch meeting in New York, how your voice shook the entire time and your hands wouldn’t stop sweating, but how you walked out with the deal anyway because you refused to let anyone doubt you twice.

You go back and forth like that. Fragments of lives neither of you meant to offer up but somehow keep giving.

Somewhere in the middle of his story about failing his first math test twice — both times for forgetting to put his name at the top — you look at him.

It nearly knocks the air out of your lungs.

The curve of his mouth when he’s laughing. The way his hands move when he talks, animated and careless. The soft gleam of the light catching on his earring, on the slope of his lashes, on the faint scar on his cheek that you’ve never noticed before. His hair’s messy from the wind. His hoodie’s rumpled. His cheeks are flushed from the alcohol.

You must be drunk. You have to be drunk.

Because… god…. he’s beautiful.

Jungkook’s always been hot. You’re well aware of how women all over the world fawn over him. But now he’s just for you under the stars.

You don’t plan it or think much.

You just lean in and kiss him.

His mouth is soft when it meets yours, a little tentative at first. You’re already tilting your chin just so, letting your fingers curl tighter around his arm. He smells like fabric softener and salt, like sea air clinging to his skin and the faint trace of cologne you’ve only ever caught in passing but could recognize even in a lineup. He tastes like soju and mint, like laughter, like stories shared too easily under moonlight. And when he kisses you back, slow, more certain now, you don’t dare hesitate to let the bottle drop from your hands onto the sand, cupping his other cheek with your palm.

Reluctantly, you pull away, your warm fingers still pressed into the side of his face. Your breath whispers against his mouth, “Why did I just do that?”

Corners of Jungkook’s mouth tilt slightly, “I don’t know. But.. if you do it a second time, I might start thinking you actually like me.”

You scoff, biting back the smile that threatens to give you away. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’m not,” he chuckles, “You’re the one kissing me under the stars. Kind of romantic, no?”

You exhale a laugh. Then kiss him again while holding your breath because you don’t want to say anything else.

And the next day, when you drive twenty minutes to your parents’ house in Busan, you don’t realize how tightly you’ve been holding your breath since that kiss until the street comes into view.

The building looks smaller than it used to. That’s the first betrayal.

Smaller, duller, drained of the larger-than-life scale it once carried when you were a kid staring up at it like it could swallow you whole. The bricks are paler now, bleached by time or guilt or maybe just too many summers. The gate still creaks and the third step wobbles beneath your weight like it remembers you.

Everything is exactly the same. Which is somehow so much worse.

You stand there longer than you should, keys cold in your hand, thumb pressing into the metal like if you just hold it tight enough, maybe the anxiety will dissolve. It doesn’t. You try to rehearse something. An opening line, a reason, an apology but your brain’s playing static. White noise and old echoes and the blood-rush sound of your own name when it used to be shouted across this lawn.

You think of Jungkook. “Hi is a good start.”

So you knock.

The door opens too fast. No time to brace, no time to breathe.

Your mother with a breath caught in her throat. A wrinkle at the corner of her mouth you don’t remember being there. Eyes you’ve spent half your life trying to forget and the other half trying to see again.

You almost forget to say hi.

She looks older somehow. Smaller than you remember. Her hair is pulled back the same way it always was, her apron dusted in flour like she’s been baking something just to pass the time.

She stares at you for a second, silent and wide-eyed.

You ditch the practiced words. Yoy say something else that finally breaks you.

“Eomma.”

You don’t even make it another second before the tears hit you full force. You move with muscle memory, and when your arms wrap around her, she’s already there catching you.

She smells the same. Feels the same too.

Her hands move across your back in rhythmic circles, pressing comfort straight into your skin. Erase the ache of every voicemail you never returned, every text you left hanging, every birthday you pretended didn’t sting.

“I missed you,” she whispers, and her voice breaks around it. “I missed you so much.”

You nod into her shoulder because your mouth doesn’t work right now. Because your throat is tight and your eyes are flooding and your voice gets caught somewhere behind all the guilt. But the words come out anyway, muffled and wet against the fabric of her shirt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to come back.”

She pulls you in even more like she’s trying to fold you into herself, as if you’re something she’s been trying to find her way back to, too. She just gives you the one thing you were never brave enough to ask for.

Grace.

Faint footsteps are heard in the background. You lift your head barely to see your sister.

She’s in the doorway like she’s not sure she’s allowed to be here, with those same wide eyes, hands pressed to her mouth.

“Unnie?”

It’s all she says.

You nod, and that’s all she needs before she’s hurtling toward you, flinging her arms around your waist like she’s trying to make up for every time you didn’t answer her call. Her hug is messier, less practiced yet hits you just as hard.

You laugh. You actually do, right there between the sobs and the apologies and the second-chance hugs. Not because anything’s fixed or that the damage is undone.

It’s just that there’s too much love in the room to hold without spilling.

You dig into your bag with trembling fingers, reaching for the one thing you knew would make her smile. You hand her the photocard. Jimin, smiling on glossy paper.

She gasps like you’ve handed her a diamond. “No way.”

“I bribed someone at the top,” you tease, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand.

“You didn’t have to,” She hugs the picture tight to her chest.

“I wanted to,” you say, and you mean it.

Time ticks differently that day, a clock you weren’t expecting to miss. There’s too much food, stories told fast, many emotions that rise and fall without warning. You cry again, laugh more, and sit on the same couch you once did with textbooks and chipped nail polish, listening to your mother fuss over your appetite and your sister’s loud music.

Though it isn’t perfect, though there are still things left unspoken and walls to slowly disassemble, it feels like a beginning.

When you finally climb back into your car that evening, parked just down the street where the air smells like dried seaweed and laundry, you sit in silence for a long time. The engine doesn’t start. Your hands don’t move.

You think of Jungkook again faintly.

You realize then and there: you don’t feel so lost.

You feel grateful.

And maybe a little unsteady, knowing that Jeon Jungkook, the cockiest, most infuriating, most impossible man you’ve ever met, was the one who handed you the courage to come home.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

masterlist + request

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[ourjobagency]

In this blog, Discover effective strategies to overcome job search challenges and thrive in today's competitive job market. This comprehensive guide offers practical tips on resume optimization, interview preparation, networking, and personal branding.

To know more about career visit us:

[robin-evry]

I have no idea if this has already been done(I assume not since I was scrolling through your posts) but what about a Topaz or Jade!Yuu? Either one is fine!

So if usually when I have to choose between two characters, I usually just do both but if one of the characters has already been requested with someone I'll do the other since there's no one request jade and topaz I'll do both

𝐓𝐖𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐎𝐏𝐀𝐙!𝐘𝐔𝐔 🐖🪙

Topaz is the Leader of the Special Debts Picket Team and high-level manager of the Strategic Investment Department under the Interastral Peace Corporation. A member of the "Ten Stonehearts" at a young age, Topaz's foundational expertise is "debt retrieval." Her partner, the Warp Trotter "Numby," is also capable of keenly perceiving where "riches" are located, ensuring that jobs based in security, debt collection, and actuarial varieties are of no great challenge. At presently they are traveling the cosmos together, seeking all manner of liability disputes that might be affecting the stable progression of the IPC's businesses.

Manages the finance of nrc, always could be seen with a note pad or a clip board calculating the finance of the school for Crowley not to mention help him calculate the school taxes because he's unable to do basic math.

Approaches everything in nrc like a business venture. Whether it's securing better living conditions at ramshackle or negotiating with vargas to lower PE requirements, they always have a strategy.

Constantly takes notes on people, labeling them by "risk level," "investment potential," and "market value" (to their frustration). Not to mention they would occasionally go around the School and calculate the market value of stuff, they are wondering why Crowley keeps some useless artifacts when he could auction it to get more funds for school.

When interacting with other students, topaz!yuu mentally calculates their “value.” “How useful would they be in a future deal?”, topaz!yuu assessment of their friends can be surprisingly accurate like how Riddle is a “great brand ambassador” or how Cater has “untapped influencer potential.”

Sam and Azul would seek their assistants as long topaz!yuu got a cut of the price, not to mention topaz!yuu would buy the most randomized things in Sam shop and resell it online with a higher price for their own personal money and it actually works

At school first opinion of numby was "What the hell is that" which hurt his feelings. Numby could always be seen with topaz!yuu following them around, assisting them with work or school or just for emotional support.

Sometimes when numby disappear and they would bring back treasure for topaz!yuu, this managed to catch the attention of ruggie and he would start to follow the warp trotter to get some treasure for himself.

Topaz!yuu excels at math people would already consider them to be a human calculator and manage to count complex equations within a second. Sometimes when the lessons become boring topaz!yuu would do some brain exercise counting stuff in their head.

Although topaz!yuu appears all business on the outside, deep down, they make investments based on loyalty and emotional connection. They’ll always back up their friends or team members, offering free magical items or advice without asking for anything in return—though they’d never admit it.

Topaz!yuu is like those types of kid who use their resources to trade stuff from other students, like a bag of oreos can be worth a pudding cup and an apple juice type of kid, they could be found trading some of their lunch for better so they don't have to spend extra for lunch.

𝐓𝐖𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐀 𝐉𝐀𝐃𝐄!𝐘𝐔𝐔 🐍📜

A senior manager in the IPC Strategic Investment Department and one of the Ten Stonehearts, known for her cornerstone "Jade of Credit." A cold and elegant moneylender, she is skilled at understanding the human heart, with a personal hobby called "Bonajade Exchange." She's willing to wait patiently for high-value acquisitions and adept at extracting value from seemingly destitute clients.

A puppeteer, jade!yuu is working as a manager for Crowley, leading them to have an upper hand over him so they could manipulate the school towards their own whim.

Do you guys know that one episode of nanno that she rent a room from the school and grants wishes for students no matter how big it is, that's jade!yuu basically but they will always seek for something as equal to value as the wish. They excel at understanding the desires and weaknesses of others, always seeking an opportunity to trade, negotiate, or use information to their advantage.

Jade!Yuu always have a larger plan in mind, both in terms of their academic endeavors and social interactions. They would often see the potential outcomes of situations before anyone else, and their subtle guidance could influence the choices of those around them. Whether it’s orchestrating complex schemes or navigating complicated friendships, Jade!Yuu knows how to play the long game.

They would have a particular interest in setting up profitable ventures, whether it's managing the finances of Ramshackle Dorm, organizing events, or offering magical services that people can’t resist. Their financial knowledge and ability to bargain would make them a formidable opponent in anything involving resources or trade. But In return they always seek as an equal value towards the wish.

Unlike Azul whose wish making could only reach the school grounds, jade!yuu ability to grant wish is much bigger you want your family name to be bigger and sign a deal with jade!yuu and the wish will be granted their ability is on a larger scale. They would act as a manager or consultant for other students, offering tips on everything from enhancing personal style to perfecting their magical abilities. Their network would be impressive, though they keep their cards close to the chest, rarely showing their true intentions.

They could easily be a behind-the-scenes orchestrator, pulling the strings to help others, but always with the intention of gaining something in return, whether it’s a favor, knowledge, or leverage.

Azul would try to crack them but impossible, jade!yuu seems to be able to predict his moves without issues. And when a group of rally students are unsatisfied with the outcome of the deal is trying to beat up them, jade!yuu would summon their pet snake to deal with them. Many rumors say that jade!yuu snake is also an exchange they got.

Just to be warned there will always be a price, jade!yuu would want something that is equal price as the wish you ask for them so when you fall, you will fall hard. A student wishes to be great at everything soon loses dies everything and is forced out of nrc, this is the consequence of their deal.

[mentorshelly]

Mistakes to Avoid When Negotiating Your Salary After Being Laid Off

Let’s talk about the moment you get that call: 🎉 “We’d love to offer you the job!” You’re excited. You’re relieved. And then… comes the salary conversation. If you’ve recently been laid off, you might feel like you just need to take whatever they offer. But hold up! 💥 That mindset can cost you thousands—not just in this job, but over your entire career. Here are common mistakes to avoid when…

[psychotrenny]

While there is a great deal of similarity between Israel and Apartheid South Africa (down to the very close ties these countries shared), their strategies to delay inevitable collapse have turned out very different especially in terms of foreign policy. Like the South African government spent its last decade or so under Apartheid pursuing what Botha called his "Total Strategy", using every possible lever of influence to force the Frontline States into subservience; keeping them economically dependent on South Africa and politically acquiescent to Apartheid.

Military force was used for sure, but the only large scale deployments were the occupations of Namibia and southern Angola. Otherwise direct military action was restricted to commando raids, focused mainly on destroying infrastructure and carrying out political assassinations. South Africa instead preferred to act through local proxies, supporting (and often creating) various reactionary terrorist movements (i.e. UNITA in Angola, RENAMO in Mozambique, LLA in Lesotho) so that the destabilising effect of constant warfare would inhibit economic development, prevent unfriendly governments from taking any real action against apartheid and allow the offer of reduced terrorist support to be a bargaining chip in negotiations.

Economically South Africa used its control over transport infrastructure and large job market as both carrot and stick, rewarding compliant governments with better access to goods and increased migrant labour quotas (for many countries a vital source of income) while punishing disobedient nations with transport disruptions and reduced access to South African jobs. The specific mix of Military and Economic strategies would be tailored to suit the particular country at a particular time; for example South Africa's pressure on Angola was almost entirely military due to the lack of economic links between the two, while Swaziland's complete dependency made economics the primary South African approach. These different forms of pressure were also applied so as to compliment each other i.e. commandos and terrorist proxies would attack alternate railways and ports to ensure goods had to be transported through South Africa.

This was mainly done to extract political concessions. By 1980 the complete overthrow of unfriendly regimes was mostly off the table, so instead efforts were focused on changing the behaviour of the groups already in power. South Africa's main obsession was with the ANC boogeyman, constantly asking their neighbours to kick out ANC training camps and diplomatic ataches and forbid movement of ANC guerillas through their territory. However all manner of other demands were also made; economic integration, military access, opposition or at least neutrality towards UN sanctions etc. These were all attempts to drag the Frontline States back into South African dependency and under De Facto white Imperial rule; effectively undoing independence

In any case, as brutal as this "Total Strategy" was, it's a far cry from Israel's current approach which more resembles a genocidal temper tantrum. This is even in contrast to earlier Israeli strategies of coming to terms with neighbouring states and collaborationist movements; using Lebanon as an example they've gone from employing Christians Reactionaries as proxies to clumsily provoking the whole nation. There are structural reasons for this of course. South Africa needed it's black majority, both "at home" and in the neighboring states, as a reserve of cheap labour to extract cheap natural resources and buy globally uncompetitive manufactured goods. Indeed, the false independence of the "Bantustan" project was an attempt to remove South African citizenship from their entire black population and legally turn them all into migrant labourers. South Africa also has a much longer history as an independent Settler project, and while they recieved significant amounts of support from The West (especially the USA and doubly so under the more reactionary Presidents i.e. Ronald Reagan) this very much had its limitations; South Africa obviously couldn't wage a regional war of extermination even if wanted to. Meanwhile Israel's policy towards indigenous people is increasingly exterministic and there is no interest in maintaining their population; they even import migrant labourers from as far as Thailand to deny local Arabs. The country has also spent it's an entire existence as more or less a glorified NATO military base; they have more reason to favour a policy of genocidal war while hoping the US saves them from the consequences.

The point is that there are limits to how far you can take comparisons between South Africa and Israel. For all their similarities as Apartheid Settler States, were still different countries that occupied different contexts and so there are considerable socio-political differences between them that shouldn't just be ignored. You can't blandly use South African history to predict the course of Israel, or worse project current events in Israel onto a distorted version of South Africa's past. You won't develop a useful understanding of the world if you stick to broad assumptions and truisms; you need to actually investigate

[inky-duchess]

Fantasy Guide to Royal and Noble Marriages

Marriage is an important part of the life of both royal and nobles in any setting, either historical fiction or fantasy. Marriages are not only life long commitments but they are business and protection deals by families. These are strategies, not relationships. So how can we write them?

Why make a Marriage?

Marriage is at its heart, the seal on an agreement. Two families may come to an agreement to share resources, connections and support one another. For a noble family, it could be about elevation. For example, if the daughter of an Earl marries a Duke, her siblings can now make higher marriages and her family would be more important thanks to this link. It could even be about money. In the late Victorian - Early Edwardian period, many impoverished English peers married wealthy American women for their fortunes. In exchange, the women became titled aristocrats. Royal marriages are made for more universal perks. A royal marriage can change the political layout of the world, it could isolate a kingdom or be the starting gun or a war or end a years long conflict. For example, Kingdom A might be being threatened by Kingdom B. Kingdom C has a powerful military. Kingdom A might offer up a marriage deal to Kingdom C, with the caveat that C protect A from B. C would obligated to act if A gets attacked by B, since A is now an ally. A marriage cements the deal as it creates family ties, which is seen as a sort of permanent stamp on negotiations. After all, would you screw over family?

Marriages of Choice vs Arranged Marriages

Marriages can either be made on behalf of a royal/noble or made by themselves. An heir might be more restricted in this case whilst a younger children have a little more leeway especially if they are part of a large family.

Marriages are not always arranged. But that doesn't mean there aren't restrictions. Any royal or noble will have a list of certain attributes their spouse must have or certain attributes they cannot have. Marriages of choice have to be approved by parents (and the crown if you are a high ranking noble) and if you are royal, sometimes by the government itself.

Arranged marriages are agreements between two families. They might want each other's protection, support or they might simply want to do business together such as opening trade corridors or lifting embargoes on certain items. Arranged marriages are usually made on behalf of both spouses and they are expected to agree to the match for the sake of their family or country.

Screwing over the Deal

Making a marriage doesn't mean that the deal will last forever. Alliances change and circumstances shift. Whilst everyone may be all friendly during negotiations and for some time after, politics is the aim of the game. Treaties can be broken, war can break out and marriages can become unpopular choices. If a country has welcomed a bride/groom one day and then their country becomes the enemy, the bride/groom could become an enemy as well and face isolation and disrespect from the public - even their new family. However they are expected to be loyal to their new family and country, even over their own family and kingdom. These marriages have no promise of happiness. They are a job, a duty to ensure the family is taken care of and securing their futures.

Timeline of a Royal Marriage between Two Royal Families

Offer: The suggestion is made.

Negotiations: The discussion through ambassadors of what a marriage might entails, what each side is willing to provide or what they demand of the marriage. This can take weeks, months even years before a marriage is agreed.

Betrothal: Marriage is approved, treaty signed and the couple is engaged. Betrothals can last from anything from a few weeks to years

Wedding: If one spouse has to travel to their new home, they will travel to their new home and meet their new court, new family and their spouse. Once they arrive, the wedding will take place in a matter of days.

Married Life

These marriages are public, so it is expected for the couple to at least act civil. If they do not like one another or can't stand the sight of another or they just don't love each other, is irrelevant to society and their expectations. They are expected to attend certain events together, sire children and do their duty. There's no rules saying they must live together, so many lived separate lives. The higher ranking spouse is expected to provide their spouse with an allowance and a staff. For international marriages, spouses are not permitted to hire a large party of their own attendants even if they accompany them to their new country. They may keep one or two for company but a newly minted royal should not be waited on by foreign servants, they are a royal of their new kingdom now.

What makes a "good" marriage?

As mentioned above, marriages and relationships are expected to fall into certain perameters. Any spouse - chosen or assigned - should meet certain standards such as be of appropriate rank, follow societal norms and even sometimes be of the same religion. Marriages to anybody who falls out of these standards can be seen as a devasting move - the marriage of Edward IV is still remarked on as a contributing factor to the end of the Plantagenet dynasty. Making the wrong choice of spouse in society's eyes can lead to gossip, being shunned, being disrespected and even barred from succeeding to your birthright. Unequal marriages or morganatic marriages, can even bar children from succession, disallow the couple from attending events together and deny the spouse the style they ought to be entitled to - the marriage of Archduke Franz Ferdinand is a good example to study. A good marriage is seen as one that adheres to all the expectations of society - even if it is an unhappy one.

[blorbocedes]

at a job interview and negotiating a higher pay just pulling numbers out of my ass. risky strategy lets see if it works

[wroetolando]

Please write literally anything with Lance Stroll's sister

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙾𝚏𝚏-𝙻𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚁𝚞𝚕𝚎 | 𝙾𝙿𝟾𝟷

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: oscar piastri x stroll!reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where lance finds out about you and oscar

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: why’d you only call me when you’re high? - arctic monkeys

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: none!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Lance Stroll had very few rules in life, but one of them was absolutely non-negotiable:

His sister was off-limits.

It wasn’t an unreasonable rule. You were younger than him by a couple of years, and growing up, Lance had always been the protective older brother. He made sure you never dated guys who were jerks, scared off a few people he didn’t like, and overall took his role very seriously.

And when he joined F1? That rule extended to his teammates.

Which was precisely why you and Oscar Piastri were keeping your relationship a secret.

It had started as a harmless friendship, really. You and Oscar had clicked naturally—he was awkward but funny, sarcastic in the best way, and surprisingly sweet once you got past his usual deadpan exterior. You had spent a lot of time in the paddock over the years, always traveling to support Lance, and somewhere along the way, your harmless friendship with Oscar had turned into something… more.

A stolen moment here. A lingering glance there. A late-night conversation that neither of you wanted to end.

And then, one night, he kissed you.

That had been six months ago. Six months of sneaking around, of pretending you were just friends whenever Lance was around, of carefully orchestrating paddock entrances and exits so no one would suspect anything.

It was exhausting.

But totally worth it.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Race Weekend

“Y/N, come on, we’re going to be late!”

Lance’s voice echoed through the hotel room as you quickly shoved your phone into your bag. On your screen was an unread message from Oscar.

Oscar: Are you riding with Lance? Or should I “accidentally” run into you at the track?

You smiled before quickly typing back.

You: Riding with Lance. See you there, though :)

“Y/N!”

“Coming!” you called, hurrying after your brother as he grabbed his Aston Martin team jacket.

The drive to the circuit was normal—Lance talked about strategy, complained about Fernando Alonso being way too good at mind games, and made some jokes at Lando’s expense. You nodded along, offering the occasional comment, but your mind was elsewhere.

Oscar was already at the track.

And that meant playing it cool.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The Paddock Game

Walking into the paddock always felt like stepping onto a stage. Cameras were everywhere, fans lined up to catch glimpses of their favorite drivers, and team personnel hustled around, focused on their jobs.

You and Lance walked side by side toward the Aston Martin motorhome when you spotted a familiar figure in McLaren colors.

Oscar.

He was talking to Lando and Andrea Stella, completely immersed in conversation, but as if he could sense your presence, he glanced up. The moment your eyes met, his lips twitched slightly, just the barest hint of a smirk.

You quickly looked away before Lance noticed.

“Why are you walking so fast?” Lance asked, frowning as you picked up your pace.

“No reason,” you replied.

Lance eyed you suspiciously but didn’t push it.

For now.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Almost Caught (Because of Lando, Obviously)

Later that day, after practice sessions were over, you found yourself tucked away in a quiet part of the paddock, pretending to scroll through your phone. In reality, you were waiting for Oscar.

He had texted you earlier.

Oscar: Meet me by the back entrance in five?

So here you were, trying not to look suspicious.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

You jumped slightly at the voice, turning to see Oscar standing behind you, hands in his pockets, looking way too pleased with himself.

“You scared me,” you muttered, but you couldn’t help the smile creeping onto your face.

Oscar chuckled. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to.”

Liar.

You glanced around, making sure no one was watching before stepping closer. “How was practice?”

“Good. The car feels strong. How was your day?”

“Fine,” you said, but you weren’t really thinking about your day anymore because Oscar had that look—the one that meant he wanted to kiss you but couldn’t.

Not here. Not with so many people around.

But he still leaned in slightly, just enough that you could feel the warmth of him.

And that was the moment Lando walked around the corner.

“Mate, I was looking for—” Lando froze mid-sentence, eyes flicking between you and Oscar. His lips curled into a knowing smirk. “Oh. Oh.”

Shit.

“Lando,” you said quickly, stepping back, “this is not what it looks like.”

Lando crossed his arms. “Really? Because it looks like you and Oscar were about to have a very private conversation.”

Oscar sighed. “Lando—”

Lando cut him off. “Wait, wait, wait. Does Lance know?”

You and Oscar exchanged a look.

That was answer enough.

Lando’s grin widened. “Oh, this is amazing.”

“Lando, please,” you begged.

Lando considered this for a moment, then shrugged. “Relax, I won’t say anything.”

You exhaled in relief. “Thank you.”

“But,” he added, “only if you let me make fun of Oscar about this forever.”

Oscar groaned. “Great. Blackmail.”

“You love me,” Lando said, slinging an arm around Oscar’s shoulder before winking at you. “Don’t worry, Y/N. Your secret is safe… for now.”

You sighed. This was going to get messy.

And it did.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The Exposure

Despite Lando’s promise to keep quiet, things started to unravel faster than expected. It wasn’t that he told anyone—it was just that Lando was terrible at being subtle.

Suddenly, he was making offhand comments in front of Lance.

“You ever notice how Oscar and Y/N always disappear at the same time?”

Or teasing you in a way that made Lance suspicious.

“You know, Y/N, I think Oscar is your favorite driver. Not your brother.”

Lance narrowed his eyes. “Why would she care about Oscar?”

And then, the worst thing happened.

You and Oscar got caught.

It was after the race. Oscar had finished on the podium, and in the excitement of the moment, he found you in the back halls of the McLaren motorhome.

Without thinking, he kissed you.

And, of course, that was when Lance walked in.

Silence.

Pure, deafening silence.

You and Oscar pulled apart so fast it was almost comical, but it was way too late. Lance had seen everything.

He stared at the two of you, jaw tightening.

Then, he exhaled sharply and looked at Oscar. “So… when were you planning on telling me?”

Oscar swallowed. “Uh—”

Lance turned to you. “And you?”

You winced. “Surprise?”

Lance sighed. “I hate everything.”

Oscar hesitated. “So… does this mean I’m dead?”

Lance didn’t answer.

That was answer enough.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The Aftermath

After a very long and dramatic conversation (read: Lance being overprotective and Oscar awkwardly apologizing a thousand times), your brother eventually—grudgingly—accepted it.

“You hurt her, and I will ruin your career,” Lance warned.

Oscar, to his credit, nodded solemnly. “Fair enough.”

Lando, of course, found the entire thing hilarious.

“So,” he said later, nudging Oscar. “Was it worth all the stress?”

Oscar glanced at you, a small smile playing at his lips before squeezing your hand under the table.

“Yeah,” he said simply. “Absolutely worth it.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

masterlist

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Vividness Bias

Vividness Bias - the inclination to make decisions based on distinguished characteristics rather than the situation as a whole.

Overweighting factors that appear prestigious causes individuals to overlook other elements that are equally important.

A common example of vividness bias is choosing a job solely based on the starting salary without considering other key components, such as the commute or company culture.

How to Identify Vividness Bias

To identify the vividness effect, follow the below steps.

Assess the situation. Review the decision or problem you’re trying to solve, focusing on how the situation impacts all stakeholders. Outline the main objectives of the circumstances along with the necessary steps you need to take to understand the different factors. Evaluating the situation with fresh eyes will help you determine whether you’re approaching the position with a balanced or skewed perspective.

Reflect on the factors influencing you. If you employ vividness bias to analyze a situation, you overemphasize flashy pieces of information. Consider the factors most influencing your decision-making, and identify whether those factors are prestigious stimuli. This type of psychological review will help you sift through vivid information and prevent you from discounting pallid factors as an incentive.

Recognize your bias. After highlighting the factors you’re most drawn to, ask yourself why you’re focusing on those influences. With this form of reflection, you can determine your vividness bias and avoid making additional mental shortcuts that hinder you from reaching a sound decision. Using this type of reflection will also help limit your cognitive bias, which is another thought process that can hinder your decision-making.

How to Combat Vividness Bias

Understanding cognitive psychology can help you keep your confirmation bias in check, helping you make informed decisions that avoid the vividness effect.

Outline your priorities. Identify what you value most, so you can avoid becoming enticed by vivid factors. For example, if you’re completing a job questionnaire, reflect on each element of the position and organize them in order of importance. While the salary negotiations may appear to be the most important factor, the job location may be another component your vividness bias leads you to overlook. Outlining your priorities and focusing on your values will help you combat vividness bias.

Review the situation from different perspectives. It’s a common human behavior to rely on availability bias to draw information and make decisions. However, using the most accessible information to make a decision can cause you to give in to the vividness effect. Instead, evaluate the situation from multiple perspectives, so you can determine different trade-offs that may be beneficial to you. Considering a situation from multiple perspectives is also an effective strategy for developing an open mind.

Avoid unrealistic comparisons. Vividness bias can lead you to make unrealistic comparisons. These types of contrasts, known as salience bias, can hinder your decision-making and lower your self-esteem. If you catch yourself comparing your situation to another circumstance, take a moment to stop and reflect. Limiting your daily comparisons will help you focus on the present situation, allowing you to use rational thinking to approach a solution.

Make an informed decision. After considering each factor, you can reach a conclusion that best fits your needs and values. Focusing on your main priorities and avoiding comparison will help you combat the effects of vividness bias.

Vividness bias can shield rational thinking during important decision-making or problem-solving situations.

When negotiating a deal, vividness bias causes decision makers to neglect important aspects of the circumstances.

From a collaboration standpoint, team members tend to emphasize their strengths and miscalculate their weaknesses, which can result in conflict escalation.

Developing an awareness when it comes to vividness bias can help you cooperate more effectively in a team environment and make informed decisions.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[louisisalarrie]

Hi!

Is it possible that this long break was planned way before it even started? Not just because H might’ve asked for it for his own well-being, but also because it’s a strategy other artists have used after going through a period of major public and media overexposure.

Plus, I don’t think there’s been any real sign that H changed record labels or management. He was seen with Sony’s CEO back in March last year, and the Azoffs are still using his name for promo. And there have been a lot of rumours he's coming back this summer.

hello anonnnn, and welcome to the show! (second one in a couple of days… we so back)

Rumours aside of dropping a single/coming back in July (these Twitter “insider” accounts have been changing months for when it’s coming for like over a year now, and also if one writes July the others are going to as well to make it look more real lol), this shit is business. It’s his job, right? But it’s more complex than having a shitty boss/team at an office/hospo job and moving on and cutting all ties because they were assholes. You can start fresh with a new company. The music industry is too intertwined and he’s working with the very top bosses - he’s not gonna cut all professional relationships with them, whether he’s still working for them or not.

I think it’s quite a common misconception about H, that he’d cut all ties and never speak to these idiots again when he finishes his contract. That’s simply not how it works. It’s in his very best interest for his career to keep them in his back pocket, and that’s where they’d like to stay too. Even if he leaves/has left them, unless he outs their shit to the world (in which will seriously negotiate the longevity of his career since these assholes own so much of the industry), they’re gonna stay on professional and friendly terms, regardless of whether he comes back at all. It’s all work, and they can offer him just about everything.

Rob, Azoffs, etc. are all gonna wanna be very nice to him to entice him to come back. They’re gonna offer him more money, more freedom, anything they possibly can to keep him because he is such a huge moneymaker for them. Of course they don’t want him to leave, but also, he’s quite isolated at the same time. It’s not that easy to jump ship when you’re at the level he is.

Everyone wants a piece of Harry, and I cannot imagine how frustrating that must be for him. He’s treated as subhuman, a product, a commodity, and I doubt any other managers can offer him more than they can, so he may not be attached to them for now but he has them to come back to if he wants. He could be in the midst of negotiation, he could be entirely out of a contract, but with his level of fame… those are unfortunately the guys he’s gonna be tied to unless he outs them and loses pretty much any chance of continuing on a highly successful career.

This industry is entirely to do with relationships and networking. It’s who you know. He could go to UMG and start over there with Capitol too (UMG have a larger market share and global recorded music revenue compared to Sony and WME), but that also involves potentially dissolving his own Erskine Records, and politics and there’s just sooooo much tied into this… it’s simply not that easy. Also, Mr Azoff has his fingers a little bit in the UMG pie too.

If he entirely leaves the Azoffs and Sony, there’s a good chance he’d be fine with UMG, but not if he speaks out publicly about how Sony has treated him. He becomes a problem then, and no one is gonna touch him because then what happens if he comes out and talks shit about UMG? The Azoffs and Sony and everyone else are gonna be like “nooooo we wouldn’t do that!!! we love our artists!!!!” and if he doesn’t speak out but moves to UMG quietly, Sony still looks kinda bad and they’re all intertwined and anyway it’s one big shit show. Azoff and WME are not friends though, at all, so if he went there… he’s fracturing relationships pretty intensely. And these relationships are so, so fragile.

The long of the short of it is, him speaking out and throwing all these losers under the bus, will throw away all the hard work he’s done and all his professional (and personal) relationships with these people. I want him to speak out, 100%, but he can’t do what he does without a big management team and label behind him. It would essentially cut his ties with Live Nation too, so he’d have to move on to AEG (who are like the second biggest promoter and strongly connected to UMG), which is fine but having Live Nation in your pocket is still more valuable in the long run. However, if he leaves quietly to UMG, he’s still gonna uphold those relationships in Sony/Azoffs/Stringer the best he can in the case that everything goes to shit. Even if signed to a diff manager. But it’s just very hard for him to leave.

And that’s why I think the contract has expired and he’s staying out of it until he figures out what to do/gets what he wants. And he might sign with them again, sure, but it’s all politics and networking and until he does a tell all, he’s gonna be seen upholding good relationships and playing nice for his own sake of continuing on a career at his level. I don’t think it was planned. I could consider it being planned if it was like a year, because you’re right, the overexposure etc are all factors, but it’s been so long I just don’t think he’s still with them for now.

Sorry this is a bit of a mess I should’ve broken it down more in sections of mgmt vs label but I hope you get what I mean and I apologise that im a bit all over the shop today