#i always thought it was just like. the sugar or something idk

[senseiwu]

Me trying to deny to myself that I may be developing a lactose intolerance

[radiotorn]

i need to draw o/ff characters again and post hcs abt them to my blog. oogoog

[blujayonthewing]

adhd adventuring researching spirits for nerd reasons, finding that a number of closely related anise-based spirits are traditional to the mediterranean and middle east; thinkin about how in tes lore moonsugar is a regular part of the traditional khajiiti diet but apparently skooma was invented by dunmer and combines a spirit distilled from moonsugar with nightshade, which is a poison; thinkin about how the thing that sets absinthe apart and gives it its (false) reputation as psychoactive is the addition of wormwood, which is a poison

[alphabetboyluvr]

NIGHT CRAWLERS - JJK

title credit: night crawlers - kids in glass houses

pairing: drugrunner!jungkook x sugarbaby!reader, college au

synopsis:

jungkook’s always been good at running. track, field, red lights, shit outta luck. drugs, now, too. but he doesn’t expect to run into you. in your shared lecture halls, sure. maybe. but not down the back alleys of daerim at ass o’clock in the morning. there are only three types of women he ever sees in daerim: hookers, sugar-babies and addicts. you aren't any of those; you're a trust-fund baby who can get percocet on private repeat prescription, if you really want it. he's sure of it. so it then further begs the question: why the fuck are you here?

warnings: jungkook and o/c are polar opposites, but y’know what they say, opposites attract and all that jazz, jk is a college student but also a drug runner, mentions of gang dynamics and hierarchy, oc is a sugar baby, mentions of consensual but uncomfortable sexual encounters as a result of this (proceed with caution), drugs, violence, blood, motorbikes, hurt/comfort, all the good stuff, smut – fingering, tittie sucking (wow pretend to be shocked!), unprotected sex, jk has the hugest cawk in the whole entire world, jk is a lil aggressive but in a sexy way, he accidentally says something mean during sex (not sexy mean, actually mean (he makes up for it tho!)), jk on top, oc on top, mentions of his pubes (yummy), tummy pressing, kissy kissy kissy koo, creampie, post-coitus nap, they’re literally in love idk what to tell you, ambiguous ending!!

wordcount: 26K

note from holly: originally published to wattpad in 2021 and also briefly uploaded to tumblr, too. It’s just hit 100k reads over on wattpad so I thought I’d put it here too!! There are two additional chapters on wattpad, connecting the story another fic of mine and also showing us jk + oc four years on from the events of NC!! If you’re interested, you can find it here (x).

i write in british english!! both in spelling and dialect!!

minors dni // cross posted to wattpad

IT'S BEEN SAID that with great notoriety, comes great responsibility to uphold the expectations of those who presume the worst about you.

Okay, so that's a lie. No one's ever said that - but Jeon Jungkook has never been one for sticking to traditions, and so he likes to live his life as if that's his motto.

That, and 'rather be dead than cool.'

Which is ironic, because it's only the heteropatriarchal bores - the ones from upper-class families, who want a white picket fence and 2.4 kids - that actually think he's lame.

And he doesn't particularly give a shit about their opinions.

Everyone else thinks he's actually pretty fuckin' cool.

Black nails, black cargo pants, black hair that waves loosely over his sharp features. An air of command as he walks, a swagger in his step that lingers in stranger's heads like the silage of his aftershave.

Yeah, Jungkook is cool, and he fucking knows it.

A rucksack is perpetually slung over his shoulder, the top concaved slightly to indicate there's very little in there, not much more than a tatty notepad and a few loose pens - or so you assume.

You've never actually spoken to him. Why would you?

Daddy's little princess, glossy lips, manicured nails. The kind of girl who gives him a second look, but only to sneer. He doesn't think of you often, but when he does, it's never nice.

Jungkook doesn't have time for you, and you don't have time for him. Your paths rarely cross.

At least they barely crossed. Past tense. 

Now that you're taking a few of the same classes as him, he sees you a lot more than he likes. Hair always up in that stupid fucking ponytail that he can't see past, perpetually on your phone. Attention seeking little bitch.

He'd ranted a little to Jimin about it, told him that you really must have been a dumb bitch to swap from an economics major to a film studies major with only a single semester left.

Jimin hadn't said much in return. Unlike Jungkook and his insatiable hate-boner for you, Jimin really doesn't give a shit about you. Barely knows your name, let alone the fact that you studied economics before switching over. Was kind of curious as to how Jungkook knew that. Not enough to bother with asking, though.

Jungkook thinks it's normal to scope out the competition. A little Facebook look-up, Naver search, Instagram scroll. Surely it's rational to do that? Check out their LinkedIn, cross-reference their Twitter history to see what they've said about the course.

It absolutely isn't normal, but then again, nor is Jungkook.

He's exactly as he appears to be; the rogue look isn't a front.

But beneath the exterior, there are a few more traditions he's subverting. 

He's the first in his family to attend college, and he needs to ace this class to keep his scholarship.

It's all just projection, the way he despises you.

You've got everything he wants. A well-to-do family, money, prosperity, financial security. He's never known that. And while he shits on you for having parents that have provided for you, all he wants in life is to be able to do the same for his own children one day.

"I've matched you all with students of a similar grade level, so no one is at an unfair advantage," your professor calls out, tearing Jungkook from his thoughts. "Not a single one of you will experience the city in the same way. From shortcuts to your favourite coffee spots, your lives here will have been different to those of your peers."

Jungkook smirks, leaning back on his chair. He knows this city better than most; its dark corners, where the monsters lurk... how to hide and where to run.

Again, the rogue look isn't a front.

But he also knows how to work a camera better than anyone in that room, how to time his shots, how to frame them, too. Top of the class, though modestly quiet about it (he's got a reputation to uphold, after all), he's curious to see who would be considered an even match for him.

"That being said, your experiences are also shared with those around you. For this assignment, with your partner, I want you to create a unique piece of film that captures what the city means to you. Think outside the box. Create something that excites, that invokes. You've got eight weeks. The partner list is on the noticeboard at the back of the hall. Dismissed."

Footsteps echo around the lecture hall as everyone trundles out of the room. You wait back, having already seen the list before you entered the class.

Instead, you pull out a pen - one of the ones that Jungkook hates, with a ridiculous fluffy pink pom-pom on top - and jot down your number. You aren't aware of his insatiable hatred, and either way, you don't really care.

He ignores you as you approach his desk, eyes only drifting upwards when you slide the torn-out piece of paper towards him.

"Mhmm?"

He's rude, you notice. Brows raised, expression flat, he's fed up with you before you've even said a word. Kinda hot, admittedly, but rude.

"We're partners," you say with an ambivalent shrug. Jungkook's jaw seems to tense, head tilting as he breathes out a short smirk.

Partners?

"You haven't even gone out to check the board."

"So what?" You scoff a little. He doesn't like your tone. The feeling is mutual. "I just made it up?"

It's his turn to shrug, now. "Dunno. You tell me."

His hair waves around his features, and you wonder how long it takes him to make it look so natural. The girls around campus swoon over his hair, like he's some kind of God. Other boys try to emulate it, but they can never quite pull it off like he does.

Another thing that all the girls giggle about are his doe-like eyes, but they're hard, now. Narrow, almost. Less of a doe, more like a dragon. Maybe if you get his nostrils flaring, he'll breathe fire, too.

Yeah, he's hot, you want to laugh to yourself, but not that hot.

"I checked before I came in. Didn't take a genius to work out what it was for."

He takes a moment before he nods. "Right. Well, you should probably know that I work better alone. Just let me handle the assignment, a'right? You can put your name on it, whatever, I don't care. Just let me handle it."

A control freak, you note. Nice.

You didn't transfer majors in your last semester, and face all the hardships that came with such a decision, just to sit back and let someone else do the hard work for you.

"With all due respect, it's a joint assignment. I'm not putting my name on work I didn't actually do."

A stickler for the rules, he assesses. Fucking fastastic.

"Look," he sighs, adjusting his body so that he's practically leaning halfway over his desk. As much as it sounds like he doesn't want to be a part of this conversation, his body language is oddly engaged. "I need to ace this class. You've been here, what? All of three minutes? Film what you wanna film, send it over to me for editing."

"I'm very much capable of editing-"

"And if you could do me a favour and keep the nail salon footage to a minimum, that would be much appreciated. Everyone's seen that shit. It's not interesting. Gangnam underground shopping centre B-roll, too."

It's a thinly veiled insult. Assumptions he's making about you based on the clothes you wear and the company you keep. He doesn't explicitly say it, but you know what he means: you're not interesting.

Jungkook doesn't mean to be an asshole. Not really. He's just got a lot riding on this course, and doesn't want to risk it all for the sake of keeping the peace with someone he doesn't particularly like in the first place.

"Like our Professor said, we all experience the city differently," you plaster a smile on your face, the plastic kind that Jungkook hates. "You might just be surprised at what I can offer."

Private tennis clubs and shopping sprees worth more than a second-hand car? Yeah, no. He'll pass, thanks.

"Whatever," he reclines back, giving your number the once over before tearing a strip of empty paper from the bottom of the note. His hand moves quickly, scrawling his own number onto it. He doesn't hand it to you, but instead tosses it down onto the desk as he stands. "As I said, I work best alone. Don't bombard me with messages about the project. I'll have it under control."

He vacates his desk with an air of arrogance that you don't think he's yet earnt. Sure, he's hot, and from what you've seen of his work, he's pretty talented, too. But no one likes working with assholes, and the whole point of being at college was to make yourself a desirable candidate for jobs.

Or at least that's what your parents had always said.

When they were still talking to you, that was.

Before they decided that you're a disgrace to the family name, all for the simple desire of not wanting to spend your life slaving over finances and spreadsheets.

Like inheritance and a slightly crooked nose (straightened out for your high school graduation gift), econ majors ran in your family - and just like you'd cut off your parents' dream of watching you become an economist, they'd cut you off. Full stop.

So as far as you were concerned, Jungkook could take his arrogant whining about your financial situation, and the hobbies you might have enjoyed as a result of your upbringing, and shove it up his ass.

You really wish he would. Shove it up his ass, that is. Might relieve him of the pent up tension he seems to have going on.

Swiping up his number, you tuck it into your back pocket, ruing the day you'll actually have to text it.

It comes as a surprise to both of you when, a week later, Jungkook is the first to type a message into your fledgeling chat window.

I'm filming tonight. Could use a Grip, if you're free. Dongdaemun Design Plaza, 7pm.

You wonder how much pride he must have had to swallow in order to send you that. 

On occasion, during the past week, you've caught him looking at you in that slightly menacing way he always likes to do.

Part of you thinks he's unaware that he's doing it, just zoning out in your direction, but then you see him shake sense into himself - quite literally, a bunny with an itch behind its ear kind of shake - before he averts his gaze. 

He does a similar shake of his head when your response pings through to his phone.

Can't do Tuesdays or Thursdays. Sorry. Maybe another time.

He doesn't reply.

REJECTION HAS NEVER been something Jungkook has taken well. It's why he works so hard, fearful of being told that he isn't good enough.

He'd only sent that text because he genuinely did need a Grip.

Well, no. 

That's not quite right. 

He needed a muse; a subject of his shots, a pair of eyes to catch the confetti of night market lights in. Someone's hand to film as they exchanged money with a hotteok stand server, another human to get lost and found all within the same shot.

But that felt awkward to ask, especially after his insistence that he could do it all alone, so he'd settled for pretending he'd needed a grip. Just someone to hold his gear while he took tricky shots. That's all.

Given your rejection, he was pleased with his choice.

"Familiar," Yoongi nods over lunch the next day, following Jungkook's gaze. "Yeah, I've definitely seen her around. Dunno where, though."

"Campus, maybe?" Jimin rolls his eyes, confused at the fixation Jungkook seems to have on you.

Yoongi shakes his head. "Nah... She looks like-" he glances over to Jungkook conscious of Jimin's listening ears.

"Like?"

"Just like a girl I see occasionally," Yoongi pauses again, making sure Jungkook's focus on him. "At work."

Jimin laughs. "So yeah, on campus. You work in the campus cafe, Yoongs."

It was the only legitimate place that would hire him. Dumb choices as a kid - and a questionable nickname that's now etched into his knuckles - prevents most places from seeing him as a viable candidate.

Yoongi laughs along with Jimin, but Jungkook knows Yoongi isn't talking about the once a week shift that he picked up as a form of extra credit.

Jungkook knows, because on paper, he doesn't have a job either.

On paper, he manages to survive on his scholarship bursary, The Holangi Honour, awarded to gifted students from underprivileged backgrounds.

On paper, Jungkook is the Korean dream of hard work and perseverance.

His reality isn't so pristine, but it never has been. He comes from a long line of high school dropouts with dubious morals and criminally reckless career choices. It was naive to have thought attending university would help him escape it.

Scholarship funds dried up pretty quickly, rent and t-money cards eating away at it, until Jungkook had no choice but to revisit old haunts.

Yoongi had told Jungkook that he didn't need to worry, that he could help him out if he needed money, but Jungkook was no leech, much to his older friend's despair. He didn't want the kid getting into the same trouble that he was in.

One meeting with Yoongi's old school friend, Hoseok and Jungkook was in the rat race again, delivering people's come ups for when the sun went down. 

He'd always been good at running. Track, field, red lights, out of luck. Drugs, now, too.

Jungkook had managed a good year and a half on the straight and narrow. For that, he was proud. And sad.

But he's also determined. 

Top grades mean top jobs in the future, which means never having to traipse around Daerim at ass o'clock in the morning.

He hates this part of town, but it's where business is currently booming.

Hobi texts him a drop-off list each morning, ensuring his nights are almost exclusively spent in Daerim.

This is how Jungkook sees the city: grotty back allies, groups of men huddled around a pack of cards and dice on the floor, cigarettes hanging out of their mouths, phlegm spat onto the foor. He sees the women of the night in the early hours of the morning, and the sadness in the smiles they give to the men who approach them on street corners.

There's only one club of any worthwhile note in the area, and between jobs, Jungkook likes to sit up on the fire exit that rests above the back entrance.

It's where Hobi works, assisting some other reprobate that Jungkook doesn't care to learn the name of. Nasty piece of work, or so he's heard. The son of some powerful motherfucker that Jungkook knows to stay away from. He isn't interested in joining any stupid fucking gang. He just wants to get his money, get through university, and forget about this place.

That's the big dream at least.

His current wish, which feels much more immediate, is to outrun the fucker who has been on his tail for the past half a mile. Jungkook's pretty fast on his feet, and he gives a mean left-hook, but the guy chasing him has a pocket knife and that doesn't really feel like a fair fight.

It's his fault, and he knows it.

As per usual, Hobi had texted Jungkook his drop off list. Six of them, all in Daerim. He had no business being down by Jungang Market, especially not on a Thursday evening.

He couldn't even explain why he was; he was just curious about what life could be like if he ended up flunking out of college. He wanted to see where the monsters liked to lurk, or if they hid in the shadows like boogeymen.

But reprobate recognises reprobate, and drug runner recognises drug runner.

So now Jungkook really is running, out of territory that he shouldn't have infringed upon.

He's not out of breath yet, but he is conscious that his heartbeat feels like it's in his throat. A few streets over, his motorbike is parked behind an industrial-sized trash can, and he prays that no thieving cunt has tried to make a get away with it. They wouldn't have managed it - it's his prized possession and he never leaves it unprotected.

When he spots it a few minutes later, he laughs, relieved. "You beauty," he praises the engine, pulling his key from the pocket of his leather jacket.

The fucker chasing him is nowhere to be seen, probably nursing a stitch or panting down a different back alley. Jungkook doesn't want to risk it, eyes darting all over the place as he unbuckles the chain on his bike wheel with muscle memory alone. The metal clangs through the iron bars that protect the banjihas down the alley from break-ins. He always feels a little bit of guilt for chaining his bike up to the only source of natural light for the half-basement dwellings, but it's quarter past two in the morning. Not exactly sunshine hours.

And yet his eye is drawn to the light pouring down from a street lamp at the entrance of the narrow lane.

Usually, you ignore the noises you hear on your walk home - but, as strange as it sounded for Jungkook's voice to issue a compliment, you're almost positive that it is his voice.

Dark hair, dark eyes, he doesn't recognise you at first. You're wearing black, and your hair is down, but your lips still have that stupid fucking pink lipstick on, the one he'd seen you blot away onto a tissue in the middle of a lecture a few days prior.

His eyes linger, the lights flickering in his glossy dark irises as if there are fireworks inside that pretty little skull of his. For a moment, he thinks you must have been filming for the assignment. 

The lack of a camera proves otherwise.

"Get on the bike," he yells over to you, tugging on the sleeve of his leather jacket, pulling it down. Cognitive thoughts aren't something Jungkook's really working with, the adrenaline speaking for him.

That, and the fact that he's acutely aware of what men like the motherfucker who was chasing him down did to girls like you. Might not like you, but he doesn't want that on his conscience.

Plus, he needs your signature on the coursework documents, too. You're no use to him if you end up chopped into little squares and scattered in the river.

"Damnit, just get on the fucking bike!" He continues, noticing that you haven't moved a muscle. His jacket is off now, held out for you to take. He's impatient, eyes darting down the alleyway, as if he's scared of the rain that's pouring down around you. "Look, I ain't asking again. Just get on the bike, or I'll fuckin' leave you here. Some nasty fuckers about tonight."

And while you may not trust Jungkook, you don't trust the alleyways of downtown Seoul even more. You've seen the horrors. You know the dangers. Your mother didn’t raise a fool.

She also didn't raise you to bow to the commands of assholes like him either.

You ignore his jacket, hiking up your skirt, revealing far more of your thigh than most get to see. He doesn't make a comment, but you know he sees a flash of your underwear as you do so. 

For once, sex seems to be the last thing on his mind.

Rain pools in the gutter by the drainpipes, trickling down, collecting in the ducts. A puddle sits on top, a tell-tale sign that the street is going to flood soon, but Jungkook also doesn't give a shit about that. Not right now - but he does make a mental note to check that the drains are unblocked by his place when he gets home.

He's a fellow basement dweller, dependent on the cheap rent. A banjiha boy with big dreams of getting out.

You hoist your leg over, ignoring the droplets of water on the leather seat, as your hand wraps around his waist. The front of his white shirt is damp from the rain, elevating the scent of his laundry detergent. You don't hate it. Quite like it, actually.

"Wet conditions," he rasps, voice still hurrying out of his mouth. "So take the jacket. If I slide, the tarmac will rip your skin off." He turns, wrapping the jacket around your shoulders. "I'm not your father. Dress yourself."

"I'd be a bit concerned if my father was trying to dress me at the ripe old age of 21," you bite back, as if the fabric of his jacket doesn't feel like it's melting into your skin on account of how bloody warm he is. You push your arms through the material, shaking it ever so slightly as Jungkook begins to rev the engine.

"Thanks would have sufficed," he bites back a scoff, not wanting to waste time arguing. "Try not to fall off, a'right?" He gruffs. 

Some would have considered his concern endearing. You know it's just because he doesn't want to spend his evening scraping your flesh off the sidewalk. Not because he gives a single flying fuck about you. 

"Hold on."

He doesn't wait for longer than a second, just enough time for you to wrap your arms around his waist, before he pulls down on the accelerator. His exhaust chortles, spitting out petrol as he goes, water from the ground splashing up against your bare leg. You can feel goosebumps forming, and yet your arms are completely warm.

Of course they are. Jungkook's chest is a fucking furnace, heart pumping blood through him faster than the speed of light. Forward, forward, forward, he pushes his bike on, away from the downtown area he found you in, and away from the demons who were hunting him.

The vibration of the bike is a welcome disguise. Beneath the motor's veil, you're shaking. Partly terrified, partly the victim of an adrenaline surge. 

Hardly a surprise. You've never been on a bike like his before.

There weren't many men on motorbikes around your neighbourhood as a child, only Old Jinyeon, who had a Harley that he only rode on the weekends, or when his wife was away at that spa retreat that everyone knew was really code for 'rehab'. Prescription medication was her poison, mostly. There were whispers that alcohol was a bit of a problem, too. 

It was a shame, really. She was a nice lady - she'd just married into a lifestyle that didn't suit hers.

Old Jinyeon's father had also been called Old Jinyeon, and his father before that, regardless of their age. The name wasn't the only thing inherited, but a fortune too. Old by name, old by money. 

He'd met his wife at a gentleman's bar; gambled all of his chips away just so that he could keep talking to her as she worked.

But the good is rarely easy, and the easy never good. Women like her weren't supposed to be with men like him.

And girls like you aren't supposed to be on the back of boys like Jungkook's motorcycle.

But here you are, hurtling through the city at a speed you're pretty sure isn't legal, clinging onto him for dear life. Your eyes are shut, streaming with tears from the wind, mascara blotting onto his back.

"Left turn," he calls over his shoulder to brace you. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, stomach losing all stability as he rounds the corner. You've never suffered from travel sickness before, but now seems like the prime time to develop it.

The lights of the city all bleed into one kaleidoscope of colour. Your sense of direction has been rendered useless, only opening your eyes once every few seconds to make sure that this is real. And every single time, you're surprised to find that it is.

You expect it to be like a dream where you fall, only to wake up at the last second - but you've never had one of those dreams. You've only seen them in movies. You're not even sure they actually exist in real life. Perhaps this would be the closest you'd get to one. A main character moment - though this felt more like a crime-thriller than the rom-com you would have liked.

The feeling of damp wind in your hair like this is new, and exciting, but all you can think about is the fact that you're pretty sure one of your fake lashes just flew off. You pull your hand back to stroke at your lashes, just to check, but it's caught by Jungkook grabbing for it.

"I told you to hold on," he shouts, though he doesn't need to. The vibrations of his vibrato can be felt through his back. "So hold the fuck on, a'right?! I don't say shit like that for fun."

Jesus, you think. Who pissed in his cornflakes?

But he's right. You do need to hold on. He proves it by not warning you the next time he turns, the bike leaning so close to the tarmac that you're convinced you can feel rubber burn. He eases as soon as he hears you shriek, the grip you have on his chest so hard he swears you might puncture his skin. Reaching back, he cups your knee with his palm, checking for any sign of blood or broken skin. Negative. And yet his hand lingers before he retracts it. He's just making sure. Double-checking. Over-indulging.

"The fuck was that, asshole?" You all but scream.

"I told you to hold on, didn't I?!"

He did. And if you weren't doing so now, tighter than before, you'd have hit him so hard in the balls that he'd have no choice but to adopt in later life.

"You could have fucking killed me!"

"Oh, boo-hoo," he sneers, catching his tongue before he says something he'll grow to regret.

Jungkook would never have killed you. He knows these streets like the back of his hand, and how to ride his bike almost as well as he knows how to get himself off. It's second nature. Innate. A gift.

But before you can argue back, he draws to a stop, his exhaust rattling, the motor purring. As much as he'd like to tell you to get the fuck off his bike, he can feel you trembling now. A part of him - a very slim, deeply hidden part - feels guilty for being so hard on you.

He's grown up with bikes. Trusts them. Lives, breathes gasoline.

He doesn't imagine you know how to change a bicycle tyre, let alone anything with a motor.

The hand that had checked you for damage earlier returns, his fingertips warm against your goosebumps skin. He strokes lightly, once, twice, quickly. "You're fine," he tells you, and you want to believe him.

"Never said I wasn't."

He snorts a small laugh, then taps your knee, encouraging you off of the bike. His hand remains close as you do so, conscious of the fact that you'll most likely be unsteady on your feet - feet that he now notices are clad in the strappiest pair of heels he's ever seen in his life. Perhaps he doesn't need to worry about your stability at all. If you can walk in those, then you can surely handle a pair of wobbly knees.

Without much thought, you take his offer of assistance, his jacket dwarfing you as you stand, hand clasped in his.

"Where are we?"

The alleyway you're down is unlike the previous one he stole* you from (*rescued). It's cobbled and damp, yes, but the doors down here lead to dwellings, garages too. Not an industrial-sized trash cart in sight. And it doesn't smell like fermented piss either, which is a surprise. You thought that was just the standard for side-streets around these parts.

"Doesn't matter," Jungkook shrugs ambivalently as he unhooks his leg over the bike.

He wants to ask why you're wearing such stupid shoes.

That's a lie.

He doesn't think they're stupid.

He actually quite likes them. You've nice ankles. They look good.

What he really wants to ask is why you're wearing them on a school night. The pair of you might be in college, but it wasn't student night at the clubs, and he hadn't picked you up from a particularly nice part of town.

There are only three types of women he ever sees in Daerim: hookers, sugar-babies and addicts. You aren't any of those; you're a trust-fund baby who can get Percocet on private repeat prescription, if you really want it. He's sure of it.

So it then further begs the question: why the fuck were you there?

Sliding off his jacket, you offer him a small smile. It's the least you can do, you suppose.

It's funny, because you only ever see three kinds of men in Daerim: drunks, gamblers, and dealers. Jungkook isn't any of those. You might not know that much about him, but you know he's a scholarship kid, and that he won the winter film festival on campus for his documentary on back-alley gambling.

"We're not too far from campus," he eventually states. Few blocks over. He assumes you live on campus. Got the money for it.

"Cool," you nod, sure that you'll be able to find your bearings from here. You don't live on campus. Not anymore. No money for it. "Thanks for the lift, I guess."

The atmosphere is awkward, dewy mist in the air dampening both of you. He nods back, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

He knows he should invite you in, offer you somewhere to wait while you call a cab or something, but he's embarrassed. Of himself. His living situation. The fact that he doubts you've ever even been in a basement that isn't a wine cellar.

"Look I-"

"So-"

Jungkooks nose scrunches, cringing at the awkwardness. You glance down, self-conscious.

"What were you doing over in Daerim?" he asks rather out of the blue. He doesn't even process that he's asked until it's too late.

You clear your throat a little. "Just had some errands to run."

"At two in the morning?"

You nod.

"Right," he doesn't believe you, but can't think of a better explanation.

"Well, what were you doing there?" You ask, albeit a little more confrontational than intended. You were on the defensive.

His mouth is flat as he speaks, a narrowness to his eyes that makes your lips purse to suppress a smirk. "Running errands."

So you're both dirty little liars. Who'd've thought?

"Fairplay," you say with a smile. "Look, I still appreciate the ride. I'd have been fine," you add."But yeah, appreciate it nonetheless."

"Was nothing. I was headed in this direction anyway. If you take a left at the end of the street and follow the road down, there's usually a bunch of taxis waiting for the university cleaners to finish their night shifts. I'm sure you'll be able to get one."

"Take a left," you hum. "Cool. Will do." Bracing yourself to leave, Jungkook wonders if he should offer you a lift to your place too. "See you tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?"

"Yeah, tomorrow. Class? That thing we attend during daylight hours?"

"Oh right. Yeah. See you tomorrow."

Bizarrely enough, if this is how awkward Jungkook is when he's being nice, you think you prefer him being an asshole. At least he has a little spark in him then.

Unbeknownst to you, Jungkook feels overloaded with fucking sparks, like someone's holding an axe grinder against the metal of his earrings, deafening him. The reality of his evening is kicking in, and the knowledge that he came a few metres from having a hole in his abdomen becomes overwhelming. He doesn't let it show, though.

"Thanks, again."

You make a promise to punch yourself in the face if you say thank you one more fucking time.

"It's fine, again," he smiles, with a small laugh, before focusing those eyes of his on the floor.

And so you leave, walking straight past the taxi rank and taking a shortcut to your apartment, which is a lot closer than you had realised.

Seven steps below street level, you jog down to your front door, petting the neighbourhood calico stray on your way down. The door closes with a slam, but you don't give a shit because the people in the apartment above never seem to give a shit when they stumble home at four in the morning.

Before he sleeps that evening, Jungkook wonders how much of the skyline you get to indulge in. Your dad works in the accounting side of one of the largest law firms in the city, he knows that much from his research. Knows that your immediate family has more money than probably all of his relatives combined. Alive and dead.

He just isn't aware that you're not seeing a single dime of it. Not since you dropped out of the economics and business side of school to focus on the creative arts. All that money your parents had 'wasted' on your education? Well, they weren't wasting any more.

Because you're a commodity, to be bought and sold, apparently. Not their daughter, who they should have just wanted to be happy.

So now you spend your Tuesday and Thursday evenings down in Daerim.

Because you are a commodity; and if anyone's gonna be selling you, then it may as well be your fucking self. 

A stack of yellow 50,000 won bills sit on your desk. Twelve of them. 600,000 won. Not bad for a week's work. 6 hours.

Might have been cut off from your Dad's money, but your replacement 'daddy' wasn't a bad substitute.

The bluntness of such a statement usually makes you laugh, but not today.

If Jungkook knows the Daerim area like you think he does, then he'll be able to work it out soon enough. A bitterness fills your chest, like coffee dripping through a filter, forgotten about and left to go cold. You've been so good at playing pretend.

Secrets are so much easier to keep when they're not shared.

Perhaps that should be your project piece.

Secrets of Seoul: The Seedy Underbelly of The City.

After all, that was your unique view of the city; the side you saw that you were pretty sure no-one else did.

At least, no one else except Jungkook. Go figure.

"SEVEN WEEKS LEFT!" Your professor reminds the class as they dismiss you from your lecture. There's a little chatter, partners sharing ideas and friends discussing what to have for lunch - and then there's you and Jungkook.

He waits by the end of his row for you to walk to meet him, an inconspicuous look on his face.

The girl who he's watching neatly put a fluffy pen into her handbag looks a lot like you, but a hell of a lot different from the girl he gave a lift to last night.

Who the fuck are you?

Jungkook has always liked a little mystery. Seen the romanticism in the unknown. Still doesn't like you - but you've gotten him curious.

"You haven't sent anything over yet," he notes, keeping a slight distance from you as you walk together up the stairs.

"You told me not to bombard you," you remind him.

"Sending me video files once in a blue moon is fine."

"Once in a blue moon. Gotcha."

It's Friday, so he knows it's not one of your pre-determined days of having prior engagements.

It's only now that he realises that must have been why you were in Daerim last night; that your 'errands' are actually scheduled into your routine. It doesn't bode well for his 'not a hooker, an addict or a sugar-baby' theory.

"I was thinking of heading over to Dongdaemun this evening, seeing as you weren't free on Tuesday," he starts a little awkwardly, but the more he speaks, the easier it becomes. Being nice, that is. "I could still use a hand, if you're free? If you're serious about helping out, I mean. It would be good to make a start on things."

Relief washes over you. You've been fearing a conversation about the night before, but Jungkook doesn't want to talk about it just as much as you don't.

You meet him at seven o'clock that evening at Dongdaemun Design Plaza. You've always loved the green roof, how organic the landscaping looks above such a futuristic building. He listens as you explain this, eyes wide and in awe of the sloping pathways and curved walls, showing him your favourite of all the trees in the park.

Jungkook looks at you for a second, observes your hands, how they delicately move a few leaves to frame the shot you're taking. You've a Midas touch, and Jungkook wonders if your fingers would turn him to gold, too.

It's a silly, fleeting thought, but it doesn't stop him from focusing the camera on you as you roam Dongdaemun night market later that evening, lights cascading over you like glitter.

He thinks you're pretty in this light. Pretty when it's just him and you. No distractions.

Except there's hustle and bustle everywhere, a vendor chasing a thief, groups of high schoolers laughing on their way home from Hagwons, food sizzling, vapours making his stomach rumble. Perhaps you're the distraction, instead.

The pair of you spend the next week traipsing the city together.

Somehow, you only ever come together when the sun goes down, but it's fitting. You're a pair of nightcrawlers, swarming through the city when traffic sounds like a melody and destinations are unknown.

He learns that you drink your coffee black, no sugar, lukewarm. You learn that he'd rather rub coffee granules into his eyes than drink it.

And despite your preference for no sugar, he always tosses a little white sachet towards you whenever you order a coffee. He finds it funny. Insists that you have to be a sugar baby. It's the only way he can explain that night he saw you Daerim.

He's just joking. And you pretend not to, but you find it hysterical.

Mainly because he doesn't realise how bang on the money he is.

But also because you can't help but laugh whenever he does.

There's a comfort that grows between the pair of you, a familiarity. A casual ease that doesn't feel dangerous, not even when he's pulsing through the city on his bike, you holding onto him, his leather jacket wrapped around your body. You begin to like the way that the wind feels in your hair, and you stop wearing fake lashes. Jungkook doesn't tell you, but he likes you better with a few freckles showing, dewy highlighter and a little mascara being the only makeup you wear for the midnight city roams.

It's only because you can't be wasting resources reserved for clients on a boy from your film studies class. Times are tough, money is tight. No point in pouring funds into a boy you won't make revenue from. It's a bad business decision.

A few months ago, you did your makeup multiple times a day just for fun. Now you have to ration it. Life... life isn't what it used to be.

But Jungkook is ignorant to that, and you quite like it. Escaping from your reality. Becoming the version of yourself that he thinks you are.

He isn't sure which version of you he wants to spend time with the most; the too-good for him daddy's girl who dresses in Celine and comes with a pout, the enigma who lurks in the shadows that he thought he had a monopoly over, or the master director who seems to rival his talents for capturing moments of life in 4K.

As he watches your brows furrow while you turn your phone upside down, trying to understand a map, he decides that he doesn't care which version he gets.

Jungkook wants what he wants.

There's an impulsion to his desires and subsequent actions that he takes to obtain them. He's driven by gratification, and little else.

On the days he wants to feel wanted, he'll go to a bar. He never whispers false promises or pretends like he's after anything more than what can be achieved in a single night. The girls he goes for tend to see that as a challenge. They think they can convince him otherwise. It's not his fault when they can't. It's not his fault that they end up falling for him regardless. It's not his fault that he never has any intention of loving them back.

He tells them this. They ignore him. It isn't his fault.

On the days he wants to feel accomplished, he'll stay on campus until the cleaners usher him out of the room so that they can prepare it for the next day. Their insistence is lost on him - no amount of Cif can polish the dirt out of the walls. Once a shithole, always a shithole. He'll offer his apologies for getting in their way, and they'll coo over him like he's their own grandson. It's all very sweet.

They tell him not to overwork himself. He lies and says he won't.

On the days he wants to eat more than a single cup of ramyeon - which is most days, given his absolutely mammoth appetite - he'll send Hobi a text and request more drop-offs for that evening. Yoongi will give Jungkook a subtle look whenever a message from Hobi pings through, knowing it mustn't be good news. It never is.

Jungkook tells Yoongi to mind his business - but with a grin and a glint in his eye that eases his friends worry ever so slightly.

Disapproval never stops Jungkook from doing what he wants, regardless.

Not from his friends, from the cleaning ajummas, and especially not from you.

So he ignores the look in your eye, as he encourages you to follow him through a gap in the chainlink fence, which surrounds a disused water tower on the outskirts of the city.

Jungkook wants what he wants.

And right now, he wants to get a shot of the midnight city from his favourite vantage point.

"You said you've taken thousands of shots here," You hiss as a twig snaps beneath your foot. He smirks as you utter out a curse. "Surely you can just reuse one of those?!"

He guides you round, ignoring the ground level rubble, until you get to a ladder that definitely isn't safe for use. It's rusting by the bolts, and has a few vines trailing up it, undisturbed for months. Remnants of paint are flaking from the structure, collecting like ashes on the ground below.

"I have," he shrugs, unhooking your camera bag from your shoulder, popping it into his rucksack for safe keeping. He crouches, putting his palms upwards to offer you a leg up. "You haven't, though. You see the city differently to me, remember?"

He's taunting you. Reusing the phrase from your Professor that you had quoted to him on the first day of the project. Asshole.

Asshole with a smirk that suggests he's only teasing. Suggests that he's fond. Words that suggest he remembers the things you say to him. Memorises them, even.

Curious.

"Can't we just pretend like we see it the same way?"

"No can do, sugar."

"Oh my god, stop calling me that."

You're thankful for the midnight sky and the way it disguises your blush.

As if throwing packets of the white stuff at your face in coffee shops isn't enough, he's taken to calling you 'sugar', too.

"Give me a reason not to," he says as he tilts his head, encouraging you to accept his leg up. You check your feet for mud, then put your trust in his grip.

"I've already told you, I was just running errands," you defend yourself for the thousandth time. A short yelp escapes your lips as he boosts you up, your hands gripping onto the flaking bars beside the ladder.

He doesn't believe you for a second. He also doesn't believe that you're actually a sugar baby. It's just fun to fuck with you a little.

Once you're up, he waits for you to safely sit on the ledge, and then he makes the climb too. He's up a lot quicker than you, coming to sit beside you with his legs dangling over the ledge of the railings.

"Tell me it isn't worth it," Jungkook says a little airily, enamoured with the view.

And he's right. It is worth it.

A maze of city lights twinkle like the Carina nebula, interstellar, yet entirely of this earth. Bright whites, reds and greens speckle the horizon, and for a moment, it's easy to forget that you're looking at Seoul. There's a magic that can only be appreciated from a distance, far away from the scent of alleyways and the void nothingness of grey brick buildings. Skyscrapers tower above the skyline, but still look small from where you and Jungkook sit, silently, in awe.

"Look over there," he points across the vast expanse. You follow his trajectory, but you have no idea if you're picking out the right spot. "Daerim. Can always tell. Know the street layout too well."

"You're gonna get me thinking you're a sugar baby," you nudge your shoulder into his, and he laughs.

Reaching into his rucksack, you expect him to pull out your camera. Instead, his hand comes back into vision holding a pair of chopsticks and a tub of instant ramyeon. Uncooked.

He pulls the seal back, stabs at it with the chopsticks and offers you the small chunk he's broken off.

"It's good," he promises.

You know what dried ramyeon tastes like. You know it's good. You just can't understand what the fuck is wrong with him.

"Are you broken?"

He grins as he tosses the chunk of dried noodles into his own mouth. "Absolutely - but ramyeon is ramyeon."

You tell him he's weird, and he continues to smile, not resisting as you take the tub from him and break off a chunk with your fingers.

It's one of his favourite snacks. He's impatient and impulsive at the best of times. Waiting for it to cook? Too much effort. Cooking it at the convenience store and carrying it up the tower with him? Disaster waiting to happen. It's just easier this way.

And so the pair of you sit, not really saying much, watching the city roll by. Every now and again, he offers you a chunk from his chopsticks.

By the end of the night, neither of you have gotten any footage of the city.

And neither of you really care.

AS YOU SPRINT home after yet another spree around the city with Jungkook, running late for your Thursday evening appointment, you curse your inability to send his calls to voicemail. 

You should really be working more. You need to be working more - but for the past four weeks now, you've answered every single one of his calls.

His messages? Yeah, you ignore those. He's learnt this, though. He messages you regardless, because... well, because he wants to, quite frankly. He doesn't give a shit if you respond.

He knows you read them.

He knows you saw that picture he sent of a flyer detailing a live art event last week. He knows that you noticed the veins on his arms.

You don't know that he'd spent a couple of minutes tensing his arm before he took the picture. Deliberately.

It's been said before that Jungkook wants what he wants - and what he wants more than anything, frustratingly, is your attention.

The way you study his arms the next time you see him proves that he's gotten it.

If anything, the delayed gratification makes it so much more worthwhile. 

You have been thinking about him.

So as far as Jungkook is concerned, you can ignore his messages all you like, because you still always answer his calls with an airy 'hi,' as if talking to him takes your breath away.

The only time you don't answer is between the hours of eleven and two on Tuesday and Thursday evenings.

Chances are, if he just so happens to be in the area - which he always is - he'll catch you down on the wrong side of the tracks at just gone quarter past two.

He still calls you 'sugar', teasing you for the reputation of the area. You just roll your eyes and grin, then banter with him about how even if you were a sugar baby, he wouldn't be able to afford your prices.

He argues that he'd pay in ways that didn't include monetary value.

You don't ask him to expand.

But as you wipe your watery lash line in the bathroom of a shitty rental apartment in Daerim, you think about what he could have meant. If he actually meant it. 

The TV blares from the living room, faint vapours of a mango e-cigarette wafting through the gap beneath the door. You've always thought mango smells like cat piss. Rancid.

Whatever Jungkook could have meant didn't matter. His flirty tone and angel eyes didn't pay the bills. The cash tossed down on the bathroom counter did - or more specifically, the widower, who occasionally wanted company from a pretty young girl, did.

A hundred thousand won for an hour, three hundred thousand total. It takes you just a week, two appointments, to make up the month's rent - but you still need to eat, to study, survive. 

And so you return, every week.

It's not his actual apartment. He lives over in Gangnam, close to his kids' schools. More money than sense. He doesn't tell you much about his personal life. You think a lot of his small claims are lies, anyway - but you smile and flutter your lashes as if he's reciting bible verses.

Some nights are better than others. Sometimes, he genuinely makes you laugh. Occasionally, he'll ask you what you want to do. Takes you to museums. Fancy dinners. Theatre shows.

But he has a nasty streak, and in those three hours, you're his. He owns you. There's no sex, that's not the arrangement, but his hands have been known to roam, and the disparity of equality within your working relationship becomes apparent. You brush it off, tell yourself that it's natural for a man engaging with you in a romantic capacity to forget the rules. You tell yourself that it's okay.

The churning in your stomach and dis-ease of such a situation tells you that no, it isn't okay. But if you laugh at his painfully unfunny jokes loud enough, you're able to drown out the noise in your head.

The worst nights are the ones where he pays you extra.

There's no discussion anymore. The stack of notes is just thicker than usual upon arrival, and you know that at some point during the night, you'll have to sit in silence and watch as he sinks his hand down into his pants.

It's easy to forget the way it looks. Your eyes glaze over, and the discomfort, the slight disgust, indicated in your features gets him hard. He thinks it's taboo. Thinks you enjoy it too. That your panties look a lot like his hand by the time he's finished.

The snort-like grunts are what you find hard to forget. The wail of a moan that comes when he does. You hear that shit in your nightmares.

But it earns you an extra two hundred thousand, so you endure it because you don't have much of an option at this point.

Come 2 AM, cash stuffed down your bra, you don't have to think about it anymore. The fresh air of the city, a little smoggy and polluted, hits you like a freight train. You thank it.

When Jungkook enters Daerim that evening, he expects to find you. He normally does. You never look particularly happy - in fact, he often tells you that you've got a face like a slapped arse - but it's more so today.

He whistles from across the street, clad in black, a thick hoodie keeping him warm beneath his leather jacket. "Oi, Sugar," he calls, that boyish grin on his lips. Teeth so pretty you wonder how much novocaine it would take for you to be numb to the way it makes your stomach flip.

Eyes dancing up and down your body, he likes what you're wearing. Black tights, black dress that cuts off at your mid-thigh, a sweetheart neckline and chiffon sleeves that puff around your slender arms. He decides your boots are far more sensible than the heels you're usually in.

"That'll be twenty thousand, Jeon," you call back, arms folded over your chest as you change direction to walk towards him.

"Per hour?"

"Per every time you call me that stupid fucking name."

"What would you rather?" he goads, leaning against a window ledge on the back of a restaurant building. There's nothing down the alleyway, just trashbags and the distinct scent of fermenting piss. "Shugs? SB? Baby?"

You smirk, walking to the wall opposite him, mirroring his position, hands resting beside you on the ledge. There's a safe distance between the pair of you. A look, but don't touch type of vibe - but this time, unlike earlier on in your evening, you actually enjoy it.

"You really gotta make your mind up," your eyes roll, lips rising into a crescent. "One minute I'm a trust-fund princess with Daddy's money on tap, the next I'm a sugar baby with a different type of Daddy altogether."

Jungkook shrugs. "Just don't see why you waste your evenings roaming fucking Daerim of all places."

"Best dandanmian in the city," you say, referencing the abundance of traditional Chinese restaurants in the area. "Can't get the authentic stuff in Itaewon."

"Can't get hookers in Itaewon like you can in Daerim, either," he taunts you.

He doesn't really think you're a hooker, but he likes the way you grin whenever your eyes roll.

"Ah, so that's why you're here."

He holds his hands up to playfully admit defeat. "Guilty."

You laugh, knowing that there's no way in hell Jungkook will ever have to resort to hookers. Not when he looks like that. All doe-eyed and charming, floppy hair just begging for a pair of hands to run through it.

The pair of you let the moment simmer, droplets of water dripping from the drainpipe and into the sewer. He's lit by the neon light of a restaurant sign, red and yellow painting him like an impressionist masterpiece.

"You look cold," he acknowledges, but you shake your head and insist you're fine. Your hair is a little damp from the small shower you'd been caught in a little while previously, mascara smudged around your eyes. You looked like that before the rain, mind you. He shakes his jacket off and tosses it across to you, snorting quietly as it hits your face and crumples over your feet. "C'mon. I'm now about to ride home. I'll give you a lift."

He asks for your address, and you tell him that you'll just get a taxi from his place like you normally do. There's no need for him to go out of his way.

"The princess doesn't want the pauper to see her castle, huh?" he teases, always talking in bloody riddles.

"See!" you protest. "Always changing your mind! A minute ago I was a sugar baby, and now I'm a rich bitch again. Which is it, Jeon?"

"I dunno," he reaches behind himself, adjusting your legs and pulling you a little closer into his back, tapping your side to make sure you've got the jacket on. "You tell me, sugar."

He doesn't see you roll your eyes, but he knows you do it. You always do. Even when your pretty pink nails are clutching the fabric of his shirt, you pretend like you don't enjoy his company.

You've gotten good at playing pretend. 

Jungkook only jokes about you being a sugar baby.

He doesn't fathom that you actually are one.

His engine begins to purr, and Jungkook kicks up the stand, setting off into the night.

The way you hold onto his waist is different tonight.

Physically, it's the same.

But it feels different.

And it is, because you're not just holding onto him; you're hugging him. Comfort in an old routine. You adjust your arms, keeping tight against his back, and he pretends like he doesn't notice the shift in dynamic.

He pretends as if he didn't notice your sad eyes earlier, too, and as if he can't feel the stutter in your chest as if you're trying not to cry.

Jungkook isn't a knight on a white horse, and nor does he want to be - but he doesn't mind being your rogue bandit who steals you away from the things that make you sad.

He's just an arc in your fairytale, not your happy ending.

But you've always been a sucker for a bit of a plot twist.

When you arrive at his, he wants to ask you to stay. He doesn't want an orange taxi cab to appear at the end of his lane and act like your actual knight in shining armour. He doesn't want you to ride into the sunrise with anyone but him.

And as luck would have it, your phone shares his desires.

Well, no. It doesn't. It's a mobile phone. It doesn't have cognitive thoughts - but it is out of charge.

"Different charging ports," he grits his teeth as he holds up his Samsung after you ask if he's got an iPhone charger. "I'm pretty sure I have an apple cable lying about though. You can come in for a second, get a little bit of charge just so that you're not stranded in a taxi without a way to contact anyone."

You nod appreciatively. "You sure?"

He doesn't answer, instead holding his door open and ushering you inside.

Jungkook cares in strange ways. He's practical, forward-thinking, trying to find solutions to problems that you'd normally shrug your shoulders at.

He's never told anyone that he loves them before, but he did once swap the hinges on his ex-girlfriend's bathroom door to the other side, so that it would stop hitting the sink basin every time she opened it. He shows his affections in meaningful ways, often without being asked or expecting anything in return.

Neither of you realise it yet, but this is one of those occasions.

It's not until you're perched on the worktop bench in his kitchen that he realises he let you in without hesitation. No longer embarrassed of where he lived, he kind of likes having you here.

You look out of place, silver pendant round your neck, expensive, and hair professionally coloured, nails done, toes, too. Not that he can see them. He just remembers a conversation you had once over chicken and a beer about the fact your toes always matched your nails.

Small details like that are what he thinks about when he's alone; like the way you blink a little faster when you're confused, and how you sprinkle Cheeto dust back into the bag off of your fingers instead of licking them like he does. He thinks about the way you laugh in his company, and how he's never heard you laugh like that with anyone else. And he tries to stop, but dammit, he thinks about how sexed up you look on those Daerim nights.

You're dressing like that for someone else, he knows that much.

But he gets to indulge in it too, when your body is pressed against his back as he takes you home.

He's stopped asking what you do in Daerim. He doesn't want to know.

For a few minutes a night, when he's alone, he likes to pretend what it would be like if he was the one you were dressed like that for. Only ever a minute or so. Gets him too hot. Finishes him off too quickly. Absolute sin.

"Kook?"

He doesn't even realise he's halted his movements until your voice breaks him from his thoughts. His jeans tonight are tight, and do a pretty good job of hiding the swelling between his legs. Fucking uncomfortable, though.

"Sorry," he doesn't turn to face you. "Was just trying to remember where I last had the cable."

"I was just saying that it's fine. It's really not that far. Don't wanna be a bother."

"Why'd you say shit like that?" he turns to face you, face twisted a little. He's annoyed.

"Like what?"

"Call yourself a bother. You do it a lot."

"I don't."

"You do," he insists, and you can't work out why he's so annoyed by it. You want to apologise all over again. "You just-" he takes a moment to find the right words. "I dunno who's conditioned you into thinking everything you do is bothersome, but it really isn't. If I didn't wanna help, then I wouldn't. It's not a bother. You're not a bother."

And you don't know why, but for some reason, you choke up a little. It's not like he said anything particularly groundbreaking, it's just for the last few months, your entire existence has felt like a drain on those around you.

The money you can live without, but you miss family dinners on Sundays, and face timing your little sister, more than you can even begin to explain.

And while no, you didn't want your parents' money, you didn't want to keep seeing a perverted old man just to be able to afford to eat, either. The flat rate was 500,000 now. Every single time. Without fail. You hadn't put the price up. He was just always paying extra. Always touching his prick. Always jerking himself off over your repulsion.

Earlier that evening, he had queried how much it would cost him to finish on your chest. You told him a million. He asked if you accepted bank transfers. You told him no. He offered 1.2 mil.

Part of you considered it. It's a lot of money. Not something to be taken lightly.

But when you ran into Jungkook, just like you knew you would, you were adamant you had made the right choice. He had scanned your body, getting a read on your mood, assessing what you needed, what you wanted, and then had offered up his jacket. All doe-eyed and sparkling. You finally got what all the girls swooned over, 'cause you were doing it too.

"Hey," he says softly, noticing the way your eyes are reddening. "Hey, hey, no. Don't cry, sugar."

You laugh through the first couple of tears. Stupid fucking nickname.

"I meant it," you sniff, wiping your cheeks with the back of your hands. He's standing closer now, hesitant to touch, hands hovering around you. "20 thousand won, Jeon. Pay up."

His fingers tenderly wrap around your wrists, keeping them from rubbing at your face again. He's smiling, eyes ever encompassing, cheeks so appled that you bet you could get drunk off the cider he'd produce.

"Can we do it on an I.O.U. basis?" he speaks quietly, playfully. "I get paid on Monday."

It's a lie. He gets his commission cut straight from his sales figures. There's 2 million won in his rucksack. He only gets ten percent. 200K. His job's not nearly half as lucrative as yours, but it's still nothing to be laughed at. He's making bank.

"Nuh-uh," you sniff again, letting out a little laugh. He laughs too. "Told you that you couldn't afford me."

And then it's silent. You can hear your heartbeat. He moves a little closer.

"Told you I'd just pay in other ways."

His voice is hoarse, as if he's scared. 

As if he fears the consequences of his claim.

Your eyes drop to his lips. They're trembling slightly. Preparing.

The grip he has on your wrists loosens. He's giving you freedom. He's giving you the chance to back out, to run away.

But you don't.

"Pay up, then," you all-but whisper, lips closing on his.

Jungkook doesn't stall, no, but it takes him a second to respond. To realise.

And once he does, his brows furrow into the kiss, demanding that you know just how much he wants this. Wants you. Has done for weeks, now.

He pulls your body into his, needing you close. Your body curves, his arm hooked behind your back to keep you balanced.

A surge of intensity washes over you like crimson paint. It'll stain you, and everyone will know: That's her. That's the girl who let Jeon Jungkook kiss her like he actually meant it.

He kisses, and he kisses, and he kisses, and he doesn't stop, as if he knows his first with you will also be his last - and when he finally does stop, forehead on yours, the pair of you are breathing so heavily into each other's mouths that it's as if you're sharing oxygen. Keeping each other alive. Both capable of first-degree murder.

And so neither of you pull away. There's no way he's doing time for you. There's no way you're doing time for him. Looks like you'll just have to kiss forever. Shame. Such a hardship. However will you cope?

"I-" he begins, before cutting himself off, easing his grip on your waist. One of his hands lingers, while the other pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes wincing. "Shit-" he finally lets you go. "I don't know what that was. I'm sorry."

You want to tell him that it's okay, that you didn't mind, that he could do it again - but it's clear he doesn't agree.

"Just adrenaline," you offer, sinking down to perch on the worktop bench. Your defeated posture is hidden well like this. "Don't sweat it."

He stays silent as he turns around to resume his rummaging, looking for a charger that will fit your phone. He knows there's one in there, he just can't for the life of him remember when he last had it.

Everything feels a little awkward. You half think that you should fill the void with something, that you should break the ice, but what was the point? You'll be out of his hair soon.

And you are, home twenty minutes later. You had only charged your phone for ten minutes at his, just enough to get you home. It's about to die again. Not before Jungkook pings you a message, though.

He doesn't expect a response, but he lies awake until he sees your read receipt confirm that you've seen it.

Sadness doesn't suit you, sugar. I'm not gonna pry, but if you ever need a ride earlier than normal out of Daerim, give me a call.

He spent a good six minutes debating whether or not to end his message with a kiss, eventually deciding against it. No need to make the message any softer than it already was.

To his surprise, a bubble pops up on your side of the chat thread.

His heart twinges, your response saying everything he wished he had with just one simple letter:

x

JUNGKOOK HAS A terrible habit of taking out his stress on the people around him; the ones that he holds closest.

"I just don't see why it's such a big issue," Jimin says through a mouthful of salad greens. His teeth chomp so loudly that Jungkook thinks they'll have to swing by the dentistry labs later that afternoon. Which Jimin'll probably like, considering he won't stop fucking rambling on about a dentistry student at the moment. "She's hot, she's got guys practically falling at her feet and she's interested in you. It's one party. Stop being so fucking boring."

Yoongi casts Jungkook a sympathetic look. He doesn't work so much at the moment, what with his chemistry finals coming up, and especially not in the Daerim area.

That's Jungkook's market now - but he did happen to have a drop-off for a last-minute order a couple of weeks back.  Territory isn't an issue between the friends, with Jungkook respecting Yoongi far too much to ever tell him to back off, or to not take deals in that area.

He had been about to approach Jungkook that night, when he noticed you crossing the street, a smile plastered on your face. He couldn't see Jungkook's face from the angle he was at, but he could see how raised his cheeks were. And so he left the pair of you to it, knowing better than to stick his nose where it wasn't wanted.

Unlike Jimin, apparently.

"Not boring," Jungkook retorts, tossing the wrapper his chopsticks came in at Jimin's face. "Got a bunch of assignments due in."

"Dude, you've been MIA for weeks. If we didn't have classes together, I'd have sent out a search party by now."

"You're being dramatic."

"You're being boring."

"Kids, settle down," Yoongi interjects, and wonders why he doesn't just find friends his own age. Logistics, he decides. The perils of having to save up for university before he could actually attend.

Jimin, being Jimin, then proceeds to bicker with Yoongi, leaving Jungkook free to find your face amongst the canteen crowd. You're sat with friends, none of whom he's ever met.

Your hair is up, like it always is during school, but you've let your grown out bangs frame your face. Pretty, he thinks. Prettiest girl here.

But then you stand up, and Jungkook turns caveman. Head empty. No thoughts. Just nonsense. Jesus Christ. Who gave you the right? God damn.

A few months ago, he would have looked at you in that outfit - a silky sage green playsuit over a white tee, sunglasses resting on your head like an alice band and a pair of white converse on your feet - and he probably would have scoffed. Wouldda said some bullshit about the fact you're dressed like a child, or that the weather isn't good enough to warrant such an outfit.

A few months ago, he was a fucking idiot.

You feel his gaze on you, just like you always do.

And you ignore it.

You've been getting good at that. Pretending as if you don't feel his eyes. As if you're unaffected, unbothered by the simplest form of intimacy: a single look.

He knows you've been keeping your distance. Watching from afar is all he can do when you slink out of class before he can catch your attention. He tells himself that he doesn't care.

Jungkook mutes the audio track of the editing software he uses when he stitches together your footage, so he doesn't have to relive your conversations or hear you laugh, or worse, hear himself laugh.

It's all a bit nauseating.

Maybe a party would actually be a good distraction.

"Tonight, did you say?" Jungkook pipes up out of nowhere, only dragging his eyes away from you when he sees you pull your phone out to send a text. 

He pouts. You never text him. Not once since last Thursday. 

And you were nowhere to be seen on Tuesday.

He had called you, and for once, you didn't pick up. He didn't try again. Decided that it was on you just as much as it was on him.

That being said, he didn't get home till four in the morning, two and half hours after his last deal. Spaffed away an entire tank of petrol. Rode in fucking circles. Just in case.

"Now we're talking!" Jimin grins. "Tonight. It's her birthday, she's rented a bar in Itaewon - Dad knows the landlord or something."

Jungkook didn't know who 'she' was. Hadn't been listening to that part of the conversation.

"Well, you kids enjoy yourselves," Yoongi sighs as he gets to his feet. "Can't risk my finals over a few crappy drinks in a shitty bar."

"Oh boo-hoo!" Jimin pouts. "Spoilsport."

When Jungkook enters the bar that evening, he's greeted with everything he expects. E-cigarette vapours cloud the air, a cocktail of flavours violating his senses as he heads to the bar, shitty EDM pumping through the speakers. It's been a while since he let his hair down, so to speak.

There's something about him that commands attention. People gravitate towards him, even through the smoke clouds and sweaty bodies. Girls buy him drinks. Guys buy him drinks, too. Anything just to spend time in his presence. Like leeches, they hope to share some of Jungkook's aura.

It's impossible, though. It's Jungkook's authenticity that gives him such charisma. Trying to emulate it only ever comes off as tacky - like the guy towards the back of the room who's permed his hair to look like Jungkook's. Pierced his eyebrow, too. Looks like shit. Jungkook doesn't want to judge him, but he's a few drinks deep, and being kind is what got him into that mess with you in the first place.

No good ever comes from being nice.

He takes a shot. Tequila. Chases it down with lemonade. The girl next to him is playing with the bracelets on his wrist. Her nails scratch a little bit, and he quite likes it, so he doesn't resist when pulls him onto the dancefloor. He observes the way she moves first, and isn't disappointed. She knows how to move her hips, and seems to like it when he puts his hands on them. He can't really feel the sensation when she kisses him. The alcohol has numbed his lips. Maybe Jimin was right to force him into this.

By the time he goes to the bar for another drink, he's faded. Off his tits. Helped himself to some of Hobi's stash that he was supposed to be distributing that evening. A little bit of coke never does him any harm. He knows his limits. Tastes like shit down the back of his throat, but he kind of enjoys it.

At first, he thinks he must be seeing things when he catches you with an espresso martini in hand, laughing with people he doesn't know.

You've this whole life that he's no part of. A whole entire world. He really is an outsider looking in.

You're one of the elite; an old-money heiress. The type to own a miniature dog breed and only fly business class. It was stupid of him to think your interest in him had been anything more than entertainment. A 'little bit of rough.' Excitement away from the confines of the life he's sure your parents must have planned out for you.

It might just be because he's coked up, but he doesn't care about any of that. 

All he can think about is the fact he's pretty sure you've never looked more beautiful.

He feels so lost looking at you like this, as if he needs to be closer, for fear of losing sight of you entirely.

And so he sits beside you at the bar, orders his drink, waits for you to notice him. Which you do.

You'd spotted him the very second you walked into the bar, his hands all over some girl you don't know.

In all fairness, you didn't realise he would be there. Sohyun, the girl whose birthday it was and an old friend from high school, has been fawning over Jungkook for months. Just superficial drawling, comments about his thighs and the fact she'd quite like to be suffocated by them. Harmless, really. You know she's never actually made a move.

Sohyun doesn't know you're working on a project together. You avoid the topic of him altogether, especially with her.

But she does notice the way Jungkook is looking at you like he's seen a ghost; haunted and comforted all in the same expression.

"You're here," he finally says, and it feels as if your chest is about to cave in.

Turning to face him, you're casual in your posture. Unbothered. Completely unaffected by him, and the lipstick that's painting those lips of his that you like so much.

You raise your thumb and swipe it across his bottom lip. He's silent as you do so, watching you, holding his breath. His lip moves like rubber beneath your touch, soft and supple, springing back into position once you release it.

You raise your thumb to study the lipstick you've collected from him. "Plum's really not your colour, Jungkook."

He doesn't say anything, a little transfixed. It's barely ticked past midnight. You should be in Daerim.

In all fairness, so should he. Hobi had some choice words for Jungkook when he told him that he wasn't working that evening at such short notice.

You swipe open your phone and repeat the step, filming your thumb as Jungkook becomes captive to your touch. You want to look, to see how wide his dark eyes are, but you're too busy feigning disinterest.

"There," you smile, forwarding the video along before you lock your phone. "Just sent you a video of how I see the city tonight."

You've no right to be annoyed. You know that.

Jungkook can be in a bar with another girl's lipstick on his chin if wants to be. He can stay out all night, and he can stay in beds that aren't his. It's his prerogative.

But you are annoyed.

It's irrational, and pathetic, and you shouldn't be.

You barely know him. Not really.

After you'd shown him your favourite tree at the Design Plaza a few weeks ago, he'd insisted on taking you across town to Garosugil, a street in Gangnam lined with beautiful tall trees. He questioned why you only had one favourite tree, when you could have had an entire row of them instead.

At the time, you'd enjoyed the way his eyes looked beneath the lights of the designer stores that neither of you could afford. You didn't question what he had meant.

It seems like you found your answer.

"I'm not the city," he eventually says.

And he's right.

He's not the city.

Fuck it, no, he's not the city, but his eyes sparkle like Itaewon on Friday nights, and his hands are strong like the World Cup Bridge. He's not the city, but you find it so easy to get lost in him without a map, and sometimes wearing his leather jacket makes you feel like you're eating comfort food at your favourite breakfast bar over in Myeong-dong. He's not the city.

He's not the goddamn city.

But it feels a little like you'd accidentally anchored your navigation pin in him regardless.

All you do is smile, and tell him that he's right.

"Look," he begins, and you can smell the spiced rum on his breath.

"It's okay," you interrupt. Who are you to make him feel guilty for his promiscuous encounters?

He doesn't know what you do in the dark. Not really. If he did, he probably wouldn't have kissed you last week.

"No, I-" he cuts himself off like he always does when he doesn't wanna fuck up his words. The alcohol is doing him absolutely zero favours. "I dunno, sugar."

Your smile is sad, and he hates himself. You lean forward, press a kiss into his rosy cheek and whisper, "That'll be 20,000, Jeon."

And because he's drunk, and he wants to make things better, he reaches for his wallet. You were about to walk away regardless, but damn, if the boy doesn't know how to hit you where it hurts.

"Really, Kook?"

It's like he doesn't know you at all; doesn't remember how you banter with him, how you flirt with him. Or maybe you were just stupid for thinking that you'd been flirting with him in the first place. Maybe he just speaks to everyone how he speaks to you. Must have spoken to whoever was wearing that lipstick in the same way.

He doesn't answer, not verbally, but his brows pinch together and his lips develop a frowning pout.

When he stumbles home that evening, he asks himself the same question: really, Kook?

In the morning, he wakes alone, with no recollection of how he got home. 

He doesn't remember the girl from the bar, or the fact that Jimin threw up in a fish tank, or that they're now barred from three different establishments for encouraging people to snort fish food (which Jungkook had stolen while Jimin was emptying his stomach). Regretfully, he doesn't even remember your arrival at the first bar. Doesn't remember how, for once, you'd dressed to impress just him.

His lack of recollection means fuck all though, 'cause despite his headache, the thing weighing down most heavily on him is guilt. He feels a sense of duty when it comes to you; duty that he hasn't performed lately. Were you getting home safe? Getting harrassed by scummy fuckers on the Daerim path of destruction?

Out of habit, he checks his phone, ignores the messages from unknown numbers and goes straight to your message thread to check the damage. He's surprised to find that he didn't drunk text you, but even more surprised to find that you'd messaged him. It's a video, just a few seconds, but it's enough to provoke some of his memories back.

He watches your thumb as it glides across his bottom lip. Watches it again. Notices the lipstick. Notices the thumb ring he never realised you wore before, and the fact that your nails are black now instead of their usual pink. There's something erotic about it; the way you touch him. The way you filmed yourself touching him. He'll probably get in trouble for it, but there's no way he isn't adding that to your project.

You consider ignoring his call when your phone flashes with his caller I.D.

It's only just gone seven, and you're still in bed, still try to make heads or tails of your life.

But you're weak, and so you slide your thumb across the little green icon.

"Hey."

"Uh, hey."

"You good?"

"So hungover, I think I might die," Jungkook jokes, voice hoarse. You wonder if he always sounds like this in the morning. "Just wanted to check in with you though. Barely seen you all week, and then I end up with a weird-ass video in our message thread that I don't remember."

Ah. You cringe.

"Ran into you at the bar," you shrug, not that he can see you. "Didn't realise you were friends with Sohyun."

"Hmm?"

"Sohyun... the girl who's birthday it was?"

"Oh. Right. Yeah. Nah, no, not really friends with her. Jimin forced me along."

You don't know all that much about Jimin, but from your limited interactions with him, it doesn't surprise you. Not in the slightest.

"Good night?"

Your question sounds forced and awkward, and he doesn't quite understand why.

"No idea," he admits honestly. "Remember fuck all."

He sounds as if he wants to keep talking but doesn't know what to say.

You don't know what to say either.

It's a mess. You liked it better when he hated you.

"Were you at the bar for long?" He asks, genuinely curious. "You're normally busy on Thursdays?"

"Just a drink. Had a last-minute change of plans."

"Oh?"

"Yeah..."

You know he wants you to elaborate. He wants more without having to explicitly ask for it.

Which is apt. Seems like it's a common occurrence with Jungkook.

"So what did you call for?" you change the topic, not wanting to dwell. The aversion doesn't go unnoticed by him, but it does go unquestioned.

"I-" there he goes again, cutting himself off prematurely. Coward. "Are you free? Now?"

Oh.

Not a coward. Just cautious.

"Now? I mean, yeah, I guess."

Jungkook takes a second, and then he bites down on the grenade pin.

"Can you come over?"

THE WAY YOU keep Jungkook hanging on tenterhooks is deliberate.

You're unsure of him, of his motivations, and what he does in the dark. And so, while you want to let your guard down, you can't. It's probably something to do with your parents - the people who are supposed to love you unconditionally - making their love entirely conditional and withdrawing it so suddenly.

It's the kind of shit you would have spoken about with your therapist, but you can't afford her anymore.

Can't afford much of anything, anymore. So much of the money you've earnt recently is tied up in credit card debt or rent.

Foundation was the first luxury that you'd compromised, and you're still yet to buy any more. Cheap stuff always makes you break out, and thankfully your parents did give you decent genetics, at least, so your skin was pretty clear.

It's the lack of make up that suggests to Jungkook you're opening up; not hiding from him anymore.

But it's also what tells him something is incredibly wrong, when you show up at his door half an hour later with a graze beneath your eye. Little flecks of reddened skin creep up your cheekbone, and Jungkook thinks it almost looks like carpet burn.

He hadn't noticed it last night, but it was dark, and he was drunk.

He lets you in, takes your jacket, offers you a drink. Everything that he knows he should do. Asks how you are, keeps a safe distance.

You don't know why you're here. Why you didn't say you were busy.

Except you do. 

It's cause you miss him whenever you're away from him.

"I like these," you smile as you look at the artwork he has up in his room. The studio space is small, cramped, like all semi-basements are, but it's distinctly 'his'. A lot different to yours. Everything you own is still in boxes, not yet unpacked. 

You've refused to come to terms with that being your life now.

"Thanks," he nods, watching you as you explore the box of a room he calls home. "They're from a guy down by the coach station. Has a little stall."

"You'll have to show me," you muse, turning to smile at him. It's saccharine, but the graze on your face is just so bitter. He hates it. Hates that he doesn't know how you got it. "Think I'd like some for my place."

"I have a feeling they'd look a little out of place in a princess tower, sugar."

Your shoulders shake as you laugh quietly, not correcting him. He doesn't need to know that you're a basement dweller, too.

"How's the editing coming along?" You steer the question away from your living situation.

"Nearly there," he grins, brimming with quiet excitement. Something about the way your camerawork looks with his editing technique layered on top just really works. He's always been confident with his final projects, and this one scares him a little bit, but in a good way. It's his best yet. Maybe he did need you after all.

"Can I see?"

"Not yet."

"Kook," you say, and - oh god - you're pouting. Jungkook suddenly begins to feel nervous.

It's that scary feeling again. A fear of the good stuff. Trepidation.

"What?" he grins, walking a little closer to you, letting his hand stroke against your back as he sits down on his bed. His fingers catch yours. It's fleeting, but enough.

You both feel it.

"Such a tease," you say, talking about the project, but there's innuendo in your words, too.

"Some girls like it," he flirts back.

"The girl at the bar last night seemed to like it."

Jungkook rolls his eyes, boyish and charming. It's annoying, you think, how impossible it is to be mad at him. It's not because you're weak, or because you can't resist his charms, but because he has a way of playing things off as if they're no big deal.

The girl at the bar? A nobody, his shrug suggests. She doesn't matter.

And it's so easy to believe, because you're the one in his apartment. You're the one he wanted here, the one that he missed. Or at least, the one that he was thinking of when he decided that he could do with some company.

It might be nothing, just something to pass the time, but it makes you feel wanted. Desired. Needed.

So you accept his hand when he reaches out towards you, pulling you closer, positioning you between his spread legs. You're standing, his eyes level with your chest, unashamed as he looks at your body.

"You look warm," he husks.

Just like he always uses your body temperature as excuse to give you his jacket, he's using it as an excuse now, too. The desired effect is obvious.

His AC switchboard is on the wall behind his bed. You'd clocked it when you were walking around, observing his possessions. Yanmar, the branding reads, the plastic outer frame beige. Once, it would have been crisp white. Age has dulled it. The monochrome monitor has a clock symbol in the corner, an indicator that Jungkook has his AC set on a timer. It suggests a sense of permanence. This is his home.

You haven't set your timer yet. You just flick it on when you get hot. It isn't your home.

He watches you as you move, curious. He's smirking, because he just cant help himself. 

And because he knows that you like it whenever he does. Gets you a little bit flustered.

One of your knees hooks over his lap, and then the other follows suit.

He'd have said you were straddling him. You'd have argued that you were simply reaching over to the AC.

And you do exactly that, flicking the switch, watching as it lights up. "There. Much better."

Touche, he thinks. Smiles. Grips your thighs, as if he's scared you'll stand up again. Scared to lose you.

In all honesty, he had been hoping you'd take your shirt off, but he isn't going to complain with you in his lap, instead.

Doesn't matter if you mix the eggs with the milk first, or the flour. You still bake a cake at the end of it all.

Jungkook looks at you in such a way that you find yourself thinking maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't be so horrible to let someone in. His eyes are honest, void of ulterior motives. He's doing this because he wants to. Because he wants you.

Wants that feeling back. The one where his lips are cushioned between yours, his tongue licking into your mouth.

Jungkook wants what he wants. Jungkook gets what he wants.

And, fuck, if it isn't bare minimum - but you know this, and you don't care. Bare minimum tastes pretty fucking good when you're licking it from his lips.

His hands roam, and you let them. He's rough with his movements, but the fleshy pads of his fingertips are soft, like silk against your skin. It's almost like he's afraid, filled with the knowledge that he can bruise, if he really wants to.

But he doesn't want to. He wants to ask about the graze that's sitting pretty where blush should be. Jungkook doesn't wanna hurt. He wants to heal.

"I catch you looking, you know," you tell him before he gets a chance, wanting to see how he responds. "Every now and again..." He hikes you forward in his lap. Places you dead centre over his cock. You can feel it. He can feel you. "...I catch you looking at me." He presses a kiss against the base of your neck, obsessed with the way it vibrates when you speak. "Why are you always looking at me?"

The fact that you're sat in his lap, grinding your hips against a solid bulge, should be indication enough.

Jungkook isn't going to spell it out for you. The eroticism of suggesting he's a fucking voyeur makes him want to laugh - but the way your nipples are tenting the shirt you're wearing distracts him.

His teeth graze your throat, hands creeping round to your tummy. His fingers are long, practically the length of the expanse between your hips and the underneath of your plump tits. Just a little further and he'd be holding them, cupping them, caressing. Just a little further.

"I look at you-" His hands continue their exploration as he leans back, watching the movement beneath your shirt. It somehow feels forbidden - like he can touch, but not look. After all, your question had sounded quite a lot like a telling off. "-because you like me looking at you."

He's fucking with you, trying to get a rise.

"Do I?"

The way that you whimper as he brushes against your nipples has him pulsing his hips. Your eyes close, head tilting back ever so slightly. You like this. The way he does it.

"Uh-huh," he mumbles, lips wet against your neck. His fingers knead into the flesh of your tits, nipples hard in his palm as he relieves his stresses. "Bet you think about it all day, don't you? Think about the way I look at you when no-one else does."

Yes.

"All day?" you smirk between dulcet moans. "You're lucky if I pay you any attention at all."

"I think you're lying," he declares rather boldly, hands all over you. "I think it plays on your mind. I bet you fall asleep thinking about it, don't you?"

Yes.

"Ddaeng."

"I bet you get yourself off thinking about it."

Maybe you do. 

Maybe you've whispered his name in the dead of night, imagining how it would feel to have his body weight on top of yours. Maybe you get intrusive thoughts of that kiss every single time you try to draw close. Maybe Jungkook has made you cum without ever laying a single finger on you.

But even if he has, you won't tell him.

And you don't need to, because his phone buzzing on the bedside table behind you cuts the conversation dry. Jungkook glances towards it automatically, then back up to you. His frustration is evident, jaw tense.

"I gotta get this," he mumbles, encouraging you off of his lap. You don't resist, accepting the last five minutes for what they were: a momentary lapse in judgement. He sighs as he stands, adjusting his trousers, swiping his phone and putting it to his ear. He strolls just far enough away that you won't hear what or who is on the other line. "Hobi. Speak to me."

Hobi, you muse. A friend? A colleague? Another girl?

You swallow back the nauseating feeling in your throat, pretending as if the prospect of Jungkook with someone else doesn't chip away at your self-worth a little bit. It wasn't like you thought you had anything special between the pair of you.

But he was right. You did like him looking at you.

More than you had realised until the prospect of him looking at someone else arose.

From the corner of the room, you could hear Jungkook trying to interrupt the person he was talking to. The first syllable would escape, and then he'd hush again, never quite managing to get the words out in full.

"Ho-" His nostrils look quite cute when they flare, lips pursed, a pair of unique dimples becoming evident. They're different to the usual ones you notice. Full of surprises was Jeon Jungkook. 

"Hobi, can I-" 

He runs his hand through his hair, already dishevelled from your hands. 

"Hobi will you let me fucking talk!"

Attaboy.

The pause that follows Jungkook's outburst would suggest that Hobi had said 'no' - and then a few more choice words. If Jungkook rolled his eyes back any further, they'd surely get stuck.

"Look, I'm a bit tied up right now- no! No, not that. Who? No. I don't know a Taehyung, and even if I did- Huh? Ain't got nothin' to do with Holangi. Don't know a single one of 'em." 

You try to decipher the conversation, but fail. 

"You're a real fuckin' cockblock, yanno?" 

You blush. 

"Fuck it, fine. But you owe me. I'm not saying yes next time."

He glances over to you, catching your raised brow. Next time?

A smile catches on his lips. You thought this would be a one time thing?

He's barely hit second base. If there's one thing you're yet to find out about Jungkook, it's that he loves to win. He won't be satisfied until he's got a home run.

Any other girl, and he'd have probably been running laps for fun by this point, but you... yeah, you didn't bowl him easy hitters, that was for sure.

Jungkook moves with confidence, like he always does, as he strides over to the sofa, the bulge in his pants considerably softened but still present. "Take a picture," he grins. "It'll last longer."

You roll your eyes, but it doesn't stop you from asking if that's an offer. He laughs - that soft, gentle thrum of his vocal chords that sounds so heavenly in your ears - and tells you to behave.

"I just gotta help a friend out," he says as he reaches over you to grab his rucksack. It's heavier now than it ever is at school, the jingle of crushed tin foil rustling as it briefly catches on your knee. He pretends not to notice the curiosity in your eyes. Pretty eyes, though. He quite likes them, especially when he's towering above you and can see the whites just above your lashline. Yeah, he likes them alot. "I'll only be an hour or so. You can stay here, if you like?"

The way he phrases it is so casual that it's almost like you're old friends.

That, or Jungkook's just used to having women he doesn't know very well stay at his place.

You're unaware of the mental gymnastics he's putting himself through. If he could kick himself without looking like a twat, then he definitely would.

Shrugging, you give him a polite smile. "I don't wanna overstay my welcome."

"Nah, you're fine. I can give you a lift back to yours when I'm home? I'll be an hour. Two, tops."

Finally you agree, watching as he leaves like a lovesick puppy, listening out for the familiar rattle of his exhaust pipe. There's a cough and splutter of petrol spitting onto the sidewalk as his motor roars into action, and then he's gone.

You don't hang around for much longer.

You tell yourself that you will. That it would be nice. That you and Jungkook might not be so ill-suited after all.

But as the clock ticks by on the wall, you find yourself getting antsy. You find yourself asking stupid questions. Who exactly is Hobi? What was in Jungkook's bag? Why is he always down in Daerim? Is that where he's gone now?

The thoughts grow, adapt, intrude. Before you know it, you're considering what you'd find if you opened the top drawer of his bedside cabinet. 

Realistically, you know it would probably be a wank sock and a tub of vaseline - it doesn't matter though. Your mind is wondering. You need to scratch the itch.

Just a little peek. He'll never know.

Oh, how you loathe your brain.

What's the worst you could find? A revolver? His ex-girlfriends panties? Love letters? A crack pipe?

Somehow, you'd rather find a pipe than panties. 

It's not that you want Jungkook to be a crack addict. It's just the more that you think about it, the more you come to realise that you really, really don't like the idea of someone else feeling how warm his torso is, or how his upper teeth always nip slightly when he starts kissing you, until the pressure of his pecks plump his lips. You've only experienced it a handful of times, and it's stupid to get carried away, but he just makes it so easy.

He didn't ask you to stay, you tell yourself. He asked you if you wanted to.

Moments of instability like this are exactly why girls like you don't spend time with boys like him. It's stupid. Futile. A game for fools.

You leave his apartment as you found it, with not even a note to say thank you. He's had a squeeze on your tits. You deem that thank you enough. If anything, he should be thanking you.

When he returns, just half an hour after your departure, he can still smell your perfume. He tosses his keys down, calls out your name, and is met with silence. It takes him a moment or so to realise that he's alone.

There's a sinking feeling in his chest that he doesn't recognise. Doesn't like. Hates, in fact.

But fine. Fuck it. He didn't want you there anyway. He'd just been doing a good deed. Being kind because - if your face was any indication - obviously someone else had been particularly unkind to you.

Jungkook thinks he knows who, now.

Daerim nights have always been sketchy, but the days are no better. 

He's just the lowest rung on a long ladder of criminals who turn a profit when the sun goes down in Seoul.

Hobi had asked him to drop the stash in his rucksack off at a club, some gang-run joint that Jungkook doesn't know much about, so that he could get them back to his boss. 

That had been the plan, at least.

He slings his bag down, now empty, and sinks into the sofa, not bothering to get a rag to clean himself up. No point. The dried blood will just wash off in his shower. It's not the first time this has happened. He doubts it will be the last.

Jungkook's nose is currently bleeding, dripping down his chin and hitting the ceramic tiles of his apartment with small slaps. A bruise is forming above his left eye socket, and his knuckles are red.

A punch to the face means very little to Jungkook.

He's young, but he's strong. Fast, too. It could have been a lot worse if he wasn't.

He pushes the back of his hand against his nose, sniffing, before unlocking his phone, and dialing a number he knows now by heart.

The dial tone bleeds out, just like his nose.

And so he hangs up, and calls the only person he knows he can rely on.

"Wassup, kid?"

Jungkook doesn't mean to sob, but he cant help it. He knows Yoongi has finals coming up. He doesn't need his bullshit on his plate, too.

"I got jumped Yoongs."

Fuck.

"You alright? Sound pretty bad? Where?"

"Daerim-"

"The fuck you doing there at this time of day?"

"Hobi wanted me to drop off my stash."

"Kook..." Yoongi speaks slowly, coming to a horrific realisation. A few punches had never bothered Jungkook before. Something bigger was at play. "The stash...?"

Jungkook can hear it in Yoongi's voice: fear.

"Gone."

Yoongi sighs down the line. "Hobi know yet?"

"No."

"Alright, get outta your flat," Yoongi begins, not wasting time. Now is not the time for emotions, and it's clear that Jungkook isn't capable of that just yet. "I need you to go somewhere safe, somewhere you can lie-low for a little bit alright? Let me sort it-"

"Yoong-"

"Let me sort it. I got you into this mess. Don't sweat it."

"Ple-"

"Kook. Seriously. Trust me with this."

Yoongi doesn't let him debate it any further - and it's just as well he doesn't, because as soon as he hangs up the phone, another call comes through. Jungkook wants to answer it. Really, he does.

Jungkook's just very aware of the fact that the guy who jumped him had almost been waiting for him. Right by the entrance of the apartment block which he always picked you up from. 

In between blows, he'd warned Jungkook to 'stay the fuck away from the girl'.

The girl who's now returning his call.

"Hey," you say animatedly, having not expected him to call. You thought the pair of you would resume your usual awkward routine of pretending like nothing ever happened. "Sorry, I was in the shower. You good? Sorry I left, I just did-"

"I need a favour," he doesn't bother with formalities.

You want to banter with him, to flirt, but the tone of his voice warns you not to. So instead you tell him that you'll do whatever he needs.

"Can I come over?"

Fuck. Anything except that.

"Please."

YOU DON'T EXPECT to say yes. You don't expect to care more about him than you do about protecting your own dignity. You don't expect Jungkook to traipse down the stairs that lead to your slovenly open door with a glum look on his bloodsoaked face, as you stand there waiting for him.

But he does.

He makes no comment, no remark about the building. Just wraps his arms around your head, cradling you against his chest as you stand in your doorway. You can hear his heartbeat, thud, thud, thud against his ribs.

Go somewhere safe, Yoongi had told him. It was a no brainer.

"I'm sorry," he says, eventually pulling himself away from you. "I didn't know who else to ask."

You tell him it's fine, and you mean it. Keeping up pretences doesn't really matter so much anymore. Perhaps honesty was overdue from the both of you.

"The fuck happened to you?" You ask, tenderly reaching up to stroke away some of the dried blood from his lip. He winces, hisses, body tense, but he lets you continue. "Sorry."

"Could ask you the same, sugar," he speaks kindly, not wanting you to think he's being critical as he nods to the entryway behind you.

You grit your teeth together and let your hand rest on his shoulder. "King kicked the princess out of the castle."

And, suddenly, it doesn't seem embarrassing anymore. In fact, it seems perfectly apt that Jungkook knows. He doesn't pry, don't push for further clarification. Just nods. Accepts your reality.

"Castles are overrated, anyway," he presses a kiss to your head, and gently guides you through the threshold. The corridor is short, opening up to an open plan studio. The layout varies from Jungkook's, but it's similar in size. Small.

"Ignore the wallpaper," you say of the awkwardly granny-ish floral print. It's beige, so not totally offensive, but dear god, you think it looks like vomit.

"No," he grins. "It's... wow. Your landlord really knows how to make a statement, don't they?"

You perch on your bed and cringe. "A statement... a crime against interior design. Whatever you wanna call it."

Jungkook continues to pace around your room with a curious smile. He's partially deflecting from the fact he knows you're probably dying to ask about his face, and why he was so desperate to be with you, but he's also interested in the life you neglected to share with him.

Brown cardboard boxes are piled high in the corners, your possessions not yet unboxed.

This place is just temporary.

You've got three and a half million won sat on your desk. A couple more weeks, just a few, and you'll have enough for a deposit on a decent flat. Then you can get a regular job, something stable, and you won't have to worry. You could work through the summer and then figure out what to do next. Just as long as you keep on moving upwards, you'll be happy.

"So," you begin gingerly, as you head to the kitchenette beside your bed, wetting a cloth beneath your tap. "You gonna tell me what happened to your face?"

He takes your previous position, inviting himself to sit on the end of your bed, anticipating your return. There's light coming in from the thin windows by your ceiling, hitting directly onto your back. He thinks it's apt. Thinks you're the kind of girl who deserves a spotlight. Thinks that Mother Nature agrees.

Jungkook shrugs, in that lazy, boyish way he so often does, as you walk towards him. He spreads his legs, encouraging you between them, letting his hands graze your thighs. You pretend not to notice as you press the damp cloth to his cheek. Tiny crows legs appear at the edges of his eyes, face wincing from the contact. It's painful.

But being alone would be more painful. He chose to be here. To be with you.

And so he tells you what happened, with as much honesty he can muster. There are some things better left unsaid, his occupation being one of them. You listen attentively, dabbing at his wounds, a frown etched into the lines of your face.

"Stay away from the girl, huh?" you muse, avoiding his eyes as you study his face. His nose is still bleeding, but every time you tell him to tilt his head towards the ceiling, it ends up back in its original position. He can't see you as well with his head tilted back. Doesn't like it. Doesn't wanna do it. "Could be any girl."

Jungkook's dimple forms in his cheek. "No. No, it couldn't."

His fingers that have been grazing at your thighs squeeze tenderly, letting you know he means it. More than he thinks you know. More than he knows he should.

There's a chance that any words spoken between the pair of you could be misconstrued. He doesn't know what his feelings for you are, and you don't really understand yours for him - but you understand your body, and the electric current running beneath your lips, dying for a connection. A little spark.

So you do the only thing that makes sense: you kiss him.

And he kisses you back. Slowly, tenderly, deliberately. His lips melt into yours, hand pulling your legs closer. He encourages you onto his lap, as if he needs to be insufferably close to you. Once you're positioned how he wants, just like you were earlier, he grips your waist, keeping you stationed there.

Jungkook knows he should stop.

He knows he should have paid attention to the pair of fists that warned him off you as his skull hit the pavement earlier that morning, knows he shouldn't let himself get so wrapped up in such a red flag - but he just can't help himself. It's like you're laced in the narcotics he deals, and slowly but surely, you've gotten him addicted.

He's craving. Dying for a hit. Just a little taste of your tongue on his, the scent of your shampoo in his nose.

Red flags, red stop signs, pretty red lips all plump from the kisses he's smothering them in. Red blood, too. His nose is still a little damaged, and the way he's painting your cheek in crimson should repulse you.

Should repulse you.

Like fuck it does, though. You can smell the copper twinge through his plasma, and suddenly it's as if the Cullen's had the right idea all along.

When he pulls back, only for a moment, hands clutching at the side of your face to assess the look in your eyes, he notices it too. Hard not to. You blush all the fucking time, so much so that he knew the shade by heart, and the rouge on your cheek is far too vibrant, too scarlet. It's his fucking blood on you.

It should scare him, he knows. But the way you're looking at him, eyes all wide and glassy, lips swollen and waiting for more, has him unable to think straight. It has him obsessed, the way you don't care. The way he's covered you in blood and you still seem to want more.

But there's a softness to the way in which you're looking at him, mild confusion, as if you've got the same strange warmth running through your veins as he does. It's not a feeling he recognises, pulsing through his bloodstream with every beat of his heart.

Perhaps it's nothing. Jungkook tells himself that it is. Just adrenaline, probably.

You look at his lips, all crimson and blushed, and realise you much prefer the shade of his blood to the plum lipstick that had tainted them the night before. You're delicate as you wipe your thumb along his pouted bottom lip, just like you did in the bar. Except this time, the jealousy that had blossomed in your diaphragm is nowhere to be found. There's still a pinch beneath your ribs, but this time it's in your heart, and it's far more aching. This time, you feel his hurt.

Jungkook reaches down to where you left the damp cloth on your bed. It's wet and heavy in his hand, a little warm, too. He brings it to your face and dabs silently, cleaning you of the mess he's made. Fixing you. Restoring you to your former glory.

Its futile, 'cause his nose is still fucking bleeding, and you don't plan on leaving it more than a moment before you kiss him again. You simply don't care. Want him for all that he is, blood, sweat and tears.

But still, he insists on ridding you of his stain. Doesn't want to tarnish you. He's soft with the way he presses the cloth against you, mirroring how tenderly you were with him earlier. He's learning from you, adapting to you. Wants to be like you. Wants to be 'better'.

You watch as his eyes scan your face, brows twisted like they always do when he's about to say something but stops himself. The vertical groove just above his cupid's bow is red, blood tacky as it dries. If he kisses you now, he'll leave a stamp; a mark that says 'you're mine.'

It's too much. Far too much. You aren't his, and he knows this. He never wanted you to be his, in fact, for the longest time, he had wanted to be anything but yours.

But now he sits beneath you, crestfallen, heart in his throat, blocking him from speaking.

This was never part of the plan. He was never supposed to end up here. He was supposed to escape from the trenches, to get on the path of straight and narrow. Thrive. Succeed.

And it's not your fault, he knows this, but there's a little part of him that wonders what could have happened if he hadn't seen you that night in Daerim, hadn't seen the way your eyes look beneath night market lights, hadn't heard your laugh as he looked at his favourite view of the city.

You whisper his name, your palm resting flat on his chest, and his brows soften.

It doesn't matter what could have happened, anymore.

All that matters is what is happening.

The shortness of his breath, the flutter of his lashes against your cheek, the swelling between his legs. You can feel it, feel him, and he knows it. The way he's pulsing his hips upwards is testament to that.

It's a comfortable position, you sat on his lap on the end of your bed, not one that either of you wishes to break from. Not even as he begins to breathe against your lips, unable to properly control his reactions thanks to the friction beneath his briefs.

"Want you," he mumbles, pressing his lips into yours, the air in his lungs giving itself up to you. "Want you so bad."

You shake your head, brows pinched just a little. "I'm bad news for you."

And maybe that's it. Maybe he just wants you because he knows he shouldn't - but fuck it, if he can't let himself indulge in simple pleasures, then why bother getting himself beaten to a pulp over you?

"I'm bad news for myself, sugar," he husks against your lips, tickling them as he slips his tongue into your mouth. Deeper, deeper. Closer, closer. He wants it.

Wants it all.

Wants you naked.

Wants to know what it feels like to have you gasp in his ear as his hands roam beneath your panties.

Wants to know if you'd still look at him like you're stargazing even when he's railing you.

Wants it. Wants you. Just wants.

And what Jungkook wants, Jungkook gets.

He slips his hand up your shirt and pushes it upwards, before letting it crumple to the floor. You know that you should be more bashful, a little bit ashamed, but it's impossible when he's looking at you like this.

He has a visual now that he didn't have earlier. The glow of your skin beneath his bruised knuckles looks almost sinful, like he's plucking forbidden fruit from its tree. He'll pay the price for this, and he knows it, but he just can't resist.

Jungkook has always been a boob guy, always loved the way he could get girls moaning with just a little pinch, but never had he had a pair quite like yours. So full, so round, he's not sure his hands are big enough, and that doubt makes him throb. Soft and pillowy, he groans as he watches his fingers sink into them, utterly enthralled. His hips adjust, pushing upwards, pressing himself into you. He wants this. Wants it so bad.

You can feel the metal of his rings against your skin, and then you can feel his lips, his tongue, his teeth as they graze against the plush skin of your chest. He licks around your nipple, letting the air cool the wet trail, hardening you for him.

He's utterly obsessed.

His mouth pulls at the sensitive skin, suckles, sucks. His lashes are splayed on the tops of his cheeks, lips pouting around your nipple as he does so, small groans of pleasure vibrating against you. It will be a miracle if he can't already feel you seeping through your panties.

You whimper as his teeth graze your hardened nub, and his eyes flutter open. He doesn't detach himself, but instead, he keeps your gaze as he sucks. The pressure varies, and then it's hard. Really fucking hard. So hard you'll think he'll somehow give your nipple a hickey - but fuck, if you don't love the sensation.

"Christ," you gasp, before biting down into your bottom lip.

"Too hard?" He mumbles against you, peppering you in kisses and soft licks as if to apologise.

"No," you pant. "Was good. Was great. Just - fuck."

You laugh, soft and airy, and Jungkook smiles from the sound.

He likes this. Likes how you react to him.

And while he’s patient and gentle with you in a way that he isn't with other people, Jungkook has only ever known how to have sex in one way. It's ingrained into him, as if he was made to fuck like it; like he doesn't give a shit about the person he's screwing.

Jungkook doesn't do love, and you know this. He trades. Works in transactions. Settles debts. You don't really know this part, but you aren't stupid. You know he's never in Daerim for any good fucking reason.

You don't question it as his hands move south, slipping past your underwear. In fact, you're smug as he curses when he feels how wet you are, fingers slippery in your panties.

He pushes a finger into you, and closely follows it with a second. They curl ever so slightly, and it's at this point that you realise Jungkook is absolutely going to ruin you. Just a few pumps. Just to ease you up.

He's bored of waiting. Wants you now.

The pair of you move fluidly, minimal discussion needed, just occasional checks of 'you good?', or 'this okay?'. The answer is, always, without a doubt, 'yes'.

He gets you on your back, panties pulled off, legs not quite hanging off the edge of your bed, but nearly. He strips himself of his shirt first, and grins as he notices the way you whine.

"What?" he toys.

"Nothing," you flirt. "Just wish you'd hurry up. I'm a busy woman."

"Oh yeah?" The sound of his buckle coming undone is enough to make you fucking leak. "Busy doing what?"

You neglect to tell him. Not because you don't have a witty remark lined up, but because he's fucking naked now.

What a sight to behold he is. Body lean, honey skin flawless, muscles defined. You pretend like you're looking at his body, but your eyes are drawn to his cock. You'd expected length, but not the girth - and he has both in abundance. The tip of his cock is blushed and wet, with Jungkook just as aroused as you are.

Noticing your gaze, he rolls his eyes, and toys with your pussy again, lightly running his fingers up and down your slick entrance. When he pulls back, his fingers are still connected by thick clear fluid. His cock throbs.

"You're gonna get me so dirty," he hums, as he crawls onto the bed above you, before holding his fingers to your mouth. "Clean them."

Part of you wants to say no, but the other part of you can see his darkened gaze and the way his cock is twitching. You can't refuse.

His fingers are on the tip of your tongue, the tip of his cock nudging so close to your entrance that he may as well just do it. You raise your hips, encouraging, but he retracts a little just to tease.

The fingers that were in your mouth come to grip at the soft flesh of your cheeks, his thumb on the other side. "Don't you fucking dare."

There's tepid aggression to his movements, and it makes you feel vulnerable - but you like it. You like the way he's gripping your face, the ways he's looking at you with narrow eyes, just like he used to do across the lecture hall. You like being reminded of when you were nothing to one another, because it makes the satisfaction of feeling his stiff cock jump a little against your pussy as you moan so much more worth it.

He used to hate you, now he can't wait to bury his fat cock in you. Victory is yours, even if he's trying to act like he's the one holding all the cards.

You don't correct him, though. You let him think he has the upper hand. You'll play pillow princess just this once if it means you get to see him a little bit mean again.

"Dare what?" you pout, cheeks still squished between his fingers. He grips a little tighter, your chest rising as you gasp. He pulls your face towards his, sinking down into your lips, until he decided he's done with you.

He stands by the edge of your bed, and yanks your ankles towards him, pulling you close enough to the edge for him to fuck you like this.

The loss of his grip is unwelcome by you, a frown forming. He isn't looking at your face now, eyes down on his cock, which he's rubbing between your soaked pussy lips, but he can almost hear you brace yourself to whine. He smirks, one side of his mouth lifting, head knocking to the side slightly.

"Don't you dare try and set the pace," he finally husks, still not glancing up towards you. He's taking his time, making sure the head of his cock kisses every inch of your exposed mess. "Nearly got my nose fucking broken for this pussy-" he spits, hard and fast, right onto your clit, spreading it with his cock. "- so I'm gonna make sure I get what I'm owed."

He spreads your thighs back, his fingers gripping harshly just how you like it. Perhaps you should pretend to be embarrassed by the fact your cunt is leaking for him, begging for him, but the way he hisses at the sight, chest heaving, prevents it.

Jungkook's thought about this before, about how pretty and pristine you'd be, about the mess he'd hoped you'd make. Thought about it so many times. Fingers wrapped around his shaft in the middle of the night when no one can hear him chant your name as he spills over. Yeah, he's thought about it a lot.

His imagination has never done you justice. One look and he's obsessed. Wants to spend hours touching, caressing, licking you.

"Take it," you whisper. "What you're owed, Jungkook. Take it."

He looks up now, brows threaded together. You don't recognise the contemplation his face is laced in, but he doesn't give you the chance to question it, for you begin to feel that burn. The one your fingers can never give you. It's alien, and yet familiar, inherently natural but intrusive nonetheless.

"Shit," is all you can manage to say, eyes locked on his.

He wants to watch himself sink into you, watch as his fat cock forces your slick wetness out of your pussy, but he can't. Not when you're looking at him like that. Not when your chest is heaving and your eyes are watering beneath tense brows. Not when your mouth is hanging open and just begging to be fucked like your tight little pussy.

And then he starts feeling something a little strange. A little unfamiliar. A little bit like his heart has stalled to beat in time with the contractions of your chest. And though he's not in pain anymore, too busy feeling you, he's aware that it hurts. Aware that he can't fuck you like he wanted to, 'cause his chest needs to be against yours. Needs to feel the beating drum beneath your ribs.

He doesn't even realise that he's paused until you whine a meagre, "please."

"That's more like it," he hums, as he pushes into you, the base of his thick cock plugging the weeping mess that he's made. You know that as soon as he pulls out, you'll be whimpering, begging for the tip of his cock to kiss your walls once more. "See how nice things can be when you just behave yourself, huh?"

His hips push just a little deeper, and he knows that it hurts. Knows that the little gasp isn't entirely from pleasure. He's seen his cock. Doesn't take a genius to work out that it can do damage.

"You can take it," he tells you, and like a pathetic, whimpering mess, you fucking nod. He's still inside of you, still deeper than you thought possible, and then his hand is on your stomach. He grabs your hand and places it beneath his. "You feel that?" He retracts just a little, pushing back in just as deep. Beneath your hands, there's a bulge. External or internal, it doesn’t matter. It's him. He does it again. "You feel me taking what's mine?"

Whatever the fuck you moan is incoherent, but he doesn't give a shit, 'cause he's ploughing now. Bucking his hips into you like pneumatic fucking drill. Shit. He's done this before. Got it mastered to a fine art. Momenta worthy of a museum exhibition.

Your tits are pillowed on your chest, nice and round, wobbling as he takes command of your body. He slaps one of them, just to watch it ripple, before that firm grip of his is on it. "Perfect tits," he growls the compliment, not really meaning for it to come out. "Gonna put my cock between them later," he tells you. "Gonna cum all over them."

He doesn't tell you that he'll also clean them with his hungry tongue, before delivering his cum into your mouth. Figures he'll just let you find out. His brain is working at a mile a minute, trying to reign back thoughts of sharing his cum with you in such a filthy manner. God, he wants to do heinous things to you. With you. For you.

But for now, he needs to focus on his cock. It's rubbing inside of you, nuzzling. He knows he's weeping, and that his precum is getting mixed with your slick juices. Knows he won't last long if you keep whining like that. Mewling. Purring.

He stalls his hips, letting go of your tits as they jiggle back into position. Your cheeks are flushed, imprints of his fingers reddening your skin. Lips pouted and resting ajar, Jungkook thinks they've never looked more fuckable. More kissable. More whisper-sweet-nothings-against-able.

"You ever shut the fuck up?" he teases, but is quick to notice confusion flash in your eyes. He didn't mean it as an insult, but it's easy to read the hurt in your perplexed features, and the way you begin to try and push your legs together. It's futile. His cock is keeping you open.

But you feel embarrassed, as if your natural reactions to him are a turn-off. It's silly, because he's quite literally inside of you, fat and solid, using you to milk himself. Of course, he's not turned off, but you're hyper-aware of how vulnerable you're feeling right now. It had been fun to pretend like you were in control, but as soon as he slipped inside of you, all sense of power had evaporated.

He doesn't realise this though. Doesn't realise that his cock is nudging so deep into you that it's practically knocking against your heart. Knock, knock, knock. Who's there? Your mind taunts, but you daren't answer.

"Hey," he coos, one of his large palms stroking on the inside of your thighs. That uncomfortable, obscure feeling is back again. The one that tells him he needs to be closer to you. This time, he doesn't ignore it. His hips pulse, just the once. A reminder he's still very much into this. Into you.

His hands grip your waist, softly this time, as he manoeuvres himself onto the bed with you, keeping himself snug. Your head is by the pillows, Jungkook's knees on either side of your ass, his chest flat against yours as one of his hands cradles your jaw. He presses a chaste, airy kiss against your lips, and whispers, "I love the way you sound." He kisses you again, hips rocking. You're trying not to, but you whine. "Fuck, sugar. You're my favourite fucking sound."

Your legs hook over his back, and he groans now. The angle change lets him delve deeper, your walls massaging him so well. Jungkook thinks he might have died and gone to heaven. He's slipping in and out of you with minimal force, skin slapping together. He makes sure to let his moans roll off his tongue and into your mouth. You eat them up and give them back. The pair of you aren't kissing anymore, just gasping and humming into one another's mouths. He's stuttering.

There's a pause as he adjusts his grip, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of your thighs. He likes it, the way you seem to melt around him in all capacities. His lips nudge against yours as his steady hips begin to rock into yours again.

You groan as he pushes down on your legs, pushing you as far apart as your bones allow. It's typical of him, seeing how far he can take things. Push them to the limit. Always gets him in trouble. There's a click, as air escapes from the socket where your leg meets your pelvis.

"You good?" He checks and you respond with a kiss. Hands tangled in his hair, you hope it conveys the fact you've never felt better. He laughs a little, soft and serene, into your mouth, the weight of his body keeping you trapped beneath him.

You're morbid in your thoughts, and consider how nice it would be for Jungkook to suffocate you like this; steal you of the air you breathe with his tiny giggles of satisfaction. So, so nice, you think.

And so you tell him. You tell him that you want his hand on your throat. He takes a second to respond - not because he doesn't want to, but more so because he can't believe you actually asked.

He doesn't normally fuck the girls he cares about like this. Then again, he never really cares about the girls he fucks.

"God," you moan as he pushes one of your legs over his shoulder. His body is clammy against yours, skin hot and damp, chest lean but built. He's working hard; not just for his release. For yours too. Rams into you, stuffing your cunt with his cock, dipping his head to lather your clasped throat in wet kisses.

"That's it, sugar," he growls as his teeth graze your neck. "Need to hear how good you feel. Need to hear what my cock does to you. You owe me."

You want to laugh. You're about to laugh. But then his head dips down to your chest, and he latches onto one of your pebbled nipples, sucking so hard that all you can do is tremble. He knows you like this. Knows it makes your pussy all creamy and slippery for him - and like clockwork, he's proven right. The sounds are lewd. He loves it.

"On your back," you husk, punctuating your instruction with a whimper as he suckles even harder. He shakes his head, eyes closed, mouth vibrating and full of your tit. Not a chance, he tries to say, but it just sounds likes he's forgotten how to speak. Too busy. Too close to spilling himself into you. Doesn't wanna get distracted.

So focused, he doesn't realise you're pushing him over until you're on top. He frowns as he detaches from your nipple with a pop, but his hands are running all over your body regardless. Obviously doesn't care that much. Course he doesn't. That ache in his chest has settled.

Until he starts thinking about it, and oh god, it's back and it's fucking unbearable.

"C'mere," he pulls you flush against him, as your hips begin to work against him. His hands cradle your face so he can kiss you as deeply as he likes, tongue slipping into your mouth, as his cock slips up and down your pussy. This, he thinks, is it. This is what fucking should feel like.

"Shit," he whispers. "Shit."

The friction of his surprisingly neat hair that rests at the base of his cock is nice. Real fuckin' nice. You're not even fucking him anymore, just grinding against it. Using it, using him, to get yourself off.

You think you're being slick, like he won't notice - but he does. Of course, he does. He's obsessed with your body.

"God, yeah, baby," his back arches, pressing his chest against yours, eyes closed. "Use me like that. Use me," he bites into your shoulder gently. "Fucking use me."

He means it. Doesn't give a shit about himself anymore. Just wants to feel you tremble as he holds you close. Wants to press kisses against your lips as your moans become undignified. He needs to be the reason you cum; needs to be responsible for your oxytocin rush.

You sit up a little, and Jungkook holds back a pout from the separation - but how can he complain when you're sat like that, his cock buried inside of you, hair a mess and with eyes like his favourite constellation? He's hypnotised as your boobs begin to bounce, pussy working up his shaft like the true Daerim woman of the night you are. He's forgotten about all of that, now. Can't think about anything except for how to not fucking cum.

He can't and he won't. Not until you do. But you're bouncing, and it's wet, and he can hear it, and it feels so fuckin' good. His toes are curling, torso tensing, eyes half-shut, pretty little pout hanging open. He's fucking whining. "Yeah like that," he encourages. "Gonna milk me so well, baby. Gonna... ah. Fuck. Gonna-"

Jungkook can't fucking speak. He wants to. Wants to tell you how fucking beautiful you look, how he wants this endlessly, how he never wants to let you go. Needs to tell you how right this feels, how good you make him feel, how he doesn't understand his feelings but fuck, just that he is feeling. Feeling so much.

You're not sure at which point he started calling you baby, but you're actually convinced that the name alone could tip you over the edge.

The pace of your hips is slowly, savouring. He doesn't quite get it. You were so close. Why stop?

The stillness of your movements makes way for something new. He feels a throb around his fat cock, which is begging for release. Notices the way your chest is shaking like you've got hiccups, tiny whines of pleasure making themselves known. Your pussy was always warm, but it's hot now, contracting around him.

And then he gets it.

"Oh, shit," he mewls, his hips slowly pumping upwards. "Yeah, that's it, baby. Let yourself cum. All over my dick," he encourages, hedonistic and self-serving. "That's it. Cream for me."

His slow movements as he fucks up into you amplify the sensation, the tip of his cock nudging languidly against your tight walls. Your entire body shudders, the feeling rippling from your chest right down to your toes. You rasp out moans, the sensation all too powerful, a creamy mess pooling at the base of his shaft. There's a jerk as your muscles spasm, your orgasm well and truly delivered. He pulls you down and into his chest, his strong arms wrapped around your back.

Your body rests on his, spent and sensitive, and he can tell you can't hold out for much longer. He pushes back the hair that's sticking to your clammy face, and presses kisses into your temple.

"So big," you hum, voice hazy, eyes shut.

"Just a little more, baby," he promises. " You're doing so well. Just a little..."

You've considered how Jungkook would orgasm on more than one occasion - and you're pleasantly surprised to find that your imagination was wrong. There's no grand declaration, nor large grunt. He's not aggressive, either, like you'd half-hoped he would be.

Instead, Jungkook kisses you as his hips begin to stall. His brows are creased, moans muffled against your lips. His torso shudders, abdomen as tight as his balls. "Baby," he drowsily mewls, and then it's happening. His cock pumps into you, unloading thick creamy spurts with every stroke of your pussy. The first one is so desperate that you're almost positive you can feel it paint your insides. You moan along with him, utterly obsessed with this, him, whatever the fuck just happened.

He doesn't withdraw immediately. Just lays there and kisses your skin, absolutely spent.

You don't move a muscle. You don't want it to be over. Don't wanna lose this. Lose him.

When you tilt your head to look at him, he's smiling. Eyes closed, cheeks appled. Serene. In a state of fucked-out bliss.

You tell him that he's pretty, and he lets out an airy laugh, covering his face with one of his hands. You move his hand and watch him fondly, enthralled with the grin that he's struggling to fight.

He turns to look at you, and the smile he's been boasting amplifies. "God, you're gorgeous."

It's not a new observation; just one he's never voiced before. One that he was able to resist saying. But you're naked now, chest pillowed against his, eyes glowing and nose blushed.

You hum, running a hand through his dishevelled hair. "I'm glad you chose to come here."

Just like that, there's a knot in Jungkook's stomach that seems to anchor that feeling he keeps having.

"Yeah," he nods. "Me too."

IT'S THREE IN the afternoon by the time you wake from your post-fuck snooze. Jungkook's never had one of those before. Hated being sticky after sex with anyone else. Always had to shower - but with you, he wants to stick to you like glue.

"Should have filmed that," he hums, the tips of his fingers stroking up your arms. You aren't sure if he's joking or not. "Would have given us a unique take on the project. Probably wouldn't have gotten us very high grades, mind you, but art is subjective."

"Some would argue that the critique of art is objective," you muse back, still blissfully cum-drunk from the events prior to your nap. Jungkook's nose has stopped bleeding, and the pair of you have almost forgotten the reason he showed up in the first place. "Documentary maker by night, porn star by day," you flirt. "Although it's cute that you think you fuck like a porn star."

"I felt you shaking," he says, knowing there's no possible way that you didn't enjoy it. His nose feels a little cold after all the trauma of the morning, so he buries it into your hair. "Can't fake that."

"That's what I'm saying," you simper, pressing a kiss against his bare torso, just below the meeting of his collarbones. And then another, simply for good measure. "Porn stars never actually look like they're making the woman feel any good." You trail down his chest, tongue licking gently at the darker skin around his nipple. "You... yeah you don't fuck like a porn star." And then you suck a little. He hisses, in the best possible way. 

"Don't," he says. "Not ready to go again."

You laugh. 

Jungkook thinks he's reached Nirvana. Almost certain, in fact. Never had a girl do that to him before. He loves to give it, but hasn't ever thought to receive it. Wonders what other things you'll do to him that he's never had done before. He can feel his cock fucking twitching again, achy and sore, definitely not recovered yet from how hard he went earlier - but god, he wants it. Wants to bury himself inside you again. Belong to you.

His hands paw at you, one gripping on your chest, the other on your ass, pulling you closer. Your leg hooks over him, and he can feel how wet you still are on the side of his thigh. His balls fucking tighten. He can feel it happening, blood rushing to his crotch. 

Yet despite it all, he just kisses you. Softly. Tenderly. Merely his lips languid between yours. Withdraws slowly. Keeps his eyes closed. Bliss.

"The fuck have you done to me, sugar?" he whispers, dark eyes opening to look into yours. His speech is husky, like he trying to steal the answers of a pop-quiz from you. You can't help him. You don't have a clue what the answer is. You're just as stuck as he is. "Got me feeling all fuzzy 'n' shit."

"Just a sugar rush," you smile. "It'll pass."

You're both acutely aware that it won't, but that will be a problem for another day.

"Tell you what," Jungkook muses, though his thoughts are shallow. He's not digging deep. Just talking for the sake of it. "I might not fuck like a porn star, but you don't fuck like a hooker." 

He pulls your arm up so that he can study the crease of your elbow. You let him move your body like you're a barbie doll. You'll be his toy, you think, if he wants. No bother. 

His fingers press at the thin skin that covers your veins, inspecting. 

"Not a scratch," he assesses. "So you're not an addict either."

You laugh, slightly amused. "No? Maybe I just don't inject."

Jungkook gives you a stern look. Hopes you're joking. Tells you that you better fucking be joking. The sweetness of your laughter tells him that you are.

"So?" you press. "I'm not a prostitute and I'm not an addict. It's your lucky day. What of it?"

Jungkook tilts his head down so that his nose is nestled into the crown of your head again. Comforting, he thinks. Smells like laundry. You must have washed your sheets recently. 

His next statement takes you off guard. 

"Only ever see three kinds of women down in Daerim." 

And you know.

You know he knows. 

You can feel it in the way he protectively presses his lips into your skull, as if he's Prince Charming trying to rid his Sleeping Beauty of the nightmare she's been living. Wake up.

But Prince Charming rides a white horse, not a petrol-spitting, air-cooled, steel-framed shadow that rips through the city at night. 

There are no nightmares, either. You're already wide awake. There's no saving you. 

He sighs against your head. Pauses. Resists, and then confronts. 

"I know what you do in the dark, sugar."

You don't say anything for a moment, and then you're pulling away from him, reaching for your shirt. He doesn't like this. Misses your warmth, but doesn't stop you. Instead, he follows, sitting on the edge of your bed, the corner of your comforter lazily protecting his modesty. His muscles are relaxed now, a little crease in his stomach from the way that he's slouching, hands in his lap. Those Bambi eyes of his are peaking through his hair, cheeks red and grazed from the morning encounter he'd had in Daerim.

He watches as you pull your shirt over your head, hair just as messy as his, and a graze on your cheek to match. He was pretty certain before that it had been carpet burn, but now that he's seen it up close, softly rubbed his thumb against it during pretty kisses, he's sure of it.

You avert his gaze. Feel shameful. Hate that he knows. You never cared before. It was just a fun little secret, the fact that he didn't know you were no angel. 

But you want him to think that you're one, now. 

For a moment, you were sure that he had. 

Instead, now, it feels like you're falling from grace.

He reaches for your hand, but you pull it back. "Please don't."

And so he doesn't. Just sits for a little while instead. "Do you want me to get dressed?"

You really don't. 

But your tongue is lodged in your mouth and it won't budge. You turn away, internally furious with yourself. It's been a while since you've gotten like this; so dreadfully panicked that you can't talk. It's a once in a blue moon kind of thing, the early onset of a panic attack, but you're hoping it won't reach the stage of no return. Praying.

"Babe?"

He sounds worried now, and it's making it worse. Feels like you've just reached the top of Bukhan Mountain without taking a second to catch your breath. 

Has your chest always been this tight? Or has someone just been wrapping rubber bands around your torso without you noticing? 

It isn't possible, and you know this, but it feels like it and - oh God - you can hear him shuffling, the buckle of his belt clanging. He's leaving, he's leaving, he's leaving, your ribs cackle as they close down on your lungs. 

There's a light hum behind you, like a wasp is coming to send you into a state of anaphylactic shock and then it stops. His jeans are tossed to the floor once more.

"Yoongi?" Jungkook speaks quietly behind you into the receiver of his phone. "Wassu- Yeah, yeah, I'm safe. I'm good."

I'm safe. 

I'm good.

"Where are- Yoongi stop. Stop it. I'm being deadly fucking serious-"

You don't realise it, but your chest begins to mellow as you listen in to his conversation. 

"It's my mess!" He shouts now. "I'll fucking fix it. I don't give a fuck what Hobi says. Where you at? The Zoo? I'll be there- Yes, I will. Don't do anything fucking stupid."

And then he hangs up, chucking his phone into your bed with more aggression than he'd ever wanted to show in your presence. You don't see it, back still turned, but you hear it, the way his phone rebounds against the springs of your mattress.

"Shit," he hisses, and when you turn to face him, you find that his head is in his hands, elbows on his knees.

Crouching by him, your chest expands. You don't give a shit about yourself anymore. Your palms rest just behind his elbows, eyes anchored below his, looking up. 

"He's got his fucking final in an hour," is all Jungkook says. "He's gonna miss his fucking final."

He lifts his head, tender lips pouted, eyes bloodshot from the pressure he's been placing on his palms. Looks right at you. Decides he'll never trust another pair of eyes more.

"I know what you do in the dark, sugar," he relays. "But I do worse. So much fucking worse. And I've just gone and fucked it all up."

And while he blames it all on himself, you know it's your fault. 

He didn't stay away from the girl. He tempted fate, tugged on the red string, and accidentally snapped it.

Forlorn, he slumps, tongue wetting his bottom lip as he bites down on it. It's only to stop it from trembling. Clouds lurk in his eyes, trying to block his vulnerabilities from you, but it doesn't take a genius to work out that he's scared. 

"Take it," you say, lips in a flat line, eyes stern. You nod towards the pile of cash on your desk, and his eyes follow. "Take it. Pay your debts. I can earn it again. I don't have a deadline. You do."

He shakes his head.

"I'm not taking the money you've earned."

"Yes, you are."

"I'm not," he protests and you've got it in your right mind to slap his pretty face silly. "Gonna be totally honest," he adds, "Don't really want your sugar baby money. Kinda resent it a little. Resent the fucker who gave it to you."

Jungkook hates him. 

Doesn't know him.

Loathes him.

"So then give him the middle finger and take it," you plead. "He got you fucked up into this mess, he got you jumped, he got your stash stolen. Take his money and get yourself and Yoongi out of it. You don't have time to be fucking arguing with me."

He wants to fight back. You stop him.

"We can argue later," you promise.

And that ever-present effervescent feeling is back in his chest. 

"Sugar," he speaks quietly. "Don't do this."

"Kook," you respond, voice much firmer than his. "You gotta do this. Yoongi shouldn't be fixing your mistakes and you know it. We can work it out on an I.O.U. basis. It's okay."

"I.O.U. suggests I'm gonna keep seeing you for a while," Jungkook mumbles. He isn't feeling as confident in himself as he had done earlier. 

You stand, offering your hand to him so that you can pull him up with you. Neither of you acknowledge the fact that he's stark bollock naked. It's really not the time. Nothing you haven't seen before, after all.

"Well, yeah," you shrug with a straight face, but there's a glint in your eye. "I'd hope so. Pretty sure you said you were fuck my tits later? Gotta hold up your end of the bargain, sugar."

And despite it all, he laughs, toying with your hands before slipping his finger between yours. "Don't call me that."

"Why not?" You squeeze his hands. "You're technically my sugar baby now."

"That's not how it works."

God, he knows he shouldn't be fucking about, wasting time flirting, but he just can't help himself.

"No?" You question, equally distracted.

"No," he says. "If you're paying me, and I'm fucking you, then that makes me a hooker."

He's not wrong. 

"Oh, that's kinda hot," you smile, pulling gently on his hands to encourage him to lean down. He does as he's told, and kisses you like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"You're so fucked up," he whispers against you, knowing that it's exactly why he enjoys you so much.

You don't let the moment linger, though, tossing him his clothes and going to grab the money while he dresses himself. You stack it together, all nice and neat, using the desk to straighten the edges. The wedge is thick in your hands. Yellow 50's are laughing at you. Stupid girl thought we'd fix her problems, they chatter silently to one another.

"Three and half million won," you hold it out to Jungkook. He hesitates, so you force his grip around it and let go. It's his problem, now. Not yours. You smile so warmly that Jungkook can't help but let that feeling in his chest simmer. Your hair is still messy, mascara still smudged. He wants to kiss your cheeks. 

Jungkook hasn't disclosed what exactly was in his bag.

But in the same way he knows there are only three types of women in Daerim, you know there are equally only three types of men.

There's only one demographic that he belongs to. Yoongi, too. 

You don't say it explicitly, not like he does. 

"Holangi are nasty fuckers," you acknowledge. "I know they raise the stakes just for the fun of it. Whatever got stolen, the street value doesn't matter. Take it all. You'll need it."

Take what I owe you.

When he kisses you goodbye, it's just like the first time; all breathy and needy, lips parted and pouting. Again and again, he presses down into your lips. His brows furrow, hands on your cheeks, chest pressed against yours.

The crimson paint that had stained you from his very first kiss returns. You're painted in red for the second time that morning, but this time only you can see it. Only you can feel it.

That's her. That's the girl who let Jeon Jungkook kiss her like he actually meant it. 

But it's funny now, because you know that he does mean it.

When he finally leaves, his nose is blushed, his cupids bow too. Eyes glassy. Smile forlorn.  

Disappointingly, as you close the door of your apartment when he's no longer in your line of sight, you remember exactly how Jungkook had kissed you for the first time:

Like it was going to be the last.

And it consumes you, because the kiss you just shared felt exactly the same.

Your chest is uncomfortable again, but it's not rubber bands this time. 

It's that stupid red string that Jungkook had tugged too tightly on.

The one that he'd snapped right in half. 

WATTPAD // AO3 // KO-FI // CARRD

[in-my-feels-probably]

Older Art spoiling his 20 something yo girlfriend that goes to Stanford. She looks up to him and listens to him and does whatever he says and basically lives for his praise.

I Feel So High School (Every Time I Look At You)

Request: Older Art spoiling his 20 something yo girlfriend that goes to Stanford. She looks up to him and listens to him and does whatever he says and basically lives for his praise.

and: art being 10ish years older than reader? that’s all i got. go crazy

Hi! Challengers has been on my mind literally since the day it came out, and I think I've read every single fic on here about it, so I figured I’d give it a shot writing one myself. First of all, I combined your requests, hope that’s ok. Second, this is my first time writing for Art, so please bear with me while I try and get the hang of writing his character. I haven’t written a fic in weeks, so my skills are definitely a little rusty. Please be kind! Anyways, I hope you like this. Let me know what you think, and thank you for the request :)

(Warnings: none? idk, maybe very vague mentions of sex, art is divorced, swearing, i guess the age gap taboo. let me know if i missed anything)

—

You should have known trying to explain your situation with Art to someone else would’ve been difficult, but finally telling your roommate everything was just as humiliating as you thought it would be. She always had a knack for nosing her way into your business, and not even you were immune to her federal level detective skills when it came to getting information out of someone. 

“And I’m seeing him today,” you finished your rant as you sucked in a breath, wincing as you waited for the bomb to drop.

But it didn’t. Your roommate just grinned, standing up and walking over to your closet. You watched with a confused look on your face until she turned to you, already elbow deep in your clothes.

“So…you have a sugar daddy?” your roommate asked, trying to stifle a laugh as she rifled through your closet to help you find an outfit. “No judgment, I’m honestly jealous.”

You picked a pillow up off your bed, launching it at her when she smirked as you flushed. “I don’t have a sugar daddy! I have a…well—ok, I don’t know what we are. But he’s not my sugar daddy.”

“No, he’s just an ex pro tennis player with a famous ex wife who was also a pro tennis player that he had a perfect little girl with, complete with a house in the Hamptons. Now, he’s…what, exactly? A coach? A commentator? Part of Stanford’s glorified alumni? No, I’ve got it! I know what he is — hot. In a beekeeping age, recently divorced, kind of way.”

You rolled your eyes, standing up to help her look through your closet. “He’s only in his thirties. You’re making him sound archaic and washed up.”

“Look at you, gushing over him,” she grinned as she finally landed on something for you to wear, quickly handing it to you. “At least he has good taste. You’re hot, too.”

Your roommate turned around while you quickly changed, sitting down at the foot of your bed. She talked over her shoulder as you got dressed, her voice full of curiosity.

“So, how did this all happen anyway?”

You sighed, shaking your head. “Remember alumni week with all the guest lectures and presentations a few months ago?”

“You met Art Donaldson during alumni week? What the fuck! Why didn’t you tell me? I wouldn’t have skipped all my classes that week if I thought I was gonna pick up a trophy husband instead of being forced to sit through a mind-numbingly boring presentation from some guy who used to go here that I’ve never heard of.”

“Sucks to suck, babe,” you grinned, finished getting dressed. “I’m good, you can turn around now.”

She quickly turned around, patting the spot on the bed next to her.

“How did this even happen? I’ve never seen you step foot on a tennis court in your life, and I know they wouldn’t have asked him to speak in a graduate lecture.”

You sat down next to her, nodding. “He did a seminar down at the courts for the kinesiology majors or something like that. They were learning about sports related injuries and how to treat them. He told them about how he hurt his shoulder a few years ago during a match, and he talked about all the physical therapy he had to do.”

“You’re telling me you sat through a kinesiology lecture? On a tennis court? When you don’t even study kinesiology?”

“Absolutely not,” you laughed, leaning back against the headboard. “He told me about it that first week while he was here.”

Your roommate giggled, grabbing your hand and squeezing it. “Oh my god! Okay, okay. Spill. Now. I want to know everything.”

You playfully rolled your eyes, but started ranting again anyway. 

—

In truth, you didn’t really know what your relationship with Art was. You’d met when returning alumni who’d gone on to excel in their fields came to campus for guest lectures and demonstrations.

In a total mortifying cliche, you ran into Art in a hallway while you were rushing to a lecture that had already started ten minutes earlier. You would have been on time, but your roommate accidentally locked herself out of your dorm, and the RA wasn’t answering their phone. She had an exam she needed to get to, which—in her own words—“trumps your boring book lecture.” You had no choice but to turn around and save her, making the trek back across campus to let her in. That’s how you ended up running face first into Art, your bag and all your things scattering across the floor. By some miracle, at least the halls were empty.

You quickly kneeled, scrambling to pick up all your things. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going. I’m late for class.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, kneeling to help you.

It was then when you looked up, and you felt your heart jump into your throat. Art Donaldson—famous alumni and world renowned tennis player—was crouched right in front of you, handing you half empty tubes of chapstick, a pair of headphones, and a stray pack of gum. Oh god, you thought to yourself. Why me? Why today? You quickly cleared your throat, standing up.

“God, sorry. Thanks…Mr. Donaldson.”

You cringed as you said it, the title of Mr. feeling off as it rolled off your tongue.

“Mr. Donaldson?” he raised a brow, shaking his head. “No, just call me Art. Uh, you know who I am? Am I actually still recognizable here? I figured no one off of the courts would have any idea who I was.”

You glanced down at his shirt, pointing. “You’re wearing a name tag.”

Art paled, raising a hand to awkwardly scratch at the back of his neck. Good one, he thought to himself. Very humble. He cringed to himself as his cheeks flushed, a small smile on his face.

“Right. I knew that.”

You smiled, pulling your bag back over your shoulder as you let out a little chuckle. “I know who you are. Stanford never lets us forget about their prized students.”

“Ah,” he nodded, grinning. “In my day, it was Reese Witherspoon and Jennifer Connelly. Although, Reese dropped out halfway through her degree, so they don’t talk about her much—”

“And Jennifer left Yale to come study here,” you finished. “That’s one they do still brag about.”

Art smiled, leaning back against the wall as he looked at you. You suddenly became very aware of your situation, tearing your eyes away from him to look down the hall where your class was. Art’s eyes followed, and he straightened up, clearing his throat.

“Am I keeping you?”

“No!” you said all too quickly, biting your tongue for a second before you forced yourself to calm down and continue. “Uh, my class already started. It’s not really important, he doesn’t count attendance anyway. And, to be honest, he’s pretty dull. He managed to make Jane Austen boring.”

“Not Bazin’s class, is it?” Art asked, making you raise a brow.

“Yeah, it is. How’d you know that?”

Art smiled, letting out a little laugh. “That’s why I came this way, I wanted to see if Professor Bazin still taught English here. He was a dinosaur even when I graduated. I’m surprised they still let him teach.”

“If they actually read the end of term course evaluations they make us fill out, they wouldn’t,” you mused, making Art grin wider.

“I guess I should let you go then,” Art shrugged, glancing down the hall. “Wouldn’t want you to miss out on something you could use in your scathing evaluation.”

You glanced back down the hallway at your classroom, but you couldn’t get your feet to move. You weren’t sure why, but you didn’t want to go just yet. 

All you did at Stanford was go to and from class and stay on top of your studies. It was monotonous and boring, and you were always up to your neck in papers and projects. Other than your roommate, you hardly had any people left you talked to or hung out with. They all graduated with their undergrad degrees, and you moved on to your graduate studies. Your education was important to you, but it got lonely. You almost never took risks anymore. But as you glanced back at him, that’s what you did.

You took the risk.

“Or…you could save me from my misery?” you stuttered out, an awkward smile on your face.

Art looked at you with an amused expression, tilting his head as he waited for you to continue. You swallowed, fiddling with the strap of your bag.

“My classes are almost all entirely in this building. I’m sure you’re sick of talking about tennis, but between here and my dorm, I don’t think I see enough sunlight in a day to keep me going. Maybe you could walk with me somewhere that actually sees the sun? Doesn’t have to be the courts or anything, although I can say with full confidence that I’ve never actually seen that part of campus and I’m in my graduate studies. Uh, maybe you’ve got somewhere in mind? Or you could let me buy you a cup of shitty cafeteria coffee? I promise I’ll refrain from asking you about your career. But, as I’m sure you can tell just by looking at me, I don’t really know enough about tennis to ask anyway.”

As you rambled on, horrified by your own rambling but determined to put yourself out there, Art smiled. 

He’d met a lot of girls over the years. Some girls who had a genuine interest in him but didn’t last, and some who saw his fame and fortune as a one way ticket to an easy life. 

None of them mattered. 

He had married Tashi, head over heels from the first moment he saw her. He had a kid with her, a career with her, a seemingly picture perfect life with her. It didn’t even occur to him to look at other girls until his marriage started to strain under the weight of his career, and he’d almost forgotten what it was like to look at a girl for the first time and feel that sickening but addictive feeling of butterflies fluttering around in his stomach. After the divorce, it felt so foreign to him that he didn’t even try. He had resigned himself to being a single father who co-parents and lives the rest of his life comfortably and quietly.

But here you were, rambling on with flushed cheeks and bright eyes trying your hardest to ask him out, and he couldn’t be more captivated.

There was just something about you. You were pretty, obviously. Anyone with eyes would’ve been able to see that. But there was something else, too. You were still young and not entirely pessimistic yet, with your whole career ahead of you. Probably no more than a few heartbreaks under your belt, able to muster up some sort of courage to fight for what you wanted. He used to have that, and he missed it — admired it, even. As you finally cut yourself off and looked up at him with mortification written across your face, Art saved you from further embarrassment with a smile. 

“Um…coffee sounds good,” he said with a shy smile. “Not from the cafeteria, though. If it’s as bad as it was when I went here, I’m not gonna let you waste your meal card money on it. There’s a cart outside of the athletics center, I stopped by it this morning. It’s still good.”

Trying your best to mask the shock you were feeling by his answer, you quickly nodded. “Oh, okay. Sounds good.”

You spent the entire afternoon with him. Coffee turned into lunch, and lunch turned into a long walk. Although you both had things to do, neither of you wanted to say goodbye and go on with your day. You skipped the rest of your classes for the day, letting Art show you around campus. He took you to all the places you had never been, and you kept quiet and let him show you anyway when you passed somewhere you had already been a hundred times. He was polite and asked you about your major and career goals, even managing a graceful smile when it was his turn to tell you about his career and how it unfolded after he graduated. He was careful to leave out the end, but he found himself comfortable enough to tell you about the first few years. You asked what you could, but you really didn’t know enough about the sport to ask much of anything.

“I’m boring you to death, aren’t I?” he asked when there was a lapse in silence after you passed a poster with his face on it for a Wimbledon campaign.

“No, not at all!” you replied, tilting your head up towards the poster. “I’m just wondering how you managed it.”

Art cocked a brow, turning towards you. “Managed what?”

“Not becoming a complete asshole,” you shrugged, making him burst out laughing. “I’m serious! You’re not the first celebrity to come here during alumni week. The difference between you and them is that you didn’t show up and immediately start bragging about how successful you had become. As far as I can tell, you’re the same as when you graduated. That seems pretty rare.”

“There’s not much to brag about,” he shrugged, too humble for his own good.

“A career Grand Slam isn’t worth bragging about?” you asked, turning away from him when he gave you a confused look. “Okay, fine, I may or may not have Googled you back in the restaurant while you were in the bathroom. I was running out of things to ask you, and I figured I should know something about tennis. Anyway, I was impressed.”

Art just chuckled. “I’m flattered.”

After walking a few more minutes, the street lamps turned on. It had gotten late enough in the evening that they were starting to light up around the darker parts of the campus. It was your cue to stop walking and look around, both of you realizing how long it had been since you started talking.

“I guess I should be headed back to my dorm,” you said, a hint of disappointment in your voice. “My roommate is probably freaking out by now. She knows I never really go anywhere after class without her—and yes, I heard how pathetic that sounded as it came out. She’s probably gonna call campus security if I don’t show up soon.”

Art nodded, knowing you were right. And yet, his feet didn’t move. Neither of you made any attempt to leave, still standing under the soft light of the street lamps. Art looked at you with soft eyes, absentmindedly reaching to fiddle with his wedding ring with his thumb before he remembered it wasn’t there anymore. Finally, he cleared his throat. 

“Well…I guess this is the part where I ask you for your number.”

“It was nice meeting you, too—” you started, doing a double take once his words registered. “Wait, what?”

Art let out a nervous laugh, shrugging. “You bought me a coffee, it’s only fair that I do the same. I’m here all week. Maybe you’d want to do this again sometime?”

“Uh, yeah! Yeah, that sounds good,” you replied, trying your best and failing to sound as nonchalant as you could.

Art smiled and pulled out his phone, opening his contacts. He handed it over to you, watching as you typed in your number before handing his phone back to him. You fought the heat pooling in your cheeks, fiddling with the strap of your bag. Art grinned, breaking the silence. 

“Go find your roommate. Tell her to call off the search party.”

You chuckled, nodding. “I’m on it. Well…bye, Art.”

“Bye, Y/N. I’ll text you,” he replied, enjoying watching you shuffle back and forth on your heels. 

He made you nervous. And for some reason, he liked that. He’d spent practically the last decade of his life perpetually nervous. It was nice to know someone else felt the same way. 

He watched you go as you turned around and headed back to your dorm, a distant but still familiar warmth in his chest. He’d only known you for a few hours, but he could already tell he liked you. By the time you made it back to your dorm and managed to come up with an excuse for your roommate who immediately interrogated you the second you stepped through the door, your phone was ringing. You excused yourself to the bathroom with a bashful grin on your face, answering the call.

—

You spent the better part of a week with Art when you both had time between your classes and his seminars. 

It felt surprisingly easy and normal talking to him. Your small talk about your careers and plans turned into more personal topics, and then you were talking about anything and everything. You were fully aware of the age gap between you two, but it didn’t bother you nearly as much as you thought it would. If anything, it was part of the draw to him. He was also kind and friendly, with a surprisingly self deprecating sense of humor that made you laugh. Not to mention the fact that he was drop dead gorgeous. You had to actively make sure he didn’t catch you staring at him when his head was turned. He made you want to actually giggle out loud, which is something you never thought you’d do over a guy.

By the end of the week when it was time for him to leave and go back to New York, you both were dreading saying goodbye. 

It was late in the evening, about an hour before he had to leave to catch his flight. He’d finally taken you to the courts, once again only lit by the street lamps overhead. It was the first time all week he’d stepped onto the court and actually wanted to be there, not surrounded by onlookers who knew every nook and cranny of his life and career. Instead it was you, the sweet pretty girl who made him genuinely laugh when you asked him why the points system would ever use the term love to describe a lacking score. 

He fiddled around for a while, teaching you a few serves and how to hold the racquet to hit the ball. Eventually he was on the other side of the net, watching you giggle and chase after the few balls he’d softly serve your way. He could hear you panting and the sound of your shoes skidding across the court, but your laughter was too sweet to make him stop. 

Finally, you stopped to take a break, sitting down on the bench. “Don’t look at me, I might cough up a lung.”

“Very impressive,” he smiled, passing you his water.

“Thank you,” you grinned, motioning between him in the court. “Go on, let’s see what you’ve got. I’m down for the count, but I’m sure the ball machine will be more than happy to fill in for me.”

Art smiled, watching you grin at him with flushed cheeks and glowy skin. If anyone else was asking, he wouldn’t have done it. He wasn’t interested in showing off his skills, or lack thereof to put it more accurately as of late — he’d stopped training as intensely after the divorce, no new tournaments waiting for him to come and win. But the look on your face when you asked was just one he couldn’t say no to. Plus, your knowledge of the sport wasn’t that vast. You probably wouldn’t notice if he slipped up anyway. And if you did, you’d be too kind to make him feel bad about it.

“If you insist,” he groaned, but he was still smiling to himself as he moved to the other side of the court.

You watched him play for a few more minutes. He really was something to see. Every movement he made was smooth and graceful, a far cry from the stumbling around and huffing and puffing you had been doing. Every ball hit its target, every serve lining up exactly where he wanted it to. As silly as it sounded, you actually had to prevent yourself from clapping once he finally slowed down and turned the machine off.

“Look at you go,” you smiled from the bench, handing him back his water as he walked back over.

His cheeks flushed pink, and he was silently praying you couldn’t see it from under the low lights. He was too busy getting all flustered to reply to you, and it made you smile. It was silent for a long moment as you stared at each other, before he finally stood up. You followed him, a sinking feeling in your gut as you realized that it was probably time to say goodbye.

It had been a week you had never even dreamed would’ve happened to you, and yet it did. The one risk you decided to take had led to the most fun you’d had in your entire time at Stanford. You didn’t want to see him go.

As you looked up at him with soft eyes and a melancholy look on your face, like you were looking to him for all the answers, Art felt a sharp tug in his chest. He found himself immediately wanting to fix it, wanting to make you smile again — smile because of him. He’d have done anything in that moment to get you to laugh again.

So, against his better judgment, he leaned in and kissed you. 

It was a spur of the moment decision, one he almost immediately regretted. But then he felt you sink into the kiss, your hands coming up to his waist to steady yourself. He cupped your cheeks and pulled you into him, unable to stop the smile spreading across his lips. 

And that was all it took — he was falling, and falling hard. 

—

That was months ago now, and yet, Art still found reasons to visit you. 

When there was lapses in tours, or it was Tashi’s week with Lily, he always somehow found himself ending up coming right back to you. He’d pick you up from your dorm, and you’d spend the entire day with him. On weekends, you ended up in whatever hotel he was staying at, telling your roommate you were going back home for a few days. When you weren’t together, you were constantly texting or calling. He even sent a postcard once when the ATP took him to Europe. It was cheesy, but you couldn’t wipe the smile off your face all day when you got it in the mail. 

You hadn’t exactly put a label on the relationship, but it was clear to the both of you that you meant more to each other than either of you cared to admit out loud. Quite a bit more, actually.

And Art wasn’t stupid — he knew what your relationship looked like. 

Recently divorced, a younger woman by his side. If they knew, the media would paint him as one of two options: an easily manipulated victim of a gold digger, or a washed up athlete who split with his wife that was now taking what he could get, the younger and prettier the better. 

But that wasn’t it at all for Art.

It wasn’t just sex, or a new pretty face. You were something different. A breath of fresh air. Someone who didn’t care about his career or money or fame. You had no interest in what he could offer you, or what you could get out of him. You never made him feel pressured to do anything or talk about anything he didn’t want to. He’d spent so many years craving a sense of normalcy and peace. Time and time again, he’d wanted to go to Tashi and beg for a break in his routine. But, always too afraid to disappoint her and everyone else watching him, he stayed quiet. He never got a break. As odd as it was to say, that’s what you were to him when he met you — a break. A minute to breathe, a moment to relax. He always felt that way around you.

Simply put, he was head over heels for you. He didn’t think he’d feel like that for another woman after Tashi until he met you, and it shocked him how easily the feeling came to him.

And it wasn’t just him that had fallen. 

You practically hung on every word he said, and soaked up every ounce of praise he gave you. You had never been with someone like him before. Someone so experienced and sure of himself, but just as gentle and patient as he was sure. He made you laugh and smile, and he made you feel safe. For whatever reason he had taken interest in you, you didn’t care, you just didn’t want it to stop. You clung to it, enjoying it while it lasted.

And if either of you had anything to say about it, it would last.

—

By the time you finished explaining your relationship with Art to your roommate, she was already pushing you out the door. 

“Go, go, go,” she squealed, tossing you your keys. “Wait!”

She wrapped her hand around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks as she glanced down at the outfit she chose. “Is that a new dress? Did he buy you a dress? Oh my god, please tell me he has a brother.”

“Not sure,” you grinned, smoothing your hand down your front. “Show up to alumni week next time and find out.”

You were already pressing a kiss to her cheek and rushing down the hall before she could get out another word, giggling as you made your way to the stairs.

On the drive over to the hotel, the nerves in your stomach were making you nervously tap your fingers on the steering wheel. You must’ve got caught by every stop light, making the trip even longer. You were practically vibrating once you finally pulled into the parking lot, grabbing your bag and hurrying inside before your nerves got the better of you and made you stand like an idiot in the lobby, trying to muster up the courage to get in the elevator. You coasted on autopilot as you forced your feet to lead you upstairs to his floor, all the way down to his door. You only came back into your body when you raised a hand to knock on the door, pausing to take a deep breath.

Just knock, you thought to yourself. You’re a big girl. Just knock.

You had barely even knocked twice on the door before the door swung open, and you came face to face with Art. Your breath hitched in your throat, and you took a second to take him in. Still as pretty as you remembered, and every bit as alluring. You could feel yourself melting. 

The feeling was mutual. 

Art let out a sigh of relief, like it was the first good breath he had taken in weeks. A genuine smile crept onto his face as he reached for you, practically making grabby hands like a child. 

“Come here, pretty girl.”

You tried and failed to stifle a giggle, immediately burying yourself in his chest. You let out a hmph as you pressed your cheek against him, your arms wrapping tightly around his waist. You could feel his thumb running along the bare skin of your arm, his lips pressing a kiss to the top of your head. He nudged the door closed with his foot, tugging your bag from your shoulder and setting it on the floor without even letting you go. He was warm to the touch, and steady against you. He hummed into your hair, squeezing you tighter.

“There she is,” he murmured, letting out a small laugh. “My girl.”

“Hi, baby,” you giggled, the sound making his heart soar in his chest. 

He slowly walked you backwards to the bed, supporting most of your weight as you laid down. He was quick to follow, burying his face into the crook of your shoulder. His arms hooked lazily around your waist, his weight pressing you into the mattress.

This is what you both had been waiting for. This feeling, this moment. Just this.

“You look very pretty today,” he whispered into your skin, pressing a kiss where his lips rested. “All this for me?”

The humor in his voice made you grin, your fingers running through his hair. “Couldn’t let you be that pretty all by yourself.”

Art smiled, pressing his face further into your neck as he let out a breath. You tightened your grip around him, holding him close. You let your eyes close, resting your cheek against the top of his head. 

A comfortable silence fell over the both of you, as easy as it ever was.

—

A/N - Hi! So sorry this took so long to get out, thank you for your patience. I keep rereading this and editing it over and over, I’m not totally happy with it. But something is better than nothing, and I’m tired of staring at, so here you go! Hope this is ok, let me know what you think :)

[harmfulb1tch]

How about a Coryo fic where he and reader had a thing before the 10th Games but after everything happened and Coryo went to 12, reader got engaged to someone else maybe Festus or someone??? Coriolanus comes back and tries to get reader back and idk how that goes 🙏🏽

Fallen Rose Petals

Part 2

Summary: he came back, but you were married to another.

Warnings: Angst (happy ending), fluff and suggestive smut (nothing graphic)

A/N: I tried to keep him as in character as possible, but I added a bit of softness because I was in the mood ok??? Please suggest More Coriolanus snow fanfics if you want to, the requests are open!

He came back. He came back just for you. He searched for you in every corner of the Capitol. And he found you, he really did. You were sitting in a café, beautiful red and black dress draped on your body, the white rose he gave you before he left to district 12 pinned to your dress just above your heart. You looked content. You hadn’t seen him yet as he approached you, but something didn’t feel right. Something felt different. He kept approaching you until he saw something shiny on your finger, a golden band with an enormous rock on the center.

Festus Creed came out of the café with a strawberry croissant covered in powdered sugar, you favorite. He hugged you and started kissing your neck in the middle of the street. You looked horrified, embarrassed and even disgusted, but Coriolanus was just seeing red. You looked to the side trying to get away from you husband, and saw the blonde man of your dreams walking away. You gently tried to push you husband away but when that didn’t result effective, you practically shoved him to the side, trying to run after him. You high heel’s retrained you from running, as if it was a sign that he was already gone and you were to live the rest of your life with Festus.

Truth be told, you never wanted to marry Festus. He was arrogant and, frankly, you hated him. You parents on the other hand decided that you had to marry someone of influence and money who could “take care of you”. You always thought Coriolanus Snow was going to be that man, but your parents had other plans.

“Corio!” You called after him like your life depended on it, but to no avail, he never turned back. You dropped to the floor dramatically, as tears stained your face and destroyed the make up you were wearing.

When Coriolanus arrived home, he immediately shut the door of his bedroom harshly behind him, ignoring the comments of concern coming from Tigris and his Grandma’am. After that, in a fit of rage, he started shouting and trashing his bedroom. He threw things against the walls and off the shelves. He felt absolutely blind with rage. After all this years of him waiting for you during his exile, thinking about you even in his sleep and fantasizing about your life together once he came back and had you in his arms. Now, all of that became a fantasy of the past.

The first thing you did after all that, was run towards the street and call your driver to take you to Coriolanus’ childhood home. You knew where it was because all of the time you had spent there during your time at the Academy together. When you arrived, you knocked on the door.

“Y/N! It’s so good to see you!” Tigris said as she opened the door of the house, unaware of the situation that had taken place.

“Hi! Is Corio here? I need to talk to him, it’s urgent” you said rushed, filled with anxiety.

“Uh… yeah he’s in his room. But um.. I don’t think it’s a good time-“ you cut her mid sentence brushing passed her and rushing towards his bedroom. You knocked three times but there was no answer. You then proceeded to open the door.

The sight in front of you was miserable. You knew Corio never looked vulnerable in front of others, so you had never seen him like that in your whole life. He was sitting at the edge of his bed, with his back to the door. He had his head draped on his hands, hunching over the side. You could hear him softly crying. This scene was so unlike him you didn’t think it was truly him. Everything around him was completely wrecked, which wasn’t unusual for him and you had seen his outbursts before.

You softly walked towards him, and placed a hand on his shoulder softly as to not startle him. You didn’t know if he knew it was you, or if he thought it was just his cousin. You draped your arm over his shoulders and placed your face on his shoulder. He looked to the side and saw you.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He said harshly, moving away from your touch.

“Corio…” you said in a soft tone, just above a whisper “I’m sorry…”

“WHAT ARE YOU SORRY FOR HUH?! FOR BEING A TRAITOR?! YOU COULDN’T KEEP IT IN YOUR PANTS AND WAIT FOR ME?!” He started shouting at you as he stood up, making you feel small and weak sitting on the edge of his bed.

“Corio-“

“Don’t call me that”

“It wasn’t like that. I was waiting for you! My father arranged the marriage not me” At this point, you had started crying and felt absolutely horrible for something that wasn’t even your fault “Please Corio… you have to believe me…”

You knew Corio wasn’t likely to forgive you. But in a small moment of vulnerability caused by a crack in his heart, he placed his hand on your chin and made you look up at him. He loved you this way, beneath him, vulnerable, always so open to his touch. He then cupped you face with the same hand, you leaned into his touch, still crying, while he softly wiped a tear from you face.

“I love you Corio, and I missed you. I’m glad you’re back” you said smiling softly.

“I love you too, petal. And I missed you so much…” this was extremely weird for him, but you appreciated it. He proceeded to kiss you with so much hunger and lust, you got lightheaded.

This was what felt correct. Your kisses with Festus never held passion or love. When you kissed Corio, it was as if you heart exploded in a million pieces. You felt like putty.

When the kiss ended you hugged him and cried in arms. He could tell you weren’t happy in your marriage and that you were forced into it. For the next few hours he held you close to him and made love to you like you deserved. He knew Festus didn’t fuck you as good as he did.

Then, you had to go home. You were about to leave through the door when he turned you around, pressed you against the door and once again tilted your head upwards to look at him.

“I will convince your parents for you to leave that scumbag. I have the money now to give you the life you deserve, petal. I promise” with that he yet again kissed you possessively and let you go, pushing aside his jealousy, only because he knew he would end up having you as his wife.

[beababoobies]

Hey there you said you needed a Hazbin Hotel request? I got just the thing. Is it okay you do a Alastor x witch reader? Like reader was a witch before she died and is basically pretty powerful especially in magic? I like to think she covers up her body because she’s covered in tattoos that look like magic ruins or ritual symbols. Idk i just thought it would be cute of Alastor falling in love with a classy yet a badass witch who can put him in his place.

Heya Anon! Yes, Absolutely! I love my witchy friends (shoutout to Tatianna because she follows my blog.) I wasn’t sure exactly on which type of Witch you were referring to, so I decided on a random mix of diff witch cultures! Please shoot me a request if that’s not what you had in mind and I can re-write this for you. Thanks a ton for the request!

From Experience

Alastor x Fem!Witch!Reader

words : 1k , no warnings!

You let out a sigh as you started the spell you had been planning for weeks now. You had to go to Lust to get aphrodisiac rose powder, cannibal town to get the dried blood (and have a coffee and chat with Rosie, of course.) you even attended to Blood Moon festival very shortly to get some black tree root straight from the source from your friend Sally Mae. The candles had been lit - your spirit guides told you it was ready. You closed your eyes softly as you started to read out the incantation in your head.

You sighed softly through your nose as you felt yourself slowly start to float, the bone-marrow candles you had bought starting to glow a blood red colour as you felt the power of the spell start to wash over you, the magical ruins carved into your body lighting up, making you glow softly, and it was all coming together nicely, perfectly one might say - 

“Hello, Darling!” 

You let out a small scream and opened your eyes, falling to the floor with a small thud, groaning as you open your eyes to the familiar face smiling back at you, chuckling softly as you rub your head gently, rolling your eyes. Not an evil spirit. Okay, an evil spirit. But a very familiar one. “Alastor, what a surprise.” You said as he walked over to you, offering you his hand and you took it, hoisting yourself up and letting out a soft sigh as you saw the spilt wax across the floor. 

“How rude of me to interrupt you! Allow me.” He hums softly, and you watch as the candles are returned back to their original state, turning back to him with a smile, brushing your now messed hair back into place, tilting your head. “Back again so soon?” You said with a chuckle, walking into your kitchen to get a cup of tea, him following quickly behind.

Now that you thought about it - he was back very, very soon. You had last seen him yesterday for lunch, and just two days before that for an evening stroll. After seven years of absence, you could’ve sworn you hadn’t even seen him this much before he disappeared. This meant he either needed something, or he was playing you in a big plan.

“Oh, well you just make the best steaming cup of chamomile, my dear.” He compliments, sitting at your small window-side table. You chuckled, taking a spoonful of the mix you had taken years to perfect, crushing the leaves, adding in just a bit of cinnamon. You had even figured out the best tea bags. Possibly your best spell ever. You dismissed your worries as your own overthinking, sighing as you poured the boiling water into the mugs.

“No sugar for you again?” You say, eyes not looking back at him as you pull the cane sugar out from your cabinet, spooning a couple helpings into your mug. “You know me too well, darling.” He says and you blush softly, putting the cane sugar back, bringing both the mugs to the table, placing one in front of him, and one in front of yourself.

“So, why are you back so quickly, hmm?” You said teasingly, leaning back in your chair, mixing the tea in your mug lazily, toying with the spoon as you watching him dip the boiling liquid - always uncanny, how he could do that - before looking back up at you. 

“One could say I’ve taken a bit of a liking to you, my love.” He says with a smile, and you feel your face get hot - from more than just the steam from your tea. He chuckles softly at your reaction, taking another sip from his mug, leaning back in his chair and watching you try to find the right words. Platonically? It’s hard to decipher a man who’s walked out of a couple decades before your time. 

“One might even say you… like me?” You say, testing the waters as you discard your cup back onto the table, crossing your arms over your chest, skepticism all over your expression causing Alastor to let out another chuckle. “One could say that. But I hate that way of saying it.” He responds flatly, putting his mug down as well, tilting his head at you. Trying to read a man who’s face was always carved into that sharp-toothed grin was hard.

“While we are speaking of taking a liking to things.” He says, holding out his hand, a small jar of black sand from the burning desert - one of a kind, unbelievably expensive, and your eyes widened. You swallowed thickly as you eyes the small vial, looking up at him with a small grin. 

“I’m not giving you my soul for this. Tempting, though.” You said with a playful smile, watching him place it delicately on the table. “Oh, no, darling, it is yours for the price of this cup of tea. A friend gave it to me in exchange for a… favor.” He says with a small chuckle, watching you pick up the vial cautiously and inspect it, turning it upside down and watching the pitch black sand move around in the glass. 

Oh, the things you could do with this. 

“And why should I take your murder sand?” You say with a smile, looking back up at him as you toyed with vial carefully, raising your eyebrows, watching his eyes trail down to the vial and then back up to you. 

“Well, I’ve heard it’s good for love spells.” He hums softly, taking another nonchalant sip of his tea, watching you nearly cough on your own spit over the statement, collecting yourself before piercing your lips together, eyes going from him to the vial over and over. 

“And how would you know this, hmm? You some sort of ritual expert now?” You said with a playful smile and tone, clutching the vial in your hand and leaning forward, chin resting on your palm. 

“Let’s just say I can speak from experience.” 

[heavenbarnes]

dunno if you’ve written this yet but could you write older bf! simon being edged or idk dominated the thought of it makes my brain go brrr🥴

ps. if you’re not comfortable w that ignore this:)

(i love your work btw 🫶🏼🫶🏼)

i haven’t written this yet because it’d dangerous for my overall health I NEED HIM SO BAD 🫶🏼

something had to be said about your older bf!simon and the natural dominance that seemed to follow him. you reckoned it was his line of work, having to be L.T- always having to be in the right place at the right time.

something he made look easy.

it wasn’t always easy, not really and not that he’d admit (to anyone other than you)

when it was just you and he, when there was no threat around the corner, when he could allow his mind to be quiet. that’s when things became really easy.

“being so good for me, si”

your voice was silken, spun sugar, supernovas- your voice was all consuming and taking over every inch of him until he thought he might become the exploding star of it all.

firm back against your chest, pressing you further into the arm of the couch. one of your arms slung over his chest, gently stroking the firm tone of his stomach.

other arm snaking around his waist, spit slick fist tight around his cock as you slowly tugged him off. simon’s face buried in the crook of your neck to muffle whimpers.

seven- he could count seven times he was on the precipice of cumming for you. seven times he nearly spewed hot streams of cum across your fist, coating your fingers.

he hadn’t cum once.

“sweet’art, i need it”

you cooed for him, lips pressing against the crown of his head as you felt his stomach twitching and tensing under your palm.

simon only burrowed back further into your touch, coiling himself up in the shape of your body. the hand that wasn’t tugging his cock was petting the soft hairs trailing towards it.

“i know, but you don’t really want this to end- do you?”

his chest cracked open with a groan, deep and guttural as he bucked his hips up into your hand. his cock, wet and messy, slipping straight through your hold as he practically fucked himself on you.

this was the simon riley you knew and needed.

only you saw this side of him, wrapped up in you and entirely pathetic. whimpers and pouted lips as your finger tips played with the head of his cock.

this was how you knew he was made for you, rough around the edges and unmovable by nature- but for you? leaking viscose pre-cum down your wrist like a natural spring.

“nah, sweet’art- keep touchin’ please”

dead before he’d let anyone else know you could render him fucked out like this, little secret just for you both. you’d probably kill anyone that saw him look this good, anyway.

veins in his neck bulging against the skin, cheeks red hot as his lips pursed with another wanton moan. body stretching out rigid like a snake sizing up its meal.

“that’s it, si- nice and easy”

[alyszuha]

what the bsd charcters would get at the gas station (as a gas station employee)

a/n: i wrote this while bored at work a few months ago in my notes app, and thought it would be funny to share. nikolai's is def my favorite. enjoy.

dazai - just black coffee like a few times a day. he would talk to the clerks and is friendly to the point where he gets free coffees. flirts with the young women working but we cant tell if he is actually or not because he’s just hard to read. i can’t tell if he smokes or not but if he did he would get marlboro black 100’s.

atsushi - white cherry gatorade and some chips. very average customer. might eventually become friendly with the workers but hes a bit shy, and is surprised when the workers ask him how he’s doing.

kyoka - snack cakes. doesnt talk at all other than saying thank you. sometimes comes in with atsushi.

kunikida - coffee as well. very respectful and if he likes it will become a regular and add it to his schedule. everyone likes him. will occasionally rant about a coworker that annoys the fuck out of him (hm i wonder who).

ranpo - a fuck ton of candy and soda. like takes several trips back and fourth with handfuls of random ass snacks. he’s annoying as fuck about it too.

akutagawa - water. probably goes to the self checkout too, just does not wanna talk to anyone.

chuuya - premium gas and occasionally cigarettes. he’d get some odd type too like winstons or very specific marlboros. he doesn’t talk much unless the worker talks to him. but me and my younger female coworkers would definitely gush over him when he first starts coming.

hirotsu - he would get some old people shit like tourneys or parliaments and say “in a box”. but is patient when the workers take a second to look for them because literally no one gets them.

oda - marlboro black 100’s (which would have inspired dazai's choice). doesn’t talk much.

ango - water and a small snack like a doughnut or peanuts.

tachihara - mountain dew voltage. very chill and talks to the workers. if he finds anyone attractive would lowkey flirt.

tecchou - he would find some type of snack that no one knew we even had. like the byson meat sticks that are definitely expired.

teruko - look i love her but i KNOW this bitch door dashes shit, and it drives us nuts because its always when we’re busy.

fukuchi - he gets beer and would pay with like a 50 dollar bill. my friend i work with would make an inside joke about him being our sugar daddy.

nikolai - (this is something an actual person has done) walks in , says hi and takes an entire fucking tray of lighters before walking out.

fyodor - calls the store and scams the worker for hundreds of dollars.

edit: should i tell more stories about working at a gas station? because i have a lot. i also wish i could have put in the time i was serenaded by a customer when i was by myself. but idk who would do that. maybe dazai??

[struwberrii]

bokuto headcanons ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

like the title says, her are my cutesy bokuto kotarou headcanons ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧ (mainly relationship stuff)

know so many random niche food spots, like whatever your craving he knows the best spot to pick it up at

he talks to animals like theyre friends (they are)

randomly challenges people to races or arm wrestles to settle any dispute

loves watching cartoons, like hangout sessions with bokuto consist of getting a bunch of junk food that will for sure give you a stomach ache then getting comfy on the couch and watching the amazing world of gum ball

he has the comfiest bed ever, like ik his blanket is the softest thing you've ever felt in your entire life

loves wearing clothes with hoodies so he can just hide in them when he gets sad

loves playing video games but hes so bad at them bc hes too impatient to learn the rules so he just plays and tries to figure it out along the way

ik he gives the BEST hugs ever

i feel like as a kid he had an emotional support box that he just sits in

eats so much food but always shares with you even if that means he goes home still hungry

remembers every little thing you tell him about yourself

would literally just do whatever you ask him to and ask 0 questions 😭

sometimes he accidentally wears his sisters clothes, imagine him picking you up wearing a pink nyan cat shirt

his favorite candy is candy (literally everything)

can’t handle spicy food AT ALL

kisses all over your face

he genuinely loves everything about you <3

he knows how to treat a girl right!! ( yk he has 2 sisters they do NOT play that)

if he’s ever sad or ‘emo’ literally all it takes is you being there for him to lift his spirits again

cries at every movie, happy tears, sad tears, confused tears everything

literally SO LOUD like we already know this but if ur ever embarrassed and whispering something to him he’ll practically yell it back to you

bro cannot whisper

always brags about you and shows you off

i feel like he smells either like sweets and sugar or like literal fire like burnt if he isn’t wearing cologne

he’s not terrible with money but i feel like he just makes really stupid purchases every once in a while, like he has a sponge bob gumball machine in his house that he never uses but spent like $200 on

loves wearing winter hats with animal ears

pets stray animal on the road

butt dials people a questionable amount of times

whenever he’s ‘emo’ his first thought is to call you just to hear your voice

wants a really random pet, like a bird or little pig

whenever people are mean to him on his team he threatens to call you over to handle it 😭 (he can’t be mean for the life of him)

i feel like he’d wear uggs (not like girly uggs but like those men’s uggs with the laces yk??or those ugh house shoes w the red lining idk sorry guys)

loves having at home movie nights he looks forward to them all week

randomly sends the most heartfelt and thoughtful texts ever

literally attacks you with hugs if he hasn’t seen you for a while or after his games

farts and traps you under the covers 😭

[dark-fics-4-you]

step bro rafe who plays football or hockey. idk it just seems hot🙏

Number One Fan

I’m gonna combine this with this request: Something with step bro rafe where the reader calls him rafey and it turns him on but she doesn’t know…

(This can be read as a continuation of my previous step bro!Rafe fic, but i’m not sure if I want to make a bunch of drabbles or one connected narrative so we’ll see what happpens ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ )

Next chapter

Warnings: drinking, relationship between step siblings, rafe is having unpure thoughts👀

The stadium was packed with college students and fans, roaring as the whistle blew.

You were close to the field, eager to get a good view of Rafe. He was the star quarterback of East Carolina University, and for good reason.

He had led the team to victory in all 10 of their last games.

The score was evened out, with only a few seconds left on the clock, everyone was eager to see what would happen next.

When the whistle blew again and the ball was passed to Rafe, you cheered loudly.

He dodged two players, dancing around them before running all the way to the endzone.

Everyone on the crowded bleachers jumped to their feet, cheering and screaming at the touchdown, but no one was louder than you.

“Go Rafe! Go!! Woo!!!”

You beamed proudly as you watched him pump his fist in the air, fist bumping his teammates as they congratulated him.

You were one of the first people to rush to the field, running up to your older brother and practically jumping on him in your excitement to hug him.

“Oh my god, Rafey! That was such a good game!” You squealed. “You were awesome! That last touchdown was amazing!”

Rafe flashed you a grin, perfect teeth winking in under the bright lights of the stadium. “Thanks, Y/N/N. You know I win every game just for you,” he joked and you giggled along.

“Hey, some of my teammates and I are gonna go out for drinks after we get cleaned up, wanna tag along?”

“Sure!” You smiled up at him. You were always happy when he included you in things he was doing, which admittedly was a lot of the time.

“Perfect, sugar. Here are my keys,” he tossed you them. “Why don’t you bring the truck around to where the locker room exit is, you can wait in there till I’m done. Okay?”

“Yeah! Sounds good!” You parted ways, heading to the truck but you didn’t notice how his gaze stayed on your back as you walked away.

~~~~~~

“That’s a pretty hot piece of ass you had hanging around you, Cameron,” one of Rafe’s friends joked, suggestively nudging the blond with his elbow.

“Shut up, Wilson,” Rafe snapped. His stomach lurched at the comment. He didn’t like the idea of any of his friends trying to sleep with you.

In fact, he didn’t like the idea of anyone trying to sleep with you. The very thought made him sick.

“Hey, I’m just saying, I wouldn’t mind if she came around more, amiright?” Wilson asked the other guys around him that had seen you and they all laughed and nodded.

“Knock it off, seriously,” Rafe warned. “She’s not interested.” He could feel his irritation rising, his face heating up.

“Damn okay Cameron, chill. We were just joking,” someone else interjected.

“Well I’m not fucking laughing.” He pulled on his shirt before slamming the locker door. “I don’t think I’m gonna go out tonight anymore. See ya at practice.”

A few guys complained, “come on Rafe, we didn’t mean anything by it.”

But he was already halfway out the door.

~~~~~~

“Change of plans,” Rafe said as he climbed into the driver’s seat and you clicked your buckle.

You looked at him inquisitively. “Oh?”

“We’re gonna go out, just the two of us. None of the guys.” He started the truck, pulling out of the parking lot and towards the road.

“Oh, okay.” You said in a confused tone. “Why are they not coming?”

He was silent for a moment and you glanced at him again.

“Rafey?”

“I just decided that I’d rather go out with my favorite girl instead,” he said with a smile, ruffling your hair and you grinned.

“Oh, okay!” You said happily. “Ooh could we go to this bar that I know, it’s on Seventh street.” You babbled away about the bar you wanted to go to.

Rafe shifted in his seat, trying as hard as possible to hide his growing erection, nodding along but he was finding it hard to pay attention to anything you were saying, attention shifting between watching the road, and turning to examine your features.

He pulled up to the bar and you hopped out of the car. You both showed your ID’s at the door and found a booth to sit at, Rafe pulling you in to the same side he was on so you could be closer.

A waiter came to get your drink orders, you got a fruity cocktail and Rafe got a beer, and Rafe ordered a plate of loaded nachos for you to share.

Your drinks came quickly and you offered Rafe a sip of your cocktail, which he took before offering you a sip of his beer.

You took a quick swig, face scrunching up at the flavor. “Bleh, I still have no idea how you like beer so much, Rafey!” You giggled, leaning against him in the small booth, his arm wrapped around your waist.

“You get used to it if you drink enough, Y/N/N.” The blond laughed, grabbing a nacho off of the plate in between the two of you.

“I just think it’s so gross,” you shook your head, smiling.

“Please, you’re one to talk. I still remember that time you tried to make mixed drinks for us at that party and they sucked so bad I nearly threw up.” He chuckled.

“Shut up! I got better afterwards!” You laughed hard at the memory. “So mean, Rafey,” you said with a fake pout.

“Not true, I’m always nice to you, Y/N/N,” Rafe sounded surprisingly earnest. “You know I would do anything for you.”

“I know, I know,” you finished your cocktail, catching the waiter’s eye before ordering a second.

You leaned back, melting into your step brother’s arms.

“You’re my favorite person in the whole world,” Rafe whispered quietly. “You know that, right?”

There was a strange moment when you met his eyes, odd feelings washed over you. The intensity in his look stirred something in you that you couldn’t identify.

“Yeah I know, Rafey. You’re my favorite person too.”

He smiled at that, pulling you closer to his warm body. You cuddled against his chest, enjoying the circles he was tracing lazily into your back with his fingers.

Your second drink arrived and you downed it quickly, feeling a little beyond tipsy by the time the two of you stepped out of the bar.

He drove you home, comfortable silence most of the way. You felt warm and the alcohol in your system made you feel much more affectionate.

Rafe opened the front door of the house for you, allowing you to lean on him drunkenly as he guided you inside.

When you reached the top of the stairs, you paused, not wanting to go to bed alone.

“Would it be okay if I slept in your bed tonight, Rafey?” You asked, looking up at your step brother with hopeful eyes. “I just feel more comfortable when you’re by me.”

“Sure, Y/N/N.” Rafe smiled at you, leading you to his room.

You kicked off your shoes, taking your shorts off before dropping them on the floor. “Do you have a shirt I could wear, Rafey?”

His eyes fell on you, noting your bare legs and the pink panties you had under your shorts. His mouth felt dry, and it took him a second to remember you had just asked him a question.

“Um, yeah I should have one…” he searched in a drawer, before tossing you the oversized shirt.

You pulled it on, unclipping your bra underneath the shirt before putting it with your shorts and top.

Rafe kicked off his shorts, stripping to his boxers before pulling his shirt off over his head. He stepped towards his door, flicking the lights off.

You crawled into his bed, breathing in his smell in the sheets, scooting over when he followed.

Usually when you slept in Rafe’s bed, you were the one who pressed to him, hugging his back as he faced away from you, but this time, you were surprised when you felt the warmth of his chest press to your back, arms wrapping around your waist as he pulled you closer to him.

As you dozed off to sleep, you were none the wiser that your step brother was beside you, hard as a rock, and imagining things that were far from brotherly.

Chapter 2

[rodolfoparras]

Oh gosh, hi hello howdy. I’ve always quietly lurked on your blog because it makes me so fucking feral but I’m too nervous about saying anything. But!! I’m being brave, saying hello, and idk bringing a little treat too I suppose

idk what specifically got me hooked onto this idea, but it was def something you wrote that was scream worthy but but all it did was make me imagine:

Price just being this perfect soldier, perfect leader, gruff and hard around the edges because he has to be in his line of work. Sharp voice, stern face, no-nonsense and all authority. Then reader comes around. Price is all bark and bite, but oh with reader—something shakes loose in his chest.

It doesn’t come up in the field. It doesn’t come up on base either. It’s some little dinky bar where the team has holed up in after a rough mission to celebrate a safe return and lick their wounds in relative, drunken peace. And it starts with just the brush of your arm against Price’s neck. It was an accident. You reached for something over his shoulder, Ghost handing you another drink or you swatting at a laughing Soap, and it was really just the loose fabric of your sleeve against Price’s skin.

Price has spent so long being alpha alpha alpha. It’s what’s expected of a military man, what’s expected of a captain and leader. But something about the touch against the back of his neck—of you touching his neck, holding him, collaring him. It’s lucky the lights are low enough no one notices the flush spreading across his face and the music is too loud to hear that soft little whimper.

Anywayyyy love the blog hehe <3

Hello sugar cube!! I’m so glad you popped in pls know y’all are genuinely always welcome here I can understand feeling nervous but believe me I absolutely love talking to y’all! 🥹🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

Also before I say anything else I just have to say you articulate yourself in such a beautiful way I absolutely love the way you write sugar🧎🏻‍♂️

Second of all I’ve always loved the thought of price giving up control

Imagine price who’s always been forced to take charge and make decisions, always been captain or lieutenant, someone important before he’s been a mere soldier, always carrying so much responsibilities on his shoulders

When you came around he hadn’t expected to start a relationship with you it kind of just happened much like he just happened to give up control to you

Price would always be up on his feet before anyone else, preparing coffee and making sure him and his team have everything they need for their mission, but now he’s woken up by the smell of coffee and met with the sight of your smiling face holding out a cup for him .

He takes it gracefully, sipping on it contentedly, feeling himself become more and more alert as the caffeine enters his system.

He’s just about to say how he needs to prepare for the upcoming mission when you abruptly cut him off with a kiss, ever so carful not to tip the cup of warm liquid on him.

He happily accepts your kiss, a contented sigh escaping his lips and it’s your smile that finally breaks the kiss.

“I’ve already prepared everything,” you say, smile still painted on your face.

He only manages a surprised “oh” in response, brows raising high at your words before he bashfully thanks you for what you’ve done.

Once he’s done with his coffee you put his mug down on the night stand before you take his hand and pull him out of the bed, playfully tugging him over to the bathroom where you’re quick to start up a shower for him.

He mumbles something under his breath probably something along the lines of how he’s a grown man and can take care of himself and doesn’t need you to prepare showers for him but he secretly loves it

As soon as he steps foot in the shower, you’re hot on his tail, pouring shower gel into your hands, and soaping them up before burying your fingers into his hair.

A groan escapes his lips, eyes fluttering shut as he leans into the wonderful feeling.

Maybe you’re going over the mission with him or maybe you’re just humming some tune or maybe you’re trailing kisses down his neck while massaging his tense shoulders

Ether way he absolutely loves it feels like he’s in heaven because of it and of course the sweet thing gets so worked up, all hot and bothered from having someone pampering him this much, cock all hard and weeping between his thighs and there’s no way you’ll have him this tense before a mission so of course you sneak your hand between his legs and gently pumping his length

He’s clawing at your arm, head lolling back onto your shoulder as groans and whimpers escape him.

It doesn’t take much before the sweet thing is inching closer to his release, head burying into your neck and begging you to let him finish and who are you to deny him?

You quickly dry him up and help him dress before you ready yourself for the mission.

Youre checking your weapons and gear going over whatever you’ll need before taking the liberty to check his stuff and he’s all red in the face muttering curses under his breath but he absolutely loves everything you do for him and the rest of tf141 knows it as they stand there quietly chuckling in the background

Well out on the field you’re hot on his heal, your form towering over him, chest flushed to his back, hand on him to keep him in close vicinity while moving quietly

And if a bullet happens to graze him you’re lashing out at whoever wasn’t properly covering him getting all up in their face and cursing them out so much that Price has to pull you back by the waist while trying to suppress the smile tugging at his lips

And on your way back home you’re checking up on him constantly, even sitting next to him in the helicopter, thighs flush with his, arm around him, letting him lean his body onto yours, and checking every once a while on the injury he’s got

And of course when you’re back home you got him sprawled out on the bed, head buried between his legs, making him cum over and over, til there’s nothing but pathetic spurts of cum coming from him.

As he lay there, sated and fucked out, Price realizes he’s finally let someone else have control for once.

[cloudcountry]

auburn!!! i’m so glad that over these five years (half a decade wow 🤑) your work and most importantly your amazing personality has grown to receive so much recognition and love. i’m proud of you and i’m glad we’ve known each other for so long 🫶🏽. i hope your work continues to grow and you continue to do amazing things and be generally pretty cool. okay thats too much sappiness bleggh poop fart shit fuck ass ☝🏽

erm anyways i would like the chocolate swirl bread slices with brown sugar bubble tea in the special 3k event cup with cat cap… rubs hands together like fly…

would also be cool if the reader was FTM and/or was not-so-subtlety avoiding leona for any reason

DANIEL YOU BUTT THATS THE SWEETEST THING YOUVE SAID TO ME IN FIVE YEARS AND YOU END IT WITH POOP FART SHIT FUCK ASS????? ANYWAYS this almost made me cry what the fuck i feel like a baby bird leaving the nest even though im older than you. i cant believe we're like adults now. what happened to being weird ass teenagers on quotev dot com. i cant say i miss that era though but i do miss kaomoji IDK WHERE HALF THE FRIEND GROUP IS LMAO anyways thank you for being my friend mwah you are a real one you have seen me at my worst and stuck with it IDK HOW YOU DID THAT anyways your lion man

an order of romantic angst with leona kingscholar!

Leona watches your back as emotions he would much rather not acknowledge fester and boil in his chest. His tail flicks, his ears twitch, and it’s obvious to everyone around him that he is exceedingly annoyed.

That’s not the shocking part, however.

It’s the fact that he’s annoyed with you, the one boy in this whole school he never should have felt that way towards.

Leona wouldn’t be so annoyed in the first place if it wasn’t for the fact that you’d been inexplicably ignoring him for the past few weeks. As petty as always, Leona was sure he could outlast you, ignoring you in much the same way. He was good at being nonchalant, at taking it easy even though his affection shifted to bitter resentment.

Could he really call you someone close to him if he’s starting to genuine dislike you?

Nah, it’s not like he should have expected anything in the first place. He turns on his heel and walks off in the opposite direct of you, tail flicking lazily behind him. If you don’t want him anymore, that’s fine. If he’s not your number one anymore, he’ll just grin and bear it, bear like he always has and always will.

He thought he had something just for himself. How naive could he be?

Leona scowls, digging his hands into his pockets. If he sees everyone else in the hallway giving him a wide berth he doesn’t show it, his vision laser focused on Savanclaw’s dorm, his room, his bed, where he can sleep and ignore his reality for a little while longer.

The reality that you were so clearly avoiding him, the reality that you probably didn’t want him anymore, the reality that he was finally number one to someone and now he wasn’t.

Leona was once again second, but when there were only two people in a competition, second was the same as dead last.

[spectersgf]

harvey specter x reader idk they meet in a book store (maybe the reader could run it?) never giving each other last names or smhting. but the reader is mikes sister and mike tells her all about harvey but no one manges to connect teh dots? idk you have free control i just thought something like that where the reader has nothing to do wiht his work life and is really soft and sweat .

— bookstores and brothers 𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃

pairing: harvey specter × reader (+ mike ross & reader are siblings)

summary: a hotshot lawyer walks into a café bookstore and meets a pretty barista. the world is smaller than he thinks.

warnings: none! kinda suggestive but nothing crazy

wordcount: 3.7k (yikes!)

a/n: first request! sorry this was so horrifically late but hopefully the length makes up for it? but also not proofread OOPS. (more rambling at the end <3)

(if you want to be tagged in future fics or if you have any requests, let me know! for my other fics, here's my masterlist!)

Ever since your brother, Michael, started making the big bucks at his job as a fraud lawyer, he had decided to invest in you — your business, that is. With his investment, you were able to follow your dream of opening a bookstore-meets-café, with a small apartment atop the store. Your store was popular enough that you were able to live comfortably; you had a community of regular readers who came for your books (especially since you’d always fulfil requests) and a hoard of regulars that came for your coffee. Your coffee was easily the best in the area, and people even went out of their way to get coffee from you.

Someone who went out of their way for your coffee, though you didn’t know this, was Harvey. You knew very little about him; he was a very attractive man who came in at 8:30am, like clockwork, for his black coffee with vanilla and sugar. You were rarely able to converse with him for very long or in a lot of detail, but you had assumptions. He was maybe a banker or some kind of lawyer like your brother, but the only thing you knew for sure was his coffee order and the fact that he wore a three-piece suit every day. On particularly warm days, he’d forgo either the jacket or the vest, both of which were welcome options. On particularly cold days, he wore a scarf and gloves, and even a coat. His hair was always styled the exact same and he had the most wonderful crow’s feet and smile lines. 

This morning, Harvey took you by surprise by coming in earlier than normal. He came in at 8:17am exactly. It was a warm day so he was without his vest, but other than that he was in his normal attire. Since you were having a slower morning this morning, you started his coffee as soon as you saw him approach. By the time he was in the door and at your counter, you’d finished making his coffee and his cup was ready on the counter. You were feeling bold and flirty and had drawn a heart next to his name on the cup and it was visible to him when he stood in front of you.

“Good morning, Harvey.” You were feeling very cheery this morning, and even more so after seeing him walk in the door. 

“Good morning, Y/N. That for me?” He was eyeing the cup on the counter that was very obviously for him, typical smirk on his face and a playful glint in his eye.

“No, it’s a black coffee with sugar and vanilla for the other Harvey in my life.” You teasingly rolled your eyes as he picked up the cup. You weren’t sure if your eyes were deceiving you, but it seemed like he was being careful to not smudge your penmanship on the cup.

“Well, it’s a good thing this other Harvey isn’t here so I can have his coffee.” He took a sip of the drink, completely unfazed by the temperature and smiled. “Perfect as always. Crazy how this other Harvey drinks the exact same niche coffee that I do, hm?”

You bared your teeth in a cheeky smile. “So crazy,” you replied. “Did you want a pastry or anything?” You gestured towards the display case of freshly baked goods, pausing at your favourite. “This one goes down a real treat.”

“How about a rain check on the pastry, and you can bring it with you when I make you dinner tomorrow night at my apartment?” he asked, feeling equally as bold and flirty as you were. He supplemented his question with a warm smile, his entire demeanour oozing confidence. 

“Oh? The elusive Harvey idon’tknowyourlastname asking me on a date, I see?” you teased, though internally you were screaming: ‘YES! I would love dinner with you!’ 

“You’re cute. Is that a yes? Maybe I’ll tell you my last name when you come over.” He was reciprocating your teasing, which you thoroughly enjoyed. You always appreciated a man who could keep up with your humour. 

“I have a better idea. Come back after I close up shop and we can have a reading date. The best way to get to know someone is through the books they like to read.” You smiled shyly, nervous to be rejected, though Harvey didn’t seem like the type of man to rudely reject your ideas. 

His warm smile was all the confirmation you needed. “That sounds perfect. I’ve been meaning to check out the other half of your establishment for some time. I need some enrichment in my life.”

“Well, if by enrichment you mean a cheesy romance, I’m your girl. I have a bad habit of stocking my favourites and I am a romantic at heart, so that’ll make up a lot of what you find here. I have other stuff, too, but I just gravitate to a good romance book,” you rambled. You blushed when you finally caught yourself, smiling as you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. 

“Well, clearly I need some romance in my life. I’ll be here this evening.” He didn’t seem put off by your rambling which you were grateful for. Your stomach buzzed with excitement as you nodded.

“See you this evening.”

───────── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ─────────

Harvey had just signed off for the day and was slipping his jacket over his shoulders when Mike Ross walked into his office.

“Haven’t we talked about you not barging in here unannounced?” He asked, only half joking with his associate.

“We both know you don’t care anymore,” Mike replied, rolling his eyes. “And where are you going? It’s only,” he checked his watch, “5:30. Why do you get to leave but I’m stuck here late?”

“First of all, it’s none of your business where I’m going. And second, I did my time working 23 hours a day. And third, it’s none of your business.” Harvey made the decision to take off his tie as he spoke, wanting to feel more comfortable and casual while he was with you.

“Removing your tie, too? You have a hot date tonight. What restaurant are you taking her to?”

“Mike. Shut up.” 

Mike laughed at Harvey’s reaction. “Alright, have fun old man. Use protection!” He shouted as Harvey walked out of his office, no longer entertaining Mike’s discussion. 

───────── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ─────────

He arrived much earlier than close. You were unusually busy this evening and hadn’t even noticed Harvey walk into the store as you finished the line of coffees in front of you. You finally finished and swapped with your employee to take over as cashier when a familiar voice ordered a familiar, but niche, coffee.

“Can I get a large black coffee with vanilla and sugar? But can the pretty barista make it and sign my name with a heart like she did this morning?” he teased, smiling as he saw you.

“Harvey! You’re early, I’m not off yet,” you replied, brow furrowed with concern.

“I was finished for the day and thought I’d come in early and chill here. And by finished for the day, I mean distracted and eager.”

“And by chill here, you mean bug me until I’m done?” you teased, a playful glint in your eye.

“Something like that,” he replied, the look in his eye matching yours. 

“Okay, well, I’m going to hope you meant me when you said ‘pretty barista’ and I’ll bring your coffee over to you in a second.” A warm blush tinted your cheeks as you spoke, swapping places with your confused barista once again.

You quickly made Harvey’s coffee and signed his cup with a heart as he’d requested. After making a mocha for yourself, you spoke to your employees, asking them to take over for you now that the rush had started to slow down for the night. You removed your apron and took your hair out of its loose bun and found Harvey sitting on a sofa in the bookstore portion of your shop.

“Coffee for the gentleman.” You held the coffee cup out for him to take, the side with his name written on it facing towards him. “I would’ve made it in a mug but I had a weird request from the guy ordering it.”

You took a seat next to him and brought your cup to your lips, taking a sip and letting out a quiet hum of appreciation for your drink. He looked at you quizzically as you did so, expecting you to have to get back to work. 

“I managed to get off early. Perks of being the owner.” You smiled over your cup as you slipped off your shoes and got comfortable on the sofa. 

“I don’t think I ever registered that you were the owner here. It’s like, I knew but didn’t know. Does that make sense?” he asked, smiling as he took a sip of his regular coffee.

“It does. Kinda. My brother Michael helped make it happen, he’s a lawyer at some hotshot firm and invested in me and my little dream.” You gestured around the room as you spoke, smiling gratefully at the thought. 

“Did you know I’m also a lawyer at some hotshot firm?” he asked. His tone was light and playful, which you appreciated. 

“I did not. What’s it like, hotshot?” You tucked your feet under you and wrapped both hands around your cup, turning slightly so that your body was completely facing Harvey.

“Well, I’m the best closer in the city. I’m great at what I do and I love doing it. And I have an associate who is determined to become my mini-me. No complaints.” Deep smile lines framed his mouth like a piece of art as you admired him and took in his words.

“A mini Harvey, huh? Sounds like he looks up to you.” Despite your matter-of-fact tone, you were asking a question, curious to know his opinion on the matter.

“It seems like he does. I don’t ever say it but sometimes it feels like pressure. I’ve worked in the grey a lot and I worry about him following in my footsteps. I wouldn’t ever say that to him though.” He opened up to you, though neither of you had expected it. He was surprised by how easy you were to talk to and how quickly he had allowed himself to be vulnerable with you.

“It does sound like a lot, but I’m sure you have nothing to worry about. My brother always tells me about his mentor; he says that despite making some questionable decisions, he’s great at what he does and he looks up to that. It’s probably a similar situation,” you told him sincerely, reaching out to place one hand on his arm in an attempt to comfort him. 

“His mentor sounds like a great lawyer. What’s his name? Maybe I know him,” Harvey asked, obviously wanting to change the subject from his vulnerable state.

“I’m not sure. I can’t remember, I have the worst memory literally ever,” you reply, smiling shyly. “I’m good at remembering books, though! Shall we get stuck in?”

“Is this the part where you bombard me with a million love stories?” he teased, clearly amused but secretly excited. 

“God no. Just one. Or you can pick your own.”

“Do you like to reread books?” 

“Oh, I love to. I’ve reread almost all of my favourites.”

He looked at you smiling, amused once again by your answer. “How about this. Let’s read your favourite book together, and then next time we can read mine?”

“Oh? Next time? You’re that sure it’s going to go well tonight?” you asked teasingly, giggling to yourself. 

You stood up and walked to the shelving, immediately finding your current favourite book and pulling out two copies. You got comfortable on the sofa once again and handed one copy to Harvey. “This is a current favourite, but I haven’t had a chance to reread it yet. It’s a university-based hockey romance and the main character is a PhD student who’s half-Indian and vehemently hates hockey players. I loved it. If you don’t like it, please. Do not tell me. I can’t cope with that much heartbreak.”

You beamed at him and Harvey felt his heart melt at your expression. You were clearly passionate and excited to share this book with him, and he was looking forward to reading it; to seeing into a small piece of your soul.

The pair of you read together for about an hour. You kept to a similar pace and offered casual commentary and anecdotes from time to time. You had to resist the urge to spoil the plot, sometimes only offering quiet hums as opposed to full sentences. You gradually felt yourselves growing physically closer, until you were laying down with your head next to his leg and your hair draped across his lap, legs dangling over the arm of the sofa. He was idly twirling a strand of your hair, only pausing to turn a page when necessary. 

You finished the chapter you were reading and made a mental note of where you were up to before snapping the book closed. “Okay, I think we should call it. I’m starving.” You looked up at him from where your head was resting and watched as he closed the book without his hand leaving your hair.

“Sounds good to me, sweetheart. Since you chose the book, I’ll choose the restaurant. Sound good?” he asked, looking at you with that smile. 

“Sounds great, sweetheart,” you replied, playfully teasing him.

───────── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ─────────

After the success that was reading and dinner that night, the pair of you went on another date. And another. And another. The pair of you got to know each other like the backs of your hands and became unashamedly infatuated with one another. Harvey told you about his brother, Marcus, and you told him about yours. You mostly focussed on childhood stories about your whizz-kid brother with the photographic memory, but you occasionally did update Harvey on your brother’s relationship with his mentor. All positive, but you sometimes did joke that he sounded like he could be a bit of a dickhead. 

After about a month of consistently seeing each other, you discussed meeting the family. You were in his apartment with your head on his lap, the pair of you laying in his big comfy bed.

“Well, I only have Michael. Our parents passed when we were pretty young and my grandma passed almost a year ago. So you only have to deal with my brother and my best friend. Super easy,” you told him, idly tracing his skin with your index finger. 

“I have my brother and his family; he’s got a wife and kids. And then my mother but we don’t talk. So a similar situation for you. Brother and some friends. I’d say you can meet my associate and colleagues but they’d grill me rather than you. So would Marcus, actually.”

You giggled at his words but stopped as the seriousness of your relationship started to set in. Talking about meeting the family was a big step for you considering how little family you had. Letting someone into that trauma felt extremely vulnerable but just as quickly as you felt nervous, you felt calm. You were ready for this. You wanted this with Harvey. You decided to mess with him regardless.

“So… You think you’re ready to meet the family, hm? That’s a pretty big step,” you started, pretending to be deadly serious.

“Oh? Is it now? You don’t want to meet my family?” he asked, tone playful but you could tell there was an undertone of nervousness when he spoke.

“Well, I don’t think two people engaging in a casual fling have any business meeting each other’s families. Don’t you agree?” you continued to tease, though Harvey couldn’t tell you were only teasing.

“Is that what you think this is? A casual fling?” The hurt was starting to show in his voice and you smiled, not at his pain, but at the fact that clearly the pair of you were on the same page with how serious your relationship had become.

“Is that not what you think it is? Do we need to have the what are we conversation?” The teasing lilt to your voice was obvious this time, which immediately eased Harvey’s nerves and put him out of his misery. He smiled at you, smile lines popping and his eyes sparkling once again.

“No conversation necessary, baby. You’re my girl and I’m your man.” He tugged on the piece of your hair that was wrapped around his finger, causing you to smile.

“My man? Too old for the boyfriend title, hm? Old man,” you joked, poking him in the abdomen. 

“I’ll show you old man,” he replied, flipping you so that you were pinned to the mattress under him. The pair of you were a giggly, smiley mess, both excited to have established what you were to each other. Both true romantics at heart.

The next morning Harvey left you in his bed, heading to the office after kissing you goodbye. You watched him get dressed and style his hair, finishing his process by skillfully tying his tie. You watched his hands move the whole time, thinking about how they were all over you the previous night, and you sighed contentedly. Once he left, you flopped back onto his bed, hair fanning out across the pillows as you inhaled your boyfriend’s scent. 

You spent the next few hours reading, gratefully taking advantage of your day off. You made yourself an at-home coffee and easily moved around Harvey’s lavish apartment whenever you wanted a change of scenery, taking full advantage of the space. At around midday, you placed a lunch order to pick up from your and Harvey’s favourite café and got dressed, opting for a pretty white sundress. You left your hair down in its natural form and quickly left Harvey’s building, picked up lunch, and headed in to his office building.

On your way to Harvey’s office you, surprisingly, bumped into your brother. 

“Mike? What are you doing here?” you asked, not expecting to see him today.

“Obviously I’m lawyer-ing, Y/N. What else?” he replied. His sassy tone was an exact mirror image of how yours sometimes was with Harvey, and the fact that you were siblings became extremely obvious if someone focussed on your mannerisms.

“You mean fake lawyer-ing?” you teased, tone matching his perfectly.

“Ha ha. What are you doing here?” he asked, one eyebrow raised as he looked at you, taking in your appearance in his place of work and the bag in your hand.

“Obviously I’m bringing lunch to my boyfriend, Michael. What else?” you mocked playfully, wide smile on your face.

“Boyfriend? Here? Who’s your boyfriend?” he started to ask, but before he could grill you, you spotted Harvey walking towards you.

“Hey, Harvey,” you beamed, greeting him with a warm smile as he walked up to you.

He leaned down to give you a quick peck, completely ignoring Mike’s presence. “Hi, baby,” he mumbled, smiling back at you. He finally turned to look at Mike. “Mike, this is my girlfriend, Y/N. Sweetheart, this is my associate that I’ve been telling you about, Mike-”

“Mike Ross,” you interrupted, smiling as the realisation set in. Harvey’s associate was your brother. Your brother’s mentor was your boyfriend. You threw your head back laughing once you realised, shocked that nobody had put the pieces together sooner. “Harvey, meet my brother. Michael Ross.”

The shared look on both of their faces was priceless. They looked at you as if you’d sprouted another head, which only made you laugh more. Both of them joined in once they realised the situation, with Mike being the first one to break the circle of laughs in the middle of the office.

“So this is the hotshot lawyer you’ve been basically ignoring me for?” he asked you, gesturing towards Harvey. “And this is the barista slash bookworm you’ve been dumping all your work on me for?” he asked Harvey, gesturing towards you. 

You both nodded and agreed with a perfectly in-sync, “Yes.”

Harvey looked between you both in disbelief. “Wait a minute. Your last name isn’t Ross.” He was asking a question without actually asking, as he often did.

“Very good observation, Harvey,” you replied.

“Yeah, thank you, Captain Obvious,” Mike chimed in, causing you to smile. The two of you had always been a sarcastic duo, irritating a lot of your older relatives in your younger years.

“Oh my god,” Harvey mumbled, “There’s two of them. Exactly alike. How did I not realise?”

“To answer your unasked question,” you started pointedly, focussing on your boyfriend and suppressing your giggles, “I took my mother’s maiden name as soon as I was able to. Y/N Ross just sounds ugly, and this way, I get to honour her.”

Both Harvey and Mike visibly softened at your explanation. Harvey snapped out of it after a moment. “You’ve been talking shit about me to your pretty sister?” he asked Mike, punching him lightly on the shoulder.

“She was my sister before she was your girlfriend, man. That’s my right,” he replied, punching Harvey right back. “Speaking of, if you ever hurt her, I’ll-”

“What are you going to do? Fake lawyer him?” you jumped in at Harvey’s defence, keeping your voice quiet since you were still in a communal area.

“No, I was going to say I’d beat his ass.”

“Like you could. Have you seen his arms?”

“Okay, can you stop thirsting over my boss right in front of me? That’s disgusting.” Mike pretended to gag at your behaviour and you rolled your eyes in response.

“I can do so much worse, Michael,” you teased, pulling Harvey down by his tie to meet your mouth in a (relatively tame) kiss. Mike said nothing but walked away, muttering to himself about your ‘disgustingly inappropriate behaviour’. 

“Now that he’s finally gone,” you started after releasing Harvey from your hold and holding up the bag in your hand, “Lunch?”

‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

oh my lord this was long. i wrote this in multiple sits. nonnie, i hope this was up to your standards. i hope i did your request justice. pls pls pls do give feedback. thank u so much for your request. there are more requests in my inbox which I'll be getting to in the coming days so send them in! for any suits characters, not just harvey! plus characters from other media! (warning, i know nothing about most things but if i can write for you, i will <3)

taglist: @shadowinthedarkknight @strawberriesareprettycool

[attleboy]

If ragatha is raggedy Ann.... And Jax is raggedy Andy.....is caine part of looney land? Maybe the king but less pathetic......and to a lesser extent is he gloink queen greedy?(the weird sugar monster who tries to eat raggedy anns heart)

Who's Babette??? Who's the weird hallucinogenic camel???? Gangle??? Idk they both cry a lot XD

hmmm i've thought about it before, and i don't think every character would have a 1 to 1 match, but you raise some good points...

caine being part of looneyland is something i hadn't considered but yeah, that fits... i feel if he were a king figure it'd be a little less about him though... maybe he'd want to torment people to make the "audience" laugh? like a shitty prank show host

and the gloink queen as greedy.... maybe it's just the voice and the mass of her but yeah i can kinda see that...

like what if she was just hangry. what if that was her problem... we never did see the adventure's intended resolution... [i'm joking. kind of. i mean it's possible]

as for the others... i've always seen a bit of kinger in the camel but that miiiight just be this little ''parallel'' that i haven't been able to get out my head

and babette... ohoho... i've seen people draw pomni as her before and honestly that's what i see the most. they are both miserable girls who just want to get home... and it gives me the excuse to draw pomni in a cute outfit so you best believe i'm taking it

andddd because i think this dynamic would be really funny... pomni hater vs. pomni apologist fight

also. i should say, usually when i think about this little crossover, it's with the concept of it being an adventure where caine makes them produce a little film based off a oddly familiar script...

i've got some doodles for 'behind the scenes' stuff but i think i'll leave that for another post bc this one is getting kind of long hehe

[envy-of-the-apple]

Sweet Home

idk how the multiverse works so im just fucking up the worldbuilding but basically my hc is that whenever a dimension suffers trauma (too many ppl leaving dimensions, rift in time etcetc), it will create a shield around itself, preventing anyone from entering or leaving as it works to self-correct. 

(Yandere, dark, kidnapping, captive, delusional behavior, gn reader, implied deaths, talks of bombs)

Yandere!Miguel O'hara x reader

Honestly, you weren’t much of a threat. 

It was a rather misfortunate case of wrong place wrong time. One second, you were in your home, mulling about. The next, you were across dimensions. 

At least, that’s how it was explained to you. You had no idea there could be more than one spiderman, and now you were surrounding by millions. Maybe even billions. Here they all were. Heroes, all working together to save the multiverse, returning innocent people, like you, back to where they came from. 

But, according to Miguel, you were a special case. 

“It’s not too hot, this time?” He asks, his face in the same scowl as always. Before, you assumed he hated you. Now, you realize the man had a hard time showcasing emotion. 

It’s still there, though. You can see the concern in his eyes as they soften ever so slightly, as if he was remembering the scalding hot tea that burned your tongue. 

You tasted it, smiling at its perfection. When you mentioned you preferred something sweet, you had almost choked on the lump of sugar at the end of the cup Miguel prepared. After that, he was much more lenient with sugar. 

Ever since, you were put into his custody, he made it very clear your comfort would be his top priority. You never considered a superhero agency to be comforting, but the room he lent you was spacious and had a warm fluffy bed, food was always delicious, the guilt-filled gifts were always nice. It was clear the man spared no expense. 

“It’s perfect,” you say, “thank you.” 

He gives a smile. Though, it’s strained, like he’s not sure if he’s doing it correctly. He finally gives up, staring down at your techband. It wasn’t as sophisticated as his, you understood why you couldn’t have one, you were just grateful it stopped you from glitching. 

“So...is there anything new?” You ask, careful to broach the subject. 

You couldn’t go back home, not yet. It had taken a while for you to calm down when you were first brought here. You had been terrified, fearing for your life surrounded by these strangers who all strangely resembled spiderman. It was Miguel that had talked you down. He wasn’t patronizing, didn’t coddle you, but he wasn’t unkind. 

He explained things carefully. When you had been ripped from your dimension, something had gone wrong. The dimension had closed in, as if it were a living creature defending itself, an armadillo creating a thick shell. No one could go in or out. 

So, here you stayed at the spiderman’s headquarters, temporarily dimensionless. 

You peered into Miguel’s face. He was tired. He always looked tired. You wondered if he was getting enough sleep. Guiltily, you knew you were partially a reason for that. 

“Nothing.” He sighed. “We still can’t communicate to your spiderman, nor can we break into the gates. So far, no progress.” 

You had a feeling that’d be the case. You gave a strained smile, feeling more and more hopeless. 

“Hey.” His hand was warm on your shoulder. “I’ll find a way to get you back home, I promise. Don’t give up on me just yet.” 

He was close, leaning in just so your faces were inches apart. Miguel was just being kind, you knew that. But his height and stature had always intimidated you. A part of you was sure he knew that. It was why he would always hover over your, like it was some way to subconsciously keep you in check. 

It was an absurd thought. As always, you shook it off. 

“And besides, if we can’t, you’re always free to stay here.” He gave a lazy wave to the spacious room filled with gadgets you couldn’t even begin to describe. 

 It was a joke. You knew that. Miguel was adamant about ‘anomalies’ being returned to where they belonged. You were certain he would’ve thrown you back into your dimension if the situation were different. Yet, just the thought of staying here forever, never seeing your friends or family ever again tugged on your heart. 

You appreciated everything Miguel had done for you, he had gone above and beyond, but you were lonely. Due to protocol, only Miguel was able to see you. You understood it, but it didn’t mean you were not allowed to have human emotions. 

You longed for home. 

He must have seen it in your eyes because he pulled back some. The lines on his face hardened ever so slightly. He was angry. Not at you. Never at you. 

“You done with that?” He changed the subject, gesturing to your cup. 

Nodding, you return it to him gratefully. He stands up, grabbing the remnants of lunch and dirty dishes. 

“I’ll be back.” He tells you, and he’s assured you plenty of times that you weren’t, but it was hard not to feel like a prisoner as you watched him leave through a metal door. 

You waited for ten seconds, and then you rose from your own seat. 

There were only two rooms you had access to. Your own, and then Miguel’s office. 

Well, it wasn’t really an office. It was a large computer room, but Miguel always worked here, and you always kept him company, much preferring the companionship of at least one human rather than the solitude of your bedroom. 

Over time, he seemed to trust you a bit more. Or maybe he started underestimating you. Over time, he had accidentally given you most of the passwords to this place, not really paying attention as you not-so-secretly spied on his work.

You felt a little guilty for snooping, but a part of you was frustrated. You’d been stuck here for weeks, with no concrete answer. Miguel always seemed to evade your questions. You wanted an explanation. Assurance. 

Strangely enough, you felt a little old as you clumsily operated a machine that was decades into the future. It was a humbling experience. You typed in your dimension number, a sequence you knew by heart. 

Huh. 

You weren’t sure what a closed dimension looked like, but it certainly wouldn’t look like this. It looked fine. Despite your minimal experience with looking at dimension maps, you could tell the gates were opened. You could even see tiny dots flitting in and out. People.

Everything looked fine. 

Then...why did Miguel say you couldn’t go home? 

“What are you doing?” 

You hadn’t even noticed he’d come back. He had been so silent. Like a spider. 

You whirl around to face him. For the first time, you realize you’d never actually seen him without his signature blue and red costume. His face was stony. His demeanor had changed, as if earlier he was actively trying to pretend around you. Before, he used to slouch slightly, his hands would drape awkwardly at his sides. Now, his back was straight, arms ready. 

You’d never thought Miguel as threatening before.

Still, you try your best to loosen the sudden tension in the room. You give a sheepish smile, hoping it doesn’t wobble like your heartbeat. 

“I think my dimension just opened up,” You mutter, halfheartedly pointing to the screen, “Does this mean I can go back home?” 

He steps forward. You inch backward as he makes his way over to the computers. All the screens shut off. You can barely see him in the dim light. 

He works he jaw, like he wants to tell you something but can’t. 

Despite your heart going a mile a minute, you don’t want to be scared of Miguel. The only friend you had here. You bite your lip, gaining all the courage you could. 

“Did you lie to me?” It was a stupid question. Of course Miguel would say no. He wouldn’t do this to you. He couldn’t. 

His eyes slice into you. Crimson. 

“Yes,” he says simply, “I did.” 

You weren’t expecting that. You couldn’t have. Your mind was whirling, desperately trying to piece together an explanation. 

The tears burned in your eyes. You forced yourself to keep them at bay. 

“Why?” It was barely a whisper, you weren’t sure if he had heard you. 

He rakes his hand through his hair. It was something he did when he was stressed. You’d once jokingly told him that if he kept doing that he’d go bald. 

You had joked with this man. 

“I was going to put you back,” He said, almost like he was pleading to you. As if you were his judge, his executioner, and not his helpless prisoner. 

“That was the plan. I was going to put you back but...” He sucks in a breath. He gives a laugh with no real mirth. 

“But then I realized how much safer you’d be here.” 

You didn’t understand. You take another step back. He follows. 

“Your dimension opened back up two weeks ago.” You’d been stuck here for three. “Communication has resumed like normal. I lied about that.” 

It felt like a sick prank. Like he would suddenly start laughing, telling you how gullible you were. 

But it feels even worse when he doesn’t do that. He just stares, almost like he feels sorry for you. 

You don’t want his pity. 

“You haven’t met your dimension’s spiderman, have you?” He suddenly asks. “He’s a good kid. But that’s all he is. Just a kid. Thinks everything comes easy. His fate is worse than most.” 

“His recklessness causes a bomb to detonate. 126 people die.” His gaze is stiff on your figure. 

“Including you.” 

You freeze, staring at him, unable to move. The word of your death still lingered in the air. 

“I told myself I’d send you back,” he continues staring into the dark screens, “But you were so sweet and you made me feel so-” He cuts himself off with a huff. 

“I always have to make the right decision. Every time.” He finally says, looking back at you. 

“Just for once, I wanted to be selfish.” 

“Miguel-” 

“I won’t.” He interrupts. “I’ll keep you here. I’ll keep you safe. I always keep things that belong to me safe.” 

You don’t like how he phrased that. You don’t like anything about this. This didn’t sound like your Miguel. 

Or did you even know him? Was the weeks of kindness all an act? A ploy to keep you satisfied?

Look how wonderfully that worked? You walked right into his trap like a stupid butterfly, struggling in the sticky webs. 

“You said it yourself,” you whisper, “I’m an anomaly. I can’t-I can’t stay in a dimension that isn’t mine. I could cause rifts-or-or even worse disasters.”

You try to throw his words back at him, hoping it’d knock some sense into him. He just gives a hum at your attempts. 

“Not if you stay here,” he replies, “Not if I keep you contained. Keep you here.” 

You shake your head, stepping back. This felt like a nightmare. The tears were falling in full force, down your quivering chin as you stare at him. 

“You-you can’t do that,” You mutter, backing up against the wall as he makes his way towards you, “You can’t do that.”

He crowds you against him, hushing you as he bundles you up to his chest, stroking your hair. He’s so warm. His scent of woodland mountains is so strong. He suffocates you. You hadn’t realized it until just now. 

“I know you don’t understand.” Miguel replies, sounding so genuine. It makes you sick. “But you will. One day. One day you’ll thank me for saving you.” 

Saving you. This wasn’t saving you. This was keeping you. This was killing you. 

“I want to go home.” Your voice breaks, cracks under the weight of his confession. “Miguel please. I-I need to go home.” 

For the first time, he smiles. A sincere smile. 

A condescending smile. Like you’ve said something adorably naïve. 

“Mi amor.” He purrs, affectionately kissing your cheek. 

“You are home.”