#its all just a little bit of history repeating

[drconstellation]

Judgement Day

Aziraphale's Edinburgh Journey: Part 4

Aziraphale's trip to Edinburgh - and most of S2 - is filled with hints and references to the Second Coming. Once you are clued into this, they are everywhere, with some clues more obvious than others. Gabriel's statue is one of them, but it has another role as well (and it's not for hiding anything under, sorry.)

We also have a lot of references to the Freemasons in S2, particularly in Edinburgh, but you can see related symbolism elsewhere - they use some of the same symbolism used around Memento mori, and they also believe in working towards upholding values in life to be rewarded in the afterlife. Judgement Day looms large for all, not matter what their belief.

Judgment in the Tarot

Judgement is the penultimate card of the Major Arcana in the Tarot - the final card is The World, where the journey ends and everything comes together in harmony. But first, one must be summoned to their reckoning, and the past weighed up. It marks the completion of a karmic cycle; its time for renewal.

Three naked figures, a man, a woman and a child, rise out of the darkness of the underworld. Their nakedness denotes their spirituality, they have thrown off the clothes and material things of a physical life. An angel in the sky with a trumpet summons them to be reborn.

But which angel is it on the card? The book I'm favoring to do these card interpretations says its Michael. The information I have about cemetery angels (below) would indicate it to be Gabriel, who is sometimes depicted on headstones blowing a horn. Yet other lore says it's Raphael/Israfel that will blow the horn to start the Day of Judgement. And reading further, on some texts it just says it will be an archangel, they don't specify which one.

Cemetery Angels

The statue of Gabriel in the Edinburgh cemetery is an example of a cemetery angel. The type and pose of the angel is supposed to give some indication of the life that was lived. Small cherubs for children, a lily held for purity, a circular wreath for everlasting life, for example.

Gabriel's statue is doing several things at once: its wings are open, indicating its ready to take flight upwards for the resurrection, and its holding a cross. This is because this statue is a replica of one of the angels on the Ponte Sant'Angelo in Rome and they all hold something relating to the Passion. A cross is probably the most recognizable symbol of all, and instantly connected with Jesus. Everything here is pointing us to the Second Coming.

The Missing Cross

But the cross isn't there in every scene. It's been pointed out that its missing when Gabriel shows his statue to Beelzebub in the present.

This only appears to be the case when we view this scene from a distance. When we see the statue from between their shoulders, the cross is still there.

This is an inconsistent message, and casts some doubt on what its trying to tell us. Can Beelzebub see the cross or not? It can't be a demon thing, as Crowley has no problem seeing the cross in 1827. Is it instead a comment about Gabriel and Beelzebub as a pair?

There are a multitude of meanings that could be applied here around that missing cross: is it do with death and resurrection or is to do with having your sins forgiven and achieving eternal life? If its the latter, then the demons have always been excluded from that, right from the start.

Gazing in Parallel

Then there's this parallel in acts of admiration of the statue:

The very first time I watched S2 and I heard Crowley say "he probably comes here to stare at it," I knew yep, he sure does, and so he did.

Parallel pairs like this usually give us a nugget of information about the characters or story, and this one seems to be another thing pointing us to Gabriel being the peacock mentioned in the Job minisode (i.e. "Did you give wings to peacocks, Job...") An old slang definition of a peacock is "a person, especially a man, who is arrogant or likes dressing or behaving in a way that draws attention to themselves" and "a man who is very proud of his appearance and gives a lot of attention to his clothes and the way he dresses."

Let us not forget at this point that Crowley is linked to Gabriel in S2 as both a parallel and foil, and he, too, takes some pride in his appearance. But while Gabriel admires the creation that is himself, Crowley tends more to admire creations that he has had a hand in working on himself.

But there is a curious moment here that links us up with a scene from the beginning of S2, in Before the Beginning. Notice how Aziraphale looks back at Crowley as he he says Gabriel "Probably comes here to stare at it. Marveling at his own beauty."

Aziraphale has the same jealous look on his face as angel!Crowley marvels at the beauty of his newly created nebula and stars.

We have to remember that Before The Beginning was one of the last parts of S2 to be written, even though its at the start, but it includes a repeated parallel to the dates at the statue - angel!Crowley admires his creation, and Aziraphale looks a little jealous that he's not getting that same attention from Crowley.

Demons in the Mist

There is another, larger, parallel sequence that the statue plays a part in as well, and this connects us to S1, and I suspect to S3 as well. This is one of the mobius strip parallels that I sometimes talk about, where the story history repeats itself ad infinitum. Notice the misty nature of the present day scene below; this is an indication we are seeing more than two times and places at once.

It starts here, as we switch suddenly from 1827 back to present, just after Crowley is sucked down into Hell, leaving Aziraphale gazing up at the statue.

The parallel scene to this is the sushi restaurant in S1E1.

In that scene Crowley has been summoned to the cemetery to receive the antichrist and start Armageddon. He was supposed to be on a date with Aziraphale at the sushi restaurant, but Gabriel turns up instead, on the other side of Aziraphale - the same side the statue is on in S2.

Next, there are two demons. The first time, Crowley was summoned to meet with Hastur and Ligur to start Armageddon. Only this time, in S2, its Aziraphale talking to the demons, not Crowley.

We have an indication that the Scottish pair are demon-related with the taller one having a misspelled tattoo on his forehead (and aren't there many stories of badly spelled tattoos?)

I think they also roughly match the height and size of Hastur and Ligur, too. And it's the Ligur-parallel that offers his phone - just like its Ligur that chats to Michael on the back channels that don't exist in S1.

Free phone call? Not a problem. It's been pointed out that when Crowley hangs up the phone handset in S1 after calling Aziraphale you can hear a coin falling into the coin return box - apparently there was a thing done in the old days of leaving some change in the coin return for people who didn't have any money and needed to make a call; a kindness for strangers, if you will. So it's not a worry that there is no credit on the phone when Aziraphale needs to make the call.

Lastly, we have some S3 foreshadowing, because this an Aziraphale scene and he connects us with the future. The old phone is looking worn and tatty, with the Union Jack on it, a sign of the Empire that is slowly fading, and is well past its peak. After he hands it back with a blessing, it looks renewed, with the St Andrews Cross of Scotland on it. I might live on the other side of the world from the UK but even I'm aware of the political debate around Scottish independence that has been ongoing for, well, many years now.

I can't help thinking we are going to see a parallel to this scene in S3 as well, with Aziraphale demanding some form communication from Hell or some demons for which he does "ask nicely" about. This is all working towards a change in the way the authoritative structure works for the angels and demons (the death and rebirth theme.)

Masonic Symbols

We are alerted to the presence of the Masons when Aziraphale does his detective cosplay and speaks to the barman in the Resurrectionist pub. If you are quick, you can also notice the square and compass symbol on the windows next to the pub as Aziraphale approaches, although most of us are looking at Jesus on the sign (and a reminder that we are looking out of a deliberate copy of the Eastern Gate of Eden here on the sign, too, into the deserted distance.)

The square and compass are a reminder of balance - the square at the bottom is about honesty and integrity, and the compass at the top represents wisdom and keeping one's desires within reach.

But why are we looking at Masons? I think this is because they represent a similar but different alternative to the Abrahamic religions the Good Omens AU is built around - they believe in a Supreme Being (God) and they believe in upholding certain virtues and doing good deeds in life so that they will be rewarded in the afterlife, and that there is an eternal afterlife; they just don't believe in going about it in the same way the church does.* The Catholic church doesn't allow one to be a Mason and a member of the church at the same time because of this clash in ideologies.

The other thing to note about Masons, is that Masons wear black tie evening dress to their Lodge meetings, like the corpse in the next image below. The barman in the present even says to Aziraphale "It's the first time I've seen one in a fancy grey suit, though." This is a big Clue - but you all missed it, because you latched on to the fancy grey suit part of the sentence that screamed "GABRIEL WAS HERE!!" at you and didn't hear the silent part that the barman was saying - that the other person that was with Gabriel was wearing a black suit.

Hello? Anyone paying attention here? No? Just me shouting into the void...right, well, carry on then.

We see three dead bodies in the Resurrectionists minisode, much like the three bodies on the Tarot card for Judgement. The first is this Mason, clearly identified by the apron he is wearing (the other two bodies are a priest and wee Morag.) The decoration on it would indicate what rank or degree of mastery he held within his lodge. The background was always white, for purity.

Coffins were a reminder that one day every one would die and return to dust. They were also a sign of leaving their previous life behind from before they joined the Masons and taking on their Masonic duties.

Skulls and cross bones were part of Memento mori - reminders that life was short. They also appeared on Mason tracer boards.

The hourglass was a particularly special symbol. While it, too, was a reminder that life was finite, it was also a reminder that life and death was a cycle. By turning the hourglass over, one started the cycle again. This also demonstrated the need at times for one to turn one's thoughts and actions around on their journey through life.

It was also a reminder that time was the great equalizer - it didn't matter your station in life, time always moved forward, and death would come for us all.

Onward to Part 5, dear readers! Time to see if we really know where we're going with all this!

Thanks once again to @vidavalor for pointing out the parallel between the statue of Gabriel and the sushi restaurant in S1, where Crowley is pulled away by Hell both times and Gabriel appears on Aziraphale's right.

@kimberleyjean has also put together a collection of all the infinity loops and mobius strip references in GO here.

*I'm not sure what it was like in other countries, but I know in Australia during the mid 20th century to get anywhere in certain jobs and industries you either had to be a Catholic or a Mason. Without the backing of one of those organizations you wouldn't get far. My grandfather was a Mason, but not religious, and consequently rose quite high in the government dept he worked for - took me a long time to put all those pieces together, because it was never talked about in my family. I just knew he went to Lodge. It was only listening to some podcasts about history that I was able to work it out.

The other posts in this series can be found here:

Part 1: Detective Aziraphale Part 2: Aziraphale-Beelzebub Parallels Part 3: Stocktaking in the Basement Part 5: I Know Where I'm Going

[mariacallous]

Last year, the lead singer of The 1975, Matt Healy, managed to offend a whole lot of Gaelgoirí (Irish speakers) when he appeared to mock a fan’s name – Dervla – at a meet-and-greet.

Healy isn’t alone, though, when it comes to anglophone bafflement at Irish names. A recent study based on an analysis of Google searches revealed the words that British people have the most difficulty pronouncing. The names Aoife, Saoirse, Niamh and Siobhán occupy places in the top 10.

And it’s not exclusively a British problem: I always cringe watching US talkshows where the host quizzes their Irish guest (usually Saoirse Ronan) on the pronunciation of their and other Irish names.

I’ve heard every possible variation of my own name from non-Irish people. It’s not uncommon in Ireland; in secondary school, there were four Niamhs in my class. But I rarely come across an English person who is familiar with it, despite the proximity of our two countries.

In case you don’t know, it’s pronounced “Neev” or “Nee-av”, either is perfectly acceptable. The prefix Ní means “daughter of”. My surname is trickier, and has even tripped up a few Irish people; it can be translated as Herbert, and is pronounced “her-a-vard”.

When I was living in London, I quickly learned that saying Niamh at the counter in a coffee shop or over the phone to make a booking simply wouldn’t fly. This led to the invention of what I call my “Starbucks name”. Anything easily pronounceable with a simple spelling would do. Mia, Sophie and Rose were among my common aliases.

Speaking to others reveals a litany of similar experiences. Aoibhe Ní Shúilleabháin, a designer and teacher, spent two years at college in England having her name mispronounced and disrespected. (Her first name is pronounced “Ay-vah”.) More than one lecturer resorted to calling her “blondie”.

She tells me: “I was asked to say, ‘Three hundred and thirty three trees’” – a tongue-twister that does the rounds on TikTok – “more often than I was asked to repeat my name.” She recalls the lack of interest when she attempted to explain that Irish and English are different languages with different pronunciation rules.

Clearly, the sensitivities at play here are rooted in history: Ireland was colonised by the English and our national language was all but wiped out. A language revival began in earnest in the 19th century, but it’s never quite recovered. Ireland’s most recent census shows that about 40% of Ireland’s population can speak Irish. The English destroyed our language once before, so every little throwaway comment and scoff at our names hurts a little bit more – and ultimately becomes just tiresome. A handful of people even remark, “Oh! I didn’t know Ireland had its own language,” when I tell them about my name.

Writer Darach Ó Séaghdha is all too familiar with these difficulties. (The “rach” in Darach is pronounced like “Bach”, he says.)He hosted a podcast called Motherfoclóir, a podcast about the Irish language and culture, and whenever there were guests on with Irish names, “inevitably the episode would turn into group therapy”. There was one bad experience, he recalls, when he was told that his surname “looked like a wifi password”. But he decided to give his children Irish names, too. It’s a common trend, he says, “because parents with Irish names have been battle-hardened”.

Like the others I spoke to for this piece, writer and director Rioghnach (think “Ree-nock”)Ní Ghrioghair believes that a sense of superiority among English speakers is to blame for the constant mistreatment of Irish names. But she’s defiant. “We are going to scrutinise the British for any transgression regarding the pronunciation of our names,” and other things, she tells me, like British media claiming Irish actors as their own during awards seasons.

There is no easy crash-course I can give to you on the pronunciation of Irish names, but you can always try out “how to pronounce”-style websites (which themselves can be contested). But the simplest and most reliable solution is perhaps just to politely ask an Irish person – and listen attentively to what they say. I may have accepted that English people are very rarely going to get my name right on the first go, but I appreciate a well-intentioned effort. Just don’t laugh at it, please.

[justfandomwritings]

Who Did This To You? (Hangman)

Pairing: Hangman x Female!Reader (no use of y/n)

Word Count: 10.2k because I have no self control

Summary: In your most vulnerable hour, Jake 'Hangman' Seresin is the one to find you, and the one to ask you the ultimate question. "Who did this to you?"

Warnings: Mentions of Abuse and DV (NOT committed by Jake), nongraphic description of resulting injuries, a very one-sided bar fight, mention that a character is going to therapy, insults and confrontation by a past abuser. (This story is a who did this to you trope. While it is only dealing with the 'who did this to you' aftermath of what was done, please keep that in mind.)

Notes: This is just an excuse to write the who did this to you trope. This is self indulgence at its finest.

“Who did this to you?”

Your head shot up a little too quickly at the unexpected company, and the world began to spin all over again. With a groan, you laid your head back on the bartop, hoping the flat wood would help the world right itself faster.

You’d been lying there with your forehead pressed on the cool wood of the bar, sitting directly under an air vent, for the better part of thirty minutes. The Hard Deck’s AC was working overtime to keep the heat outside, and the rush of cold air blowing down the back of your shirt was doing wonders for your sore arms and back. 

“Hurricane, who did this to you?”

You hadn’t been expecting anyone to be there. Everyone else was down at the beach. You thought you’d have some time alone to lick your wounds and cover your bruises and emotionally recover from what had happened that morning. Penny was too busy watching Maverick. The aviators were too engrossed in a new game Maverick had invented called dogfight volleyball, and the bar was technically closed at this hour. You thought you could slip by and start your shift sight unseen. 

“Hurricane,” The voice was firm, but not demanding. Underwritten with a tone of concern that was very uncommon to that particular voice. “Hurricane,” it repeated. 

You opened your eyes and rolled your head to lay facing the voice’s direction and made eye contact with Hangman. 

You knew it was him before you turned, but for some reason you still did. 

Backlit by the sun’s rays bouncing off his perfect golden hair with an open button-up billowing in the sea breeze, he stood in sharp contrast to your current state. Like an angel stepping out of heaven and into hell. 

In some ways, this was your worst case scenario. Hangman was definitely not your favorite pilot and was very close to your least, and he was certainly not your friend. You were at best frenemies and even that was a stretch. The pair of you had been constantly bickering and making snide comments behind the other’s backs since practically the moment you made eye contact with each other. He intentionally made your life difficult behind the bar, and you rang the bell on him on multiple occasions. 

He was responsible for everyone calling you Hurricane. You’d come crashing through the doors on your first day working at the Hard Deck with a torrential downpour following you in from outside. A drowned cat would’ve looked less soaked through and pathetic than you, and the moment Penny introduced you to the squad, he’d made a snide remark about the Hurricane you brought with you. The rest was history. It became like a callsign to them; your name long forgotten by most. The only pilot who didn’t call you Hurricane now was Bob, and it ground your gears just a little bit more every time you heard it. 

On the other hand, this might’ve been the best case scenario. Hangman wasn’t someone who was going to make a big show of this. He wouldn’t rush down to the beach and ask for help. He wouldn’t fawn over you or ask you if you were okay a million times. He wouldn’t expect you to cry on his shoulder and incessantly pick at you until you broke down. 

“Who did this to you?” Hangman took a step in from where he’d frozen in the door out to the patio.

His expression was like his voice, hard and firm with undertones of the worry that anyone would be feeling in this situation. Hangman wasn’t the nicest guy you knew, but you knew from the other pilots stories of the many times he’d saved their lives that he wasn’t evil, and you didn’t doubt for a moment that he’d at least be somewhat concerned even if he didn’t care particularly for you. 

“You already know who.”

It was true. Devin had been in the bar about once a week for the last six months that you’d been dating. He’d made the rounds through the aviators, none of whom particularly liked him but all of whom had been polite enough not to say anything… except Hangman. 

The second Devin left after his first introductions, Hangman had made his distaste known. ‘Something’s off about that guy,’ he’d said before the door even closed. Phoenix had teased him about being jealous that his snarky banter was no longer the center of your world, but you’d seen it for what it was. A combination of being angry he wasn’t the center of attention and looking to defy you at every turn that was a uniquely Hangman blend. 

Hangman approached you slowly, taking one deliberate step at a time. Every step with such obvious forethought that it gave you the time and the option to back away. A detail you wouldn’t have expected from such an ego-centric man. 

You didn’t back away. Hangman was a lot of things, most of them negative, but you could say with absolute certainty that you weren’t afraid of him. For all the times you’d yelled at him, you’d never been scared of his physicality, and for all the times he'd yelled at you, his hand had never so much as twitched. 

Standing beside you, under the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights that threw your skin into sharp relief, Hangman had a full view of the damage. 

“That fucker,” his voice was a harsh, raspy whisper, “I’m gonna kill him.” His hand seemed to lift of its own accord. Flat, open palmed and always within your line of sight, he reached up and stroked his fingers along your cheekbone with a feather-light touch. 

“I already dumped him.” You don’t know why you felt like explaining yourself to Hangman of all people, but maybe it was the determination in his eyes. The way he stared down at your cheek like his eyes could will the twing of pain away. 

Hangman gave a half-hearted, inattentive nod. “That’s certainly a start.” He looked like gears were turning in his head, like he hadn’t given up on his first idea. 

A flood of memories came back to you. 

‘The only active duty pilot with a confirmed air-to-air kill.’ Coyote, introducing Hangman.

‘We call him Bagman, cause he’ll kill anyone and get anyone killed. He doesn’t seem to mind.’ Omaha commenting on Hangman’s aim at the dartboard. 

‘That’s his second air-to-air kill.’ Bob, telling you what he could about the mission they’d just come back from. 

‘Hangman’s deadly in the sky. I wouldn’t wanna cross him.’ Rooster, finally being honest about what he thought of Hangman, after the blonde saved his life. 

Hangman had killed before, and in his line of work, with his level of skill, likely would again. He definitely didn’t mean what he said, certainly not literally. He wasn’t about to rush out to his truck and go hunting Devin in the streets, but it wasn’t something he of all people would say entirely jokingly either. 

You slowly sat up in your chair. The world was spinning less now. Whether that was because the nausea was finally passing or because Hangman’s hand stayed on your cheek, grounding you in the moment, it was unclear. “I appreciate your concern,” you hedged, “but really, I’m fine. I can handle myself.”

Hangman snorted and let his hand fall away. “Obviously you can; you already kicked his ass to the curb on your own. Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna kill him for good measure.” Hangman hopped up on the bar and swung his legs over. 

You probably should’ve objected to his comfort level invading your workspace. Penny was very explicit that no one was allowed behind the bar who didn’t work there and even more explicit that that applied to all naval aviators. Somehow, though, you doubted Hangman would rat you out, at least not today. 

“Are you going to tell Penny?” Hangman mozied around behind the bar, picking up a rag and tossing it over his shoulder. He was looking for something, but he didn’t seem inclined to ask. You weren’t any more inclined to offer. 

It would’ve broken whatever moment was passing between you. Caring? Camaraderie? You weren’t sure, but there was certainly some level of understanding that remained largely unspoken. 

Hangman found what he was looking for in short order anyway. He flipped open the ice cooler and pulled the rag off his shoulder, filling it with a scoop of ice and tying the ends. 

“Not now,” you were disinclined to bring it up to Penny. 

The Hard Deck was a Navy bar, and Penny had made a lot of powerful friends. Hell, you had a lot of powerful friends if you were willing to use them; one of them, or at least a powerful person who was willing to help you, was standing right in front of you. You could only imagine what would happen to Devin if you told anyone. All of it would be deserved of course, but you doubted most of it would be legal. And that really wasn’t what you needed right now, and you weren’t ready to have that conversation anyway. 

“Hold this to your cheek. You wanna get the swelling down,” In a reversal of roles, he leaned against the bar in the place that was normally yours and offered you his makeshift ice pack. 

You took it with a quiet, “Thank you.”

Hangman nodded with a thoughtful expression, watching your hand raise it to your cheek, “I’ll let you tell them in your own time, but you’re going to go to someone to help you through this until then… professionally.” 

It wasn’t a question. He wasn’t leaving room for debate. It was an order as plain as any he got in the Navy. 

You nodded wordlessly against the ice pressed to your face. It was a reasonable expectation, a reasonable request. You weren’t sure if you needed it or not, but you supposed that was the point. You weren’t sure. Better to go too soon than too late. 

“Good,” Hangman sighed, seeming relieved, and pushed off the bar. His muscles flexed with the motion, bulging against the short sleeves of his open button-up shirt. They remained tense as he crossed his arms over his chest. His teeth gritted behind his closed lips. “I’ll keep him out of the bar.”

“Hangman, you really don’t have to-” 

“He hurt you.” Hangman cut you off with a dismissive wave of his hand. He looked serious, deadly serious. “That’s all I need to know. He’s not welcome here anymore.”

Before you had the chance to respond, not that you were entirely sure how you would, Hangman’s eyes left yours, staring at something over your shoulder out towards the beach.

“Do you have any makeup for that cheek?”

Your head turned, and you saw the outlines of Penny and Mav, arm in arm, making their way back to the bar. “Yeah,” you replied, “But my shoulder is a different story. I need to go find…”

Hangman jerked his button up off his shoulders and balled it up, tossing it across the bar to you. “Go quick. Put this on.”

“Hangman, I-”

“Go.” Hangman urged, and you ran off before Penny could see the two of you.

—------------------------------------------------

Your phone kept buzzing in your pocket, but you didn’t have time to check it.

You thought you knew what it was. Phoenix demanding to know why one of Jake Seresin’s shirts was wrapped around your shoulders. Hangman’s weren’t as distinctive as Bradley’s, usually solid colors with a barely-there logo on the pocket. None of the guys had noticed you were wearing it, but you knew Phoenix had the moment she came back in from the beach. She’d shot you a disappointed, skeptical look and immediately begun whispering to Bob as they walked away with their drinks. 

Penny hadn’t been much better. She hadn’t identified which pilots’ shirt it was like Phoenix clearly had, but she was two steps away from asking when the evening rush began to pour in without any sign of slowing down. 

The Hard Deck was slam-packed, and none of the bartenders had a second to spare. The newest class of TopGun recruits were graduating within a week, and it seemed that everyone had turned out for the upcoming occasion.

The bar was crowded with faces new and old. All of the graduating pilots were scattered around, and most of their instructors had made their way in at some point. Some of the pilots had families, wives and girlfriends, who had flown in and accompanied them to the bar that night. There were more than a few old friends in town to visit or siblings using the graduation as an excuse to get away. 

Even most of Mav’s squadron was there. Penny’s old flame had claimed a spot by one of the dart boards, and his lieutenants were all taking turns trying to dethrone Hangman as the king of darts. Normally, they would have migrated to the pool tables by now, but the bar was too crowded for even TopGun’s finest to leverage their way into skipping the line to have a game. 

One of the soon-to-be graduates hunkered down at the bar, some asshole who was billing himself as the new and improved Hangman, kept snapping his fingers at you to try to get your attention from behind the bar. You were dangerously close to ringing the bell on him the next time he did it, and Penny’s fingers were clearly itching to do the same. Tragically, neither of you thought that was a very good idea. Tonight might’ve been the one night where it was simply too busy to ring the bell.

There were so many people you couldn’t see past the sea of bodies pressing in around you, and it was a miracle that you didn’t bolt from the claustrophobia.

Marg after marg. Old fashioned after old fashioned. Beer after beer. The line never seemed to stop, and it was taking its toll on you. Tonight was simply not your night.

“Go,” Penny’s hand touched your shoulder and made you jump, spilling some of the tequila shot you were trying to hand off. “I’ll clean that. You look like you need a break. Take five.”

Normally on a busy night, you would’ve protested, insisted you could hold down the fort and done your best to help Penny push through the rush, but not that night.

Your shoulders slumped in relief, and you ducked under the gap in the bar without much of a second thought, pushing your way through the people towards the door to the kitchen. There was a ‘broken’ stool by the door to the kitchen that was in fact not broken at all but had a sign taped to it that said it was specifically so it was open for when workers were on break. The seat provided some much needed relief for your aching feet and even more aching shoulders.

Shaking cocktails was really aggravating the bruises just beneath the button up wrapped around your shoulders, and you found yourself hurting almost twice as much as normal this shift. That might’ve been why you felt like you were moving in slow motion the whole time. That or the sheer number of people had simply made the task seem insurmountable.

You were just closing your eyes and leaning back against the wall when your phone in your pocket buzzed again.

It wasn’t really a conscious decision to check it, more habit than anything else. And really, you hadn’t expected it to be anything that bad. You hadn’t heard from him all day. 

But there it was. His name. His name a half a dozen times over the course of your shift. Each text progressively more urgent and pressing than the last.

‘I’m  still coming to pick you up from work.’

Bile rose up in your throat, and you suppressed the overwhelming urge to bolt. The room was suddenly too hot and too crowded, and there were too many faces. Faces you recognized and faces you didn’t. A wash of faces that was the perfect place for him to hide, to wait, to lurk around for the opportune moment to reveal himself.

You couldn’t do this, couldn’t deal with this. Not here. Not now. Not in front of all these people. Not alone. 

You did the first thing that came to mind. 

It was stupid really. You couldn’t explain why it occurred to you, why you acted on it so immediately, why you thought it was a good idea at all. It probably wasn’t; it could just as easily have backfired in your face as anything else. But your gut told you it was what you should do. Really, your gut didn’t so much tell you as wrench you in that direction with an undeniable force. 

“Hey can I talk to you for a sec?” 

Hangman was an easy man to find, even despite the crowd, strutting around the dart boards like he owned the place, which he very nearly did, rubbing the other pilots noses in his shots that were somehow better blindfolded than theirs were with sight.

You interrupted him boasting loudly to Fanboy and Payback about how he didn’t even need to practice. Perfect marksmanship just came naturally to him. The rest of the pilots were all gathered at the high tops near the darts boards, mostly rolling their eyes. They were having some kind of tournament, or rather a competition to see if anyone could take Hangman down. 

Payback seemed almost too happy for the interruption, but Fanboy was a bit more perceptive, at least at the moment. Fanboy’s eyes darted away to Phoenix’s table, and you saw the jerk of his head when he caught her eye. Funneling the female aviator’s attention in the direction of what was unfolding. 

You, wearing Hangman’s shirt since he disappeared for half an hour earlier that day, asking to talk to him alone near the end of your shift. You knew exactly what it looked like. 

“Sure.” Hangman’s tone was completely casual, not giving anything away, but when his back turned on his companions, his eyes were burning. You quickly looked away from his gaze and led him from the group.

“I wasn’t checking my phone.” The words were tumbling out of your mouth the moment he was out of the others’ earshot. You didn’t even bite your tongue long enough to turn around. “He’s been texting me my entire shift. He was supposed to be my ride home tonight, and I think he might show up soon.”

When you faced Hangman, you knew the panic in your voice and in your eyes was painfully obvious. Now that you were semi-alone with him, with someone who knew, there was no hiding how much it jarred you. Your hands fumbled with your phone trying to show him the flood of texts you’d gotten, unnoticed, over the last two hours. 

Hangman didn’t look down even as you turned the phone to show him. His jaw was already clenched; his expression was agitated, visibly angry. His eyes weren’t looking at you or the phone. They were searching the faces in the crowd similar to the way yours had only moments before though far more thorough. The honed, trained eye of a military fighter pilot meticulously picked through the crowd for its target, finding nothing. 

“Could you…” You hesitated to ask. It was such a ridiculous request. Just yesterday, Hangman would’ve been your absolute last choice to be in this position with; you would’ve risked handling it alone before asking for his help. But here he was. The only one who knew. The first one you asked. “I’ll give you a round on the house for it. I just… Would you mind giving me a ride home? I don’t want to stumble on him alone.”

Hangman didn’t hesitate or pull his eyes from where they continuously scanned the crowd, as if his gaze alone was enough to keep a threat at bay. “No beers required, Hurricane.” The words seemed to be coming out of his mouth even as you offered. Like he’d already decided what he was going to do the minute you told him the problem. “Wait here a sec? I’ll handle it.”

Hangman walked the short distance over to the bar, glancing back over his shoulder at you every few steps like he was making sure you hadn’t disappeared, and flagged down Penny. Something on his face must’ve told her it was urgent because she forwent several regulars and big tippers demanding drinks to beeline towards him. He leaned over the bar and whispered something in her ear, gesturing back in your direction. 

Penny looked concerned, and she nodded along with what Hangman was saying until he turned to leave. 

“If Penny asks,” Hangman put a hand on your shoulder, a firm grip holding you to his side as he led you through the throng of people towards the exit, “a guy was bothering you, and I drove you home cause you were scared of him.”

“Not entirely a lie,” You mumbled, shifting closer into Hangman’s side.

No one tried to stop you. No hands reached out for you. No one called out your name. You made it through entirely unscathed. You could feel eyes on you, but they didn’t raise the hairs on the back of your neck. You doubted, highly, that they were Devin’s. More likely, Hangman’s squadron were watching him retreat from the bar with you under his arm without so much as a goodbye. More likely, they were plotting and planning the questions they were going to hound the two of you with the next time they saw you. More likely, Phoenix was pointing out to everyone that you were wearing Hangman’s shirt.

—------

“Does he have a key?” Hangman didn’t break the silence until he’d turned onto your block, until he’d brought his truck to a slow crawl, looking for your tiny, inconsequential cookie cutter house in a row of tiny, inconsequential cookie cutter houses. 

Yours was pretty much the only house without a Navy flag or Navy paraphernalia of some description sitting in the yard or stuck to a car in the driveway. The neighborhood was not far from the Hard Deck which was not far from the base, and the tiny houses geared towards first-time-buyers were crawling with Navy pilots and newlywed military couples who wanted to live offbase.

You were on the second sidestreet, the third house on the left. Hangman already knew the way without instruction. Penny had conned every Top Gun pilot with a car into driving you home at least a couple times. And while Hangman was usually the pilot she was least willing to ask, he was also the only one who was guaranteed to always be sober. 

His question came out very sober. His usual lilting, teasing tone had dropped off somewhere today and never fully returned. 

“He did. He… he told me he lost it, but…” You both knew better than to believe that.

Hangman pulled into your driveway and flicked the truck into park and turned it off. “Tomorrow I’ll drive you to the hardware store, and we’ll change the locks.”

“You don’t have to…”

“Do you feel safe with him having a key?” Hangman cut you off. He was looking down at you with just a touch of condescension, so classically Hangman. Like he knew the answer already, like he knew you knew the answer already, and that you were silly if you pretended not to or refused him. 

You knew where this was going, and you thought about lying, just to relieve Hangman of whatever false sense of duty or obligation he had imposed on himself by being the one to find you at the Hard Deck. But it was way too late. Hangman wasn’t stupid, but he was incredibly, irritatingly stubborn. And he’d already set his mind to helping you through this. “No.”

“Then tomorrow morning I’ll change the locks.” Hangman threw his door open and hopped out of the truck. It slammed closed behind him as he circled around to your side. You made to open your door, but Hangman beat you to it. “Alarm services are expensive,” He continued, offering you a hand, “but they make door jammers that have sound alarms on them at least, and my sister bought some cheap window versions a while back that I could help install.” 

You took Hangman’s hand and dumbly followed him up to your door as he rambled on about extra door locks and doorbell cameras. All options that you could pick up tomorrow for him to put in. 

“That’s too much effort,” You halfheartedly protested as you spun your keys around trying to find the one to your front door. 

There really weren’t that many keys. There were a couple to the Hard Deck, one to the shed where Penny kept beach supplies, and one to Devin’s place that you hadn’t returned. They were all distinct shapes and colors, but you couldn’t seem to focus long enough to find the plain silver key to your own door. Maybe because you knew there was another one, exactly like it, somewhere across town at that moment.   

“Not if it makes you feel safe.” Hangman leaned back against your door frame, his eyes skimming up and down your block as if he was still on alert in the crowded bar, still looking for signs of trouble, signs of him. 

“Would you…” Your words trailed off as you watched his darting eyes. The question came bubbling up before you could stop it, before you even really thought of it. It was less a question and more a response to his vigilance, to the thought that his vigilance might be warranted and necessary. 

“Would I…?” Hangman didn’t let it go. His eyes turned to look at you.

You chewed at your bottom lip, debating if it was worth asking, debating if it was necessary. 

He probably thought it was, if his mannerisms were any indication, if his talk about alarms was any indication, if walking you to your door and watching your back were any indication. 

“Would you come in?”

Hangman raised a doubtful eyebrow, sure you didn’t mean what those words usually meant.

“Not like that, it’s just… You’re right. He probably still has a key, and if we can’t fix it till the morning…”

Understanding seemed to wash over his face, and Hangman kicked himself up off the door jam. “If it’ll help,” he immediately conceded. “I’ll sleep on your couch.”

“It…” You hesitated, but only for a moment. “I think it would.”

The silence inside your home was almost palpable. It was late enough that going to bed wouldn’t have been awkward for either of you, but neither of you were tired. And neither of you seemed up to faking being tired just to get away. 

Hangman sat on one end of the couch, and you sat on the other. At some point, you mustered the effort to turn on the tv. The local news was a quiet, bland drone of background noise cutting through the still air around the two of you.

You felt like you should say something. Maybe ‘should’ wasn’t the right word; maybe you wanted to say something. But either way you didn’t know where to begin.

You had only ever been alone with Hangman when he was dropping you off as a favor to Penny, times that were filled with snarky jokes and constant nagging from both of you, and earlier that day in the bar. You weren’t close. You weren’t friends. You were barely acquaintances. He was only here because he was in the right (or wrong, depending how you looked at it) place at the right time.

“Thank you,” That seemed like a good place to start. “For today, thank you.”

“You have nothing to thank me for.” Hangman countered quickly. His eyes stayed on the tv, though they were clearly out of focus staring at the screen. 

“I do though. You could’ve told everyone.”

“You weren’t ready for that.” He added it under his breath, countering without cutting you off.

“You could’ve left me to finish out my shift.”

“Not with him coming to the bar.”

“You could’ve left after you dropped me off.”

“He has a key.”

“You could’ve turned and walked out the door when you first saw me at the bar.”

Hangman let out a heavy sigh, not of annoyance or exasperation but a sigh weighed down with duty and concern. “No, I couldn’t.” 

Your eyes met his over the center of the couch, and a breath rushed out of your lungs under the intensity in his gaze.

—-------------------------------------

You woke up in your bed, mouth open, with more than a little drool pooling on your pillow. 

You had no memory of falling asleep there, of getting into bed, of going to your room at all. 

You remember being on the couch, talking to Hangman. You remembered the way his eyes, intense, open, and honest, compelled you to speak. The way you couldn’t bite back the story pouring from your lips. The story of Devin asking you out, of falling for him in those early weeks, of how he changed after you committed to him. The story of what he did that night, of his buddies who sat back and did nothing, of the jokes you heard the three of them cracking as you ran from the room.

You remembered Hangman crossing the space between you and putting a hand on your arm, how cautious he was touching you, how much time he left you to pull away, how gentle his touch was against your skin. You remembered throwing yourself into his lap, sobbing into his shoulder as he held you against his chest and rubbed soothingly up and down your back, whispering promises that that asshole would never hurt you again. 

You didn’t remember anything after that. You must’ve fallen asleep in his lap.

Sitting up, you found the answer to your unasked question.

A folded piece of notebook paper sitting on the pillow next to you:

‘Thought the bed would be preferable to sharing the couch with me. If I’m wrong and you wake up in the middle of the night and don’t want to be alone, you can always wake me up. If not, I’ll have coffee ready for you in the morning. - Jake.’

As you read, his words the night before echoed in your head to the beat of a nonexistent drum as you read the note once, then twice, then a third time.

‘No, I couldn’t.’

You carefully folded the paper up and tucked it in the top drawer of your bedside table. 

True to his word, Hangman was wide awake, standing in your kitchen pouring himself a cup of coffee when you walked out of your room. 

“H-Hi,” you stuttered.

Last night, in the comfort of darkness, with exhaustion clouding over your mind and his arms holding you close, it had seemed the most logical thing in the world to open up to Hangman. And with the light of day glinting through the windows, with him dressed in the button up he’d wrapped around you the day before, with him lounging back against your counter as he sipped from your favorite mug, with an overconfident air that was too comfortable for any normal person’s first time in your home… It was odd to think that feeling hadn’t changed, that you still felt able to bare your soul to him, that you didn’t feel a need to run back into your room and get changed or freshen up, that you were perfectly comfortable being seen by him like this, a tired quaking  mess with puffy red eyes.

Part of you expected to walk out into your kitchen to an epiphany that you’d made a horrible mistake, that Hangman was exactly as much of a cocky asshole as you thought he was two days ago. But the epiphany never came.

“Morning,” Hangman took a sip of coffee and set the mug aside. He looked casual, at peace, like this was just another day, like he’d done this a million times. “I’m ready to go whenever you are. I found the toolbox in the bottom of your coat closet. Hope you don’t mind. We’ll probably need a few things if we’re gonna do anything more than replace the locks.”

“Y-Yeah,” You grabbed a mug off the drying rack and crossed the room to pour yourself a cup of coffee from the pot beside him, your shoulder brushing passed his as you poured. “Sounds good.”

“Hey.” Hangman seemed to immediately pick up that something was plaguing your mind. He didn’t reach out for you like last night, quite the opposite. He took a step away and turned to face you, crossin his arms over his chest, “If you want to be alone, I’ll head out. I’ll go to the store, pick up the locks, and change them myself. You can have time to yourself if you need it.” 

“No,” You immediately countered his obvious misinterpretation of your mood. “I-I don’t think I want to be alone. I’m just… antsy I guess.” 

He didn’t seem to fully buy it, but he let your excuse hang. “Okay then, we’ll head out when you’re ready.”

—----------------------

All day, as Hangman worked around your house first changing the locks then installing alarms then fixing a window that wouldn’t lock and then righting a wobbly chair leg that had absolutely nothing to do with your safety, neither of you mentioned the note he left or you crying in his arms or falling asleep on his lap or his quiet ‘No, I couldn’t’.

—--------------------------

You made a vow to yourself when Hangman finally left your house late Saturday afternoon. You were never going to ring up his card at the Hard Deck again. It couldn’t really repay what he’d done for you, the feeling of safety he’d brought to you in what was probably your most vulnerable moment so far on this earth, but you knew he wouldn’t want anything more showy. Hangman loved being the center of attention, but somehow you knew he wouldn’t want attention for this. 

True to your vow, the next Saturday evening, Hangman was on his third beer and had, unwittingly on his part, not paid a dime.

The Hard Deck was far less crowded that night. The graduating Top Gun candidates had all flown away, and only those currently stationed at the base, mostly Maverick’s squad, and some locals remained. A few dozen patrons milled around a room far larger than they needed with maybe a dozen pressed up to the bar. Most of the dozen fell under your responsibilities at the moment. Penny had, unintentionally, abandoned you not long before when Maverick had wandered in and taken up his usual stool. 

Omaha and Halo, the first aviators to arrive, had claimed one of the pool tables early in the night, and the rest of the squad had started rotating through matchups. It appeared Fritz was on a hot streak, one that was no doubt about to end as his next opponent in line was Hangman. 

All seemed right with the world. The constant buzz of voices, the crooning of the Goo Goo Dolls song that Bob had selected on the jukebox, the ready flow of beer to your usual patrons. Everything was fine.

Until the door opened one last time. Not that places of business ever ‘expected’ anyone because they hardly sent out invitations to come buy beer, but you really weren’t expecting anyone else that night. All the regulars were already inside.

The door banging against the wall as it was flung open was enough to draw your surprised eyes up to the entryway. 

Face lit by the sun setting over the beach through the windows on the opposite wall, he was unmistakable as he marched into view flanked by his two buddies. They immediately began scanning the room. 

Your breath rushed out of your lungs, exhaling in a gust that you couldn’t hold back any more than the wind. 

No, no, no. He wasn’t here. He couldn’t be here. He couldn’t confront you here. He couldn’t corner you alone.

There was no time to think, no time to check with Penny if it was ok to leave your station, no time to get to the door or bolt out the back. 

‘I’ll keep him out of the bar.’

It was your first instinct when you saw the text the weekend before, and it was your first instinct when you saw him that night.

“Hurricane?” Penny called after you as, without so much as a word in her direction, you ducked under the gap in the bar and made a beeline for the pool tables. 

You barely heard her, and if you did, it didn’t register. 

“Jake,” his real name leaving your lips was enough to draw most of his coworkers’ attention, all those in earshot at least. You grabbed his arm the second he was within reach, inadvertently clawing his skin with your nails as you pulled him up from where he was hunched over the pool table lining up a shot. 

Jake laughed and shrugged off your arm before he even turned around and saw who it was. “Hey,” he rubbed at the red marks in his skin, “I was just…” 

The words died on his lips when he turned and saw the panic in your eyes. It was brimming up inside you, overflowing and choking you off from every other sensation except the desperation for Jake to understand.

He knew better than anyone that there was only one thing that could make you look like that, feel like that. His head jerked up immediately in the direction of the door, as if he could sense the direction of the impending doom.

You watched the lighthearted smirk that constantly plagued his lips fall away. You watched the light in his eyes cloud over in darkness. As his gaze went up over your shoulder to the door, where one of the three men with angry expressions and dark eyes spotted your back amongst the khaki uniforms and began moving. 

Jake’s arm twisted in your grip and grabbed you by the elbow, jerking you unceremoniously behind his back. There was no time for pleasantries, no time to be nice about whatever he was about to do.

“Fanboy, stay with her.” Jake ordered over his shoulder to the nearest aviator. His gaze didn’t waiver from the three men approaching, even as he issued commands.  

Most of the aviators in Mav’s squad were scattered around the room. Mav was at the bar talking with Penny and Halo. Fanboy and Coyote had been watching Hangman school Fritz, who was being hyped up by Payback. Rooster was at a table not far from the pool game talking to a pretty girl. And Phoenix and Bob were half spectating from their perch by the jukebox discussing something that had gone wrong in a training run that afternoon. 

Fanboy caught you and held you up as Jake pushed you in his direction. “What’s going on?”

Jake didn’t answer. He side-stepped in front of you, half blocking you from view, and walked to the edge of the pool area. There was a buffer zone between himself and you. He was the first line of defense, and he was giving the second, Fanboy, room to react. 

“You fucking bitch!” If Fanboy didn’t know what was going on before, he instantly caught on. 

Fanboy’s arms tensed around yours. His back went rigged, as if a commanding officer had just called him to attention, and he curled away, pulling you back behind him and putting his body in front of you as a shield. Even with Fanboy hovering in the way, his body didn’t hide Devin’s eyes. They sought you out around Jake’s frame and over Fanboy’s shoulder; they found you huddled up behind the Navy uniforms and the fancy stars pinned to the pilots chests. No number of medals pinned to Jake’s chest could stop the chill that ran down your spine in response to the venom in Devin’s tone. You wanted to look away, but the daggers in his gaze skewered you in place, held you hostage. 

You wanted to curl up and hide, preferably behind Jake... Well, preferably in a home far away from there wrapped in heavy blankets with many deadbolts between you and Devin with Jake vigilantly standing guard at the door. 

Devin tried to walk straight past Jake, like he didn’t even see him. Jake wasn’t having any of it. 

A thick, muscular arm stuck out across the length of Devin’s shoulders as he tried to pass, holding him back.

Devin wasn’t a very big guy. He was well toned, but he was no naval aviator. He was no Jake Seresin. Jake had about an inch on Devin, but his well built frame made up for their near identical height. Devin had never been one to hit the gym hard while Jake certainly was, and it showed. It showed in the way a single arm without so much as a brace didn’t move even as Devin walked straight into it. 

If the rest of the bar weren’t looking when Devin shouted that you were a bitch, they certainly were when he glared up at Jake. “Out of the way you fucker!” 

Jake getting out of the way was about the last thing you wanted to happen, and Jake seemed disinclined to oblige either. His arm didn’t move from where it blocked Devin’s path, even as Devin glowered up at him.

The staring match lasted only a moment before Devin, impatient as always, gave up and turned back to glaring at you. He shouted, unnecessarily loudly, across the minimal distance between the two of you, “You changed the locks on me?” 

There was shuffling behind you and the sound of something clanging onto the pool table. 

You couldn’t bring yourself to turn your head away from Devin, couldn’t look away, couldn’t let him out of your sight. But there was the sound of footsteps as first Coyote, then Fritz, then Payback came into range in your peripheral vision. 

None of them knew what this was about, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out where this was going. And any idiot could tell whose side they would be on in a fight between Jake and Devin. 

“She didn’t. I did.” Jake declared at a similarly loud volume, pulling Devin’s attention back on him, demanding Devin shift his focus off of you. “You got a problem with that, you take it up with me.”

Devin took a step back, finally abandoning his futile attempt to confront you in favor of squaring up to Jake. 

As Devin stepped back, the trio of pilots stepped forward. Fritz approached first, joining Fanboy in front of you. Payback followed after Fritz, lingering halfway between him and Jake, a bystander ready to step in if things got out of hand.

Coyote, however, had no questions about how any altercation would go down. His hand came down as he walked up behind Jake, slapping down reassuringly on Jake's shoulder to let him know he wasn’t alone. Coyote flanked Jake at such a close distance that it made it impossibly clear that, if this turned into a fight, it would not be three on one. 

It wouldn’t even be three on two for that matter. Devin’s buddies, who had crossed the bar with him had hung back a few feet, giving Devin the space he wanted to scream at you or confront you or whatever else he had been planning before Jake intercepted. The duo found themselves with two bar tables between them and Devin. One of which was, ever so unfortunately for them, occupied by none other than Bradley Bradshaw and his drinking companion. 

Devin’s friends would be forgiven for not realizing that they were offering up the chance to divide the group in half. Bradley, per usual, wasn’t in his Navy uniform, and a guy in a faded Hawaiian shirt didn’t exactly look intimidating. At least not while he was sitting down chatting up a pretty girl.

Seeing the escalation Coyote invited, and flashing his eyes to where you cowered behind his squadmates, Rooster got to his feet with a slow, lithe push off the table in front of him and turned his back on Devin. Not even bothering to give the belligerent asshole, currently one on two against Hangman and Coyote, the time of day, he turned his entire attention to the backup Devin brought with him. 

Never in your life had you been scared of any of the naval aviators, but there was something especially intimidating about the incredibly casual way Bradley put himself alone in a fight against two men. His relaxed stance, completely unbothered by the numbers game he was playing. His head, cocking to one side to crack his neck, and then the other. 

“You the latest pilot she’s spreading her legs for?” Devin snarled up at Jake, completely oblivious to what was going on behind him and unconcerned by Coyote’s presence. 

Jake was entirely unphased. His voice was calm and steady even as Devin’s got more and more red with each passing moment. “No, but I am a friend. And if you have a problem with her you’re gonna have to go through me…” Jake added as an afterthought, “And him,” jerking his head to Coyote.

“You think she’ll fuck you if you play hero?” Devin spat out the word fuck as if the thought of you and sex in the same sentence disgusted him. “You don’t gotta try that hard to get her to spread.”

Jake shrugged and casually dismissed the comment. “That’s really not my business or yours.” 

“She is my business; that’s my girl.” 

Devin jabbed a finger over Jake’s shoulder in your direction without looking away from Jake, and you instinctively shrunk further back behind Fanboy. Until you felt the material between your fingers, you didn’t even realize that your hand had reached up to fist the back of Fanboy’s uniform. 

You didn’t know, logically, why you were afraid. Whatever Jake was doing, he was doing a marvelous job of keeping Devin’s eyes off of you. You were absolutely certain that Devin would have to knock Jake out to get to you, not that he could even manage that. You were also absolutely certain that even if he did, he’d still have to make it through Rooster, Fanboy, Fritz, Payback, and Coyote, not to mention the dozen Navy guys from other squads currently spectating who would jump in to assist, or Penny or Mav. There was just something about his finger pointing at you, accusing you, that made that feeling of helplessness bubble up inside you again, that made you feel pinned, trapped under his hand.

“I’ll do whatever I want with her.”

It was like Jake knew or could sense your growing bubble of fear. He leaned ever so slightly to one side, like he was simply shifting his weight from foot to foot, before standing back up straight in between Devin’s finger and you.  

“Not anymore.” Jake declared firmly. “You’re already about a mile closer to her than I want you to be.”

That declaration made Devin’s lips twist up into something akin to a smirk. “I’ve been a lot closer to her than this.”

Jake’s shoulders tensed, and for the first time it seemed like Devin got to him. “I know exactly how close you got.” His voice darkened, and you could practically picture the look in his eyes, practically knew it by heart from the night you told him what Devin had done. “Where I’m from, we don’t treat women like that.”

Devin laughed humorously, heading tilting back to let the single tone ring out in the air. “Well we aren’t where you’re from. That’s my girl, and I’ll do what I want with her.”

You shivered involuntarily, like someone had dropped an ice cube down the back of your shirt. It sent a chill through you to think of Devin alone with you, doing what he wanted with you. You remembered what he did the last time he had that power over you. You couldn’t let it happen again.

“No,” It took a moment to register that Jake was the one snarling, not Devin, not even you. The word came out in a hiss between his teeth. “You’ll do what she wants. And right now she doesn’t want you here.” 

For whatever reason, Devin was getting to Jake. The unshakeable, unflappable Jake Seresin was rising to a rolling boil under the surface of his skin, and there was nothing he could do to hide it. From the tone of his voice to the tension in his shoulders, to the way his fingers twitched in and out of a fist, Devin and what he was saying was under Jake’s skin.

Devin saw it; you could tell. You couldn’t see his eyes around the bodies between the two of you, but you saw his posture change, his stance open up and his chest puff out. He leaned in and sneered, “She needed to be put in her place. She looks better roughed up anyway.”

You felt their eyes on you. The squad. The whole bar. None of them were actually looking at you. None of their heads turned, but you knew every one of them was staring at an image of you in their minds. Maybe they all figured it out before. Maybe they knew when Devin walked in or when Jake escorted you home. Or maybe they didn’t know anything at all, but either way Devin just gave them confirmation.

Payback was no longer content to play the bystander. His shoes clicked on the floor, echoing in the silence that existed throughout the bar as Jake and Devin sparred. He flanked Jake’s other side, shoulder to shoulder with him as Coyote had been since the confrontation began. 

Coyote didn’t move an inch except for the hand at his side that clenched into a fist. 

Jake took a step closer. But for the inch of height difference, he stood nose to nose with Devin as he said, “Where I’m from, a man lays his hands on a woman, and you take him out back and put one between his eyes.”

Devin pushed up, must’ve stood on his tiptoes to do it, to close the gap with Jake, to put himself on the same level as the pilot. “She’s mine, you fucker.” Flecks of spit, visible even at your distance, splattered against Jake’s cheek. “Get the fuck out of the way.” 

Devin’s hands came up and shoved Jake in both shoulders, hard.

Jake’s shoulders didn’t give an inch. His feet didn’t budge. His posture didn’t change. 

Jake’s voice dropped low, so low you barely heard it. If a single soul in the bar had been focused on anything other than the confrontation at hand, if the jukebox hadn’t run to the end of its queue of songs and left the bar in silence, if any more distance had been between the two of you, you wouldn’t have heard the rough, guttural retort from somewhere deep inside Jake’s chest, “You’re really, really gonna have to make me.”

Without warning, Devin swung.

He was standing too close to Jake, almost chest to chest with the taller aviator. There was no good angle from which to strike, and his arm took a wide arc away from his body to get the necessary momentum and distance to hit at Jake with any force.

It was like it moved in slow motion, Jake’s head turned, his eyes following the direction of the swing as it approached his face.

You gasped and clung tighter to Fanboy, who blindly reached back to clutch your arm, pulling you in closer to him.

The fear, entirely for Jake, was also entirely unnecessary.

Jake’s head leaned to one side and effortlessly avoided the blow. Devin stumbled a couple steps to the side as his momentum carried him past Jake.

It gave Jake the space he needed to counter, not with a wide, slow hook around to the side of Devin’s face, but with a swift, firm uppercut to his jaw.

The connection sent a crack echoing through the bar, and Devin’s entire body went slack before he even hit the floor.

Coyote caught his arm before he could collapse, not that it did Devin any good to be under Coyote’s care instead of Jake’s. Coyote’s grip was so tight on Devin’s upper arm that you were sure it would bruise not just the skin but the muscles underneath.

Jake bent down over the other man and bent a finger up under his jaw. Devin’s head tipped up into Jake’s face without any protest and fell back to bob loosely to one side the moment Jake wasn’t supporting him any more.

“He’ll be out cold for a while.” Jake declared, glancing up to give Coyote a nod.

Coyote dropped his grip on Devin and let him crumple unceremoniously to the floor.

“Now,” Jake left Coyote to deal with Devin, stepping over the unconscious body on the floor as one might step over a puddle in the street. He ambled over to Rooster, whose presence had been more than enough to hold off Devin’s two buddies for the brief ten seconds of fighting, if it could even be categorized as a fight.

“Are you two,” Jake wagged a finger between Devin’s two friends as he came shoulder to shoulder with Rooster, “the ones she told me helped him out last week? Cause I gotta bone to pick with them too?”

“No, we didn’t!” The shorter of the two declared loudly. “Look, we don’t want any trouble.”

Jake’s head turned to glance back over his shoulder, and for the first time since Devin confronted you, you made eye contact with Jake.

His eyes were hard, cold, unfeeling. He wasn’t angry anymore. He wasn’t upset or worried or fearful or any of the other emotions you felt warring inside of you. The mask was back on, the unflappable exterior that only you had seen beneath before tonight. He wasn’t waiting for them; he was waiting for you. A good soldier, waiting for his orders.

Imperceptibly to everyone but Jake who was watching you like a hawk, you shook your head. This had gone on long enough already tonight. You just wanted it to be over.

“Well then,” Jake turned back to the two friends in tow. “Why don’t you take your buddy and get out of here?” Jake stepped close, towering over the shorter one as he added, “Tell him if he comes back round here to bother her again; I will spend the rest of my life making sure he’s too afraid to even look at another woman.”

Beside Jake, Rooster began casually cracking the knuckles of his fist one by one, presumably for emphasis.

There was a dull thud that drew the quad of men’s attention back towards Devin.

Payback was squatting over the unconscious man. He’d seemingly been rooting through the other man’s pockets. The sound of his wallet dropping back onto Devin’s back was the noise that drew the men’s eyes and everyone else’s watching as a result.

Payback was waving a credit card in the air in Jake’s general direction.

“Good idea,” Jake wandered over and snatched up the card. “Call it payback for disturbing the bar tonight.” Jake’s teasing smirk was back as he used Payback’s callsign. He abandoned the group to amble back towards Penny at the bar, and his absence seemed to break the tension.

The patrons, scattered around, all began slowly turning back to their tables. The conversation was quieter, hushed whispers that were no doubt mostly about the fight they’d just watched ensue, but their eyes seemed to have drank in their fill of the scene.

Under the watchful eye of Rooster, with Coyote and Payback standing by, Devin’s two friends draped their friend unceremoniously across their shoulders. Despite the struggle they were clearly having, not a soul offered to help as they stumbled under his weight out of the bar.

“I hope they have to drag him to the car.”

You jumped and turned your head to find that at some point in the chaos Phoenix and Bob had come up on the other side of the pool table as a last line of defense.

“Please, I hope they faceplant in the gravel.”

You let out a humorous laugh at Phoenix’s comment as your body finally slumped under the weight of the evening, resting back against the pool table with a huff of air.

“Are you…”

“Fritz, if you ask me if I’m okay, I will walk out of this bar right now.” You held up a finger to silence him.

You were not okay. You would be okay, one day; you knew that much. But that day was not today.

In the distance, like you were hearing an echo from the other end of a long tunnel, you registered the bell ringing for a free round. Your vision was tunneling too, but you could make out Jake was leaning across the bar, ringing the bell himself as he slammed Devin’s card on the bar in front of Penny.

Maverick, always present in front of Penny’s bar, slapped him on the back and whispered something in his ear, but Jake seemed, for once, thoroughly uninterested in his commanding officer.

His eyes, you thought, appeared to be focused on you. He left the bar before he even got his own free drink and headed straight back towards the pool tables.

Coyote and Rooster tried to talk to him, but he brushed him off. By the time he reached Fanboy, still awkwardly hovering in front of you, his destination was clear, and Fanboy slid right out of his way.

“Come on,” Jake held out a hand to you. “Penny won’t mind if you don’t finish out your shift.”

It wasn’t a tunnel you were looking through now so much as a camera, the lens zooming in and zooming out, narrowing and expanding your field of vision around Jake.

Jake, the only thing in the world right now that felt safe, that felt ok.

You numbly, clumsily, flung your hand out to grasp his, and as his fingers laced through yours you thought you might have a different answer to Fritz’s question, not that you’d ever voice it.

—————————————

“Thank you.”

It was about an hour after you and Jake had left the bar.

He’d walked you out the back door of the Hard Deck and down the beach for the better part of half an hour before the two of you wordlessly agreed to find a comfortable spot to sit down in the sand.

The silence had been more comfortable than you ever thought silence with Jake could be. Every time he’d driven you home from the Hard Deck, he’d felt the need to fill every available moment with some kind of noise, compulsively turning up the volume on the radio or making snarky, sarcastic commentary about anything that passed by the window. Silence was not Jake Seresin’s forte.

Yet the silence between the two of you had felt like a comforting blanket, wrapping you in understanding. He already knew what happened between you and Devin; the hard part of that explanation was over. He already knew why Devin was there that night, what must have prompted him to show up, what he was hinting at in front of the whole bar. He knew nothing else about you, but he knew this, knew every detail of the most painful moment of your life, and he accepted it without question, gave you what you needed without question, helped you without question.

“You don’t have to thank me for doing the right thing for once in my life, Hurricane.” Jake murmured. “It’s a nice change of pace.”

You wished you could deny that, say that Jake was a great guy, say that he always did the right thing or that he was a good man. But the truth was he often wasn’t. He was flawed, deeply so, rude when it was uncalled for, inappropriate when the moment was serious, lewd when he should have been respectful, confrontational when he should have been kind. He was as flawed as any other human being, maybe more so.

But when you needed him he was there. When no one else was there, he was there. And that, to you, forgave any multitude of sins.

“What did Mav say to you when you left?”

“What?” Jake did a quick double take, looking down at you beside him. “Oh,” He chuckled to himself. “He said, ‘Good man, no push-ups tomorrow when I shoot you down.’”

“Well,” you smiled, “I owe you a lot more than a few push ups.”

“You owe me nothing.”

You squeezed his hand, his fingers which had been laced in yours since he led you out of the Hard Deck, “How about a second chance? If I remember correctly we didn’t get off to the best start.”

Jake smirked, “Not a chance am I starting over. You’re still my Hurricane.”

[jungkookschin]

older part 3

think i need someone older, just a little bit colder, take the weight off your shoulders

synopsis: your friends say you're delusional for thinking you have a chance with jungkook, your parents' friends' son, but you just can't seem to let him go.

alternatively, you break jungkook's heart and jungkook enlists in the army to get over you--- but he can't just fuck off from your life forever; your lives are infinitely intertwined

word count: 21k

pairing: older!jk x afab reader

genre: age gap au (seven years), childhood acquaintance au, fluff, comedy, angsty, outta pocket, alludes to sexual innuendoes, there is a mention of jungkook shooting someone lol, non explicit smut, mentions of sex

OLDER MASTERLIST

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3

When it comes to you, Jungkook’s window of tolerance extends towards the sun and the stars, to Jupiter and Saturn, if you will. For you, he’ll willingly undertake deeds he won’t even entertain for anyone else. 

Anything for you. Whenever and wherever. 

He will, in fact, swoop in and rescue you from a 2AM party (like the Prince Charming he is), even if it means disrupting his beauty sleep because as much as likes your friends, he doesn’t trust them to take you home safely, especially when alcohol is involved. Scratch that, he doesn’t really trust anybody to take you home besides himself. Even with work the next day, the appeal of sleep drowns when you’re drunkenly texting him from some frat mansion at who knows where. 

Approximately 10% of his biweekly earnings are devoted to you, his princess. He would never utter these sentiments aloud, yet he embraces them willingly, indulging in gestures of affection reserved solely for you.

He’s not afraid to wipe your tears, stick his fingers into your nose, or to touch any bodily fluid (given that it comes from you),  because it’s you and his being simply isn’t capable of conjuring feelings of disgust when it’s you. 

He sees you and he loves you, but a man can only take so much. 

“What?” you ask quietly, breathless, like the wind’s been knocked from your lungs. 

Jungkook exhales deeply, straightening his posture as he runs his hands across his face. “Y/N. Get out of my apartment. I’m serious.”

You think that this is the first time in the history of the world Jungkook has straight up told you to leave. 

“Why?” 

“Why?” Jungkook repeats, “What do you mean, why? You ignored me for four months straight. Thanks for spending the night, but you need to leave.”

Jungkook, just a man though he may be, is simply incapable to resist when you show up at his doorstep in the dead of the night- and even if he welcomes you into his home for the last time, he simply isn’t able to welcome you back into his heart. How could he willingly allow you to reclaim his heart’s residence after he’s worked so hard to expel you from its throne? 

Your blatant disregard for his presence spoke volumes; you didn’t care for him nor did you respect him. Jungkook isn’t going to fold simply because he finds you beautiful and perfect and amazing and everything he’s ever wanted. 

“So that’s all I am to you? A quick fuck?”

All the empathy he harbors disperses from his being like a passing breeze, ephemeral and elusive. Evidently, you’ve crossed the line. 

Jungkook blinks at you, his expression unreadable, while you inwardly recoil, immediately regretting your words. Jungkook won’t even entertain the notion. He knows you know how much you mean to him, and quite frankly, he’s appalled that you’re blatantly weaponizing something as pure as his love. 

“Y/N, I’m not going to see my family in a year, and you came to my place and made it all about yourself. You need to go,” Jungkook’s voice is firm and low, and he looks right at you, disappointment reflected in his pupils. 

“I didn’t mean to make it about myself. I just wanted to see you,” You try so desperately hard to rationalize, but he’s right; you weren’t thinking about him, you were thinking about yourself. 

“And by doing that, you made it about yourself-” Jungkook rubs his face with his palms, “Y/N. I don’t want to fight. Just go home.”

He hears a gentle sniffle escape you, and it elicits a heavy sigh from Jungkook. It's like a tug at his heartstrings, but he’s already beyond frustrated, and at this point, he wants to be alone. 

“Jungkook, I-I love you,” you whisper, “I’m sorry. If I’m better by the time you come back, will you give me a chance?”

As you raise your head, tears cascading down your cheeks, Jungkook's heart clenches at the sight. Jungkook hates seeing you cry, and it makes his heart physically ache, but there will be no appeal to his emotions. 

“Y/N- I mean- did you think I was gonna wait forever? You can’t treat a man like that and expect them to wait around forever.”

“But we had sex,” you counter, “The way you fucked me- I know you still love me- so please. I’ll be better. I’ll be better for you. Please,” you beg. 

Jungkook exhales softly, leaning into the support of the wall behind him. He remains stoic, neither affirming nor refuting your observation. He offers no gesture of consolation, no attempt to dry your tears. 

“Go home.”

If he doesn't want you there, then you’ll leave. Clumsily, you stand up from the bed, picking your clothes up from the ground before haphazardly slipping into them, leaving yourself vulnerable under Jungkook’s gaze. 

He doesn’t walk you out. 

You open the door and slam it closed before he can let another word out. 

-

Jungkook has always been a constant presence in your life, like the warmth of the sun on a chilly morning.

He’s very aware of the image you have of him in your cute little head, and he does everything he can to fulfill that image for you. He’s well aware of your little prince charming fantasies revolving around him, and truly, truly does everything to be your Prince Charming. 

He’ll indulge you, always- to the extent where Mingyu and Taehyung constantly throw the term “sugar daddy” around- and of course Jungkook will roll his eyes, but he won’t deny it. 

Jungkook has dropped thousands on you. He’s a single man in his 20’s with way too much money, anyways. So what was he supposed to do? Let all his money sit in his 401K to ensure that he’s financially secure for retirement (🙄) or buy you an unnecessarily expensive designer dress and observe how your face lights up?

Obviously, he’ll choose the latter. 

Simultaneously, that doesn’t mean you don’t make him feel the same way. This is so corny, but you’re kind of like the rainbow after a storm, bringing color back to his otherworldly, gloomy world.  

Jungkook’s not perfect. Despite what you think, he’s far from perfect. 

About half a year ago, he thought he hit rock bottom. And when he hit rock bottom, all he needed was you to remedy his mood.

There was an issue at work where he was accused of leaking confidential information to a competitor. The accusations were baseless, but the damage to his reputation was significant. It felt like his entire world was crumbling around him. He faced scrutiny from his colleagues and doubt from his superiors. 

After an excruciating meeting with the company lawyers, he drove back to his mom’s place- his mood as dark as the night enveloping his luxury car. All he wanted was his mommy. He was a 25 year old grown ass man, but all he wanted was his mommy. 

As he bursts through the front doors, the familiar scent of his mother's cooking greets his nostrils, wrapping him in a sense of comfort and the feeling of home. He heads towards the kitchen, until he walks into something… 

You yelp, rubbing your hand over your forehead. 

“Oh shit,” Jungkook mumbles, “My bad, baby. Didn’t see you” Jungkook says apologetically, placing his hands on your shoulders to stabilize you. His eyes glaze over your frame, and he smiles. 

You’re in boyshorts and a tank top. Typically of you to treat his parents’ place like it was your own; you’re family anyways. 

Jungkook whizzes past you, setting his work backpack on the kitchen counter. You follow him back into the kitchen, attending to the steak being grilled on the stovetop. You whirl around to face him, a mischievous smile spreading across your lips. 

“You look… handsome,” you finally say. 

Jungkook stares incredulously at you before he bursts into a smile at your anticss. “Oh really? You like me in business formal?” You clasp your palms behind your back and shift your weight between your ankles. “Maybe?” you sheepishly respond, in your typical girlish nature. 

Jungkook bites back a laugh, looking at you smugly. “Where’s mom?” 

You shrug, “She’s probably with her second boyfriend,” you teasingly muse, lips pouted out before you turn around to perceive his reaction. 

Jungkook scoffs at you amusedly before standing up to walk towards you. You smile sheepishly at him, not backing down when he practically towers over you. He pinches your cheek affectionately. “You’re cute, baby,” he jokes, and it makes your heart clench- not in a good way- because he means you’re cute… like a literal infant baby or a puppy, not a woman. 

“Did my mom call you over?” he asks, rummaging through the fridge. 

You nod, “Mm-hmm. She said she had to go run some errands so she wanted me to make you dinner,” you motion towards the steak sizzling in its pan. “Rare, just how you like it! Ta-da!”

He gazes at you with an affectionate smile. “Thanks. Did you drive here or do I need to drop you off?”

You make a pssh sound with your lips, dismissing the notion with a wave,  “I’ve been driving for like two years,” you state matter-a-factly, throwing up a gyaru sign because why not, “I can drive home just fine.”

“Alright, yea,” Jungkook acquiesces, putting his hands up, “You’re all grown up- I get it, I get it.”

“Good,” you respond, plating his steak before handing it to him, “But Jungkook, why are you back home? You usually don’t come home on work nights.”

Jungkook settles at the dining table, before he looks at you and sighs. You tilt your head, very cognizant of his body language. You’re in love with him, of course you can read all his nonverbal cues. 

“Just some shit at work,” he explains, “Has me stressed out of my mind.”

You pout, approaching him before you wrap and arm around his shoulder. The moment feels oddly intimate- like he’s returned to his two-story, middle-class home to his wife cooking up a home-made dinner, her touch everything he needs to bring him down from a stressful day at work. He swears he can even hear the kids crying from upstairs. 

“Wanna talk about it?” you beckon with your sweet voice. 

“Just been accused of some shit,” he mumbles, “Some illegal shit,” he adds, and you rest your head on his shoulder, making him freeze slightly and his chest tighten. 

“Don’t worry,” you sweetly comfort, “The truth will always be revealed, and you’ll be cleared eventually. And besides, you’re young, rich, and hot. As long as you know who you are, you don’t need to worry about others.”

Jungkook’s brows furrow slightly before he relaxes his expression. What a juvenile, yet straightforward outlook on life. So simple, yet so… brilliant?

Jungkook knows that you’re more than capable of understanding the complex intricacies of the professional world, but he finds solace in its simplicity as a counterbalance to his excruciating overthinking. 

He sighs blissfully, turning towards you. “Give me a hug, baby. I need a hug.”

You nod sweetly and wrap your arms around him. “Of course. Call me any time if you want a hug.”

-

You coming on to him the night before enlistment was his last opportunity to indulge in you, and he’s only just a man-  a weak, weak man, so it’s simply in his nature to succumb to your allure. 

Jungkook is now bald, devoid of any hair. Gone with his hair is his sense of confidence. Staring   at his reflection, he runs a hand over his bald head, his mood becoming despondent. 

One hour ago, you slammed his front door, scurrying down the stairs with tears cascading down your cheeks. Jungkook doesn’t like seeing you cry; he hates seeing you cry- but it’s time to let go and live.

The most daunting aspect of dating with an age-gap is the maturity discrepancy. Like two ships sailing different seas, Jungkook has sailed through weathered storms while your sail catches the wind of youthful possibility. 

This discrepancy manifests through communication styles, lifestyle choices, and most importantly, love languages. 

You would never, ever do anything to hurt him purposely- but you did.

Nonetheless, what was Jungkook supposed to expect? Undeniably, he loves you with everything in him but was he supposed to expect you to handle things with the maturity of someone his age?

He should’ve known, and for that, he feels dumb. 

Feels dumb and like an idiot because you used to cartwheel in his room trying to get his attention. Feels dumb because when you were 11, he was already 18– like, what the fuck is that age gap? 

What was he supposed to expect? You lost both of your parents at the same time when you were 20 years old. You’re traumatized, you’re young, and he kinda feels like he took advantage of your juvenile feelings for him- but no, a love like his is pure, and he wants nothing but the best for you, which is why he’s going to let go. 

The wind from a slightly ajar window brushes, spreading the hair around the floor and suddenly glitter comes to mind. 

Glitter. Sparkles. Fairy Dust. 

When you were a senior in high school, Jungkook bought you a prom dress. Your bum ass boyfriend (or situationship- he doesn’t know. He wants to burn the memory of all men who you’ve been with before him) didn’t even want to go to prom with you, and Jungkook, as the great “mom’s friend’s son” he was, offered to buy you a dress- no budget. 

-

Jungkook dropped by your place to drop off some sticky rice, as instructed by his mother; he was a good and obedient son. He knew your parents were at Zumba, so he sent you a quick text in advance. You always responded to his texts immediately, promptly, instantly, right away, and without delay. 

You can only imagine Jungkook’s apprehension when it’s been thirty minutes and you still haven’t come to the door. 

Normally, Jungkook would have been annoyed to wait this long for you, but he’s actually concerned– because what if you were lying dead in a ditch somewhere? Okay, maybe he shouldn’t go to such extremes, but you were undeniably a gorgeous girl, recently 18, and he knew that so many men had their eyes on you. 

Not him, though. He was a gentleman. 

Jungkook swings open the door of his car, swiftly walking towards your front door. On cue, the outer door swings open, and you’re standing apprehensively, struggling to unlock the screen door because the fucking lock always gets jammed. The lock just won’t budge and after a good second of trying, you bang your fist against the door, yelling a very non-intimidating “Fuck!”

Jungkook smiles, “Twist the door knob, then try the lock,” he gently instructs. You oblige, and the screen door swings open. 

“I’ll come back tomorrow to fix that,” he adds before walking towards your kitchen to place the sticky rice into the fridge. 

“Thanks,” you mumble, taking a seat at the dining table. 

Jungkook glances back at you from the fridge, “Why’d you cry?”

The question is asked with a subtle casualty, and that makes you want to actually go curl into a ditch and die. 

To Jungkook, it was painfully obvious. He’s known you since forever and has all your mannerisms ingrained into his mind like a tattoo. Usually, when you wake up, you’re quite lethargic, stumbling around with your eyes half cracked open- but right now, you’re cognizant as ever. 

Furthermore, when you cry, your eyes usually swell up- more so than the average person. After you cry, it’s like your eyes turned into little, red, puffy balls with slits for seeing.  And Jungkook had eyes, superb vision, actually, and he could clearly see that your eyes were in fact, swollen. 

“t’s nothing,” you mumble, “It’s stupid.”

Jungkook purses his lips, contemplating whether he should push further. Your big mouth keeps going before he can get a word out. 

“Well, if I tell you, promise not to judge me?” you ask, sticking out your pinky finger. 

Jungkook locks the promise in. “Never,” he breathes. 

“Well… it’s just… you know…”

Jungkook raises a brow. 

“I just… I hate my boobs.”

Jungkook blinks at you, and you blink at him. 

“You said you weren’t going to judge me!” 

Jungkook is absolutely flabbergasted. “I just- wait-” he pauses, putting his hands up, “What’s wrong with your boobs? They look normal to me.”

Your features contort into petulance, and you pout. Immediately, you rise, wiping the dust off your shorts before you divulge into the full story. Jungkook can only sit there and listen. 

 “Okay, listen. Let me start from the beginning,” you start, pacing around, “So I ordered two prom dresses,” you explain, making a peace sign with your hands. 

“And they looked so good on the models, but they look horrible on me! Because my boobs are so small and my body looks imbalanced! So I cried about it. I just wanted to feel pretty…. Do you think my parents will be mad at me if I get my tits done?”

Jungkook blinks at you. At the time, he hadn’t a clue of how to respond, but oh how he grew to love your boobs. In fact, he currently wishes that they were swinging in his face. 

“Y/N, don’t get a boob job,” is the first thing he says. 

What else could he say? He couldn’t tell you that he thinks your body is perfect, or that you’d look stunning in any dress you wear- he did not want to creep you out. “Lemme see you try the dresses,” he offers, “You’re probably in your head- it can’t be that bad.”

“I’m 18,” you counter, “It’s completely legal for me to get a boob job. I don’t even want D’s! I think I would be okay with B’s. In fact, all I need to do is sell a couple feet pictures and I’d have enough to finance my boob job-”

“Y/N. Just try on the dress.”

“Fine,” you huff, puffing up the stairs. 

A few moments later, you reappear, and Jungkook almost chokes on his own saliva. The dress you're wearing captures his attention entirely.  Its fabric shimmers under the kitchen light, a juxtaposition against the bland interior, cascading in gentle folds as it hugs your curves delicately. With each step, the skirt sways gently, whispering secrets of a night yet to unfold.

Gorgeous. Stunning. Most beautiful girl he’s ever seen, and he recalls the pang of guilt that washed over him, because you’re seven years younger, and it feels wrong, incongruous. 

Fortunately for him, Jungkook is great at hiding his emotions, so even a slightly suspicious clearing of the throat does nothing to phase you. 

You pause, blinking at him, and he blinks back at you. 

“I told you it was bad!-”

“Wait, no. Stop. It’s not bad…” Jungkook offers. 

You blink at each other again. 

“Oh, you fucking liar!” you scoff.

“What?” Jungkook retorts, features morphing into confusion, “Why would I lie? I always just say whatever I want to say.“

You groan, plopping onto the dining room table with your arms crossed. “You don’t know anything about prom dresses,” you mutter. 

This marked the first time Jungkook perceived you as a woman. He spent a year suppressing it all because of the guilt, but it became inevitable. It bubbled up and exploded; he couldn’t contain it anymore. 

“Well…” he started, every so carefully pulling his wallet from his pocket, using two fingers to take out his credit card, “Would it make you feel better if I bought you another one? One more suitable for… flatter chests?”

You gasped like you’d never breathed air before, jumping to your feet, “Really? Would you really do that?!”

Jungkook shrugged casually, did everything to mask his thunderous heartbeat banging in his chest, “Yea, why not? I have money.”

At that, you squealed, jumping on both feet before you absolutely enveloped him in a hug. 

Still staring at his reflection, Jungkook returns to Earth. You’re so childish and dumb, but he can’t help that he’s deeply enamored with you, and because of that, he’s going to go to the military and pretend like he never existed in the first place.  

-

In the first few weeks at the military, Jungkook finds the distance more excruciating than he had when you ignored him. He enlisted in the first place to get his mind off you, to learn to live without you, but you’re the only person on his mind. 

It certainly doesn’t help that he’s carrying a locket bearing your image, but he can’t bring himself to throw it out. He doesn’t even know why he has it in the first place, or why he had it custom made; he feels obsessive but whenever Jungkook’s on his last lap, his last pushup, or his last pullup, you’re the thought to propel him forward. 

The military barracks are cold, dusty, and lonely. Sometimes, he can’t sleep, and on those restless nights, he finds himself reaching for the locket. Staring at the image of you smiling back at him, it’s like a tangible reminder of something he can’t quite explain. 

He holds the locket in his hand, tracing the edges with its fingertips. He remembers your touch, your warmth, the way your hand fits perfectly in his.

True loser behavior. 

You ignored him for fucking months, didn’t care how he was doing, or if he were laying dead in a ditch, yet he still loves you, still clings onto you. If he didn’t enlist, he probably would’ve ran back to you the moment you showed up at his place. 

If anything, you’re not the type of girl who should be in a locket. You’re immature, childish, and rude, but he holds the locket close to his heart, because quite frankly, he hears how the men in the military speak about women, and he would never ever subject you to that. 

Some guys hang up cute pictures and polaroids of their girlfriends on the bunks, which would almost immediately be thrown into the trash because of the insane comments from the (obviously single) guys. 

Jungkook deems running as the most arduous drill in boot camp. 

Jungkook can do three or five miles easily, but twelve miles with gear on? Absolutely not. What makes it worse is when the other guys try to make small talk- wasn’t running excruciating enough?

Even on the eighth mile, Jungkook clutches the locket tightly in his grasp. The sensation burning in his abs is borderline excruciating, and he opens the locket to glimpse at your image 

James, the absolute deviant of the 8th squad, approaches Jungkook from the rear. “Who’s that, Jeon?” James asks. 

Jungkook squeezes his eyes shut; this is the last thing he wanted. He says nothing, slightly accelerating in speed.

As James draws nearer, his tone dripping with mockery, Jungkook's muscles tense with apprehension. 

"Come on, Jeon, spill it," James prods, a sly grin spreading across his face. "Who's the lucky lady in the locket?"

Jungkook's jaw clenches, his grip on the locket tightening. He knows the implications of revealing your identity in this environment, where vulnerability is exploited and secrets are ammunition.

"Just keep running," Jungkook retorts, his voice strained with suppressed frustration. Running 12 miles with 50 pounds of gear was already hell, why was he trying to pick a fight? 

But James persists, matching Jungkook's stride with unsettling ease. "Oh, come on, Jeon, don't be shy," he taunts, edging closer. "Is she the reason you're always off in your own world during training?"

A surge of anger pulses through Jungkook's veins, his resolve fraying under James's relentless scrutiny. He fights to keep his emotions in check, knowing that any sign of weakness could be exploited.

With a steely gaze, Jungkook halts abruptly, turning to face James with a glare. "Back off, James," he warns, his voice laced with a dangerous edge, before he returns to his usual stride. 

James's grin widens, sensing Jungkook's vulnerability. "Someone’s sensitive,” James teases, “Scared your girl’s with the mailman right now?”

Jungkook’s features harden, and he continues onto the ninth mile. His feet ache, and the mud is starting to seep into his socks. Jungkook opens his mouth to say something, but he’s cut off by Wooseok, who comes to his defense. 

Wooseok bumps shoulder with James from behind. “Chill, James. He’s got her in a locket. Better not mess with that.”

-

Jungkook hates to admit it, but James got to his head. 

Jungkook knows he’s the one who let you go, and that there’s no winning in this situation, but he’s selfish and the thought of you with another man makes him physically ill. Had it been any other girl, he would immediately lose interest the moment he discovered she was messing around with others- but the thought of you with someone else physically hurts. 

He doesn’t have much access to his phone, and there’s nothing to take his mind off it. 

There’s that taboo story about men in the military getting cheated on. It's a tale as old as time. 

The fear of infidelity hangs over these soldiers constantly- but you’re not even his girlfriend. 

So if you were to move on, there wouldn’t be a thing wrong with that. 

Isn’t that what he wanted? For you to find happiness with someone your own age? Someone you would love, not just be infatuated with. 

But fuck, why does it makes his heart swell? The thought of another man seeing you, feeling you, and touching you the way he has, the way he should be, makes him ill. 

-

You know you said you were going to change, and you’re really, really trying. It’s been one month since your last encounter with Jungkook and you think things are taking an upward trajectory. 

For one, you’ve started your internship with the local bank, and you’re making a lot of money (to your standards), definitely not a lot to someone like Jungkook, but it’s good enough for you. Since summer hit, you’ve retaken some of the classes you failed, and your GPA has now returned to the 3.0 range. 

However, that doesn’t mean that your obsession with Jungkook has dwindled in the slightest. You’re childish in a sense, and you’re kind of taking advantage of your relationship with his parents to see what he’s up to at all times. 

You’re snooping over Jungkook’s mother’s shoulder like the nosy girl you are, and you scandalously gasp at Jungkook’s text. 

“Haha yea, Y/N looks pretty” is probably the most disingenuous thing he’s ever said about you.   

Like sure, whatever, he’s calling you pretty but he’s only saying it because his mom asked him whether he thinks you’re pretty in the first place. 

Your eyes continue skimming down the phone and you see something that makes your jaw drop to your ass

Jungkook’s mother shuts her phone off and squeals. “Oh Y/N! I can’t wait for Jungkookie to get married! I want grandbabies already, she pouts. 

It’s like a punch to the gut. The thought of another girl walking down the aisle to marry Jungkook makes you sick to your stomach. It makes you so jealous you can’t fathom it. It's a visceral reaction, a knot tightening in your stomach as jealousy courses through your veins, clouding your thoughts and stirring emotions you never knew existed.

Every detail of the imagined scene plays out in your mind like a cruel movie reel, tormenting you with the painful reality of what could be. 

With a forced smile, you manage to utter, "That's great, Mrs. Jeon. I'm sure Jungkook will make a wonderful husband one day."

-

Jungkook’s friends, in fact, do not hate you.

Actually, they’re quite nice and understanding of the situation at hand. Maybe it’s the fact that you shoved meat down their throats before explaining how you actually felt, or because you were somewhat valid in your decision to not acknowledge Jungkook’s existence for four months. 

“He’s probably not mad at you,” Mingyu reasons, toying with the hem of his beanie before shoving a piece of beef into his mouth, “I don’t think he has the capacity to be angry at-”

Taehyung furrows his brows and Mingyu continues his sentiment, “at Y/N,” Mingyu clarifies, “He’d never be mad at Y/N.”

You sigh, using your chopsticks to flip some meat over, “He kicked me out of his apartment,” you express. 

“No,” Taehyung contests, “You chose to move out, didn’t you?”

You chew on your lip apprehensively, suddenly finding the need to rake your fingers through your hair, “Yea, but I spent the night before he enlisted and he kicked me out in the morning.”

Taehyung pauses, exchanging glances with Mingyu. “By spend the night, you mean…?”

“Yes, I mean,” you confirm, “I just don’t want him to hate me. I know I fucked up, but I would never do anything to hurt him on purpose. I mean- not to use it as an excuse- but my parents’ suddenly died in a fucking car accident? Am I supposed to be normal after that? I didn’t mean to hurt him, I just couldn’t at the time, and I’m not sure if I can, at all.”

Mingyu purses his lips, “I just think he- you know- was super heartbroken. Y/N, Jungkook really loves you, and by love I mean that you’re probably the only girl he will ever love. He probably just needed time to process everything too,” he says gently, reaching out to give your hand a brotherly squeeze. 

“You made him cry,” Taehyung asserts, and you pause. 

“Seriously?”

Taehyung’s lips form into a straight line and he shrugs, “You made him cry. Showed up at my place in the middle of the night drunk and in tears over you.”

At that, you sink into the leather seat. Cry? You’ve known Jungkook since you were born and you’ve never seen him cry before. 

You bang your head against the table- a little too hard- and you yelp in pain , clutching your forehead. Mingyu immediately whisks closer to you, gently removing your hand and scrutinizing the mark on your forehead. 

You’re suddenly reminded of something Soobin said to you a couple weeks ago. Something about Jungkook’s friends are just as brotherly as Jungkook, always going the extra mile to take care of you, and suddenly you feel bad. 

You groan, “Guys I’m sorry. I didn’t intend for things to get so messy. I’m sorry you have to deal with all of this- but I really care about Jungkook, I really do.”

Taehyung’s grumpy face finally relaxes, “We know you do, Y/N. No one is mad at you- trust me. But you have to make up your mind: do you want him or not? You can’t be wishy washy about this- Jungkook’s a lot older than you. He can’t waste his whole life waiting on you-”

“I want him,” you immediately declare, “I want him, and I’m ready to give everything to show that I love him.”

Mingyu smiles at you, “Well tell him that, not us.”

Your cheeks turn slightly pink. “Yea. I might.”

The rest of the night continues with ease. Mingyu and Taehyung ask you about school, give you professional advice for the future, and at the end of the night you reach over the table to give your card to the waitress, but Taehyung physically holds you back, and Mingyu gives his card to the waiter. 

You’re truly so loved.

-

Things change and people change. 

The first time Jungkook gets leave from the military is for the memorial service for your parents. 

You’ve put the memorial service off for about a year. As their only daughter and remaining heir of your parents, the decision of when and where to hold the memorial service rested solely with you. 

Yet, you just couldn’t bring yourself to go through with it, especially with Jungkook in the military. 

Like the blossoming of spring, a year has passed, and at 21, you've graduated college, content yet eager for new beginnings.

When Jungkook's mother called you, brimming with excitement, inviting you to join in picking him up from the enlistment site, you couldn't find it in your heart to decline. Even when Jungkook kicked you from his apartment, you and he both knew that you couldn’t just fuck off from his life entirely. 

Since birth, Jungkook has always been there. His parents, who are practically your aunt and uncle, have nurtured and cared for you since forever. You've shared in every significant milestone of his life, from graduations and birthdays, and when he gets married, you know you’ll be there, even if it tears you apart. 

Your lives would be forever intertwined.  

Had you changed since that night at his apartment? Kinda? Not really.  

You've moved out from the mansion shared with friends to your own space. With a “lucrative” five-figure job, late-night parties and raves are a thing of the past. You’re all for early morning runs and late night reading. 

With the anticipation of seeing Jungkook for the first time since that day, you find yourself more fixated on your outfit than you’ve ever been in your life. More so than prom, more so than Coachella, and more so than graduation. 

Jungkook has only ever seen you in hoodies and sweats, a crop top and ripped jeans, or the occasional mini bodycon dress- you don’t think he’s ever seen you in business casual. You wear a chic satin blouse with jeans and closed toed heels. 

Jungkook’s parents don’t really like to drive, so of course, you’re driving Jungkook’s Mercedes, (he so carefully left in the care of his parents), to the enlistment sight, which you’re sure he’ll be absolutely thrilled to see. He never let you drive his car out of the parking lot. 

As you slide into the driver’s seat of the car, a wave of anxiety washes over you. This is the first time you would see him in an entire year- the longest you’ve been apart. What would he look like? Does he still have feelings for you? Is he still upset with you? Has he completely forgotten about you? 

With a soft click, the engine hums to life, and you follow the GPS through the streets towards the enlistment sight. Jungkook’s parents sit in the back, occasionally passing you trail mix and bananas. 

You pull up to the enlistment sight, waiting anxiously with your arms crossed amongst the crowds of people. 

Jungkook emerges from the crowd in his military uniform, and your heart swells with pride and sorrow. He looks so handsome. He looks bigger, stronger, more rugged. You’ve seen celebrities and models in person before and they could never compare.  You step to the side as he greets his parents, and when he turns his head, he locks eyes with you. 

It’s like the world stops revolving. 

It’s been a year since you’ve seen him and he never ever fails to make you feel this way. He’s made you feel this way since you were 15 and the feeling never dissipated, only amplified.  

Butterflies erupt in your stomach, and you swallow. 

Jungkook doesn’t look at you in any type of way. His eyes scan over you and he sends you a genuine smile. “Hey Y/N,” he offers, opening his arms for a hug. You hug him from the side, reciprocating his polite smile. “Hi Jungkook. You look nice.”

“You look pretty,” he offers before turning towards his parents and casually taking the keys from your hand. 

“Should we go now?”

Jungkook drives all the way home, with you in the passenger seat. You don’t say much. You find yourself simply listening as Jungkook shares with his parents what life in the military is like.

It was expected from everyone that Jungkook would do well in the army. When he was 15 years old, a personal trainer told him that he’d bulk up in muscle from just lifting a spoon. 

After reaching home,  Jungkook’s parents suggest you show him around your new place, and neither of you really have a choice but to oblige. 

The moment Jungkook’s parents are dropped off at his place, an awkward silence absolutely encapsulates the inside of that Mercedes. You don’t say anything; you just lean your head on the window, looking outside the city where you and Jungkook have been for your entire life. 

Jungkook says nothing either, tapping his fingers against the drivers’ wheel. 

Finally, he speaks up. “Sorry I couldn’t make it to your graduation.”

“It’s fine,” you mumble in response, “You’re busy.”

“Yea.”

More silence overwhelms the car. 

“So what did you do with your parents’ house?” he asks, flickering his eyes towards you. You push yourself further against the seat. 

“AirBnb,” is all you can conjure. 

Your parents were loaded and left you with a plethora of assets. The house, for one, is your second stream of income. You locked off yours and your parents’ room, and cleaned up the rest of the house for it to be rented out.

“Smart,” he offers. 

“Thanks.”

He hums in response, tapping his fingers against the wheel. Instinctively, his hands reach towards the radio, turning the Bluetooth on, which of course is already connected to your phone. 

Everytime by Ariana Grande blares through the radio, making you temporarily freeze. 

I get weak and fall like a teenager

Why, oh, why does God keep bringing me back to you?

I get drunk, pretend that I’m over it

Self-destruct, show up like an idiot

Why, oh, why does God keep bringing me back to you? 

I go back to you, back to you, back to you

Back to you, back to you, back to you

I go back to you, back to you, back to you, every time

You’ve had enough. You turn the radio off and roll the window down, your head peeking through from the outside while you let the wind blow against your face. 

Jungkook doesn’t say anything either, just continues following the GPS to your apartment. 

-

After what seems like forever, he eventually reaches the security gate. "4832," you mention, prompting him to enter the number and which opens the security gate.

“It’s good you live in a gated community,” he comments, “it’s safer that way.”

“Yea,” you agree, not really sure what else 

You and Jungkook take the elevator to your place, and you punch the code in before letting Jungkook in. 

Jungkook thinks your place is so you. It smells sweet, like vanilla. There’s a white, fluffy couch in front of the TV with stacks of Rilakkuma plushies. Your kitchen is clean, well organized; he sees a heart shaped bowl in the middle of the dining room table. Framed photos adorn the shelves: some of you with your parents, your friends, and one with him and his family from Jungkook’s college graduation. 

You rub your palms on your jeans. “So, what do you think?”

“Nice,” he responds, “I’m proud of you.”

You purse your lips and nod. “Thanks… I have a room prepared for you– but is there anything you want to do tonight? Mingyu and Tae can come over, if you’d like.”

Jungkook toys with his lower lip before he tilts his head. It slightly bothers him that his friends have been over at yours, and that you mention it so casually- but of course, he doesn’t mention it. 

“No, it’s cool,” he responds, “You look tired. You had to drive a while to get me,” he offers. 

“No, no,” you shake your head, “It’s fine. Not a big deal…. You look strong.”

Jungkook smiles, “Yea. Military drills and stuff,” he rests a hand on the kitchen counter and leans against it. 

His eyes flicker towards you, looking you up and down. You gulp.

“I missed you,” you finally say, “... and I bought you something.”

Jungkook raises a brow, watching you daintily step into your room to pull out a small black box. You hand it to him, and he delicately opens it. A golden chain. 

“I don’t know,” you murmur, “I see lots of military guys wearing chains and I thought you’d like one too,” you offer, shifting your weight between your ankles. 

“Thanks,” Jungkook says, “Probably the first time you’ve ever gotten me a gift,” he jokes, to which you playfully roll your eyes. “I’ll wear it when I get back to camp.”

You nod, rising on your tippy toes a bit. “And I’m sorry. For last time… y’know.”

Jungkook's expression crumbles. He licks his lips, “It’s okay. I should have been more understanding. You were going through a lot,” he whispers. 

You nod. “I know. But I should have communicated more so I’m sorry. Just so you  know, I’m still…” 

What should you say? I’m still in love with you? I still think about you every day? I’m nothing without you?

Jungkook’s features soften, and you bite your lip. 

"I'm still... here," you murmur, the words carrying the weight of your emotions as you struggle to articulate the depth of your feelings.

Jungkook's expression softens, a gentle understanding dawning in his eyes as he nods in acknowledgment. “I’ll always be here too,” is all he says. 

Again, silence overwhelms the room.

 “Right… well, my head hurts a little so I’m going to lie down for a bit. Wake me up if you need anything.”

Jungkook tilts his head, approaching you before he presses the back of his palm against your forehead. “You’re burning up,” he murmurs, and you swat his hand away. 

“It’s fine. Just nervous about tomorrow,” you murmur. 

“I’ll call Yeonjun.”

-

You didn’t expect him to offer to take care of you, cater to your every whim. You really didn’t. 

However, straight-up leaving a moment later most definitely caught you off guard. Deep down, you had hoped for a gesture of consideration, like offering to pick up medicine from Walgreens or Walmart, or something. 

In that instant, memories flood back of how he cared for you after your parents died. He was so attentive, so sweet. He home cooked you breakfast, meal prepped lunch, and ordered you take out in the evening. You were so out of it, too weak to even function and Jungkook catered to everything you needed.

It’s almost ironic that he zoomed from your apartment the moment he discovered you were ill. You shrug. There's no need to dwell on it or feel upset. It was odd that his parents suggested he spend the night with you. He should be with his parents anyways. 

Even though you prepared a room for him, Jungkook goes back to his parents that night, and Yeonjun to yours. 

Yeonjun is one of your best friends in the entire world, really, so you’re sorry that you’re treating him like this. 

“Yeonjun, if we’re both single at 30, wanna get married?” You plead from the couch, your head resting on the arm and your feet dangling above the backseat. 

Yeonjun graces you with the most disgusted look you’ve ever seen in your life. Yet, he still drapes a blanket over your frame, placing a wet cloth on your forehead. He doesn’t even entertain the notion. 

“Maybe go back to Sunghoon. He’d seem desperate enough to give you another chance,” Yeonjun murmurs, resting on the opposing side of the couch with his arms crossed. 

You pout, before bursting into laughter. You roll from the couch and land on the floor with a thud. Yeonjun joins you, sitting criss-cross applesauce across from you. He wipes a stray hair from your cheek, a cup of Buldak seemingly materializing in his hands. Seriously. Where’d he get that from?

“Y/N, that man does not want you,” Yeonjun states matter-a-factly, his demeanor solemn, a juxtaposition to the goofy red sauce stained around his lips. 

And you can’t believe it, but you actually find it in you to giggle at that. Teetering back and forth from where you’re sitting, you sputter out a clumsy “Seems like I’m getting deja vu. How many times in your life have you told me that?”

“Millions,” Yeonjun shrugs, stuffing his face with ramen. 

“But you were wrong,” you muse, “I did have a chance with him. He said he was in love with me.”

“Yea,” Yeonjun agrees, before tilting his head, “but you fumbled.”

“I fumbled,” you concur.

“You traumatized that man. He does not want your musty ass,” Yeonjun teases, flicking your forehead with his vacant hand. 

“He does not want my musty ass,” you concur once again, a teasing smile spreading across your lips, before bursting into a fit of giggles. 

Observing you, Yeonjun cracks a smile. “I’m glad you’re not being a crybaby about it anymore,” he comments, “FIrst loves are first loves,” he shrugs, “They say your second love is actually your true first love because they make you realize you weren’t actually in love with your first love.”

“Maybe,” you add, staring up at the ceiling fan swirling in circles and circles and circles- and it makes you dizzy. You squeeze your eyes shut. “Who would that even be?,” you ponder aloud, “Sunghoon is cute, but he doesn’t like me anymore.”

“Well, you can ask them, because I invited them over,” Yeonjun adds, suddenly locking eyes with you. You take a moment to process what he just said. 

“What?-”

On cue, the doorbell rings, and Yeonjuns stands up, waltzing to get the door like he’s the owner of the damn apartment. 

You scramble to your feet as Yeonjun swings open the door with a swish. 

Heeseung and Sunghoon flood in, a teddy bear in Heeseung’s hands and a pot in Sunghoon’s. 

Heeseung looks you up and down, sticking the teddy bear in your face. “Heard you were sick,” he says plainly, soliciting you to just blink at him. 

Sunghoon scoffs from the side, “Yea Heeseung, just go add it to the stack of a hundred plushies she already has,” motioning towards your living room that indeed has a stack of Sanrio and Rilakkuma plushies in the corner. 

You snort, snatching the teddy bear from his grimy little fingers. “Thanks… asshole.”

Sunghoon rummages through the fridge, placing his little pot in and taking a box of apple juice out. “I brought you dumpling soup. Just put it on the stove when you’re ready,” he instructs. 

Heeseung joins Yeonjun in the living room, letting out a low whistle. “You have a pretty nice place, Y/N. Don’t miss living with us at all?”

You huff, stomping over towards Heeseung before pointing your finger in his face. “You slept with someone in my room!” you accuse, “No, I do not miss living with you!”

Heeseung puts his hands up, “Hey, I already apologized! That was in the past. I’m a born-again virgin now,” he continues. 

You blink, exchanging a glance with Yeonjun before returning your gaze to Heeseung. The words leave you speechless, leaving you with nothing to say in response.

Nonetheless, you bend down to give him a hug, maneuvering to lie down on his thigh while you stare at the ceiling. “I have a fever guys,” you mumble, “Can’t have our entire university here bothering me and shit,” you joke, swatting their air like the boys are a bunch of pesky flies. 

“Please,” Heeseung teases, “You’ll start crying the moment we leave.”

“Maybe,” slips from your mouth, and you run your hands over your face. 

“What happened with Jungkook?” Sunghoon adds, a cup of Buldak ramen somehow also materializing in his hands. These boys are really raiding your ramen stash. 

“Y/N fumbled,” Yeonjun answers for you, absentmindedly scrolling through his phone. 

Heeseung puts a hand on your forehead. “Holy shit Y/N! You really are burning up… are fevers contagious?”

“How gentlemanly of you,” you murmur. 

“Wait, let me feel,” Sunghoon intervenes, pressing one hand against your forehead and the other against his. He gauges it for a moment. At that moment, you do recall that Sunghoon’s dad is a doctor, and he might have some magical prognosis for the situation at hand. 

“Yea, you have a fever,” Sunghoon confirms. 

You and Heeseung roll your eyes in unison. 

“But what happened with Jungkook?” Sunghoon questions, settling back into his spot on the floor. 

“I fumbled,” you respond, using Yeonjun’s words exactly. “But it’s fine. It’s whatever. I have a memorial service to worry about tomorrow,” you mutter. 

At that, a solemn silence washes over the room. It doesn’t make you feel any type of way. You wouldn’t know what to say to a girl who lost both of her parents either. 

“You also fumbled Sunghoon,” Heeseung jokes, immediately easing the atmosphere and eliciting an Oh c’mon from Sunghoon and laughter from you and Yeonjun. 

Genuinely, you found that funny. 

You feel complete and content. 

-

Throughout the night, the three boys took turns tending to you, diligently replacing the ice pack on your forehead. It was crucial for your fever to break, knowing that the following day was your parents’ memorial service (the reason why Jungkook is even back in town). Yeonjun, Heeseung, and Sunghoon ran home to change into proper attire, promising you that they’d get back to you as soon as possible. 

Drifting in, adorned in a long black skirt and a matching blouse, a black ribbon delicately tied into your hair in a half-up, half-down style, you arrive at the memorial service site several hours ahead of schedule- to grant yourself the necessary time for mental preparation and to ensure the arrangements have been made. 

Sitting alone in the parking lot, the floodgates of your own emotions explode, and you drown in your own feelings. Since Jungkook's enlistment, you've buried yourself in work- barely finding time to arrange everything for the upcoming service. 

You realize you haven’t even taken a moment to process how you truly feel about everything. 

You’re only 21 years old. This fucking sucks. 

You ache for the warmth of your parents' embrace, desperately missing the solace only your mother could provide. In moments like these,  you find yourself longing for her gentle hug, her soothing words, and her infinite love. 

You feel tears well in your waterline, and you immediately wipe them with your sleeve. 

You had to be strong for your parents. 

They never liked seeing you cry, always told you to be strong.

With a deep inhale, you swing open the door and stride into the memorial service center, ready to attend to the necessary preparations.

The moment you step into the building, your eyes lock onto Jungkook. 

Adorned in a somber black suit with his hands tucked into his pockets, he paces anxiously, his presence immediately drawing your attention.

This isn’t the time; it really isn’t, but he’s perfect. He’s so handsome, even without his hair, even when he doesn’t talk to you, even when you don’t see him. 

When he senses your presence, he immediately turns towards you. 

“Y/N.”

“Jungkook. Thanks for being here,” you say, pulling him in for another side hug. 

“Yea, of course,” he mumbles, “You feeling better?” 

You nod, “Yea ‘m good. My fever broke…  did the guy say anything?” ou inquire, swiftly diverting the conversation. 

Jungkook appears slightly taken aback, but he responds, "Yeah. Good. They have everything set up. They just need the portrait of Auntie and Uncle."

Dangling your keys in front of him, you continue, "They're in the trunk. Can you get them? I have to- I have to use the restroom." Jungkook studies your face for a moment before nodding in understanding. "Yeah, totally."

"Thanks," you mumble before darting into the restroom.

Obviously, you’re on the verge of tears and he could palpably feel and see that. Once inside the stall, the floodgates burst open. The despondency of everything absolutely devours you and you feel so pitiful, so sad that you’re in this situation, and that your parents are gone– forever.

 Your parents are gone. You think Jungkook is gone. You have nobody. You’re alone. The family that you grew up with… it would never be the same. 

After a moment of letting your emotions flow, you take a deep breath and wipe your eyes. You had anticipated this moment, knowing that you would inevitably end up crying like a little baby, so you had opted for a bare face today.

You leave the restroom, hanging your head, and when you look up, you lock eyes with Jungkook. 

With furrowed brows, his eyes sweep over your puffy ones, noticing the glossy scleras and the tears welling up once again. Staring at him, you feel pathetic, and you let out a quiet sob before burying your face into your hands. 

And suddenly, you feel him. 

Like the comfort of the gentle breeze on a Spring day, Jungkook envelops you with his strong arms, and suddenly everything’s okay. He holds you and it’s reminiscent of all the times he’s cared for you, doted on you, and expressed his love for you. He soothingly runs his hand up and down your back, pressing you against the wall and away from the eyes of bystanders. 

You remain still, sniffling and drying your eyes, overwhelmed before pulling away. Jungkook runs a hand over your hair, eyes glazing over your face. He doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t need to. 

The way he looks at you is enough. It’ll be okay. Everything will be okay. 

The beauty of your relationship with Jungkook is that in itself. It would be alright. Everything would be alright so long as he’s there- even just as a friend. 

To love someone is to love from afar. To love someone is to love without reciprocation. You love Jungkook and he loves you. Some people are so filled with hatred and resentment- the ability to even love after all you’ve been through is astounding in itself.

Your love for Jungkook is a powerful thing.  It would carry you far, and to simply possess the ability to love is far more significant than being in a relationship with him. 

“Y/N!” On cue, Yeonjun makes his appearance in the lobby, tilting his head when he sees you and Jungkook standing closely together by the hallway. 

Jungkook motions towards Yeonjun, and you nod, not before you stand on your tiptoes to give him another hug– not a side hug, but a real hug. “Thank you,” you whisper against his neck before you skip towards Yeonjun and your other friends. 

-

The memorial service begins and ends with reverence. 

Surrounded by your family and friends, you begin to feel overwhelmed by your sense of community. 

The service room is reminiscent of that of a church. You sit on the front row, Yeonjun on one side and Yunjin on the other. Both of them are holding each of your hands as you listen to your maternal aunt tell stories of your parents from their youth.

Through her words, you get a glimpse of your parents in their youth– just two kids stupid in love, youthful, lively, and brimming with aspirations. It gives you peace that they were able to live their dreams out before they died- one of those dreams being seeing you graduate high school. It’s a shame they weren’t present at your college graduation. 

After listening to your aunt, your grandma, and Jungkook’s mom. Jungkook is next. You didn’t know he’d be talking, but his mom let you know that he had something prepared.

He saunters towards the front from the second row, hands in his pockets, before he clears his throat, taking a piece of paper from his pocket, coughing against his closed fist before he speaks up. 

“Auntie ___ and Uncle ___ were the most selfless people I know. When my mother couldn't join me for Mother's Day lunch at school, Auntie __ stepped in. As I learned to ride a bike, it was Uncle ___ who stayed outside with me for hours, patiently assisting me as I struggled to find my balance,” he starts, meeting your eyes before looking back into the general audience. 

“Auntie and Uncle were filled with so much love and trust. They embraced a more liberal parenting style, trusting in the inherent kindness of the world to play a role in shaping their daughter's character.”

It’s funny, because as he’s speaking about you, he can’t bring himself to meet your eyes. “They exposed her to life's various facets, both its joys and challenges, instilling in her a deep understanding of the world's complexities. And their approach paid off. They leave behind a daughter, one of the most compassionate and beautiful souls who embodies traits of independence, strength, and intelligence.”

Your heart clenches, and you raise your lashes, hanging onto his every word. You can feel your  heart beating against your chest. 

“To honor their legacy, let’s approach the world with less caution and more trust. Embrace the goodness of the world and live happily, just like Auntie ___ and Uncle ___ did. Thank you.”

Jungkook still doesn’t meet your eyes as he returns to his seat, but yours follows his all the way to his seat.

-

Right after the memorial service, Jungkook catches you off guard. He strides over, giving you a hug– a full hug– before whispering in your ear, the baritone of his voice causing goosebumps  to erect on your skin. “I have to go now, but stay safe. I’ll see you when I get back.”

You look up at him, nodding. “Yea. See you.”

He doesn’t say anything else, walking towards his parents and taking the keys to his own car before he leaves. All your friends watch Jungkook just as intently, but nobody says anything. You don’t talk about Jungkook much with your friends anymore. There’s not really a reason to. 

And just like that, you don’t see Jungkook for another six months. 

-

The next time you see Jungkook is when he comes home from the military. 

This time, you aren’t able to join his parents to pick him up, and it’s not because you’re avoiding him, but because you have an important meeting at work– a meeting that you just can’t wiggle your way out of. 

Apparently, the higher ups are announcing something– something so important that apparently they need the entire company present…. And why couldn’t have this just been an email?

As the hours tick by, you sit in your cubicle, completing an analysis of consumer behavior for a client. Work isn’t particularly exciting nor is it a bore. You currently work in consulting, specializing in data analysis to help clients make decisions for their businesses.

At 4PM, an hour before everybody goes home, the higher ups gather everyone into the auditorium. 

You sit next to Mary, one of the colleagues on your team, about 50 years old, who taps you on the shoulder and whispers. “My oh my, if they wanted to kill us all, this would be the perfect time to drop a bomb,” she jokes, which makes you smile. 

That was a cute comment. You place your hand over hers. “Well, at least we’d go out together, right? HR won’t have to spend any more on those team building exercises,” you joke with a gag, prompting Mary to roll her eyes. 

The tension in the room is palpable as the CEO takes the stage and clears their throat, prompting everyone’s attention.

"Good afternoon, everyone. I'm pleased to announce that after months of negotiations, we have finalized a merger agreement with HYBE Korea," the CEO declares, gesturing towards the screen where the company logo appears.

“This means that some of the departments will be relocating to HYBE," the CEO announces, his voice projecting as he gestures towards the screen displaying the company's new logo. "HYBE is investing in a new building equipped with state-of-the-art facilities, providing us with an exciting opportunity to expand our operations."

You pause, and that’s when the realization sinks in. 

Jungkook works for HYBE. 

"In celebration of this milestone, we will be hosting a party next month to commemorate the merger. More details will be sent through email.” the CEO continues, his words met with a ripple of applause and relieved smiles from the crowd. "It will be an opportunity for us to come together as a unified team and celebrate the bright future that lies ahead."

Mary’s saying something to you but you’re not even processing it, trying to understand the implications of the merger. 

There’s no way you’d be working with Jungkook– imagine the odds of that. But, what if? 

He gets back today and everything feels surreal. 

-

After you get back to your car, Jungkook’s mother calls you, excitedly urging you to drive over to her place to celebrate Jungkook’s return from the military. You tell her that of course you’ll be there before you start driving down the oh so familiar streets to Jungkook’s child home. 

Upon pulling up, you see a familiar face. 

Rolling down the window, you call out his name, “Tae!!”

Taehyung, who is in the midst of walking towards the front door, whips his head towards your voice. “Y/N, hey!”

He waits for you to park, you clumsily grabbing onto your purse so you can meet him at the front. 

“I missed you,” you say. 

“I missed you too. Text me more,” he responds before scanning you up and down, “You look… fancy,” Taehyung comments to which you sigh playfully. 

“You know, I chose to waste my life away as a corporate slave,” you muse, giving him a hug. 

“Just like your boyfriend,” Taehyung jokes, making an obvious reference to Jungkook. 

“Oh shut up,” you sigh, swatting his bicep, allowing him to open the door for you. 

The moment you walk in, Jungkook’s mother squeals like she’s never seen you in her life. “Omo, omo, omo! Y/N is here everyone!” she announces excitedly, scurrying over to you, immediately latching onto your bicep to pull you towards the crowd, “Y/N is here! Y/N is here!”

Jungkook is standing by the dining table, surrounded by his aunts, uncles, and cousins. He lifts his head to meet eyes with you, offering you a gentle smile. The way he looks at you, smiles at you– it’s just, it makes your heart swell. 

Every time you see him, it’s like time slows down. 

You can imagine waking up this smile every morning, rolling over to find his handsome face gazing softly at you to- 

Wait. Have you lost your mind?

And at that moment, you’re tackled to the ground by Jungkook’s six year old cousin, Jacob. If Jungkook is no longer in love with you, the only solace you have is the affection of his six year old cousin. 

He grabs your face with both palms, causing your lips to pucker as he pouts at you. “Why didn’t you say hi to me?” 

You gently grab his face and ruffle hush air. “Sowwy, Jacob. You’re too little I didn’t see you,” you reason to which Jacob, for some reason, becomes angry at. 

He rolls over onto the ground, just to get up and stomp away. “I am not little!” he declares, stomping up the stairs. You can hear the door slam and you exchange bewildered glances with Jacob’s mother, who shakes her head. 

“He's just going through a bit of a phase," she reassures you with a smile, before turning to follow Jacob upstairs. You lock eyes with Jungkook, who gives you a subtle smile. 

The Jeon family is filled with drama queens. 

Jungkook closes the distance between you. “Hey.”

You feel your heart skip a beat. 

He’s as handsome as ever. Just like he’s always been. 

“Hey, welcome back,” you sheepishly express, standing on your tiptoes to give him a hug. 

He hugs you– like, really hugs you. Both of his strong arms snake around your waist, holding you against him securely. It leaves you weak in the knees. It’s a little too intimate for a casual, welcome back hug, but you haven’t a problem with it. 

He pulls back, and all you can do is stare at him. You’re mesmerized. Again, he always makes you feel like this. This feeling will never dissipate. 

“Did you just get back from work?” 

You come back to Earth, pulled from your entrancement. 

“Yea, I did…” You scan him up and down. He’s wearing something casual– a black T-shirt and black shorts, but his physique still looks perfect and he still looks perfect. Without thinking, you speak, “Did you happen to hear about the- no, nevermind.”

Jungkook tilts his head with a slightly teasing expression, “No, say it,” he urges

“The merger.”

“Merger?”

You say it in unison, and you bite a smile back. 

Jungkook’s mom automatically intervenes, “Omo! Omo!” she exclaims, “A merger? What merger?”

“Y/N’s company and my company are merging,” Jungkook simply answers, looking at you to raise his brows. 

“Omo!” she exclaims again, almost theatrically falling to her knees, “Does this mean that you two will be working together?” she asks, motioning towards you and Jungkook, to which you sheepishly shake your head. 

“Probably not,” you dismiss, “I don’t even know if my department is relocating to the new facility.”

“Oh, I hope you do!” Jungkook’s mother pouts, “That would be absolutely perfect! It would be great if he could watch over you at work,” she reasons, before addressing the entire family, “Y/N is very pretty and gets hits on a lot,” she explains, making you squeeze your features in embarrassment. 

All of Jungkook’s older family members murmur in agreement– and you appreciate the hype, you really do, but it’s embarrassing, especially in front of the entire family. You place a hand on Jungkook’s mother’s shoulder. “Excuse me for a moment, I’m going to use the restroom,” you whisper, to which she gives you two big thumbs ups. 

On your way to the restroom, you stop in your tracks. None other than Yeonjun, the ANTAGONIST, steps out, swatting the air like he’d just taken a nasty shit. 

You blink at him and he blinks at you. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” you deadpan. 

Yeonjun shrugs, “Jungkook’s aunt invited me. She thinks I’m a cutie pie.”

“Okay,” you roll your eyes, walking past him to inconspicuously drag him with you into the restroom. 

You throw him onto the toilet seat, looking into the mirror to touch up your makeup. 

“Y/N, this looks suspicious,” Yeonjun deadpans, watching you reapply your lip gloss and comb through your eyebrows. 

At that, you drop your hand from your face. “Oh shit, that’s true,” you gasp, a hand coming over your mouth. 

For the past– like– two years, Jungkook’s family has been under the impression that you and Yeonjun are dating. That notion couldn’t be farther from the truth. 

You inhale sharply, turning towards Yeonjun, “You leave first and then I’ll follow.”

Yeonjun raises an eyebrow, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. "Sure thing, Y/N. Just pray that nobody’s waiting outside," he says with a mocking smile before slipping out of the restroom.

And of course, Jungkook’s mother was right outside the door. She shrieks. 

-

Every single one of Jungkook’s aunts and uncles met you when you were just an itty-bitty baby.   

Occasionally, you keep in touch with the aunts and uncles– not nearly as much as you do with Jungkook’s parents, but goodness, are you thankful for your connections to the Jeon family because you find out that Jungkook’s uncle won the lottery. 

The literal lottery– and he bought a yacht, a yacht that he suggests to all the “kids” (a bunch of 20-something year olds, pushing 30) to go on a little cruise in celebration of Jungkook’s return. 

You really wouldn’t be yourself if you didn’t rush home to get your bikini and sunscreen, and of course, you dragged Yeonjun along with you. 

The yacht, even under the night sky, is the fanciest, most luxurious thing you've ever laid eyes on. Its lights twinkle like stars, casting a gentle glow on the water. It's like a dream come true, a magical oasis on the dark sea. 

This is so cute, so summer. 

With your towel laid against the deck, you’re lying on the deck like you’re suntanning, which isn’t possible because it’s the moon’s light that shines down on you, but at least it makes you feel like a magical moon fairy. 

“Get the angles right!” you bark to which Yeonjun rolls his eyes to the back of his head and groans. 

With your forearm resting against the deck, you hold your body up sideways, all your assets on display. With your knees touching, your hip touches the deck, and your other arm goes up in the air, and you’re waving it around like a little mermaid. 

In a sense, you’re posing to get a cute Instagram pic– but also because you know Jungkook might be watching from the upper deck. He’s probably drinking with his friends, not even batting a lash nor caring about you, but you like to delude yourself into thinking that he could be checking you out from a distance. 

“Y/N, I took like 300,” he deadpans, dismissing your complaints with a wave, “Take some for me now,” he instructs, standing up to hand you his phone, “I’m cuter than you so they better look better than yours.”

“Yea, yea. Whatever,” you muse, going along with the bit, holding up your phone to get all the good angles for your forever bestie. 

-

Mingyu, Taehyung, Jimin, and Jungkook sit on the upper deck, staring at the night sky with bottles of Soju in their hands. Like you and Yeonjun, they’re in their swim trunks, though no one is entirely certain they want to go for a swim in the chilly  water. 

Unbeknownst to you, the four men have a clear view of you from the upper deck.

The flash of the phone camera flickers comically, occasionally lighting up the mens’ faces as they all try to avoid looking at you– out of chivalry, of course. 

Taehyung is particularly amusing, maintaining his expression of stoicism as he stares directly into the moon, taking an occasional sip of Soju. 

At that moment, Jungkook knows that he chose the right friends because he himself can’t seem to rip his eyes from you. You’re beautiful; that is absolute, without a doubt– but something has changed– maybe it’s the angle that the cool breeze hits his face or the alcohol making him feel soothingly warm on the inside. 

Jungkook sees it in your mannerisms, the way you poise yourself, the way you walk, the way you talk. You were gorgeous before, and he was insane about you before, but damn– you’ve become such a woman. 

He knows what it is, but he’d be a dick to patronize you for it, to act like he’s proud of you for becoming more confident. Undoubtedly, you’ve developed a more profound sense of confidence and it makes Jungkook swell with pride because he remembers how you’ve agonized over your body, complaining about your boobs, your weight, your waist, when in reality everything was and is perfect. 

You’re as beautiful as a Victoria’s Secret model, as ethereal as the goddess of beauty, and Jungkook’s just happy to see that you’ve embraced it. 

You yourself would agree with the sentiment; it wasn’t until your 20’s that you grasped how utterly gorgeous you are, and how to embrace your beauty, make yourself look good and like you, not just like every other girl on Instagram. 

Jimin clears his throat, “So.. now that you’re back, are you and Y/N going to…”

Jungkook lifts his head and looks at Jimin. He shakes his head. It’s firm and absolute. “No, it’s better for us to be friends.”

Mingyu raises a brow, “You can’t take your eyes off her.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he rationalizes, “People can like each other and still be incompatible.”

“Incompatible?” Taehyung repeats, a twinge of confrontation in his voice, “If I had a girl like Y/N in my life I’d propose immediately.”

Jungkook stares into the moon, “I need a cigarette-”

“Okay, what is wrong with you?” Jimin challenges, rising to his feet, “Y/N is right there,” Jimin whisper-yells, motioning towards the lower deck, “You clearly still feel something for her, so do something about it. I mean- how would you feel if someone– not me… I don’t know. How would you feel if Mingyu hit on her right now? And they started dating?’

“Why me?-”

“That would be inappropriate,” Jungkook retorts, “Y/N can date whoever she wants, just not you guys.”

“Then what about Yeonjun?” Taehyung intervenes calmly, “Yeonjun’s a good kid. She brings him to all your family events. They’re cute together, huh?” Taehyung motions towards the lower deck, where you and Yeonjun are laying on your sides facing each other, animatedly discussing something probably stupid, like penguins. 

He notices the skinship, how your hand is casually thrown around Yeonjun’s waist, and how you occasionally swat at his shoulder whenever he says something a little too egregious. 

No, it doesn’t bother Jungkook. 

Jungkook actually likes that you have male friends, that you can maintain friendships with the opposite gender without it having to mean more. 

It means that he can trust you, and that he can trust your friends to take care of you. 

But what trust is at stake here? It’s not like you’re his girlfriend nor should he worry about who’s taking care of you or not taking care of you. Furthermore, it really isn’t his place to feel betrayed, like you cheated on him, by the prospect of you actually forming a relationship with Yeonjun–. 

“See? You look hurt as fuck,” Taehyung affirms.

“I’m not hurt-”

“Get your shit together, and get your girl. Y/N’s not perfect, but she could be perfect for you,” Taehyung shrugs at his corny play of words, earning a playful shoulder nudge from Mingyu. 

“Aye, that was a good one.”

On cue, he hears two inconspicuous splashes into the ocean, your squeals echoing across the atmosphere. 

“Tag, you’re it!”

“Bitch! You just kicked my balls!”

“I said tag, you’re it!”

But wait, isn’t it a little too dark to be swimming this late?

-

When it comes to you it’s like Jungkook’s protective instinct never dies. 

Descending the stairs to the lower deck, he watches Yeonjun as he climbs onto the deck. “Y/N, you need to stop kicking my nuts! Holy shit!”

“I said sorry!” you retort, “I didn’t know!”

Yeonjun grumbles something indistinctive before picking a towel up to  roughly dry his hair, disappearing into the restroom. 

“Y/N, it isn’t safe to swim alone at night,” Jungkook mumbles. He takes a seat on the lower deck, his feet submerged under the water. The water is icy cold, and he can’t conceive how you’re not shivering. He’s not being patronizing. He’s simply worried for your safety. 

You swim towards him, hands latching around his ankles to stabilize yourself beneath the water. 

It’s the casual skinship between you two. The way his hand lingered on your shoulder when he told you his uncle bought a yacht. It’s the way he can casually wipe food from your mouth with his bare hands without batting a lash. It’s the way your fingers trail up his legs so you can place your forearms against his thighs, resting your head on them. 

“Then… why don’t you come join me..?” 

Jungkook really doesn’t want to. The water is cold, the weather is cold, and he’s very much comfortable on the warm yacht. 

….

Jungkook submerges himself under the water, coming up before flicking his head back to rid the water from his eyes. 

“It’s cold as fuck, Y/N,” Jungkook mutters, body temperature still adjusting to the chilly water.

He freezes when your fingertips brush against his. abs— perhaps accidentally, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t make him feel any less electrified.

“That’s why it’s good to have more than one person in here,” you rationalize, “More body heat.”

You’re treading against the water, and not doing a great job at it- your head bobs with the motion of the waves, and you find yourself sputtering the water out of your mouth as you speak.

Jungkook wipes his face haphazardly with his left hand before he reaches out to stabilize you, holding onto your bicep. 

It makes your heart skip a beat. So big and strong. You can smell the shampoo on his wet hair, and it makes you dizzy because not only does he always look good, he always smells good. 

Your eyes trail from his bicep to his shoulder, neck, and finally, to his eyes. He’s already looking at you, the warmth of his gaze making you feel so secure and safe. 

You know he wants you. There’s no way he can look at you like this and not want you. 

It hasn’t even been a day since he’s returned from the military and he looks at you the same way he looked at you from the night before he left: with love. 

Your eyes flicker down to his lips, his pretty lips. He’s so pretty. You close the distance, wrapping your arms around his neck to stabilize you further, and you draw your lips to his- 

Until he turns his head.

Still, his hands grab your waist, holding you close to him against the water, but he looks into the ocean, 90 degrees from you, refusing to look at you or meet your eyes. 

“It’s cold, we should get out. I don’t want to get sick,” he suggests.

“Yea, okay,” you sheepishly agree, allowing him to hoist you onto the lower deck before following in your stead.

He throws you a vacant towel, “You alright?”

Catching it with a single hand,  you use it to pat yourself dry, composing yourself before you stare at him. 

“I’m fine.”

-

That night, Jungkook’s mother suggests you spend the night at her house, or that Jungkook drive you home given how late it is. 

Instead, you sneak out of the house and drive home, far too embarrassed to be around Jungkook let alone look him in the eye. 

That was so humiliating. You think about how you behaved while you were staying with him after your parents’ death. You exposed yourself to him in the shower and begged him to join you. What the hell were you even thinking? Should you just drive your car off this cliff?

When you pull into your apartment complex’s parking lot, you keep banging your head against the steering wheel in hopes that maybe you’d wake up and realize that tonight was just an embarrassing dream. 

Well, unfortunately it wasn’t a dream, because later that night Jungkook shows up at your door with your wallet in his hand. You answer the door in a loose T-shirt, boyshorts, and a Snorlax plush headband on your head with a gray face mask. 

“My mom told me to give this back to you.”

You take the wallet, “Thanks.”

You stand there for a moment, staring at him. 

He looks at you, pursing his lips before he places a hand on your shoulder. “Hey, I’ll always care about you, alright?”

You nod, fidgeting with the charm of your necklace, “I know.”

“Good. I’ll be going, then,” Jungkook announces. 

“Alright, drive safely,” you respond. 

With a brief nod, Jungkook moves to shut the door and depart, and for some reason you just can’t bear to see him go so your hands instinctively reach for him, latching around his wrist. 

Jungkook raises his eyebrows at you, and you almost yank your hand from him immediately. 

“It’s nothing,” you express, biting your lip. 

“Alright then, I’ll see you.”

“Good night.”

The moment he leaves, you scold yourself for being so emboldened. Weren’t you embarrassed enough? You open your fridge, pouring yourself a glass of champagne, before you pace around your apartment, your champagne swishing in your glass while you find yourself in deep contemplation.

Jungkook’s back. 

Everything you’ve ever wanted is back, in front of you. 

You hurt him, and apparently you made him cry, well- that was all in the past, anyways. 

It doesn’t matter because you love him. You really do. You love him with your entire soul, heart, and being, and you know your feelings are reciprocated, so if there’s even a chance that he’s willing to give it another shot, you’ve got to do something about it. 

Instinctively, you grab your laptop and place it on the dining table, stretching your fingers out to write the longest text message you’ve probably sent in your life. 

Once your pinky finger presses the Enter key, you slam your laptop shut, pacing around your apartment until you hear a ding from your phone. 

You nearly screech, running to your bathroom to wash off the face mask, putting some moisturizer on, combing through your eyebrows, and applying your lip gloss before- 

Ding Dong

You open the door, looking up at Jungkook with big eyes while he looks down at you. He runs his hand through his hair before holding your face with his palms, studying you, his eyes urgently scanning your features for any hint of insincerity. 

“You mean it?”

“Yes,” you say resolutely, struggling against his firm grasp, your lips slightly puckering. 

“Prove it then,” he demands.

He lets go of your face and welcomes himself into your humble abode. 

Taking a seat on your couch, he crosses his arms, watching you intently as if waiting for you to break out into a soliloquy. 

You don’t know what to say, and you’re far too embarrassed to admit your transgressions aloud, until a light bulb appears over your head. 

“My diary,” you suggest, “I’ll let you read… parts of my diary, but you have to prove it first.”

You expect him to ask you how, or to ask you what he’s supposed to be proving, but he doesn’t. 

“Okay. C’mere,” he says with a tilt of his head. All you can do is shift your weight between ankles, before shyly approaching him. 

“Sit,” he gently instructs. 

You nod, about to seat yourself on the area beside him before he grabs your wrist and twirls you around so that you’re straddling him. Your hands find themselves on your shoulders, and Jungkook wraps his around your back. 

“Y/N, I..” he starts, his gently brown orbs studying your features, “I know what you think of me,” he sighs as if just relinquished from holding the weight of the world, “and I promise you that I’m not that man,” he continues, scrutinizing your every nonverbal response.

“I’m selfish, I’m immature,” he starts, brushing your bangs from your face, “but never with you,” he finishes. “I always showed you the best parts of me, always wanted you to see me as someone you can rely on,” he expresses, gently cradling your face, “but I don’t think you realize how much I depend on you, how much I need you too.”

Your features scrunch, studying his features, digesting his words. He reaches in his pocket for something, before pulling out a heart shaped locket. He uses his other arm to delicately grasp your hand, placing the locket in your hand. 

“Look at it,” he instructs, and you follow, your fingertips clumsily opening the locket. Your heart swells. The heart shaped locket bears an image of you. 

“Being in the military wasn’t easy for me,” he continues, “but I had you with me. Had my favorite girl with me. You gave me strength.”

“When you left that morning, I regretted what I said to you. I thought I was too harsh, and that I’d lost you forever. That was one of the worst feelings in my life– but to me, I felt that you were the one who turned me down. I thought that you were just infatuated with me, that you wouldn’t care about me if you’d see how immature and selfish I really am. But I love you so much that I was okay with that. I’m okay with anything as long as it’s you,” he finally finishes.

You don’t know what to say. Your eyes flicker towards the locket, “You could’ve chosen a better picture,” you mumble, to which Jungkook amusedly scoffs. 

“That’s all you have to say?” he muses. 

Your cheeks turn strawberry pink, and you climb off his lap, running to your room to grab your diary. You return, skipping through the pages, before you  land on the one you want to show him. 

You jut it towards him, “Here.”

Jungkook’s eyes glaze over the page, and he starts reading it aloud, mocking your voice, “I graduate college today-”

You literally throw yourself on him to shut him up, “Do not.”

A cheeky smile dances across his face as his eyes scan over the page. After a moment, he looks up and pouts, “Awe, baby,” he coos. 

Your face scrunches cutely. 

“Come gimme a hug,” he sweetly beckons, to which you sheepishly jump into his lap again, his arms snaking around your waist while he soothingly runs his hands up and down your back. 

“I’ll always be here for you, whether we’re together or not,” he whispers against your skin, “You mean everything to me.”

“I know,” you self-consciously respond.

"There's nothing you can do to be 'worthy' of me. I love you for you. You can be the world's richest person or the world's poorest person and there's nothing that would change for me, seriously. All you need to do is continue loving yourself, and that's good enough for me."

"Even if I turned into a worm? You'd still love me?" you ask, your voice coming out as a slight whimper.

Jungkook smiles. Obviously not, but of course, he'll indulge you. "Of course," he says, his voice like honey, "I'd carry you around in my pocket."

"Thanks," you sheepishly murmur, “There are just things I’m worried about, but I trust you with everything.”

He hums in agreement, “We’ll work it out.”

“Okay,” you concede, “I love you,” you confess, “I love you forever.”

“I love you forever too.”

The moment feels so intimate. Your chests are heart to heart, beating in unison as you relish the sensation of having him in your arms, having him back. 

-

Dating Jungkook officially means you get to indulge in all of your innermost desires, the little things you never thought you’d see into fruition– because the reality is that you’ve seen Jungkook in every way. He’s been to your house thousands of times, and you’ve slept over at his hundreds of times, but having him in a different way fills you with an indescribable sense of excitement and joy. 

He’s taken you shopping thousands of times, but this time is different. Jungkook is affectionately, overwhelmingly so. He’ll keep his fingers intertwined with yours even when your palms become drenched with sweat. As stated before, he doesn’t care about any distinct bodily fluid if it’s yours. 

He’ll hold you from behind while you browse through clothes, give you the occasional peck when you’re in line– it seems like he’s enjoying this domestic intimacy as much as you are. The poor guy has been in the military for a whole year. 

“That one’s cute,” he comments, motioning towards a white sundress hanging on the rack, just beside the crop top you’re currently looking at. He keeps your body close to him, his arms so casually thrown around you from behind. His fingers play with your hair, twirling it around his index, and every so often, he presses kisses to your cheek, neck, and skillfully cradles your face, forcing your jaw towards him for a sweet kiss. 

“Should I try it on?” you ask with a cute tilt of your head. 

“I like it,” he offers, “I rarely see you in dresses. You always look so pretty.”

His sentiment makes you blush– you’re already aware that when he’s around, you’ve only really been in casual clothes: crop tops, sweatpants, and flared leggings. You want to show him a new side of you. 

“We could go to the beach together,” you offer. 

Jungkook hums in agreement, “Of course, baby,” he agrees, “You looked really pretty in that matching skirt and crop top thing you wore last time.”

“Which one?”

“The one you broke my heart in,” he teases. 

You amusedly scoff, twirling around to grab his face and press a kiss on his lips. He acts annoyed, doesn’t return the kiss, just stares down at you, but still chases your lips when you pull away. 

If the skinship is this pervasive in public, you can’t imagine how he would behave behind closed doors.

Jungkook got back yesterday, and you think that he’s really taking his fill of you after being deprived from you for so long. 

Yesterday was Friday, and today is Saturday… meaning that neither of you have nothing to do.

Nothing to do but look at cute princess dresses at the mall, cuddle, and watch Jujutsu Kaisen, obviously. 

Even while doing something as mundane as watching anime from the floor, you sit in between his legs, back pressed up against his chest, and his arms around your waist, fingers playing and pinching with the chub of your tummy. 

He can’t keep his hands off you. 

The sounds of Gojo and Toji’s fight are drowned by the pounding of your cardiac palpitations. Jungkook’s large hands are splayed against the front of your body, his hands trailing up and around your stomach and back,  rubbing your skin, and sinking his fingertips into your chub. 

You gasp softly when you feel him unclasp your bra. 

He pulls his arms around you even more securely, tugging you onto his lap before he buries his face into the crook of your neck, “You’re so soft,” he murmurs, and his hands return to your stomach– and you think they’re going to trail up. Perhaps he’ll grab a handful of titty or rub a nipple until he doesn’t-

His hands trail to your legs, rubbing his palms up and down each calf lovingly before he laces his fingers through your toes, and gently pushes you off his lap…?

He rises to his feet. “I’m hungry, want me to make some ramen for you?”

“Uh yea, sure,” you smile. 

You and Jungkook have done it before: twice. Once at the beach villa and the second before he enlisted. 

Every time was magical, electrifying, the best you’ve ever had. He led you through each and every step with expertise and he was so soft, so sweet, and it felt so fucking good. 

Admittedly, your past, insecure, and inquisitive self did some snooping around and you are aware of Jungkook’s body count: 13. You were the 13th, and quite honestly, it didn’t make you feel the greatest; you despise the thought of Jungkook with another woman, but you suppose that there is something nice about having an experienced man. 

It’s not like you weren’t inexperienced either. 

Your body count was– like– 6. 

It’s not like any of the men before Jungkook actually made you come. It felt good, you guess, but having sex with someone you’re in love with is indescribable.  

You want to do it with him, but there’s something that makes you feel subconscious about making the first move, especially when it comes to something as intimate and forth putting as sex. 

You don’t find yourself seductive enough to do so, and you already have societal norms against you. 

Women are the gatekeepers of sex. Men are the ones who want to unlock the gate. Blah Blah Blah. 

Well, you want to have sex too because you’re unbelievably in love and aroused by this man. 

So, would you be making the first move? You’ve changed a lot since the emboldened 19 year old you once were. 

In conclusion, no. You will absolutely not be making the first move. You will just have to suck it up. 

-

That Saturday night, Jungkook stays over at your place. 

Nothing happens, of course, but that doesn’t mean that Jungkook doesn’t spoon you like a prison inmate incarcerated in his little Jungkook cell. He snores softly against the crook of your neck. 

Living alone isn’t easy, especially as a 21 year old (subjectively hot) girl. You double lock your doors. You have a baseball bat with nails hidden in the depths of your closet. While Jungkook was in the army, you had Yeonjun, Soobin, and Beomgyu on speed dial just in case anything were to happen. 

It was stressful, and it gave you crippling anxiety at times. 

But Jungkook is your Prince Charming in every way, from the way he makes you feel, to the way he dotes on you, and to the way he protects you. Jungkook’s got big strong military muscles, and you know that he’d never let anything happen to you. 

Since forever, he’s always casually swept you towards the inside of the sidewalk, stepped in front of you when a stranger approached, and of course you aren’t aware of this, but the reason those creepy frat boys started leaving you alone was because of him. 

The sun rises, its sweet rays as warm as the feeling intensifying your chest. Jungkook’s arms are still draped on your sides, and you turn over so you can get a real good glimpse at his sleeping face. 

So handsome. Jungkook is sleeping calmly, soft snores leaving his mouth, and it brings you so much joy to see him at peace. 

You run a thumb over his brow, pressing a soft kiss to the area in between his eyebrows. Slowly, his eyes open, and he’s staring at you with lidded eyes, and you can’t fathom how handsome you think he is. 

“G’morning baby,” he says in a soft voice, the grogginess of his morning voice making you gulp. 

“Hi,” you sweetly respond, “Sorry for waking you. You can go back to sleep. It’s Sunday,” you say folding the comforter away from you to sneak out of bed. 

Jungkook protests with a hum, “I want you to stay with me,” he mumbles. 

“You don’t want breakfast?” 

“Can’t sleep without you,” he responds, his chest rising slightly, which makes you pout. 

“Alright.”

Peace. Serenity. Serendipity. Everything you’ve ever wanted. You’re so in love. 

-

Later that day, you get an email from the company, which is surprising since it’s Sunday, but essentially, the email states that your department will be transferring to the new HYBE facility. You flip your phone to show Jungkook the screen, who is sitting across the table stuffing his face with noodles with a Snorlax headband in his hair. 

On cue, Jungkook’s phone dings, and he pulls out his phone. 

“Oh shit,” he says aloud, “Same.”

You’re a bit taken aback, “Are you serious?” you ask, scrambling to your feet before racing around the dining room to glimpse at Jungkook’s phone. 

Dear Jungkook, We're pleased to inform you that your department facilities are relocating to a new, improved location. This move is part of our ongoing commitment to efficiency and employee satisfaction…

You exchange glances with him, blinking at him momentarily before you speak. 

“You’re going to get sick of me if you have to see me everyday,” you deadpan, prompting him to theatrically roll his eyes. 

“You do analytics, I do software development. We’re not even going to be on the same floor,” he declares matter-a-factly, “You’ll probably be with… the marketing girls or something.”

“Oh really?” you muse, raising your brows, “You don’t want to see me at work? You’d rather be with those ‘marketing girls’?”

Jungkook purses his lips, staring at you unimpressed, before a smile spreads across his lips. 

“If I see you at work,” he whispers, fingertips dancing  along your thigh before his palms grasp the backs of your thighs, pulling you towards him, “I won’t be able to focus. I’d be too distracted keeping my eyes on the pretty girl from the Analytics department.”

You blush slightly, “Oh- oh, shut up.”

“What? It’s the truth. Either you or I have to quit, and it won’t be me. I have seniority over you.”

You know he’s joking, but the notion makes you scowl. You step out of his grasp, “That’s not funny,” you mutter, crossing your arms. 

He shrugs, “I could really turn into the sugar daddy you’ve always dreamed about.”

“Don’t undermine me because I don’t have as much experience as you do,” you direct, to which Jungkook theatrically drops his jaw, rising to his feet. 

You look him right in the eye, maintaining your glare as he starts to tower over you. “Oh c’mon baby, you know I didn’t mean it like that,” he comforts. 

You shake your head, rolling your eyes, “Asshole,” you spit, stomping away from him, to which Jungkook follows. 

“Seriously? I was joking!” he reasons, following you to your room. You walk into the bathroom, closing the door behind you and locking it before he can trail in your stead. At that, Jungkook scoffs, not believing that you were taking it this seriously. 

He knocks on the door. “Y/N,” he calls, dragging out your name. 

You don’t say anything, and he squeezes his eyes in defeat when he hears the sound of the shower starting, opting to slip into your bed whilst waiting for you to return. He sighs, running his hands over his face. 

To be honest, Jungkook is a little triggered. He hates the whole silent treatment thing more than anything else. Last year, you ignored him for four months straight and it nearly killed him  on the inside. 

Minutes later, you emerge from the shower, one towel wrapped around your body and the other wrapped around your hair. You cross your arms, staring at him. The towel wrapped around your frame is loose, threatening to fall beneath the nipple. 

Jungkook sighs, standing up and sauntering over. Your eyes are glossy, not from the water from the shower, and the tip of your nose is a cute shade of pink. Your features are twisted up into petulance, your lips displaying a subtle pout. 

Seeing you in distress pains him too. 

His gentle and careful fingers pull the towel above your breast. He knows you feel vulnerable and he doesn’t want you to inadvertently expose yourself and contribute to that vulnerability, his left hand rubbing your nape up and down gently. “What’s wrong, baby? Hm?” he inquires sweetly, bending over to draw your lips in for a honeyed kiss. 

“I just–” you start, unable to meet his eyes as you crane your head the other way. Jungkook gently cradles your jaw, directing your focus back to him. Looking into his eyes, you choke up. “I just– I know you weren’t being serious, but I just feel belittled, like is my work so unserious that one day I’ll just end up being a trad wife or stay at home mom?” 

Jungkook feels awful. He was already aware that you had some sort of inferiority complex when it came to him, and knowing that he fed into it makes him regret everything he’s ever said. 

Jungkook opens and closes his mouth immediately, looking for the right words. He places both palms on your shoulders, “Shit. I’m sorry Y/N, I didn’t mean it that way at all,” he expresses, “I was just– I was just being a dick,” he says, pulling you in for a hug. “I don’t think of you that way at all,” he continues, “I mean– look at you. You’re 21 and you’re rich, you’ve got a good job. You’re up there with all these old people,” he jokes, eliciting a sweet giggle from your lips. 

“I only said it because I love you and I like the thought of taking care of you,” he says, to which you squirm. 

You squirm in place, looking the other way, “So are you mad at me? For ignoring you?” you sweetly beckon, and Jungkook draws your lips for another sweet kiss. 

“No, baby. I’m thankful you said something, though,” he offers, continually rubbing your nape up and down. 

“I can take care of you too,” you declare, “Remember? We’re equals now,” you express, standing on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips. 

That night, Jungkook helps you change into your clothes, dries your hair, and rubs your skincare into your face. So delicate. So sweet

There’s something so wonderful about having someone you can confide in, communicate with, and love. Jungkook never judges you; all you have to do is explain how you feel and he’ll indulge you completely. 

-

That doesn’t mean however, that Jungkook can’t be selfish, immature, or childish. 

The night he confessed to you, he told you that he could be all those things, and to be honest, you’ve never really seen it directed towards you. 

When he was a teenager, you saw him get mad at his parents when he was caught smoking for the first time. You were a kid, but you thought that was pretty childish. 

Beyond that, Jungkook has always been chill, more laid back, and normal. 

Not tonight, though. 

“That was childish,” you deadpan from the passenger seat of his car. 

Jungkook reaches over to place his palm on your thigh, to which you swat it away and lean as far as you can into the window. 

Jungkook scoffs, “You’re calling me childish? Out of all people, you’re calling me childish?”

You cross your arms. “I am,” you respond, your voice firm and resolute. 

You both were on your way back from the company party celebrating the merger. The company went all out, hosting the party at a luxury hotel, illuminating the hotel’s grand ballroom with twinkling chandeliers and neon signs displaying the company’s name. 

You arrive as a pair, nothing too conspicuous for the sake of professionalism. You’re wearing a long sleeved dress, with Jungkook in a casual black button up and gray slacks. 

You quickly separated to meet with your respective departments, and when you happened to pass by Jungkook’s department, he went out of his way to greet your coworkers, introducing himself to your department like he’s never seen you before in his life. 

The other men in Jungkook’s department are quite put together. They seem like the type of people Jungkook would work with: young, objectively attractive, tech-nerds. You greet all of them with the same enthusiasm Jungkook greeted your department, knowing that they may be potential wedding guests. 

At the moment, you aren’t quite able to recall their names but he works with six other guys. They didn’t really leave a lasting impression; they were kind, sweet, and polite, nothing out of the ordinary.

Notably, it was Mary– your kind, sweet, amazing 50-year old coworker and work bestie, who brought her son to the party. That was not something you were expecting, mostly because Mary always teased you about becoming her son-in-law, and you always entertained the notion, not expecting that you’d meet the man in person. 

Mary’s son is in his early 30’s, and he is… nice. 

He’s nice, he really is. He’s an intelligent, hard-working man. He takes care of his sweet mother, and for that, he is admirable, but you think there was some miscommunication there, because he is definitely under the impression that you are interested in him in some way, shape, or form, and you feel horrible about it,  because you don’t think Mary knows you were playing around.  

Mary's son leaned in with a charming smile. "So, what do you like to do outside of work?" he inquires, his gaze lingering on you with a subtle hint of interest.

You hesitate for a moment, "Oh, you know, the usual. I enjoy reading and hiking when I have the time," you reply cautiously.

Mary's son nods, his smile widening slightly. "Sounds like we have some common interests. Maybe we could do something together sometime.”

Your heart sinks at the implication of his words, but before you can respond, your big, hot, sexy boyfriend intervenes. Jungkook had his eye on you the entire night– nothing too conspicuous, but he made sure you were always within his field of peripheral vision. 

Jungkook steps in, a champagne glass in hand. He playfully nudges Mary’s son and you squeeze your eyes shut, dreading what’s yet to come.

“Must be quite the occasion for you to be hitting on your mom’s coworkers,” he cuts in making you run your hands over your face, “Let me put you on to something else,” he continues, “I mean, you’re a handsome guy, and I know that there’s someone else more suitable for you than a 21 year old, alright bud?” he continues, throwing a casual arm around Mary’s son as he leads him elsewhere. 

Okay, it wasn’t that bad. 

But it was embarrassing. 

Jungkook seemed polite, but his language was more than passive aggressive, and anyone who caught heed to the conversation tangibly felt it.  

“I was literally being nice!” Jungkook rationalizes, his fingers tapping against the driver’s wheel, prompting you to huff in frustration. 

“You should have let me handle it,” you respond, “I was going to turn him down. Next time, don’t do all that, alright?”

“You were not going to handle it,” he retorts, “You were mumbling– baby, you were blushing– definitely entertaining it,” he adds. 

You shake your head, “That was my coworker’s son! If it was any other guy I would’ve told him to fuck off, but I had to be polite.”

“Yea, well, and if it was any other guy, I would’ve beaten the shit out of him so what’s your point?”

“Oh my gosh,” you express, face palming. 

“C’mon baby, he was being totally predatory for hitting on his mom’s coworker,” Jungkook argues, “I didn’t even say anything that bad. Had a nice conversation with the guy.”

“It was childish, Jungkook,” you counter, “The fly on the wall could sense your passive aggression.”

“I’m such a big bad wolf for saving my girlfriend from a situation she was uncomfortable in. Aww,” he mocks a pout, dragging his pointer finger across his face to mimic a tear. 

At that, you can’t help but scoff out laughter. “You’re so stupid,” you muse. 

-

That situation was merely the tip of the iceberg. 

You weren’t that angry; Mary’s son was out of line and it’s not like Jungkook said anything too egregious, but it’s the next day that Jungkook really shows you how immature you can be. 

The following Monday is yours and Jungkook’s first day of work. 

Jungkook is so in love, loves seeing you in a new light. It’s like there’s hearts in your eyes when you “coincidentally” run into each other in the second story printing room, finding the way you work when you’re in professional mode so sexy. 

It’s like he has hearts in his eyes while he leans against the company’s wall, hands in his pockets while his eyes follow you from across the office, loving the way you simply walk around with a stack of paper in your hands. 

That is, until the CEO of the fucking company starts hitting on you. That’s when his smile drops, and he removes his hands from the pockets. He instinctively steps forward to intervene yet again, until he remembers that this is actually work and that he can get both of you fired by doing anything too crazy. 

“Quit your job,” Jungkook instructs the moment you get back to his place, causing you to almost drop your work bag onto the floor. 

Maybe you didn’t hear him properly, “What’d you say?” you ask, taking off your shoes and joining him in the kitchen.

“Quit your job. I’ll help you find another one,” Jungkook suggests, rummaging through the fridge, as if it isn’t the most ridiculous idea you’ve heard in your life. 

“I’m sorry babe. Can you repeat that one more time?”

“Quit your job, Y/N,” Jungkook finishes, slamming the fridge a little too hard. He’s clearly miffed. He’s doing that thing where he tongues the inside of his cheek. His eyebrows are in an angry V, and his chest is heaving up and down— and honestly, the fact that he’s angry calms you a little bit. 

He’s just speaking from emotion, and now you need to be the voice of reason. 

You force a smile, sneaking around to hug him from behind, resting your cheek against his mid-back. 

“And why do you say that, honey? Hm?”

He swivels around, placing his palms on your shoulders. “Y/N, this isn’t funny. The CEO was being creepy as fuck. Turn in your resignation tomorrow, and I’ll start looking for another one. I’ll pay your bills until we can find you another job,” he states.

“C’mon babe,” you start, “the CEO was not being creepy. I’m the youngest at the company. He was just being nice.”

At that, Jungkook’s features scrunch in confusion, detecting any hint of sarcasm on your face. “You really think that?”

“I do.”

Jungkook sighs, “Y/N, rate yourself on a scale from 1-10, on societal standards of beauty. 10 being– like Anok Yai. Where do you stand? Be honest?”

The question is absurd, but you entertain it, putting your fingers on your chin while you genuinely contemplate the assertion. 

“Maybe a 6?-”

“Okay, well, you’re an 11, and every guy feels that way. You don’t know how pretty you are and that’s my fault. I should tell you more, but baby– that’s how pretty you are. The CEO was hitting on you and I don’t want anything bad to happen to you, so quit your job.”

You stand there, processing his words, and while the sentiment is somewhat touching, you can’t lie and say that you aren’t the least bit upset, especially because you had this conversation about your work a few days ago. 

“No,” is all you say.

“No?” Jungkook challenges.

“No,” you confirm, “I’m not going to quit my job. The CEO hasn’t done anything,” you reason, gesturing with your hands, “If he gets out of line, we can consider reporting him, but I’m not going to quit my job.”

“Okay, fair,” Jungkook says putting his hands up, and you smile, thinking that this conversation is over until he continues. 

“But why would you wait for something bad to happen? Isn’t that totally absurd? I don’t want to wait for it to happen. Let’s play it safe.”

You sigh, “I see what you’re saying, I really do. But I don’t think anything is going to happen. I think you’re overreacting…”

Jungkook pauses, tonguing the inside of his cheek before a sly smile dances across his lips. “Overreacting, huh?”

“Um, yea,” you confirm, “Why would I quit my job? I’d lose all my connections. I mean– this is the only real employment I’ve had. Besides internships, I’d have nothing to put on my resume.”

Jungkook nods, understanding. 

What he really wants to say is “Babe, just quit your job and I’ll make all the money. You’ll never have to work a day in your life and then we’ll retire early and travel the world together with our kids and-”

But that’s totally patronizing, but hey, he can’t help himself if he feels that way. 

“So what do we do, babe? The CEO is in a position of power. I just don’t want you to be taken advantage of,” Jungkook expresses, his eye twitching. 

What he really wants to say is “I literally saw the CEO’s dick getting hard while he talked to you and if I could, I’d shoot his entire office up-”

But of course, he would never utter the sentiment aloud. 

“If it gets to that, we could report him for sexual harassment,” you ponder.

Jungkook nods in agreement, but you and he both understand the implications of reporting your CEO for something like that. Women always get the short end of the stick. People would probably accuse you of lying, the CEO would leverage his resources to legally ruin you, and you both could lose your job security. 

Jungkook doesn’t want to even let it get to that point, and he’s trying his best to respect your autonomy, but it bothers him, it really does. 

He inhales deeply, finding peace in the way your fingertips dance under his skirt, caressing his abs before you pull him in for a hug. “Nothing is going to happen, baby,” you comfort, “Everything will be alright, I promise.”

-

Indeed, everything is not alright, because the CEO repeatedly calls you into his office for some inconspicuous reasons, and you’re suddenly starting to understand where Jungkook is coming from. 

Your only solace is that Jungkook is around the corner. Today, he’s wearing a suit and tie, his wire-framed glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. He looks exceptionally sexy today, his long legs accentuated by his suit and his hair swept back to show his sexy forehead.

You put your phone down, looking up right when the elevator doors open to reveal a handsome, suit-clad Jungkook. 

“Hello Mr. Jeon,” you express, a smile dancing on your lips when you bow to him and saunter into the elevator. 

“Hello Ms. L/N,” Jungkook responds matter-a-factly, pushing up his glasses on his nose, “Strange running you into here.”

You bite back a giggle, “Yea, that is indeed strange. How is work for you, sir?”

“Oh work’s alright. The team is-”

And just like that your lips are on his, and he’s devouring you completely. Your legs wrap around his waist as he hoists you up, pressing you against the elevator doors as he sloppily and messily kisses you. Tongue in your mouth, teeth clashing, his groin grinds against the area between your thighs, inducing you to moan into his mouth while Jungkook continues licking into you and–

Ding! The elevator dings and you and Jungkook instantly scramble apart, resulting in you running to the other side of the elevator, smoothing out your skirt while you catch your breath. You cough, hand coming at ease in front of you while you stare at the floor. Jungkook behaves similarly, pushing up his glasses while he clears his throat and straightens his tie. 

A second later, the elevator doors open, and more office workers pool in. You and Jungkook greet them politely, feigning innocence and ignorance. 

The next day, something similar transpires. 

You’re wearing a long, red skirt, a white blouse, and you have a white ribbon in your hair. You love work because it grants you opportunities to put together cute, modest outfits, and apparently, Jungkook likes it too, because you always catch him looking. 

He checks you out quite noticeably, his eyes shamelessly scanning up and down your frame as he bites his lips. Your cheeks flush, and you take a moment before you sheepishly step into the elevator. 

“H-hello, Mr. Jeon,” you greet.

“Hi Ms. Y/N. How are negotiations with your new client going?” he asks, adjusting his tie. 

“They’re going great, sir-”

And like that, he closes the distance, cradling your jaw before leaning in for a kiss. His hands salaciously trail down to your behind, giving it a light squeeze, causing you to gasp in his mouth. He takes that as an opportunity to push his tongue into your mouth, causing you to moan as your tongues rub against each other and-

Ding!

Once again, you scramble apart, separating towards each end of the elevator, recomposing yourselves while more people pool in. 

Not a soul would know what really transpires in the elevator everyday at 3:00 PM. 

-

Unless there were cameras in the elevator. 

Which there were. 

Which is crazy because of course there are cameras in the elevator, and quite honestly, you and Jungkook were probably aware of that in the back of your minds, but who cares? Making out with him everyday in the elevator at 3:00 PM is hot and it’s what gets you through the work day (until 3 PM)

You and Jungkook get Cc'd the same email from HR. 

Dear Employees, I hope this email finds you well. We need to discuss an incident observed via security cameras in the elevator involving two employees engaging in intimate behavior. This is a violation of company policies on workplace conduct. Please attend a meeting with HR to address this matter.

Oh shit. 

You and Jungkook wait outside the conference room to talk to the HR. You blink at each other, and honestly you want to burst into giggles, but the conference room is made of glass and you aren’t really sure who’s watching. 

The HR Manager, a tall lanky man, steps from the office and invites you in. 

The meeting isn’t awkward at all— in fact, it’s more straight to the point. Essentially, the HR manager says something along the lines of “You’re free to date in the office, but no PDA. We don’t encourage dating because we want our employees to focus on work. I know you guys are amongst the youngest in the office, so if you want to do–erm— that, then you can go somewhere else during lunch.”

Both you and Jungkook profusely apologize, promise it won’t happen again, and then are off on your ways. 

Funnily enough, the CEO stopped approaching you and calling you to his office so yea, neither of you quit your jobs, and Jungkook was overreacting, a little bit. 

-

Now, the real question remains. 

How do your friends feel about your relationship with Jungkook?

They want to see you happy, always, so that aspect brings them joy, but it’s important to address how things change. 

Before, Jungkook was the unattainable, hotter, older man that all your friends told you to get a grip over because there was just no way he’d ever reciprocate your feelings. But now, things are different. 

If Jungkook is your boyfriend, that means he’s your equal… so if your friends are your equal, does that mean Jungkook is equal to your friends? It’s just the transitive property of equality. If a = b, and b = c, then a =c. 

But that’s weird. 

You know you shouldn’t be making a big deal of it, but your friends are like little piggies and Jungkook is the wolf. There’s no way all of you could hang out at the same time without it being weird, because every time Jungkook has interacted with your friends in the past, it’s always been in a big brotherly way, not a friend way. 

On top of that, Jungkook has never officially met Heeseung or Sunghoon, and he is very much aware that Sunghoon was interested (and potentially still could be) in you, which is probably why you all are sitting around the sushi table in awkward silence. 

Soobin is hyperfocused on his the wrapper of his chopsticks, Beomgyu is repeatedly dipping his chopsticks into the Miso soup to lick at, Yunjin already excused herself to the restroom, and Heeseung is just staring at Jungkook in awe, which is understandable, because your boyfriend looks exceptionally handsome today. 

Yeonjun is probably the only one who can carry the conversation, mostly because he’s the most closely acquainted with Jungkook and his family.

You elbow Yeonjun softly and he clears his throat, “So, um– Jungkook. Does your family still think Y/N and I are together? Or have you already told them that you’re dating?”

Soobin finally says something, “Wait, why would Jungkook’s family think that you and Y/N are dating?”

“Just because I brought him to a couple family events, and they got the wrong idea,” you respond, delicately tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. 

“We haven’t let them know yet,” Jungkook answers, stretching out his upper body, “I don’t think that conversation will go over smoothly because of the… age difference.”

Yeonjun nods, understanding, “Yea, and your little cousin might be upset about it too,” he adds. 

“Oh yea,” Jungkook smiles, addressing the table, “My little cousin is six years old and he’s got the biggest crush on Y/N. He probably won’t talk to me for a year once he finds out,” Jungkook says with a light laugh. 

Oh my gosh. This is so awkward. You inwardly cringe, but leave it to Beomgyu to ease the atmosphere. 

“It’s alright,” Beomgyu adds, “If you didn’t want her, Y/N would have just waited for your cousin to grow up cause at least the cousin likes her-”

You reach over the table to swat at his bicep. 

At that moment, the side dishes arrive: perilla leaves, radish kimchi, steamed egg, pickled cucumbers, and spicy bean sprouts.

Thank goodness the food is here, you think, even if it’s just side dishes. Yunjin returns from the restroom, seemingly renewed as she takes the space between you and Yeonjun, and she starts talking. 

“You know, Jungkook,” she starts, “Y/N really loves you. I, for one, am happy that you’re together. She’s been non-stop talking about you since high school. She showed up at my house crying when she heard you were bringing your girlfriend to Thanksgiving-”

You nudge Yunjin, a nonverbal cue to tell her to shut up. 

Jungkook awkwardly laughs, “Yea, I know Y/N had a crush on me when she was younger but I didn’t realize until a couple years ago… Anyways, Y/N’s not the same person she was when she was a high schooler. I fell in love with her after she turned 19, of course.”

“But isn’t that still a problem?” Sunghoon challenges, and your face almost drops. 

You know where this is going. 

“You knew her since she was a little kid, so isn’t it kinda weird for you to date her?” he asks. The question is innocent, and it’s a valid question, but you can’t help but squeeze your eyes shut in anticipation of Jungkook’s answer. 

“Some would say that,” Jungkook responds, “But our relationship isn’t about who she was. It doesn’t matter to me that she had a crush on me when she was younger, it’s about who she is now, and I love her as she is,” he finishes with a smile. 

Sunghoon nods, “That makes sense,” he shrugs. At that moment, you use your chopsticks to pick up the perilla leaves, which are, of course, stuck together. Sunghoon casually reaches out with his chopsticks, separating the leaves and plopping one into his mouth. 

You freeze, and you do what you should, placing the perilla leaf over Jungkook’s bowl of rice, and he almost immediately uses his spoon to swallow the perilla leave along with a spoonful of rice. 

No one seems to notice, and the conversation continues. 

“So what’s it like working with your girlfriend?” Heeseung asks casually, and the conversation continues, taking an upward trajectory, the atmosphere finally settling down. 

-

“He still likes you, Y/N,” Jungkook says matter-a-factly, hanging up his coat in his closet while you take off your shoes by the front door. 

You tilt your head, genuinely confused, “Who?”

“Sunghoon.”

You shake your head, dismissing the notion, “No, that was in the past. I heard he has a girlfriend now.” 

You join Jungkook in his bedroom and he’s staring at you incredulously. “Are you serious?” Jungkook asks, causing you to scoff, “Of course I am!” you retaliate, “He’s over me. I turned him down straight up; I didn’t even entertain his feelings for me. I told him I was in love  with you, remember?”

Jungkook's expression softens, and he takes a seat on his bed, “I know baby, but I’m just saying that he still likes you. Remember what I said?-”

“About me being an 11?” you question, amused, “Yea, nobody thinks that except for you,” you confirm with a nod, taking a seat on his lap when he opens his arms for you. 

Jungkook shakes his head, “I’m not saying it’s anything bad, and I’m not saying I don’t trust you, but I just want you to know that he still likes you. He even tried to give you an indirect kiss,” he says, nuzzling his head into the crook of your neck.

You raise a brow at him, giggling at the tickling sensation of his lips ghosting across the sensitive areas of your neck, “An indirect kiss?”

“Yes,” Jungkook confirms, “An indirect kiss– the perilla leaf?”

You shake your head. You immediately recall a stupid conversation Jungkook had with his friends. “They peel off one perilla leaf, next thing you know, they’re holding hands, and fall in love, and they end up getting married!” is what he said, causing his friends to roll their eyes. 

You place a chaste kiss on his lips, “You’re stupid,” you giggle. 

He looks at you knowingly. Jungkook isn’t per se, worried about you and Sunghoon. He knows Sunghoon’s a respectful enough kid to not make a move, and he trusts you with his entire heart, soul, and being. He just wants you to know that Sunghoon most likely still harbors something for you.  

Of course he would. Like Jungkook said, you’re an 11. 

-

The delicacy of his feelings for you seeps into everything he does, especially when you’re sick. 

Nestled with your head cradled in the curve of his arm, he gently massages your temples with his right hand, ensuring the damp cloth on your forehead remains refreshingly cool, soothing your feverish brow.

You're drifting into slumber, your eyes half-closed as you softly shift against his embrace. With him around, with his fingers assuaging the ache in your temples,  you finally feel safe enough, protected enough to lose yourself in your own vulnerability and drift into dreamland. 

Later that day, you wake up with Jungkook right by your side. His eyes are on the TV and when he hears your soft mumbles, he welcomes you back to Earth. 

“Kiss me please,” comes out in a soft whimper. You’re barely coherent and you’re asking for a kiss? That’s the cutest fucking thing on the history of the Earth, and Jungkook’s heart clenches. You’re so sweet, so precious, and he’ll gladly oblige. 

He pulls you onto him so you’re lying directly onto him, your boobs pressed against his chest and your stomach pressed against his.

He kisses you sweetly, indulging you completely while your tongues intertwine, and he sighs into your mouth blissfully. 

At that moment, you hear the sound of a thud hitting the floor. You and Jungkook whip your heads towards the sound– it’s his parents. 

“J-Jeon Jungkook! What do you think you’re doing?!” his mother shrieks.

-

[ahqkas]

husband!simon with a baby (fem!wife!reader)

husband!simon will became more emotionally guarded. he struggles with his emotions, experiencing the mixture of feelings from joy to anxiety. the announcement of your pregnancy can also act like a trigger to his trauma with his own childhood, reminding him of the pain he went through due to his father’s behavior. the fear of repeating the history is very present in his head, and he will beat himself up if he shows any negative emotions towards you during the pregnancy. he swears he won’t become like him (his father) and that the baby will be shown nothing else but love and adoration since the day of birth, he’ll make sure if that

husband!simon who, despite the nervousness and anxiety he feels, is deeply concerned for your well-being and the child’s health during labor. he wants you both to be okay and if something happened to either of you, or god forbid to both of you, he would have a hard time living with himself. it’s difficult to say if he would be physically present during the birth, he wants to be with you but he doesn’t know if his job would allow that during the moment. if luck’s on his side and he has the chance to witness the birth of his, your baby, it helps to build a stronger connection between you as a family

husband!simon whose eyes become a bit teary at the sight of you cradling the small baby to your chest, dark irises watching you two and imprinting the picture into his mind so he can relive the moment whenever he feels like it. he’s just so happy you both are okay and his eyes soften when you bring the baby girl towards him, his arms reaching out to take her into his embrace. she’s so fuckin’ small in his hands, so delicate and sweet looking, he swears he’ll bring her nothing but love and happiness. the pride and joy he feels in the depth of his chest is the best feeling in the whole world and your tired yet loving eyes remind him how much he appreciates the chance he was given on another family (this time, he will make it right)

the baby works her charm on husband!simon to melt his cold heart and it works every single time. for example:

༉‧₊˚. FIRST SMILE !

in the cozy living room of a small house, simon was sitting cross legged with the baby leaning against his firm chest on a soft blanket, surrounded by an array of colorful toys and childrens’ books to pass the time as another day neared to its end. the father was showing his daughter pictures of animals as you cooked dinner in the kitchen, leaving them to form a bond on their own. an illustration of a german shepherd was present on the page in front of them as simon pointed at the dog, his eyes shifting between the book and his baby girl to see if he was boring her but her wide eyes were full of curiosity. “look at that, sweetheart. that’s a german shepherd, they’re known for their loyalty and courage.”

the baby’s gaze, intense and unwavering, was fixed on the dog. simon half expected for her to whine in displeasure, to show him she was intimidated by the picture but to his surprise, a tiny hand reached out and traced the image with fingers in excitement of learning something new. the little girl turned in his lap to look at his face and the sight of his daughter’s heartwarming smile was enough to send simon into a trance. her eyes were sparkling with delight and his own were wide, full of surprise. for all he knew, that was her first smile ever and she gave it to him, a person he thought his daughter would never smile at.

“did you just -“ his heart skipped a beat upon hearing a chorus of giggles escaping her as she tried to cover her mouth with both of her hands, but from the way her kind eyes and chubby cheeks were moving, simon knew she was still grinning at him.

why would she be smiling in his presence? what was the reason? he was still insecure about his parental skills and the new position of a father. but as the realization sinked in that his daughter was indeed smiling at him, a wave of feelings washed over him and the man found himself softly smiling back at her.

he didn’t hesitate to scoop the smiling baby up into his arms, determined to hear her little giggles as she grinned upon the gesture, feeling joyful to be in daddy’s hold. it was a magical and heart-melting moment for simon, seeing the big smile for the first time and a thought flashed in his mind. he wanted his girl to smile as much as possible from now and nothing would take his wish away.

despite his size, his footsteps were quiet as he approached you in the kitchen with your daughter in his arms, his hold on her protective and gentle. you could sense he radiated pure happiness the moment he leaned against the kitchen counter next to you with the giggling baby on his hip as you assisted the bubbling pot with soup. “she gave me her very first smile, lovey.” “c’mon, show that pretty smile to mommy now, sunshine.”

the fear of not receiving one of those smiles was real to him, he knew he didn’t look like he was a welcoming figure and his intimidating demeanor could cause troubles in her point of view to the little girl. yet here he was, with the meaningful moment forever carved into his mind.

simon cherishes the moment deeply in his heart and whenever he’s feeling low, a single sight of your daughter’s smile can make his day better without struggles.

༉‧₊˚. FIRST BATH !

simon was standing by the slowly filling bathtub, his puzzled expression shifting between the various baby bath products in front of him. he looked so confused, this obviously wasn’t his territory but he requested that this time it would be him who gave your daughter a bath and you agreed without any hesitation. you were watching him with a gentle smile as you undressed your daughter, who seemed to be giggling and cooing mess as if she sensed her father’s unease and wanted to help him in calming down.

his dark irises were looking for your approval as he checked the water for right temperature and at your nod, he took the little girl into his own arms, lowering her into the bathtub with shaky hands. despite the slight trembling in his muscles, he kept a secure hold on the baby to not drop her.

you were watching the scene unfold with a fond smile, noticing the way he carefully cradled your daughter’s head in his big palms, his intentions cautious and gentle. you can clearly see the determination to do it right in his eyes and you kneel down next to him, resting your arms at the edge of the bathtub while you gave guided him through the steps of washing the baby’s tiny body.

your husband felt himself relaxing after few minutes into the bath time, his feelings shifting from one of skepticism to a mix of wonder and surprise. he was afraid he might have hurt the little girl but now when he overcame his fears, the way your daughter’s eyes lit up at the splashing water around her and her tiny fingers were touching the bubbles to pop them, a small smile grazed his lips at the sight while a gentle warmth enveloped his insides. when the bath came to an end and he wrapped the baby in a fluffy towel, he couldn’t help but chuckle as she kicked her feet and giggled freely. in that moment, simon realized that even though he might be a heartless soldier, he’s also a loving father who broke the cycle and is capable of tenderness.

when you reached out to offer help with getting your daughter dressed, he shook his head with a newfound confidence in his actions as he started to dress her up. a cozy onesie was embracing your daughter’s body soon as she rested on her father’s chest, and simon knew there was nothing he should be afraid of involving your daughter as long as he had you by his side to provide him with support.

© ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

[igotanidea]

Smooth criminal: AK!Jason x reader

part 1 : Somebody's watching me

part 2: Run baby, run

Yeah... I know it's been a while. Sorry guys. But here we are :)

***

They say that history repeats itself. That’s its merely a one big circle in which people get lost endlessly, not learning from the past mistakes, instead doing them all over again.

Like an Uroboros, forevermore biting his tail.

And that was how Y/N felt at the moment, shaking over the cup of tea Dick so generously offered her alongside with his hoodie. And even more kindly – not asking any questions of why she showed up at his apartment (or rather under it) in the middle of the night looking crazy.

She was back at the beginning. Back over Jason’s grave, sobbing and shaking while the memories of the news of him being gone forever haunted her mind.

Felt like all her efforts to forget and move on have come to nothing.

“Y/N…”

“No. No please I don’t want to talk Dick-“

“I was just gonna say you can stay here for as long as you like. I don’t know what got you so freaked out, but the Y/N I know – knew­ – was not the one to get scared over a spider or a mouse. So it must have been serious. Stay.” He grabbed and squeezed her hands reassuringly. “I’m serious.”

“No, no it’s too much to ask for—”

“Good thing you did not ask then.” Dick grinned “Cause I believe I offered It myself.”

“You really didn’t change a bit, Grayson. Same golden, sunshine boy.”

“And you’re still the same, not holding back girl. Woman. How long has it been exactly?”

“Two years.” She sighed

“Two years.” Dick sighed too, his eyes becoming a little blurry from the memories. “I missed you, you know. And not only me. So did Tim and Alfred and Damian and I’m sure even Bruce became a little more grumpy without your presence to challenge him.”

“He’s got enough criminals to keep him entertained I believe?”

“Oh, Y/N, criminals he can handle easily, they are no fun. But having a woman with a sharp mind? That’s something Bruce still needs a lot of training in.”

***

 It was shockingly easy to reconnect with Dick.

Or maybe not, given the fact he was always awfully friendly, keeping in touch even with his exes and even having considerably good relations with some villains.

Long story short, in a months’ time she was regularly back in his life and he was back in hers. And much to her surprise, this time it was not a constant reminder of the person she lost, neither filling the void, but rather a soft recollection that she was not the only one who felt the repercussions of Jason being gone.

If anything, after that time apart, it felt like Y/N and Dick’s relationship could finally move past the tragic events and bloom. Not in a romantic sense, because he had Barbara and was making plans in that area, but like a true, deep friendship, cemented with similar feelings.

And she even got the guts to meet with the rest of the batfamily, ditching those girls who left her alone at the party. Slowly, but steadily, she was getting back to her old, familiar self, dropping the act of a girl who wanted to be anything but the version she was when Jason was alive and with her.  She was not running from the past anymore, but rather embracing and accepting it. And that was the real healing.

Only that Jason was not gone.

Observing her carefully from the shadows, watching almost every step, be it himself or using his militia. With explicit orders given to not let her know they were there. He had bigger plans coming, and making the same mistake as before, by coming as close as to touch her, could never happen again. Even if somewhere deep inside, the very subdued part of him screamed for that. For the warmth he remembered and knew would come with tenderness and not pain.

She never gave him anything less but love and devotion.

If anything Jason was only cursing himself that he let her step into the Batman world again. That is was his reckless behavior that drove her back into the arms of people, who were nothing but bad news. Who would eventually end up hurting her too.

And he was going to protect his little, innocent princess from that.

So yes, he was watching.

Sending his goons when he knew she was walking back home from work late, to ensure no one would lay a finger on her.

Causing a commotion in the area that happened to be dangerous only so she would choose another way.

Sending her colleagues threat letters so they would drop the chase for the same promotion at work as her.

Beating up a guy who was trying to flirt with her when she was buying coffee-to-go at her favorite place.

Doing it all smoothly, like a professional he was.

Building up a way to execute his master plan that would keep her safe from any danger, real or hypothetical. Forever.

***

“She got home, boss. Safe and sound, not one hair out of place.” One of his militia officers reported to him

“Good.” Jason only grunted in response. One whole month and he was so close to the finale. The end was right in front of him and he had to hold himself back to not make a single rookie mistake that would derail his efforts.

“If I may, sir, why exactly are we wasting resources on some woman? She’s no one important, just a regular—”

“What did you say?”

If the sinister voice wasn’t enough to make the man stop his sentence, the iron grip on his throat did.

“I- I-“

“No one important? Huh? Was that what you said?” Jason mocked tightening fingers on the man's jugular. “Answer me!”

“I- I-“ he was struggling for air.

“Pathetic!” Jason threw him on the ground, retrieving the gun from his holster, pointing it at the man’s head.

“Please, don’t—”

“I should put a bullet in your head for talking about her like that and second one for questioning my plans.” The gun outlet was now pressing into the man’s temple. “You are doing what I tell you, you hear me? No questions. No doubts. You are here to serve me, unless-“ Jason put a little bit of pressure on the trigger.

“No! No please!”

“You’re a piece of shit.” Arkham Knight muttered, taking the gun away. “But I am feeling merciful today. We can’t have blood on the floor when Y/N arrives. Now go! Get out of my face before I change my mind! And you make sure everything is perfect because if not—” he  caressed the arms with a cruel glint in his eyes, enjoying the way his officer rushed out of the room, throwing commands left and right, halfway out the door.

“Soon, baby… Soon we’ll be back together…” Jason muttered to himself once he was finally alone.

He was so close to having everything he needed.

@vaniasagitaa @gone-batty-fics @astrelz @not-herexo @deans-spinster-witch @calicocat45 @princessbl0ss0m @rosieandthethorns @beingaturtlespiritually @grierpilots @killerwendigo @teenytinytunes

[leclsrc]

like you should ✴︎ cl16

genre: just. Like. sexual tension…, reader is max’s gf, no explicit smut but heavy innuendos so just beware, everyone is Morally Bankrupt so turn away if u dont fancy that

word count: 11.3k  

If you don’t learn from history, it’ll stick around and find a way to repeat itself – even if the history is with your boyfriend’s rival, and its repetition happens behind his back.

auds here… hi hi hi!!! not proofread sry; i wanted to write something like this for a while haha, i had a bunch of reqs from january(!!!) that served as the basis for it. title from this it was this fic's inspo savior. full disclosure this is fiction n doesn’t at all reflect how i view max/charles :) love love love u all sorry for being mia so constantly & enjoy this jumble of sexual tension haha. happy june friends!!!

Monaco is always an affair in itself. Humid, music blaring, and full of celebrities, you pose for a few paddock pictures, exchanging no words with Max. He’s idle beside you, cap drawn over his dirty blond hair, hand on your waist, the other scrolling through emails and Instagram. Your dad’s somewhere here, too, if you remember right—he texted you about being with Christian, at a meeting somewhere about Checo or something. You can’t be arsed to remember. You flew in two hours ago after a days-long inner turmoil, trying to decide if you wanted to come at all.

Max didn’t sound too eager for you to arrive, either, but you theorize it’s because you’ve both been tired with work lately. He’s leagues above everyone else now, but the demand of work snatches what little quality time you could’ve spent with him. You suck it up, lacing your fingers together and hoping this is a dry spell—physical and emotional—that just needs to be waited out.

How’s the weather? You ask casually when you’re inside his room, burying your face into his shoulder. He presses an absentminded kiss to your head. “Should be fine.”

“Anything you’re worried about?” You make yourself busy rifling through his closet. It’s more of the same. Polos proudly showcasing the logo of the team that’s brought him to the top. He usually keeps three spare ones, but there’s an extra smaller one that you unfold and dangle in front of you. “Whose is this?”

He glances. Kelly’s. When you gesture for elaboration—Nelson Piquet’s daughter? Christian asked me to give her one. You don’t pay attention to it, folding it neatly and placing it inside again. He pipes up to answer your earlier question, voice light as it is solemn. It’s Charles’ home race.

“So?” It comes out sharper than you intend, considering Max is more a friend than his rival. You turn to try and soften your hostile phrasing. “I mean. It’s… you’ve been dominating the leaderboard.” No way you’ll show him you’re worried for Charles, too. “Their car is horseshit.” It is and it worries you.

“Yeah, yeah. I think I’ll talk to him for a bit. You’ll be okay alone?” He’s getting up already.

“Wait—” You pause when he’s kissing your cheek as a goodbye. “I thought we were getting lunch.”

“Make it dinner, then.”

“No,” you protest weakly. “I’m going to be with my dad.”

“Drinks.” He leaves no room for argument and leaves with the door shutting softly behind him. You exhale loud through your nostrils and shut the closet door, leaving to explore the paddock. It’s familiar grounds for you, not just because of Max but because of your dad, who began insisting you attend races again a few years ago. You should know Red Bull, he’d said then. The team I’m sponsoring. The team I give millions to.

Purely to appease him, you gave in and attended a race for the first time in a long stretch, just a few years ago. You’ve attended almost every race since then, and those have often blurred into one homogenous memory (sitting, watching, cheering, hugging, drinking), but the first race remains clear as the day your driver dropped you off at the entrance to the paddock, a VIP lanyard slung over your neck and sunglasses perched on your nose.

You stare at the just-closed door, his bag still abandoned on the bed, his dismissive tone, the polo you’ve just folded up. Max is hiding something—you just can’t put your finger on it.

—

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Monza 2019! The host goes, a reporter-esque smile greeting the crowds on the big screens. Monza is intimidating. You’re being guided around the ups and downs of the paddock by somebody whose name you’ve forgotten and remembered and forgotten again, short in stature with a posh English accent. Your dad is somewhere, in a meeting perhaps, which means your re-introduction to the world of racing is up to this man alone.

“Christian!” Someone says behind you, and oh right his name is Christian. Christian—Hormut, or something. You’ve blurred his last name from memory, too. Christian ends up having to excuse himself to attend to a pressing practice problem, and he leaves you with one of his drivers.

Max is his name. He’s funny, charming, and vulgar in the way all Europeans are (you’re not at all surprised when he tells you he’s Dutch), and handsome, moreso when the topic gets to racing and he starts talking quick and with passion. It’s something you admire.

“You don’t know what quali is?” He asks when he hands you a vodka soda.

You laugh. “My dad was always insanely busy with work as a kid, so I liked not knowing anything about it.” You always wanted to remove yourself from the racing and just be your dad’s daughter. “I’ve only been to a handful of races, and even then I was way younger.”

“You’ll like this one.”

You squint onto the paddock and recall the motif that’s been teeming around you all day long—red. Red, red, and more red. There are fans whose faces are painted red, bold and shiny against the unrelenting sunny weather. Internally, your curiosity is piqued. Red Bull, perhaps? “Are those your fans?” 

Max follows your gaze curiously. “Oh,” he says when he sees the crowd of red. He sips his beer. “No, that’s for Ferrari. They always attract a proper crowd in Monza.”

You hum, the name more than familiar to you. “Red sea.” You spot a few signs in Italian, a few fans taking pictures, and finally your interest wanes, eyes gravitating back to Max. “You nervous?

“Rarely am.” He smiles. “Will you be watching?”

“Probably,” you respond, momentarily searching the surrounding area for your dad. “I’ll be with my dad someplace.”

“You owe me a congratulations,” says Max as he gets up, his name being called from somewhere behind you. “Okay?”

“Sure,” you giggle. “I’ll save it.”

You’d spaced out mid-race and watched from a flatscreen TV inside instead, but lost the plot at some point, so you ask around for who the winner is. The winner ends up not being Max, you’re told by one of your dad’s assistants, Ben, when you emerge from his office after the flag is waved.

Everybody, however, is talking in a secondary racing jargon—they say things like P1 and front wing and strategist, failing to dumb things down for you. You piece things together and realize the winner is a Ferrari driver—but, if your memory serves you right, there are two drivers. You don’t know which one it is. Then again, you don’t know the drivers themselves, either.

You reunite with your dad and Christian Harper (you think) in the garage, where Ben hands you a pair of giant headphones that transmit scratchy, loud radio audio; you remove them and ask him a million questions instead. Nearby, the Ferrari garage is exploding with screams, but they don’t come close to the roars of the red crowd, which almost seems to breathe collectively, scream collectively, celebrate as one. You’re almost transfixed with how loud they are, how passionate they are, with their winner. Their golden guy. Your dad’s mouth is set in a straight line.

“Who won?” You ask, voice raised to try and become audible despite the cheering.

Ben points, squinting under his eyeglasses. You follow the direction of his finger to the finish line. There, parked beside the first place sign, is somebody standing atop his car. He’s wearing red. Showered in red. Surrounded by red. It’s tantalizing, the way his win has commanded the entire area. Your mouth is half-open, lips parted in soft shock.

You tap Ben again. “Yeah, who is he?”

“Leclerc,” he says, pinching his nosebridge. “Ferrari’s new guy. A friend of Max’s, but a rival, too.” He sighs lowly. “Your dad’s biggest problem.”

Christian Harris makes a quip about you having to go find and comfort Max, but you space out, still staring at the winner. Leclerc. You’ve got no face to his name, just the opaque visor of his helmet and the two proud fists in the air, inciting even louder cheers from the crowd. You focus harder, as if that would somehow reveal his face to you.

But he’s faceless, a winner of mystery for now—and for the rest of the evening as you’re ushered back to Red Bull alongside your dad. 

—

“Do you want to come to an afterparty?” Ben asks, tapping away on his phone. Emails and texts crowd his notifications. “We need to know if you’ll need a car tonight.” He follows you around, exasperated with your quick pace that even he can’t keep up with. “And if so, which car.”

“No, no car.” You respond, walking. “Which afterparty?”

“Any, really. There’s, uh… a Red Bull one, a few yacht ones, Max mentioned dropping by APM Monaco’s and—”

“No afterparty,” you say with tense finality once you hear the option. “All the drivers do is drink and get sleazy.”

“O-kay,” he taps. “I didn’t realize you had such a… vendetta against the drivers?”

You laugh a little, peering over the lens of your sunglasses to try and spot familiar faces. Actors, models, drivers’ relatives—the place is packed, and the weather is hot. “When did I say that?” You ask, looking around at hyper speed. 

“It was implied.” Ben pauses and eyes you, curious but already on the brink of suspicious. Your gaze is darting everywhere, clearly trying to find something to catch on. “What are you looking for?”

Caught red-handed, you slow down the speed at which your eyes scan over the paddock and settle them on your watch, pursing your lips. You clear your throat and raise an eyebrow, turning the questioning back to Ben. “I’m not looking for anyo—”

“Hey,” comes a voice from right behind you, a hand coming up to tap against your shoulder. You don’t have time to turn and identify the culprit because he moves to stand in front of you, effectively stopping you in your tracks with a teasing smirk. “Max did not tell me you would be here.” He crosses his arms. “Excited? I know I am. Home race and all.”

You swallow but your throat is dry. “I’m excited to cheer for my boyfriend.”

Charles smiles, satisfied that he managed to get on your nerves. With curiosity and anticipation, Ben keeps to himself and watches the exchange unfold, arms crossed. Charles presses on. “Are you coming to the party later?”

“I might,” you say, mind changed.

“Alright, see you.” With the sun weakening the tint of his sunglasses, and his hair raked back by his backwards cap, you have a clear view of the way his left eye drops into a smug wink. He smiles again, boyish, before he’s turning to leave you with Ben, who turns to you.

“You’re friends?”

The most decent answer leaves your lips dismissively. “Acquainted.”

—

You lose all sense of inhibition (and navigation) as soon as you step a heeled foot into the club, but it’s nothing you haven’t experienced before. Years of clubbing and fake IDs have prepared you for the tactics used to snake your way through the crowd of people, eventually finding yourself at the VIP area of the Monza afterparty, where one look at your face is enough to let the bouncer let you through wordlessly. 

“The team’s finest!” Christian greets jokingly with a smile. Why he’s here, you’ve no idea—you had an impression he had a family to go home to. “A drink?”

“I’ll explore for a bit,” you say warmly, smiling as he brings you in for a friendly hug. You peer at faces and over shoulders, taking shots off trays and flutes of champagne off tables to feel less stiff and out of place. You’re looking for Max.

But you catch somebody else’s eye, one who seems to beckon you over with a look. He’s laughing at something, decently tipsy, and—when you near him—he introduces himself as Charles. “Leclerc,” he adds, and suddenly everything clicks. The face you’ve finally matched to the name is handsome, chiseled and devilish and charming, with a warm smile that doesn’t match the dark in his eyes. He’s in the same kind of getup everyone is wearing—a tight black tee, blue jeans. But he makes it look insufferably attractive, unfortunately.

“You’re the winner,” you state, not lifting your tone to sound like a question. He is the winner. The champion of today’s race.

“Right I am.” He nods once, matter-of-factly. “You’re Red Bull’s princess, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t call myself that,” you say, blushing inwardly. Your face is warm and you feel flustered, but you play it cool, feigning a casual laugh. “Congratulations, by the way.”

“Thanks.” He takes a gulp from his drink, dark and potent looking. “Max mentioned you earlier.”

“Oh.” You’d completely forgotten you were looking for him. “Is he here?”

“Around. Hey, listen,” he says, turning to collect the makings of a shot, “I’m the winner, and I make the rules. Take a shot with me.”

Your eyes close in a laugh, nodding along. You’re already tipsy, anyway—what’s another shot? You take a wedge of lemon in between two fingers and a pinch of salt, smearing it along your hand as you grip a shot glass of something. You’ll know once you taste it, you suppose; no time for questions.

“You got the last lemon slice!” complains Charles across you, and you laugh, shrugging as if to say deal with it. Your glasses clink, and you throw back the liquid; it’s ten times stronger than you anticipated and for a moment you lose control over your motor skills, squeezing the lemon wedge a tad too strong so it dribbles down your chin, through your throat and the last of it trickles through your cleavage. You manage to get some, licking the salt off before the taste becomes nauseating.

Your grimace is ever so obvious, as is Charles’ inability to take his eyes off you. Fuck, he thinks. You’re exactly his type. Pretty, eyes twinkling and half-lidded with the alcohol. Your lips are bitten, caught between your lips—it’s a habit, he guesses from how puffy they are. He might have to kiss you now.

“Still need lemon?” You ask, leaning in. “I’ve got some on me.” It’s a joke but your tone suggests otherwise, eyes lingering on his parted lips for any sign of assent. Your breath smells of citrus and wildly expensive tequila. He could kiss you now. He would. He will. He has to.

You tip your head backwards, smiling and dancing lightly to the music, your hands wraped loose around his wrists, dragging him, coercing him closer. So he does, allows himself to give into it and smiles into the skin of your neck, licking over the remnants of lemon that remain. He kisses a lovebite onto the side of your throat, one dark enough that he knows—he just knows—at least one person will ask you about it tomorrow morning. 

When he parts, smiling, he asks, “Wanna smoke?” He produces a cart and waves it in between you, taking a hit and blowing grassy smoke into the air. You nod, encouraging him to take another and blow the smoke into your parted lips. All the while, he notices, your hand is rubbing over the lovebite, the soft, sore skin there.

He thinks of what you might say. The flustered explaining, the hand coming up to cover it or the sponge dabbing concealer over it. He thinks of you lying. Oh, just a guy. No, a Ferrari driver. And you’re all his, if just for tonight. And he’d be right. You were somewhat his—just for that night. The day next, Max took you to breakfast, didn’t notice the blotch of concealer, and all settled into a messy pattern of history.

—

The race is about to begin, preparations in the garage reaching their stunning crescendo. “Good luck,” you say as a sendoff, pressing a kiss to Max’s lips. He smiles appreciatively, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. You wonder absently what’s been going so wrong, but you suppose it’s a two-person job. 

You watch him board the car, your dad coming up beside you. “I still can’t believe how lucky it is that you ended up with one of my drivers.”

“Dad,” you say, warningly. 

“Just saying, honey.” He smiles. “Can you imagine anything else?”

—

“I am sure I cannot be up here.” Charles’ voice is amused, deep and echoing in the empty space of your dad’s vast office. It’s dimly-lit because he’s not here—yacht dinners have become the new venues for business deals, leaving big offices like these ones woefully empty. And yours for the taking, you’d told Charles over text when he asked what you were up to tonight.

You hum teasingly, turning. “You won today, so consider this your prize. Provided generously by a friend.” The term embeds itself into the atmosphere of the empty office and you clear your throat, turning your back to him again and walking to the window. 

The awkward air between you had, for some time, dissipated, giving way to a series of texts and calls that, for the sake of clarity and concision, you don’t tell Max about. Plus, you’re not even dating Max, you tell yourself. It’s just a fling right now, no commitment, no crazy heavy labels. You met only, what, three races ago. And to be fair, you’re not even dating Charles—you’re just friends.

“It’s crazy to think this office can be folded up and shipped halfway across the world,” you say honestly, eyes zeroing in on the city. “I mean, all this.” 

“It is just four walls,” he simplifies, nearing you, staring at the way your hair falls over your back. He’s scared to explore around and touch things—touch you—so he settles on nervous looking. “I don’t understand how this is a prize. I’m in an opposing team’s high-level donor’s office with his daughter.”

“It’s not just four walls,” you say when you turn, ignoring his second statement. “It’s a couch.” You lay both hands on the leather sofa, pointing to the two matching loveseats beside it. “It’s… a desk.” You walk over to it and prop yourself up against it, your feet tiptoeing with the height of the surface. Charles, amused, watches your long-drawn out rebuttal and takes a seat on the couch.

“It’s a lamp. A carpet. A display of Seb’s old race suit.” You point at each. “It’s a drawer.” You pull it open. “…Filled with Red Bull porn.” An assortment of hats and tees meet your eyes, all displaying the same emblem. You tug out a team polo, the same one Christian and Max and Daniil wear—and you whirl around, unfolding it in the air so Charles sees what you’re holding.

An idea enters your head. “Try it on,” you suggest, a teasing lilt in your voice. He shakes his head, laughing. Still insistent, you near him, leaning over where he sits and pressing the polo to his figure, aligning it to the best of your ability to his shoulder and chest so it looks like he’s wearing it. “Looks nice.”

He makes a noise of dismissal. “Never happening.”

“Can’t a girl dream?” You inch yourself forward so your faces are flush of each other’s. When his gaze switches to your lips, smiling and bitten, it no longer leaves. You think of how he’d look all donned up in one of these polos, these suits. The dark of the suit. He could use a break from all that red. You could give that to him.

“Okay,” he says, but it’s soft and distracted. His hand comes up to wrap around your wrist, craving for a form of your touch.

“We’d better go,” you respond, your voice decimated to a whisper. “Before my dad comes.”

“Come on, then.”

Your lips just barely ghost over his before you heave yourself back up, smiling teasingly. “Alright. Let’s go, then.”

—

You watch the Monaco race like a hawk. Ben doesn’t ask why, but internally he rumbles with questions. Why are you so invested in this one race? He chalks it up to the prestige of Monaco as a whole, and settles for that. But still—you’re interested. You watch from the garage, almost with an unrelenting stare, unwavering. Surely you shouldn’t be worried, he thinks. Max has won before. 

And Max wins again, raising the totem like it’s a crucifix. The camera focuses on your wide, proud smile and shows it to the world—there, it seems to say, there she is, the one Max goes home to! Max wins the Monaco Grand Prix—but what will become of the native hero?

You watch Max win with a proud smile, and accompanied by a nasty feeling that lines the pit of your stomach, you find yourself wishing somebody else had taken his place.

—

You never did like dabbling in racing. Your dad often encouraged you to try karting, driving, even something like PR or marketing—he’d fund it all, he promised—but you grew to almost hate the career that robbed your dad of so much time. Perhaps if you thought about it, there was one upside, and it’s sitting down across you to eat lunch.

“What brings you to the paddock?” Seb smiles. “Rare occurrence.”

“It’s part of my bid to get you back to Red Bull in 2023.” You beam back, observing his Aston Martin-green getup. “I’ve got signs and speakers loaded up in my car.”

“You always were advocating for my return.”

“You’re my favorite,” you joke. But it’s an honest quip. “My favorite Aston driver, and back then, my favorite Ferrari driver.”

It’s a statement you regret as soon as it escapes, because it gives Seb leeway to start intense interrogation. He’s always known. He’s always been observing, picking up quirks and details until he forms his own crude recreation of the big picture.

“Not Leclerc, then?”

You chew slowly, eyes narrowed. “Seriously?”

He says your name solemnly, and you pause. Sigh. “What?”

Sensing your irritation, he tries a different tactic. “How are you and Max?”

Seb’s ability to almost always see through you is unrivaled. He’d been one of your closest companions back when your dad would force you to attend races and hail Seb as one of the team’s greatest. Kind as he was, he was a stellar driver, which came with the fortunate gift (and unfortunate burden) of observing everything, and being right about almost all of his hypotheses.

It’s bullshit, and you know it. He doesn’t want to know about you and Max. He might as well could’ve asked how is the weather in Wales? It’s just that farfetched—a question so unlike what usually occupies your conversations with him.

He doesn’t want to know about Max. He wants to know about you—your feelings, your turmoil, your decisions. He wants to know what’s going on with you and Max’s rival-friend-then-rival-again-then-friend. “We’re okay.”

“All good?”

“Amazing, actually.” You smile, tight-lipped.

“I met with him last night.” Yeah, you heard, you say—a party with a few notable figures. “Yeah. Him and Charles.” Jesus, Seb always finds a way to get the topic right where he needs it to be. You prepare yourself for some serious advice-giving.

He inhales, exhales. “Charles asks about you. Are you two close at all?”

No, you tell him. We know each other and that’s all.

“Well”—he says, shrugging—“I just. I don’t want you to betray anyone, not even yourself.”

It’s despicable. All you need are two couches and you’re in free Formula One therapy. They should do this to the Ferrari fans, you think. “Do you hear yourself, Seb?” Your mouth is set into a straight line.

“I’m just saying that there’s a difference—there is always a difference—between what you think you want and what you really want. Now, I can’t tell you either. Neither can your dad, or Max, or anybody. It’s all in you. You’ll know you have what you want when it’s right there.” He jabs a gentle finger onto your open palm, laid on the table. “In your hands.”

“I have what I want,” you say. 

“Do you feel it?”

Seb is met with silence.

—

“Dad?” You call, voice loud to try and capture his attention. Outside, the Monaco festivities carry on. “Simon’s just brought the car around. Are we still on for dinner, or—?” You freeze when you fully enter the office, seeing your dad on the couch pouring a bottle of Scotch. Your blood runs cold almost, and your stomach could’ve dropped right beside your sandals right then.

“Hi, honey. I was just having a drink with Mr. P6.”

Charles smiles charmingly from his seat. “Hi. You’re his daughter, yes?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out, so you shut it and nod instead. “Good race,” you say dryly, hiding your disdain under a façade of politeness as you move closer to your dad. Then, in a lower tone to him only, will you be long?

“We were just finishing,” he says with a professional smile. “Was telling Charles here that luck just wasn’t on his side today.”

“Sure,” you say, clipped. “We should go if we want to make dinner. Max wants me to visit the afterparty later, so.” You make sure to look at Charles after you say it, so you don’t miss his sudden eyebrow raise and clenched jaw. He downs the Scotch and, with a smile as warm as it is fake, excuses himself for the evening.

“Well, you two should get acquainted. Who knows what his future in Formula One holds? Once that contract’s over, it’s a bidding war.” He claps Charles on the back. “One I might like to win, eh?”

Your dad makes a signal for you to shake his hand, which you do. Like always, the touches between you, however small and indetectible, are electric; you try your best not to look at him when his hand wraps securely around yours, giving it a brief shake. You feel he’s burned you. Everything burns. “We’ve met before,” you say with a polite smile.

“Lovely to see you,” he says bluntly, acting like you haven’t had him lick salt off your neck before.

“You too.” You reply. He’s departing now, collecting his phone and keys.

He turns and smiles. “Hope I meet you again soon.”

“Nice fella, isn’t he?” Your dad asks when it’s just the both of you.

“Yeah. Nice.”

—

The APM Monaco party is the only one you end up attending. Max drives you both there and gets valet to take care of his Ferrari, leading you both inside. It’s not long before you split into separate directions—you’re looking for a friend, and Max is looking for his team, who have showed up to get drunk, too. You heard Kelly was around, if that mattered. Lets leave @ 2, you suggest. Good? You both discussed it en route, and neither of you wanted to stay late. A thumbs up and heart emoji greets you back.

It’s the same text you stare at at 2:45, antsily waiting for Max at the basement parking. The lobby parking—the main entrance to the place—is swarming with people; influencers, residents, YouTubers, anyone and everyone trying to gain access and catch sight of the lucratively famous drivers.

Thumbs up. Heart. Received 1:08. 

See you at parking? Sent 1:55.

Video FaceTime Call. Missed 2:02.

WHERE ARE YOU? Sent 2:15.

Voicemail, voicemail, and more voicemail. The exit swings open and you’re 100% expecting it to be Max, profusely apologizing for forgetting your mutually-set curfew. Instead you’re faced with, as your father called him, Mr. P6.

He is, of course, smiling. Charming as ever. “I heard from my assistant that you wouldn’t be showing up to any parties. Then I hear Max wanted you to come and cheer for him,” says Charles, his usually jubilant voice low and only a little teasing. His accent is stronger here. It’s less of the English-French-Something he usually uses when speaking English and thick, more natural. “You are one good girlfriend.”

You look up from your phone and the unanswered texts—Maxie where are u? Are u bringing the car? Answer me—and narrow your eyes, mouth coming up into a frown. “What is your problem?”

“Problem?” He laughs. “I don’t have any.” He’s leaning against his car, content to watch you. Another car passes by without pausing to pick you up, leaving through the basement exit instantly. Not Max.

“Okay, then get back inside. You have a whole crowd of fans to appease.”

“I prefer it here.” He looks around the stale garage. “So peaceful.”

“It smells like gas and sweat,” you shoot back with a grimace.

He presses. “You should be happier. Your boyfriend got first place at a prestigious race.” For a moment, you pulse with empathy—you recall the beaten down look on his face when his car and his team failed him again and again and again. But you blink and swallow it.

“Yeah,” you say pointedly. “He always wins. Can you imagine if he got sixth place?”

A flash of something—something hurt, something shocked—surges in his green eyes. But like you, he blinks and it’s gone, replaced with a smile. 

“Can you imagine if he didn’t go home at night?” He teases coolly.

“Right, right,” you say, letting him win that round. “And what’s all of Twitter saying about how all your flings look ‘exactly like Max’s girlfriend’?” You raise two delicate air quotes.

He gaze hardens, then flits down to your phone, open to the unanswered exchange. You quickly shut it off but it’s incentive enough for a continued conversation. “He’s okay?”

“Getting the car.” And like divine timing,  a text from one of Max’s strategists dings in your inbox—a picture of your boyfriend, passed out on the floor of someone’s (you presume his) car. Should be fine by morning we’re about 5 min from his flat. But you don’t have a key to that flat, you realize, because Max suggested you both stay at a hotel for some “much needed relaxation” (you are anything, anything but). 

Can you leave the key? You type, then stare. Max’s girlfriend for almost four years and you have no key. To his home. Embarrassed, you try rephrasing the text but nothing works. You’ll just sleep at the hotel, you think.

You delete the text and press a hand over your face. Fuck’s sake. You’re going to have to ring your driver—thus alerting your dad—at three in the morning for a car because your boyfriend is piss drunk.

“I’ll bring you home.” You look up, almost forgetting Charles was there. He pats the front of his car. “Hotel or Max’s flat?”

“Hot—hotel,” you say, breath catching from stress and embarrassment. “Hotel. Sorry.” You’re embarrassed. You’d gotten that dig on him for being P6 less than two minutes ago, but now you’re climbing into his car, meek and with small, unassuming movements. You almost want to apologize, but that might worsen the awkwardness of it, so you purse your lips and stay relatively quiet.

He doesn’t gloat, like you expect him to, like you maybe would if you were in his position. He does, however, sport a insufferably self-satisfied smirk, like he knows he won tonight somehow even if he didn’t even snag fifth. You grumble quietly from the leather passenger seat, opting to admire the lit-up nightlife of Monaco, alive as ever even as the night wears on.

“Is Max home safe?” He asks, stifling an even bigger smile.

“Oh, go fuck yourself.” You scroll through your many notifications, and find no text from your drunk boyfriend. You look up, finding you’ve turned away from the city centre and into the darker, less populated area. “Where are we?”

“A shortcut.” He revs faster.

“Yeah. Okay. Like, where, specifically?” Your eyes analyze your unfamiliar surroundings. You’re not familiar with Monte Carlo at all to begin with, so the lack of buildings is setting off every internal alarm bell.

“Well,” he chuckles, sensing your apprehension, “it’s a shortcut. Cuts six minutes out of the drive to your hotel.”

“I thought everything was close together here,” you quip, relaxing a little. 

“Not to a native. I know places.”

“Sure.” Your voice wavers. “Charles, I’m going to jump out of the car window if you’re shitting me, I sw—”

Charles throws his head back to laugh, like he can’t even believe you just suggested that. As if deep in thought, he sticks his tongue into his cheek and laughs a little, with exasperation almost. This girl, he seems to think. You stare, transfixed with all the little flexes his face makes.

You break contact when his eyes flicker to your figure, looking at the console first then the window, as if caught stealing a cookie from the jar. “Sue me for being concerned,” you add, for an extra layer of defense.

“You are like your dad.”

Your face warps into one of disdain. “Never say that to me again.”

“Just in the way that”—he waves his hand around to get his point across, laughing as he focuses on the road ahead—“you two are always serious, always working. I mean, you never attended races, even before.”

“You don’t know shit.”

“I like to think you and I know more about each other than we let on.”

He’s right, but you won’t say it. You two have a connection so unlike what two acquaintances, friends, share. It’s undeniable and thick and impossible to uproot, an easy and intense dynamic at the same time. You know so much about him. You know how to make him laugh, hurt his feelings, get his eyes to flutter all pretty. But he knows those things about you, too.

“You only attend races for Max, yes?” He adds.

The utterance of Max’s name gives you mild whiplash—it reminds you you’re on the way to your hotel, to check if your boyfriend’s okay, and not on some drunken joyride with his friend-rival. You clear your throat and try to segue out of the topic. “I just—I take work seriously. I take everything seriously.”

“You shouldn’t.” His eyes flit over to you again, up and down, the low cut of your dress, the way your crossed arms are effortlessly pushing your tits togeth—

“You should loosen up,” he says with a cough, looking back up.

“Thanks for the tip, Leclerc.” You smile phonily, eyes still out the window. “I’ll be sure to put it to good use.”

“Okay.” He says lowly. Then, as if to set a challenge—“Put it to good use now.”

“Now?” How? You almost add, parting your lips to let the question slip past. You stop yourself before you can, though, letting your still hazy mind run through your own fabricated answers. How do I loosen up? Then, to yourself again, for you?

It’s dark outside, and even windier when you roll down the window of his car. He drives fast, steadily but scarily fast—with the kind of control he’s built over a career around a car. You peek out, facing the dark hilly terrain, spotting the city lights in the far distance. Your hair flies over your face when you turn, finding more empty road. Everyone’s in the city. In the thick of the partying.

You dip out of the window more, letting yourself feel the breeze—it whips at your face, cold and smelling of the coast. In the car, you maneuver your legs to keep yourself upright properly, and more of your leg shows as a result, the material riding up on your thighs.

Charles maintains composure, his pace slowing so your hair brushes against your face more gently. Still, a soft, high-pitched yelp of excitement and nerves escapes your bitten lips. He wishes he could watch—he wants nothing more—but he has to focus on the road. He does allow himself fleeting, hot glances at you—your legs, your lithe hands on the window’s base keeping yourself upright, the way your dress hugs your waist. He might die.

“Careful,” he says, raising his voice firmly. He is genuinely concerned for you when he spots one of your hands lifting to rake the hem of your already short dress further down. It’s cold, you’re thinking, but you let your flimsy grip tell him the same story.

Still focusing on his next turn, he drives one-handed, reaching his other one over to help you out. Out of his immediate sight, you shut your eyes and allow yourself to shiver from the feeling of his hand, warm and calloused and big, on your knee, inching higher and higher upward and eventually wrapping loosely around your leg just above your knee, holding you steady.

A shaky breath leaves you, and you’ll say it was because of the wind, but you’ll know you’re wrong. Your hand moves down, to meet his, to let your fingertips skate over the expanse of his hand until your fingers are wound tightly around his. It’s dark. It’s intimate. It’s all you’ve ever wanted.

Your mind is buzzing, red hot and clouded, when you begin to lead him upward, higher, until your interlocked hands are just under the hem of your dress, dangerously close to where you need him most. An invitation. 

But when you crack your eyes open again you see you’re near the city, abandoning the safety and darkness of the shortcut, and the illusion is shattered.

“Get back in,” you hear, and when you feel the tension of his hand pulling yours, you let him tug you back inside. Your hair settles by your face, and you almost reach up to comb it neat before realizing your hand’s still caught in his. Slowly, your gaze meets his—his eyes bore into you, dark as the night outside. They don’t flicker when you hastily pull your hand from his grip, sighing shakily.

The next turn brings you back into the city, structures gaining a semblance of familiarity. The window, still open, is chilly against you, your cheeks cold with it, your shoulders inflicted by a mild wash of goosebumps. “Have fun?”

You clear your throat. “Not much,” you lie through your teeth, chewing on your lip. 

“We are near the hotel.” The hotel, the party, the grand prix, Max. Reminders of what you’re supposed to be paying attention to ripple through your head as the car snakes through the city. It’s one of his other cars, so it’s not distinct enough that people are peeking inside; still, he rolls up the window for your sake.

He drops you off at the basement parking, not at the lobby. Privacy reasons, he says. He’s sick of parking outside. You bite back a quip about his nasty parking and stay still, heart beating quick.

“Thanks,” you say softly. “For driving me.”

“You’re welcome.” A hand rests on your thigh and you don't feel the resolve to jerk it, instead relishing in its warmth there. “Get there safe.”

“Safe? It’s one elevator ride,” you say tersely, rolling your eyes. He squeezes, his touch feather light, and your breath hitches. You need—

“I hope Max is okay.”

You blink and then move your thigh so his hand slides off; he doesn’t put up a fight, and you don’t encourage him to. “So do I.” It’s right as you’re closing the door when Charles says see you? You meet his eyes, eyebrows furrowed, and shut the door fully.

—

“Yeah,” you say after a period of silence. “I feel it.”

Across you, hair raked back by a headband, Seb maintains lack of conviction. You’re not telling him the truth.

“How’s it feel then?”

“Just… good. Like thrilling.” Like danger, in a good way, peaceful and calm and patient and not complicated. You know what you want. You want the ring-clad hand wound around yours, on your thigh, stubble against your jaw. You want that. You know you want that.

But do you have it?

—

Max’s agenda in Barcelona starts on the eve of quali day. He arrives at your hotel and is greeted with music—it flows from the bathroom, where, upon his inspection, he finds you, swiping a dark line of eyeliner on in the mirror. You meet his eyes briefly, but you say nothing before continuing, humming softly to the Drake song that plays from your phone. He can tell instantly: you’re pissed.

“I’m leaving,” is all you say, dismissive and standoffish. You provide no follow-up.

Still, he tries to apologize. “The meeting ran late.” Silence. “Your dad discussed budgetary stuff.” Silence. “I’m optimistic for pole tomorrow.” And again, silence. “Come on, babe. I’m sorry. Really.”

“Okay.” You pause. “What was Kelly doing there?”

His mouth opens and then closes. “Wh—”

“Ben told me.” You wave a wand of mascara around.

“She was listening.”

“What’s her business?”

“Listening,” he emphasizes.

“Bullshit.” You’re on—he guesses—eyeshadow now. “Every time the topic gets to her, you get all skittish. As fuck. You think I don’t notice?”

“Babe,” he says, defensive, “it’s only because I couldn’t even stomach the idea of being with someone else.” And it’s cheesy and corny, but it must work, because your eyes flicker with something. Love, perhaps—clarity. Realization that you’re being irrational (are you?)

“I think I’m just,” you croak. “Just. Missing you. We never spend time together anymore—and after the stunt you pulled in Monte Carlo—” You press two delicate fingers on either side of your nosebridge to emulate your disappointment. “Do you have any idea how worried I was? You were in someone’s car, blacked out. And no apology. Nothing. Just invited me to lunch the next day with your dad.” A topic you hate and a man you detest spending time with.

“I know. I’m sorry, baby.” He comes in to hug you from behind and thanks the gods that you let him, your hands encircling his wrists. “I was being stupid. Won’t happen again.”

You just nod along, still annoyed but enough that it’s beginning to melt off. Max is sated. But even then, he should’ve known that the flicker of something in your eyes wasn’t love or clarity, the flicker he catches again in the mirror when he presses a kiss to your cheek.

It’s neither. It’s guilt.

—

Quali is relatively uneventful—Max gets pole, and Charles gets something something. A good place, front row you think, but you fail to remember. Ben told you the standings, but you weren’t focused; you’ve been spacey, distracted, mind irreversibly stuck on something else during the session. Max can tell, and offers to take you out to dinner, but you decline so he leaves you by yourself nursing a Tylenol. The night is almost over, and you’re collecting your car keys and slinging your bag over your shoulder—but the evening is punctuated by a familiar English accent.

“Come on,” goads Lando, voice petulant and whiny as he tugs on your wrists. “Max said he’d be busy so he needs a proxy. He sucks at the game, anyway, you’re not filling big shoes or anything.”

The tradition (you use the term loosely) of drivers’ poker, started by Lando’s desire to master the game, is apparently so important it demands your attendance. You’ve had your run-ins with poker before, so you feel assured, but none with a volatile group of competitive guys like this one, so it’s on the fence.

“Where?” You suppose, though, that your mind could use a little clearing. A game, a win of sorts.

“My hotel room. I’ve just”—he types rapidly on his phone and presents your text exchange with him—“sent you the number.”

“Who’s playing?” You walk to your car and he follows, still insistent.

“The yoozsh,” he says, shortening usual the way a prepubescent boy might. “Alex, me, Charles, Carlos, Lance. We play a good game. The stakes can get pretty high. And I’ve won a couple times, so beware.”

You laugh a little, raising your brows skeptically. “Sure.”

“I’m dead serious, mate.” He says solemnly as he waves goodbye, standing idly and watching you start your car through the half-rolled window. “See ya. I am going to kick your ass.”

—

“Is this the part where you kick my ass?” You laugh, everyone peering at Lando’s shit hand that he’s presented to the table. “Out!” The game’s since been decimated to just you, Charles, a pool of money, and a thick atmosphere of slow, deliberate silence.

The rest of the players watch you and Charles, conveniently seated across each other, entranced by the easy back and forth that swings between the both of you. You peer down at your cards, then half-lidded, back up at him. His eyes bore into you, challenging, amused.

Tense, you hear faintly. Lando’s unsolicited commentary. In between you both is a scattered pile of creased bills of varying currencies, chips, a condom thrown in by Lance, and a few spare coins. It’s a huge pool despite how random it is, and even if it doesn’t cost much to anybody in the room considering how much you all earn, the prestige of calling yourself a winner still takes precedence.

Underneath the table, your foot brushes against his, the tip of your heel to the side of his sneaker. You poke your tongue into your cheek to conceal a smile, refusing to meet his eyes again.

“You seem nervous,” he says, trying his best to elicit a reaction out of you.

“Could say the same to you,” you quip, tracing the hem of his jeans with your foot. His breath hitches and you take it as a win, smiling to yourself.

“I’ve had a four game winning streak.” He fans his cards out. “Nothing to lose.”

“Oh?” Your legs continue to intertwine out of sight of everybody else, the friction of your bare calf to the denim of his jeans a warm addition to your already intense match. “Say bye to five.” Lando deals the final cards and the tension hangs heavy, palpable in the air as you both calculate your next moves. Carlos eyes the two of you, sensing something else is at stake here. The air is just too heavy.

“We’ll see,” he whistles, revealing his cards. The group seems to hold one collective, bated breath, waiting for you to take your turn. You do so with a self-satisfied smile, your foot still intertwined with his calf as you begin laying your cards down on the table. You slowly reveal a stunning winning hand, and Lando is the first to get up and cheer loudly. 

Charles shrugs and hands you your victory with a handshake, pushing the pool of winnings in your direction. “Congratulations.”

“When you’re with a winner,” you tease lowly, just in Charles’ earshot, “you are a winner.”

He snorts. “Whatever you say.”

You both miss Carlos and Alex exchanging a glance first with you and Charles, smiling teasingly at each other—and the way his eyes go from yours, to your lips, and back to your eyes—then with each other, eyes half-wide and half-puzzled.

—

The race is intense, and Max suffers damage in the middle of it. It’s a rare occasion, but it costs him place after place until he’s vying not for P1, but P4. He doesn’t win today. You watch Charles cross the checkered flag yourself, watch the footage of him throwing his fists up in the air.

You’re there to watch the Red Bull engineers grumble, mutter dissent, wish themselves luck for the next weekend. You’re there when your dad says Charles is the team’s biggest liability. Imagine if we had him, he’d said. You imagine Charles in a Red Bull suit, but the image is cut short by your boyfriend’s arrival to the garage.

The video feedback on your father’s TV, of Charles spraying champagne all over everywhere, his green eyes meeting the camera with a brilliant charm, is abruptly cut off and you turn to find Max entering. His demeanor is stormy.

“P6,” you say immediately, sensing the pending grumbling. “Not so ba—”

“It’s a shitshow,” he retorts, disgruntled. But he’s at the top of the standings, leagues above the rest; he has nothing to worry about. Driving-wise, at least. “Fucking shitshow.”

“Max,” you comfort. “You did well. The damage was out of your control.”

But he’s pissed, and in the thick of his emotion, he pays your sentiments no mind. To him. it’s all the same regurgitated bullshit. Eventually, though he calms down, finds you in the motorhome and wraps you in a loose hug. “Love you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You smile. “Love you, too.”

He leaves early for a meeting—so many meetings, these days—and promises to meet you for dinner, requesting you text him. You watch him leave, slip into his car and drive off, and then call yourself a car to the hotel. You figure it’s high time you spend quality time with Max, what with all the instances you’ve been fighting or ignoring each other.

You leave at six, taking the elevator to the basement to get to your own car, parked there. You’re optimistic. A dinner. A date. Finally, some time with him. This is what you want. The coil in your belly, though, and the congratulatory text left unsent, tell you a different story. It’s one you choose to ignore.

The elevator has a bar slotted across the back wall that you lean on, typing updates to Ben and Max. The drive shouldn’t be long, you hope. You can’t navigate the new city fast enough. The door dings open and you make a move to exit, but you’re stopped by a figure across you.

Charles, in his Armani tee, arms crossed and eyes flashing with recognition when the doors reveal you. He’s still fussed up from the race, probably forced to stick around for promo pictures and interviews. His hair’s damp still. You notice the imprint of his balaclava is only just starting to soften and fade.

Your words tangle in your throat. “Congratulations,” is all you can muster when you see him. You don’t inch close. He, too, remains stagnant, standing perfectly still. Not even a smile. Like the tension between you forms a barrier as physical as it is emotional. “You drove great.” Your hand tightens around your phone, where you’ve just texted Max that you’re leaving the hotel.

“We should really stop meeting in parking garages.” He says lowly, with a small smile. 

You step forward twice. “I was just leaving anyw—”

“Wait.” For a second, his voice breaks and he sounds—desperate, almost. “Remember Monaco? Last week. You told me you liked winners.” Somehow you find yourself allowing him to near you, stepping backwards for every step he takes closer, even if you realize you’re hogging the elevator, and that people might be waiting to arrive to this floor. “You told me… imagine if he got sixth.”

He steps into the elevator with you, and the doors automatically close behind him; it remains still, but he presses the stop button for good measure. He’s right in front of you, tired eyes and stubble and tall, broad, big. He sees right through you. He knows you. Your buttons, your quirks, everything.

“It was a joke,” you say, attempting to establish composure as you pocket your phone. You fail. You always fail. It’s him. Still, you try, hard enough that he thinks you don’t want him to come even closer, to cage you against the back wall of the tiny basement elevator. “I apologized.”

“Nevermind that.” A hand on the bar of the elevator, just by your waist. His grip is tight. He needs to channel all this want somewhere. “What do winners get?”

“Charles.” Your voice comes out shaky.

“Just this once,” he says. He needs it so bad. You’re so pretty today, eyes looking right up at him, lips bitten the way they always are. He’s taller, he’s bigger, he’s got the upper hand physically—what, with the way you’re crowded up against the wall, nearly having to go on your tiptoes if you want to maintain distance. Your eyes flutter. Just this once. Four years. Just this once. Break a rule. But this isn’t a rule, you remind yourself woefully—it’s all the rules. “I care for you, you know.”

Your silence grants elaboration.

“You’re too serious. But everyone around you is, too.” Closer. “Max, your dad, your coworkers. You just need someone who can calm you down. Help you get peace of mind. No complications, you know.” Closer, even closer. “Someone who’s patient. Calm.”

You stare up at him, your hands unmoving until they’re slowly coming up to press against his abdomen, the hard surface there. You could push him away. You should, in fact, push and forget and walk away and apologize for the delay. But they remain planted there, eyes still meeting his. They’re so green, green and staring right into you, his parted lips just a little chapped, his stubble uneven and getting longer. You want to feel it rubbing your chin raw. Your inner thighs. 

He steps closer and now you’re on your tiptoes, legs spreading a little to accommodate him. His hands are still on the bar. Yours, on his abdomen. You miss the way he squeezes the bar, so strong and with so, so much pent up feelings you’d think he bent it out of shape. He wants so badly for you to be his. And more than that—if that were even possible—for him to be yours. 

Lightly, you bunch up the material of his tee, cotton wound in-between your fingers. Push him, you tell yourself. Push him away. Let go. You’ve had your resolve tested before. But you know better. You know that it’s never come to this. Again, he steps forward, and this time a hand leaves the bar and rests, gentle as it is firm, on your waist, just below it—his thumb presses against your hip. Your breath hitches.

Push him.

He comes closer and you’re fully pressed against the wall, half-seated on the bar, half held up by him—your skirt’s ridden up, legs spread and dangling on either side of his figure. Silence. Your breathing. Your eyes, big and anticipatory, staring into his, dark and desperate. 

Push him.

“It can be—”

You adjust your grip around his tee, ready to loosen it and let go and—and for a second you feel the solid plane of his abs—

“—my prize.”

Push him. You tighten your grip, and pull him in to slot your mouths together. 

His lips are warm, and soft, and he has another hand on your jaw now, but it’s so big it’s at your neck too. You part your lips to let his tongue slip in, and the kiss is nothing if not desperate. He’s wanted this for so long, to feel you like this, have your lips pressed against his. And you’d be dishonest if you said you disagreed. You don’t want to part for air. You feel like this could satiate you enough, just the movement of his lips, the scent of his cologne.

He needs to be closer to you—so he places two hands on your waist and naturally, it lets your legs wrap around him. You can feel how hard he is, and the reminder is dizzying. He wants you. But there is no upper hand here. If he lets his hands wander, he’d feel the damp of your panties and realize you’re just as bad as he is.

But for now it’s a kiss, messy and hot—passionate and just one big breath of finally. Your hands go from his abdomen to his face, cupping him on either side. It’s romantic, fuck—but you’ve craved this for so long, you cherish every second. His stubble rubs your chin raw. You trace patterns on his face, find indents of moles with your eyes closed. The kisses are searing. 

Even if you both want it, and even if this creaky elevator grants you a semblance of the privacy, you both know this won’t be leading to sex. Just this—just this. It’s all he’s ever wanted. Your hands on his jaw, his shoulders, the nape of his neck. His, on your waist, your throat, your hips. Your gasps mingling with his. 

The kiss takes and takes and takes, and it’s long, but you take and give four years’ worth of want and tension and frustration. You part, forehead pressed against his, and the absence leaves you empty—you inch forward and kiss him again, let it consume you, before you part again.

His eyes won’t stop staring. In the way they always look at you. With want. With something. A glint.

“First and last,” you say, lifted against the wall of the elevator, your hands around his face. Your thumbs roam over his face. He sets you down, breath heavy, and still his hands are on your waist and yours on his face. It was your cue to leave. But you can’t. Not yet.

Your thumbs go over his eyebrows, his eyelashes so his eyes flutter; the mark of his balaclava, the indent there; his nose, his cheeks, wiping the sweat there, then lower, finally to his lips. One thumb rests softly in the centre. Just seconds ago those lips had been pressed to yours, bringing a type of clarity you never knew existed. Everything, for just those moments, made perfect sense.

“You lie.” He repeats.

You tiptoe to kiss him again and he can’t seem to get enough, his eyebrows furrowed—so much he almost looks angry, anguished—when you kiss. “First and last,” you say breathlessly when you pull away.

He shakes his head. “You’re going to come right back to me,” he says, with so much finality and conviction it’s almost a fact. “You always will, you always do.” His eyes are shut even when you don’t kiss, relishing in your proximity. 

And when you part, he watches you leave, with something between desperation and anguish. You don’t realize, he thinks, just how deep he is in his attraction. His connection to you. It consumes him, burns him alive, and it’s leaving him for someone else.

You ring the elevator open again, wiping your lips. He lets it close, leaning against the wall himself. And you both realize, with a heavy breath as you climb into your car and he disembarks the elevator: there is no way either of you will resist it anymore. That was the first, yes. But to say it was the last would be stark, stark lying.

—

You’re still licking syrup off the corner of your lip when you walk out of the hotel breakfast buffet, letting Max explain the fundamentals of a race to you. He’d apologized earlier, for not meeting you at the Monza afterparty last night—he’d gotten caught in something or other. But he’s kind, and inserts a few jokes here and there to get a laugh out of you, your eyes crinkling under the heavy lens of your sunglasses, sandals clicking against the outdoor garden cement floor. 

He’s talking, and then trails off. Oh, he says, this is a mate of mine. You look up to make small talk and smile politely, but your face falls faster than you can pick it up. Tall and in sunglasses, too, is Charles Leclerc. You thought they were colleagues, not friends—this is chaos. You reach out to shake his hand, your free hand coming up to press against the splotch of concealer. Just in case.

The handshake is stiff and it reminds you of tequila and lemon, salt and teeth and kitten licks down your throat and right to the crest of your cleavage. But you blink and shake once, up and down. Firm.

“Nice to meet you.” He says, smiling. Then, to Max: “Girlfriend?”

“Hope so,” jokes Max, eyeing you. You laugh.

Charles smiles to himself, smug. He eyes you through his sunglasses with something caught in longing and want. “I hope so, too.”

—

Dinner is short and, despite your best efforts to make it a good one, boring. The food is good and sufficiently expensive, the way all European restaurants are. But nothing flows, ebbs. You talk of the same things: Red Bull, Red Bull, and if you have time, Red Bull. You ask about work, but it’s nothing you haven’t already heard. Max doesn’t ask about work, so the conversation descends into a limbo of silence and sips of rosé. “I’m pretty sure the next race is going to be great.”

“Charles drove great today,” says Max. “Didn’t he?”

You pause, then nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I mean, objectively so.”

“I was going to congratulate him… lost him on the paddock though.” He sips, drawing it out. “You seen him?”

“No,” you say, pithy. “Haven’t.”

“Okay.” He waves his hand upward to signal the bill. “I’ll drop you off and head out for the night. Helmut stuff.” 

You’re torn between feeling suspicious and recalling the events of the elevator, so you nod tersely instead and make the necessary small talk from the table to the car. His hand on your waist, the same place Charles’ was just hours ago. It sends you into a cloudy mental spiral. Just thinking about it—about the way he’d gasped your name in between kisses, like he’d die if you didn’t kiss him again.

“I’m sorry,” Max says when he pulls up at the hotel entrance. “For all the work stuff. And for inviting you to lunch with my dad.” A weak laugh escapes you and you find his hand to squeeze it. It’s okay, you convey, and hope it’s enough that he lets the topic quell for now.

Your silence is permissive, so he continues. “I’ll make it up to you, okay?” Leans over and presses a sure kiss to your cheek. “As soon as I can.”

You nod and climb out, praying he didn’t see you shudder. The trek to the elevator, eyes skittish and searching for a sign of Charles, is tiring, and you find reprieve only when you’re pushing the door to the penthouse suite open, toeing your sandals off and dropping your bag just by the entryway. You freeze when you hear a glass clink from the living area. You’d gotten this suite for you and Max, and definitely nobody else.

Brandishing a bunch of keys in-between your fingers, you tiptoe into the area and find, to your confusion and shock, your dad. He’s seated on the couch toying with a glass of whiskey, eyes lighting up when he sees you, even if you look like a psycho with claws.

“Hi, honey.”

“Dad.” You drop your keys on the coffee table as you near him, and exchange a kiss and hug. “Wh—did you get a key from…?”

“Ben.” He smiles. “I thought I would surprise you.”

“Yeah, you more scared me.” You quip, laughing. Then you recall a detail and follow-up on it. “Max—um, he said you had a meeting?”

“Meeting? None scheduled tonight,” he says, frowning and opening his Calendar app. Nothing.

A dry quiet creeps up into the room and settles.

You pour yourself a glass and seat yourself beside him, drinking. You share a conversation for the duration of two glasses and then he’s leaving. The kiss he stamps on your forehead, you notice, is more meaningful, conveys a deeper message, lasts longer. He knows what you know now.

The usual sleepiness that comes with alcohol doesn’t arrive and you fall into an uneasy sleep; it doesn’t help that Max calls in past two, saying he’s crashing at the hotel room he bought for his dad instead of your hotel. You listen to the slurred voicemail, eyes shut and nose buried in the pillow. Eventually you lull yourself to sleep, awaiting the promise of morning and clarity.

—

Morning brings a day off. A break. But your mind does not cease to be cloudy, instead becoming even more muddled with questions and pivots and forks in the road. It helps, you suppose, that Max isn’t home. It might’ve worsened everything. You wrestle your way through a glass of water and a cup of tea, try out yoga, and even attempt going back to sleep. But it’s no use; you’re antsy.

So instead of suppressing the thoughts, you theorize, it’s better to lean into them. Succumb to them, the tempt and guilt of them. It might help you navigate the confusion of everything. So you do—you think of your years-long history with Charles, your relationship with Max. The hiding, the suppression, the pretending. Fleeting touches.

You think of how well Charles knows you, inside and out, of how good he kissed you even if he hadn’t ever kissed you before. His hands, the way he said your name, the hitch in his breath when your hands dared to venture just a little lower. The want, the pure want—the want so unadulterated even one kiss was enough. Images of close calls fill your head. All the times you were high, giggly and leaning into him, on the edge of flirty in some dark corner of a club. Your connection has always been, and will always be, completely and absolutely undeniable. No matter how hard you try.

Guilt fills you at the same time. And with the guilt—confusion. Where is Max? He wasn’t at a meeting last night, and you suspect you know exactly where he is. Who he’s with. Can you really be angry, though? Is it a feedback loop of the same thing, the same morally grey actions? Is this all your relationship has been reduced to? Questions, questions, and more questions flood the corners of your head.

Thoughts are put to a standstill when the door shakes with two knocks. 

You rake your hair back and climb out of bed, into the main room, still in your lace pajamas. It might be the complimentary hotel breakfast or Max arriving, you guess. Maybe your dad—he’s apparently in the business of keying himself into your hotel rooms.

So you don’t bother looking through the peephole, undoing the latch with haste and dexterity before you’re hauling the heavy door open and staring breathlessly at the other side.

—

Abu Dhabi greets Max and you with fanfare, with a plethora of paddock paparazzi and even a few gossip rags asking questions. Some journalists drop a check-in, cameras zeroing in on your intertwined hands and your shared smiles. She’s the World Champ’s! seems to be the pervasive headline lately, and your pictures from today will no doubt exacerbate it.

He squeezes your hand when you finally gain semi-privacy, entering the motorhome. Your dad sees you, sees Max, offers a wave that you both return. Your eyes go from wide and smiling to a little blank and dismissive, a change minute but noticeable. “You okay?” He calls after you when you enter his room.

You drop your Kelly—the bag—on the seat by the door and gather your hair to rest on one side. “Fine. You nervous?”

 “The planned strategy was horseshit.” Max is right and for the sake of your dad, it worries you.

“Yeah, yeah. I think I’ll talk to Dad for a bit. You’ll be okay alone?” You’re getting up already.

“Wait—” He pauses when you’re kissing his cheek as a goodbye. “I thought we were getting lunch.”

“Oh.” You pause to think. “We can get dinner, then.”

“No,” he says. “I’m going to be with Jos.”

“Drinks.” You leave no room for argument and leave with the door shutting softly behind you.

He stares at the just-closed door, your bag slung over the chair, the way you keep pressing against a certain spot on your neck. You are hiding something—Max just can’t put his finger on it.

[fairuzfan]

I’m a genocide historian and I do think comparisons between the Holocaust and the genocide in Palestine are unproductive because A) the Holocaust is pretty distinct from Palestinian genocide not in its exceptionalism but in its method - the “shipping” of victims from 20+ countries by international rail to a handful of centralized killing sites; 15000 people being gassed in Auschwitz daily (a single gas chamber had standing capacity for 2,000 people) and their stolen hair sold in bales for use as maritime rope and cushion stuffing - and forcing Holocaust parallels obfuscates the terrible and very unique methods of genocide being used by Israel against Palestinians. B) People often invoke the Holocaust as an emotional appeal regarding the moral culpability of all Jews (“how could you do what was done to your ancestors!”) when the same responsibility to end the genocide in Palestine exists regardless of one’s background or religion.

What Israel is doing in Palestine is 100% a genocide. Whether or not it is similar to the Holocaust (or any previous atrocity) does not make this any more or less true.

The thing that doesn't make sense to me with this point is that no one is saying that the Holocaust and Palestinian genocide are a 1:1 comparison. Like most people acknowledge the terrible genocide that occurred in the Holocaust against all its victims. But when they're talking about comparing genocides, there are tell tale signs that repeat throughout history that are precursers to larger events. Like when people compare the Warsaw ghetto to Gaza. I'd say those are quite similar in practice and intention. When we "compare" genocides (not a 1:1 but more of a drawing parellels by disecting the inteion and reasoning behind certain events that werent necessarily actively violent but passively violent) its to show "hey this is going to get really bad really soon because something like this happened before." Masha Gessen has an article about this that I reblogged.

People should care about fighting injustice everywhere I agree. But that doesn't change the fact that parallel drawing is an act separate from emotional invocation. When genocide scholars and survivors talk about "Hey this was like xyz that happened to me/in history" it's to show that there is precedent for this thinking and a terrible methodology happening when genocides occur. They dont just get really bad out of nowhere, you need to examine the precursors to prevent the large event from happening. How that large event happens differs from place to place, I agree. But to say that because things happen differently against different people means you can't examine the underlying reasons behind those actions is kind of reductive. By this definition you can never compare any genocide ever and all the terrible things that happen just happen naturally without any political or social influence.

Arnesa talks about how the Bosnian genocide precursors mirror the Palestinian genocide. She also talks about how Lula specifically should have mentioned other genocides (like Rwanda, Bosnia, etc) in his statement because there are parallels there too. I'd argue that's the real intention behind genocide studies, in that you notice trends and patterns to analyze how certain events might turn out.

I do want to mention because this is where im coming from a little bit, it is a pretty big zionist talking point (by especially American dems) saying you can't compare the holocaust to what's happening to Palestinians because it's antisemitic, which is not a real talking point and actually kind of rude in that it assumes that Palestinians can't call out parallels between their treatment and the treatment of those in the Holocaust because they're fundamentally doing it from a point of antisemitism and not a plea for recognition that the events are mirroring each other.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

The Fitting Room Is This Way

I got the inspiration for this story from a GIF, which must have been a looped clip taken from a video called "Abducted". I used a generative AI platform to create a couple of the images - not bad for a first effort?

“Why don't you just try something on? I think it look like a second skin on you and will suit you very much. Here, the fitting room is this way…”

"Errrrrrm," was about all I could muster as a reply. I tore my eyes away from the rails of black and multicoloured rubber that had absorbed my attention for more minutes than I care to say. I turned my head to see what I can only describe as an attractive young male with orange and green hair, multiple piercings and more tattoos than I'd ever seen on a body. I'm not usually stuck for words, but this time I was.

It was the first time I'd ever crossed the threshold of any adult store, let alone a fetish store. I was actually on a business trip to the city for a couple of days to meet with a bunch of different customers. I'd arranged to meet one of them for dinner this evening, but something had come up and they had to cancel. With time on my hands, my curiosity got the better of me. I walked the short distance from the hotel into what people might describe as a 'seedy' part of the city and walked through one of two doorways that would change my life - forever.

"Look, you've been gawking at these garments for at least ten minutes, so something must have piqued your interest," the shop assistant said grinning in a somewhat sinister way.

The truth is he was absolutely right. I had a real fetish for rubber, but it wasn't something I could share. If I didn't use an incognito browser, a casual glance at my web history would show me landing on websites with videos and pictures of men in rubber and stories of men being turned into rubbermen, from beasts to slaves.

The assistant looked me up and down, "yes I can see why you are captivated by the rubber suits - so much more exciting than a business suit to wear, and it will hug and show off your best bits," he giggled to himself as he grabbed two or three suits off the rails.

"Right one of these will be perfect for you. It will feel like a second skin. So much so, that I don't think you'll ever want to take it off."

There was that ominous grin again.

"Follow me. It's this way to the fitting room"

He walked deeper into the basement and towards a set of dark doors. Was there a fitting room really this way? I'd never been in a fetish store before but I'd read a few stories about what was inside. He pushed on the door, it opened slowly. Very little light emanated from inside. “Come on”, he said jovially. I followed like a puppy dog follows its mother.

Inside the room I could just about make out the shapes of muscular men in shiny dark clothing. Several hands grabbed me, restraining me before I knew what was happening. At first I struggled against my captors but one came up to me and held a mask over my nose and mouth; I heard a hissing sound. I felt a kind of euphoria cone over me. My struggles evaporated and I allowed myself to be led deeper into the room. Now that I was next to these men I could tell they were wearing similar outfits to the ones I’d seen on the rails back in the shop, and their heads were enclosed in some kind of hood/gas mask combination.

I looked at the assistant standing there holding the rubber suits whilst I was stripped of my clothing. Now naked, they started rubbing what I can only describe as an oily cream all over me. One of the dark rubber-suited men walked over to the assistant, who handed him one one of the rubber suits. He walked back towards me and took the suit off the hanger. Two other lifted my left foot off the floor and he started sliding it in, then they put my foot back on the floor and he repeated the process with the right foot.

Then it was a simple process; to gently and very erotically guide the rubber suit all the way up my body. As they did they smoothed out any bumps, making sure the rubber clung to every millimetre of my body. Just before the suit covered my groin, I looked down to see one of the men fitting a device over my cock and felt another slide something into my arse. At first he struggled, so he squeezed something onto it and started pushing at my sphincter. At first it met a resistant from a hole that had only known 'one-way' traffic. suddenly I felt a ‘pop’ and my arse felt 'nice and full' (where did that come from).

The men carried on smoothing the rubber suit as they pulled it up my torso until it reached my chest. Then, one at a time my arms were fed into the suit. The shop assistant walked up to me and fitted what I can only describe as mitts over my hands. I stood there, a spectator in my own body, watching as the flesh was covered with black latex. Then the suit was zipped up to my neck. I felt a mild construction and heard a snap. The assistant walked around in front of me and held up a broken zip. His grin now a haunting smile.

Before I could react I felt something rubbery being brought to my face, I could see lenses and a place for my nose to fit in. I started breathing more rapidly as a sense of unease started to build. Despite my fears I allowed the men to fit the mask over my face, the mask seemed to be part of a hood because the next thing I sense was a zip being pulled from the top of my head down to meet the top of the suit at my neckline. My head now felt as  constricted as my body.

Through the lenses I could see my captors. Then I heard voices in my ears.  Mini speakers in the hood activated, “welcome brother, welcome to the nest. From here we grow, we spread, we convert and we conquer.”

There was just white noise now. The lenses darkened and my vision blacked out. Then instantly there were spirals, shapes and words imprinted on the lenses. Voices in my head said, “Rubberdrone”, “obey”, “comply”, “convert”. Over and over the words bombarded my head until...nothing. My own thoughts stopped. The lenses cleared to let this newly created rubberdrone see the room again, the voices in my ears stopped. 

In front of me were half a dozen rubber drones lined up. To the side I could recognise the shop assistant. I instinctively knew to join at the back of the line. The assistant opened the door and we started moving forward.

[suzukiblu]

Ko-fi thank-you sentences for ItsOleander behind the cut; a fake cryptid and a real romantic. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

. . . ‘diamond’, the Batman repeats skeptically. Tim radiates embarrassment, then pulls a bright, shiny stone out of his hidden belt to show to it. The Batman tilts its head again. 

It’s a diamond, yes. An unusually large one, shaped more like a heart than any traditional cut. And it’s new, too. There’s no history to it at all, just faint traces of determined perfectionism and something a little hesitantly hopeful, all burnt in fire and care and pressure. And not something stolen or reclaimed, like one from a Cat would be. 

Though its new Robin tastes just a little bit like a Cat, doesn't he, it realizes. 

Hm. 

That’s different. 

diamond, the Batman says, leaning down to inspect it more closely. 

“He, uh, made it,” Tim says. “Like–for me? I mean, he thinks I’m–a bird, kind of, so he thought I’d like something, uh . . . shiny, you know? Like a magpie or crow or whatever, I guess. Or, um, possibly a penguin. Possibly he thinks I’m a penguin, given this is technically a rock. God, does he think I’m a penguin?” 

hm, the Batman says, frowning consideringly while Tim keeps muttering to himself in concern about penguins, which is understandable, because Oswald Cobblepot isn’t the kind of role model a Robin should aspire after. It’s never had a Robin who could make diamonds, but supposes there's a first time for everything. Not every Robin can do a quadruple backflip or deduce its summoning ritual either. 

. . . or jack tires off a car that doesn't even count as an actual physical “car”. 

Or . . . draw. 

The Batman–pauses. Frowns. 

None of its Robins draw. Why did it just . . . 

Its new Robin flies back up with Dick curled around his shoulders like a cape. Maybe he draws, the Batman thinks, flicking its approximation of eyes towards him. He made a diamond, after all, and cut it to shape. That’s . . . artistic, technically. The human kind of “artistic”, anyway. 

Humans have very strange ideas of what counts as artistic, but the Batman supposes that’s just how humans are. “Just how humans are” has been a necessary thing to internalize, at this point in its existence. 

. . . it still doesn’t know how Jason got the damn tires off, even now. 

“Um, hi. Again. Sir/ma’am. Ma’am/sir?” its new Robin attempts as he lets Dick back down on the ledge, looking nervous. Tim was nervous to meet it too. Dick was too grief-stricken and angry for anything like that, though, and Jason just wasn’t afraid of it at all. 

And . . . 

And–it doesn’t know why it thought “and”, there. It hasn’t had another Robin. There was Batgirl and now there’s the Spoiler, but . . . 

There’s no reason to think “and” there. 

But it thought “and” anyway, didn’t it, it notes, and files that thought away in the place where its mind would go. 

If it had one, obviously. 

“Baaaaatman,” Tim hisses, Robin’s voice layered back over his own. 

“Batman,” its new Robin repeats, then puffs himself up like he’s displaying plumage he’s not wearing–his colors are bright, at least, but not the right colors; not colors meant for flying. The Batman appreciates the instinct, at least. “Um–I’m Superboy! Hey! Nice to meet you!” 

The Batman glowers. Dick, inexplicably, starts sniggering, and Tim makes a pained sound. Its new Robin–not Superboy–looks more nervous, hiding his hands behind his back. The Batman resists the urge to sweep off to go screech at Superman. Barely resists, but resists. 

Its new Robin is just as new as the diamond he made, though, and clearly worried about its reaction. It doesn’t want him to get the wrong idea. 

It’ll screech at Superman later, though. 

meet, it says, leaning forward over the ledge and letting the shadows of its cape wrap underneath its new Robin’s legs, just in case. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to catch. 

A net. 

Obviously. 

He’s still flying wrong, after all. 

Its new Robin peers down at its trailing cape of a net curiously, looking interested, and then peers at it instead. 

“Huh,” he says. “You’re way nicer than everybody said. Well. Everybody except Superman, anyway. He says you’re super-nice.” 

Hm, the Batman thinks grudgingly. Alright. Maybe Superman isn’t trying to take its new Robin. Maybe he sent it its new Robin, after he woke up alive again and found him flying around Metropolis without a net. That, admittedly, would be more in line with Superman’s usual behavior. And general . . . “Superman”-ness. 

The Batman really does not understand Superman. Superman is a thing of Metropolis skyscrapers and alien skies and rolling farmlands and blazing sunlight, though, which are all far beyond the Batman’s sphere of influence and comprehension, so that’s hardly a surprise. 

It does make more sense if Superman sent it its new Robin, though, as opposed to trying to steal him, so the Batman is somewhat mollified by that. Even if its new Robin apparently doesn’t know his own name. 

. . . ah, the Batman realizes, and tilts its head slowly. 

Not “doesn’t know”. 

Doesn’t have. 

diamond, it says, and its new Robin immediately looks flustered. 

“Oh, uh, I just thought Robin’d like something shiny for his nest, maybe?” he says, and the Batman–pauses. 

‘nest’? it repeats carefully. Tim makes a mortified noise and hides his face in Robin’s wings again. 

“Um–yeah?” Its new Robin looks embarrassed. “I mean, I kinda just assumed he had one, I haven’t, like, seen it or anything. Like, I’m not trying to go into his, uh, private space or–um! I’m not doing anything weird, I swear!” 

The Batman tilts its head. 

The Batman has never seen one of its Robins nest. But . . . 

They grow, don't they, it's distantly reminded. Dick's grown into Nightwing, and Tim fits Robin's wings so differently than he first used to. 

Jason grew too, a little. For what little time it had him, anyway. That hot-tempered, fearless stray fledgling who could do his workings with nothing but scraps from the streets and a length of cold iron became a bright grin and gleeful energy and bold Robin-wings. 

But Jason only got to grow a little, so sometimes the Batman . . . forgets. 

They all grow, though. 

nest? the Batman asks again, looking to Tim. Tim doesn't lift his face out of Robin's wings. 

“Priiiiivate!” Tim hisses, and the Batman can sense the mortification rolling off of him in waves. The Batman frowns, leaning down over him to assess him more closely. Robin's talons give off the impression of dry, cracked wood and awkward mistakes layered over Tim's hidden hands full of carefully-hunted information, and it thinks . . . oh. Tim actually tried to. Didn't manage it, but . . . 

The Batman doesn't know how it feels about that. He's so young. Isn't he? Dick hasn't even nested yet; just courted and flirted and occasionally pined. 

“ROBIN nesssssts, now?” Dick teases, popping up on Tim's other side. Tim makes a strangled noise again and huddles in smaller on himself. The Batman frowns in concern. He doesn't feel injured, but . . . 

“Nooooot Nightwing's . . . busssssinesssss!” Tim hisses, snapping his teeth behind Robin's mask, then visibly sulks. “Stuuuuupid.”

The Batman frowns again. 

[barblaz-arts]

I haven’t sent any of the other messages, and this is the first time I’m even seeing your opinions on this matter as I’ve followed you for your Wenclair art.

I’m an Israeli citizen. On October 7th thousands of Hamas terrorists went into Israeli villages (on Israel’s territory) and raped, shot, beheaded, burned alive and murdered 1400 CIVILIANS. They kidnapped 230 more citizens into the Gaza Strip, including babies and the elderly (no idea if they are alive, as Hamas didn’t let the Red Cross or anyone else see them and REFUSED any deal to release them, despite all the lies they are spreading). Hamas uploaded videos of them doing these deeds, they were proud of them. We are still not done counting our dead, 3 weeks later, because of the state they were left in. We identify people by DNA pulled from pieces of skull tissue, by CT scans of burned masses of flesh showing parents hugging their children as they were burned alive.

A little bit of history. In 2005 Israel completely pulled out of Gaza, and handed it over to the Palestinians. In 2007 Hamas was elected to lead the Gaza Strip. This is an organization that in its charter says loud and clear they want to murder Jews. It’s not hidden, there is no question about it. They are proud of it. And since 2007 they have not allowed for an election in Gaza, they have stolen international aid money to build terror infrastructure and embedded themselves deep within their civilian population (just a few days ago evidence was provided that Hamas built their HQ under a hospital, specifically because they knew Israel wouldn’t bomb it).

The truth is, the pictures from Gaza are heartbreaking. The civilians are suffering and it’s making me sick. But how is Israel supposed to respond to the massacre of October 7th? Just pretend it didn’t happen? No country would. Israel isn’t targeting the civilian population though, unlike Hamas. I’m not saying innocent civilians aren’t killed, they very sadly are because war is horrible. But it’s always an accident, they are never the targets. Hamas is the target.

Israel has its part in creating Hamas just like the USA had its part in creating ISIS and Taliban. Still doesn’t excuse terrorism. Israel didn’t deserve the October 7th massacre anymore than the USA deserved 9/11. I hope that you can appreciate that.

The truth is, there are innocent civilians on both sides here that are suffering. Things aren’t black and white, and they never were with this conflict. And if you want to have a discussion I’ll happily talk to you privately, answer questions as best as I can. But only if we come from a place of mutual respect. If you want to block me, that’s fine too.

I do want to let you know while I can that your art is beautiful and made me smile on multiple occasions. I hope you continue it. And I wish you luck with everything and hope that we all have peaceful days in the future.

First of all. Gaza was not given to Palestine. Israel put them there and had Gaza serve as an open air prison.

You can't go around saying "Israel has its part in creating Hamas but it still doesn't excuse terrorism" then go around saying that this genocide is justified because "What else are we supposed to do after what happened in Oct 7?" What a double standard. You do not get to say that what happened to them makes you feel bad but say that you were left with no other choice. You dont get to say that Hamas being born from 70+ of brutality is still not an excuse to kill but also say Israel doing the same thing is justified.

Now, of course this does not mean that I side with Hamas. Never have, never will. I side with Palestinians, something so many Zionists cannot seem to comprehend, because they see killing them as one and the same.

Listing off those atrocities, though heartbreaking, as I will always mourn the innocent, still does not change my stance or how I feel. I feel like a broken recorder, constantly having to repeat that the civilians in Gaza did not do those and in turn did not deserve any of this. The hostages don't either of course, and the families of the ones still held captive are furious with their government for choosing to bomb them along with Hamas like some sort of sacrifice, like what you are implying the civilian deaths to be. Just unfortunate casualties for the greater good.

You can go ahead and say that only Hamas were meant to be targeted all you want, but they did not need to cut off their water so they're not even able to clean and defecate. They did not need to cut off power and render hospitals useless. And NO they did not need to bomb those same hospitals, even IF it were true that it was a Hamas base. And they did not need to use phosphorus bombs to do it. This has, and always will be about Israel's hatred of arabs and Muslims, as it was 70 years ago before Hamas even existed, as it still is now.

Tell me, if the past two or so weeks was really about Hamas, then why are these people mocking the civilians that are mourning their families' death as they starve?

None of this should have happened. Hell, you shouldn't even be living where you are in the first place. No one has any right to colonize. Whatever white supremacists or religious reason anyone says.

Of course this does not mean that I believe all jews or Israeli are as evil as the pieces of shit in that tiktok compilation or the powerful pile of dung that rule your country. There are Isreali and Jews protesting for Palestine as well, and I deeply admire them for their bravery and to feel compassion for the other side and act on it.

It's baffling how you're aware that Israel is responsible for Hamas creation but still, maybe not want it, but think all you can do is reluctantly accept the unavoidable. Because this was definitely avoidable. But your government actively wants this, and frankly I dont think it cares about you. It does not care about the soldiers they send out and the people that died and the hostages that were taken. They are using you as an excuse for more death and money.

"Those thinking of revenge should be ashamed," said by one of the survivors of Oct 7. And she is right. You are demanding the wrong things of your government.

And no, I will not be talking to anyone about this in my direct messages. Talking about it privately makes it feel like some debate to be won, when this shouldn't be a debate at all. The reason why I answer these kinds of asks is to make people aware of what is happening. I'm just some girl, I cannot fight for Palestine in any way that can directly save a life and I dont have the financial capability to donate, but I can do this. We can make those sick excuses of humans on top know that we know of their stink and we will not give it any excuse.

[wholoveseggs]

Hey,could you do a fic with elijah where she is riding him, but her legs kinda give out, and he needs to take over with daddy and praise kink and maybe a little overstimulation,please 🙏🏻🥺🥺

Pop Quiz - Part Two

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

Its been a few weeks since you last saw your professor, and you are feeling insecure about the nature of your relationship. You decide to make a grand gesture to capture his attention. Hopefully it doesn't blow up in your face...

♡♡ Thanks for the request anon! I finally got around to putting out pop quiz 2, I hope you all enjoy ♡♡

9.5k words (whoops) - Warnings: smut, angst, blowjobs, riding, Klaus being an absolute menace, dom!elijah, daddy!kink, teacher!kink, tinsy bit of roleplay... I even threw in a bit of ancient Greek history...

{Part One}

You were late for class again, and you knew Professor Mikaelson would not be happy about it. You rushed down the hallway and snuck into the classroom, slipping into your seat next to the window.

You could feel his eyes on you, and when you glanced up at the front of the room, his gaze was burning into yours. You shifted in your seat, heat flooding your cheeks, and not just from the way he was looking at you.

The last time you had seen him, he had fucked you so hard you couldn't walk straight for hours afterward.

That was two weeks ago, and you couldn't stop thinking about it.

You couldn't stop thinking about him.

The way his lips felt on yours, the way his cock stretched you, the way his fingers dug into your skin, his low moans echoing in your ears.

"Miss Y/L/N." His deep voice snapped you back to reality.

"Hmm?"

"Perhaps you could answer the question I just posed?"

Shit. You hadn't been listening at all.

"Can you repeat the question, sir?"

"Why don't I just repeat the lesson plan from today instead? Since you clearly weren't paying attention." He raised an eyebrow, and you could feel the heat of the room rising.

"I'm sorry, sir," you murmured.

"See me after class, Miss Y/L/N," He said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You nodded, and tried to focus on the lecture, but it was impossible. Your mind kept drifting back to that night, to the way his hands felt on your body, the way his lips trailed across your skin.

The class seemed to drag on forever, but eventually the other students were packing up their belongings and heading out.

You sat there, staring down at your notes, which were mostly just doodles, waiting for the rest of the class to clear out.

You were trying not to look at him, but you could feel his eyes on you, the intensity of his gaze sending a shiver down your spine.

When the room was finally empty, he stood and locked the door, closing the blinds on the window.

"Sit," he commanded, gesturing to the desk.

You walked over to it and hopped up, your legs dangling off the side.

He moved between them, his hands sliding up your thighs, his eyes locking with yours.

"What am I going to do with you, Miss Y/L/N?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Well, let's start with you answering my question. What significant event marked the end of the Viking Age in England?"

"The Norman Conquest in 1066."

"Good girl." He praised, his thumbs rubbing circles on the insides of your thighs, his voice making you clench around nothing.

"Tell me, how many times have you touched yourself since the last time I had you spread out on my desk, moaning and begging me for more?" He asked, his dark eyes fixed on yours.

"Too many to count." You breathed, your thighs tightening around his hips, trying to pull him closer.

"Show me," he growled, his hands moving to his belt, unbuckling it and letting it fall open.

You swallowed hard, heat pooling between your legs as you watched him pull his cock free from his pants, stroking himself. He pulled up his chair, sitting down in front of you.

"Sir?"

"Show me how you touch yourself when you're thinking about me, sweetheart."

You licked your lips, reaching up under your skirt and pushing your panties aside.

"Good girl," he said, his voice thick with lust.

You rubbed your clit, the pad of your finger pressing into it. You bit your lip, trying to keep quiet, but the way he was looking at you made that nearly impossible.

He continued to stroke his cock, his eyes never leaving yours. You teased yourself, your fingers dipping into your pussy, your wetness coating them. You could see the muscles in his jaw clenching as he watched you, his hand moving faster.

"You look so beautiful, sweetheart," he said, his eyes fixed on yours.

You gasped, slipping two fingers inside yourself.

"That's it, let me hear those pretty sounds."

You moaned, your hips rocking, your pussy clenching around your fingers. You were getting close, and he could tell.

"Come here," he said, his hand dropping to his side.

You removed your fingers and moved forward, dropping to your knees in front of him.

"Yes, sir." You breathed.

He brought the tip of his cock to your lips and you eagerly licked and sucked at the head, your eyes locking with his. You loved seeing the flush on his cheeks, his lips slightly parted, his dark eyes hooded.

He slid a hand into your hair, gripping it tightly, pulling you forward. You sucked harder, taking as much of him as you could. He hissed, his fingers pulling your hair.

"You're so good to me, sweetheart," he murmured, his hips thrusting slowly.

You relaxed your jaw and his thrusts became deeper and harder, but not too rough. You moaned around him, your hands resting on his thighs, gripping the fabric of his slacks. He was completely dominating you, and you loved it.

You'd never seen this side of him before, and you were drunk on him. He was filthy, dirty talk falling from his lips, his hand in your hair pulling your face closer to his crotch with each thrust of his hips.

He wasn't the stammering mess he was the first time. He was in control, and you were completely his.

You loved the feel of him in your mouth, the way his hips would jerk whenever he hit the back of your throat, the low growl that came from him as he did.

He pulled his cock out of your mouth and you took the opportunity to catch your breath. You looked up at him, his face flushed, his lips swollen, his cock glistening with your saliva. He looked almost feral and it was a sight to behold.

"Fuck, you are so beautiful," he growled, one of his hands gripping your chin as he dragged his cock across your lips. You stuck your tongue out, licking the underside, looking up at him through your lashes.

"Good girl," he praised, sliding his cock back into your mouth. You moaned around him as you moved your tongue along the underside of his cock. He thrust into your mouth over and over, not letting up. He was close and you could feel his legs beginning to tremble.

You met his gaze, letting him see how much you enjoyed doing this, how much it turned you on. That was all it took for him to come undone. He slammed into you, his grip tightening in your hair. You moaned around him, your mouth flooding with his cum.

He slowed his thrusts, his hand loosening in your hair, gently caressing your face as you gave little swallows. His hips stopped moving, but you weren't finished with him yet.

You kept your lips around the head of his cock, lapping at the sensitive tip until you'd licked every last trace of his release away. You released him with a small pop, and looked up at him, hoping you hadn't overstepped.

He was looking at you with nothing short of pure awe, his hand gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

"Where did you learn to do that?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Nowhere. Just doing what felt good." You blushed.

"Such a natural, such a good girl."

He stood, reaching out to help you up. He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into him, kissing you. You melted into his kiss, your hands gripping his tie, as his slid down your back to cup your ass.

"I have another class," He sighed, pulling back. "You should get to class, too."

You smoothed your hair and sat back down on his desk, watching as he fastened his pants.

"I missed you," you admitted, a blush creeping across your cheeks. You probably shouldn't have said it, but it was the truth. "I feel like we haven't seen each other in so long."

He smiled, his dimples sending a pang of desire through you. He moved between your thighs, brushing his lips against yours.

"I had business to attend to in New Orleans," He explained, peppering soft kisses along your jaw. "I thought about you constantly."

You blushed, reaching out to tuck his tie back into his vest.

"Will you come by my dorm tonight? My roommates won't be home, and we can continue this."

He sighed, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

"I have a department head meeting tonight, but I'll swing by after."

"Okay," you smiled, then you leaned in and whispered in his ear, "I can't wait."

He growled softly, his lips capturing yours, pulling you close.

"Fuck, I have to go," he rasped, his cheeks flushed as he reluctantly pulled away.

You hopped off the desk, and moved over to the door. You opened it, but just before you could exit, he stopped you, pressing his lips against yours once more. 

"Sir, someone could see us," you groaned, breaking the kiss, peeking down the hall.

"That is part of the fun, sweetheart." He smiled, giving you a wink before disappearing down the corridor.

You bit back a laugh, running a hand through your hair, trying to appear at least semi presentable before heading down the hallway towards your next class.

The rest of your day flew by in a blur, and by the time you were getting ready to meet your friends for dinner, the sun was starting to set.

You had all agreed to meet at a small pizza place, the one down the street from campus that always smelled like fresh baked bread.

You pulled on a jacket and started to walk over there, smiling and laughing as you spotted your friends standing in front of the building.

You jogged up to them, giving each of them a hug before you ducked into the restaurant.

The place was bustling and it took you a while to get your food, but you managed to find a table in the corner of the dining room.

The wine was flowing and everyone was chatting and laughing, sharing stories about their spring break and complaining about their classes.

"Do any of you have Mr. Mikaelson for Ancient History this semester?" Beth asked, pushing a curl away from her forehead.

"I do!" Caitlin chirped, waving her wine glass around animatedly. "He's kinda hot. I mean, I love you Soph’, don't get me wrong, but damn, that man."

"It's okay Cait, I'll allow it," Sophia snickered, wrapping her arm around her girlfriend's waist. "Maybe he's interested in joining us for a night? What do you think?"

"Hmm. Yeah, I'm in," Caitlin nodded in agreement, and they both looked at you.

"What?" You blinked, raising your brow.

"Don't you have his class? Isn't he single?" Beth asked.

"I do have his class," you laughed. "And I'm not sure, we don't exactly talk about that stuff."

You were suddenly feeling warm, the temperature in the room seemed to shoot up about 20 degrees. You pressed your thighs together, trying not to think about how you were on your knees for him that morning.

"Are you interested in him?" Caitlin teased.

"Uh... I'm not sure, he's..." you blushed, shaking your head, trying to rid yourself of the dirty thoughts swirling in your mind.

"Ooooh y/n has a crush," Beth chided, playfully hitting you with a napkin.

"Maybe," you squeaked, squirming uncomfortably in your seat, you took a long sip of wine, ignoring their giggles. "He is really hot," you admitted, hoping to shift the subject.

"Mhmmm," Caitlin nodded, sipping her wine.

Your phone buzzed on the table, and you snagged it, grinning to yourself. You excused yourself from the table, rushing off to the bathroom to answer the text.

Professor M: I'm sorry sweetheart, but I won't be able to make it tonight.

You stared at the text, trying not to let your disappointment get to you. You were a little annoyed he gave no explanation, but maybe something came up, he was busy enough with school.

You wiped the tears threatening to spill down your cheeks and walked back to the table, clutching your cell phone in your hand. You threw on the best fake smile you could manage and tried to focus on your friends. But unfortunately they were still on the subject of Elijah, and they would not shut up about him.

"Y/n, seriously, he's gorgeous, why not go for it?" Caitlin teased, a smile stretching her lips.

"Nope. Not interested," you lied, biting into a piece of crust. "He's my teacher, it would be inappropriate."

You didn't want to admit that you were actually spending time with him. Well, apart from fucking each other senseless, you had only hung out once, so it wasn't exactly a relationship, right?

"It's only a little unethical, how old is he... Like, 26? You're 21, it's not like the age gap is insurmountable. Plus, teachers are just so sexy," Caitlin drunkenly rambled.

"Shut up, Cait," Sophia laughed, playfully nudging her girlfriend. "Do you want me to dress up as one of those naughty school girls? You seem awfully obsessed with this teacher thing."

"That's so hot, please do," Caitlin giggled, nibbling on Sophia's earlobe.

Beth narrowed her eyes at you, her expression morphing into one of concern. She had always been able to read you like a book, and you tried to steer the conversation towards anything other than Elijah.

"Are you okay?" Beth asked quietly, ignoring Caitlin and Sophia, who were practically tongue-fucking each other over the dinner table.

"Yeah, I'm fine, just a little stressed," you mumbled, tucking your phone into your pocket. "I've been talking to this guy and I don't think he's as invested as I am."

"Aww, what an asshole," she said, pouting.

"He's probably just not that into you," Sophia added, grabbing one of the chunky slices of pizza and waggling it in your direction. "Don't waste your time on men like that,"

"Maybe he's shy?" Beth countered. "What's his name?"

"It's fine, I'm just worried he is losing interest…maybe I should ... I don't know... make a grand gesture?" You stalled, reaching for your wine glass, taking a quick sip.

"Like what?" Beth asked, narrowing her eyes at you.

"I'm not sure yet... Our relationship is very sex heavy," you blushed.

Beth chuckled, refilling your wine glass.

"Why don't you take control then, do something he hasn't done, I'm sure he'd be down for it," she winked.

"Yeah, surprise him! Maybe you two could roleplay or something. That's hot." Sophia added.

The rest of your dinner was spent discussing their own romantic escapades, and you couldn't help but feel a little envious that none of them had to juggle a very complicated, at best, situation with a professor.

But they had sparked an idea in your mind, one that you didn't dare share with any of them, one that involved Elijah and yourself.

Once you got back to your room, you began rifling through a pile of clothes, looking for the perfect outfit for your idea. After tossing about twenty options on your bed, you decided on a white button down shirt and an extremely short plaid skirt, with knee-high socks and Mary Janes.

You took some scissors to the shirt, cutting off the sleeves and neckline, turning it into a sexy crop top with only a single button doing the job of keeping you decent.

You curled your hair into huge ringlets and even added a pencil to the side of your head in a very Breakfast Club-esque fashion.

You studied your reflection in the mirror, hoping it would work, looking like the perfect naughty school girl.

You grabbed a large trench coat from your closet, tying its sash tightly around you. Just as you were about to leave you decided to take off your panties. If everything worked out you wouldn't be needing them.

The walk to his loft didn't take long, you were in front of his door faster than you could process it. You quickly adjusted your curls and knocked, trying your best to be patient. It was only then did you realize how stupid this was, he might not even be home, he canceled on you, what if he didn't want to see you? What if you crossed a line? But it was too late to back out, someone was now opening the door.

You felt your cheeks heat up, as Elijah's tired brown eyes found yours. He was wearing just a pair of navy blue sweatpants, his hair messy. You noticed immediately that his glasses were a little askew, perched on the bridge of his nose, he looked like he was sleeping and you felt guilty for bothering him.

"Hi," he choked out. He looked you up and down, clearly taken by surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"I..." You bit your lip and gave him a meek smile. "I wanted to see you."

He looked over his shoulder and then stepped out onto the hallway, his hands went to your waist, moving you out of view of his doorway.

He seemed anxious and nervous, his eyes blown wide behind his glasses, and he quickly captured your lips, then pulled away just as quickly.

"I'm sorry, but you can't be here. You shouldn't have come," he said, letting out a sigh, pressing his forehead against yours.

"O..Okay." You huffed, feeling more stupid by the second. You took a deep breath, forcing the tears back. He was definitely seeing someone else, probably in his loft, someone better, less complicated. The thought of him touching another woman like he'd touched you made you sick.

"Elijah! Who are you hiding out here?" Said a man's voice from inside the loft, laughing.

You felt a swell of anxiety rising in your chest, and Elijah looked pained. He gave you a sympathetic look and then turned to face the man.

"Niklaus, this young lady is one of my students. She just had questions about an assignment," he said to the man, who appeared in the doorway.

He was beautiful, blonde curls and brilliant blue eyes, angular cheekbones and a sharp jawline. But he gave off an odd aura that you couldn't quite describe, there was something wild and untamed about him.

"Well come on in and have a drink with us, tell me all about how bad of a teacher my brother is," the man, Niklaus, teased, giving Elijah a playful shove.

"That's okay, I don't want to intrude. Thanks, though. I should probab-" you were in the middle of excusing yourself when you were cut off by Niklaus.

"Come now love, don't be shy. I never get to meet Elijah's students," Niklaus grinned, his eyes darting mischievously between you and Elijah. "And call me Klaus,"

You blushed and awkwardly shrugged, then turned and walked into the loft, Elijah behind you.

"Can I get you a drink, darling?" Klaus offered, pointing towards the well-stocked bar in the corner of the loft, his eyes focused on the pencil in your hair.

You nodded, panic rising in your chest. What the fuck were you doing? You were about to have a drink with his family and you were dressed like a slutty school girl under your coat. This was not going as planned.

"I'll take a scotch, thanks," you managed, glancing over at Elijah, who gave you a sweet, yet subtle wink.

You sat down awkwardly on the sofa, pulling on the edges of your coat, making sure it didn't expose your stockings.

Elijah sat down next to you, placing a warm hand on your thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze before moving it away. He was trying to be sweet and reassuring, he thought you were just nervous around his brother. Little did he know that the real source of your anxiety was what was underneath your coat.

You accepted the scotch from Klaus and took a large sip, the familiar burning sensation in your throat was calming. He sat down on a chair across from you, not so subtly checking you out.

You weren't sure what to do, Elijah was staring at you expectantly.

"So you're in my brother's class? How are his classes going?" Klaus asked, looking like he was trying to conceal a smile.

"Um. Yeah, it's going well," you answered, the heat in the room increasing.

"What's your major?" He questioned, leaning forward.

"Psychology," you replied, biting your lip.

He chuckled, shaking his head, a playful smirk on his lips.

"Cute. You want to study minds then?"

"Something like that, yes," you mumbled, staring at your scotch glass, tracing the rim with your index finger. Your other hand holding the front of your coat closed, afraid it might fall open.

"So you don't really need to learn much about ancient history for that, huh? Why even bother taking the class?" He prodded.

"It's a requirement to fulfill some general education credits and I'm in need of those, so," you offered, awkwardly tapping the toe of your shoe on the wooden floor, silently praying for a change in subject.

"Hmm... Well, Miss Psychology, tell me something about myself," he teased, eyes narrowed and alight with mischief.

"You want a diagnosis based on? What exactly?" You asked, glancing over at Elijah who was watching his brother curiously.

"What is your first impression of me," he grinned, looking at Elijah and wiggling his eyebrows.

"My first impression is that you're playing a game," you smiled coyly, relaxing a little, letting the alcohol calm you.

"What else?" He smirked, crossing his leg over the other.

"You enjoy teasing others, perhaps even humiliating them, you have a strong desire to stand out, even if it means tearing others down," you said confidently. You could've kept going, but you wanted to see what he would say.

He gave Elijah a wide smile, clapping his hands, seemingly impressed.

"That was spot on, love, you do know your shit," he laughed.

"Elijah, did you know your student was such a clever little thing," Niklaus taunted, his eyes raking up and down your exposed legs. "I bet your boyfriend goes crazy for that mouth."

You felt your cheeks turn crimson, blood rising to your face like flood waters rushing down a valley. Klaus was openly leering at you now, with no shame.

"I.. I'm not dating anyone," you muttered, beads of sweat forming on the back of your neck.

Elijah cleared his throat, a chuckle threatening to spill past his lips, he placed a possessive hand on your thigh, moving his thumb in soothing circles. Klaus' eyes flickered to where his hand had landed, his lips twitching into a satisfied smirk.

"How do you feel about older men? With accents?" He teased, cocking his head slightly.

"Niklaus, stop bothering her," Elijah scolded.

"Me? I'm not doing anything," he feigned innocence, holding up his hands in surrender, making a show of sprawling himself on the chair. "You know me, Elijah, when I see something beautiful I want it for myself,"

"Niklaus," Elijah repeated with a groan.

You were blushing and uncomfortable, but their sparring was cute, they clearly loved each other.

Klaus smiled at you and raised an eyebrow.

"Why aren't you seeing anyone?" he asked curiously.

You shrugged, sipping your scotch.

"I'm dating, but it's just casual. School's kind of a priority." You replied, avoiding Elijah's gaze, knowing damn well that you two were a contradiction to what you just said.

Klaus snorted, and your eyes landed on Elijah's, who was pouting slightly. You bit your lip to keep from smirking.

"Hm... Maybe you'll let me take you out sometime," Klaus suggested.

"Klaus... She's not interested," Elijah interrupted, his pout deepening.

You were beginning to sweat from the coat, you needed to change the subject, you were flustered and excited and terrified, all at once. Klaus noticed how red you had gotten.

"Why are you still wearing your coat? Aren't you warm? It's hot as hell in here," he observed, his blue eyes fixed on you, curious.

"Oh..." You blushed, taking a quick look over at Elijah, your anxiety multiplying tenfold. "I'm actually a little cold," you lied, your face burning hot.

Niklaus' eyes moved from the pencil in your hair downward, his gaze lingering on your legs for a moment, then his face broke out into a grin.

"How interesting," he sang, quickly switching his eyes back up to your face. "Would you like to borrow one of Elijah's sweaters?" He offered, clearly onto you.

You wanted to die on the spot. This was ridiculous, why were you here? What were you doing? 

"No it's okay, truly." You mumbled, trying to think of an excuse to get the hell out of there.

"No please, allow me to fetch one," he nodded, but he didn't make a move to go find one, he was waiting for you to remove your coat.

"It's okay. I should go actually, it's late, I don't want to impose-"

"Don't be silly," he scoffed. "Here, let's trade," he offered, a cheeky gleam in his eyes. He removed his hoodie, leaving him just in a tight white henley.

"It's fine. I'm going." You stood up, but as you did the sash of your coat unfastened, causing it to gape open, exposing your entire outfit to him.

Klaus burst out laughing, looking from you to Elijah and then back to you, making no attempt to hide his obvious enjoyment.

"Very, very interesting," he sniggered, raising an eyebrow at you, his lips curled up in a way that bordered on sinister.

Elijah wasn't helping, just sitting there, open mouthed, gawking at you like a teenager.

You wanted to dissolve into thin air, the confidence you had walked here with completely gone. A rush of shame washing over you. You held the coat shut, trying desperately to keep yourself modest.

"Well brother, it looks like you finally took my advice and seduced a student. How's she in bed? I bet she loves learning from the professor, eh?"

Elijah was now giving his brother a scathing glare. You were utterly mortified and no words were coming out of your mouth, you wanted to say something to justify it, but nothing was coming to mind.

"Now, don't look so upset. I see nothing wrong with this," he grinned, winking at you, and then turning his attention back to his brother. "I always suspected you had the ability to have some fun, deep down,"

"You should go," Elijah said to you, his tone stern, his expression oddly disappointed. You didn't realize until that moment that he was pissed.

"Have you gone mad?" Klaus chuckled. "She is utterly sinful, I would spend hours between those thighs if I were you,”

Your cheeks were so hot now that it was painful, Elijah's intense stare not helping matters. You turned and practically ran to the door, hating yourself for this stupid idea.

"Don't leave so soon love," Klaus called out to you, laughing when he heard Elijah mumble 'fuck off' to him.

When you exited the loft you wanted to cry, hot tears welling up in your eyes, you were so stupid. What were you thinking? A mixture of desperation and lust had overcome you. You had completely humiliated yourself in front of not only Elijah, but his brother too.

"Y/n, wait."

You turned to see Elijah standing just outside the doorway, looking a little guilty, though the corner of his lips were threatening to rise into a smile.

"I'm so sorry," he apologized, rubbing the back of his neck, looking disheveled and impossibly sexy with his ruffled hair.

"It's fine. I have to go." You said, heading towards the elevator as fast as you could.

You tried pushing the down button, but he came up behind you, pressing himself against you, his head dipped into the curve of your neck, kissing gently.

"You look incredible. I want you right here, bent over, that skirt hitched up around your waist," he whispered.

"Maybe next time, Professor." You said, harsher than you meant. You felt disgusted with yourself and him. You shoved him off and got on the elevator, without a single glance back, not allowing his intense gaze to halt your departure.

You cried all the way home, cursing yourself for being so shamelessly naïve. The entire time you walked back to your dorm the only thing you could think about was the way Klaus looked at you. It made you feel sick and tainted, made you feel like everything Elijah had ever done to you was a charade, it was all purely transactional. You probably came off as desperate and pathetic. There was no way a guy like him was truly interested in you. You were just a twisted fantasy to him, and tonight you played into it. You didn't know how you were going to face him on Monday.

The weekend came and went faster than you hoped, dragging yourself to class on Monday was grueling. Seeing Elijah after your humiliation on Friday evening would be the most mortifying thing in the world.

You barely slept and left for class early, hoping the walk would help clear your head, but even the fresh spring air couldn't ease the pain of how stupid you'd been. Elijah had probably laughed about it with his brother over the weekend. You were a joke to them both.

What hurt the most was that you truly cared for him, you adored him. He was your dream man. He was smart and passionate, handsome, charismatic and insanely sexual. He made you feel wanted in a way that no one had ever made you feel before. He made you feel beautiful and he challenged you intellectually.

When you were with him, everything felt perfect. Until the consequences of your feelings for him began to outweigh the logical side of your brain.

The sound of a car horn pulled you from your thoughts, you looked around for the source, and saw a fancy sports car pull up next to you.

"Get in, love,"

It was Klaus, casually leaning across the passenger's side, his sharp features arranged into a maliciously charming smile.

"I have to get to class," you said, staring straight ahead, picking up your pace.

"No you don't. Class doesn't start for another 40 minutes," he noted. "I couldn't possibly allow my brothers star pupil to walk across campus when I have this fine automobile at my disposal. My mother, rest her soul, would turn over in her grave."

You sighed, biting back a smirk, and decided you didn't have any energy to argue. You let him open the passenger's side door and got in.

"Stunning," he whispered, his lips twitching upwards, winking at you before closing the door and then rushing over to the driver's side. "Did I tell you, you looked ravishing in that outfit?" He smiled, clicking on his seatbelt and then backing out of the parking lot.

"Thank you," you mumbled, holding onto your backpack tightly, hoping that this car ride wouldn't take long.

"You didn't strike me as the kind of girl who goes to other people's apartments wearing... a getup like that," he said conversationally, driving faster than necessary with one hand on the wheel, the other running through his hair.

"I didn't expect anyone else to be there, truthfully," you admitted, staring out the window.

"My apologies for ruining your evening," he stated dryly.

"You didn't ruin it. I did that on my own, quite spectacularly," you noted, chuckling bitterly.

"How so? Worried you won't pass his class now?" He teased, pulling over just outside of the building.

You sighed, averting your eyes. "No, I'm not worried about passing. Thank you." You muttered.

Klaus stared at you, his blue eyes narrowing in contemplation.

"My brother doesn't get out much, he's a workaholic dedicated to his students, usually more concerned about their future rather than his own. That being said, he hasn't had many relationships." He paused, glancing over at you with an amused smirk. "He's so very traditional and clean cut. Old fashioned, even. Though, he might not be so wholesome underneath that prim and proper persona," he grinned.

"Klaus-"

"He is a passionate person, and I don't want to see him get hurt," he said quietly, the lighthearted expression suddenly replaced by a warning. "I care for him, probably more than I should,"

You swallowed the lump that was rapidly growing in your throat.

"Why are you telling me all of this?" You asked curiously, anxiety coiling in your belly.

"Are you fucking him for the grades? Or are you fucking him because you like him?" He challenged.

"I like him," you admitted, your face burning with shame.

"You like him, or you like fucking him? Because if the latter is the case then I will be more than happy to take my brother's place," he smirked.

"I like him," you repeated, emphasizing the ‘him’ and narrowing your eyes.

"Do you sleep with any of your other professors for good grades?"

"Oh fuck off," you said, and opened the car door, grabbing your things before climbing out.

"Come on, we're practically family now," he laughed. "After last Friday,"

"Goodbye, Klaus." You told him firmly.

"One last thing, love, before I go..."

"What?" You spat, turning back to him, the last thing you wanted was this dude running his mouth. He seemed to love the sound of his own voice.

"I really meant what I said before. Elijah is a good man, and he doesn't need his heart broken,"

"Neither do I," you muttered, slamming the door shut and walking away as fast as you could.

You hid in the back of the classroom, burying your face in your notebook, listening to the class file in. Mr. Mikaelson was ten minutes late, which was very unlike him.

"My apologies class, I had to take a cab today. My car was borrowed without my permission,”

You looked up to see him adjusting his tie, his dark hair slightly disheveled, his glasses askew. He looked a little annoyed and stressed.

"Today we will be discussing the role of women in Greek society, specifically the Spartans and Athenians. Miss Y/L/N, I don't have a TA today, can you come help me with the presentation?" He asked, his eyes flickering over to yours.

"Of course," you replied, getting up and making your way to the front.

"Everyone, please get settled. This is very important information and should be used for your essays," he warned.

He motioned for you to sit at his desk, pointing to his laptop, opening the projector for the screen.

"Just click here when I tell you," he instructed, his face so close to yours that you could smell his cologne. You could sense that he was a little on edge, and that made you nervous.

You could feel him watching you intently, so much so that your hands were shaking as you moved the mouse. He moved away to begin the lecture, but his eyes were always fixed on you, even when he wasn't speaking directly to you.

The lecture passed agonizingly slow, it felt like hours instead of a few brief moments. You could barely concentrate, the only thing on your mind was Klaus' words echoing in your head.

"An important difference between the Spartans and the Athenians is the role that women played in society, specifically their role in politics. Now, the Spartan woman was not allowed to take part in politics, they were only permitted to raise the children, while the men served in the military..."

You followed along on screen, reading the sides, occasionally sneaking a look over at him. He was so captivating, so confident and knowledgeable. You had fallen hard for him, there was no denying it.

You noticed something else on his screen. An email notification from the dean titled: Request to Transfer.

Your heart dropped into your stomach, bile rising in your throat.

"Now, in contrast, Athenian women had the freedom to learn, they were given the right to divorce, and they were allowed to serve as priestesses, which was a very esteemed position. Women were respected, not treated like property. It's a very interesting contrast, and one that is often overlooked."

You opened the email, reading it over quickly.

To Mr. Mikaelson, I've received your request to transfer to the University of Cambridge in England. This is an exciting opportunity, and I understand why you have chosen to accept. It is unfortunate, however, that we will be losing you. I will discuss this matter with the board, and be putting in my recommendation for a new instructor. I will also contact Cambridge as a reference for you. We are truly sorry to see you leave. Sincerely, Dean Williams.

You were frozen, unable to move. He was leaving.

"Thank you, miss Y/L/N, you can return to your seat,"

You blinked, looking up at him, his eyes were fixed on you, a look of concern and hesitation. But he didn't say anything, and continued his lecture.

It was a blur. The whole thing. You didn't remember packing up your things, or walking out of the room.

"Y/n, wait," his voice called out from behind you. But you just kept walking, the tears were threatening to fall, and the last thing you needed was him seeing you cry.

You skipped the rest of your classes, and walked to your dorm, ignoring the buzzing in your pocket, the phone vibrating incessantly. It was him. You knew it was him, but you couldn't speak to him.

Beth was hanging out in your room, laying on your bed, browsing her phone.

"Hey, babe, you're back early," she greeted you.

You nodded, sniffling, dropping your backpack on the ground and then going to lay down beside her.

"Are you okay?"

"No," you shook your head.

"Talk to me." She nudged you.

"I think I've fallen for a very unavailable man." You whispered, your voice breaking.

"How unavailable?"

"Like, leaving the country unavailable,"

"Oh," she said softly, reaching over and pulling you into her chest. "Is this the guy you were telling us about on Friday? The one you were going to do a grand gesture for?"

"Yeah, I went to his apartment, I was dressed in a way that would make a street hooker blush, and his brother was there. It was humiliating."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I'm embarrassed, Beth. I'm humiliated. I was just a joke to him, I mean, how can a guy like him, who is older, and successful, and has his shit together, really want a girl like me?" The tears were really starting to flow now.

"Stop. Do not do that to yourself," she chastised.

"And on top of that, I'm a fucking cliché! Fucking a professor, thinking I'm special. Thinking I was more than just some stupid kid with a crush." You said, suddenly realizing you let slip the identity of the man in question.

"Wait, you're talking about... One of our professors?!" Beth asked, her mouth hanging open.

"No," you lied, getting up out of the bed, wiping away the tears.

"Who is it?"

"Doesn't matter. He's leaving, probably going to get tenure at some big university overseas. He's never coming back," you whispered, hating the way your voice sounded so small.

"Oh. My. God, who is it!!! Tell me!!" Beth was practically begging now, but you just shook your head.

"If this information gets out it could ruin his career, please, just forget I said anything,"

She nodded, but her eyes were narrowed, "Is it Mr. Salvatore? I've heard he sleeps around with the girls here. Some even say he likes it rough," she winked, and you had to laugh.

"Definitely not, I think his wife has enough of his dick," you joked, rolling your eyes.

"Does he know about your... Feelings? Why doesn't he like you back?" She pressed, brushing your hair back.

You considered lying, but after your night of embarrassment and idiocy, you decided you had nothing else to lose.

"I think he does, but this is complicated. It's highly inappropriate and he's leaving. Which is probably for the best. Our time together can only ever be temporary," you said sadly, getting up and going to the bathroom to freshen up.

"If you love him, you should tell him, whether he's staying or not. Sometimes temporary is what's necessary to feel deeply, and that feeling should be worth the pain of his inevitable goodbye," she stated knowingly.

You walked over to her and kissed her on the cheek. She was always the friend that gave you the best advice, even if you didn't want to hear it.

"You are right, I'm going to go talk to him," you said determinedly.

"Can you pleaaasseee tell me who?" She begged as you got dressed, pulling on a skirt and some thigh high socks.

"Fine, but you can't tell a soul, and I'm borrowing your boots," you muttered, bending down to grab them.

"Okay, Jesus, it's like pulling teeth!" She exclaimed.

"It's Mr. Mikaelson," you admitted, putting the boots on and blushing, straightening out the tiny skirt and fumbling with the buttons on your cardigan. "Elijah,"

Beth let out a squeal. "Elijaahhh," she said dreamily, mocking the sound of your voice when you said his name.

"Shut up!" You replied, blushing like an idiot.

"He's sooooo hot," Beth crooned, lifting her arm and pretending to fan herself. "How did it happen?!? Is he..." she looked around the room dramatically, before leaning over and whispering, "Is he a good lay?"

You smacked her with a pillow, making her burst into a fit of laughter. "You are the fucking worst, I knew I shouldn't have told you,"

"Ok, ok, I'm sorry, but please tell me!"

You chuckled and bit your lip, reminiscing on all the things he'd done to you. "The first time it happened was in his office and I... made the first move," you admitted, smiling when you saw the look of shock on her face.

"Professor Mikaelson?"

You nodded.

"Mildmannered, broody, sexy as fuck, Mikaelson?"

"The one and only," you agreed, hugging her. "Please don't tell anyone,"

"Wouldn't dream of it," she whispered, before shoving you out the door, which resulted in you tumbling onto the hallway floor. "Don't come back until you guys have made up and made a mess of his office!! Love you babes,"

You flipped her off, laughing and adjusting your stockings and shoes, the last thing you needed was running into another professor with your ass literally out.

You sent him a quick text, hoping he was still at school. He didn't reply, which made your stomach lurch uncomfortably. This felt almost like a replay of your disastrous encounter Friday night. But this time it was going to be different, this time you were determined to talk to him and clear the air.

The school was quiet, classes were long over and everyone had left, so when you rounded the corner to Elijah's office you sighed with relief, seeing that his door was ajar, a light flickering under the frame. 

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you and leaning up against it, staring at him. He didn't say anything, so you spoke up.

"Did you mean it?" You asked softly, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Mean what?" He replied, leaning back in his chair.

"The email,"

He sat in silence, his eyes lingering on yours, and you quickly looked away. "I didn't want you to find out that way, I was going to tell you soon."

"That you're leaving?" You whispered, but somehow the words got lodged in your throat, your tongue refusing to cooperate.

He nodded, leaning back in his chair and pressing the palms of his hands against his eyes, sighing loudly, almost as though he was in pain.

"I didn't even know you applied," you said hoarsely.

"I didn't tell you because I didn't think I'd be accepted. But that job is a chance of a lifetime. I can't pass this up." His tone was even, but you could see the pain in his eyes. You felt nauseous. He was really leaving you, this was really happening.

"You must be excited," you said, cursing the way your voice shook. The lump in your throat threatening to burst.

"It's my dream job," he admitted quietly, not quite meeting your eyes.

"That's great," you felt like the world was collapsing around you, everything was crashing in on itself, suffocating you.

"Come here," he said softly.

You shook your head. "I'm fine right here."

He gave you a sad look, and you held back a sniffle, the emotion bubbling up in you, but you couldn't let it out. He wasn't yours to begin with.

"This was a mistake wasn't it?" You said sadly, remembering your conversation with Klaus, wanting to sob, bury your face in a pillow, and sleep for the rest of the year.

"Come here," he said again, this time more assertively, gesturing with his finger, beckoning you to come to him.

You bit your lip and walked over to him, your hands and knees weak, tears threatening to fall. You stood next to his desk and before you could sit down in the chair, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you into him, so that you were straddling him.

"I love you," he murmured, taking you by surprise, cradling the back of your neck, running his fingers through your hair.

"What?"

"You heard me," he insisted, kissing your forehead, pulling you closer so that you were flush against his chest, close enough to hear his heartbeat, the steady rhythm soothing you.

You sighed and shook your head, this wasn't real. You would wake up at any moment and find out this was all a horrible dream.

"I'm sorry for what happened on Friday. I... didn't handle it well," he admitted. "My brother humiliated you, and I let it happen. I am truly sorry."

"Doesn't matter," you murmured, curling into his shoulder, shutting your eyes, trying to hold onto him for as long as possible.

"It does matter, you were making an effort, putting yourself out there and the last thing I wanted was for you to get hurt. And when you left I could tell you were distraught," his voice was soothing, his hands gripping your thighs, tracing gentle circles on your skin.

"I was being a horny idiot, I kind of deserved it," you snarked.

He chuckled, his chest vibrating with amusement. "You were embarrassed. My brother likes to… push people."

"Remind me never to meet your parents then," you muttered, still refusing to open your eyes.

"The rest of my family is just as bad," he admitted, moving your legs so that they were wrapped around his waist, his large hands gripping your ass. "Are you going to open your eyes for me, my sweet girl?"

You opened them slowly, tentatively. His face was so close to yours, you could feel his warm breath, and see all the stubble on his jaw.

"Hi," you whispered shyly, biting your lip, meeting his molten brown stare, the pools of chocolate almost hypnotizing.

"I love you," he repeated, never breaking eye contact, pulling your hand up to his mouth, giving it a soft kiss.

"Y-You can't say things like that," you stammered, your heart melting at the sound of his declaration.

"Why not? It's true," he challenged you, a smirk playing at his lips, his dimples even more pronounced.

"Because you're leaving, and I... like you a lot," you said hesitantly, hating that you were being such a coward about it.

"So come with me," he murmured, his thumb tracing small circles on your thigh. "Let me take you with me."

"Cambridge is... It's your dream job, I couldn't possibly-"

"Please come with me," he said passionately, intertwining his fingers with yours. "There are lots of universities in England you can transfer to... just not Cambridge, please," he chuckled.

"I don't exactly have the money to move countries right now," you lamented, kissing his knuckles, studying the way your hands looked against his, hoping you could memorize every detail of his, in case it was the last time you'd be able to touch him.

"I'll take care of all that, love. Just please say yes," he pleaded, kissing your neck, and lifting up your cardigan, stroking the bare skin on your waist.

"O-Okay," you said timidly, gasping when you felt him lift up your tank top, his fingers skillfully removing it, tugging at your bra, making your nipples peak in excitement.

"I want an enthusiastic yes, or not at all," he ordered, kissing down your chest, hovering over your breasts, licking at the soft tissue, his warm mouth suckling the tip of your nipple, while his hand played with the other one, rolling and pinching.

You had no doubts that you would follow him to the ends of the Earth if he asked. "Yes, yes, Elijah, yes, I'll go with you," you gasped, as he nipped at your breast, his teeth pulling at the tender flesh, sending jolts of electricity through your body.

"Good girl," he praised, reaching down and unbuttoning your skirt, almost tearing it off in his rush to get you naked.

"I love these," he said softly, his fingers grazing along your thigh highs. "If Klaus didn't ruin our Friday, what exactly was your plan in that little outfit?" He wondered aloud, grinning, and you found yourself blushing despite the whole situation.

"I... wanted us to roleplay," you muttered, "B-But if you don't want to, it's fine! We don't have to. It was dumb,"

"Shh," he soothed, nuzzling your neck. "Tell me, what were you planning?"

You gulped, not expecting him to get on board so easily. "Well, I was going to pretend to be an innocent school girl and, um, you'd be my very strict professor," you admitted, completely ashamed. It sounded even worse out loud.

He let out a genuine laugh, his dimples more prominent and the twinkle in his eye entrancing. "So just a more extreme version of what we've already done in my classroom?"

You nodded and bit your lip.

"Very well, repeat after me, darling: Yes, Professor Mikaelson," he ordered, his voice dropping an octave lower, setting your soul on fire.

He looked so different right now. His demeanor changed from the sweet man who professed his love for you to someone powerful. Dominant. Hot.

"Yes, Professor Mikaelson," You almost squealed, letting out a yelp when he slapped your ass hard.

"Undress me," he instructed, sitting back against the chair, spreading his legs wider, making himself comfortable.

"Oh, okay, yeah, yessir," you mumbled, you were clumsy and uncoordinated, desperate to remove his clothes.

He was wearing suspenders today, and you playfully pulled on them, a smirk spreading across his face as you did so. You unbuttoned his shirt slowly, pulling it off, momentarily pausing when you saw how tense and wound up he was, how much he wanted you.

"You're beautiful," he murmured, running his hands through your hair, tugging slightly, and forcing you to meet his gaze. "Keep going, darling."

You nodded, and undid his pants, his erection springing up. You stroked him a few times, before sliding the pants off and straddling him once again, grinding against him, loving the way he hissed in response.

You positioned your legs, ready to sink down onto him, but he stopped you, his hand gripping your waist tightly.

"What's my name?" He growled, his jaw clenched.

"Elijah,"

"Not what I'm looking for," he tutted, spanking you again, the sting making you whimper.

"Daddy," you murmured, and he hummed in approval, gripping your waist and guiding you down onto his cock, his shaft stretching you open.

"Now ride my cock, sweetheart," he ordered, and you started moving, up and down, grinding into him, your hips bucking forward. Pressing yourself against him, feeling the delicious friction of his pelvis against your clit.

He let out a soft moan and buried his face in the crook of your neck, kissing and biting, leaving tiny bruises all over you, marking you as his.

"Good girl, use my cock, baby, come on," he groaned, his breath hot and ragged.

You whimpered and picked up the pace, riding him harder, faster, chasing the delicious pleasure. Your eyes locked with his, your eyebrows knitted together in concentration.

Your thighs burned and you could feel the sweat trickle down the back of your neck, and yet you never felt better, the feeling of him inside of you was heavenly.

You braced your hands on his shoulders, trying to find leverage, his fingers digging into your ass, and his tongue slipping into your mouth.

The kiss was hot, and messy, and desperate, a complete contradiction of the slow and sensual movements of his hips, the way his cock slid in and out of you, the lewd squelching sounds of your bodies colliding filling the air.

"Are you getting tired?" He teased, breaking the kiss, nipping at your bottom lip.

"No," you denied, panting heavily, but he noticed the slight tremble of your legs, and the beads of sweat rolling down your face.

He stopped moving his hips, letting you take control, smirking at you.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" He demanded, raising his eyebrow at you.

You blushed, and slowly started riding him, trying not to whine. Your thighs burned and you were exhausted, but you couldn't stop. He wouldn't let you.

You bounced up and down on his cock, and he smacked your ass, the stinging sensation making you hiss.

"Come on, my love, you're not doing a very good job, are you?" He chastised you, his voice low, and teasing, and taunting.

"S-Sorry, daddy," you mumbled, your legs started to shake, your muscles hitting the point of no return.

He didn't answer, and kept spanking you, watching you try to keep a rhythm. Your legs suddenly gave out and you fell onto his chest, burying your face in his shoulder.

He chuckled and moved his arms underneath your legs, lifting you up, and slamming into you. You cried out in surprise, and moaned, clinging onto his neck for support.

"Tired, are we?" He teased, his mouth next to your ear, his lips trailing down your neck, and biting hard, making you wince. "I've got you,"

He kept fucking into you, his hips snapping back and forth, pounding into you, the chair creaking beneath him. He began bouncing you up and down his shaft, your nails digging into his shoulders.

"Oh fuck," you moaned, burying your face in his neck, breathing him in.

"Language, Miss Y/L/N," he growled, and you let out a loud yelp when he smacked your ass.

"Sorry, Professor," you apologized, your climax creeping up on you.

Your eyes met his, and you saw a flash of desire, his jaw clenching, the vein in his forehead protruding.

"Elijah, Elijah," you whimpered, grinding into him, desperately chasing your orgasm,moaning and gasping when he kissed you again, his lips warm and soft against yours, his tongue slipping into your mouth, swallowing your whines and whimpers.

"Cum for me," he whispered, his voice low and gravelly, his hands cupping your ass, kneading the flesh.

You did just that, a few more thrusts and you came undone, screaming his name, clutching onto him. He groaned and buried his face in the crook of your neck, his body stiffening as he filled you with his cum.

You stayed seated on him, not wanting to be separated. Wanting to live in this moment forever, his glistening skin, warm and inviting, and yours pressed against his. Him inside of you, the warm connection between you two.

He grinned lazily at you and swept away the hair plastered against your forehead.

"Professor Mikaelson, that was..." You began in a teasing tone, but trailed off when you realized you didn't know what to say. It felt like it would be impossible to fully encapsulate the experience with words.

"I love you too," you said breathlessly, finally wrapping your head around his declaration.

"You don't have to say it back," he murmured, "I know it's all a bit sudden-"

You cut him off with a desperate kiss. "I love you," you repeated, the words becoming easier. "I love you, and I'll come to England with you, if you'll have me."

He smiled, resting his forehead against yours, cupping your face in his hands. "Sweet girl, I wouldn't have it any other way."

♡♡ Tag-List ♡♡

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♡ @meeom ♡ @damienmorton ♡ @wickedmuse ♡ @sunkissedebony97 ♡ @idk00sblog ♡ @savannaounana ♡ @cs-please ♡ complicatedandconfusing-25 @hamiltimes ♡ @akala6670229 ♡ @yeaiamme2 ♡ @itsjulzandmydiamonds ♡ @spideysbabe

[mournings-stars]

i loved the adam with a fat!reader 🥹 so cute, id love to see lucifer with a reader similar? like maybe shorter like him and a bit on the chubby side 🙏

AHHH THATS SO CUTE

imagine you’re like a chef or baker or something, maybe hellborn, maybe a sinner, and you meet him at an event that he’s just required to go to, so he’s staying by the catering tables and just busying himself with food so he doesn’t have to talk to anyone

“i know it’s a buffet, darlin’, but you’re milking my lil’ supply dry.” and imagine you have the cutest lil accent like maybe it’s southern if you’re hellborn or soft, 50’s movie-type transatlantic if you’re a sinner (i kinda wanna write this now actually so tell me what u prefer…)

first he’d look up, just expecting you to be taller than him, but then he’d look down and see you and immediately try to hand his plate back because how could he take your business for granted when you’re standing right in front of his and so sweet… and beautiful — like he’s not blind, he can see that you’re gorgeous. and if he’s honest the food isn’t good enough to get so many plates, but your restaurant would certainly be popular when you’re the precious little face of it

but he has to stop himself because his thoughts are certainly bordering on rude now, so he’s scrambling to apologize like, “i’m sorry — i see why your food’s so popular now, HAHA, you’re gorgeous — i mean, your food is amazing, but—“

“but?” and then he just shuts up. “no keep going, but what, your majesty?” and he is fumbling, because he can’t tell you he thinks the food is mediocre when he’s been shoving it down his throat all night, but then you say, “i know it’s not my best; they had me here last minute, frettin’ over twenty trays each of my best dishes, which can’t be the best if they’re repeated twenty times,” and even though you’re talking on and on, he’s listening and nodding on and on because because you’re just speaking to him so naturally

“am i talking to much?” “yes — i mean, no! i could listen to you talk all night!”

the rest is literally history, like you tell him to come to your restaurant to see what your cooking is really like, and when he finds out its just a small little restaurant with a couple tables and an old kitchen, he’s amazed because it tastes even better than it did at the event

once he decides to ask you out, and he decides quick, he knows he can’t ask you out to eat, or to an event, or to his house, or to the movies, or—

“you wanna get somethin’ to eat sometime?” and you’re literally asking him before he can even think to ask. “maybe you could cook for me?” you suggest slyly and he’s too flustered to say anything so he just nods. “i’ll make sure i dress fancy for you then, majesty.” and this man is MELTING

and if there’s one thing he learns about you that night its that you are not insecure about anything — your first conversation of you doubting your cooking skills might’ve made him think otherwise, but now he knows it’s just not the case

and you have no reason to be insecure; about your cooking, about anything — hell, you look amazing all dolled up just to come to his home for his 8-minute spaghetti… at least he made homemade meatballs. and those were pretty good! you even complimented them, which gave him a very much needed ego boost to get through the night confidently

and when his confidence finally shows, you’re sure he’s what you want, so you don’t bother taking your time with leading up to kisses or anything past that. you take what you want, with permission, and give him what he wants

and he loves it about you, like, you’re so sure of yourself, confident, and carry yourself with so much charm that people just step out of your way, even with your short stature, which he also loves about you — it’s nice having someone shorter around for once, but he’d definitely shape-shift and let himself be shorter than you for a day or so if you wanted

along those lines, he would give you any and everything you wanted. even if you didn’t ask, he’d give it to you — he’ll get you a new restaurant, new equipment, appliances… hell, he’ll even get you a new apartment… that is, if you don’t move in with him

and he would ask, a million times he’d ask because he just loves being with you that much. whenever you come over, or he goes to your place, he’s stuck to you. he watches you cook, helps if you let him — he bakes! he can bake, but of course he finds out you can too, and he insists you’re much better, but you insist that you do it together since this was much less dangerous than letting him rummage through your spice cabinet

if he’s not helping you, he’s hugging you from behind and watching what you do, hands running all over you, feeling the soft plush of your thighs and hips, your stomach, anything you’ll let him touch which he kisses your cheeks and neck and shoulders — literally anything you’ll let him do because he just loves listening to your precious laughter as he loves on you, or your sighs when he marks your neck or shoulder

this man LOVES lying with his head on your lap or in between your thighs. literally anything to do with your thighs or resting his head on your stomach, like, he’s fully back in heaven

he also loves you on top of him, straddling him while you comb your fingers through his hair, legs across his lap as you read, cuddled up to him as you watch a movie or sleep, he can’t get enough of you

and don’t get me started on the nsfw like… head between your legs all fucking day, squeeze his head with your thighs — like actually do it because he will come undone

[max1461]

only tangentially related but sometimes I wonder if survivorship bias makes us view modern art as less than older art, that time and cultural memory acts as a natural bullshit filter, that actually people were just as vapid and pretentious back then, but none of the vapid and pretentious work had enough cultural value stick around to be examined now

I think it's partly this, but it's partly something else.

This is probably gonna piss a lot of people off, but I think in a particular sense, contemporary art is just... straightforwardly more advanced than older art. I know, I know, but hear me out: I don't mean that as a value judgement. What I mean is like...

Ok, take math as an example. Math started out talking about things that everybody's heard of: triangles, circles, whole numbers. But as those concepts were better understood, they got abstracted more and more. Symmetries of shapes where abstracted to symmetry groups, numbers abstracted to rings and fields, eventually it was all abstracted to category theory, and so on. And now if you look at major research topics in modern math, things like e.g. the Langlands program, as a non-expert, it often looks like a bunch of fucking nonsense about bullshit objects that don't have anything to do with the real world! But even though I don't understand the Langlands program itself, I know enough math to understand why all the levels of abstraction that I have understood are meaningful and valuable, and I can see why going even further would be too. And math is useful enough that the results often speak for themselves.

So I think contemporary art is much like this. If you read contemporary art theory, you will immediately see that it is all very meta. Art used to be made about very concrete things—people and nice looking vistas and so on—that anyone could understand. And then theorists came along and built up frameworks for thinking about art, because they wanted to understand why that art worked, why it was powerful and emotive. And then new, avant-garde artist came along and made art about the frameworks, pushing at their edge-cases or exploring their unintuitive implications. And then new frameworks were built up to understand that art, rinse and repeat. This account is, as I understand it, a little bit ahistorical—the building and the pushing of frameworks was often simultaneous and often not clearly articulated. Although, frankly, the same could be said for the history of math. But in retrospect I think a pretty undeniable picture emerges.

So, to put it bluntly, I think one of the reasons so much contemporary art looks vapid is that it isn't for you. It's about things you've never heard of, in the same way that category theory is about spaces and morphisms, and explaining that to someone who's never heard of groups or topological spaces is basically impossible. And I think there are some differences—art is obviously, you know, totally vibes based in a way that math isn't. If a big wire sculpture with styrofoam cups on it or whatever doesn't speak to you then it doesn't speak to you, no one can defend it on "objective" grounds. And art isn't useful in the way that math is, so it doesn't demonstrate its validity to people who don't get it in any way. But what I wish people understood is that there are people, who know a bunch of art theory and art history, who that wire sculpture with styrofoam cups on it does speak to. It makes them go "oh, I love how it plays off of X and contrasts with Y" etc. etc. And that isn't going to happen for you because, like, you don't know what X or Y even are! But that doesn't make it valueless, it just makes it insular. Which, you know, contemporary art really is! I think there are a lot of contemporary artists who claim to not be doing what I just described, who claim to be making art "for everybody", but I think if you read their artist statements and stuff it often becomes pretty clear that this is not the case. And this is a valid criticism of contemporary art! But "vapid" is mostly not.

Pretentious, definitely. It's pretentious as fuck.

[pikatsum]

Lights, Camera, Chaos | 1 | Todoroki Shouto / Reader

Summary: You and Shouto are forced to make your first televised appearance as a couple. What starts as an embarrassing invasion of privacy completely upends itself once you realize just how cutthroat the world of reality TV can get.

Tags & Warnings: Reader uses she/her pronouns, Quirkless Reader, Pro-Hero Shouto.

Part of the Pretty Boy Summer collab! [cross-posted on ao3]

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Being the partner of a pro-hero was the kind of thing that should really come with an instruction manual. And emblazoned on uncoated paper stock beneath chapter one, the golden rule that nine of ten couples managed to break: keep it on the down-low.

Those who didn’t faced the consequences— particularly civilians.

Their faces were ultimately the ones that got splashed across the front page of every gossip-rag in Japan. They became public pariahs, their names repeated ad nauseam on the news, whispered with glee in hair salons and social clubs. In the story of their life, everything became forfeit to the public— their friends, their profession, their dating history, their homes. All of it.

Now, for nearly three months, you’d been one of them. At the end of the day, that was the noodles’ fault, really.

The summer after culinary school, you’d scored your first full-time role, working as the head chef in a small noodle shop just a few blocks from your college campus, at the edge of the city. The owner, Okuda-san, had been in business for years, but the dreams of grandeur that had brought him to central Mustafau as a young man had long since been struck by reality. Though the quality of his meals had never diminished, he’d vastly scaled back his operations over the last ten years— gone was the opulent restaurant in the center of downtown with its sleek metallic architecture and warm ambient lighting. Gone too was his wife, or so you suspected, based on the mutterings you could pick up from the front office, when business ran slow.

The day you met Shouto, the rain had been coming down in sheets, blurring the windows and filling the reception area with a soothing white-noise as you oversaw reservation bookings, dinner preparations and engaged in a small bit of gossip-gathering on the side. It was that same rain that had led you to warn him about the biodegradable styrofoam that his takeout was packed in, and offer the restaurant’s tiny enclave seating to avoid having his meal ruined by the deluge. You’d shared polite conversation— mostly offering tips for balancing buckwheat dough to make proper soba noodles.

Over time, the street in front of Okuda-san’s little shop had become a well-worn patrol path for Shouto’s agency. Conversations turned to texts, and invitations out with his friends. After an unhealthy amount of pining, you’d finally steeled your nerves enough to ask him on a date— an awkward but effective kickstart to almost two years of the best relationship you’d ever had.

There truly was no protocol for having such an intimate piece of yourself revealed to the public, to millions of your partner’s diehard fans. There weren’t words to describe the moment you first laid eyes on the incriminating photo that had started all of this: the two of you, sharing a kiss on the way up to your apartment. Your longing, exacerbated by Shouto’s tedious travel schedule had faced off against your building’s perpetually-slow elevator doors and came up short.

One grainy picture, posted to one account incited a slew of Internet detectives, stealing your anonymity in a matter of hours.

At the very least, you’d been blissfully unaware at first— overlooking the increasing stares from the diners at Okuda-san’s, and glossing over the fact that the cab driver knew your name on the way home. You’d remained blissfully ignorant up until arriving home to find Shouto on the doorstep, still in his costume. He’d quickly shepherded you up to your apartment and barricaded the door. In full pro-hero mode, he’d guided you through the essentials to pack in a duffel bag, and then quickly brought you back to his, to wait out the full extent of the madness.

The worst of it was concentrated in that first two weeks. You’d been unable to turn on the TV without hearing the diminutive nickname the media had chosen for you— “Noodle Legs”— coupled with the same clip of Shouto guiding you up the steps into his high-rise building, over and over. Unfortunately, your legs had been wobbling, as the full magnitude of what was happening had finally begun to set in. In those first days, you’d sequestered yourself in the guest room with the blinds drawn, the drone of the TV only semi-effective against the catastrophizing taking place in your mind.

The public had judged your relationship with Shouto and you clearly had not met expectations. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. Even a decade on from the war that had rewritten the operations of superhuman society, competent wasn’t a word that paired well with Quirkless.

As the media storm raged, you had never seen Shouto so upset. In the first few days, his schedule was particularly erratic, his whereabouts always announced by text and sticky notes left on your door, or the bathroom mirror in tight, neat script. Often, he was out amidst the public, speaking to media outlets on his own, trying to stem the influx of public opinion about you that had become the nation’s topic de jour. As you slowly began to emerge from your cocoon of solitude, you saw just how oppositely this ordeal was affecting him.

When he was home, Shouto paced, relentlessly. He completed a book of Sudoku puzzles as you absently cooked enough udon to feed a small army— or at least four of his pro-hero friends. Each night, he scarcely settle in on the couch next to you before noticing a stray sock or a flickering lightbulb, some small thing to put right. Nothing was enough, anymore, and even as you asked him to come to bed— his bed— he only ever seemed to sleep on the couch, if at all.

After nearly a week, his mania and your melancholy finally collided, spectacularly. You could still remember the whisper of the paper against the hardwood, as it slid under the bedroom door, late that night. Nearly two pages offered a handwritten letter apologizing for the upheaval of your entire life, and his absence in the aftermath. The third carefully recorded the plan he’d been building to mitigate the fallout, mentioning the friends he’d enlisted to help him and proposed ideas for a manufactured scandal, enough to take the limelight off you. That moment of shade, he argued, would allow you to distance yourself.

“I promise to help you establish a future that will make you happy.” the letter concluded, “And I understand, if that future no longer includes me.”

It was carefully-worded, largely self removed and so quintessentially Shouto that it nearly broke you all over again. Not much about your future was determined that night, apart from one, indelible truth: you didn’t want a future without Shouto in it. If that meant you’d have to face the public— the cameras and opinions and bigotry— so be it.

You’d casually perused enough gossip magazines to know the general strategies that hero & civilian relationships used, publicly. Some couples went on luxurious (sponsored) vacations, their devotion shamelessly showcased through glossy magazine spreads and corny ‘What’s in Our Suitcase?’ Q&As. Others used their moment in the limelight to launch one partner’s passion project — a private art studio, a taproom, a crossfit gym— often trendy, always overcrowded and never necessary public infrastructure.

The rest wrote memoirs. So. Many. Memoirs. You’d just finished “Catching the Copycat. — How I Fell in Love with Phantom Thief” earlier that month, and it wasn’t half bad. Amidst the unending slew of public attention and the realization that you were going to have to market yourself somehow, the idea of writing a novel was contenting. At the very least, your partner’s versatile Quirk meant there was no end to the pithy puns you could come up with for a title.

And then, Shouto’s PR team put out a press release announcing that the two of you would be starring in the next episode of Split Shift— the Hero Network’s one and only reality television program.

‘Think you’ve got what it takes to be a hero? Think again!” announced its pithy tagline, in the promotional packet,’ Each week, Split Shift lets its viewers experience a day in the life of the nation’s top defenders, exposing their personal sides, through the eyes of their inner circle!.’

The two of you had tried to fight it. Oh, how you had tried, your combined efforts quickly spawning endless hours of email chains. But Shouto’s public relations team was relentless— apparently, the clamor of the public for more details, photos, evidence of your leaked relationship was stronger than any villain in the known universe. And without it, they warned, Shouto’s rank in the heroics charts was severely at risk.

“I’m sure you’re aware,” Omori Mika, Shouto’s head of PR, explained, fingers flying across her keyboard as a window of metrics popped up, “a significant portion of Shouto’s fanbase finds him anywhere from “considerably” to “highly” attractive. Early this year, he dethroned Best Jeanist to win Quirk’d Magazines’ “Hottest Hero Alive.”

“Oh, yes— well deserved.” you nodded, sparing a glance to your own well-loved copy, resting on the coffee table. The cover-shot had really captured his intensity, the haunting contrast of his heterochromatic gaze in low lighting.

From the other side of the couch, Shouto cleared his throat, and you found yourself impishly delighted by the fact that he refused to meet your eyes.

“Why does that matter?”

“Because that faction in particular wants to know — why her?” Mika made a brief gesture towards you as she expounded, “Why, out of every person in the nation— the world, even— why is she the one you chose?”

Shouto blinked, glancing between you and the laptop.

“Do they want a list? I’d have to ask Midoriya for—“

“—evidence is the name of the game, Shouto.” Mika broke in, “Photos, maybe, but what people really want is footage.”

“Footage that we have to get by being publicly humiliated, got it.” you sighed.

A notch appeared between Mika’s perfectly- plucked eyebrows.

“I know you’re both unhappy about the booking, but the Hero Network is the best platform to showcase Shouto’s capabilities. The nature of the show won’t just remind people why they trust him— it’ll show that he’s chosen a capable and resourceful partner, as well.”

You flushed and averted your gaze. Capable and resourceful were just about the last things that you were feeling, at the moment.

“And honestly, Split Shift is tame in comparison to some of the shows that have been asking for you.” Mika began to flip through her color-coded planner, “Let’s see… Quirktastrophe, Save my Love Life… oh, you’re lucky we didn’t put you on Zero to Hero, I hear that host is a real piece of work, off-camera…”

“Message received.” Shouto intoned, cutting off the diatribe. You moved your legs enough to allow him to scoot over, leaning forward to minimize the chat window and zoom in on a contractual document, written in a font size in the single-digits. He met your eyes

You took a deep breath and sealed your fates with a nod.

“Where do we sign?”

The devil worked hard, but apparently the scheduling team for Split Shift worked harder. Less than a week later, the two of you were arriving at the studio at the crack of dawn, for what promised to be a grueling day of filming. The process began two blocks before the filming lot, a two-man crew driving out to meet in an adjacent parking lot. You and Shouto were each asked to step out of the car in order to have a microphone pack strapped and secured beneath your clothing. They also hooked a small portable camera to the dashboard, to “capture your authentic reactions to arriving on-set.”

In a mutual act of defiance, you and Shouto remained dead-silent for the remaining two blocks. It was a welcome respite, especially given that it seemed those silences would be few and far between for the rest of the day.

Two steps out of the car and you were being accosted by a human gale-force. She arrived in a cloud of cherry-scented perfume, and wasted no time in handing over the two smoothies she was carrying. The badge pinned smartly to her dark blazer read “Noujuu Yōko”.

You’d just barely opened your mouth to offer a ‘thank you’, but the woman barely spared a glance before she turned and circled a finger in the air to follow.

“You’re seven minutes late.”

“Your crew was delayed and there were a number of road closures en route.” Shouto fell in line, his cooler hand lacing with your free one, “We weren’t—“

“—I sent a reminder email at 2:45 AM with these details. Your coordinator should have shared them.”

You watched as a notch appeared in your partner’s brow, a subtle display of his annoyance. Before he could retort, you broke in with a small laugh that felt as awkward and forced as it sounded.

“Sorry about that.” you said, “This is all… very new.”

You didn’t receive a response, nor at this point were you particularly expecting one. Avoiding the wires criss-crossing the asphalt while keeping up with her brisk pace was taking enough effort, anyways. Unfortunately, an experimental sip of the smoothie in your hand revealed that it tasted like chalk.

“Don’t feel the need to apologize.” Shouto murmured, as you slowed your pace. This close, notes of mint and jasmine stood out in his cologne as he leaned over to murmur to you, “She’s just high-strung. They can film and record as they like, now— I’ve already seen a camera following us, from the right. They’re looking for reactions.”

“So, no public meltdowns— got it.” you smiled weakly, a chill going up your spine at the prospect of indirectly being ‘on-air’.

Yōko led the way back to the first of the sound stages as she explained that Split Shift was filmed in a “psychologically-backed” sequence. The core of that process was candid footage, occasionally guided by interviews.

“You’ll be interviewing throughout the day, both separately and together.” she explained, at the door, “At midday, we’ll have a thirty-minute lunch, and a touch-up with hair and makeup. The afternoon will then be dedicated to wrapping up the heroics case.”

“The… what?” you asked, glancing at Shouto, “Is there something you’re supposed to look into?”

“Not that I am aware of.” Shouto said, “Although I assume, based on the increasing number of cameras that have tracked us here, that this is meant to be some kind of dramatic twist.”

It took you a moment to begin to spot them— angled around corners, hidden in the shrubbery and eaves of the soundstage. There was even a drone flying overhead, high up enough to muffle the whine of its motors. Apprehension bloomed in your chest, counting at least fifteen cameras, knowing there were likely more.

The tone Shouto adopted was pure apathy— but you knew it as a defense mechanism, to hide the anger he hated to show.

“Is there a particular direction you’d like us to face, to express our shock?” he said.

Yōko’s chartreuse eyes narrowed in a silent declaration of war.

“This way will be fine.”

In the next instant, a loud metallic screech made you jump. Whirling around, you realized that the garage door of the warehouse was opening, and although you couldn’t see much through the gloom, the sun’s rays did catch off another two camera lenses, at least.

“We’ve made a few changes on set.” Yōko had to raise her voice to speak over the shuffle of the film crew as they filled in the space, the descending screech of the drone, “Audiences used to prefer viewing the world of heroes at street-level, through the eyes of those they loved most. Now, they want to experience it, for themselves.”

You weren’t looking at her, though, or any of the multitudes of cameras. Instead, your gaze was focused on the mannequin angled in the center of the sound stage, and dressed in a disconcerting blend of lycra and tactical gear— specifically an all-too-familiar vest and utility belt.

Yōko’s voice rang out behind you, sending a chill up your spine as the full scope of what you had gotten yourself into began to click into place.

“So, [Last Name] [First Name]. Are you ready to become a hero?”

[celesterayel]

the tragic heroes | percy jackson

pairing: percy Jackson ✩ ‧₊˚

IN WHICH — the tragic heroes and the tragedy that appeases the chaos.

The monster cackles in delight, its bulging eyes crinkling with glee and invoking disgust in all that have (and will) witness its countenance. Darkness hides all other pallors of rotting skin and luminously straining veins, slivers of shades of bruised blues and bloody reds clashing against the dark abyss of the room, that the monster has no use for as an entity of chaos.

Bells foil loudly in the distance, perturbing the distant silence of the castle with grating screeches only reaching the heights of noise as the pits of tartarus. It is a cacophony of choked laughter and perversive glee for the delicate steps that built the foundation for what is to come. And soon it shall!

The Fates have come knocking on the door of destiny and offered up to the beast the next great tragedy that shall put all the others to shame. A deal for judgement and devastation. The Fates have weaved through sorrows befitting the leagues of Icarus's falling and Achille's lost love, enthralling the vices of Aphrodite's cruel methods that end with aching lips and entranced poets--forever written into history. They have searched the sands of time and bid the eons of creation for this.

The monster lounges forward as if the visions in the water will disappear and greedily drinks forth the taste of cataclysmic devotion and the etchings of pain in the cosmos as the moonlight of the water provides the burning echoes from lips that shall taste the sweetest sin and ache for it in every other lifetime. What a lovely destruction this will be.

The monster pitches out, “It has begun, young little hero. Such pretty sorrows..."

The Fates have certainly outdone themselves. This story will be one for the ages to come and even after!

The walls haunch over and enclose the story in its grasp, keeping it their secret even if only just a bit longer. It reeks of desperation and devastation--the greatest ones always do.

Voices of the damned and lost screech out in laughter, the entity mocks in pity or sadness all the same: "Wretched Greek story doomed to repeat like it has every lifetime; the pour of ichor waning between reality and prophecies about to drip, drip, drip down the pages. Except in this one, it seems perhaps the gods made a mistake choosing you for him. He has no qualms choosing you over all else. I must say, I shall have fun watching the Earth burn and Olympus fall down--the chaos it shall bring...delightful! Blessing or curse we have yet to see! It seems I have a new tale to tell when the cursed half-bloods come crooning at my gates to weep. My, what marvelous tunes!”

The beast could taste the tears and heartache that slide right off this tale, so presently tasteful.

My, my what marvelous fortunes to come indeed.

The Savior of Olympus., Son of the Seas, Percy Jackson. The Survivor.

The Great One, Daughter of the Heavens, Callopeia Iris. The Tragedy.

"Finally a story for the gods below who ache for destruction and tragedy like it was made for them. They shall have a riot."

The Tragic Heroes.

✩ ‧₊˚ author note i was doing physics and calc hw and this came into my mind and now thinking of creating a full on fanfic on ao3 and wattpad based on the dialogue i wrote. i apologize for being so inactive and for the requests in my inbox. swear I have alot planned and written but classes are kicking me rn. i just needed to post this cuz i think it sounded really good :)