#like yay its not drugs

[scorpiusmalfoylovesoscarwilde]

hey alexa, is projecting my emotions and situations onto fictional characters in my mind because that's the only way I know how to process and deal with them healthy??

[persephoneflouwers]

-

[butterflypistolking]

ok i literally cant tell if this is better or worse than benadryl cant they just make xanax free i'm so tired of using lame ass shit for the worst most baby highs

[millersix]

vent time

[killer-wizard]

there's a fuckin. stupid ass gimmick blog on here (many of them) that i hate with my heart and soul but people get pissy about it so i cant say anything.

[sweetiecutie]

🖤Fuck or Die part 2🖤

Part 1

Pairing: slasher! König x fem! Reader

Warnings: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, mdni, smut, non con so rape, violence, obsession, drugging, face-slapping and nose bleeding, choking, kidnapping, mention of murder. If you feel triggered by any of these warnings - just scroll past!

A/n: this took me way longer than I expected but yay, I finally wrote the second part!!! Also absolutely not me incorporating a quote from the movie bc I think it’s impossibly hot🤭

Reading part 1 is recommended for understanding the plot

Your life will never be the same. That damned evening changed you, everything around you, splitting your life into before and after.

Your memories of next few days after the murder were a sheer blur of events and conversations - numerous interrogations with police officers and detectives, psychologists trying to soothe you out of your stupor still, your mother crying her eyes out at the sight of you right after police arrived at the place of Paul’s death. And, of course, nasty journalists trailing behind you, watching your every move, invading your personal space unapologetically.

Of course, you were quite a catch - the first and only one who ever survived a meeting with König. Everyone wanted to know what he looked like - any particular details, scars or tattoos, a fucking skin colour - anything you could remember would be of huge use, giving at least any clues to a dead unmoving case. But there was very little you could help with - König took great care of covering every centimetre of his skin in black clothing, his voice changed, he smelled of nothing but earth and sickening metal of your boyfriend’s blood. Bastard was even smart enough to not cum inside nor anywhere actually, so that police couldn’t get his DNA samples.

A few months had passed since that horrific attack and there were still no traces of König.

It was midday when your parents had to leave to attend your grandma’s birthday - your mother was reluctant, not wanting to leave you all alone. You were never alone actually - a few police cars always patrolled right outside of your house, not allowing even postmen to get too close to your family’s property. It took a lot of reassuring and encouragement from your side to get your mother off your back, convincing her that you’ll be just fine by yourself and that you want your parents to have some fun. She then gave up with a deep sight, promising to be back in only a few hour’s matter.

You heaved a heavy sigh, closing and locking the front door after waving your parents goodbye, heading to the kitchen to grab yourself a drink. A pile of dirty dishes stacked in a sink caught your eye, the sight of its ugly mess on otherwise clean and tidy kitchen caused an itch somewhere deep in your brain. Without second thought you rolled up your sleeves, pouring dish soap onto the sponge and foaming it up.

As you were halfway through the dishes loud trilling of your landline phone calling startled you, causing you to jump on your spot. Your head whipped around, looking into direction from which the sound came. Wiping your wet hands on the kitchen towel you grabbed the phone, tucking it in between your ear and shoulder after accepting the incoming call.

- Hello? - you said, coming back to the sink, swiping foamy sponge over another plate, cleaning it of any grease and leftover bits of food.

- Hello! Um, can I speak to Paul? - your movements halted abruptly. You stood there silently for a long while, muscles stiff and unmoving, eyes staring blankly at some invisible point in the space before you.

- Excuse me, are you still here? Do I have the wrong number? - the man on the other end of the line said, his voice sounding concerned. It seemed to bring you out of your stupor as you drew in a long breath, exhaling noisily.

- Um, can I ask you how you got this number? - you said, already sensing something weird about this whole situation. But cops were all around your place, there was nothing to be worried about, right?

- Paul gave it to me himself. Said to call here if I needed to reach out to him, - man explained. That was strange but not unexplainable - Paul often hang out at your house, you wouldn’t be surprised if he knew your home phone number better than his own. - So am I calling right?

- Oh, yeah, sorry it’s just… Paul’s dead, - you said, teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek, sweet metallic taste coating your buds, but you couldn’t care less, nibbling deeper into small wound, feeling of slight pain grounding you successfully.

- Oh god, what happened? I’m so sorry, I didn’t know. But who am I speaking to then? - the man said, his voice now sounding genuine and apologetic. Everyone around Y/n suddenly sounded genuinely and apologetic. She heaved another sigh, resuming her scrubbing on the plates.

- He was murdered. And I’m his girlfriend, - you said in a calm tone, free of any emotion or feeling. Paul’s death was pretty much the only thing you talked about with others - police, detectives, police again, his parents and friends, your parents and friends. It seemed like such a sensitive topic turned into a rough callous way too quickly. - Well, I was his girlfriend, - Y/n mumbled after a short pause, faint clatter of porcelain audible in the background.

- Sorry about your boyfriend, - man on the line said. There was a brief moment before he added: - all those muscles didn’t help much, did they?

You froze. Silence settled in, interrupted only by occasional electric noise humming through the speaker. You heard your own pulse humping rapidly in your ears, your breathing fast and shallow, all muscles in your body tensing in alarm, straightening your back. Your eyes shoot up, looking out of the window above the sink. There were a few trees growing shallowly - barely an orchard - separating your house from your neighbours. No one was there.

- What’s that, sweet girl? You can’t see me? - a voice taunted, erupting herds of goosebumps running down your spine. - What a shame, I can see you clear as day.

- Neighbourhood is packed full with cops, you sick son of a bitch. If you only fucking dare coming anywhere close to my ho-

- Now-now, Y/n, - slasher interrupted you unapologetically, his voice hard and cold, causing thin hairs on your arms to rise. - Control your fucking language when you speak to me.

Your eyes dropped down onto the sink, fluffy dish soap foam was sparkling, playing with all the rainbow colors under the sun rays pouring in through the window. You clasped the phone in your non dominant hand, your dominant one reaching out and grabbing a kitchen knife from the drying rack, handle still wet and a bit slippery in your grasp.

- My, my, a dangerous thing that you’re holding. Be careful and don’t cut yourself, dearie, - König taunted, making your teeth clench. All blood drained out of your face, making you as pale as paper. Your eyes were fixated upon your window, peering into the orchard, desperately trying to spot any movement.

- What are you planning on doing? Everyone will hear if I scream. And cops will get your ass into prison, right where it belongs, - you spat out, pushing off the counter; your eyes ran all around the kitchen, looking for your cell phone with detective’s number saved, trying to keep the current call going so it’ll be possible to track it down.

- Oh will they? Then you better not scream, silly, - König snorted, making your blood boil. You were frightened still, terrified even; but the remorse of what he did to you, to Paul, was fuelling into your spite, making you a tad bit braver.

Failing to find your phone you entered the living room, rummaging through cushions and blankets piled on the couch, failing to find the stupid thing.

- Looks like you lost something. What’s up sweetheart? - you threw soft cushion back on the couch violently, huffing in annoyance upon not finding what you were looking for. You straightened and turned around to head to your bedroom, stoping in the middle of your tracks, freezing to the spot.

In the doorway leading to the hall stood König - dressed in all black, with heavy leather boots and his huge dagger strapped firmly to his thigh with a sheath, white scream mask staring right back at you. One large hand was pressing the phone to his ear, the other one was holding up your cellphone - the exact one you were looking for.

- You looking for this? - he asked, his own voice reverberating on the line because of your proximity.

You threw the phone to the side clutching onto the knife tightly. You dashed to the kitchen - there was a back door you could slip through - and outside was filled with neighbours and cops. Just pathetic six or so meters. Just a bit…

A scream tearing through your throat was muffled by a huge hand clamping against your mouth, the other one squeezing your wrist so tightly that for a fleeting moment you thought your bones were snapped, causing your grip on the knife to loosen, it falling down on the floor with loud clatter. König kicked the knife away across the kitchen, folding your arm back which caused your back to arch in pain - it felt as if he wanted to tear your limb from the rest of your body.

- Where do you think you’re going, Y/n? - König growled next to your ear, picking you up effortlessly and dragging your kicking form back to the living room.

Hauling you onto the floor König hooked one meaty thigh over your squirming body, putting bigger part on his weight down onto you, momentarily halting all of your struggle. One huge hand took ahold of both your wrists, pinning them to the floor above your head with frightening ease, his other hand was clasping your mouth still. He crouched down, scream mask was mere fifteen centimetres afar from your face as he seethed:

- Now you shut the fuck up and listen closely to what I have to say, and no one will get hurt, you get that? - he said, waiting until you gave him any sing of agreement. But you offered none. - You get that?! - König growled impatiently, bumping your head against the hardwood floor, causing black spots dance in the corners of your eyes for a long minute. You gave a weak nod, feeling hot tears running down your temples, getting lost among your hair.

- I’ve been thinking about you. A lot, - König sighed, hand that was on your face squished your cheeks together painfully, making your lips pucker out. - About this gorgeous mouth and pretty lips…

König crouched down, barely leaving a few centimetres between your faces.

- A this tight little cunt of yours. Remember how you clenched around me? How good my cock was filling you up?

- What do you want from me? - you weeped quietly, voice barely audible, broken by faint sobs and hiccups.

- Very little, dove. Just be an obedient girl and do as you’re told and no one will get hurt, - König tutted, taking in the sight of your crying face. Gosh, he was a sick fuck - his cock was already getting painfully hard, straining against his pants.

Letting go of your face König reached behind his back, withdrawing something from the rear pocket of his jeans. Just as you opened your mouth to cry out for help he shoved that thing inside of your cavity, slapping a hand over your lips so you won’t spit it out. The thing momentarily dissolved on your tongue, leaving a bitter aftertaste; you tried to struggle against killer’s strong hold, thrashing violently, but it led you nowhere.

Suddenly you felt hot - as if you had a really bad fever. Your mind clouding up rapidly, thoughts muddling, muscles becoming weaker by the second. You huffed out in frustration; moving your limbs a few centimetres seemed like impossible labour. World was spinning around you, blurring sharp and distinguishable features of König’s mask into a white haze.

König let go of your face once again, his now free hand slid down your body, cupping your sex through numerous layers of clothing separating you two. Sudden pleasure surged through your weakened body upon the contact; a loud moan that rolled off your tongue startled you - and suddenly you realised just how aroused you felt.

- Jeez, that dude didn’t lie about this shit, - König laughed out excitedly, watching your eyes widen in terror. You could barely move by now, not speaking of trying to fight off a man twice your size. His size. In a blur of all events, words and pain you never came back to just how fucking huge he was. You never mentioned that in any of your interrogations. How fucking stupid, huh?

Killer let go of your wrists cautiously, watching you closely - you rose your hands, resting your palms on his chest and pushing with all the might you had left, but it wasn’t enough to even push a cat off the chair - so that was the limit of your strength in this state?

König barked out another laugh - he was going to have so much fun with you! His hand never stopped massaging your crotch, noting a small wet patch forming on your shorts - you were soaked through your panties and now soaking your shorts? Gosh, he better buy a few dozens of these aids. Psycho’s eyes shot up to your face upon hearing a sob - tears ran down your eyes like small diamonds, turning your eyelids a pretty shade of red. König shifted forth so that his mask was almost touching your nose:

- Oh baby, I’ll be much gentler with you this time, I promise, - König cooed, pressing cold plastic of his mask against your flushed wet cheek, as if giving you a comforting peck.

Slasher shifted a bit, changing his position from sitting on your thighs to being in between them, yanking you towards him by your knees. He did quick job of taking your shorts and underwear off in few fluid moves, impatiently discarding them somewhere to the side. König felt his heavy cock twitch inside his jeans at the sight of your puffy cunny, all shiny from slick that practically oozed out of your fluttering hole. He swallowed hard, saliva was practically pooling in his mouth, having to restrain himself from tearing his mask off and devouring your cunt, exposing his face too early. You whined out something unintelligible, still trying to pry his fingers off one of your knees.

Your skin felt hot even through thick fabric of his gloves, so when König took one off and plunged two of his thick fingers inside of your tight hole he was surprised at how hot it was inside of you - one of the drug’s effects, he guessed. You couldn’t help but mewl at the pleasant feeling, your brain barely functioning, controlling yourself was beyond hard.

- That’s it, sweetness. Lemme hear all the pretty sounds you make, - König encouraged, plunging his fingers in and out of you, increasing the pace. Rough thumb coming to circle your slicked clit, causing your whole body to jolt softly. Scent of your pooling arousal was strong and prominent, seeping even through König’s mask, making him throb in his pants.

He couldn’t wait any longer. König was dreaming about your pussy being spread around his cock since that first night, he needed to be inside or else he’ll lose the remnants of his mind. Slasher slipped his fingers out of you, quickly undoing his pants, sliding them down as much as knife holster on his thigh would allow. Your breathing increased as you tried to close your legs, man’s bulky form making it impossible for you to do so.

- No, no please.. not again, - you begged, tears rushing down your temples, your voice meek and barely audible, so König just ignored it.

Pulling his girthy cock out König pumped it a few times with gloved hand, aligning pink swollen tip with your leaking entrance. It one smooth movement he bottomed out half of his impressive length, your body - flushed and pliant - taking him inside without any resistance. Low groan rumbled through his broad chest; König’s head fell backwards, hands gripping soft fat of your thighs, leaving pale marks of his fingertips on your skin.

You hated every second of it. Hated how his hips collided with yours with every thrust, how you felt him throb and twitch inside of you; hated how his hands wandered up and down your sides, rubbing your waist and palming your tits. And you hated how fucking good it felt. Hated how your body, despite all your attempts to resist, to fight off the effects of the drug, gave into the pleasure.

- That’s it baby. Just take what I give you, - König breathed out, his words slurred with pleasure. - See? See how good it can feel when you shut the fuck up and do what I tell you to? Just be a obedient little girl and feel good, I’ll take care of everything else yeah?

It felt as if a ball of bile got stuck in your throat; your face scrunched up in disgust as much as your jelly muscles allowed it:

- Fuck you, - you barely managed to choke out, your tongue struggling to form right sounds.

For a few moments you were sure König didn’t hear you, given the lack of any reaction nor acknowledgement of your words. But the next thing you knew was searing pain in your left cheek, the impact of man’s wide palm with your face jolted your head to the side, sudden change of its position made you felt dizzy. Now world was spinning around you even more so, you felt something warm trickling down your cheek - blood from your nose, you figured. Killer’s fingers roughly gripped your chin, yanking it back so that you were facing him once again.

- You wanna say that again bitch? Come on, I fucking dare you, - he spat out, movements of his hips halting completely, leaving his cock buried deep inside of your rippling warmth.

Your head shifting so harshly once again made you nauseous; you could barely see anything, dark purple circles were dancing all around, changing their shapes and giving way to greens and yellows to flood your vision.

- That’s what I fucking thought, - König gritted out. His hand let go of your chin, coming lower to wrap strong fingers around your neck. His hips started working with even more vigour, forcing his dick in and out of your drugged cunt on the pace that was almost inhuman.

Firm clasp of maniac’s hand around your neck made it nearly impossible to breathe. Both your hands wrapped around his mighty wrist, too weak to actually get him off you. Your vision started to darken rapidly, white noise trilling in your ears, barely allowing any other sounds to filter through.

- From the very moment I laid my eyes on you I fucking owned you. And I own you right now, and forever will. This is my fucking cunt, and I’ll use it whenever I want to. And I need you to fucking. learn. it. - König growled out, emphasising each of his last words with hard deep thrusts of his hips against yours, his cock making your stomach bulge, surely bruising your cervix.

- Oh but I’ll train you. Mould you into my personal cocksleeve, ready to be used whenever I feel like it, - his pace was quickening, thick cotton of his denim pants muffled filthy sounds of his mighty hips snapping against your ass. The grip of strong fingers never eased; König shifted part of his weight onto his hands which were wrapped around your neck, white mask hovering right in front of your face - milky white of it was a harsh contrast to blackness pooling in the corners of your eyes.

With that your conscience started to slip away. You felt your body jolt with every ferocious thrust of man’s hips, his cock buried deep inside of you, bruising your insides with its persistent bullying. Acute lack of oxygen burnt your lungs, and you prayed to all gods that König held your neck a tad bit too long - just enough for you to not wake up the next time. And just before you slipped into heavy delirium, your mushed up brain picked up König’s growl, penetrating through thick noise humming in your ears:

- You’re mine. Forever and ever.

Street was filled with all kinds of noise - sirens from police cars were going off triggering dogs from nearby houses, neighbours were crowding a bit afar, frowning and shaking their heads, everyone having their own theory of what happened. Loud cries of Y/n’s mother shook the air, putting everyone further on the edge. She is such a sweet girl, she’s never done anything bad! Oh god, why is this happening to her of all people?!

Some people were saying that the girl simply snapped, breaking under the pressure of events and finally fleeting the country without telling anyone to not give any clues about her whereabouts to the killer. Some said she just went out to unwind from being constantly watched by police and have some alone time - she’ll show up anytime soon. But everyone knew that it was one of murderer’s deeds - he did something to her. And everyone knew, deep down, that they’ll never see Y/n again - alive, at least.

A young lanky policemen, obviously green and not experienced in his job, was babbling out his report to the superior, all the other cops that were patrolling with him as well stood around silently, too scared to pipe in.

- Sir, I swear we were patrolling the area all this time, there was literally no one but the neighbours, but they were staying at their pro-

- Then you were not doing it well enough! - city commissioner barked out, his mighty vice silencing everyone around for a short moment. His face was red, fuming with rage; nostrils flaring with intensity of his heavy breathing, angry vein popped up on his temple, pulsating in tandem with his rapid heartbeat. His heavy gaze shifted between all the poor officers, their faces pale as chalk.

- You had one fucking job. ONE fucking job - to keep the girl in the sightline - and where is she now, huh? I’m asking you motherfuckers - where is Y/n?! - Mr. Lindner barked out, his heavy voice making everyone jolt. Younger officers stared down on their shoes blankly, not daring to meet eyes with their boss.

- You may consider yourselves lucky if you’ll still have your licences by the end of the week, - commissioner Lindner tsked, spitting onto the ground in remorse. Turning around, he headed to his police issued car, shouldering all those nosy ones who were brave enough to approach him in this state. Getting inside Mr. Lindner closed the door with a loud bang, starting the engine and pulling out of the driveway onto the main road.

Commissioner Lindner drove in full silence, blue eyes fixated on the road ahead; it was barely past midnight, but the darkness hung thick all around, being slit by two yellow rays of his car’s headlights. He gripped steering wheel tighter, one hand coming to comb back his grown out hair out of his eyes, a small smile played in the corners of his scarred lips.

Soon he’ll be home - maybe the effects of drugs will wear off by that time and he’ll watch Y/n wake up slowly, those pretty doe eyes of hers gazing up at him drowsily. He will cook her dinner - all of her favourites - and maybe even spoon feed her, if she’ll allow it. Then he’ll bathe her and tuck her in her new bed, locking up the door for the night and watching her sleep through the cameras.

Everything was going as smoothly as ever. No one has accidentally seen him dragging unconscious Y/n out of her house and hauling her into the backseat of his car. No signs of struggle or fight were found - kitchen sink was still half-filled with soapy water and dirty dishes, clean ones drying off on the countertop, a knife with all the fingerprints being drowned among other dirty utensils. Y/n’s parents approved that everything was on its original place - as if the girl just disappeared, dissolved into thin air.

No one suspected a thing. And, of course, no one suspected a respectable city commissioner Lindner with years upon years of experience, a veteran with impeccable reputation, a person no one could speak badly of.

This was the beginning of your new life, life in which everything revolved around König, causing you to cling onto him as if he was some kind of goddess. Life in which you no longer belonged to yourself, but to your abductor. Life in which you finally understood that you don’t need anyone or anything else because you had König, understood that König was your life itself <3

Slasher! König Masterlist

A/n: I apologise for giving König a half assed name, but I thought it’d be really cool for the plot😌

Once again, feedback is highly appreciated! I’m making this a series so feel free to send in your suggestions for more slasher! König content<3

[waltricia]

Bridgerton season 2 episode 3, “A Bee in Your Bonnet” is ✨magic✨ and let me tell you why.

For those of us who didn’t read the book and knew nothing of what was going to happen, we truly went on an incredible and surprising roller coaster of an experience.

We start the episode with seeing the guy from Hellboy and being like ‘oh yay, it’s the guy from Hellboy!’

… only for him to die three minutes later. And that scene is rough. It’s sudden and abrasive. And the sounds are jarring. The death is scored by tense strings. Then a moment of quiet. Then the AMAZING Ruth Gemmell begins taking us on Violet’s traumatic grief journey, which starts with her jolting Anthony (and us) out of the quiet.

And a thunderous heartbeat threatens him as he walks toward this entirely altered, unwanted life path. And that’s obviously the beginning of his PTSD.

In the other flashbacks throughout the episode, we continue to hear horrific, heart-rending pain radiate out of Violet while Anthony must not only attempt to endure it, but cover his own grief. Anthony and his siblings (and again, we the audience) all have to listen to Violet grieve while she’s giving birth! Screams on top of screams.

And the last flashback is technically quiet, but just as devastating because, like the moment of Edmund’s death, the quiet is weaponized. It signifies the death inside Violet.

It should go without saying that Jonathan Bailey is also a brilliant actor, but I’ll say it now anyway. Damn, he good! He and Ruth partnered perfectly in this grief journey. Serious props to them both because I felt this shit.

And then finally we come to the end. We had been immersed in the horrible aftermath of that striking tragedy. Between the flashbacks- in the present day- we had followed Anthony through the rooms and grounds where he had suffered silently. We had seen Edmund’s grave. We had learned that Anthony’s greatest fears and insecurities all stemmed from that tragic event ten years prior.

And then another fucking bee comes along.

And I swear to god, the first time I watched this, when Kate got stung, my heart was pounding, I was terrified, and my instinctive reaction was “oh my god, is she going to die?!” In hindsight, it’s obviously insane to think that she would be killed off at all, let alone in this scene. But the very fact that, for a moment, that was a legitimate fear I had is exactly why this episode is so god damn brilliant. I felt what Anthony felt. And I’m not the only one! I’ve seen other people’s similar reactions to this scene. The episode really is a roller coaster; easy, lighthearted moments (pall mall, drug tea), interspersed with the terrifying drops and loops that are Anthony’s painful memories which constantly haunt him. And then it brought us right back to that first traumatic moment. Because Anthony has PTSD! And that’s what PTSD does. Anthony is right back where he was, literally not far from the same spot outside Aubrey Hall, standing in front of a person he loves, watching them get stung by a bee on almost the same spot on their body. The tense string scoring comes back and Anthony panics because he’s completely helpless again.

And all of those elements- the setting, the scoring, the acting- combined to terrify us and make us forget something critical: most people don’t die from beestings.

And here’s where it gets really profound for me. Because it’s not just about how we feel Anthony’s fear. It’s also about how Kate completely obliterates it. Without knowing that history and without realizing the full extent of what her actions would mean, she does exactly the right thing. Rather than die and rather than also panic or shy away from his vulnerability, she meets it with her own in the form of care and steady assurance, which is true strength. And in so doing, she stops this cyclical moment in its tracks and completely alters the trauma. She puts his hand on her heart, and the heartbeat comes back. But this time, it’s not threatening. It’s inviting.

And just like in the first scene, the moment is over all too quickly. Just like in that scene, Anthony is thrust onto a new path. But where that moment was damaging, this one is healing. And we feel that too. And it’s the greatest experience that art can give us.

It’s catharsis.

And that’s why this episode is magic. 🐝✨

[in-daddy-price-we-trust]

All I Wanted - Part 1

summary: when you are kidnapped discovered by TF141 they can't help but fall in love.

pairing: 141 x fem!teen!reader (platonic)

warnings: mentions of child abuse, drugs, canon typical violence

Part 2

A/N: this is like my first fanfic in a while, and first on tumblr (yay!) any tips and tricks would be so helpful!

this also plans to be a series but posting might and will be inconsistent, thank you in advance!

You always had a difficult life. Being abused by your parents up until you ran away at 13. After you ran away, you got in with the wrong type of people, promises of hope and money, food and validation was all they needed to say to get you hooked in their business of organised crime. Some good came out of it however, they gave you a home and how to defend yourself. They taught you how to shoot a gun and the best place to make someone bleed. They taught you nothing else mattered except them, they became your new family.

You were 15 when you were tasked with transporting a couple crates of weaponry and drugs. The organisation you joined knew you well enough and practically raised you to be the strongest you were. So one cargo ship to Amsterdam later, you find yourself in a rotting, metal warehouse, wearing pink apparel, pink puffy skirt and a white hello-kitty shirt. A baby pink cardigan is draped over your shoulders and over-the-knee white knitted socks. A chrome covered knife strapped to your thigh.

“Zus, how much for it all?” he stood across from you, a cigarette lit between his lips taking a long drag as you assessed his question. His black, slicked back hair elongated his face and the three piece suit almost made this deal professional.

“How much are you offering?” was all you said as a small smile graced your lips, ‘the higher the offer, the better’ you remember being told before you left. They weren’t the best weapons but they were definitely worth at least a couple K.

“25”

a grimace, “80”

a growl, “40”

a hum, “55”

“65. Final offer,” his teeth were bared, almost like he was sweating already.

A sinister, sweet smile stretched across your face, “Wonderful, and how are you wanting to transfer that?” out of seemingly nowhere you pulled out a notepad and pen, writing down the bank details before you gave him a pointed look, “You have one week to transfer the money, or I will have your head.”

His face paled, almost embarrassingly so. For how innocent you appeared to be, you knew how to handle yourself in these situations. You turned to walk away, the sound of baby pink mary janes clacking against the concrete as you bounced towards the rusted metal doors, sliding them open as you looked back at the man one final time, “It was a pleasure doing business with you,” and leaving.

You were good at your job. It was easy, for the most part. Gather intel, pass forward that intel. Transfer somewhat illegal items from one holder to another. So it comes to you as a bit of a surprise when you exit through the dusty doors when a bullet wizzes past your face, luckily just missing you. Swiftly pulling out the hand-gun out your waistband and shooting in their direction. You wish you had your sniper, but it was left in the hotel room you managed to stay at.

As you shot in the direction of the fire, you failed to notice someone sneaking out behind you, kicking your knees in. Dirt caked your socks as the grip on your gun became loose. Acting as quick as possible, you flipped onto your back, retching the knife from its holster. Before you could act, black invaded your vision as you felt pain shoot from your head. Shit.

-

White light invaded your vision, a grumbled swear leaving your dry lips at the pounding in your head. "Jesus Christ," your wrists hurt, rubbed raw by the shitty metal handcuffs they strapped you in, "Whose bedroom did you get these out of? Couldn't even afford good quality cuffs?" fell out of your mouth before you could think to stop it. No one reacted.

It was a van, you could tell that much. The interior white with small wooden benches lining it. Two men sat on either side of you whilst the other two sat across. From what you could make out, another pair sat at the front, driving to this unknown destination.

Maybe you should have been more scared. More begging for them not to hurt you. Four big, burly military men could definitely kill you much easier than you kill them.

They studied you like you studied them. The one on your left was most likely the oldest, a fisherman's hat upon his head and mutton chops-moustache combo was the dead give away. He had his eyes closed and arms crossed across his chest, legs spread wide.

You couldn't make out the one on your right quite as well. A black balaclava with painted white skeletal teeth paired well with the upper half of the skull mask he wore. He seemed to be in a similar position as grandpa, although he had an ankle resting on his knee instead, head tilted back against the cool metal of the van.

The two across from you seemed younger. One had a darker complexion, his eyebrows furrowed in a thoughtful expression. He was smaller than the rest but no doubtfully as strong.

Lastly was the man with a mohawk. His eyes bore into you the most, not so angry and more trying to figure out who you were. Breaking you apart and putting you back together with his eyes. Childishly, you stuck your tongue out at him. His face morphed into one of slight surprise before rolling his eyes and looking towards the front.

It was quiet. The hum from the light ticking like a clock in your ear. Trying to gauge where you were and how much time had passed, your foot started tapping on the floor.

"Stop," A gruff voice said suddenly making you jump before mumbling a sorry at the skull-faced man. It was quiet again. It numbed your senses, sending shivers down your spine. Gravel sounded under the tires before voices outside sounded, signalling your arrival.

The doors pulled open, sunlight shining in. As mohawk and shorty left, skully pulled your arm to tug you along out with him, a short yelp escaping past your lips at the action.

You tripped over your feet, pins and needles shooting up your legs from sitting for so long. "Can you be gentle?" you spoke as you found your footing, "Please?" it was tacked on at the end for at least the tiniest bit of sympathy.

Skully looked down at you as he continued to drag you towards what you hoped was a five-star hotel with bed and breakfast. At least your death would be a quick one.

The halls blurred together until you were sitting in a leather chair in someone's office, back to the door, although you felt the looming presence of the men behind you. Mutters were heard outside before the door clicked opened, footsteps and a click again.

Gramps stood in front of you, leaning over the dark stained oak table. He had a file in his hand, putting it on the desk before sliding it over to you. "What do you know of El Sin Nombre?" it wasn't as much of a question than you'd like but an order for information.

Your mouth was so dry it felt like you swallowed cotton. As much as you wished to answer him, you look at him with furrowed brows and a confused expression. It took you a couple minutes before words formed in your throat, "Who?".

He didn't enjoy that answer. One of his hands slapping on the desk as he seethed, repeating the question again as if that would change your answer.

"I don't know who that is! I can't help you," you felt that burning sensation under your eyes as you desperately tried to convey your emotions. Tears meant weakness, and that's the one thing you didn't want to show to your captors right now.

Pairs of eyes hammered into your head. You felt like a child again, staring down at your toes being told off for not doing the dishes or not being quick enough to grab a beer. You braced for the hits, the punches to your ribs as you made promises that fell on the deaf ears of your mother and father.

"Price," A voice sounded behind you, soft and comforting. An accent coated the words that flowed through the air you didn't pick up on. The more time passed the more your eyes stung, tears slipping past your defences. Shoulders shaking as you try to curl into yourself, strings of "I don't know" and "I'm sorry" being nothing more than mumbles.

The room grew cold and quiet as you sobbed. Footsteps couldn't be heard over your own cries, so when an arm wrapped around your shoulders, you jolted. Expecting this is where you get hit. Bracing for the impact and sting they usually brought with them.

Instead, the arm pulled you into their chest, hugging you close and stroking your hair, along with shushing you softly. It only made you sob harder. When was the last time someone hugged you like this? Sure, you got the occasional pat on the back for a job well done, but never an embrace like this.

Time passed through your fingers like sand, not knowing how long you sat there for before you calmed down. The arms didn't pull away until you did, cringing at the wet patch you left on the man's shirt. Speaking of, you looked up to see mohawk looking down at you, eyes soft and an equally soft smile. "Y're alright now lass?" his accent leaked into the words, a curt nod allowing him to pull away and stand up again.

A heavy sigh sounded above you as you dragged your eyes up to meet who you presumed was this 'Price' figure. "What’s your name?"

Gears turned over the question in your head, thinking of an answer. Technically, you lost your name when you left home, gaining a couple new names at the gang.

Your silence was taken for an answer. "What are you doing in Amsterdam?" this you could answer.

"A business exchange. I'm just the messenger, I don't know any of the customers - I promise! - I just get the money and dip. I promise I can't help you-" you were hyperventilating at this point.

"It's alright sweetheart, deep breaths, calm down for me, yeah?" Price's voice was gentle now, seemingly not wanting the same thing to happen.

"Can you tell us where you're from? Who you work for?" He asked once he saw you calm down.

"Uhm- I'm from England. And I don't really work for them but I'm a doberman. They're some organisation that took me in," you weren't really interested in going into full depths of your life with these complete strangers.

Although, you felt the gazes lift off you and onto Price, his own eyes looking back at his men, a million silent conversations happening right above your head. Price inhaled sharply before he asked his last question, "How old are?"

"15." The air knocked out of his lungs.

[immediatebreakfast]

First chapter into the Jojolands, and we already have:

Joestar siblings as the main characters. These two are amazing. Their interactions bounce between eachother really well, and I love how despite beings siblings their designs are so different from eachother. But one thing remains, Araki will always make the joestars pretty. Also, continuing the tradition that all joestars after Jonathan are some kind of criminals these two sell drugs, steal shit, and kill cops (this one is not a crime, let us thank Jodio and Dragona for their service to the community.)

Dragona is the first dark skinned joestar in the manga, and I already love them. They are also very gender™ but we have to see if this is the case of a queer character who uses masculine pronouns... Or a trans woman character who keeps being misgendered. It's still the first chapter, so we will have to see. But, besides that horrible s.a scene with the cops, their presentation has been good, Dragona is just out there living their life with their bro, and looking pretty while doing it. (Also there has been cases of transphobic translators disrespecting queer/trans characters.)

Meryl Mei Qi has only appeared at the end of the chapter, but I already love her. She is the principal of the school, a fashion designer, and sends her own students (who are her employees) to steal shit for her. What a girlboss. Also, for me, her design is really pretty. She is an older, bigger woman, but Araki didn't made her look grosteque.

I love how Jodio narrates this chapter. His manner of speech is very teenager™.

So far we have three confirmed stands. November rain which is Jodio's stand. Smooth operators which is Dragona's stand (and a colony stand too, yay!). And The Hustle which is Paco's stand.

Its seems that one of the main themes for this part is mechanism. The workings of how everything flows to achieve one's goal. Like a chess play where one player has their moves calculated to gain victory. An ecosystem of oportunities where the right answe will move you foward. And Jodio is going to use that mechanism to make himself rich! Filthy rich!

[ghosts-bandwagon]

yay its open again! so i really love snacking and i hoard and hide them all around the house. we all know military live and rely on mre’s and probably go hungry until they are free from their missions/tasks so pls pls pls, i would love to see a reader with the habit of just producing snacks like magic and just feeding them. they can also be a good cook once they have the chance to do it and just surprise and awe the boys but only if you want to add this. thank you for this!! you’re awesome and i worship you. 💋

Just like me fr fr I’ve always got some kind of snack or treat stashed away somewhere lmao

They love you so god damn much for that reason, you always manage to sneak in some snacks and it’s witchcraft

They kind of make a joke out of it, Soap and Gaz will act like it’s a drug deal, going so far as to come up with code words or phrases or secret hand signals or facial cues

They’re so fucking giddy when you pull out their favorite snacks, like little kids on Christmas

Eventually Ghost catches on and you think he might put a stop to it but he loves it, “throw in some crisps and I’ll keep it between us”

But then Price found out and he was more offended that you didn’t offer him anything, but he’s cracking up when you produce a pack of maltesers from thin air

You’ve just been promoted to the mom friend of the group

And then you offer to cook for them back at your place after your mission was over and they’re booking it, it’s finished in record time, fuck going to the pub afterwards, they’ll buy drinks on the way to your place

Your apartment has never felt more homely and more alive than when your boys are all there, Price and Gaz are sitting on the stools at the counter chatting over a beer and some whiskey, Soap is being nosy and looking at all your pictures, Ghost is lingering by you and watching you cook

You’re tuning in and out of the various conversations, focused on the task in front of you

Bonus points if you’re making something from your culture/childhood, they love that shit

And when you’re putting their plates down in front of them, they’re thrilled, compliments a plenty, you thought you were warm from being in the kitchen? Nah love, it’s all the compliments, they won’t shut up lol

“Alright I get it, it’ll get cold if you leave it there, idiots.” You tease, taking a forkful, relieved that you didn’t over salt anything

You thought they wouldn’t shut up before, you ain’t seen nothin yet. Especially Johnny, he’s begging you to show him how to make it next time, Simon is nodding in agreement, sighing blissfully at every bite, Price is begging you for the recipe, Kyle is begging you to move in with him and make it forever

[ellaa-writes]

Good Dog

author note: Part 3 yay!! Series list found here. I actually edited this one, I know! Probably still mistakes lol, I love writing this type of Simon but mean Simon is still my favourite. Reader and Simon parts are going on at different times, weeks apart, just in case of any confusion of time line. Enjoy!

summary: His favourite words include; down boy, good dog, heel, fetch and his most favourite, get 'em. Well trained, and listens good. Loyal through and through. Always striving to be the absolute best. Ready to attack at all times, always on guard. Loves discipline, either giving or receiving. Working for a criminal mastermind, lurking in the shadows. You both trying not to be seen or noticed but after one unlucky night, all you both can see are the ghosts. He invades your life, if you both like it or not.

tags: Alternative Universe. Female reader. A/B/O dynamics. Alpha Simon, Beta Reader, Bad Scottish lingo (I tried). Very tame and a chapter filler.

You hadn't seen Simon in a few weeks, must have gotten bored you thought, eventually everyone leaves so why wouldn't he. Things felt different with him, like timed slowed down and life finally had a meaning.

You stopped in front of a news stand, big bold letters. OMEGA POPLUATION HITS AN ALL TIME LOW; leading scientists may have found a solution. You snatched the paper and handed the worker $5 telling him to keep the rest as you rushed back home paper in hand. The title wasn't what caught your attention, it was a few paragraphs down the words doctor and experimental procedure. Tossing your belongings on the dining table soon as you entered your grungy apartment.

Reading the article fully, then once more. Doctors have developed a experimental drug that could alter a Beta women's chemistry. Tricking the body into thinking its an Omega, a few experiments have been conducted and results have so far been proven successful. But they are searching for more Beta women to submit themselves into the program.

Those words playing over and over in your head, becoming an Omega, and having a loyal and supportive Alpha. Not having to worry about all the small things, not having to work and struggle to make ends meet. You could leave your pathetic life behind.

All Simon did was follow orders, being the good dog, he is. A successful mission out of the way, the Boss left before he did. Having to hurry back cause of his Omega. Simon used to have dreams about settling down, but that was before he became ghost. Stupid child aspirations, but mostly because he felt like he didn't deserve one. And who would want him as an Alpha, all teeth, and hard edges. It would be a punishment to be stuck with him until death, and death would be the reward.

You jotted the number down on a piece of paper and stuck it to your fridge. You didn't have to decide now, but you were tempted to.

Dealing with Makarov was easier than expected most of these men act tough on the outside but soon as you start pulling out their insides, they change their tune. He wasn't in too much of a hurry to get home, it's been two weeks since he last saw her, he's been keeping his distance, not wanting to poison her cause that's what he was poison.

It was very late into the night when he finally arrived in the city, driving down the desolate neighborhoods till he found himself parked in front of his apartment. Not the one across from hers but the one he bought himself soon as he had enough money too. The only thing that remained from his previous life. Cutting the engine and walking inside.

He still had a landline, hard wired into the wall next to the thermostat. He's never used it and has never had anyone call it. Not like many people have the number anyways, emergency he told himself when he bought and installed it all those years ago. Having the number updated in his file, but now it hangs there mockingly. Much to his surprise when he walked into his quiet home, a little red dot glowing from the device.

He ignored it at first, taking his clothes off to take a quick shower. To wash away the memories that still plague him, the water never being hot enough. He stood there in nothing but a towel around his waist. Staring at that glowing red light, missed call.

He should just delete it, but he decided to play the message. A voice came through the small speaker, one that he thought he'd never hear again. John Price.

"Oi Simon, it's John. Ain't sure if this dog and bone's still on the go. Tried your mobile, but it's saying it's disconnected. Anyways, thought I'd drop you a bell 'cause we're gonna be in the city for a bit. Fancy a chinwag, like the old days, yeah? So, give me a call, same digits as ever. It'd be proper nice to catch up, Simon."

It was silent for a while afterwards, only Simon's heaving breathing filling up the space. Not once did they call him while he was locked up doing time, not once did they reach out and say they cared. They were family once, at least he thought they were. Stupid.

All the rage simmering up inside of him finally boiled over the edge. Simon grabbed the stupid phone and slammed it into the wall as hard as he could, again and again until there was nothing left but broken pieces of plastic, wiring and now a hole in his wall.

It only took you three hours of pacing back and forth in your tiny apartment, the small piece of paper stuck to your fridge door taunting you. As the line rang you debated on hang up, forgetting any of this happened but it was to late. The reception answered your call, redirecting you to the head of the project. Giving a little info over the phone they scheduled you in for the same day if you could make it. It was on the other side of town, the side you hardly went to cause there was no need. Unless you wanted to make yourself feel even more shitty about your life.

He debated if he should call, be the bigger person the little voice in his head called out. They had their reasoning for abandoning him, for treating him like the plague, they had to, right?

You were on the bus, watching as the fading sun descended and the moon turned brighter. The glow of city coming to life, some many people out and about. You barely had enough money to and back, getting off at the stop further away. Walking the rest to save a bit of cash and take in the scenery. The air was crisp, it never got too cold during the winter season. Also, long as the wind stayed away it was a mild year so far.

To say this was awkward was an understatement. Simon sat across from the beta Scottsman, not much has changed he thought. The group of men still joking around like nothing happened like good ol' times, they kept trying to get him in on it. Simon soon realised that this was a mistake, all of it. Calling Price and picking out this bar. They weren't his pack anymore, they ditched him soon as things went south.

Simon's grip on his glass of bourbon tightened when Johnny yelled "Right Lt." the group getting quiet afterwards, Johnny knew he fucked up. Simon got up abruptly, taking a big gulp of the burning liquid amber, polishing off his drink before slamming it back down.

"Goin’ for a smoke." as he grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair. Marching towards the front door. He could hear Kyle's faint call of his name, the beta man always playing mediator, Price holding Johnny back like an Alpha would a misbehaving puppy as Simon made his way outside.

"Bunch of fuckin' pricks." it was a whisper to himself, digging out his pack of smokes and shoving one into his mouth. Lighting it with ease as he sucked in a big lung full. The door to the bar opened and closed, fully expecting to smell the cigar-soaked Alpha but instead it was Johnny tail between his legs.

"I ken ye dinnae wanna gab about it." he tried but Simon cut him right off. "I don't." blowing a huge cloud in the betas face. "Weel, someone's gotta." he just wanted some fucking peace and quiet. "The start talkin’ or shut the fuck up." dropping his finished cigarette to the ground, giving it a good stomp before putting another to his lips.

"Things have changed, ye've changed. Ah ken everything's aw fucked up right now. We tried-" Simon huffed out a stiff laugh, not believing a thing the Scott was saying. He could see his lips still moving but he couldn’t hear what he was saying as a familiar scent caught his nose.

Before Simon could think a small body collided with Soaps as he stepped out towards the curb with a hand to the back of his neck. "Ah, fuck, sorry ‘bout that, lass." Simon watched in slow motion as you got knocked off balance. Johnny reaching out to help the poor thing but before, he could feel the growl coming from his chest and throat. Pushing the Beta to the side as he took a hold of you, bring you to his chest.

He could hear your lower whimper, there was something different about you. Your scent was sweeter, it was pulling him in like a bee to a flower. "Simon?" letting out in a shaky breath. "What are you doing here?" you looked up into his eyes. Your hands resting against his chest, the hard muscle underneath flexing, a low rumble coming from within. You’ve never seen him like this, so casual but also feral, eyes blown and panting.

"Am I interrupting ye in the midst of somethin'?" Johnny didn't know what the hell was going on. Looking at the Omega flushed against the old Alpha, he was just happy that after everything that happened it was nice to see his old lieutenant finally settling down with such a sweet thing. Simon finally broke his gaze from you, settling it on the Beta. “It was a nice chat, gotta go.”

"Come, I'll drive you home." he stated, gripping your upper arm as he moved you towards his car. The more you stood outside surround by people the more Simon got irritated. He couldn't put his finger on it, the changes within you. He'd been away from a couple of weeks; it was hard staying away but he had a responsibility and a job to do. "I can take the bus." you tried moving around Simon, spotting the other man who was now gawking. "Like hell." Simon held onto you firm, walking you to his car.

"See you around." the Scott yelled from somewhere behind. He couldn't wait to tell the other two men of what he witnessed. The grumpy old Alpha had found himself a sweet Omega.

The drive home was in silence, not even the radio to help ease the awkward tension building up in the car. When Simon pulled onto your street you gathered your belongings. "Wait." you snapped your head to the driver's side.

"What were you doing out so late?" he was trying to interrogate you "I had an appointment." you held your hands in your lap, fidgeting with your fingers. "Hmm" Simon grunted out, the whole way back to your apartment he had to stop himself from pulling the car over and pouncing on you.

Something wasn't right and he didn't like it or maybe he did. It confused him nonetheless and he wanted answers.

"You want to come up?" you don't know why you asked, why those words spilled out of your mouth. Simon was surprised too, cocking his head to side. "Sure." he cut the engine.

Once inside your apartment you didn't bother asking him if he wanted anything to drink. Unless he's into expired milk or tap water. The hulking man walked around your small place, picking things up and putting them down. Take in his surroundings, he already didn’t like you living in this area. He’s scoped out your apartment, the front door was a piece of shit, with a little bit of a jiggle and it popped open.

Walking towards your dingy couch he noticed the paper on the table, picking it up he scanned the words. You didn't.... His eyes found your form, busying yourself around your small kitchen. Shoving dirty dished into the sink to be forgotten about till later. Simon sniffed the air again, there was that familiar scent again. The smell of an Omega, the similar one that clung to his Boss, that filled every space of his home.

Omega.

He felt is heart quicken, his blood run thin. He's only had this feeling a few times, he was going to throw up and pass out at the same time. You noticed his completion pale, worrying you, grabbing a glass and filling it with your last bottle of water. Rushing to his side and calling his name.

Simon was so far away; he was in the middle of the raging ocean. The waves crashing over him, pulling him deeper under every unforgiving wave. Lungs full of burning salt water, gasping with arms stretched to the sky.

You could do the only thing you could think of you climbed into his lap. Curling yourself around him, rubbing your scent glad over his nose and mouth.

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

Halloween prompts no. 12

Danny kills Darkseid au but not only does he freak out, he is essentially kidnapped by Clockwork and dragged back into the DC universe for a "vacation". When Danny tried to argue the old stopwatch confessed that Dannys core was essentially eating the dark gods energy and he would need to stay in his Phantom form 24/7 to be able to "digest" him. Which gave him a few new things to freak out about. Yay.

Danny was given some new clothes-all glowing black and white of course- and money (where did clockwork get this much cash??) and told to find so.ewhere safe to live in.

Danny went ghost and got changed and started to fly off when clockwork stopped him and told him to behave like a normal human. There are a lot of people in this world with superpowers and while they might look at him strange they would likely ignore him for the most part. But if he started showing off all these cool powers its going to gain unwanted attention. Like another Vlad. Danny shuddered.

As a last parting of wisdom, he tells him not to give out his real name and if anyone asks questions just repeat, "I'm on vacation." then time unfreezed.

So Danny walks out of the alleyway he was in and into the city where he immediately looked for a place to make a underground ice cave to live in. Despite having a crapton of money now (wth clockwork???) He still couldn't get an official apartment due to being fifteen.

Within a few days of just casually going about in Central city he had been approached by "talent agencies" and headhunters offering him jobs as an actor or model and he flusteredly turned them down but was always somehow railroaded into taking a business card. (He wasn't that pretty, surely. All of his fame back home was due to him being a hero...right?)

One particularly insistent guy just wouldn't give up and cornered Danny. It was when he thought he was going to have to break this guys nose to get away that the local hero Flash stepped in and the guy finally backed off.

Danny thanked him and the Flash (who felt clockwork freeze time before and nearly had a panic attack along with Zatanna and Captain Marvel) asked about the weird quantum energy around him and in his panic Danny stupidly confessed to having a magical artifact that makes him immune to time freezes fused into his chest by one of his bad guys.

Which led to him stupidly telling him his name was Phantom, he was a superhero who was on (forced) vacation due to injury-kinda, he wasn't allowed to help out sorry, and he was from another dimension and oh crap he had been truth serum-ed!!! How dare?!

Flash apologized, but after the global time freeze (it was global??) The Justice League was on high alert and the Batman was super paranoid and liked having answers. Unfortunately for this bat guy he was miffed at being drugged and refused to answer anymore questions.

Still, with the disappearance of Darkseid and Apokolips, the global time freeze and now this glowing kid from another dimension? They had to be connected somehow. The league was sure of it. The new gods were freaking out and searching for answers themselves and the speedsters were trying thier best to get this kid to open up to them. After a while with little success they start sending in the Teen Titans and the Young Justice teams in hopes that he'd be more social with people around his own age.

It did not go as planned.

---

People: *telling Phantom that he's beautiful*

Phantom: Is this a trap?

[alphabetboyluvr]

THROTTLE - JJK | EIGHT

one/ two / three / four / five / six / seven / eight / nine / ten / eleven

warnings - welcome one and all to the chapters that made some of my wattpad girlies stop reading throttle, you have been warned! mentions of drugs. jungkook wears a key around his neck and it ain't for a door! solo masturbation (m). enter stage left: cc @ yoongi's door. infidelity (boo), dry humping (yay), yoongi has a choking kink (?), he cums in his pants <3 back for round two! not all that explicit, oral (f), he's so talkative <3, protected sex, incredibly sombre aftermath!! v satisfying end to the chapter IMO!!

word count - 16.5k

minors dni // series masterlist

It surprises everyone when Jungkook is the first to speak. He stands, shoulders broadening like a fallen angel unfolding its wings, and then he's back.

The man you once knew? It's undeniably him. He's still just as powerful in his stature as he always was, just as handsome, just as life-threateningly attractive.

For a second - only a moment, barely even a millisecond - you let yourself indulge in the chime your stomach has been subduing.

It's just the same as it always has been.

He's different now, though. So vastly different, you question whether or not you would have recognised him in the street.

His hair is dark, and it doesn't frame his face in the way it used to. Shame. You used to love getting your fingers tangled in it. It's pushed back now, the fury in his dark brows as clear as day. They're missing a piercing, which you'll admit is a bitter loss, but the lip ring is still there, at least.

You don't let yourself think about the one on his tongue. Haven't thought about it for weeks. Months.

Only because every time you do, you force yourself to think about roadkill instead. It's the only way you can get it out of your head. Does now mean that when you see roadkill, you think about him. Fitting, really, given the tragedy of your time spent together.

Instead of letting him know just how fucked up he still gets you, you simply raise a brow in his direction. Your back sinks into the chair you've poised yourself on, and you cross your arms, imploring him to speak the fuck up.

Part of him doesn't want to, just as 'fuck you' to your prissy rich bitch attitude. He'd forgotten about this; how much a little cunt you'd been when the pair of you had first met. Back then, it had gotten his interest piqued. Kept him coming back for more. Was the thing that got him cumming, full stop.

But now, it just feels vindictive.

And so he decides to be just as much of a vindictive swine back.

"No one's been looking for you," he says as his eyes burn into you - and yet you remain perfectly cool. Calm. Unaffected.

There was a time, a few moons ago, when a look like this from Jungkook would have surely killed you. Now, it's just all very laughable.

"Eunhee's never been much of a liar, Jungkook," you smile, glad to have checked in with her before heading to the boxing club. Maybe he did stop showing up at your door two months ago, but it was enough of a weapon to use against him.

"That senile old bat?" He laughs, and you remember just how mean he could be. It's a trait that you'd pushed to the side in your memories, all rose-tinted and sweet. The reality makes those memories a lot easier to swallow, the salt from his words diluting the sugar. "Wouldn't take her as a credible source."

The air around the pair of you is stale; unpleasant. It reeks of desperation. Desperate for what? It's debatable. Nothing good, that's for sure.

Quite literally everyone in the room is uncomfortable.

Everyone except for the pair of you.

See, this is a back and forth you've perfected. The way you bicker - the way you taunt one another - used to be foreplay. He'd rile you up just ruin you.

It's electric. Jungkook wonders what has more volts - your shared energy, or the taser he's pretty sure you've got hidden in your bag. You're too smart to come somewhere like this completely defenceless.

He's just as smart as you, though. Reads your moves, and knows exactly what to predict. Maybe it's not a form of intelligence that will do any good, but he's spent so long studying you that it would be impossible for him to not be an expert by this point.

He could write an encyclopedia about you; a dictionary based on your vocabulary.

He'd file himself under 'asshole', and would hope you'd reassign him to 'inamorato'. You wouldn't. If anything, you'd place him in a pile of discards; words unused by you for so long that you've forgotten their significance in your life.

If he were to have his own dictionary, he'd file you under cocotte. CC for short. But he'd draw fucking hearts in the margins, and crack the spine from just how often he looked at your page. Might just rip it out and keep it in his wallet like a passport photo.

"Credible source?" You smirk, ruby red lips pouting in a way that feels new to him. They're slightly different, he thinks. The shape is the same, but they seem poutier. The product of fillers, maybe. He never thought you'd be one to go down that route, but he's questioning everything he knew about you as the lights of the club reflect in the diamond on your finger. He's blinded by it; blindsided by you. "Surely this isn't Jeon Jungkook talking about credibility? About trust? That'd be a first."

"Watch your fuckin' mouth," he snaps, and it's clear you've hit a nerve. Good. "Got shit to say? Say it, then get fuckin' gone, C."

And, oh, it's painful. So gloriously painful.

The way you don't falter is the worst part. The name given to you in the sanctuary of his car lingers on his tongue, his lips ajar. There's no crease between his brow, eyes just as round and inviting as they always had been.

You think he's baiting you. Think he's trying to get your defences down. You don't realise that his defences actually are - not until he knocks his head to the side, flicking a switch as his glare returns.

"I think what Jungkook is trying to say," Jin speaks up, knowing that there'll be no resolution without a mediator. He can feel the energy between the pair of you. The vibrations run deep and jagged, stained in red and echoing regret. "Is that we aren't aware there was business to discuss?"

You turn to face Jin, but let your eyes linger on Jungkook for just a second longer before you address his friend. Handsome, you think. Incredibly handsome, in fact.

You've always thought Jungkook was the most beautiful thing about Daegu, but you might change your mind. All you need is this new guy - the one with plump lips and shoulders that eclipse Jungkook's - to glare at you. See if it gets you searing under the collar, hot between your legs, like Jungkook's glare does.

Many men before have looked at you with suspended disbelief, agitation curving around their brow bones. It's nothing new. The way that Jungkook's glare could have gotten you on your knees? That was new to you.

"Nor was I - or at least, I wasn't. Not until Jungkook told me about that little plan of yours a few months ago," you say as you smile at Jin, all pleasant and performative."But I'm very selective about who I invest my time in."

You don't have to look at Jungkook for him to know that he should take your next statement personally.

"I've no time for little boys running around playing cops and robbers. I conduct my business exactly like that; like a business. I make negotiations, I make deals. Sign contracts - and I'd never hire someone without running a background check. Can get yourself into a whole world of trouble if you don't know who someone really is."

"You're planning on employing us?" Namjoon pipes up, the prospect of a hefty payday sounding like music to his ears.

"Not employing," you say. There's more you could divulge. So much more. But it's time for baby steps, now. No use in getting ahead of yourselves. "Think of it more like... entering a partnership. A mutually beneficial agreement."

"Your appearance on TV today," Jin says, the most analytical of the bunch, trying to figure you out. "How would that help to aid your negotiations?"

You smile. It's quite simple, really.

"That was to stop you from thinking you could ever fucking touch me."

There's more venom than you intend there to be behind your words, but you haven't quite healed from the last invasion of your autonomy. You're still disgusted but how easily you were manipulated into thinking that Jungkook ever gave a fuck about you. If they think they're ever getting the chance of getting that close again, they're sorely mistaken.

"The world is watching boys," You continue. "One wrong move, and the world will be asking: what happened to her? It's my way to keep you in check. Anyways, let's not get ahead of ourselves. Who do you work for?"

"Who do you work for?" Jungkook spits back.

"Myself. Answer my question."

Jin takes the reins from Jungkook. "We're not at liberty to say."

"Fine," you shrug, getting to your feet. You're here to talk with men, not boys. If they can't make decisions for themselves, then what's the point? "I'll be on my way then. Time is money boys, and if you aren't willing to give me a dime, then it's not worth it for me. I don't need you."

"Yeah, well, if you don't need us, then why the fuck are you here?"

The way Jungkook's nostrils flare amuses you. Let's you know the real question he's asking: If you don't need me, why did you come back? Back here, specifically?

It's a good question. One you wish you had a solid answer for.

"There are rats all over this city," you tell them, thinking that it'd be best to choose at least a half-truth. "I don't know many of them, not well. Not personally. Don't know you fuckers personally, either - very rude of you, by the way, to break into my apartment like that. I'm sure Jungkook could have just told you the code - but anyways, I digress. I know how you operate, to a certain degree."

"Oh, yeah?" Jungkook questions, doubting that very much. "How do we operate?"

"Like fucking idiots," you say with a voice as flat as his tyres after a few too many burnouts. "You send in unprepared fuckers who think with their dicks instead of their brains."

Jungkook scoffs, but the rest of them wave their heads a little, contemplating the fact that you're entirely correct.

"I know your weak spots," you say, but choose not to elaborate on the fact that you were once Jungkook's. You sit back down; an act of defiance for the fact that Jungkook quite clearly doesn't want you there. "And I know some of your strengths. I also know that we have a mutual interest in the downfall of my father. Might not trust you fuckers as far as I can throw you, but I trust that your feelings towards him won't have changed all that much in three months."

"Yours seem to have changed," Jungkook notes all rather bitterly, and it makes you laugh.

You lean forward in your seat, elbow resting on your knee, chin in your palm. Your ring glistens in the light, but Jungkook ignores it. Wishes he could ignore you, full-stop, but he can't take his eyes off you. Deprived for so long, he doesn't know when he'll get this luxury again.

The fact that you're in the boxing club alone - unprotected, despite it all - should be indication enough that your feelings towards your father haven't changed. Why risk it? Why put yourself in a circumstance where you could be used against him if you weren't willing for that to happen?

"Look at you," you smile, but it's laced in contempt. "Finally making assumptions of your own. I'm proud. You got a little way to go, though, baby. You're missing the mark. Give it some time and you'll be able to make assumptions that check out."

The pet name is delivered with such ease that Jungkook almost doesn't notice it. It's the look in your eyes that really delivers it, the chaos and confusion you're conveying in one simple smirk.

"Like yours did when we first met?" He says with a raised brow, thinking you've never made an accurate assumption in the whole entire time he's known you.

"I assumed you were a cunt. Ding, ding, ding. Always right."

This earns a snicker from Namjoon, who can admittedly see why Jungkook liked you so much. There's something about you that gets the heart rate going; gets people interested in what you have to say.

Jungkook says nothing. Rolls his eyes, and grates his jaw. Doesn't see any point in conversing if you're just gonna be a bitch. He always knew you were like this, but he'd managed to chip away at your softer side and had somehow forgotten just how hard your exterior is.

You've fortified it, now though. Built your defences up. It's been three months, and you've not wasted a day. Naive of him to think you would have. You're your father's daughter after all.

"Look," you turn to Jin, still pretty and poised, but this time there's an air of sincerity to your words. "I'm waving a white flag here. You fuckers are lucky I came to your first. Might not trust anyone else in the city, but I don't trust you either. Thing is, boys, I'm traceable. If you try and do anything to me now, you fuckers'll get caught."

"So why would we want to do business with you?" He questions, incredibly curious. He thought after everything with Jungkook, that'd be the last you would see of him.

"Cause I was always traceable, you silly cunts. Do you think just cause I wasn't on speaking terms with my dad, that that was it? The moment you did the raid, I was back on his radar. I'm your connection. I'm your way in," you say, gesturing to yourself to really drive it home how important you could be for them. "If you want to bring him down - if you want to take him for all that he's worth - then you need someone on the inside. You need me. Honestly, the fact you thought a ransom situation would work is laughable, but it just shows you're lucky to have brains now to go with your brawn."

"We haven't agreed to anything," Jin reminds you. There's a warmth to his voice that contrasts the atmosphere within the room.

"No, but you will."

"Why?" Jungkook interrupts, eyes narrow, voice scornful. He's picking at the sides of his fingers, chipping away at hangnails.

"Cause what more do you have to lose, huh?" You shrug. "You're Kang's bitches, now. Wouldn't you rather be mine? I give great employee perks."

The way your eyes dance around the room, from man to man, and eventually land on Jungkook's is deliberate. He knows this, and he lets it get to him.

"What would they be?" Namjoon scoffs, unaware of your innuendo. It's kind of sweet, how naive he is.

And so naturally, you shatter all illusion of innocence.

"Ask Jungkook."

There's silence. No one quite knows how to reply.

No one except Jungkook.

"Ring on your finger be happy with you saying that?"

And for the first time, you're rattled. You hadn't expected him to mention it.

"That's of none of your concern," you shrug. Now's not the time to let him get to you - but the way you rabbit on afterwards is evidence enough that he has. "I'm not here to be interrogated. I'm extending an olive branch; giving you the chance to earn the money you were so desperately trying to make from me. You get your money, I get my father's downfall on a silver platter."

The way you look at Jungkook is unfamiliar. It's as cold and frigid as the winter nights you used to stow away with him in his car; breath clouding in the freezing temperatures despite the warmth in your heart.

A few months ago, such a look from you would have destroyed him. Absolutely decimated his entire sense of belonging. Life wouldn't have been worth living.

Now? It feels like a luxury. A sinful indulgence. He's been deprived for so long he'll take even the smallest hit of whatever you'll give him - and even when it's fleeting, your attention is like crack fucking cocaine.

It's not just your hair or your gaze that has changed. In fact, a lot about you has. There's a hollowness to your cheeks now that there wasn't before; a slight gauntness.

Without the convenience store snacks to keep you going, you actually had to eat decently. Having someone to go home to also meant that your junk diet had to be replaced with something more... appropriate for a woman in her twenties. No more eating like a teenager.

Your loss of appetite in the aftermath of Jungkook's revelation had certainly helped with this, and if anything, you've gained weight over the last few weeks - but you're still not as soft as you once were. He can see it in your cheeks. Saddens him, a little.

Has him thinking about what you could look like beneath those clothes of yours. Wonders if his hands will still fit your waist perfectly, or if your tits will still overspill in his palms just how he liked it. Considers that maybe they won't. Maybe he'll never get the chance to find out.

You think Jungkook looks colder. It's funny, cause the weather has heated up quite considerably, but it's never been frostier between the pair of you.

Getting to your feet, you brush down the tops of your thighs to straighten any creases. You've still got a persona to keep up, even when it's dark outside.

"You can discuss it amongst yourselves," You sigh as begin to head for the door, heels clicking as beneath your feet. There's something about the sound that you just adore. Maybe it's the repetition. Maybe it's the way it drowns out the chime in your stomach as you walk past the man you once thought you... No, you think. That's not right. The man you used to fuck. Much better. "I don't care, either way. I need an answer by the end of the week, or I'll find someone else. You aren't special. Plenty of other fuckers in the city who want to make a quick buck. Plenty of others who hate my father for one reason or another. You just had the balls to try it first."

"How do we know we can trust you?" Jungkook calls after you.

He's disappointed when you simply call back, "you don't."

There's more to be said, he thinks. More to discuss.

So he follows you to the parking lot. None of the other boys do. They already know they aren't welcome, and quite honestly, none of them wants to third-wheel such an awkward encounter. They'd already filled their quota for the day.

As he enters the dreary parking lot, he notices a car that's unfamiliar. It's a Merc. Black. Matte. Not too standard around these parts. Fuckin nice, though. He's impressed. Makes a mental note to ask you about the spec some other time.

"Hey, honey." You speak pleasantly into your phone as you pace around, not realising Jungkook's presence yet. He doesn't speak up. Too curious about who this honey could be. "Yeah, Just heading to Jieun's now. I'll be a couple of hours. Okay, okay. Love you, too."

Jungkook pretends like he didn't hear that bit. Does a terrible job of it - but at least he tries.

When you clock him, you couldn't be less bothered if you tried. So what if he heard you on the phone? It's up to him if he reads into it or not.

"You wanna know you can trust me?" You raise a brow, reading his suspicions of you.

Jungkook remains silent. He'll pretend it's to preserve his hard exterior, but in reality, it's to save himself from admitting the truth: he'd trust you with his life.

"I just lied," you continue. "I'm not going to Jieun's. I'm going to Yoongi's. Can follow me if you like. We both know it wouldn't be the first time. I'll be transparent with you - but don't think for a second that I trust you back."

"Yoongi's", Jungkook nods. Remembers the way Yoongi used to look at you. Remembers how he once thought that he was competition. More fool him for ever thinking you actually cared. You've a ring on your finger, now. Neither of you were ever competing, apparently. And if you were? Fell at the first hurdle. "What's that then? A little extra marital fun?

You smile insincerely. "Not married yet."

"So?"

"So even if it was, Jungkook, you're not the one who put this ring on my finger. You've no right to an opinion."

"And I never would have given you a ring," he says, as if he thinks his lack of interest in you could hurt you any more than it already had.

"Never would have wanted you to," you shrug, both of you as good at feigning disinterest as one another.

There's something about him though that has you curious. Has you feeling like you're being challenged. It's just like it was when you first met. The words you speak are laced with disgust, but the burning in your eyes can only be described as desire. He hates how easy it is for him to get like this around you. Hates that you know exactly what you can do to him.

He's realising now that you're far more in control of your feelings than he ever thought you were. He only ever saw you so vulnerable because you chose that. You let him. He's shut out now, and he doesn't like it.

But he does like the smile resting on your pretty lips as you walk towards him.

The way you encroach on his physical space has him hitching his breath in his throat, as if he's terrified to breathe around you. It's fitting, given the way you make him feel like he's drowning.

It's more than that, though.

What he truly fears is inhaling your perfume. smelling your shampoo. He's terrified of what it will do to him if he learns your hair still smells like gasoline. Even more petrified of how he'll feel if he learns that you don't smell like it anymore, mind you.

It's when you extend your index finger and hook it beneath his necklace that he really begins to lose his mind.

"Yanno," you say so quietly he has no choice but to edge just a tiny bit closer. Raising the key to be level with your eyes, you study it, watching the way the tiny crystals almost sparkle in the moonlight. You know they don't. It's just an illusion. If you had to guess - had to assume - you'd say coke. It's the only thing you can imagine him doing. His eyes are focused down on you, lashes long, gaze stern. "You should have told me you like coke."

Jungkook stays silent as you look up towards him, your lips laced in seduction. He knows better than to let you succeed, but - fuck - it's so hard not to. Whatever you're doing has an ulterior motive. It has to.

"Bumping coke's gonna ruin that pretty little nose of yours," you note.

"The fuck would you know about it?" he scoffs, but doesn't pull away. Can't bring himself to. All he can think about is the way your lips look. The difference in them is minimal, but they're definitely plumper. Have to be. Or maybe he just wants to kiss you more than he ever has done.

Your lips part as you lay your tongue flat and press the key to it.

Jungkook swallows, the lump in his throat swollen and intrusive. You wait a second. Wait for two. Then twist the key and dab the other side against your tongue.

"Takes longer if you swallow it," he whispers. "Snorting is much more cost-effective."

"Maybe so," you shrug, releasing the key from your mouth before pressing it against his chest with a slight push. "But you can't go around wearing Class A evidence like that, you silly prick. I meant what I said," you trail off to a whisper, stepping even closer towards him. He doesn't back away. Quite the opposite. He edges a little closer too. He knows he shouldn't - knows you're just baiting him - but god what a temptress you are. "I need to know I can trust the men I work with. I can't have you getting thrown into jail just for the fun of it. I need you clean."

There's something different about that last command. A softness. A plead. Your eyes linger on his, and then you pull away from the magnetism of his being.

"Stay off the drugs, Kook. A deviated septum looks sexy on no one."

And you're right.

But it doesn't really matter. The coke was just a pass time until his favourite drug came back to town. He's one hit down, and thinks the high will last him all fucking week.

The buzz perseveres. He's so consumed by it that he can't recall the conversation he had with the boys before he left. Can barely fucking remember the drive home.

But as he strips himself bare in the quiet comfort of his apartment, he can remember you.

Can remember your eyes, and the way they engulfed him with the heat of your fury - but also the way they simmered. Lashes low, lids half closed, you'd looked at him like a fucking siren, and the memory of it had his tattooed hand stroking at his firm cock. He hadn't been able to get like this since you'd left. Had tried on more than one occasion. Never managed to see it through. Would feel sick after a pump or two.

It's different now. His wrist flicks and his hand works his shaft, head thrown back into his pillows. His hips pulse, desperate for more friction, his own palm a shitty compromise after the luxury of your pussy.

It's when he's thinking of you that he gets breathless. Starts to moan. Wanks himself even faster. Harder. "Shit, C."

The term of endearment sounds so fucking sweet on his tongue. Has his torso tensing. Ass too. The wave of an orgasm threatening to crash.

Driven by instinct, his strong fingers wrap tightly around his hardened length, stroking gently. Tilting his head back, eyes firmly closed, he lets pleasure wave over him as he rolls his hips up into his palm. A guttural moan escapes his wet mouth, his teeth finding their home on his bottom lip.

More. He needs more of you. Needs your hair in his face, the scent of gasoline suffocating him. Needs his lips around your nipples, hands grappling with your ass. He needs you here.

All he's got - the only thing he's got - are his memories. His body writhes beneath him, the chain around his neck slipping from its position. There's little thought that goes into the way he moves the chain and holds the key tight between his teeth to keep it in place; nothing except the knowledge of your tongue licking against it earlier.

And then his lips close around it. His teeth ease, and the key sinks onto his tongue, the chain taut on his chin. He slows the movement of his wrist for a second. Rolls it once. Twice. Tries his best to work out if he can taste you or not.

He can't, but he can't taste the coke either, which means you did exactly as you intended. He moans, vibrating around the small key, devouring the idea that he'd exchanging spit with you once again, in a way. He knows the truth of the matter couldn't be further away from that, but it feels so fucking forbidden.

Just like you always have been. You'll remain that way.

But as his torso grows damp with the release of his orgasm onto his abs, ropes of sperm that he wishes he could have fucked into you going to waste on his skin, he can help but let his mind run wild.

Can't help but wish for more.

And so it comes as no surprise when Jungkook arrives at the boxing club, bright and early the next morning and says, "I'm in."

────────────

There's a sheen to Yoongi's skin as he opens up his apartment door, damp from the shower that was shut off just a few moments prior. Hair wet and sticking to his forehead, you're surprised to find you're the one choking on your words.

And then he smiles.

Smiles as if he's just beaten the high score of an arcade game, smiles as if he's managed to reach the peak of Apsan just in time for sunset. He smiles, and it feels like he's fixing you up with gold; seeping into the cracks that Jungkook left in you.

"If you wanted me to cover your shifts, you could have just asked," he beams. It's the first time he's seen you in three months. "You didn't have to be all dramatic and quit on me like that."

His teeth are showing, and they only show more when you give him a light tap on the shoulder with a closed first. His body jolts back slowly, eyes eating you up like a souffle pancake after a month-long fast. He bites down on his bottom lip with those pretty pearly whites, and pushes his door a little further back to invite you inside.

"You know you like a girl who keeps you on your toes," you grin back at him.

"Coffee? Tea?" He asks as you cross the threshold. You both know he won't have any at home, and that he'll need to order it in, but the gesture is kind. He's kind. "On my toes, yes. Sprinting marathons just to keep up with her? Less so much."

"Wine? And you'll thank me for the cardio in later life," you assure him, and toy with a joke about other forms of cardio you could do together. It dances on the tip of your tongue, and you know that if you spoke it aloud, goosebumps would form on his bare arms - so you say nothing, instead. 

He'd be the perfect distraction, you think, nothing like the boy you're trying to forget. Kind, and handsome, and someone who actually gives a shit about you. 

Forget distraction. He'd be the perfect man. Or at least he would be if he wasn't so helplessly infatuated with you.

That's thing about Yoongi; he sees all the good in you, and ignores the bad.

He'll take your witty banter, but neglect to factor in how mean it can sometimes be. He'll watch you yawn at work, half-bored to death, but refuse to acknowledge the fact you could cure said boredom with the tasks on your to-do list, that you instead leave for the next shift worker. He revels in the beauty of your laugh, but apparently is deaf when he hears you bitching about customers who have done very little wrong.

You aren't a saint. Perhaps not a sinner, either, but you sure do feel a lot closer to one than you think you should.

For all his wrongdoings, Jungkook never once treated you like you were a saint. There was no pedestal beneath your feet when you kissed him; he'd stoop to your level.

He saw you exactly as you were, which is why it hurt so much when you realised you'd only ever seen a facade that he'd cooked up in the shitty back room of a boxing club.

Thoughts of him are dissolved with mindless chatter, Yoongi always so good at taking your mind elsewhere. He knows you in such a way that talking is easy. It never feels calculated, never feeling like you need to think about what you say. He'd never judge you for a single thing.

Perhaps he should. Perhaps if he'd have held his guard up a little higher, stood his ground a little firmer, then he wouldn't be so weak to the way you batter your lashes and give him coy looks in dull-lit rooms.

There's talk of the garage; the usual customers, your old boss, how late shifts drag without you there. He's quiet when you ask about Jieun. Just tells you she's all good. He changes the subject. Asks about your dad, and how the fuck you managed to keep that one quiet. 

You're surprised to find that honesty feels nice. 

Until, inevitably, it doesn't.

"You gonna tell me about the ring?" he eventually asks after you've both had a little wine to ease the tension of three months you've been away.

You don't drop your eyes from him, not even for a second. His damp hair is nearly fully dry, and he looks so comfortable in a pair of grey sweats and a white shirt, reclined on his sofa. Simplicity looks good on him.

You're still in business casual, tight dress hiked around the top of your thighs as you sit on his floor. It was always your default when you came to his place, for some reason always opting for the floor instead of next to him on the sofa. Always been concerned about keeping a little distance. Funny, how the one time the distance would be apt, you find yourself wanting to sit next to him instead. You don't, though. Not yet, at least.

"What of it?"

Yoongi looks at you like you're a little bit mad. He kind of thinks you are.

"It's on your ring finger."

"Oh?" you say with a small laugh. "Is it?"

His eyes narrow on yours, before they glance back down to the ring. The stone is clear, and if he were to guess, he'd assume it was diamond - but he'd never struck you to be the kind of girl who ever wanted diamonds. Opals, maybe. Emerald, topaz. Stones with a bit about them. Something interesting. Not a diamond. Of all things.

But perhaps he didn't know you as well as he thought he had done. Perhaps you really weren't the girl he had dreamt up in his head; the one that he spent hours upon hours daydreaming about after you left.

Funny, how both he and Jungkook would get lost for lifetimes thinking about you, but they were both so vastly different.

In Yoongi's you'd come back home, show up at the garage like no time at all had passed, and tell him that you were wrong all along. He's the one you want. He's the one you've been going crazy thinking about. He's the one you came back for.

Sometimes he thinks about that week you went to Busan. Thinks about what it could have been like if he'd been the one to take you. Thinks about how fucking good it could have been to experience life outside of the confines of work and your apartments together. He thinks and he thinks and he thinks. Occasionally he acts on those thoughts too, but he tries not to.

It all feels a little wrong.

But that's what he likes about it. The fact he knows he shouldn't be thinking about you when he's turned on just turns him on even more; so he finds himself thinking of you far more often than he should. Thinks of you when he's alone; his bedroom lights switched off, duvet pushed midway down his thighs, hands roaming down his body. He grazes his skin with the tips of his nails. Pretends it's you.

"What about you," you shrug, nodding towards the scrunchie that's looped around the neck of a wine bottle on the counter. "Don't think your hair's long enough for that."

"You'd be surprised," he grins, pleased to find you grinning back.

"Prove it," you flirt, getting to your feet to retrieve it.

Yoongi watches as you retrieve the scrunchie, and knows that he should tell you no.

He should say 'actually, that's my girlfriend's.'

But she's only ever been a distraction to stop him from thinking about you - and how can he think of anyone else when you're in his space, heels off, dark hair draped over your shoulders like fine silk?

In your heart of hearts, you know that the scrunchie means he has someone. The hair grips by the sink, the takeout containers for two next to the recycling, the fact his apartment is actually clean and tidy, too.

"Prove it?" He grins as you return to his sofa, but you don't sit. You stand in front of him. Keep your eyes on him. Wait as he adjusts a little, his leg unhooking from beneath the other so that his lap makes the perfect seat for you to sit upon.

And so you do. You hike your dress up. One of your knees rests down next to his thigh. You're tentative. Slow.

His hand strokes up the back of your thigh. He nods. Encourages you further onto his lap. When your second knee finds its home next to his other thigh, he nods again.

You're smiling as you lower your weight, ass perched on the tops of his thighs. There's a little distance between the pair of you. You're not as close as you could be. Proceeding with caution. His lips pouty, eyes pure. A paradox.

"Prove it," you nod, and your hands start to toy with his hair. He's smiling right back at you, enthralled with the flirt almost as much as he's enthralled with the way it feels to have your nails scratching against his scalp. "Gonna make your hair look so pretty."

It's unfair, he thinks, that you get to have your hands in his hair, but his aren't allowed in yours. Doesn't realise that you wouldn't object.

"Don't think you will," he simpers back, the hand of his that was on the back of your thigh now resting on top of it, stroking ever so gently. The touch is so gentle, so minimal, and yet it has you pulsing beneath the lace of your underwear.

There's a ring on your finger, and someone waiting for you at home, but no one's had you in a position this provocative since you jumped town. See, you're 'waiting'. 'Want it to be special'. Don't want to make the same mistakes you did last time the ring had been on your finger.

Or at least that's what you tell yourself, and your fiance seems to believe it - why else would he get down on one knee again?

"I definitely will," you banter as you wrap his hair up with the scrunchie. His hair sticks on end, like a tiny sprout, and he looks adorable. "Gonna make you look sooo pretty."

He frowns, but with a sparkle in his eyes that let you know he's just joking. "Done?"

"Done," you beam, giving it one final adjustment. There's a slight movement to your hips, too. Getting cosy. His hand sinks a little further up your thigh. You pretend not to notice it. "Prettiest sprout in the whole of Daegu."

"Only Daegu? There are prettier sprouts outside of Daegu?"

You shrug. "Maybe. We should enter you into the national pretty sprout competition."

He adjusts his hips, sitting up a little straighter. He moves you into a more comfortable position as he does so. You're closer now. So much closer.

"Think I could win?"

"Best in show, baby," you grin. "I'd win for best sprout stylist, though."

Laughter echoes around you, his smile so sweet, so saccharine that you think he must surely be made of sugarcane.

The way Yoongi looks at you is devastating. Eyes soft and round, they're glossy and wet. Earnest.

They drop to your lips, then return to your eyes. Repeat. His lashes flutter whenever he does so, and there's a reflection from his floor lamp that looks like a pretty little love heart in them.

So devastating. It's the kind of look people would write films about, all for that one shot of his eyes after the confession scene. The one that will go viral, the one that will be cited for years as 'the look', the one that would earn Min Yoongi a place in the heart of every young woman who watches it. Young men, too. Fuck it, anyone with a pair of working eyes.

He's got a look in them that makes you want to believe in love; but the fact you even have to think about it just proves that this could never be that.

"I'm using you," you tell him, knowing that honesty is all you can really give him. He deserves that much, at the very least. Deserves more, you think, so much more than you can ever be - but he doesn't want more. He just wants you.

He tries a little banter. "To win the competition? I know."

But you don't feel like bantering. You want him to know how much of a piece of shit you are. How much you only ever think of yourself. How selfish you can be.

There's a look on your face that is unfamiliar to him. A warning. I'm a hurricane; I will destroy you. It's one that he ignores.

"I know," he whispers back, seriously this time, his index finger tucking away strands of your hair that are hanging loose. Eyes focused on the movements of his fingers, he's too scared to look into yours. Shy, almost. Timid, and sweet, and everything that Jungkook's not. "And I'm letting you. I'm using you, too."

It's funny, because he really thinks he is. He thinks he's got control over the situation, that all this is happening because he chose for it to happen - as if you haven't been holding the cards this whole entire time. He's only winning because you're letting him win.

Part of you feels bad. You know that his feelings for you run deeper than your simple want to be wanted, and yet you don't try and rectify the situation. He's a grown man. He can make his own decisions. He can make his own mistakes.

The tentative tips of his fingers trail down your cheek, your neck. He pushes your hair over your shoulder, and presses a kiss against it.

His lips trail a little further up, ghosting your neck, occasionally pressing down. He's slow. Takes his time. Savours this; savours you.

You're surprised by the way it feels when Yoongi finally kisses you.

His lips are just as they should be, firm and soft, and when his tongue begins to trail across your bottom lip, you accept it into your mouth. There's silence in your sternum. You had expected that bell to chime like it so often did, but instead, there's just a small fizzle and pop, like a sparkler being dunked in a water cup. You can feel the fizzle, mind you, working its way down until you find yourself clenching.

This is good, you tell yourself. What you need.

Yoongi's tongue is slow as it licks into your mouth. He's working you out. Seeing how you taste, how it feels when your moans vibrate against him.

His hands tentatively begin to roam; hips pulsing beneath you. The weight of your body on top of his feels like a fucking crime. His fingers trail up your back. Tickle at your spine. Curve round your ribs and ghost the underside of your tits.

Your breath hitches, and all you can think about is him.

Your fingers clasp around Yoongi's, holding them in place, stopping them from moving further. He looks at you, head tilting when he realises yours is shaking. He's scared he's fucked it already.

"Just," you say quickly, noticing the panic in his eyes. "These," you gesture to your chest, not wanting to be specific but needing him to know. "Off limits. If that's okay?"

He nods. "Sure, of course. I'm sorry."

"No," you smile. "It's okay."

You could clarify. Could explain. Could make up some lie about how you don't like it, or how you're insecure, but Yoongi accepts your boundaries without question.

"Sure?" He asks, a little scared to venture further. He doesn't want to do the wrong thing. Doesn't want to make you uncomfortable, or make you feel like regretting your choices. He knows that he's probably only ever gonna get one shot at this, but he's gonna treat it like an audition for a permanent position. If he does well, maybe you'll want him again.

His hesitancy is sweet, you think. Endearing. Perhaps a little bit of a turn-off, but you don't seem to mind. You like that you can take of him just as much as he wants to take care of you.

The pace of his hips increases beneath you, your clothes aiding and abetting your crimes. It's not technically cheating if nothing happens. Or at least, that's what you tell yourself.

Sure, his cock is fucking solid beneath his sweats, trapped in the confines of his underwear, and - fuck it, fine - maybe you are so wet that you're leaving a small mark on his crotch from where it's seeped through - but it's nothing.

It's not like you're actually touching his dick. Your hands are exclusively in his hair, his pretty sprout long gone, the scrunchie now around your wrist.

And it's not like he's inside you, either - although he wishes he was. In fact, he's thinking about it when he begins whining into your mouth. Your hips are working against him, the friction getting you closer and closer an-

"God, you're gonna make- fuck, I'm gonna-" he rasps, but he doesn't slow his movements. His hands are on your waist, dictating the speed at which you're moving on top of him. He's using you just as much as you're using him.

"Cum?" You finish his sentence with a sinful smirk against him. Your tongue flicks against his, and he's whining again. You're so direct, so blasé, that he doesn't know how to control himself. "Don't pretend like it's the first time, Yoongi."

See, Yoongi doesn't fuck like Jungkook.

Yoongi fucks nice girls. Girls who fuck for love. Girls who rarely fuck. Girls who do as they should; sit pretty, let the man have his way with them, and ask for nothing in return. Girls who are prudish, and refuse to discuss sex unless they're about to have it.

More often than not, Yoongi goes for girls who love him.

And it's probably why he's so fixated on you; because he knows you never will.

You're unattainable. Good girl gone bad. Sultry and seductive in a way that he's never seen before.

He ruts up against you, chest heaving as his grip on your waist forces you to angle a little further away from him. He shakes his head ever so slightly, lips hanging ajar. "Not the first time. Course it fucking isn't. Look at you."

And now you're fucking whining. He likes the reciprocation. Makes him feel like you want this just as much as he does - and you do. There's nothing you want more at that moment than to have Yoongi twitching in his underwear, unloading himself all because of you. You want the control. The power. The satisfaction.

You want a man weak for you, to make up for how weak a man had made you feel. You want confirmation that Jungkook was nothing special. That you can have the same impact on any man.

And here Yoongi is, hard beneath the weight of your body, your pussy hot against his stiff crotch; body clammy as he pretends like the scrunchie around your wrist doesn't belong to a girl who bakes him homemade tangerine tarts, just because. He isn't thinking about her. He's utterly consumed by you. He'll feel bad about it after you leave, but for now, he's just thinking of ways he can make you stay.

"Slow," you tell him, placing your hand against his chest, just below his ribs. You both ignore your ring just like you both ignore the scrunchie. He's just as corrupt as you are. Maybe you're a good match. Maybe you can be each other's favourite mistakes.

You shuffle back a little; ass perched on his knees, eyes looking at his crotch as your palm follows your gaze. It's not hard to get a read on his size beneath his sweats. They're a pale grey, but there's a telling dark stain where you've been sitting.

"Shit," he hisses. "We can't- I can't. I want to - fucking hell, I really do - but I can't."

"I know," you nod. "That's not what I'm after."

The way you smile as you say it has Yoongi thinking he might just cum right there and then. You're fucking with his head - but what bothers him the most is how much he likes it.

"What are you after, then?" he asks as he feels your hand squeeze around his length. He groans, head tipping back against the top of his sofa. The way his hips pulse is involuntary, and it has sin lacing your smile.

"Just wanna adjust you slightly," you shrug. You want his cock laying flat against his body. It's kind of at an angle now, and while it feels great to grind down on, you know it will be even better if you can work up and down his shaft a little easier. Better for you both.

He bites down on his lip to hold back another moan and nods when you release the pressure of your palm.

"You wanna move it, or shall I?" you ask, not wanting to overstep a boundary.

"I'll do it," he says, hand dipping beneath his waistband without hesitation. It's not cheating if he does it, he rationalises. It is cheating if you do it. He's decided, that's his limit. As long as you don't actually touch his cock, then it's fine. He hasn't given the kissing much thought because he doesn't want to stop doing it.

He looks at you as he strokes his cock, just a couple of times. Just enough to make you wish it was your lips around it, not his hand. You can't see anything - it's still hidden by his sweats - but the adjustment just makes the outline so much clearer. So much bigger.

"This okay?" he asks, almost nervously. Eyes darting around your face to get a read.

You nod. "Perfect."

His hands find your waist again, and he pulls you further up his lap. He holds you in place as he slowly pushes up against you. Your hand snakes behind his neck, the other clasping one of his wrists. Your nails dig in; a moan stuttering from your pouty lips.

"That feel better?" he checks, but your reaction was all he needed to confirm it.

Still, you're notoriously the worst - and so you smirk. Lean forward. Subtly move your hips as you do so. Press a chaste kiss against his neck. Whisper, "I'm not sure. You'll have to try again."

He's even slower this time. Deeper. You shouldn't be doing this, Yoongi.

And yet he does it again. Groans. Curses. "You make me so hard."

You can't help but laugh. He's sweet. Nice to be with. "You're welcome."

It's the giggle that gets him.

Sweet? Nice? Yeah, fuck that.

His hips get erratic. The speed, the pace. Jesus H. Christ. It's a good job you aren't fucking because you think he'd actually break you. You know he'd kiss it better, so it's okay - but now you're thinking of his tongue and how badly you want his head between your legs.

"Wait for me," you whine into his lips, as your hand dips towards your clothed cunt. It's so warm and wet that it's a miracle Yoongi hasn't stripped you bare just to have the luxury of experiencing it.

You both know this is a one-and-done kind of thing. One time can be classed as a mistake. A lapse in judgement. Forgiveness will be far easier. Repeat offences? Well, they're a pattern. Guaranteed to reoccur. It'd be an affair, for lack of a better term.

Yoongi was raised better. You weren't, but that's neither here nor there.

With your dress hiked up around your hips, it's almost cruel how easily Yoongi could access your pussy if he really wanted to. Has been resisting the temptation. The lace of your underwear - black and barely there - leaves little to the imagination. He's salivating at the sheer thought of how you could taste. He can smell your arousal, and thinks you must be some kind of delicacy.

His brain is playing tricks on him. Making him feel like he hasn't eaten for weeks. What he wouldn't give to have you in his mouth right now.

It's out of bounds, though. He can't.

But he can match the rhythm of his hips to the pace you're rubbing languid circles against your clothed cunt, right above the hood of your clit.

And again, he wants it in his mouth.

He needs a distraction. Something. Anything. Feels your grip on the back of his neck and decides that's it.

"Throat," he husks. "Put your hand around my throat."

The sound Yoongi makes when you do as he's asked, nails digging into his skin ever so slightly, is unlike anything you've ever heard before. It's desperate, unrestrained. Pathetic. So fucking hot.

But you're both mewling now, bodies clammy beneath your clothes.

It hits you first; the wave of an orgasm crashing down over you, taking Yoongi with it. Your body shakes on top of his, teeth biting down into his shoulder as hands squeeze your ass so tightly you think it might bruise.

Good. Would be nice to have the mark of someone else on your skin for once.

He folds almost as fast as you do. He's quiet as he cums, not minding that your grip on his throat had dropped. There's no announcement, no prewarning, he just lets his body fall into the familiar notion of what it feels like to experience euphoria because of you. Breath hitched, cock spurting into his underwear, Yoongi's head lolls. His eyes are half-mooned, lips resting ajar, looking directly at you as he cums.

It's sordid. Dirty. Forbidden. Your favourite kind of sexual exploit - but Yoongi is a willing participant. Wanting.

His hair is a little ruffled from your hands, body limp and docile from his release. He makes no objection as your frill his hair with a smile. He does eye you a little curiously as you begin to tie his hair back up with that damn scrunchie again. He's glad it's off your wrist. Felt guilty looking at it.

You tilt your head, eyes expansive and inquisitive as a smile prevails. "Prettiest sprout in Daegu."

And he really is; honey skin all pink and clammy, eyes glossy, a smile forming on his pouty lips. But he's also not stupid. He knows you're just trying to pretend like what just happened never did.

It's the sensible thing to do - but fuck, he's been thinking about that (or at least some variation of it) for months. Years, even. Against his better judgement, he steals a chaste kiss from your lips. "Prettiest sprout maker in Daegu."

The bashful shake of your head, the way your cheeks apple, the sound of your fucking giggle, all confirm it for him.

"Shut up."

"Don't think I can," he grins, satisfied to have finally gotten you like this. And then he kisses you again, because he knows full well that very soon he won't be able to. "Why the fuck did we never do that before?"

You wrap your arms around his neck and simper into his kiss. It's nice to be wanted. Nice to have someone want you just for the sake of wanting you. Nice to use someone instead of being used. There's no ulterior motive with Yoongi; just bad timing. That's all.

"'Cause we'd have never got any work done at the garage if we knew how good it felt," you hum, voice light and airy. He's missed you in the months you've been away. "Would have spent all our time in the stock room."

"You did that anyways," he laughs, pressing kisses down your neck. "Fucking slacker."

His lips stop beneath your collarbones, just shy of your chest, mindful of the boundary you set earlier.

"You never complained," you remind him. "You loved it."

He shakes his head. Doesn't deny it. Just grins.

And that's when the guilt starts to creep in for you, too.

Yoongi's one of the good ones. Hair tied up all cute and silly just because you wanted to do it. There's safety to be found when you're sitting in his lap. He'd never fuck you over. Never.

But you've twisted his arm, and made him fuck over some other poor girl. You know it's gonna eat at him - because he's a good person. Far better than you are.

"Hey," you say quietly. "I should get going."

"It's late," he replies, his deep voice a similar dulcet volume to yours. He's mirroring you. It's cute. "You can take my bed. I'll sleep on the couch again. Like last time."

The way he tacks that last sentence on is so delicate. So pure. Proof that you can trust him. It's tried and tested. Customer approved. Trip Advisor recommended.

In your heart of hearts, you know you don't deserve another minute of his company. You look down. Choke on your words a little. Shake your head. "Wouldn't wanna put you out."

You've a home to get to.

"It's no bother," he smiles.

You know leaving will hurt him, but fear staying will do more damage.

And again, you've a home to get to.

"Stay," he says.

"I can't," you whisper. Nudge your nose against his. Let your lips linger a little too close. Don't press down until he does. And then you kiss him like you really mean it. You think you do. "I'm sorry."

The worst thing about Yoongi is the way he smiles. It's innocent, even if what you just did wasn't. Sincere. Compassionate. You know he's only thinking about you - but there are other people in this equation. You reach for the scrunchie. It pulls from his hair with ease - a testament to how he feels about his short-lived romance. It doesn't matter though, as you pick up his wrist and place the scrunchie around it.

He looks at it; at your nails and how they clasp his hand so delicately. He squeezes them. Nods. Purses his lips, takes in the shine of your ring, then looks at you. "I'm sorry, too."

You're not sure what for. For not acting sooner? For not asking you on a date all those months ago? For the fact he moved on when you moved away?

"It's cool," you say and try a sincere smile back. He sees right through it. "We're cool."

"We are?"

"We are."

Yoongi calls you a cab. You've had too much wine to risk getting pulled over. The scandal your father would face as the result of you getting a DUI isn't worth it at this point. You've a role to play. A home to get to before the sun rises.

And despite it all, he kisses you goodbye.

"Better not go rogue again," he tells you.

All you can do is smile. "No promises."

─────���──────

When your fiancé calls through to the master bathroom - letting you know he's off to work - you pretend you can't hear him. There's a shuffle by the door as he waits for a reply, but when he doesn't get one, he assumes you're beneath the water.

Easy enough mistake.

You've been too busy staring at your reflection for upwards of ten minutes, trying to assess who the fuck is staring back at you. The marble countertops are cold beneath your hands, the shower running freely, 'cause you're not the one footing the bill. Your fiancé is.

You don't feel bad about the fact you're quite literally pouring his cash down the drain. There's enough money to cover it - but of course there is. Despite his well-to-do salary man image, his main income comes under the table. It's illicit, but so is everything in the world you'd left behind all those years ago.

The man who put a ring on your finger is on your father's payroll. Has been since he turned eighteen. Is following in his own father's footsteps.

It's all very sweet, when you come to think about it - what kid doesn't look up to their father? You sure had.

You, the daughter of a political figurehead; he, the son of the Chief of Police.

It's what made you such a great couple from the get-go.

Was kind of like the fairytales your mother would read to you before bed. You wonder now if she was trying to ingrain the idea of such a suitor from your early childhood. Get her ideal man embedded in your brain before it even had a chance to fully develop.

Your fiancé is a little older than you are, so they had to buy time. Make sure no relationship between the pair of you could be scandalised.

Once you were of age, it seemed to be a match made in heaven. The stuff of Shakespeare plays.

It was only natural that you would end up together. Set in stone. You'd marry and become an unstoppable force for your parents. The city would remain theirs.

Thing is, you never wanted to be a character in a Shakespeare romance. You always thought it'd be fruitless. They all end up the victims of great tragedies, anyways.

What you had wanted was to be the muse of a sonnet. Have a man dote on you; write you poetry under the glare of sweltering summer heat. Someone who'd make metaphors out of the condensation on cans of chilsung, consumed together down by your favourite spot along the river. He'd mumble nonsense about the smell of your hair and how he'd long to touch you with his ink-stained fingertips.

As you grew, you began to favour motor oil over ink. Hardly a surprise that you'd been suckered by a motor-loving swine with ink etched into his knuckles. You tend not to think about how gentle those hands of his could be. He'd been everything you had ever wanted wrapped into one. Tied with a pretty red bow.

Now, you think you'll be lucky if you make it to the footnotes of a political history book.

You shower. Take a little longer than normal to rinse the grimey feeling of betrayal from your skin. It'll never leave. Not really. Lodged beneath too many layers of skin.

It's not like you had gone to Yoongi's with the intention of letting things get that far. A little flirt, sure, something harmless - but it was just so lovely to have choices. So nice to be able to choose someone who is also choosing you, even if just for a moment. A lapse in time; in judgement.

Your fiancé never chose you. He chose the path of least resistance from his parents, and you just so happened to be crossing the same road as him.

He's tall. The full cliche - dark, handsome. Had been your first 'love' before you knew what love actually was. First everything. First boy to cheat on you, too, but you mother just told you all men were cheaters. Nothing to get your knickers in a twist about. Your father was leading by example.

So even though you're in his apartment, wearing clothes washed in his detergent, helping yourself to snacks he bought, you know not to be too comfortable. Not to convince yourself he actually wants this relationship for anything other than his own political gain.

He's banking on a promotion. Not within his career, but within your father's corruption. You're an asset.

And him? Well, to state it plainly, he's an ass.

He's also definitely fucking his secretary, but it's not like he's getting lucky with you so you don't care all that much. She was in the picture before you. Or at least, while you were away. It's been a few years since you were last here. Enough time for something to blossom. Poor thing probably actually loves him. You doubt it's reciprocated.

The ring on your finger is nothing more than a political move; a safety net for the man who had held had refused to pawn it after you left the first time. You'd been a diamond girl, back then. Had been a different person entirely.

You're sat on his sofa, twiddling at your ring, garbage reality shows play on his obnoxiously large television screen, when he pops home towards the end of his lunch break.

He seems agitated. Doesn't really greet you. Is looking for a casefile he'd left at home this morning.

"Think they're by the bed," you hum, vaguely aware of flicking through them this morning after he'd left.

Petty convenience store robbery, nothing really to write home about. You scoff at the cases he's been assigned, as if he were still a rookie. He's been on the force for years. He should be investigating major crimes. Murders. Narcotics. Corruption.

Then again, he'd end up investigating all of his friends if he did those cases. Must be better for him to stay away.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he dismisses as he rushes on through.

There's a slight waft of perfume as he passes you. It becomes clear why he decided to cram the document retrieval into the last ten minutes of his lunch break. You find yourself wondering if you had smelt like Yoongi when you'd arrived home the night before.

"You picking up the car this afternoon?"

Shit. The car.

"Yeah." Your capability of making lies sound like bible truth is commendable. A skill. Talent. "Was just about to go."

"Okay, good. You gonna be near Kang's? I need some more oil."

You're silent for a moment. Think of which lovely little lie to tell. Settle on, "Jieun lives not too far from it. I can pop by."

He hums something in response. You think it might be a thank you but he doesn't care to articulate it properly. It's not till he walks back to the living area that you realise he's still talking. "-actually be good for you to get out of the house. You can't mope around here all day."

You scowl. Look at him with genuine disdain. "Sorry?"

"I'm just saying," he shrugs, a look on his face as if he genuinely thinks he's not being a dick. "You can't be out all hours at night - and before you say it, I don't care if it's just at Jieun's, I have a work schedule I have to sleep for - and then spend all day doing nothing."

This time, you stay silent.

You don't think he's wrong, but he's also the one who had given you terms and conditions when he put that ring back on your finger. No GS25 was one of them. No university either, which is what you'd really wanted to do; actually educate yourself on business affairs, so that it wasn't all bullshit when you were dealing with the hooligans from Kang's.

But no. To be welcomed back into the fold was to be restricted; prevented from doing things that would garner you any further independence.

"While I'm at Kang's, I'll see if they've got any jobs going," you say. The garage in front of the boxing club would actually be the perfect place for you to work while you figured out your next move. You also know there's no way in hell it would ever be given the green light.

"Working for your father's political rival?" he scoffs, not taking you seriously for a second.

"Says the man who wants me to buy oil from there," you scoff right back. "But fine, I can go back to GS2-"

"No. Your father said-"

"You think I give a rat's arse what my father said?"

"Your father said to keep a low profile until he can justify another job opening in the mayoral office."

"Joy. Can't wait," you say as he walks to the door. He's out of it without even so much as a goodbye when you mumble, "You might be his bitch, Hoseok, but I'm not."

Realistically, the conversation had been done as soon as you mentioned getting a job.

It's on the list of 'No Can Do' activities, set in place by your father to keep his political appearance clean. No job, no school, no clubs, nothing worthy of a scandal. Nothing that could be used against him. He might have won the last election, but Kang came pretty fucking close to stealing it from him. He needs to gain back the favour of his people.

It takes well over an hour to get to Kang's by foot from the city center apartment you're in, so you head to the nearest bus station. Figure you'll just hop on the 503. Will try not to think about Jungkook when you do so.

You're dressed down, a slouchy jumper over a pair of jeans fading you into obscurity. Nothing special. You know you should really make more of an effort to keep up appearances, but you're tired. Exhausted. Not physically, but mentally.

Your old life is draining you.

There had been method to your madness: you'd returned 'home' for a reason.

Part of you wishes you hadn't. Wishes you'd have gone straight to Kangs.

But you needed an 'in', and to be honest, you needed protection. You play a mean game of poker, and your bluff has been perfected, but behind the poker face, you're scared. Of your reality. Of your father. Of the men who dwell in Kang's boxing club.

And so you'd needed to get your ducks in a row before you stepped foot into Kang's. Couple of months was all it had taken for your family to be convinced that your reckless youth had been outgrown; for a ring to be back on your finger.

You find yourself thinking about Jungkook; what it could have been like if you'd have met him before... well, before everything.

You think about your life as a teenager - privileged, affluent. Think about his hardships, and how you could have tried to help. Your father never would have listened to you, but you could have a least appealed to his sense of humanity. Could have tried to stop the funding cuts. Probably could have extorted your father; used his mistakes against him.

Instead, you'd distanced yourself. Changed your legal name as soon as you could because you knew that, eventually, you'd want to run. Would want to remove yourself from any position of influence.

It's why you never could have helped Jungkook. You had been running from the very thing he needed: power, influence, money. At the time, they'd been meaningless to you. Not meant for you, you thought - though you're doing rather well cosplaying as Daddy's little princess again.

As you make your way across town, you notice how bad the air quality is once more - heavy in your lungs, drying your eyes out.

You make your way to Yoongi's, and for a moment, it feels like nothing has changed. Like you're just going to hang out on a day off. You'll gossip about the boss, maybe make theories on why Jieun had called in sick the week before.

But when Yoongi opens his apartment door, he wants to look like he's ambivalent about your arrival. Indifferent. Unphased. Can't help but smile, though.

"Twice in twelve hours?" he says. "Really making up for lost time, aren't you?"

You roll your eyes, because there's an innuendo lacing his words and you're not sure what to make of it. Both of you are sober, now, not a drop of wine left in your systems and yet... you kind of feel like you are a little tipsy.

Your skin is clammy, heart beating a little faster than it should be. Just the air quality, you tell yourself. Harder to breathe. Yeah, just the air. Just the pollution, baby.

Funny, how it's Jungkook's voice in your head again.

But Yoongi's heart is doing the just same. Can't blame it on the air.

He knows last night was wrong, but the adrenaline rush that had come with giving himself up for you made him feel like he'd digested enough uppers to kill a man. Swallowed them whole. Chased a high he'd never reached before. Nirvana. Purgatory disguised as paradise.

"Look, Yoongi I-" You begin, but he interrupts you. Knows the tone of voice you're using. Doesn't want to hear it.

"Don't," he says, opening his door a little wider to invite you in.

You hesitate, but when he knocks his head back, eyes half-mooned as they drink you in, you can't refuse. He nods to the sofa, where you take a seat, shoes off, feet up, legs crossed.

He stands by the wall opposite you, keeping a little distance. Looks down - but then right back up and into your eyes as he says, "You've only just got here. Don't treat me like I was a mistake already."

There's silence as you look at one another. Your lips rest ajar, a million thoughts fighting it out to be spoken first.

"You weren't."

You're not sure you believe it, but you want him to. Don't want him feeling like you regret him.

"No?" He says, dark but deliriously honest; not only how they drink you in, but how they also pour out for you. The windows to his soul are open, curtains wafting in the breeze. He's inviting you in. Offering you a home. "Why does it feel like you were about to say that it was?"

Because you were.

Not because you thought it was a mistake for you; but because it was a mistake for him. The scrunchie has been hidden away, and his take-out for two containers have been left out for the recycling collection. He's testing out what it could be like, you think. What it could be like to have you in his space.

"I can't give you what you need," you say quietly, avoiding eye contact. You'd expected a little more small talk before jumping to the hard hitters, but Yoongi's been striking out for years. He's making the most of your defence being down.

"Can't, or won't?"

"Both," you feign a half smile. "Even if I wanted to, Yoongi, I don't think I could. I'm not made for you people like you."

"And what am I like?"

"Good," you speak so softly he can't help but smile. "Deserving of more."

He just shrugs. Doesn't hide his hurt. "What if I don't want more?"

"Yoongi-"

And then his hurt takes precedence; obscures any whispers in his mind that tell him not to do... well, do whatever the fuck this is. He's waited years for a green light from you. Instead, you'd raced through amber the night before. Looks red now. He just wants fucking green.

"I don't want more."

"Yoongi."

He looks down. Shakes his head.

When his gaze meets yours again, the windows are shut - but the curtains are still drawn open wide. It's dark inside. Lights are off, but there's somebody home. They're waiting for you to come home, too.

He walks a little closer to the sofa. "Tell me you didn't want me last night."

You're so good at lying. Have mastered it. And yet-

"That's not fair."

Why aren't you lying to him? You can be cold. You can be callous. You're perfectly capable of treating the ones you love like they mean nothing more than the shit beneath your shoes, and yet it's hard to do it with Yoongi. Hard to tell him anything he doesn't want to hear. He deserves the earth, you think, and yet all you're giving him is dirt that will get trapped beneath his nails.

"Tell me you didn't," he repeats, standing a little taller now. His shoulders are broad. Powerful. You'd be safe with Yoongi. Would want for nothing. "Tell me you didn't want me last night."

You look down. Shake your head.

Shame is a funny feeling. Fools you into thinking you should be honest.

"I can't."

Yoongi doesn't smile. Just nods. "Because you want me, too."

"Not for the right reasons, Yoongi," you stress, hoping he'll see sense.

"Who gives a fuck about the right reasons?"

"You will."

"I won't."

"When you ruin what's good for you because of something I can't give you, then you'll give a fuck," you tell him. The hairband might be hidden but there's half a tangerine tart left in his fridge and a concert ticket she bought for him taped on the door of it. His life is good. He doesn't need you storming through it like a summer typhoon. "I am nothing. I can give you nothing."

And then Yoongi does something all rather unexpected.

He smirks.

Toys at the corner of his lips with his tongue. Crosses his arms and raises his brow. "You gave me yourself last night."

"I gave you my body," you correct him, getting to your feet. Nothing good will happen from this conversation. You just need to get your keys and go. There's an urgency to your movements, heading towards the kitchen section of his open planing living space. Your keys will be on the hook where he keeps his own, you're sure. "Look, I've got-"

Your movements are halted as Yoongi reaches for your hand. Pulls you round. Walks you back until your ass is against the kitchen cupboards. You're looking up at him. The closeness of your bodies is intentional. Orchestrated by him; allowed by you. His voice is low as he says, "That's not nothing."

"But it's not enough," you stress, and you absolutely mean it. "I'm engaged to be married, Yoongi."

"And I'm already going to hell," he whispers, resting his forehead against yours. You don't stop him. "So I may as well have fun with it."

This is a side to him that you've never seen before. One that screams danger. Either he's learnt what you like in a man, or maybe he's just been hiding this part of him. He's tried being perfect, has seen it doesn't work. Maybe this is the real Min Yoongi.

"Yoongi," you say with little thought as his nose nudges against yours.

"Mhmm?" he hums back. His lips ghost yours. Your heart is beating out of your chest. One of his hands is flat against the kitchen counter as the other brushes up the curve of your waist.

You shake your head. The movement only causes the friction of your lips to tenfold. "If this happens, it doesn't mean anything."

He smiles against you. Shakes his head. Presses his lips against yours. One, two, remember to breathe. Pulls away. "It means everything."

You've always been a sucker for men who speak in definitive terms.

But you know how dangerous they can be, now. Know not to trust their words.

"We're not on the same page," you say. At least this way, you can't be accused of leading him on.

"We're not even reading the same damn book," Yoongi smiles against you. Kisses you again. Pulls away before you're ready for him to do so. "But does it really matter if they both have the same ending?"

And then you kiss him. It's soft. Tender. So sweet and gentle compared to the hardness of your heart. "It's not a happy ending."

"So close it, then," Yoongi says, pulling away from you a little. He's giving you the chance to leave. To get out. Escape. "Close your book. Stop this from happening."

But then you're kissing him again, and his tongue is in your mouth and - fuck - it's so nice to feel someone touch you with such intent. You know this is more than something casual, know that you've cared for Yoongi for too long for it not to have stemmed from nothing, but there's no permanence. It's terrifying and soothing all within the same swipe of his tongue against yours.

"One last chance," he says, lips so close to yours that he may as well be sending you telepathic messages. "Close your book if you want to."

It's shameful, the way you shake your head. Keep your eyes closed. Swallow. "But I wanna know what happens next."

Must sound like music to Yoongi's ears. He kisses you so deeply you think you may suffocate.

"What happens next is up to you," he moans into your lips, his nimble fingers pushing the button of your jeans through its fastening. "But it starts with this."

The sound of your breath is heavy. It soundtracks the murmur of your jeans zip being pushed down. Doesn't hide the way he curses against your lips.

"Yoongi," you whisper, eyes closing to stop yourself from catching his gaze.

His lips press against your throat, his dexterous fingers toying with the lace of your underwear. He knows he shouldn't. Knows that there's no taking this back. Knows he's fucking everything up - but he's played it safe for so fucking long and where has that ever gotten him before?

"Yoongi, I-" you try again, but his tongue strokes against your neck, teeth grazing it ever so scarcely. His fingers sink into your jeans. Press on your clit above your underwear. It has you gasping for air. He eases his pressure, then reapplies. Repeats. Your hips move languidly against his movements. You want this. Want him.

Want to feel like you're actually loved.

"Say the word, and I'll stop," he promises.

But you just shake your head.

"No?"

"No."

"Don't stop?"

He presses his fingers against you. Circles. Once, twice. God, it feels so fucking good to have him touch you like this. Has you mewling. "Don't stop."

"I won't. I'll make you feel so good," he husks against your neck. "You know I can do it. Know I can make you feel better than anyone else ever has."

The promise is pointed; directed at Jungkook. You hate that you're thinking about him. Hate that as you tug on Yoongi's hair, his fingers still pressing against your clothed cunt, it's Jungkook's face in your mind. His smirk, how he loved watching you come undone, how he comes undone.

And so you open them. Focus on Yoongi. Tell him how good he's already making you feel. Tell him how you've thought about this before.

It's not a lie. Admittedly, it was before Jungkook had ever come onto the scene, when you and Yoongi were still dancing that awkward line of flirting or friends. You'd settled on different sides, but, for a while, you contemplated what could happen if you chose the same side as him. Spent a couple of late nights imagining how he'd feel.

He's more delicate than you ever expected. Gentler. Softer.

"Is that what you want?" You moan as his lips yours, nails scratching up his throat, remembering how much he'd liked it the night before. He whines a little into the kiss. "Wanna make me feel good?"

He nods. "Wanna be the reason you cum."

His hands sink further into your jeans. Slip beneath your underwear. You're like fucking silk on his fingertips. Incredibly sodden silk, but silk nonetheless. Exquisite.

Yoongi presses his body into yours, and you can feel his bulge against your tummy. No matter how badly you appear to want him, he wants you more. Always has done.

What a devastating achievement this is. Yoongi finally has the girl he's wanted in the palm of his hand, lungs stuttering her chest - but it's tarnished.

All he ever wanted was to love you. Not to fuck you. Sure, it'd be an inevitable side-effect, not one he'd ever complain about, but this just... wasn't how he'd envisioned it.

He's not sure that he could classify what he feels now as love. It's something quite similar, yes, but it's tainted. The waters he's treading are murky, as if something could pull him under at any time. A little bit of seaweed, maybe, wrapping up around his ankle, seeping up his legs like the ribbons of ballet shoes, pulling him down to dance on the ocean floor.

He'd let it, he thinks, if it meant he got to dance with you.

It's when your hands creep to the top of his trousers that he knows he's won. Knows that you do want this, too. Want him.

The second your hand wraps around his length, warm and stiff in your palm, he's ready.

You'd come undone with one another the night before. Used each other. It was self-serving. Self-gratifying. But now?

He's going to be the reason you come undone. His movements. His hands. Him. All him.

The way he guides you through his apartment is sweet. Careful, and gentle; his back is to the walls just in case he knocks into them. Keeps you protected.

And that's exactly what Yoongi is; a safety net.

But as he gets you on his bed - gets you undressed, gets his lips in places he only could have dreamt of, his tongue on your skin, teeth nipping - it's easy to forget that the safety net is still suspended a few meters above ground. You're not entirely secure.

The way Yoongi cradles your jaw makes you think you are, though. He always asks permission. Never takes a chance. Is vocal not for the sake of it, but to make sure that you always have an out. He wants this, wants you, but only because he's convinced you want him too.

Let me eat your pussy, baby. Is that okay? Will you turn over for me? That's it. God, yeah like that. You're so fucking good at that. Wait, wait- no. I'll cum. Don't wanna cum yet. Sit on my face. Shut up, no, I don't care. Maybe I want you to suffocate me. God. Taste so fucking good. That's it. Grind. On my face, baby. All over it. Look at how hard you made me.

And how can you refuse his requests?

Yoongi doesn't hide what he likes. Likes you. Likes you on top. Your hand around his throat. The way your nails feel against his skin. Would really like for you to leave a mark but he always grabs onto your hand whenever he thinks that you might. It's a reminder: his body isn't yours.

His heart might be, but who cares about that?

You don't, clearly, and so nor does he. He'll take what you give him.

And what a gift it is; clammy bodies, dulcet moans, whines of his name.

Yoongi's thought about this so many times, but he's never realised how good it would feel; what it would be like to hear you giggle while he's pushing himself inside you. Had never realised that you'd kiss his temples when he bottoms out, or that you'd whisper his name like a fucking bible verse. Never considered that you'd be so tight around him that he'd spend a fair while warming his cock inside of you, kissing you slowly as you adjust to his size. Never thought you'd taste so sweet, sound so serene.

Never thought he'd get this.

But he did.

And so now he gets it. Gets why that blonde-haired prick couldn't stay away. Gets why he wanted Yoongi to know how well he'd been fucking you - because now it's the only thing Yoongi wants to do, too.

Wants you. Wants you. Wants you.

Wants you in his bed, on his floor, in his shower. Wants you in the GS25 stock room, wants you out back in one of the cars he's working on. Wants you in every way he can get you.

Wishes he hadn't taken so long to act on it.

Because he knows that he can never really have you, now.

It's why he's letting himself indulge on this occasion. He knows what he's doing is wrong, but as far as he can see it, it's a once in a lifetime. He'll never get the chance again.

Never get you sat on his cock like you are now, never get to watch the light that peaks through his half-closed blinds illuminating your features, never get your cheeks all rosy and dimpled like this ever again. Never gonna hold your bare hips as you grind against him, never gonna pull on your wrist to bring your chest flat to his, never gonna kiss you through another orgasm.

But for now, he does. Bucks his hips, whines your name, tells you he's there, tells you - oh god, like that, baby - he's gonna cum. Fuck.

And so you meet him there. Rub delicate circles on your swollen cunt, bringing yourself to release just when he does. The thin layer of latex between you protects you from becoming his, but it all feels the same. The way your heart beats. The way he kisses you. It all feels the fucking same.

His arms wrap around your back. Hold you tightly. A kiss is pressed into your shoulder; up your neck.

The guilt that you expect to arrive never comes.

It will do, eventually - but much later on. His will come in the depths of the night, when he's sleeping beside his girlfriend, too much of a coward to tell her that he's betrayed her.

You think yours will come in the cold light of day a few months from now, when you finally let your brain process everything you've been through.

He tells you he's sorry, cock still buried inside of you, and you shake your head. Tell him you're sorry, too.

"What if I don't forgive you?" He teases, trying to lighten the mood - but you almost think he means it.

"Good," you smile. "It would be good if you don't."

You trace the vein that runs down his arm, and forge some faux sense of intimacy. You're playing house, but you can't play forever. Always have to go back to reality at some point.

This point comes half an hour later; Yoongi shirtless in a pair of sweats, leaning against his door frame toying with loose strands of your hair. He wants to kiss you. "Do you regret it?"

You want to kiss him, too. "Do you?"

The way you ask is so light and airy that Yoongi still feels like he's floating. The only thing he wants to weigh him down is your body on his.

"No."

Your want is growing too large, so you look down to avoid his gaze. Yoongi notices a lash on your cheek. A wish. He should reach for it. Collect it on his thumb, tell you to blow it away.

But he already knows what you'll wish for. Who.

And so he doesn't give you the chance. Hopes the wind will steal it from you.

"Don't be a stranger," he tells you as you go. His lips are plump, annoyed with his brain at the lack of kisses stolen from you before you left.

You lie. Tell him that you won't be. Say you'll see him soon.

Both of you know that you won't.

And it's only confirmed when you get into your car - breath heavy, eyes warm, tears verging - and you spot fucking Jieun walking up the road towards Yoongi's apartment. She's carrying a punnet of tangerines. Wears her hair tied into a half ponytail like you used to do.

This. Now. Yeah, this is when the guilt comes.

It makes so much fucking sense. Of course they'd have ended up together without you in the way to fuck everything up like you're so bloody good at. You wait until she's inside his apartment complex to start the car up, and fucking pray that Yoongi's gone to freshen up, that he's hidden the condom in the trash, that his lips won't taste like you.

Oh god, it's all so fucked.

"What have I done?" You berate yourself, head resting on the top of your steering wheel.

Whatever has happened has happened. You can't take it back. Nor can Yoongi. Just a fact of life now: Min Yoongi has fucked you. And you've fucked his life up.

You dart through town, giving little to no shit about the speed limits nor the unwritten rules of the roads, and find yourself cleaning tears off your cheeks with the back of your hand. You're not crying, not really. Not intentionally. It's just kind of happening.

That's your excuse for everything these days. It just happened.

The radio is off, and the roads are smooth beneath your tyres, but everything just feels so fucking loud. The engine barely makes a rumble but it feels like it's roaring at you. Screaming.

And then you are, too.

Screaming at the world; why it had to be this way. Why you're incapable of making good decisions. Why you couldn't have just stayed in Busan with the boy who'd stained you red with the colour of his love that ended up being nothing more than a little lie.

By the time you get to Kang's, you really are sobbing. It's in the way your shoulders shake; chest tightens. That's the issue with going back to your family. You're a frightened little girl all over again. Out of your depth. No fucking clue what you're doing. Just trying to feel something. Anything. Anyone.

For a moment, it had worked. And now everything is broken again.

You twist the keys in the ignition; let the engine cool before you pull yourself together. Pull down the sun visor, check yourself in the mirror. Check for signs of weakness. Grab a little lipstick from the centre console. Your eyes aren't all that bad. There's a little blush on your face, but there's plausible deniability. If anyone questions if you've been crying, you can blame it on windburn. Or tell them to fuck off and mind their own business. One of the two.

A deep breath settles in your sternum. You're not who you were a minute ago. You can do this.

Shoulders rolled back, you hold your head high as you enter the boxing club. The TV is playing in the background, Seokjin and Namjoon sat up by the sofas. They're surprised to see you, but it's not entirely out of the blue. They knew you'd be back.

Jimin clocks you as he's grabbing a water, and nods. You don't nod back.

And despite the fact you refuse to look at him as you enter the boxing club, Jungkook knows.

He's not entirely sure of what he knows, he's just aware of the fact you aren't quite yourself. There's an elegance to how you carry yourself and now is just the same, but... there's something. He can't pinpoint it. Can't figure it out.

But of course he can't.

It's a matter of the heart, not the mind.

In the same vein, it's not a matter at all. He doesn't care about you. Not like that. Doesn't give a shit if you're hurting, or if you're upset, or if someone has been unkind but-

Oh, fuck it.

He does care. He does, he does, he does. He cares so much. So, so much. So much that it feels like his heart has been ripped from his chest just looking at you. There's blood pooling all around him. Kids fucking dance in it like puddles. You watch from afar with a smile and a shrug, holding his still beating heart in your hands. You did this, love.

Jungkook closes his eyes. Shakes the image from his head. Tells himself to stay off the hallucinogenics for awhile.

His eyes find you again as you walk towards Seokjin. Jungkook is down by the bags, unwrapping his hands after a heavy session. There's sweat gleaming on his skin, staining pretty patterns down the back of his shirt. He's pleased you'd arrived now. Knows he looks like shit, but also knows how much you liked fucking him after a workout. Would tell him not to shower. Was the pheromones. Some shit like that. Drove you fucking wild.

The pleasure he takes in your timing is forgotten about when he realises just hollow your eyes are. Finds himself actually wanting a shower - admittedly, with you. It was always where you'd find the most comfort together, and that's what he wants. Just wants to fix whatever's gone wrong for you today.

Instead, he just walks toward the sofas. Doesn't like not being a part of the discussion. There are a few nods. Slight deliberation - and then Seokjin calls the Jungkook and Jimin in to the sofas regardless.

"Taking a vote," he says. It's already been discussed in private between the boys, but no formal plans have been put in place.

You choose to stand. Jungkook sinks into the leather of the sofa in front of you. Avoids eye contact. You pretend to look at the men around you, but you don't really take any of them in. You're unfocused. Disillusioned; disassociating. Daydreaming of the beach, where the water is clear and the sand is warm.

And then, you do let your eyes fall on his. They're so wide and worried. Jungkook is certain he's never seen you like this. Something isn't aligning. Hasn't been since you left, but he thought things would fall back into place when you returned.

You okay? he says silently.

You look him up. Look him down. Part your lips - only to close them again once Seokjin starts talking.

"All those in favour of working together?"

One by one they raise their hands. Seokjin first, then Jimin. Namjoon looks around. Shuffles uncomfortably. Doesn't look at you as he raises his hand.

"Kook?" Seokjin asks.

"It's a bad fuckin' idea," he says, eyes never once dropping from yours. He's not telling the boys. He's telling you.

"Your forte," you say sweetly, but there's no smile on your lips.

And he just nods.

"Yeah. It is."

He raises his hand.

Full house.

"Alright, then," Seokjin beams. "Let's get to work."

[bowieandqueen11]

Jesse Pinkman Being Jealous Would Include...

Request: omg so glad you’re writing for breaking bad rn cause i literally just started watching it and i’m obsessed 😭 could you do jealous jesse pinkman please? (hcs or a fic whatever you want)

Oh my gosh yay I'm really glad you started watching it!! If you haven't already you 100% have to watch Better Call Saul afterwards it's one of my favourite shows of all time! :)

Warning: spoilers for later seasons of the show! Mentions of drugs, mentions of drinking/alcohol, mentions of burn injuries, light swearing, mentions of trauma!

(I do not own Breaking Bad or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @tilldeathdousart.)

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°

Baby boy, baby boy. meow meow cat man. its so hard writing you as jealous because i feel if anyone started flirting with your s/o you would just break down crying and honestly same we love an in touch with his emotions king loml honestly

Jesse has always been the jealous type. Hot headed. Easily wound up by bullies ten times his size and a thousand times more ferocious and cutthroat than he had ever tried to be. Almost as easily as he had slipped into that easy routine of being ass over heels, devastatingly in love with you. The kind where every night, he tosses and turns in his mildew spelling bed, plagued by thoughts of doing nothing all day but sloppily kissing your lips between blunts. The kind where he has to stare up at the sky after he's been caught staring, until his retinas burn the sunlight into the back of his skull, yet the pain is nowhere near as cataclysmic as the hurricane your smile brings to his heart.

He had far too many years to temper it, to try and smother his love, and yet over time he seemed to get worse and worse and worse at stopping it from choking at his throat. He wasn't so bad during high school: sure, you found him a little odd, the way he would brag to his friends in the corridor about how he'd never 'studied a day in my life, man!', and yet in Chemistry he would be chewing the edge of his pen and scribbling furiously down on his paper during the end of term quiz.

He was terrible at tempering it, and you were terrible at seeing it.

Little did you know, that all the words he scratched down with his shaking hand were either complete guesses, or absolute gibberish. He had no idea what the paper was even supposed to be on, but you were sitting beside him, and so he wanted to look as smart in front of you as he possibly could. Bless his heart, to everyone else he was so obvious: Mr White would just peer over his shoulder and shake his head, his mouth in a lined frown as he watched Jesse peer like a meerkat over the side of the desk to stare at you from behind his slipping down beanie.

Some of his friends, his 'gang' as he liked to call them, were snickering from a couple of benches behind at the way he was trying to look clever by placing his fist under his chin, but his elbow kept slipping off the edge thanks to his baggy hoody. Even Justin Treller, the guy sitting to your right, and the kid Jesse was getting more and more annoyed with every time he leant over to whisper something in your ear, was evidently enjoying the way the tips of Jesse's ears were beginning to burn with embarrassment.

Eventually, when you began giggling at the things Justin was leering further and further towards you to murmur, Jesse began to snap. That's when he began doing stupid shit to make you laugh, like plugging the tube in and flicking his hand through the Bunsen Burner flame to try and impress you with his pain tolerance. When Jesse inevitably ended up being sent to the nurse's office for such a dumbass idea, he was wincing so harshly at the pain that he nearly tore through his bottom lip, leaving a nice scar. You volunteered to bring him down, spending half of your lunch period taking care of him.

He sat caved in on himself, trying to make himself as small a target as possible on one of the fold out chairs. He was obviously embarrassed, by the way his voice kept cracking each time you tightened some of the new dressing over his fingers. Mainly he was talking to try and distract you from the way his hands were shaking, so desperate to reach out and brush over your cheek that he nearly sobs with the effort. He also doesn't want you to notice how pathetic he looks: how he so subconsciously prepares himself for the mental barrage from his mother, or the physical threats from the people he deals with out in the streets, that he looks like a meek kitten sitting there with his palms down on his knobbly kneecaps.

He had known then, of course. He had known, as you pressed your lips chastely against the back of his sore knuckles, and giggled at the way his cheeks immediately flushed like a blooming snapdragon, that you would always be the love of his life. The only thing, behind the emotional neglect, the gossip, the drugs, the constant damn pressure, that he truly had chosen to care about. Which is why, after he bought his parents house and asked if you'd want to live in it, free of rent, he was shocked that you said yes.

Good things don't usually happen to this boy. And seeing how you were the best of all, he had to swallow his heart and just smile at your words, terrified he was going to ruin you.

I mean, living there at first had been easy enough. You had been round (or smuggled in by Jesse) so many times since that day in the nurse's office, that it felt like a second home to you. His parents, while they had still been speaking to Jesse, had absolutely adored you. They would always be teasing their son during family dinners about how he had been saving up doing his *wink wink* 'paper rounds' late at night, just so he could save up for the big wedding he was planning. Blushing ferociously, Jesse would duck his head down until his forehead banged against the tablecloth, begging his mom with that tired drawl to 'please... just stop'.

Somehow, somehow you just... never saw it. Perhaps you were laughing too much at the way Jesse's father was pretending to elbow his son to notice. Maybe, you were trying to cover your own eyes in mortification. I'm not sure, but I do know that you never seemed to notice the gut-wrenching look of pure hope Jesse would throw your way, once he had mustered the strength to peek his head up again.

While he shook his head and bit at the corner of his fingernail, while he poked and prodded at his escaping garden peas, while he took an awkward sip of his water and pretended to glance around the table. He was always looking your way, as if you had tied his heart to a string, his compass pointing him north, directing him back to his true home. His eyes would just linger on you like a listless man possessed from between the prongs of his fork, stabbing harshly at the plate in time with his thudding heart.

His heart sure was beating now. So ferociously, he thought it was about to splinter and explode out of his chest, implanting the chards everywhere until they were all that was left in memory of him. He knew you were getting sick of the constant parties. Of him being dazed 24/7. Of not knowing why he lashed out all the time. He knew it wasn't fair, but every time he closed his eyes he just saw Gale's pleading eyes beginning to burn itself into the safe memories he kept in the back of his head. He couldn't sleep. He couldn't breathe from all the sobbing. He couldn't even think in peace. So he just bit the cap off another beer bottle and fell down heavily on the edge of his brand new thousand dollar sofa, imprisoning himself in self-isolation despite being lost amidst a sea of people.

It was right at that moment you decided to try and brave down the stairs, having to hold onto the bannister for dear life as you jumped down each step, the bass vibrating through the walls until they shook. As you peered over mountains of baggie hoodies and tripped over lumps of passed out people on the floor in your effort to try and find Jesse, you accidentally bumped into the back of one of Skinny Pete's friends. You apologised as he turned around, which would have been fine if he hadn't taken one look at you and decided you were his main entertainment for the night. The smell of stale weed and lukewarm beer radiated off his sour breath as he leant down to rasp against the shell of your ear, sending a chill rolling down your back. You tried to compress your shoulders and squeeze past him, but the guy would not stop trying to grab onto your waist and pull you back, staring very blatantly down at your chest.

You knew Jesse had been shoved into the deep end of some shady business recently, but the way he had been acting over the last while had been frightening you. So despondent. So careless. To come home every day and find him almost completely blazed out of his mind on the floor, seemingly not recognising you as he failed to respond to your greeting. Not realising that as soon as you wandered into the kitchen to put the groceries away, those desperate, love strung eyes were following your heels. He nearly cried out for you, voice hoarse and heavy in the back of his throat.

If he had mustered the energy, he would have gotten onto his hands and knees and crawled like a baby on the floor to follow after you. The way you would beg him at 2 a.m. to turn down the music, and he would just grab at your hands and try to get you to join in his terrible on the spot jump-dancing. You never discerned how heartbroken he seemed to be when you jolted back from him as if shot; his bottom lip would quiver and he would sink to his knees when your bedroom door finally slammed shut. 

He couldn't take it. He couldn't take it anymore. First it had been his parents. Then the drugs. Then Mr. White, Gus, Gale, Mike, Saul, the pressure just kept building up and up and up and he didn't know how to escape it. Too cowardly to run away, just as he had always been resigned into believing you could never love him back. Too submissive. Too easily used. And now, now there was barely anything left of him. Sometimes, sometimes that scared kid would try to crawl out of his throat when he was alone at night, but he would just choke on his tears in the darkness until he had drowned him again.

So what does he do? Gets off his face drunk, and throws another mind numbingly monotonous party until the walls start spinning and he doesn't even know who's coming through those doors anymore. Hell, he still half expects his mother to come busting through, chiding him for having drugs in the house. For having you in the house, with such company present. For being a coward.

Now he had just brought more trouble on himself. If the company he now decided to keep didn't get his hands off you in approximately ten seconds, you were going to knock him on his ass in front of all his little buddies.

Thankfully, Jesse seemed to have a sixth sense as to when you were in trouble, and he had been steadily keeping his beady eyes on you ever since you reached the top step. Before you could shove the guy back, Jesse's already doing it for you. As soon as he’s by your side you can tell he’s wound up: not by the way he comes striding over, shouting over the beat and lowering his head as if he’s about to headbutt the guy. Not from the way his hand flies in his face, or the swears, the long string of increasingly ridiculous ‘bitch’ related insults he calls him, but from the way he looks so, so tired. He looks on the verge of tears, his eyes bloodshot as he brushes gently past you to start shoving the guy out the front door, yelling above the music to shepherd everyone else out as well.

'Jesse... seriously, you need to tell me what's going on, right now.'

When the door finally slams shut, you know him well enough that the best thing to do is just let his head cool down for a minute. When he was younger, that used to involve ringing you up whenever his parents had threatened to kick him out again; you would come clambering over the picket fencing lining his immaculately manicured side-yard to see him sitting on the edge of his windowsill, smoke rings blowing out the side of his mouth as he waited in the dark for you to arrive. His hand would shake as he hefted you up from the piping by his bedroom wall, awkwardly landing you down half on his feet as he would just stay beside you all night. He would speak from time to time, asking you about what you wanted to do once you managed to escape from this dump ass town. But mainly, he just leaned his head back and listened to your voice, gazing up at the faraway stars as if it were the only place he could possibly be truly free.

But now, he was far worse off than you ever could have imagined. He hunched over, as if he had a spiked collar weighted around his neck as he lumbered past you, crawling down onto the floor. He drew his knees up to his chest as he sat back against his brand new surround sound speaker, ducking his head into the gap and clawing at the back of his neck until you worried he was about to draw blood.

It was horrifying, hearing how he gasped between retching sobs as you sunk down on the floor next to him.

You tentatively reached out to place a hand on his back, kicking an empty pizza box out of the way with your foot so you could sit with the side of your thigh touching his. As soon as you made contact, he leapt at you like a rabid dog, clawing and clenching and biting his teeth into his shirt as he fell onto your chest.

‘Please. Please don’t leave me’, he gasped out between heaving cries, looking up at you with eyes so dejected, it were as if someone had stifled out the blinding stars once in them with dark clouds. Bits of saliva stuck between his teeth as he screwed his eyes shut once again and began bawling even harder, falling like a broken bird as you held the back of his head and guided it down to rest just above your breast bone.

‘I love you’, he starts sobbing, fists bunching up the material at the back of your shirt. It was you. It always has been. And if you walked out that door with the rest of them, he had nothing left. He would willingly roll over, and let himself just rot away. 

You sure as hell saw it now.

Eventually, after you rock him back and forth against the floorboards for a while and just cradle him in a way he’s never experienced during his years on earth, he becomes more placid against you. It helps that at some point, you had absentmindedly begun to trace the silvery wisp of an outline that had been left on his bottom lip all those years ago, your pointer finger glancing back and forth as it quivered. He was almost entirely curled against you now, pretending to be asleep so you wouldn’t stop, but his breath froze when he heard you whisper ‘I love you too’ against the top of his hair.

He’ll feel really sheepish the next day when he finally wakes up, peering round the corner with his hand behind his head when he spots you trying to straighten out the crick in your neck after a night spent on the floor. He’ll come apologizing with his go to breakfast: a childhood favourite of pancakes absolutely drenched in maple syrup; they were the kind his mom would make if she were in a good mood at the weekends. When he would sit at the table the morning after you slept over, watching stupid cartoons his brother had put on the small television, grinning to himself as some dripped down his chin. It had been the happiest he had been in his life.

Although he still has that boyish, soulful smile on his face as he sits criss-cross down beside you, you can tell that he’s still plagued by how wet his eyes are: how heavily he’s blinking.

‘I really do love you, you know that right?’, you whisper, taking the plate from him.

‘Yeah, I do.’

Suddenly your fork goes crashing to the floor, forgotten about as you lean forward to kiss him, nearly surprising the heck out of him as his teeth clash against yours. He’s quick to reach up and tenderly, oh god, so gently cradle the side of your cheeks, but that’s soon abandoned as he readily allows you to guide him until his back is against the floorboards. You clamber over until you’re almost straddling him, beginning to smile yourself as you feel him grin against your top lip, the soft peals of his giggles breaking out against the surface of your tongue as you dip down against him.

And suddenly, his life seemed like it was worth fighting for again. He was going to get out of this. He was going to escape. He was going to win. Not for himself, but for you.

[enrosadiraanisaaa]

Within Session .Part Six.

Holy shit, happy December and Merry Christmas y'all! I'm so happy to finally post another chapter of Within Session. Yes, its been a while but starting a new job is stressful. Thankfully, I figured how to manage time. This part is extremely long, more than 5k. words. I'm proud of myself! This fanfic consists of Yandere!Leon Kennedy. I intend for this fic to progressively become disturbing and fucked up with each chapter. While the first few chapters will be tamed, expect the following in this series:

~Stalking, Kidnapping, Forced Breeding, Degradation, NonCon, Gang Banging, Forced Pregnancy, Somnophilia, Blackmail, Manipulation, Abuse, Pet Names, Obsessive Behavior (Duh), Torture, Constraints, Mentions of Blood & Gore, Mental Degradation, Toxic Relationship, Sexual Abuse, Masturbation, Drugged & Drunk Sex, Loss of Virginity, Forced Penetration…

Also you will be retconned (Too bad 😏): Female Reader, 24 Years old and from Texas 💝 (yeehaw)

This story was purely written with RE 4 (Remake) Leon in mind. So no puppy dog Leon from RE2 or DILF Leon from later games & movies. The story takes place several months after the events of RE4. Yay, you’re in 2004!

I plan to make this series long and fleshed out, but I promise what you want will hit you like a train~🚂

This story does contain +18 content (NSFW) 🔞 If you’re a minor, please go read a real book or something, don’t cry to me when your mom finds your shit. 

Summary

As an on sight therapist for STRATCOM in Nebraska, you’re tasked with providing quality therapy for US military personnel and government agents. After working at the headquarters for 6 months, Hunnigan recommends you to a notable government agent, Leon Kennedy, who is in need of therapy. After a number of sessions with you, Leon notices a substantial stability in his sanity yet is threatened when you are offered a position back home, closer to your family and friends. Your choice doesn’t sit well with one particular client, who can’t fathom you out of your role as his therapist. Leon has found a means of keeping his precious therapist and realizes you are the key to his permanent solace. You were obviously destined to be his in some form. Why dream of him letting you go?

A\N: I was heavily inspired by Satoshi Kon’s Perfect Blue 💙, ExploreVenus’s Something Permanent and Guardian Angel by NexysWorld. We're finally getting into the nitty gritty of the story. Reminder that if you're not comfortable with male obsession and stalking, this is not for you. But if you're fucked up like me, please enjoy this! This is a really long chapter, hope y'all like it. 😉 Please comment on what how you feel about this chapter, I'm a whore for feedback. Hate it? Comment. Love it? Comment, por favor.

This is the longest chapter with 5k words, pretty much twice than I typically write for a chapter. Keep this in mind if you are wondering why, it seems longer.

Hope y'all enjoy the sixth part! More to come 💝~ Anisssa أنيسة

Here is Part One , Part Two, Part Three, Part Four and Part Five of Within Session

Blue Monday

  For several months, the disdain for the winter season was prominent as the days were still short of daylight. Along with the absence of familiar faces from family and friends from home, winter blues roused thoughts of returning to home. Even with the presence of Mateo and his buddies around at the house, it never satiated your homesickness. The transition into this New Year was strenuous, yet you continued the routine of attending to clients at the USSSTRATCOM headquarters during the week, the occasional LAN parties hosted on weekends with the dudes, and friend dates with Hunnigan. Still, you could not deny there were urges to pull out your suitcase and call quits on the government position. Home was not here in Nebraska. 

       Now in the middle of February, the extensive drive home seemed to kindle symptoms of burnout. Upon opening the entrance door to your apartment, the dead silence prompted your eyes to glance around the living room for the presence of your roommate, Mateo. For once you arrived home before him. With every step further into your living room, the floor boards seemed to creak under pressure. Your body immediately gravitates towards the couch, slumping on the cushions to sprawl out in exhaustion. In one hand, you gripped your purse while the other held a bouquet of flowers. 

      Until the last session earlier today, it did not dawn on you that today was Valentine's Day. Leon, of all people, arrived at session with a bouquet of roses in his possession with his usual smuggish smirk. The gesture caught you off guard that you simply accepted the bouquet without protest. This questionable offering from him was unpredicted, a moment of vulnerability impelling you to accidentally violate a simple policy between client and therapist. 

     A groan emits from your mouth, decisively kicking off the heels to note how sore your feet were. No doubt the roses in your hand were beautiful, but they were from a client on this particular holiday. You grunt in disapproval, instead eliciting to assume he gifted the roses for his appreciation for your dedication to him as his therapist. Yes, those thoughts brought peace of mind. But you then realized the price tag sticker on the bottom of the bouquet. 

      “Holy fuck! Who spends $80 on a bouquet of roses? Well shit, now I’ll feel guilty if I toss them out… Dammit, Leon…” 

          Leon Kennedy, a client you have been providing treatment with for the last three months since November. Along with his substantial progress in his intervention goals, you had the opportunity to further learn about the peculiar character that is Leon. Every session he never failed to crack jokes on whim or comment snide remarks, his attempt to speak off topic. Beside his efforts to conceal his discomfort with humor, there was also an underlying suspicion that Leon was withholding details regarding certain discussions. He avoids topics through escape by immediately steering the conversation. Every instance that Leon avoids a subject, you take note of it, knowing somehow you would eventually touch base on it.  

      With the bouquet of roses in your hand, you notice several detached rose petals on the couch cushion. A pang of guilt coursed in your chest, registering the maltreatment of the flowers in your grasp. Despite the aching pain in your feet, you stand from the couch to walk to the kitchen in search of a vase. You were no flower arranger but the glass vase you found complimented the red of the petals. Next session you would have to bestow some gratitude to Leon, since the guy deserves some appreciation for the gift. Maybe the man really was trying to express his reverence, Valentine’s Day was not all about romance, right?

       In the moment of admiring the roses you placed in the glass vase, you realize that it has been a while since you have received something like this from anyone. While you let out a gentle huff, your hands reach out to rearrange several roses until you were appeased with the arrangement. Then the abrupt ringing of your phone from your pocket interrupted your trance from the vase of roses, a phone number unbeknownst to you displayed on the small screen of the flip phone. 

     ‘It’s an area code from Texas… is it from San Antonio, Dallas, or Austin? But who calls late on a Monday night?’ You decipher, debating the thought to answer the call knowing the area code was from one of the major metroplex cities. 

    This time you sigh, adjusting your throat to answer in a pleasant tone. “Uh, hello?” You greet hesitantly, holding the pink flip phone to your ear. 

     A gentle feminine voice responds with “Hello…” along with your full name.

     The utterance of your first and last name from the unknown voice nearly startles you to the core, immediately furrowing your eyebrows in confusion. 

    “This is her… Uh, who are you?” You ask, slight concern obvious in your question. Was this call a scam?

    On the other end of the line, the female voice chuckles lightly into the phone,”Sorry to call this late, I am from a counseling program partnered with a foster care facility based here in Austin. We are looking for new recruits with the right credentials.  I came across your application from a year ago and I am curious if you would still be interested in doing an interview and perhaps be interested in joining our team? From your application, I can see your address is in Corpus Christi.” 

      At that moment you seat yourself on a chair in the dining room, glancing at the adorned vase of roses on the dining room table. This was an unmistakable opportunity that manifested itself in one phone call, but you could not allow yourself to become excited so soon.

     “Unfortunately, I am not living in Texas at the moment. I actually took a therapist position here in Omaha, Nebraska. I won’t be able to schedule an interview, I apologize,” You express in a solemn tone, assuming this would end the conversation. 

     “Oh, if you don’t mind…. We can do an interview right now over the phone.” The lady mentions, followed by silence on her end. 

       You direct your eyes at a digital clock in the distance, noticing the time was a little past 9PM, which meant no minutes were being wasted. 

      “Sure, why not…” You respond, guessing this opportunity was unprecedented to simply dismiss.

        For the next 30 minutes, you were asked a series of questions, mostly about your experience and qualities. In your efforts, you answer professionally while you slug against the dinning chair in exhaustion. Your hand became cramped as you gripped the flip phone to your ear. Every time you glimpse back to the vase of roses, you notice several petals shed from the roses. With one rose petal, you twindle it between your fingers as you speak to the woman over the phone. 

         “I’m impressed with you, I really think you would be a great addition to our team. I’d like to offer a full time position, with a Monday through Friday schedule. Instead of hourly, you will be paid a salary with benefits. If you need help with moving, we can pay your first few months of rent wherever you decide to move in Austin. How does that sound?” The lady expresses, seemingly to be entirely impressed with you. 

      For a moment, you were hesitant as the offer seemed too good to be true. “When can I start?” You then ask, feeling the sweat in your palm as you grip the phone to your ear.

      “Since you said you’re out living in Nebraska, I can give you a month… March 14th on a Monday, and we will run a background check and proof that you can work in the US. Nothing major, it’s usually quick. For any certifications you need, we will pay for them…” The woman explains, her voice cheery with every word.

       By the end of her explanation, your body involuntarily begins to shake. Several thoughts coursed in your mind yet the most prominent thought was obvious… you were finally returning home. 

      “I look forward to starting,” You respond, matching her voice of enthusiasm.

       “That is great to hear… Well, I will let you enjoy the rest of your night. Please call this number again if you have any questions or updates,” She infers.

      “Thank you, have a great night!” You add before clamping the flip phone shut, ending the call.

      In that moment, your body slumps in the chair while a long exhale of breath escapes your mouth. Every part of your body was jittery to the point it was difficult to contain despite the laborious deep breaths exercises and your hands crossing to squeeze your upper arms. No doubt, the ticket home seemed to magically appear on your lap. Maybe the universe had finally answered your prayer, and within a month you would travel back home. 

     Tears formed, your eyes evidently becoming glossy while you were seated slumped on the dining room chair. With tears flowing down your face, a part of you felt ridiculous for becoming this emotional. 

      The front door knob jiggle, the sound of keys from the other side of the door interrupting your mini crying session. Once the door opens, you whip your body to direct your attention to Mateo standing there in the entrance. The evidence of crying was still conspicuous as your cheeks were entirely wet and your eyes were puffy. 

    “Ah shit, did I come home at a bad time?” Mateo mutters, cautiously setting his black bag on the floor by the entrance after he shuts and locks the front door. 

      “No, you little jackass. I just got a job offer back home… I start in a month,” You respond in a sincere tone, cracking a subtle smile to Mateo. 

   Mateo appeared taken back, now walking into a plethora of confounding information. With a few steps into the dinning room, he sits beside you at the dining table. He notices the vase of roses placed on the center of the table yet does not comment on them for now. 

    “Are you moving because of me?” Mateo questions, a pout forming on his face. He was honestly a child at times.

     “Huh? No, absolutely not because of you… I just think I have overstayed here in Nebraska, and need to return home so I can be near family,” You explain, your tone heartfelt as you glance at Mateo with a grin.

     Mateo deeply exhales, his brown eyes narrowing at the sight of you, “I guess I'll allow you to leave… on the condition you visit,” He expresses smugly. 

    A soft chuckle emits from your mouth, nodding in agreement to his prerequisite,” Deal…But I plan on moving out in three weeks. Tomorrow, I am putting in my two weeks resignation letter. Some of my clients are not going to be happy.” 

     To your verdict, Mateo expresses a solemn smile before his hand points to the roses you arranged in the vase earlier,” So… who bought you these?” He asks with an eyebrow raised. 

      “I’ll let you guess, but the answer is obvious,” You respond bluntly. 

       “Leon?” He answers immediately with his lips curved in a grin.

        “Mhmm..” You hum, scratching the side of your hair with a finger. “He arrived at session with them, and pretty much shoved them in my arms. Never been so caught off guard,” You then comment. 

      With a sudden snap of your fingers, you jolt up to stand before scurrying across the room to your bag, “Oh shit, I almost forgot, he also gave me a card. I haven’t opened it yet.” Within a moment, your hand digs inside your beg to then reveal a red envelope once you pull it out. By holding the red envelope in hand, you return to seat yourself at the dining room table beside Mateo, ripping the side of the envelope with your hand. A blank expression instantly appears on your face once you slide out the Valentine’s card. By opening it, you notice a gift card and Leon’s writing inside the card, “Mateo… He gave me a gift card to Chili's… Dude, look what this says…’To the spiciest therapist I know’... What the fuck does that mean?!” You glance at Mateo, biting your lip from amusement and disturbance simultaneously. 

     Mateo only burst out laughing, snatching the card from your hand to read Leon’s writing closely, “Damn girl, what you be doing to him during your sessions, huh?” Mateo questions you in an accusatory tone with a hint of humor behind it.

     “Absolutely nothing… Goodnight!” You huff, snatching the card from his grasp back into your possession before stomping off to your bedroom. 

      By next morning, you were able to have written a two weeks notice letter explaining your resignation with a clear date that you would be concluding your tenure with USSTRATCOM as a therapist officially on Tuesday, March 1st. The following days were heart-wrenching, revealing to clients that you would be concluding your position as their therapist and only a few sessions with them remained. Several clients congratulated your new position while others simply were in denial of your departure, or expressed their grief to you. 

        Friday eventually arrived with the anticipation of preparing the last client with the news of your resignation. Instead of being seated at your desk, you waited patiently for the arrival of Leon on one of the two chairs that you would usually sit during the session. Every minute that passed, you contemplated on how to deliver that in a few weeks, you would no longer be his therapist. Last Monday, he gifted flowers and a gift card to you, clearly there was a modicum of admiration from him. Would he congratulate the advancement in your career or distress over your inevitable departure like other clients? You could not rationalize with yourself on why you were nervous to tell him. 

    Right at 5PM, you heard the knock on the door of your office. Leon was always on time for his sessions when he was not sent away on missions. For his division, you still did not know the kind of work he did but only that he was revered as a top dog in his position. 

     Upon hearing his steps, your eyes instantly gravitate to his ocean eyes piercing back at you as he treads further inside the office. Leon seats himself on the chair across from you, an obvious grin plastered on his face. No words were exchanged, but your thoughts spiraled,’Shit, should I tell him now?’ Your thoughts debated but you shook your head on the notion.

    “Leon, how has it been these past few days?” You then ask, mustering a soft smile on your lips. 

     “Great, since I knew I’ll be seeing you today,”Leon smooths, leaning comfortably back into his chair. 

     Your lips falter, steering to not encourage this behavior from your client. “Leon, how many times have I repeated to you to respect the boundaries between us?” You remind him, followed by a soft sigh. This was his mindless flirting that recently sprung up in sessions. 

   “Too many times, miss. I apologize,” Leon chuckles, averting his eyes to the side at the floor. Ultimately, those icy eyes return their gaze to you even though his face was directed away. “So Miss, how were those roses I gave you last time?” He questions you, his eyebrow quirks as he awaits your answer.

     “They were nice, I was able to place them in a vase. Thank you… But understand that as a therapist, I could lose my license for accepting gifts, okay?” You remark, your tone firm with blank expression.

       His tongue clicks along with a small nod, “Oh no, I can’t have that happen. I- We need you here…” Leon mentions, his gaze studying your face. 

        As you examine the features of his face while he spoke, you realize how exhaustive his features appeared. Before he could utter another word regarding gifts, you interfere,”Hey, how are you sleeping as of late these past few nights?”

        In that moment, his grin deflates in an almost surprised expression. Leon adjusted his throat, shifting in the chair.“I’m experiencing nightmares…” Leon admits, blushes blooming on his cheeks. 

          You expected him to retort with humor or downplay his exhaustion. But Leon was actually opening himself to you about his nightmares. This was an opportunity too good to let pass by. By extending your arm to your desk, your hand grabs a notebook and pen. Every detail that he verbalizes, you need written down. 

        With your pen awaiting on the lines on the paper, your eyes return to his face, the bleak blue in his eyes not as bright as they usually are. “Describe what you remember from your dreams, Leon.”

          “Burning bodies, blood caked on my skin that did not belong to me, and things I can’t even explain…” He shifts in his seat again, his voice feeble.

             His narrative could not paint a picture for you, the few details not being enough, but only suggested he endured an incident so horrifying. On paper, your pen scribbled down the only two details he described: burning bodies and blood on skin.

             “Leon, can you recall an incident you might have seen or experienced?” You ask, bringing the top of the pen to your lips.

                After a moment, his head shook,” No ma’am, I simply have watched Dawn of the Dead too many times,” He chuckled, seemingly forcing a smirk. 

            If you could roll your eyes at this moment, you would. An internal scream echoed in your head, and you nearly wanted to slap your forehead with the notebook in your hand. When he finally opens up about something regarding his trauma, he fucking does this bullshit… again.

          Instead of proceeding in your usual passive tone, you adjust your voice to become stern,”Leon, do you honestly need this service?”

          He was clearly offended at the change in tone in your voice, his eyes narrowing at you. An expression you never expected to witness him guise, yet you kept your composure. “Yes, I do,” He merely responded, his voice consisting of no humor. 

         “Then please help me, help you. These past few months you have progressed, but you would honestly be further in your treatment if you allow yourself to open up. I’m not expecting you to explain everything in one session, but understand if you were a bit more cooperative, I can guide you more efficiently through your trauma. I’m not a therapist that wants you to be in therapy forever…” You breathe out along with a huff. 

       The words seem to echo into the room as the room falls into silence, Leon just sitting there with no words to exchange. Nonetheless, every word spoken from your lips was valid. But on the back of your mind, time was inching closer for you to reveal the news. 

       “You’re not getting rid of me that easily, miss. I know I’m your favorite client,” Leon retorts, that same smug expression on his face.

        This session was going nowhere, 30 minutes somehow wasted. Time was working against you, so it would be easier to rip the band aid off the wound, right? 

       “There was never a competition between my clients in the first place. I regard and care for all my clients equally, Leon,” You retort, directly staring at his eyes. “Also…” Your voice proceeds along with an adjustment in your throat. At this point, it can not be helped, he deserved to know. “Uh, to simplify it… in a few weeks I will no longer be working with USSTRATCOM, I’m moving back to Texas. But don’t worry, I already notified the next therapist on your case on your goals and what we worked on.”

       The heart in your chest was beating, feeling anxiety ridden, but nonetheless you revealed the big announcement. Then that same tense quiet air settled into the office once more, Leon had a blank stare directed at your face. Those eyes of his blinked several times before he mustered a warm smile. “That’s very sudden news, but congratulations,” He breathed, his fist clenching on his thighs. 

      While an exhale of air escapes your nose, the ache in your chest seems to ease away. This time, you permit yourself to smile in response to the commendation from Leon. “I really appreciate the congratulations from you… But we will still conduct session the same until I leave. So tell me…what is an incident that may be a considerable source that prompts your nightmares, Leon?” 

      “Wait-” He utters, tilting his head as his mouth tries to form words. “Can you at least explain why you’re leaving? I know three months is not a long time, but I have made so much progress with you…”

       His voice betrays him, nearly breaking yet Leon sustains a smile on his face. Subtle taps on the floor peak your attention, your eyes glancing down to notice his foot tapping on the floor.

       “Sure, I can explain… Um, I have close family in Texas, and my next job allows me to be closer to them,” You answer simply, keeping your voice calm. 

       You see Leon nod in his head in acceptance as he glances down to his hands resting on his lap. “I see… just… you don’t seem like a Texas gal..” He chuckles, bringing his gaze back to you.

        A laugh emits from your mouth, not expecting Leon to return to his whits suddenly. “If you expected me to wear a big cowboy hat and speak with a twang, I might just punch you,” You suggest with an empty threat, raising a fist in his direction while your other hand holds the notebook to your lap. 

       Leon lets out a fake gasp while appearing offended. “Hmm, sounds like someone is in need of anger management.”

       “Oh, you think you’re funny, huh?” You retort, pursing your lips at his remark.

       “I think? Oh, honey, I am funny…” 

        ‘Honey?’ This little endearing nickname riled your core, perceiving it as condescending, nonetheless you opt to let this slide. With a small sigh, your eyes peer to the clock on the wall, silently thanking the universe that only 5 minutes of the session remained. 

       “Alright comedian…” You speak, leaning over the armrest of the chair to grab the clipboard from your desk, “It’s that time you give your signature, and that will be all for today’s session.”

    Leon chuckled once you extended the clipboard to him before he wrote his grand signature: ‘Leon Kennedy’ on the signature line. He extended it back to you, except his expression appeared solemn.

     “So you really are leaving Nebraska? Quitting USSTRATCOM to move back to Texas?” He inquires, no hint of humor in his voice.

     Your head nods, only responding with a hum in agreement. 

    “Well I’m happy for you… I will see you next week,” He expresses, giving a brief smile before he leaves the office.

     “Bye Leon!” You call out, proceeding to shut and lock the office door after he leaves.

     An exasperated groan iterates into the empty room, letting out that strenuous hold of breath out your chest. While the complicated part of informing all the clients was settled, now the actual moving process was the next course of action. At that moment, you reluctantly retreat to your desk, knowing that the legal documents, session notes, and insurance signature sheets need to be submitted to your supervisor before you can leave for home. It was Friday, all you wanted to do was drink to your heart's content, play video games, and pass out on the couch. Typical Friday night shit.

      In time, all necessary documents were submitted to your supervisor. The familiar brunt whirl of flurries stung the skin of your cheeks once you step outside the building, being welcomed into the dark parking lot. Every step along the parking lot was careful while you walked towards your car, seeing the red among the white.

    Even inside the car, your body shivered, desperate to warm up. The inconvenience of the winter night sky entirely made it difficult to see in your car, but you were able to insert the car key into the ignition. With anticipation for warm air, your wrist turns the key forward. 

      Kkkkkkk.

     The sound of the car struggling to start only furrowed your eyebrows in response. 

     Naturally, you turn the key one more time. Two times. Three times. With a disgruntled groan, you continue to turn the key, your foot persistently pressing the gas pedal. 

     “No no no no. Baby don’t do this to me now!”

           With every desperate turn of the key, the car only responded with jerks before dying completely. Hot visible breaths huffed from your mouth, that bitter cold was already piercing through the fabric of your clothes. Your hand pulls out the key from the ignition and your foot ceases from stepping on the gas pedal. That sense of anxiety crept into your chest once more at the awareness you were oblivious to the malfunction in your car. 

        Your hand decides to reach down to pull down a small lever, hearing the familiar pop of the hood. While hesitant, you then retrieve your flashlight from the middle console before returning to the brunt winter weather as you exit the driver’s seat. Once the hood is propped up on the stand, you click the flashlight to instantly illuminate the engine under the hood. The problem was then apparent, the light revealing ripped spark plunges that were supposed to be connected to the engine.

     “Oh, what the fuck…” The words seem to let out, unsure how this happened to your car.

      Crunches of ice behind you alleviated you from deep thought, prompting you to immediately whirl your body to the source of sound. Light from the flashlight directs to a broad figure, startling you to where you nearly scream. Your hand points the flashlight up and you recognize the familiar sandy blonde hair.

     “Leon?” You mutter into the air, your eyes widening at his sudden appearance. “What are you doing here?” You then ask, pointing the flashlight down from his face out of courtesy.

     “I heard a car struggling to start, so I thought I would check it out…” He responds, proceeding to walk to the open hood of your car. Leon glances down to the flashlight in your hand, gesturing you to hand it to him. “Here,” You whisper, extending the flashlight to him. While he holds the flashlight, he directs it down to the engine, “Damn, your spark plugs are damaged,” He remarks, his demeanor confirming your earlier speculation.

      “They were recently replaced, this shouldn’t have happened,” You retort, your tone obviously confused. 

        “Well they look like they've been bitten… Maybe a small animal searching for warmth crawled inside and decided to chew them out,” Leon suggested, returning his attention to you.

         Leon’s revelation was plausible but when you return your glance to the spark plugs, the damage appeared like a clean cut as if they were physically cut by something. Regardless of how they were damaged, your current situation ensured that you were stranded in the parking lot of your job. The road conditions were horrible, piled with snow, and you honestly did not know how long a tow truck would get there. 

     While you contemplate your options, you hear Leon adjust his throat. “If you like, I could drive you home. It’s cold and dark now, there’s not much you can do," he suggests. 

     Spark plugs were easy to install, but to travel to a nearby auto shop was complicated enough in this weather. Your head immediately shook at his offer, shifting your attention to his face. “Thanks for the offer, Leon, but I have to decline. I’m still your t-“

  “Therapist. I know. Miss, it is dark and freezing. A tow truck would take an hour… I can’t leave you out here,” Leon interjects, his tone stern to prove a point. “Come on, let me take you home. It wouldn’t be an issue for me at all,” He continues, proceeding to let down the hood of your car. 

      Deep down, you knew his proposal would violate ethical codes as a therapist, but his persistence swayed your verdict. Your body was visibly shaking while you stood there, glancing around the parking lot to ensure no one was watching. “Fine, but straight to my house, Leon.” You sternly express, going to quickly retrieve your purse before returning to his side. 

     You hear chuckles from Leon while you follow him to a black SUV, obviously a government vehicle. “Perks of being an agent,” Leon mentions, his voice laced with humor. It honestly seemed he was enjoying this.

     By sitting in the passenger seat, you experience the loving warmth of heat from the vents once Leon turns on the car. A pang of guilt coursed at the realization you were leaving your car behind at the parking lot. “So you drive a Nissan Z? Didn’t think you’re into cars like that, especially with turbo,” Leon strikes a conversation, driving off the premises of the USSTRATCOM parking lot. 

    “Ah, it was a parting gift from my dad. She is practically a family member…” You say, blushing a bit. 

    “There’s no shame in that, it’s actually interesting you’re into cars. But I could definitely swing by in the morning and I could personally switch out the spark plugs,” Leon offers, shifting his attention to you in the passenger seat. 

      “If replacing the spark plugs is no hassle, then I am okay with it…”

        Leon grins, ecstatic that you conceded to his assistance instead of blatantly rejecting his offer. For a moment, he remained quiet as he drove on the snowy desolate streets before eventually realizing he did not know your address. “Ah shit, I got ahead of myself. Tell me where to drive from here to get to your home,” Leon nervously chuckles. 

       In response, you nod with an assuring smile, ”That’s fine…”

               Other than Leon’s rock music playing on the stereo, the car ride became quiet as the exchange of words died down. The moments you only spoke were when you provided directions to your house. Soon the sight of the familiar Victorian house was in view, although you notice a line of cars parked in the driveway and street, along with an absurd amount of people hanging around the house. Once Leon gradually slowed infront of the house, he turned his head to you sitting in the passenger seat. 

       “This is your house?” He asks, turning down the volume of his rock music. 

         A sheepish smile appeared on your lips, nodding to Leon,”Yeah, I guess my roommate decided to throw a party.”

         Leon returns his attention to the amount of men chilling on the front porch, drinking beers or smoking cigarettes despite the freezing air. You see Leon narrow his eyes at the scene yet smirks when he glances back to you. “Looks fun… but I will see you in the morning, right? Is 9AM alright?”

        Your head nods frantically, presenting a pleased smile on your lips,”Uhh, yeah. It sounds good,” You reply, somehow almost forgetting about your car stranded at the parking lot of your job. At that moment, you open the passenger car door before slipping onto the pavement of the road. “See you tomorrow, Leon! And thank you for taking me home…” 

       Leon seemed content, before waving off to you, "I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good night,” He responds. Once you shut the passenger door, he drives off, leaving you to watch him as you stand there in the middle of the road. A nagging intuition provoked an uneasiness into your body regarding this night. Nonetheless, you decided to ignore your paranoia since there is a party that required your attendance because even God knew you deserved it after this whole week. 

[juney-blues]

not to be a failed communist liberal anarkiddy but I don't think *anyone* should be imprisoned and tortured even if they're really bad

like there are people in power who need to be stopped, and who have used their power to make violence the only way of stopping them, and these people do abhorrent things and do need to be stopped

I might personally think they're monsters who deserve to suffer for their crimes against humanity but idk

hearing someone gleefully brag about putting *anyone* in gulags and labour camps really reminds me that my personal desire for someone to eat shit and die has no place in my politics.

when I say no one should be tortured, unfortunately that means *no one* should be tortured, prison abolition y'know

"yay we're torturing the bad people who deserve it in the people's labor camp" okay who else deserves it by the way, are you normal about disabled people and queer people and drug users, is the violence of the state bad on its own merits, or is it just because you're not the one wielding it