#semantic matching

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Google’s enshittification memos

[Note, 9 October 2023: Google disputes the veracity of this claim, but has declined to provide the exhibits and testimony to support its claims. Read more about this here.]

When I think about how the old, good internet turned into the enshitternet, I imagine a series of small compromises, each seemingly reasonable at the time, each contributing to a cultural norm of making good things worse, and worse, and worse.

Think about Unity President Marc Whitten's nonpology for his company's disastrous rug-pull, in which they declared that everyone who had paid good money to use their tool to make a game would have to keep paying, every time someone downloaded that game:

The most fundamental thing that we’re trying to do is we’re building a sustainable business for Unity. And for us, that means that we do need to have a model that includes some sort of balancing change, including shared success.

https://www.wired.com/story/unity-walks-back-policies-lost-trust/

"Shared success" is code for, "If you use our tool to make money, we should make money too." This is bullshit. It's like saying, "We just want to find a way to share the success of the painters who use our brushes, so every time you sell a painting, we want to tax that sale." Or "Every time you sell a house, the company that made the hammer gets to wet its beak."

And note that they're not talking about shared risk here – no one at Unity is saying, "If you try to make a game with our tools and you lose a million bucks, we're on the hook for ten percent of your losses." This isn't partnership, it's extortion.

How did a company like Unity – which became a market leader by making a tool that understood the needs of game developers and filled them – turn into a protection racket? One bad decision at a time. One rationalization and then another. Slowly, and then all at once.

When I think about this enshittification curve, I often think of Google, a company that had its users' backs for years, which created a genuinely innovative search engine that worked so well it seemed like *magic, a company whose employees often had their pick of jobs, but chose the "don't be evil" gig because that mattered to them.

People make fun of that "don't be evil" motto, but if your key employees took the gig because they didn't want to be evil, and then you ask them to be evil, they might just quit. Hell, they might make a stink on the way out the door, too:

https://theintercept.com/2018/09/13/google-china-search-engine-employee-resigns/

Google is a company whose founders started out by publishing a scientific paper describing their search methodology, in which they said, "Oh, and by the way, ads will inevitably turn your search engine into a pile of shit, so we're gonna stay the fuck away from them":

http://infolab.stanford.edu/pub/papers/google.pdf

Those same founders retained a controlling interest in the company after it went IPO, explaining to investors that they were going to run the business without having their elbows jostled by shortsighted Wall Street assholes, so they could keep it from turning into a pile of shit:

https://abc.xyz/investor/founders-letters/ipo-letter/

And yet, it's turned into a pile of shit. Google search is so bad you might as well ask Jeeves. The company's big plan to fix it? Replace links to webpages with florid paragraphs of chatbot nonsense filled with a supremely confident lies:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/14/googles-ai-hype-circle/

How did the company get this bad? In part, this is the "curse of bigness." The company can't grow by attracting new users. When you have 90%+ of the market, there are no new customers to sign up. Hypothetically, they could grow by going into new lines of business, but Google is incapable of making a successful product in-house and also kills most of the products it buys from other, more innovative companies:

https://killedbygoogle.com/

Theoretically, the company could pursue new lines of business in-house, and indeed, the current leaders of companies like Amazon, Microsoft and Apple are all execs who figured out how to get the whole company to do something new, and were elevated to the CEO's office, making each one a billionaire and sealing their place in history.

It is for this very reason that any exec at a large firm who tries to make a business-wide improvement gets immediately and repeatedly knifed by all their colleagues, who correctly reason that if someone else becomes CEO, then they won't become CEO. Machiavelli was an optimist:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/microincentives-and-enshittification/

With no growth from new customers, and no growth from new businesses, "growth" has to come from squeezing workers (say, laying off 12,000 engineers after a stock buyback that would have paid their salaries for the next 27 years), or business customers (say, by colluding with Facebook to rig the ad market with the Jedi Blue conspiracy), or end-users.

Now, in theory, we might never know exactly what led to the enshittification of Google. In theory, all of compromises, debates and plots could be lost to history. But tech is not an oral culture, it's a written one, and techies write everything down and nothing is ever truly deleted.

Time and again, Big Tech tells on itself. Think of FTX's main conspirators all hanging out in a group chat called "Wirefraud." Amazon naming its program targeting weak, small publishers the "Gazelle Project" ("approach these small publishers the way a cheetah would pursue a sickly gazelle”). Amazon documenting the fact that users were unknowingly signing up for Prime and getting pissed; then figuring out how to reduce accidental signups, then deciding not to do it because it liked the money too much. Think of Zuck emailing his CFO in the middle of the night to defend his outsized offer to buy Instagram on the basis that users like Insta better and Facebook couldn't compete with them on quality.

It's like every Big Tech schemer has a folder on their desktop called "Mens Rea" filled with files like "Copy_of_Premeditated_Murder.docx":

https://doctorow.medium.com/big-tech-cant-stop-telling-on-itself-f7f0eb6d215a?sk=351f8a54ab8e02d7340620e5eec5024d

Right now, Google's on trial for its sins against antitrust law. It's a hard case to make. To secure a win, the prosecutors at the DoJ Antitrust Division are going to have to prove what was going on in Google execs' minds when the took the actions that led to the company's dominance. They're going to have to show that the company deliberately undertook to harm its users and customers.

Of course, it helps that Google put it all in writing.

Last week, there was a huge kerfuffile over the DoJ's practice of posting its exhibits from the trial to a website each night. This is a totally normal thing to do – a practice that dates back to the Microsoft antitrust trial. But Google pitched a tantrum over this and said that the docs the DoJ were posting would be turned into "clickbait." Which is another way of saying, "the public would find these documents very interesting, and they would be damning to us and our case":

https://www.bigtechontrial.com/p/secrecy-is-systemic

After initially deferring to Google, Judge Amit Mehta finally gave the Justice Department the greenlight to post the document. It's up. It's wild:

https://www.justice.gov/d9/2023-09/416692.pdf

The document is described as "notes for a course on communication" that Google VP for Finance Michael Roszak prepared. Roszak says he can't remember whether he ever gave the presentation, but insists that the remit for the course required him to tell students "things I didn't believe," and that's why the document is "full of hyperbole and exaggeration."

OK.

But here's what the document says: "search advertising is one of the world's greatest business models ever created…illicit businesses (cigarettes or drugs) could rival these economics…[W]e can mostly ignore the demand side…(users and queries) and only focus on the supply side of advertisers, ad formats and sales."

It goes on to say that this might be changing, and proposes a way to balance the interests of the search and ads teams, which are at odds, with search worrying that ads are pushing them to produce "unnatural search experiences to chase revenue."

"Unnatural search experiences to chase revenue" is a thinly veiled euphemism for the prophetic warnings in that 1998 Pagerank paper: "The goals of the advertising business model do not always correspond to providing quality search to users." Or, more plainly, "ads will turn our search engine into a pile of shit."

And, as Roszak writes, Google is "able to ignore one of the fundamental laws of economics…supply and demand." That is, the company has become so dominant and cemented its position so thoroughly as the default search engine across every platforms and system that even if it makes its search terrible to goose revenues, users won't leave. As Lily Tomlin put it on SNL: "We don't have to care, we're the phone company."

In the enshittification cycle, companies first lure in users with surpluses – like providing the best search results rather than the most profitable ones – with an eye to locking them in. In Google's case, that lock-in has multiple facets, but the big one is spending billions of dollars – enough to buy a whole Twitter, every single year – to be the default search everywhere.

Google doesn't buy its way to dominance because it has the very best search results and it wants to shield you from inferior competitors. The economically rational case for buying default position is that preventing competition is more profitable than succeeding by outperforming competitors. The best reason to buy the default everywhere is that it lets you lower quality without losing business. You can "ignore the demand side, and only focus on advertisers."

For a lot of people, the analysis stops here. "If you're not paying for the product, you're the product." Google locks in users and sells them to advertisers, who are their co-conspirators in a scheme to screw the rest of us.

But that's not right. For one thing, paying for a product doesn't mean you won't be the product. Apple charges a thousand bucks for an iPhone and then nonconsensually spies on every iOS user in order to target ads to them (and lies about it):

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/14/luxury-surveillance/#liar-liar

John Deere charges six figures for its tractors, then runs a grift that blocks farmers from fixing their own machines, and then uses their control over repair to silence farmers who complain about it:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/05/31/dealers-choice/#be-a-shame-if-something-were-to-happen-to-it

Fair treatment from a corporation isn't a loyalty program that you earn by through sufficient spending. Companies that can sell you out, will sell you out, and then cry victim, insisting that they were only doing their fiduciary duty for their sacred shareholders. Companies are disciplined by fear of competition, regulation or – in the case of tech platforms – customers seizing the means of computation and installing ad-blockers, alternative clients, multiprotocol readers, etc:

https://doctorow.medium.com/an-audacious-plan-to-halt-the-internets-enshittification-and-throw-it-into-reverse-3cc01e7e4604?sk=85b3f5f7d051804521c3411711f0b554

Which is where the next stage of enshittification comes in: when the platform withdraws the surplus it had allocated to lure in – and then lock in – business customers (like advertisers) and reallocate it to the platform's shareholders.

For Google, there are several rackets that let it screw over advertisers as well as searchers (the advertisers are paying for the product, and they're also the product). Some of those rackets are well-known, like Jedi Blue, the market-rigging conspiracy that Google and Facebook colluded on:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jedi_Blue

But thanks to the antitrust trial, we're learning about more of these. Megan Gray – ex-FTC, ex-DuckDuckGo – was in the courtroom last week when evidence was presented on Google execs' panic over a decline in "ad generating searches" and the sleazy gimmick they came up with to address it: manipulating the "semantic matching" on user queries:

https://www.wired.com/story/google-antitrust-lawsuit-search-results/

When you send a query to Google, it expands that query with terms that are similar – for example, if you search on "Weds" it might also search for "Wednesday." In the slides shown in the Google trial, we learned about another kind of semantic matching that Google performed, this one intended to turn your search results into "a twisted shopping mall you can’t escape."

Here's how that worked: when you ran a query like "children's clothing," Google secretly appended the brand name of a kids' clothing manufacturer to the query. This, in turn, triggered a ton of ads – because rival brands will have bought ads against their competitors' name (like Pepsi buying ads that are shown over queries for Coke).

Here we see surpluses being taken away from both end-users and business customers – that is, searchers and advertisers. For searchers, it doesn't matter how much you refine your query, you're still going to get crummy search results because there's an unkillable, hidden search term stuck to your query, like a piece of shit that Google keeps sticking to the sole of your shoe.

But for advertisers, this is also a scam. They're paying to be matched to users who search on a brand name, and you didn't search on that brand name. It's especially bad for the company whose name has been appended to your search, because Google has a protection racket where the company that matches your search has to pay extra in order to show up overtop of rivals who are worse matches. Both the matching company and those rivals have given Google a credit-card that Google gets to bill every time a user searches on the company's name, and Google is just running fraudulent charges through those cards.

And, of course, Google put this in writing. I mean, of course they did. As we learned from the documentary The Incredibles, supervillains can't stop themselves from monologuing, and in big, sprawling monopolists, these monologues have to transmitted electronically – and often indelibly – to far-flung co-cabalists.

As Gray points out, this is an incredibly blunt enshittification technique: "it hadn’t even occurred to me that Google just flat out deletes queries and replaces them with ones that monetize better." We don't know how long Google did this for or how frequently this bait-and-switch was deployed.

But if this is a blunt way of Google smashing its fist down on the scales that balance search quality against ad revenues, there's plenty of subtler ways the company could sneak a thumb on there. A Google exec at the trial rhapsodized about his company's "contract with the user" to deliver an "honest results policy," but given how bad Google search is these days, we're left to either believe he's lying or that Google sucks at search.

The paper trail offers a tantalizing look at how a company went from doing something that was so good it felt like a magic trick to being "able to ignore one of the fundamental laws of economics…supply and demand," able to "ignore the demand side…(users and queries) and only focus on the supply side of advertisers."

What's more, this is a system where everyone loses (except for Google): this isn't a grift run by Google and advertisers on users – it's a grift Google runs on everyone.

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

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/03/not-feeling-lucky/#fundamental-laws-of-economics

My next novel is The Lost Cause, a hopeful novel of the climate emergency. Amazon won't sell the audiobook, so I made my own and I'm pre-selling it on Kickstarter!

[sysig]

Whoa, whoa, Wander is into Yanderers?! I never thought he’d be into that sort of thing!

I mean - he does go for the evil type pretty consistently lol

Though in specific I was referring to The Lonely Planet!

"Wander, my darling - as long as you stay here, you can have whatever you want ♥"

He didn't seem very Into what Janet was offering, past a point haha coward

[braceletofteeth]

Love In The Air (1x02) || Semantic Error (1x02)

[kingofanemptyworld]

the soulmates au where Ichigo’s known his soulmate was dead from the moment he was born is no longer merely an idea because I have no self-control so here’s. this. for now.

[idanit]

tfw your native language doesn't differentiate between a valet and a butler... *shakes fist* let me be precise and correct!

[papeldeestraza]

Please look up the difference between cult and religion if you don't know it and stop using it interchangeably

[specialgradefckr]

goD I LOVED THIS SO MUCH WHEN IT FIRST CAME OUT!! i was following along with this series and i actually saw it on tumblr and not Ao3

i was looking forward to the absolutely fascinating "consent as punishment?" like dkfhglshg WHAT A TAG. it turned out so well

absolutely love here the whole. mother knows best angle geto has going on. his little condescending conversation is just the beginning of it.

the way you stumble and stutter through your responses while he's so assured and composed. how he refutes everything you say, so easily, up until you tell him "i don't want it" and he's like "wrong. u lyin."

and the wet cat vibes off the reader:

“You were starving, injured, and constantly on the run before me.” You tell him, body trembling all over, in dire need of food. Care. Sleep. "You’ve lived off scraps and abuse your whole life"

and throughout the whole fic they're like. on edge. the tone is just set so perfectly in a million places. so anxious and stressed and no wonder geto just wants to take care of them! no wonder he doesn't believe them when they tell him no!

i love it because sometimes you wanna be the cute pitiful thing, you know? the idea that someone will find you endearing and be moved to help you even when you're pathetic and ugly and unlikeable,,, it is truly supreme, and it's geto's entire brand here and no wonder

and the key thing. damn. like it's obviously symbolic but so nebulous. geto doesn't even ask if you want permission, he just gives.

he probably expects your nature to compel you a certain way and it totally does. sooooo slyly manipulative. love that in a man. he lets you get in your own head for him, lets your instincts fuck you up for him.

i do really appreciate how well the omegaverse stuff comes in here, too. the subtle bits, the mood shifts, the influence that isn't quite direct. until it builds up to him putting a hand on your neck like he's scruffing a kitten but with no effort hkdfjghlsdfg PLEASSEE

geto absolutely EATING YOU UP. he has your scent, your brain, your number.

“You don’t believe anyone can handle you and you hope if you bite hard enough, tear into them, they’ll run off. And then you’ll feel vindicated; you were right, you are too much to handle. You were right, you are a monster. You’re unworthy of care or companionship or protection.”

guy went on a character motive rant FOR YOU. what a legend. that's husband material.

anyways, loved this whole series. thank you for writing it!

AFFECTION'S EDGE: PART I

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|| alpha!suguru getou x omega!afab reader || E/18+ || wc: 6.5k || ao3 || Part II -> coming soon! || masterlist ||

minors and ageless blogs do not interact, 18+ only

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“You’ve got it all wrong,” he murmurs, “but what am I to expect from a stray like you? You’ve lived off scraps and abuse your whole life; of course you don’t know what to do now that I’ve given you food and shelter.” Suguru’s fingers ease up towards your neck as he continues, “a warm bed to lie in. Toys to play with. A collar—so you’ll never be lost again. No one’s ever given you this before, hm?”

***

Suguru tries to tame you.

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✧ SPRING FEVER collab masterlist ✧

cw: omegaverse, brat taming, mind games, toxic behavior, yandere suguru getou, yandere reader if you squint, biting, blood, marking, eventual forced bathing in later parts, eventual forced feeding in later parts, eventual smut in later parts; masturbation, voyeurism, a blurring of boundaries, consent as punishment?

a/n: this is for @lorelune 's SPRING FEVER collab!! i have been working on this for awhile now and i am excited to share it! this should be about 3 parts...i am very close to finishing the whole thing so i should be releasing a part a week for the next two weeks!

thank you for reading!! i would love to hear your thoughts <333

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“I think you’d be perfect.” 

Suguru’s voice is a caress, low and soft, as he sits across from you. 

Somehow, he always makes you feel like he is just beneath the surface of your skin, even if there is a respectable distance between you. He always makes you feel as if he is lurking somewhere in the lowest parts of you, pulling at strings you once thought hidden to yourself. 

You’ve kept your distance for this reason.

You swallow hard. 

And then you manage to get your voice to unstick, to find it somewhere inside of you and bring it to life. It’s firmer than you’re anticipating and you’re proud;

“I don’t think I would be.” 

Suguru looks at you in a way that makes you feel as if he’s seeing through you, pulling you open slowly to gaze at all the inner workings of you. His dark eyes are keen, so sharp, even if they’re shaded by half-lidded lashes. 

He smiles pleasantly and indulges you, but you know he believes very firmly that he is, in fact, right, “why not?” 

“I told you when I agreed to join you—all I wanted in exchange for helping you, was to be an unbound Omega.” You force yourself to meet his eyes and to not get sucked into the dark tide of them. 

“You asked for my protection.” He reminds you. 

Your eyes flash this time, heated, a little spark that skitters to life inside of you.

“I didn’t—“ 

“Is that not what you’d call it?” Suguru asks, “when I interfered, every time, to be sure no other Alpha got to you? Or when I scented you to keep them away?”

Prickling warmth dots your cheeks, can feel at the back of your neck, too, the tips of your ears. You try a different tactic. 

“I’m not a homemaker.” 

His smile is soft, “I don’t want a homemaker.” 

“I’m not obedient.” You counter again, as if you could dissuade Suguru Getou once he’s made up his mind.

“You’ve been quite good for me.” Suguru says smugly and this time, a little noise of embarrassment or frustration eeks out of you. A short, sharp little growl from your throat, almost a groan of irritation.  

“I—I’m doing your dirty work. That’s our agreement! You give me assignments that I complete and in return, I get my freedom.” 

“I don’t know why you’re so opposed to this. Is it not similar already to what we have now?” He asks simply, “I’d still let you roam, if that’s what you’re so scared of.” 

“No it’s that—that power and mentality that I don’t want you to have over me.” You snap. 

“I already have it,” he says and it isn’t intended to be cruel, but certainly is, “how long do you think you’d last, without the protection of an Alpha?” 

“I didn’t have any before you.” 

“You were starving, injured, and constantly on the run before me.” You open your mouth to protest, but he cuts you off, “it would still give you what you want.” 

“I don’t want to be yours.” You say frankly, perhaps to be cruel yourself. And then you show teeth a little, flash them in warning, “I don’t want your mark.”

Suguru looks amused, if anything, by your display. 

His smile is knowing and insufferable. It makes your anger ratchet up inside of you, hackles rising. You feel a little growl working its way out of your throat. It tears out of you in annoyance, when he says, “I don’t believe you.” 

You slam the door so hard on its hinges that it rattles the entire wall. You wish it would rattle all the world. 

***

Your cursed technique rips to life like a star exploding outwards. 

Beast that you are, it overtakes you, transforms you until you are all claws and dripping, little fangs. Your body elongates, elegant, and built for speed, viciousness. The horns atop your head are sharp, too, curled the slightest into a crescent shape. The beast in you stretches and pulls at your bones, fits your skin to it in a way that you have come to know well. 

(“Cursed technique: Cursed Creature,” Suguru hums, “allows you to turn into a cursed version of yourself, a sort of,” he pauses, looking you over, “monster?” 

“That’s right.” You tell him, body trembling all over, in dire need of food. Care. Sleep. 

He places a large hand on top of your head, strokes gently, until his hand nudges your cheek, beneath your chin so you are forced to look up into his eyes. Depthless violet. 

“You have a deal.”)

The sorcerer is cast backward with the force of your transformation. In this form, everything heightens, sharpening into brilliance. So much brighter, clearer. So much more overwhelming. 

You are a flash of darkness when you move, a mass of lethality. 

The sorcerer doesn’t stand a chance, the moment you dash past him with a deep swipe of your claws, you know this will be an easy match. You chitter in this form, excited, warbly little sound erupting from you before you careen towards him again. 

This time, he is warped away. 

But you are fast, changing your trajectory mid-step to catch up to where he was warped. 

Except, this time, a white haired sorcerer takes his place. 

Your claws meet air. 

A growling hiss erupts from your throat. 

Satoru Gojo. 

Suguru told you to stay away from him. At all costs.

And speak of the devil, your name is called, whistled almost. Your head turns to find Suguru appearing, too. 

Faintly, the more human part of you wonders what the occasion is. 

For a moment, all you can see is threat. Your hackles rise as your growling gets lower, more sinister, your form moving behind Gojo as if you might circle him, unable to let down your guard. 

“Call off your pet,” Gojo says. 

Suguru calls your name again and there’s something else in his tone now, a little sharper. 

(Fear, you wonder faintly, in some far away part of your mind. Is he worried Gojo would hurt you?)

You come to heel at Suguru’s side, remaining in this form, making a low, threatening sound still. Warning. Your claws still drip with the blood of that sorcerer. 

“Go,” Suguru says to you. 

Your head snaps to look at him, eyes narrowing. “I’m not leaving,” you snap and the words have a bite to it, around the curves of your fangs. You look back at Gojo. If this comes to blows, you don’t want Suguru facing Gojo alone–you don’t want to leave his back suddenly unguarded. 

It’s counterintuitive to you, goes against all of your instincts. You don’t leave him, you don’t leave his side, his back. 

“Go,” Suguru says, harsher this time and the command seeps into you. You waver. And then, “I won’t tell you again.” 

When you hiss at him in that warbling way of curses, he smiles faintly, almost fondly, as your teeth drip with venom. But you do listen to him this time.

And with your heightened hearing, you hear Gojo underneath his breath as you slink away;

“How interesting.” 

***

When Suguru returns to you, he is unharmed. 

You’d paced the length of the hallway outside of his room in the compound until you could have worn a hole into it. 

Few would be brave enough to wait for Suguru outside his door. 

When he arrives, he is mildly surprised to see you, before his expression melts into a sort of—smugness. A knowing glint to his eyes. 

“Why would you send me away?” You snap.

“You could’ve gone in, you know, if it would’ve soothed you.” Suguru says instead, head nodding towards the door to his suite. “Would you like a key?” 

You blanche, taking a half step back, “I don’t—“

It allows him to get to his door and open it. You’ve been here before, in the privacy of his suite, but now it feels strange. A little different. He holds the door open for you. 

You glance at the threshold and feel as if you’re making an important decision. 

“Come on,” he says smoothly and before you can think twice about it, you are being led inside, his hand drifting somewhere near your lower back. He never touches you, the feeling is a phantom one, the impression of it. You shiver a little. 

But you round on him again, “why would you send me away?”

He doesn’t acknowledge you, instead he goes rifling in a drawer, digging around a little. 

His suite is larger than others. The living room is open and attached is the kitchen. It’s all light wood, with tall windows that overlook the courtyard. You know, despite never being inside, that his bedroom is down the hall and to the left. The bathroom is across from it. You’ve sat many times on the floor of his living room with him, going over assignments, plans that he has, and what he’d like you to do. 

When he finds what he’s looking for, he makes a soft noise, before turning to you with a small, gold key. 

“I don’t want a key!” You snap. 

“It’s a spare, take it just in case.” He replies and when you don’t move to grab it from him, he takes your hand in his much larger one, and opens your palm to him. 

He places the key in your hand. 

And then his eyes catch yours, “you were worried.” 

“No-!” you get out, “I don’t like being—I’m supposed to protect you.” 

Suguru smiles, hand still swallowing yours, “isn’t that sweet?” he remarks, “an Omega attempting to protect an Alpha.”

Immediately, you jerk away from him.

The key is still in your shaking fist. 

“Don’t start,” you snarl, low and vicious and hurt, “I’ve always been the one at your side.” 

“Yes,” he agrees, hand falling back down to his side listlessly. “I already told you that.” 

You’ve always been at my side, he’d said, when he was trying to convince you to–

“That’s not what I meant!” Your voice rises without your consent and you feel an embarrassed, angry flush through your face for being so worked up. The room is thick with your worry and anger and frustration, all of your pent up energy like a knot in your chest, in your voice. It’s in your heart and the way you look at him. 

“It doesn’t matter what you meant,” Suguru says easily, “it’s still the truth.” 

When you slam the door this time, you hear something fall from the wall. 

But the key is still in your trembling hand, digging indents into your palm, and your heart is still a beast in your chest.

And behind the closed door, Suguru Getou smiles fondly, and retrieves the fallen, shattered frame from the floor. 

***

For a while, you avoid Suguru. 

You stuff the key he gave you in your nightstand drawer, far in the back, in an attempt to keep it out of sight and out of your mind. 

And at first, you think he is respecting your boundaries; you receive assignments through others from him. You see him only in passing and he never speaks directly to you. He hardly acknowledges you. 

But after a week and a half, it begins to feel like punishment. 

And the key is starting to burn and itch in your mind. You think about it at night, tossing over in your bed; you think about unlocking his door at this hour. What would you find? Would he be asleep? Awake? Alone? Fully dressed? 

You think of him half bare and lounging, hair slipping over his shoulders, and the scent of sandalwood and fig. Tonka or something woodsy, maybe. You know it well and it lingers long after he leaves you. 

You suddenly miss it, crave it. 

Him. 

You twist beneath your sheets. 

Why did he have to–

You make a soft noise of frustration, turning over again. 

You’re restless. 

Something beneath your skin begins to itch and squirm. 

Previously, Suguru had hardly mentioned your status as an Omega. He rarely acknowledged it; you were too brilliant of a sorcerer for him to care, you thought. You were too powerful. The only instance he brought it up was to scent you, a form of caution in a particular instance, for a particular mission. The memory still simmers in your mind, the way he’d rubbed the gland on your wrist with a careful thumb. He’d given you clothes of his to wear. He’d had you sit in his quarters for long hours, until it seemed as if you were his, in some way. 

But now that he’s actually brought it up, offered you his bite, to be his, it paints him in an entirely different light. 

Had he always…wanted you? 

Was he always planning this? 

The naive, desperate parts of you want to believe this is a recent thought of his. Previous to this, he only ever saw you as another sorcerer, a powerful one that aided him. You had always been one of the closer ones to him, at his heel, his beck and call. 

You’d be lying if you said you’d never thought of Suguru this way; as an Alpha. An unmated one, who kept your company. 

And he does, no matter how badly it burns to admit it, protect you.

You know he wards off Alphas. 

You know he perhaps does more than even that. 

But you don’t want—

You don’t want to be mated. 

You don’t want to suddenly be coddled by him, held back, don’t want to be the little thing that keeps his bed warm.

Your face heats with the thought. 

Images flash through your mind, flickering, melting together like film that bleeds and runs, of him overtop you. Shrouding you. His hair on your shoulders and back. You think of his mouth on your throat, teeth in your neck. 

You rub at your eyes suddenly as if to clear them.

You know he leaves on a mission for a week in two days. 

You assume, at some point, he’ll speak to you. And break this strange silence. 

You’ll both return to normal then.

And then perhaps you won’t lose any more sleep over him.

***

Suguru never says goodbye to you. 

It shouldn’t bother you as much as it does—you just figured he’d finally drop this silly little silence game.

You suppose he must’ve thought the same of you.

Besides, what were you expecting from him? An apology? It’s foolish to even entertain. You knew you weren’t going to apologize either. The least you’ll do, when he returns, is  act as if all is normal again. Perhaps it’s better that way, not to address what he’s put in his head recently. 

The more you speak of it, or think of it, the worse it unravels in your mind. 

On the second day that he is gone, you realize you miss his scent. 

You realize it has become such a staple in your everyday life that its sudden disappearance  is almost alarming. It makes you more irritable, more vicious. You snap at the others faster, bite out insults and brutalities. 

You—

Well, you miss it. 

Him, maybe. 

The admittance is a hard one to swallow around. It burns going down. 

On the third day, you’re genuinely craving his scent in a way that makes your teeth ache. You had no idea you could even miss a scent like this, need it so bad that your body would betray you with a physical pain in your chest. Somewhere in your mouth, under your tongue. 

You try to ignore it. 

You go on with your life. 

But by the fifth day, you are agitated and aggressive. Everyone knows something is wrong with you. You know something is wrong with you. You can feel it beneath your skin, crawling, squirming. It makes you want to tear out your hair, rip at your nails, or sink your teeth into something. You’re restless.

You can’t sleep. 

You can hardly eat or think. 

And as you lay awake in your bed, kicking at sheets, sweating and twisting, you know what it is you need. 

You’ve known the whole week. 

You throw back the covers and wrench open your bedside drawer. 

The key rattles, hot, like it knows it’s finally about to be used. It’s musical sound a siren song, it’s been burning away in there the whole week. 

You swipe it and turn sharply from your bedroom. From your own apartment. 

It’s the middle of the night; not a soul sees you in the compound. 

Like a person possessed, you walk. Your back is straight. Your steps are quick. Your mind is set, on fire.

Suguru’s door has haunted you the whole week.

The key in your hand digs into the flesh, carving it’s divots there like your hand might be the lock itself. 

You try not to think about it–you unlock the door. You throw it open. 

You shut it behind you, slide the lock back into place. 

Darkness greets you.

You wander in like you know the place (you do, you do–)

You wander in like it’s yours to wander in. 

Instantly, something loosens inside of you. 

You exhale hard. 

Inhale sharp. 

The smell of him, fainter because he’s been gone, assaults your senses, sweeps over them. You take in a lungful like gasping for air, you smell faint traces of fig and sandalwood. Notes of tonka that you long for, that urge you to move deeper into his space. 

In the dark, you make your way down the hall, towards his bedroom.

You haunt the arch for a moment.

Guilt or regret or embarrassment almost seize you. They make you pause. 

Some sane part of you is clawing at your insides, wailing to turn around and leave. Leave now. 

But he gave you a key.

He gave you a key, you think in circles, again and again. He gave me a key. 

You cross the threshold.

You sink down into his bed and his scent is strongest here, even still, after several days it’s his. 

You turn over the covers to get beneath them, cool sheets against your legs, sliding and smooth. You turn your face into his pillow and inhale. 

A soft little groan works it’s way out of you.

Instantly, your muscles slacken. 

Everything leeches from you; your anger and irritation and restlessness. 

It soothes you so deeply and so swiftly it makes your head spin. 

You curl beneath his blankets and take deep pulls of breath, squirming a moment if only to bring his scent tighter around you. You envelope yourself in it.You shroud yourself in it. 

And finally, after five days of restless nights, you fall asleep almost instantly. 

Not a single dream. Not one moment where you wake or stir. 

You sleep deeply. 

In the morning, the sun warms you through the broad windows like a content cat. 

You stretch lazily like one, too.

Suguru will be home tomorrow. 

You know you need to leave his bed, hope that your scent dissipates by the time he returns. 

You didn’t do anything wrong, you know—he gave you a key. 

He gave you a key. 

But rather, you know he would never let you live it down. He would use it instantly, as ammunition for his argument, the debate that the two of you keep circling.

You don’t quite leave as quickly as you should still, though: 

You linger.

You’re comfortable.

Calmed for the first time all week.

And when you do slip out, it’s silently, locking the door behind you.

Like maybe you won’t ever let yourself back in there, trying to shut it like it was a one time indulgence and gone now from your mind and body. 

But his scent clings to you. 

And little do you know, your scent clings to his sheets—and to Suguru, it’s sweet as can be and unmistakable—irreplaceable.

He collapses in his own bed when he returns and knows you’ve been all over it. He can smell the crush of dark berries, jasmine, the soothing note of vanilla that clings to you, that he’s come to adore. 

He grins to himself and knows then, he’s got you right where he wants you.

***

For a moment, you think Suguru is going to make you be the bigger person and apologize upon his return. 

Instead, he finds you. 

And he doesn’t say he’s sorry for his recent behavior, but he does say;

“I’d prefer if you didn’t avoid me in the future.”

It feels like sorry enough. 

And for some time, things return to a state of normal.

A version of it.

It isn’t quite like it was before—in fact, you seem to spend more time around him than previously. He calls on you more. He brings you into his space more frequently, often urging you to eat with him, beside him, at his table.

This is ideal for you. Close but not too close.

Although, he begins to ask, don’t you have your key? Can’t you let yourself in? 

You say you haven’t used it.

He hums like he knows differently, but doesn’t press you.

Until finally he asks you to retrieve a notebook in his study and bring it to him.

Fetch, he says.

“It’s locked, isn’t it?”

“You have your key.” He answers simply, not looking up from the book he is reading. 

For a moment, you almost protest, but something stops you. Maybe the twitch in his brow.

It’s a useless argument to pick, anyways.

You do have a key.

It would be fastest, easiest, to just use it.

So you do. 

And you hand him the notebook he asked for, fingers brushing against his as he takes it from you with gentle hands.

“Thank you,” he adds, voice so smooth and low, almost tempting.

You swallow a little.

Then you quickly avert your gaze. 

“Whatever,” you grouse, but he smiles fondly, amused.

And it opens another door, more than just the one to his suite.

***

Tentatively, you begin to come and go.

The first (second)  time you use your key to enter without his order, he is careful not to react to you any differently than how he usually does. 

His eyes brighten a little, though, like a leopard that’s caught something interesting in its sights and is waiting to see what it’ll do. 

Still, you grow more comfortable entering his space on your own. 

You claim portions of it; a corner of the couch. A particular cushion around his low table. All of the sunny patches in his suite become yours, scented with you, indented with you. More than that, some horrible, hidden part of you adores that your scent is all over his space. 

It’s comforting to find it beside his scent. 

It soothes a part of you that you don’t wish to admit to. 

His hands grow bolder. 

Now they’re always hovering at the small of your back, the nape of your neck. He tucks strands of your hair away from your face and though you jerk away from him, it’s often half-hearted. You snip at him and he only smiles.

Pleased. Smug. Knowing. 

His hands guide you as you walk beside him.

You grow accustomed to his touch in some way—he makes sure of it.

Then, as if to prove something—

Another cult member begins to cause trouble with you; he is another Omega. He begins with snide comments and remarks that test your patience. He doesn’t stop until you are growling and bristled and ready for a fight. 

And all it takes to stop you is Suguru’s large hand coming down on the nape of your neck. 

His thumb rests atop one scent gland at your throat, fingertips pressing delicately into the one on the other side. Hand wrapped around the back of your neck.

“Easy,” he murmurs and just like that, you can feel some of your aggression slip from you, deflate like a balloon.

It’s involuntary, the energy and anger unspooling from your body in an instant. In the back of your mind, you’re alarmed; how easily it was for him to effect you. It’s terrifying.

You swat his hand away, lurching from him, another little growl in your throat.

But you don’t fight him or the look in his eyes, the way he tilts his chin up in the barest hint of dominance. 

You storm off.

Instances as such continue to happen, though, where he’s able to sooth or quell your temperament with a touch. A word. A look. 

It comes to a head while you’re eating dinner with him. 

“You’re so wound up,” Suguru comments lightly, “your scent is so sharp with it. What’s bothering you?” 

Reflexively, you snap, “you are.” 

And it’s meant to be some sort of insult but Suguru’s lips twist into this hitched little smile. “It’s my fault you’re wound up?” He asks lightly. 

“Don’t twist my words.” You respond, fixing him with a glare, “you bother me.” 

He’s still deeply amused by this, you can tell by the twinkle in his eyes. The smug way he holds himself. 

“Would you like me to help you?” He asks. 

“No,” you say reflexively. 

A beat of silence before he says, “come here. I’ll help you.” 

There’s a command in his voice, laced there, and doing something strange to your head. 

You hesitate.

He pounces, “just a massage.” He soothes, “I can tell your shoulders are knotted up and tense. I can see it.”

His voice has dropped into that soothing lull.

Warily, “away from my glands?” 

He smiles, “of course.” And then, “come here.”

Your body moves easily now and he murmurs, “sit in front of me. Back to me—there, that’s it.” 

It feels more vulnerable than it should to show your back to him, to sit in front of him like a child to their mother. You try to keep your posture straight and careful. 

But then he sets large, warm hands to your shoulders. His fingers dig into the meat of them gently, pressing into your muscles which spasm and twitch in pain. You yelp, jerking away. 

Suguru tsks, “see how tense you are? You’re in pain.” He scolds softly and you feel heat smart across your face, “sit still for me. I’ll be gentler.”

True to his word, he eases up, fingers careful as they run into your tense muscles.

He finds bundles of twisted up tension in your back and shoulders, pressing into them until a noise springs from you—a groan, a whimper, a little growl. He works the sounds out of you. You swear he’s doing it deliberately and you wouldn’t be surprised if it was all just to humiliate you a little. 

But you finally loosen and slacken for him. 

When you finally sink into his hands, he murmurs, “I don’t know why you fight this so badly.”

You let go of a heavy sigh, “you do know why. Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you.” 

“Because you’re stubborn?” Suguru asks lightly and you snort, despite yourself, “because you don’t know what’s good for you?”

“You’re no good for me.” You respond.

Suguru’s turn to sigh and if he digs his fingers in to make you yip in pain, he’d never say it was purposeful. 

“You’ve got it all wrong,” he murmurs, “but what am I to expect from a stray like you? You’ve lived off scraps and abuse your whole life; of course you don’t know what to do now that I’ve given you food and shelter.” Suguru’s fingers ease up towards your neck as he continues, “a warm bed to lie in. Toys to play with. A collar—so you’ll never be lost again. No one’s ever given you this before, hm?”

Reflexively, you jerk away from his touch, you turn to look at him over your shoulder with a sneer. 

“I’m not a pet.” 

Suguru does not heed your warning and instead gently pulls you back towards him by your waist. 

“No?” He asks lightly, fingers resuming their steady massage. You go completely still like prey, unsure, wary. Angry. Humiliated. “It’s not a bad thing to be a pet. You’re thinking about it all wrong.” 

His fingers ease up towards your neck and you stiffen again. 

“Suguru,” you say in warning as he nears your scent glands. Perhaps to what he’s said.

“You’re my pet now,” he continues, “though you don’t like to admit it. It’s not so bad, is it?” 

Stubbornly, you don’t answer him.

But after a moment, you say, “if I’m already yours, why do you need this last bit of me? If you already see me as your pet, why do you want me so terribly, in this way—“

Suguru suddenly pulls you back deeper, into his lap, against his chest. 

You squirm, but he holds you tight, hooks his chin over your shoulder.

Alarm bells ring frantically in your head now that he’s so close to the glands in your throat. 

“Don’t play dumb,” Suguru muses, half-mocking, “it doesn’t suit you.” 

“Let me go,” you snarl low and hot.

“What are you scared of?” Suguru responds, “that I’d trap you? If you’d take my Bite, I’d let you roam further than I do now. You’d be safe.” 

“Liar,” you hiss, “I’m not dumb.” 

“I’m not trying to stifle you, I’m trying to set you free.” Suguru almost purrs and his voice is warm and low and creeping up over your spine and trying to find its way inside you. 

You begin to squirm this time, thrashing in his hold until you manage to wriggle free, falling forward onto your hands and knees. 

Instinctively, you turn to keep your back protected, scrambling away from him. You bare your teeth at him. 

“I don’t believe you.” 

He watches this show of aggression with amusement, tilting his head slightly. And then he sighs, “I don’t think anything I say will convince you at this point.” 

You narrow your eyes at the tone. Your hackles rise. 

In an instant, he has grabbed you by the ankle and pulled you back to him. 

Underneath him.

You shove hard at him, twisting and fighting as he settles himself over you. 

You realize how solid he is, how strong, and large. He doesn’t budge. He doesn’t even flinch. 

“Suguru,” you hiss at him, pushing as hard as you can on his chest.

“See how easy it was for me to subdue you?” He says then, voice smooth and low. “If I wanted to take you, I simply would’ve already. You’re no challenge to me; if I wanted to trap you, I would’ve.”

“Get off me!” 

You thrash hard beneath him and in an instant, he has your hands uselessly pinned above your head, stretching you out beneath him.

His nose dips, near the scent gland at your throat. You squirm.

He squeezes your wrists, “stop squirming.” He murmurs low, “or my instinct will be to bite.”

Your stomach does a horrible flip, a flutter of—fear, excitement. 

“Just—get off—leave me alone!” You get out, voice high and tight. You try not to arch away from the way he lets his face fall to the crook of your neck. 

“Hush,” Suguru hisses, nudging his nose beneath your ear.

He’s scenting you. 

He’s done this before and despite everything in you, you finally go slack. You force yourself not to tilt your head or offer up more, rather let him urge you into the way that he prefers. 

He nudges his cheek and nose against your jaw. He lets out a relieved breath, fitting more of his body to you and you feel the push of chest into yours, his hips.

You squirm a little and a growl erupts from his throat.

You fight back the sound that almost works its way out of you now, swallow around it.

When he’s finished, he asks, “would you like to scent me?” And instinctively, you want to say yes, but you temper yourself. Then he adds, “I’m sending you away on a mission alone. I’ll be scenting you until the day you leave now.” 

You catch his eyes, glinting.

“So, I thought it only fair if you’d like to scent me, too.” 

You don’t know why, but something squirms inside of you, something a little hurt. 

“You’re sending me away?”

Suguru hums softly, “I need you to take care of something for me. I only trust you to do it.” 

You flex your hands a little in his hold, but he doesn’t budge. 

He nudges at your jaw again, gentle, and murmurs, “this would be easier if you’d take my mark.” 

You turn your head then to shield your throat, and face him. His nose nearly brushes yours and you look up at him through your lashes. You bite your tongue from any further complaints, dipping down to the crux of his throat now. 

Easily, perhaps eagerly, he bares his throat for you.

Satisfaction erupts beneath your skin as his scent washes over you, dark fig and oud, sandalwood and musk. Carefully, your nose runs along the column of his throat. 

“I’m not even—“ you huff, retry, “I haven’t had a Heat in—it wouldn’t take, anyways.” 

“Ah,” Suguru says and you wish you hadn’t told him at all. Realization dawns over his features the way a cat might realize it’s caught its mouse beneath its paws. “Is this what you’re so scared of?” 

“No—I prefer it this way. It’s another reason that you can’t. It wouldn’t work.” You say stubbornly and perhaps in your irritation, you burrow further down into the crook of his neck, tuck your cheek to his skin to nudge. 

“I could give you a temporary one,” he murmurs, “I’d let you do the same in return, of course.” 

You go quiet, brushing your lips against his skin, hesitating. 

“I don’t need it.” You finally decide, even as you let the blunt side of a tooth nick gently against his neck. “I can protect myself.” You pull away to look at him again, “am I not one of your strongest?” 

“You are my strongest.” He agrees, he praises. “But am I not also strong?” He asks, “and yet you still insist on protecting me.” 

You open your mouth to protest, but he takes your chin in hand suddenly, words dying before they can escape. 

“You are my strongest.” He says, “I would like the world to be aware of it.” 

“I told you, I don’t want to be yours–” 

“Then stop protecting me. Flee. Run away and never return.” Suddenly, his touch, his body, all of him is gone. He rolls off of you and onto his back beside you. Cold air sweeps in. You can feel his touch like burning imprints on your skin. 

You turn your head to the side to look at him. 

“You would hunt me down if I ran.” 

A flicker of a smile ghosts his face. 

“And if I ran from you?” He asks, “if I discarded you?” 

Something twists so viciously and sharply in your chest that your eyes sting with it. You lock your jaw tight. You stare up at the ceiling. 

“You refuse to speak but your scent is spiced with distress, sour with despair.” He turns to look at you, “not so easy to hear, is it?” 

“I can’t stand you or your games.” You get out. 

“There are no games.” He says evenly, “only the one you’re playing with yourself.” 

You scoff, “which is?” 

He sits up slightly, over you, looking down at you, the inky silk of his dark hair sliding over one shoulder. 

“Seeing how long you can outrun what you want.” 

You exhale roughly, in exasperation, and then you ask dryly, “and what do I want, Suguru?” 

“To be taken care of.” 

“I don’t need–”

He cuts off your growl before it can start, taking your chin in hand to turn your head towards him once more. “You never have, but it doesn’t mean you can’t want it.” 

“I don’t want it either.” You snap. “You have some grand delusion of me in your mind that I am some weak, submissive creature in need of your care.” 

“I’ve said none of that, have I?” He hums. “Now you’re twisting my words, being purposefully churlish–in hopes of, what? To scare me off?” 

His palm opens up against your jaw, your cheek. His thumb touches your bottom lip. 

“You snap and you snarl and posture as some ferocious, independent creature to scare everyone off. I don’t blame you–I am certain you protected yourself many times this way from lesser people.” His voice is soft, almost a lull, you allow his palm to open against your lips, to turn your face into the cup of his hands. “You don’t believe anyone can handle you and you hope if you bite hard enough, tear into them, they’ll run off. And then you’ll feel vindicated; you were right, you are too much to handle. You were right, you are a monster. You’re unworthy of care or companionship or protection.” 

His hand moves upward, baring his wrist to your mouth now, “go on,” he encourages, “bite me. As hard as you like. Scream and cry and tear into me. Loathe me and scorn me.” He leans closer, over you, as he hushes like a mother to their child, “I’ll still be here, with the rings of your teeth marks littered in my skin. I’ll be the only one, bruised and bloody, still taking care of you–no matter how badly you fight me.” 

Out of anger or frustration or something else entirely, tears prick your eyes. As if to hide them, you open your mouth against his wrist, gentle first–warm and soft lips and tongue. He looks enraptured. He looks starving. 

You sink your teeth into his skin viciously. 

He hisses in pain, sharp, but doesn’t pull away. “There,” he coos, leaning over you, sinking into the pain, “is that what you wanted?” 

Blood bursts into your mouth in a way that is almost startling, sharp and metallic. It should be gross and horrible and–you whine a little, somewhere in the back of your throat and bear down harder. 

If that’s what he promises, you’ll make him prove it. 

If he wants to be the one beside you, you’ll make him pay. 

He leans down to kiss at your cheeks, gentle, humming. You realize there are tears. Your jaw aches. 

But you don’t let go and he doesn’t even flinch. 

“Does that feel better? To get your teeth into someone who isn’t scared of you?” He murmurs, nudging at your tense jaw, kissing there. “Shall I do the same to you?” 

You release his wrist and shove him off, hard enough that he gives and he goes. 

You stand up and storm out of his chambers, slamming the door on its hinges as hard as you can. You hope it knocks over every painting on his walls. You hope the entire compound somehow hears it. You hope it breaks something in the same way that something has been broken open inside of you.

You wipe his blood from your mouth with the back of your hand.

Suguru doesn’t even bandage the wound. And he wears his sleeves high, so that all the world might see it.

[nightblackowlbat]

Demon Twins but Danny was sacrificed to the Ghost King

So I've seen AUs where Ra's tries to sacrifice Damien to GK!Danny, and I've seen AUs where dead or injured Danyal got thrown in the pit and was transported somewhere he could be found by the Fentons instead of revived/healed.

Let's combine the two.

Ra's tried to summon the Ghost King. Since Pariah Dark was unavailable, the council of Ancients who sealed him away took turns answering his summons. (None of them bested him in single combat, but they all bested him together. Therefor the kingly responsibilities fall on all of them.)

This time it was Clockwork who showed up. Ra's proposed his bargain in exchange for one of his heirs as "sacrifice to the ghost king." Clockwork saw a potential future where Danyal became Danny became Phantom became the Ghost King. In order to make this potential future more likely, he specifies that Danyal must be sacrificed to "the Title of Ghost King"

Ra's didn't care to question the semantics, otherwise he might have found out that Clockwork was ensuring that his spare was sacrificed to Bear the Title and become the Ghost King, rather than be enslaved or killed by him.

The result was that Ra's got some minor boon from an eldritch entity he assumed was the Ghost King, and Danyal Al Ghul was taken in exchange. If you want to add extra angst, maybe Damien and Danyal had to fight for the right to not be sacrificed. And/or Clockwork, who could see that Danny would make a better king than Damien, CHOSE which twin he wanted as sacrifice.

Like imagine little Danny and Dami in a duel, the loser of which will become a sacrifice. And Damien, who cannot bear to watch his twin be doomed to that fate, throws the match so that he could be taken in his stead. And then the ritual happens and the entity refuses him. Damien has to watch as his twin brother gets dragged to hell despite his best efforts to save him.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

How Google’s trial secrecy lets it control the coverage

I'm coming to Minneapolis! Oct 15: Presenting The Internet Con at Moon Palace Books. Oct 16: Keynoting the 26th ACM Conference On Computer-Supported Cooperative Work and Social Computing.

"Corporate crime" is practically an oxymoron in America. While it's true that the single most consequential and profligate theft in America is wage theft, its mechanisms are so obscure and, well, dull that it's easy to sell us on the false impression that the real problem is shoplifting:

https://newrepublic.com/post/175343/wage-theft-versus-shoplifting-crime

Corporate crime is often hidden behind Dana Clare's Shield Of Boringness, cloaked in euphemisms like "risk and compliance" or that old favorite, "white collar crime":

https://pluralistic.net/2021/12/07/solar-panel-for-a-sex-machine/#a-single-proposition

And corporate crime has a kind of performative complexity. The crimes come to us wreathed in specialized jargon and technical terminology that make them hard to discern. Which is wild, because corporate crimes occur on a scale that other crimes – even those committed by organized crime – can't hope to match:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/10/12/no-criminals-no-crimes/#get-out-of-jail-free-card

But anything that can't go on forever eventually stops. After decades of official tolerance (and even encouragement), corporate criminals are finally in the crosshairs of federal enforcers. Take National Labor Relations Board general counsel Jennifer Abruzzo's ruling in Cemex: when a company takes an illegal action to affect the outcome of a union election, the consequence is now automatic recognition of the union:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/06/goons-ginks-and-company-finks/#if-blood-be-the-price-of-your-cursed-wealth

That's a huge deal. Before, a boss could fire union organizers and intimidate workers, scuttle the union election, and then, months or years later, pay a fine and some back-wages…and the union would be smashed.

The scale of corporate crime is directly proportional to the scale of corporations themselves. Big companies aren't (necessarily) led by worse people, but even small sins committed by the very largest companies can affect millions of lives.

That's why antitrust is so key to fighting corporate crime. To make corporate crimes less harmful, we must keep companies from attaining harmful scale. Big companies aren't just too big to fail and too big to jail – they're also too big for peaceful coexistence with a society of laws.

The revival of antitrust enforcement is such a breath of fresh air, but it's also fighting headwinds. For one thing, there's 40 years of bad precedent from the nightmare years of pro-monopoly Reaganomics to overturn:

https://pluralistic.net/ApexPredator

It's not just precedents in the outcomes of trials, either. Trial procedure has also been remade to favor corporations, with judges helping companies stack the deck in their own favor. The biggest factor here is secrecy: blocking recording devices from courts, refusing to livestream the proceedings, allowing accused corporate criminals to clear the courtroom when their executives take the stand, and redacting or suppressing the exhibits:

https://prospect.org/power/2023-09-27-redacted-case-against-amazon/

When a corporation can hide evidence and testimony from the public and the press, it gains broad latitude to dispute critics, including government enforcers, based on evidence that no one is allowed to see, or, in many cases, even describe. Take Project Nessie, the program that the FTC claims Amazon used to compel third-party sellers to hike prices across many categories of goods:

https://www.wsj.com/business/retail/amazon-used-secret-project-nessie-algorithm-to-raise-prices-6c593706

Amazon told the press that the FTC has "grossly mischaracterize[d]" Project Nessie. The DoJ disagrees, but it can't say why, because the Project Nessie files it based its accusations on have been redacted, at Amazon's insistence. Rather than rebutting Amazon's claim, FTC spokesman Douglas Farrar could only say "We once again call on Amazon to move swiftly to remove the redactions and allow the American public to see the full scope of what we allege are their illegal monopolistic practices."

It's quite a devastating gambit: when critics and prosecutors make specific allegations about corporate crimes, the corporation gets to tell journalists, "No, that's wrong, but you're not allowed to see the reason we say it's wrong."

It's a way to work the refs, to get journalists – or their editors – to wreathe bold claims in endless hedging language, or to avoid reporting on the most shocking allegations altogether. This, in turn, keeps corporate trials out of the public eye, which reassures judges that they can defer to further corporate demands for opacity without facing an outcry.

That's a tactic that serves Google well. When the company was dragged into court by the DoJ Antitrust Division, it demanded – and received – a veil of secrecy that is especially ironic given the company's promise "to organize the world's information and make it universally accessible and useful":

https://usvgoogle.org/trial-update-9-22

While this veil has parted somewhat, it is still intact enough to allow the company to work the refs and kill disfavorable reporting from the trial. Last week, Megan Gray – ex-FTC, ex-DuckDuckGo – published an editorial in Wired reporting on her impression of an explosive moment in the Google trial:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/03/not-feeling-lucky/#fundamental-laws-of-economics

According to Gray, Google had run a program to mess with the "semantic matching" on queries, silently appending terms to users' searches that caused them to return more ads – and worse results. This generated more revenue for Google, at the expense of advertisers who got billed to serve ads that didn't even match user queries.

Google forcefully disputed this claim:

https://twitter.com/searchliaison/status/1709726778170786297

They contacted Gray's editors at Wired, but declined to release all the exhibits and testimony that Gray used to form her conclusions about Google's conduct; instead, they provided a subset of the relevant materials, which cast doubt on Gray's accusations.

Wired removed Gray's piece, with an unsigned notice that "WIRED editorial leadership has determined that the story does not meet our editorial standards. It has been removed":

https://www.wired.com/story/google-antitrust-lawsuit-search-results/

But Gray stands by her piece. She admits that she might have gotten some of the fine details wrong, but that these were not material to the overall point of her story, that Google manipulated search queries to serve more ads at the expense of the quality of the results:

https://twitter.com/megangrA/status/1711035354134794529

She says that the piece could and should have been amended to reflect these fine-grained corrections, but that in the absence of a full record of the testimony and exhibits, it was impossible for her to prove to her editors that her piece was substantively correct.

I reviewed the limited evidence that Google permitted to be released and I find her defense compelling. Perhaps you don't. But the only way we can factually resolve this dispute is for Google to release the materials that they claim will exonerate them. And they won't, though this is fully within their power.

I've seen this playbook before. During the early months of the pandemic, a billionaire who owned a notorious cyberwarfare company used UK libel threats to erase this fact from the internet – including my own reporting – on the grounds that the underlying research made small, non-material errors in characterizing a hellishly complex financial Rube Goldberg machine that was, in my opinion, deliberately designed to confuse investigators.

Like the corporate crimes revealed in the Panama Papers and Paradise Papers, the gambit is complicated, but it's not sophisticated:

Make everything as complicated as possible;

Make everything as secret as possible;

Dismiss any accusations by claiming errors in the account of the deliberately complex arrangements, which can't be rectified because the relevant materials are a secret.

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

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/09/working-the-refs/#but-id-have-to-kill-you

My next novel is The Lost Cause, a hopeful novel of the climate emergency. Amazon won't sell the audiobook, so I made my own and I'm pre-selling it on Kickstarter!

Image: Jason Rosenberg (modified) https://www.flickr.com/photos/underpants/12069086054/

CC BY https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

--

Japanexperterna.se (modified) https://www.flickr.com/photos/japanexperterna/15251188384/

CC BY-SA 2.0: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/

[kxsagi]

May I request first time w bllk boys of your choice, but instead of it being steamy, it ends up being comic relief because for some reason the men can't put it in so the night just went on with gf!reader laughing her ass off and bf!bllk men having existential crisis😼 ignore this if you're uncomfortable! I love your works btw!:3 have a great day/night!

“𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐠𝐨 𝐢𝐧: 𝐚 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝𝐲”

a/n: this was definitely the most suggestive thing i've written so far but it was too funny to not write LMAO

thank you so much and have a great day/night as well!

suggestive and mature content below! all aged-up characters! (MDNI, by choosing to interact, it is your choice despite the warning)

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, kaiser michael, shidou ryusei, karasu tabito, itoshi sae

isagi yoichi

bro was so determined to win at losing his virginity. he was mentally prepping like it was a soccer match. 

“okay. breathe. visualize. go slow.” 

but the moment he tries to slide it in, he misses. three times. 

you’re trying not to laugh but he looks like a confused puppy with a furrowed brow and everything. 

“wait, i swear i aimed right.” 

“baby you’re not shooting a goal, this is not penalty kicks.” 

he spirals. his entire ego deflates. his internal monologue is screaming: how did i miss the goal this bad, am i even the main character anymore??? 

you’re just curled up in bed laughing while he sits at the edge with a blanket over his lap, muttering, “i need to train more…” 

itoshi rin

he was so serious about it. didn’t speak more than five words the whole time. 

but then. the moment of truth. and it just… 

boink (LMAO). he misaligned. 

“rin, that’s my thigh.” 

“shut up. i know.” 

tries again. ends up poking your belly button. 

“are you aiming by echolocation?” 

cue you dissolving into laughter while rin’s soul leaves his body. 

he gets all broody and dramatic like, “this is why i hate people. and romance. and life.” 

you pat his hair and go, “better luck next time, sniper.” 

nagi seishiro

he was so chill about it at first. like, “yeah. sex. sounds tiring, but okay.” 

except it turns out getting it in requires more effort than he thought. 

he’s just kind of poking around lazily like he’s half-asleep. 

“is this… the right angle?” 

“sei. that’s my hipbone.” 

he lays down in defeat like he just died in a video game. “ugh. i give up. let’s just cuddle.” 

and you’re crying laughing while he burritos himself in the blanket and says, “this is why i stick to games.” 

mikage reo

oh he thought he had it in the bag. mr. smooth rich boy. 

candles lit. music playing. rose petals on the bed. 

then cue 5 straight minutes of struggling. 

you: “babe, you okay?” 

reo: sweating bullets, whispering “i can’t find the entrance.” 

you: “it’s not a bank vault, reo.” 

poor boy looks so offended. “i’ve studied diagrams! i watched tutorials!” 

you’re cackling while he’s looking at the wall like it betrayed him. 

“this is not how it was supposed to go… my legacy…”

kaiser michael

listen. this man walked in like he was god’s gift to earth. said some cheesy german line like “tonight, i make you scream.” 

0 for 1 on that promise. 

because for the life of him, he can’t get the angle right. 

tries. fails. tries again. misses again. 

“i swear this never happens.” 

“you sound like a sitcom punchline.” 

and then you wheeze-laugh so hard you fall off the bed. 

kaiser just lies there dramatically like an oil painting, one arm draped over his forehead. “i’ve been humbled.” 

will not stop bringing it up later. “remember that time my genius was too much for your mortal body to handle?” 

you: “you poked my knee.” 

him: “semantics.” 

shidou ryusei

bro walked in already unhinged. 

smirking like a menace. said “i’m gonna blow your back out” with way too much confidence. 

cut to five minutes later: he’s on his knees, staring at your thighs like they’re a puzzle. 

“where the hell is it? is this a trap?” 

“shidou. shidou. that’s my armpit.” 

“oh. well you were twisted weird!” 

you’re crying from laughing. this man was so loud and proud only to fumble like a rookie. 

suddenly goes quiet. shidou. quiet. 

stares at the wall like he saw god. 

“maybe this is the universe humbling me…” 

you: “finally.” 

him: “shut the hell up, you’re laughing like a hyena. i’m in mourning.” 

karasu tabito

okay so karasu definitely talked a big game beforehand. 

super smug like “you won’t be able to walk after this.” 

tried to take the lead. acted confident. 

then proceeded to line himself up completely wrong. 

you’re like, “tabi. that’s not it.” 

he freezes. “you sure? feels right.” 

“no. no it doesn’t.” 

looks down. stares in betrayal. “oh… oh.” 

you start laughing and cannot stop. 

he lays on his back dramatically like he just got shot. 

“i used to have pride. i used to have a future.” 

you’re snorting, tears in your eyes while he covers himself with a pillow and mutters “don’t talk to me. i’m in my flop era.” 

itoshi sae

sae genuinely thought he was above this. like… this was supposed to be effortless. 

gave you a look like “i got this.” 

spoiler: he did not. 

tries to guide himself in and hits… air. 

tries again. pokes the mattress. 

you: “… are you okay?” 

him: “this is… frustrating.” 

you start giggling. he’s deadpan. 

“don’t laugh.” 

you: “but you’re so SERIOUS. it’s like watching someone try to parallel park and give up.” 

he sighs, rolls off you, and just stares at the ceiling like it offended him. 

“sex is stupid. i’m going to sleep.” 

you’re still laughing while he tucks himself in like a burrito, mumbling “this is why i focus on football.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[oh-obrien]

GRID ACE 0.2

GAMER READER X Lestappen SMAU

Summary: Reader is a Red Bull e-sports athlete who happens to catch the attention of two particular drivers with her streams

PART TWO BABY WOOT WOOT. I've never seen anyone really mix twitch streams into these so let us see how I did!

And my requests for these are open!!

All pictures are from Pinterest!!!

Reader has various face claims!

Masterlist / Previous Part / Next Part

Xx.y/n.xX just posted

tagged @ maxverstappen1 @ charles_leclerc

Liked by landonorris, yourbestfriend, and 9,678 others

Xx.y/n.xX another race weekend or something like that

-> yourbestfriend she’s oh so casual about it too

-> Xx.y/n.xX they had good lattes I’ll keep going

-> Redbullgaming I'm sure there were plenty of Red Bulls also 😉

-> Xx.y/n.xX admin is going to lock me in a cage if I say espresso and coffee are actually my choice of caffeine intake.

-> Maxverstappen1 She took a sip of mine, I feel like that has to count

-> Xx.y/n.xX he did share his cooties with me so I could steal a sip

-> Landonorris with the way she behaved she needed to be locked in a cage

-> Xx.y/n.xX you're uninvited from game night. @ Danielricciardo there's a spot open now!

-> Danielricciardo I'LL BE THERE

User1 Is no one going to comment on the nails

-> Xx.y/n.xX they played rock, paper, scissors to decide what merch I wore and what nails I did.

-> Danielricciardo who won

-> Xx.y/n.xX me when I broke up the fight after cheating allegations got thrown around.

-> Maxverstappen1 @ danielricciardo I won.

-> Charles_leclerc no.

-> Xx.y/n.xX he actually did Charles...

-> Maxverstappen1 officially the favorite

-> Xx.y/n.xX OKAY I didn't say THAT

Redbullgaming those nails look like those of a traitor

-> Xx.y/n.xX I'm sorry admin but you can't get rid of me I carry too hard 🫡

-> User3 there hasn't been a stream in a few days I miss watching my queen carry daily

-> Xx.y/n.xX keep your eyes pealed 🍌

-> Redbullgaming 👀

User4 so is this a soft launch, or a hard launch, or a best friends launch?

-> User5 THATS WHAT I WANT TO KNOW TOO

-> User6 like no word from ANYONE on any of this

-> User7 I mean it could be contract related with RB Racing and RB Gaming but then why would they also be constantly hanging out with Charles? It seems like other drivers also now too.

-> User4 EXACTLY if it was just y/n and Max I’d be like oh RB is looking for some cross promotion to grow fan bases but 🫣

Scuderiaferrari please never wear Red Bull merch in our garage again

-> Xx.y/n.xX @ Charles_leclerc your admin is threatening me

-> Charles_leclerc It isn’t a threat you just look better in red

-> Maxverstappen1 wrong.

-> Xx.y/n.xX he's kinda right actually

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Landonorris just posted

Tagged @ Xx.y/n.xX, @ maxverstappen1, @ charles_leclerc

Landonorris Come watch me and y/n destroy Charles and Max in a custom match before we play some unranked.

User8 Lando finally gets to stream with y/n!!!

-> User9 this group keeps growing like weeds

-> User8 it’s actually really cool to get to watch the boys stream with a girl who’s just good at what she does?

Yourteammate1 so this is why she wouldn’t get on with us??? Traitor @ Xx.y/n.xX

-> Xx.y/n.xX bite me 😘

Liked by @ maxverstappen1 @ charles_leclerc

-> Yourteammate2 you probably taste bitter anyways

User10 Y/N collecting F1 drivers like they’re valo agents

-> Xx.y/n.xX I’ve still got some to unlock!!! (I want to unlock Carlos next he seems cool!)

-> Danielricciardo rude

-> Xx.y/n.xX oh I already unlocked you, learn how to play valo then we'll talk old man.

User12 I NEED to know who everyone mains!

-> Xx.y/n.xX tune into the twitch stream to find out 👀

Redbullgaming we're always looking for new talent to join the ranks

-> Xx.y/n.xX sorry admin he vroom vrooms for the orange team

-> User13 she calls McLaren the orange team she's so unserious

-> Landonorris @ Xx.y/n.xX we're actually Papaya

-> Xx.y/n.xX semantics

-> Landonorris I'm dyslexic

-> Xx.y/n.xX so am I and I know what that means...

Charles_leclerc come watch me and @ maxverstappen1 carry!

-> Xx.y/n.xX carry the bottom of the scoreboard maybe

-> Maxverstappen1 if you're this mean all the time you're never staying with me again

-> Xx.y/n.xX your cats like me too much, I am one of them

-> Charles_leclerc she did blend in with them rather well napping in the sun.

Liked by @ maxverstappen1

User13 SHE STAYED WITH MAX IN MONACO???

-> User14 DETAILS 👏

-> User15 y/n is totally going to spill the beans on her stream

-> Xx.y/n.xX or will I?

-> User14 PLEASE, she strikes again.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Xx.y/n.xX is live on Twitch!

Y/N: I beg of you, I am on my knees BEGGING you both, please don’t embarrass me this time.

Lando: You know they’re going to.

Max: I take that very personally.

Y/N: And I take you going 4 and 20 last game very personally.

Charles: How do I put out my teleport again?

Lando: Remind me why we let him play Chamber?

Y/N: He’s French, Char insisted I’m afraid. It’s E Charles, you press E. Okay Max and what does Omen’s blind do?

Max: It blinds teammates too.

Y/N: Lando stop laughing!

Lando: I'm sorry! It's too good!

Y/N: You are not sorry and we both know it.

Yourbestfriend: I’m just here for a good time not a long time.

Y/N: No you are in this game for the long haul! I’m going to take the spike and push on to A and if I’m not drinking by the end of this half or if more than two of us make it to the end of the round god has performed miracles.

Lando: I’ll flank!

Charles: Can I go with Lando?

Y/N: Sure, ba- Char.

Max: I’ll go with the girls!

Yourbestfriend: Roadtrip to A site!

Y/N: I’m going to go get the alcohol shortly I can feel it.

Max: I fell off the side.

Y/N: Im definitely going to get the alcohol now.

Lando: New drinking game, take a shot every time Max falls off abyss.

Y/N: I like being tipsy not dead, thank you very much.

︶֪︶︶֪︶︶︶֪︶︶֪︶︶ིྀ︶︶֪︶︶︶֪︶︶֪︶︶֪

Y/N: Someone in chat has asked what I am doing in Monaco and where I am staying.

Lando: Creepyyyyyyyy

Max: Judging by the cat in her lap I would assume she's staying with someone with cats

Y/N: Judging by the two men in the background of my stream I am staying with Max and Charles is over.

Yourbestfriend: and she didn't invite me, rude

Y/N: Someone needed to watch my cat, thank you very much

Max: I want to try another character.

Lando: No.

Y/N: No.

Charles: Can I try someone new?

Lando: Try sitting in spawn this game Charles

Y/N: Here

Max: For those unaware Y/N has now gone to look at characters with Charles

Charles: Oh she's cool!

Y/N (through Charles' mic): I play her or her if I don't play Neon.

Charles: First one!

Lando: For those with no eyes Charles has now locked in Fade and he is in his goth girl era after not being able to get more podiums yet this season.

Y/N: Be nice or you're not coming out to brunch tomorrow!

Lando: Is no one going to comment on that

Max: I’m definitely not

Yourbestfriend: She’s always like that I’m not surprised

Y/N: Don't test me Norris

Charles: I really wouldn't

Max: Yeah please don't

︶֪︶︶֪︶︶︶֪︶︶֪︶︶ིྀ︶︶֪︶︶︶֪︶︶֪︶︶֪

Y/N: Max please stop staring at the ground you literally play video games somewhat professionally. And I know, it’s not this game but for the love of god LOOK the fuck UP!

Max: You’re dead stop talking

Y/N: I’m dead because you blinded me as I was pushing on to site and I ran straight into like three of them!

Charles: You’re still dead!

Lando: SO ARE YOU! Max why are you shooting at their fucking feet?

Max: Fuck, I died.

Y/N: YOU DIED BECAUSE YOU’RE SHOOTING AT THEIR FEET! Okay, new round, we can do this.

Lando: Y/N is no longer using her inside voice, it has now gotten serious.

Charles: What gun do I buy?

Lando: Nothing you’re going 2 and 10

Y/N: You can’t buy what you need. Here, I’m not buying this round.

Charles: It’s pink! This is the cat one!

Max: Can I have a cat one?

Y/N: No we’re both poor. I’m poor because I bought Char you’re poor because you’re bad.

Lando: They’re going to think he’s your pocket Sage with that skin.

Y/N: They both might as well be. I’m gonna ult.

Max: You’re gonna what?

Charles: Pocket what?

Lando: She’s going to run around and electrocute the other team.

Max: Oh that one!

Yourbestfriend: It's like she's your sugar daddy but the girl version and with kills not money.

Lando: A Valo sugar mommy.

Y/N: One, I'm going to scream soon, two.

Charles: oh she’s good at this.

Lando: You’re just bad mate, and it's her job.

Y/N: three, shut up this is literally my job, four.

Lando: See! It's her job!

Y/N: LET ME ACE PLEASE MAX YOU ARE SHOOTING THEIR FEET AGAIN AND- FUCK

Max: I GOT ONE!

Yourbestfriend: HE GOT ONE!

Y/N: Yes, yes you did an amazing job.

Lando: I’d like to announce to the world that Max is officially going, drumroll please, 3 and 11!

Y/N: Would you like to share our KDA’s Mr. Norris?

Lando: Why of course Y/N! While Max and Charles have a collective five kills our lovely top frag is going 28 and 3 while I am going 15 and 5.

Yourbestfriend: I’m going even!

Lando: ahh yes our middle frag who still has more kills than Max and Charles combined!

Charles: I’m getting better!

Y/N: sure Char.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

User16 NO BECAUSE SHE COVERED IT UP SO FAST

User17 I THOUGHT I WAS THE ONLY ONE WHO CAUGHT IT

-> User18 NO! I totally caught it also

-> User17 and then she called him Char?

->User18 NICKNMAE BASIS ALREADY

User19 I wanted to talk about her staying at Max's while she's in Monaco!

-> User20 Or whose WAG she wants to be

-> User16 If you watch Y/N's streams she doesn't need to be anyone's WAG

-> User20 All I'm saying is it's suspicious that she had been to two GP's and is taking a little trip to Monaco and they haven't seemed to be friends that long

->User21 just because they only recently started streaming together and just because Y/N only just went to her first GP's doesn't mean they haven't been friends behind the scenes

User22 Max was in her liked starting almost a year ago

-> Xx.y/n.xX the devil works hard but fangirls work harder!!!

-> User16 OH MY GOD

-> Xx.y/n.xX I'm everywhere, no one seems to remember that!

[punkssavior]

turnbuckle bunny.

alternatively; ‘all yours’

cm punk x fem!reader

to celebrate a relationship milestone, punk takes you with him to train at the wrestling gym.

third installment to the tired of you series. links to: part one, & part two.

content warnings: (18+) smut. shower sex. pain kink/blood play (who’s shocked). pnv. choking. pet names. exhibitionism. cockwarming (??)

yes this fic has two titles because i couldn’t decide on whether or not i liked the funny or one or the sweet one more. i’ll let you decide.

wordcount: ~13k

tags!: @theasiaabattoir @freyadronning @wwediamond @nicejacketsstuff @kkd1021 @urgogodancer @itsvxlentine @h0ney-fiction @zoeroxiie @samthefall @hotgothic02 @pureheart3d @tiacordelia02 @postwelcome @xbriexx @roseydoesypoesy @reebs-luvs-rhodes-and-wrestling @gamer-carat @j1nxexe @reigndropp @regalgenocide @xkittypunkerx @ritosparty @peterparkernotfound @reebs-luvs-rhodes-and-wrestling @sky-dreamer @fairiebabey @ouijabug @slutforsmutstories

It had been five months, to the day, since Punk officially asked you to be his girlfriend.

Was it childish of you to want the semantics? To want to be whisked away, wined and dined, and gifted a comically large bouquet of flowers on the night he asked you out? You didn’t think so.

And so, since that day five months ago, on the 18th of each month, Punk did exactly that.

It was fun for the first four months; watching Punk enter through the front door after his late night matches and training sessions with his wrestling boots in one hand and a bouquet of wildflowers in the other— withholding some sort of surprise or gift for you that he’d kept hidden in the glovebox of his car. Each month was something new.

Month one was a pair of studs; a dainty set of pearls to put in your new second ear piercings. Punk had taken you to get that done, too.

He’s already had quite the influence on your opinions of piercings and tattoos.

Months two, three and four were necklaces— all in which you still wear every day. Month three was your most favorite of all; a silver braided chain and a heart-shaped locket, with a picture of the two of you inside of it.

You remember it’s there every once in a while, clutching it between your fingers whenever you were having a particularly hard day at work, or simply just bored of the reruns playing on your TV.

Despite it being you and Punk’s five-month-iversary, it was just one of those nights. You were curled up on the couch beneath a blanket after a long day at work, watching an Ancient Aliens marathon. Punk always poked fun at you for indulging in that fake television documentary bullshit— finding the host of it as creepy and off putting as the aliens that they talk about.

You’d stepped into your pajamas the second you got home, knowing that your beau wouldn’t return until much later on. The soft blue glow of the screen and the occasional flashing lights were the only thing keeping you awake and waiting for Punk’s arrival.

Just then, you hear a car door slam shut, and the honk of a horn from outside. You shoot up excitedly, muting the TV and scurrying over to the kitchen island to wait for him.

“Honey, I’m hooooome.”

Punk’s teasing voice rings out before you can even see his face— you withhold your excitement for only a moment longer, not wanting to knock him off balance by pouncing on him in the doorframe.

You hear the crinkling of cellophane, the squeaking of sneakers, and finally you see the face of the man that you love.

“Hello gorgeous,” you purr slyly, colorful petals and foliage catching your eye as you scurry closer. Punk chuckles at your display of affection, holding out his arms for you to skip into them.

You do exactly that, pulling him into a tight embrace that slightly teeters him off of his feet. He wraps his arms around you tightly, planting a rough kiss against your hair.

“Missed me so much that you got up from the couch? I’m impressed. You’re usually out cold by now.”

“Mmmh, nope. Didn’t wanna miss out on my surprise,” you squeak excitedly, stealing a quick kiss from him that leaves his face hanging lazily, dressed in a smile.

“It’s not much of a surprise if you’re expecting it, player. That’s not how surprises work.”

“Well, sue me for being happy you’re home. And sue me for loving pretty flowers that I have the pleasure of keeping alive while you’re out beating people up for sport.”

Punk laughs heartily, finally having the chance to close and lock the door behind him. He steps out of his sneakers, propping them against the wall and dropping his wrestling boots beside them. You take the bouquet of colorful flowers from his hand prematurely as he hangs up his keys, knowing damn good and well who they were for.

“These are so pretty. Where’d you get them?”

“I‘ll never tell.”

“Booo. Lame.”

You give Punk a moment to collect himself— letting him shed his layers of workout clothes and free his hands from wrist tape after a long day of prepping for a match he has this upcoming week. The way that Punk worked amazed you; for his busy schedule left him barely any time to rest. He stayed up late, got up early, and had roughly two off days in an entire three week work period.

A part of you felt concerned for him, but the bigger parts knew that he was a workhorse. There was always something new to prove when it came to him, and there was simply no rest for the wicked.

After putting your new flowers in a vase with fresh water, you sat on the couch patiently, Ancient Aliens was still playing in the background. But you weren’t paying the show any mind. You were far more into the STRAIGHT EDGE tattoo that scrawled across your boyfriend’s midriff. The one you’d seen hundreds of times.

“Like the view?” Punk asks slyly, stepping out of his sweats to only his boxers, balling up the pants and tossing them towards the base of the stairs.

“Always. Get your sexy ass over here before I throw the remote at your head.”

With a quirk of his eyebrows, Punk obliges, striding towards you with those long legs of his and scaling the back of the couch to plop down next to you. He immediately pulls you into his lap, letting your hands sprawl across his pecs and travel daintily towards the back of his neck.

Your hands tangle in his hair as you admire the new beard that dawned Punk’s jaw. He was usually the type of guy to keep his facial hair minimal— only allowing a bit of chin stubble and the occasional 5 o'clock shadow.

But Punk has a hard time saying no to you. Asking him to grow it out was simply just selfish.

“I’m still getting used to this beard. It’s fuckin’ hot,” you hum, blurting out your thoughts as they come.

“Hot? It makes me feel like a lumberjack.” Punk scoffs, lifting his hips in order to get you closer.

“And you don’t think big burley men that chop down trees are hot? C’mon. I know about your little tendencies.”

“Alright, alright, enough out of you, smartass. It was one time and I told you about it in confidence. No need to wave it in my face.”

You open your mouth to speak again, but before you could even take a breath, Punk is pressing his slender, tattooed index finger against your lips, smushing them together.

“Aht aht,” he tuts, “Pump the breaks chatterbox. I’ve actually got something to ask you.”

Your eyes widen, still running aimless lines up and down the side of his jaw to the top of his right pec, “Mmmwhatisit?”

Though your lips were pressed together by the force of his finger, Punk’s face softened at your muffled curiosity. He takes a moment to make sure you’re at full attention, before removing the blockage from your mouth.

“I didn’t get you another surprise this year. No jewelry, or any of that other shit.”

You shrug, a satisfied smile sprawling across your lips as you remember just where you’re sitting. Right on his lap.

“S’really not a big deal, Punky Brewster. You could’ve walked in here empty handed and I still would’ve been trying to bite you through your t-shirt.”

You chomp at him playfully, your teeth clicking together as you pretend to nip at his nose. But Punk just holds his hand out, pressing it against your forehead to block you from getting any closer.

“You’re an animal.”

“Stop holding me back from my truest potential.”

In the heat of it all, Punk seemed to stop, and think to himself for a moment; possibly willing to risk it all and forget everything he was about to say to you. But instead, he shook his head, getting his mind back on track by anchoring his hands to your hips.

“No, no. Stop. I wanted to ask you something. And you’re making it really hard to do that while acting like a feral raccoon.”

“Thought you nicknamed me Bunny for a reason—”

“—Zip it.”

Slightly stunned by his sudden stoicness, you make a fake zipping motion with your hand, pretending to tie your lips up under lock and key. Punk sighs, and you could feel his leg start to anxiously bounce up and down beneath you.

“Since I didn’t get you anything, I was wondering if maybe… you’d possibly want to…on the offhand…try something new together?”

Your forehead notches in curiosity, scoffing at Punk’s embellishments and inability to get through his sentence, “New? Like what?”

A nervous chuckle leaves the pit of his throat. Removing one of those hands from your hips to run it through his hair, he sighs, “Well, I have an idea. But— I don’t think you’re gonna like it. Which is why I'm uh, hesitant to ask it.”

“Enough with the theatrics, Princess Punk. Tell me what you want. I’ll do anything.”

“Anything?” Punk asks, his eyes slightly shimmering with hope.

“Mhm, just about. Unless you’re gonna ask me to go skydiving— I’d rather take a dirt nap.”

“Not skydiving, no. But honestly, I think your hatred for what I’m about to ask you has surpassed your fear of free-falling out of planes.”

Suddenly, your eyes narrow. You were onto him, and he was definitely up to something. You hated how much time he had whilst alone in the gym to sit with his own thoughts and plot against you. It was annoying as all hell.

“Just ask it,” you blurt, taking your hands off of his body and tightly lacing your arms across your own chest.

“Come to the gym and train with me?”

“Are you out of your mind?!”

Your hands clam up almost immediately. It was a known fact that you and the gym never particularly got along. There was a brief phase you had in high school where you’d go on mile long runs to sweat off the stressors of being a teenager— but other than that, working out was only something you found yourself doing when you were forced to.

“I really don’t think it’s that big of an ask, Bunny,” Punk chuckles, putting on those dumb, pleading eyes of his, “It’ll be fun. I’ll teach you some moves, we’ll get a little sweaty, and after we’re done I’ll take you to the ice cream shop and we’ll get milkshakes.”

“Don’t try to bribe me with dairy, dickhead. You know how much I hate exerting more physical energy than I’m legally obligated to.”

“It’s not a bribe. It’s a peace offering. Consider it a prefaced apology,” you scrunch your nose at him, and he swats your sour face away with his index finger, “It’ll be an ‘I’m sorry for whooping your ass’ milkshake.”

“Now why would I want you to whoop my ass? Did you hit your head tonight or something? C’mon, baby. You should know me well enough by now. I don’t. Do. Workouts.”

Punk sighs, momentarily defeated. He had resorted to rubbing small circles against your cheek with his thumb, trying to do anything in his power to butter you up. But for once in your life, you stood tall. Well, sat tall, with your chest puffed and your arms crossed.

“I understand if the answer is no,” Punk huffs dramatically, running his hand up your chest to rest at the base of your neck. His head cocks, those kelly green eyes still sparkling and pleading, “But it would make me really, really, really happy if you did.”

You were now tangled up in a web of conflict. After thinking to yourself and questioning your capabilities as a girlfriend, you realize that Punk does indeed make a lot of sacrifices for you.

The playing field was mostly equal; Punk has sacrificed many of his favorite songs in place of yours when driving in the car. He stays up late and gets up early just to have your morning coffee on the kitchen table before you even arise.

But then again, you compromised your fear of awkward social situations on the multiple nights that Punk had forgotten his gear, and needed you to barge through a crowd of sweaty wrestlers to get it to him.

“Five months together and we’ve never sparred,” your beau continues, blowing out a dramatic breath, “I think it’s about time I whipped you into shape.”

“You calling me out of shape?” you quip, raising your eyebrow and feigning sarcastic hurt, “I’ll have you know that I— stay active.”

“I should rip those pretty lips right off your face. No, I’m not calling you out of shape. I’m just— pointing it out.”

“Well it’s a shitty observation,” you bellow, your expression suddenly growing timid as you trace the Pepsi logo tattoo on his shoulder, “I’d rather put a bullet through my head.”

“Does the drama ever stop with you?” Punk laughs, taking your theatrical blows straight to the gut and letting them glide off his back, “Look at me.”

Punk cradles your chin in his hand, forcing your gaze back up into those eyes of his. You knew full and well that you were being dramatic, but Punk had grown accustomed to your stubbornness. He tilts his head to the side, almost condescendingly, and trails his thumb against your bottom lip.

“What would be in it for me?” you ask quietly, knowing the answer already.

“Honestly? Nothing. But it’s a day out with me and the days that we do get to spend together are few and far between—”

“—Yeah, and who's to blame for that?—”

“—Me. I’m taking full responsibility for being the asshole that’s always at the gym. Then again, you can’t really complain. You knew what you were signing up for.”

You sigh again; it’s loud and dramatic, demanding attention from the hand of his that sat idly by your hip. Punk does what he does best, picking up on your signs and trailing that hand towards your midriff.

“Can I just sleep on it?” You shake your head, that’s now scrambled up with thoughts and a sliver of guilt for being so hardheaded, “Let me wallow in my suffering before I let you beat me up in a wrestling ring.”

“Sure. Sleep on it tonight. But have your answer by six sharp tomorrow.”

“Six? In the morning? Puuuunk!”

Your whining is no match for him. He was coaxing you with his eyes alone, and you could tell that he wouldn’t give up on this no matter how much you pleaded or negotiated.

“It’s not even that early, Bunny girl. If I was really a sadist, I’d have you up at three and make you run across the Brooklyn bridge to have you at the gym by 4:30. You’d be surprised at the way some of the meatheads at my gym start their fuckin’ days.”

To divert from the pitiful look on your face, you roll your hips against his, feeling his cock take shape almost immediately beneath his boxers. He stiffens when you move, anchoring his hand onto your hip and letting his fingers tighten and dig into your flesh. His eyes narrow at you, the corners of his mouth straightening into a disgruntled line.

“If you’re gonna have me up at ungodly hours of the morning, the least you could do is let me get you into bed first.”

You continue the torturous drawl of your hips, rocking them fluidly back and forth, back and forth. A small grunt leaves Punk’s lips, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip before he’s snapping his gaze towards where your bodies connected.

“You don’t wanna wear yourself out before tomorrow, don’t you, Bunny?”

“Maybe this will be a testament of my stamina,” you shrug, playfully walking your fingers up his shoulder.

“If I give you what you want, you better have your mind made up by the time your head hits those fuckin’ pillows.”

You freeze for a moment, your lips pushed to the side.

“Fine. I’ll do it.”

His eyes widened in pure disbelief, “Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. Don’t ask me again though, I might change my mind.”

Before you could even grasp the gravity of what you’d just agreed to, Punk is pulling you by your cheeks into a fierce, passionate kiss. He sighs into your lips, murmuring sweet nothings as his back lifts from the couch cushions and takes your entire body with him.

“You’re the fuckin’ best, baby.”

“Best in the world?” you giggle sweetly, teasingly, nipping at his lip ring.

“Don’t get a big head now,” Punk tuts, keeping you steady and sitting on his lap while your legs wrap around his back, “Save that confidence for the ring.”

You pull Punk into a kiss, immediately staking claim over his mouth and tangling your tongue with his. He groans into you, loving nothing more than the taste of you after a long day of training.

“You’re lucky that I like you a whole’ lot,” you breathe out between heavy, dirty kisses, “I wouldn’t do this shit for anybody.”

Just then, as you’re consumed in the moment and the feeling of his lips, Punk stands, hoisting you up with him. You squeak at the act, wrapping your legs around his hips and locking your ankles to keep you steady.

“And you’re lucky that you’re easy to convince, Bunny baby. ‘Cause I’m not gonna go soft on you.”

“Clearly not,” you gesture down to where your bodies connected, teasing him with your double entendre, “I expect to be worked out, stretched out, and worn out.”

With your comment, Punk raises an eyebrow, shifting his hands down to grab your ass and hold you up higher, “You’re still talking about tomorrow, right?”

“Mmh, sure. Whatever floats your boat.”

The kiss continues. Punk is walking you blindly through your shared space and up towards the bedroom. He’s trying his best to keep himself collected, as you can tell by the feeling of his fingertips digging into your skin whilst he moves his assault of kisses down towards your neck. You giggle as he slowly walks you up the stairs with precision and ease, adapted muscle memory from all of the instances where he simply couldn’t wait to put you through the mattress.

“I still can’t believe you said yes,” Punk huffs, kicking open your bedroom door.

“Neither can I,” you reply, a fluttering feeling sitting at the bottom half of your stomach when he adjusts you in his arms, “But if I think about how early I have to get up tomorrow for any longer, I might start crying.”

“Ah, yes, there she is. My stubborn, whiny Bunny. Have you ever thought about your wrestling persona? Because honestly, you’ve got the chops to cut a wicked promo. Everyone would fuckin’ hate you.”

“I’m assuming that’s a good thing in wrestling?” you snap, your eyebrow quickly raising in defensiveness, “it better be, I’ll kick your teeth in if it isn’t.”

Punk chuckles, finally lowering you down onto your bed, “Of course it is. If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t have said it. But you just proved my point. You’re one of the most quick-witted people I’ve ever met—I really think you’d love standing up there in the ring with a microphone.”

“Don’t turn this into an ass kissing sesh, Punker. Just because I like the sound of my own voice and am sparring with you tomorrow doesn’t mean I want to do it full time. I’m not built for that life, I’m too fragile and perfect. Would you throw fine china in a dishwasher?”

“It’s not recommended, no—”

“—Exactly my point.”

You could feel the teasing energy culminating in the air, Punk unable to hide his catty smile as he ran his tongue across his top teeth. The bottom part of his tongue piercing catching between them.

“You’re gonna fuckin’ get it if you keep talking like that,” he warns, loud and clear.

“I’m here for it, baby. Get that one last ego boost in before tomorrow, when you actually have to be helpful and patient with your favorite girl.”

“Mhmm, that might be hard, knowing you…” His hands slowly trail up the front of your body, allowing you to lower your back down onto the mattress.

“…But I hope I’ll be getting much more than an ego boost from those pretty lips tonight.”

—

A bedside alarm clock gets your heart rate pumping promptly at 5:30am.

It took you a moment to sit up fully, drowning in grogginess and remnant sleepy thoughts, with your head feeling like a bag full of bricks as it lifted off of your fluffy down pillow.

“G’mornin’,” the casual, yet oddly chipper sound of your boyfriend’s voice snaps your attention to your chest of drawers. He was already stepping into a pair of dark green nylon gym shorts, wearing a pair of compression leggings that hugged his butt in all of the right places.

“Mmh.”

That was, unfortunately, the only sound you could muster.

Punk chuckles at your morning grumpiness, shaking his head while walking over to stand at the foot of the bed. A packed gym bag sat beside his feet on the floor, but it felt silly to roll your eyes at an inanimate object.

“I don’t get my usual? My ‘good morning Punker, ready for me to make your day hell?’. Is my girl too sleepy for her knock knock jokes?”

His teasing tone mixed with the frustration of having to wake up earlier than the sun made you seethe. You huffed out a short, dramatic grumble, and rubbed your eye with the heel of your palm, “Stop it. I’m not in the mood.”

“I hope that’s temporary,” Punk smiles cattily, grabbing your ankle above the blanket, “Because I’m gonna need you to get up, dressed, and in the mood within the next half hour. Up and at ‘em, hot stuff. Chop chop.”

He wiggles your leg playfully, before clapping his hands together, the sound loud and piercing to your freshly woken ears.

“Bossy,” you grumble again, shaking your leg out of his grasp and ripping the blanket off of you.

The cold air from your bedroom hit you like a bus. You understood why Punk was acting the way that he was, as you agreed to be his wrestling protege for the day. But you just wished the day didn’t have to start so fucking early.

You’re a good person. Not a morning person.

As you hobble to the bathroom, you hug your arms to your chest to keep the heat that was once beneath your covers, and curse the existence of blackout curtains.

Although you had put up quite the fight, it didn’t take long for you to get ready. April mornings were still unforgivingly brisk, despite the promise of Spring, so you opted to layer up with a tank top and crew neck stolen from Punk’s collection. You slid into a pair of biker shorts and layered a pair of matching grey sweatpants over top of them.

“Prison break?” Punk’s eyes narrow and float down to your groutfit, eyebrows wiggling, “Is that your court-mandated jumpsuit?”

“Fuck off, I picked the first thing I saw.”

“The world is your oyster and so is my closet, Bunny.”

“One more rich comment out of you and I’m smacking that lip ring off your face,” you growl, sliding past him towards your closet to bust out your beaten up tennis shoes from high school. The only athletic shoe you owned.

“It’s hard to believe that you’re this fired up already. Should I comment on those busted ass sneakers or would that earn me a roundhouse to the balls?”

“You’re skating on very thin ice,” you pinch your fingers, nose scrunched and already bothered enough by the fact that it was morning.

“Oooh, don’t tempt me.”

After you were all dressed and equipped for the day, Punk led you down the stairs with a begrudged wrist tug. He began to speak vaguely about your plans for the gym; dancing around what he was to teach you and how exactly he’d go about it. He also explained the importance of warming up, although he didn’t feel the same towards the heat in his car.

He opened the door for you, not without a kiss to your cheek, and let you slide in. You were still pouting and groaning at just about every quip he had up his sleeve. But that didn’t mean much to Punk. What meant something to him was the fact that you were there with him, when you typically wouldn’t be.

“No breakfast? Coffee? Nothing?” you ask softly, watching Punk maneuver out of his parking spot.

“We could get breakfast if you want. I usually don’t eat ‘till later but— I don’t want you to suffer too much.”

A smile trails his sentence, clearly enthralled by your presence. His persistence and knowledge was almost endearing at this point, so you decided to cut the stick up your ass attitude and try to enjoy the moment.

“Maybe just a coffee. I’m definitely gonna need it.”

As he drives through the already busy Brooklyn streets and makes his way onto the parkway, Punk’s hand moves from the steering wheel down to hold your thigh. You glance down at it, ogling at his tattoos and getting yourself hyped up for the long day ahead of you.

Punk sighs, tapping the hand of his that remained on the steering wheel, “Be honest. Are you actually mad about this?”

“No, I’m not, I’m just— being dramatic.”

“I expected that.”

You shake your head and flick his arm, “I’m willing to make today a good day despite my phobia of workout equipment and sweating. And besides, doing it with you is the easiest part.”

“You think so?” he asks, his eyes flitting to your face in his peripheral view.

“I know so, baby. A full day spent with you is the best gift of all.”

“You’re corny,” Punk scoffs, but you could see the blush race to his cheeks.

“I know.”

The rest of the drive to the gym was ordinary; metal music turned down to tolerable volume, a pointless conversation about why Punk thinks red means stop and green means go, and far too many sexual quips for this early in the morning.

After a quick coffee run at your favorite local Manhattan coffee shop and a half-assed park job in the parking garage where the two of you shared your first kiss, you and Punk set off into the crisp morning air towards the training gym.

“Have you thought about what moves you’re gonna teach me?” You ask from beside him, sliding down to interlock your hands.

“I have,” he hums, “I most certainly have.”

Punk swings your arms as he walks, his sentence trailing off into a whistle. But you eye the side of his face, an eyebrow raised with a demand to know more.

“You’re… not gonna tell me?”

“There’s no fun in just— telling you. You’ve gotta find out for yourself once we get in there and warmed up.”

“Puuunk,” you whine his name, watching the back entrance to the gym appear closer and closer, “C’mon. Just tell me one thing. One move you’re gonna teach me. Please? Pleeeeease?”

“No. I’m standing my ground just this once. You get away with a lot of shit with that cute face and big sparkly eyes. I’d like to keep at least one thing sacred.”

“Maybe you’re not telling me because you’re scared that I’ll be better than you.”

Punk stops in his tracks, just before the entryway of the gym, “Scared? Of my cute little Bunny? Baby, don’t make me laugh.”

“I thought Bunny was an endearing nickname! Not a condescending one for when you feel threatened by my super secret wrestling skills,” you huff dramatically, stomping your foot against the pavement.

No match for your empty threats, Punk slides in front of you, his arms crossed as he blocks the gym door, “I’m not being condescending. I’m just layin’ out all the facts. If you get in that gym and prove me wrong I’ll admit it, but there’s no way that the girl who runs from treadmills is gonna be an instant pro.”

You roll your eyes. He’s got you there. Maybe you figured puffing up your ego to be as large as his would make all the difference. But in reality, you still knew practically nothing about how to do moves, or when to tap out.

You barely knew anything about wrestling at all.

“I’ve been to a few of your matches,” you continue on your tirade, poking a finger into his toned pec, “Maybe I’ve subconsciously picked up on a few things.”

Just then, Punk snatches your petite hand up in his larger one, bringing that extended pointer finger of yours up to his lips.

“Well when you put it like that— I’d like to think that I lead by example.”

You giggle softly, and Punk nips at the tip of your finger with his teeth. He just can’t resist pulling you into him, snaking his arms around your waist to stare deeply into your eyes.

“Surely this is a fire hazard,” you quip, eyes narrow and fueled by the flame of your beating heart for him.

“Who gives a shit? The blockheads in there wouldn’t leave their machines if a tornado swept through the building.”

Punk leans down and envelops your lips into a soft, commanding kiss. You found it hard to pull away after a moment, though it was necessary for your day to continue. A breath catches in your throat when he flees the kiss with a tug to your bottom lip.

“Punk,” you warn, “you better cut it out. We might not even make it to the locker room at this rate.”

“We’re already blocking the doorway. Might as well take the next step— inside.”

With that, Punk steps forward, and fishes a blank white keycard out of his pocket. He taps it on the sensor, the door unlocks, and just like that, he’s swinging it open for you like the gentleman he is. Before entering, you take a deep breath, feeling Punk’s eyes boring into you as you ground yourself.

“Ready to kick some ass, Bunny girl?” he asks sweetly, his arm gesturing towards the inside.

“You fuckin’ know it.”

When you walked into the gym, you were surprised at how empty it was. It was a Sunday morning, and maybe Sundays were considered off days for most training athletes, but not for your beau. He had you up and early before the sun even reached the horizon and packed away in the car like a little stowaway. You could tell that Punk was relieved by the vacancy of the gym, as he immediately made a beeline towards the men’s locker room.

“Alright uh, stay here— I’m gonna scope it out. Make sure there’s nobody hidin’ in the showers or anything so you can get undressed.”

He shoots you with finger guns and the click of his tongue before backing away into the locker room. You wave him off, glancing around at where you’ll be spending your day.

The gym was very open concept, a raised ceiling with large ceiling fans, reminiscent of a brutalist warehouse. Surely it was a reinvented warehouse that was bought out by a company with not enough money to raise its own structures. Off to the side were a few scattered workout machines, and in the middle sat the ring.

You were tempted to step inside it, to bounce off the ropes and see what it was like to feel the adrenaline rush of a thousand little spindles of fiber burning across your back. Something about it was just so enticing, despite your total lack of interest in being a pro-wrestler. But instead of giving into your thoughts, you just waited, with your shared gym bag slung over your shoulder.

“Coast is clear, hot stuff. Come on in here and strip, we’ve got work to do.”

You giggle at Punk’s head popping out to fetch you, scurrying towards the locker room excitedly. You weren’t sure why, but seeing the ring so free and empty of any well-meaning and trained professionals gave you the confidence boost that you sorely needed.

When you stepped into the locker room, Punk was already standing by the sink, admiring himself in the mirror. He had been waiting for you to come in, keen to how he spun around the moment you appeared in his line of sight.

“Hand me the bag,” he demands, his arm outstretched and fingers wiggling impatiently.

“Already acting like a princess. No tiara?” you comment, hooking the bag to his forearm.

“We all know who the real princess is in this locker room. Take off that prison jumpsuit and get the fuck over here. I don’t have all day.”

When you pull off your crew neck, you nail it at his back, shaking your head as you start to step out of your sweatpants. You were now left in a tight fitted tank top, a pair of spandex bike shorts, and a ruthless smile that you couldn’t seem to wipe off of your face.

“Come here. I wanna wrap up your wrists.” Punk’s words are muffled by the permanent marker wedged between his teeth. He motions for you to join him at the mirror with a wiggle of his eyebrows, although his gaze was occupied by the search for his wrist tape.

“Ooooh, wrist tape. Thought that was reserved for the pros.”

“Don’t be stupid. This is my one opportunity to turn you into a mini me, and I will not pass it up.”

You lend him your wrists, and watch as he skillfully finds the ripped end of the tape to start unraveling it. He tears out a large piece, keeping it intact to the roll, and starts to gently, skillfully, wrap it around your wrist and hand.

He does the same to the other, occasionally catching your wandering eyes as they stare at his nimble fingers.

“You’re really good at this,” you comment, your voice soft and silky.

“And you’re kissing my ass. I’ve been doing this shit every day for the past ten years.”

“Can’t blame a girl for trying to flirt with the hot guy from the gym.”

“What, is this a roleplay now?” Punk chuckles, ducking down to tear the last bit of wrist tape off the roll with his teeth, “We could do the strangers deal. And maybe later, I’ll let you play doctor.”

“God no,” you huff, catching onto his playful crosstalk, “I take it back. I’m already out of my element as is. The last thing I need right now is to play pretend.”

“Actually, I think you’re wrong.”

He finishes wrapping your other wrist in tape, mastering his methodical routine.

“Wrong? How so?”

“Wrestling is intertwined with playing pretend. If you pretend that I’m not your boyfriend and instead, the thorn in your side that can’t seem to let you win no matter how hard you try, you might be motivated enough to put me away.”

You raise a curious eyebrow, though still deeply infatuated by the sound of his voice, “You want me to pretend to hate you?”

“I’m not saying exactly that but, something along those lines. A bit more of that unbridled Bunny-girl rage might be good for your first time in the wrestling ring.”

You take Punk’s words into consideration. Perhaps it was all just a big game of pretend. Although he seemed to dumb it down in a way that you, someone with the bare minimum knowledge of wrestling, would understand, there seemed to be some truth hidden within.

Once both of your wrists were wrapped, it was finally time to hit the floor. Punk jogged out of the locker room, but you trailed timidly behind.

“Don’t get shy on me now, you were just talking a big game outside that door over there.”

“I was trying to impress you.” You raise your eyebrows, and watch closely as Punk saunters over to a stretching mat tucked in the corner of the gym.

“Lying out of your ass doesn’t impress me, baby,” he pauses his sentence with a grunt as he bends down to move a set of weights out of his way, “Progress does.”

You roll your eyes; he was right once again. He motions for you with his eyes through the mirror, and you join beside him, feeling two feet small.

“Okay, we’re gonna stretch first. We’ll do some individual dynamic stretches, some partner stuff, and then I’ll get you into some high knee laps around the ring. Sounds good?”

You nod wearily, your face already half flushed with dread. “Sounds like I don’t really have a choice.”

Punk eyes you in the mirror, laughing down to the floor before hooking his arm around you and pulling you into his hip.

“Atta’ girl. Such a fast learner.”

And so it began. You were off like a shotgun. The stretches were the tamest part of your workout, though you hadn’t felt those parts of your body being worked out since last night. It was nice to feel looser, agility wise. The partner butterfly stretch was probably your favorite, since the compensation for stretching out your legs and groin was a kiss on the lips.

When it came time for jogging, high knees, and jumping jacks, Punk took it slow. He made sure not to leave you in the dust of his long, muscular legs, and instead kept the pace steady for a novice like yourself.

After your tenth and final lap around the ring, your body already felt like it was teetering on the edge of weakness. It was just sad at this point.

“That… was the warm up?” you puff, resting your hands on your knees with your face to the floor.

“If it got your heart pumping and your legs feeling like they could wrap around the back of your neck? Yes. That was exactly it.”

Punk began to stretch his legs again, grabbing each ankle from behind and pulling them upwards. He watches you as you collect yourself, hoping you’ll look up to see the still unwavering smile on his face.

“Consider me… warmed.”

“Yeah?” he teases, running his tongue across his bottom lip and letting it catch onto his lip ring, “You look like you just got hit by a car. Poor thing.”

Your breathing was still labored and choppy, but that didn’t stop you from flipping him off.

“While you’re out here collecting yourself, I’m gonna go get changed.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Changed? What do you mean changed? You’re already in workout clothes—”

Before you could even dream of continuing, a tattooed finger is smashed against your lips. “Shhh. You’ll see.”

When Punk walks away, you’re left standing in confusion. In soreness. In feeling worn out and whooped already. You were upset at the lack of sleep you’d gotten last night, though it was nobody’s fault but yours (and Punk’s collectively, since it takes two to tango).

As much as you hated to admit it, you were excited to get to work. Learning wrestling moves that you’d seen done so many times in the last few months, and learning them from someone that you trusted more than your own two feet. The more you stood and listened to the fans whooshing around in the gym, the more that looming pit of anxiety turned into adrenaline.

In the midst of your space out, a long, loud whistle catches your attention. Your body snaps to it, without thinking, and is faced with just about the most glorious thing you’d ever seen.

Was Punk… in a fucking Speedo?

Your jaw hangs open, tongue practically unraveling and falling out of your mouth as Punk stands at the entryway of the locker room shirtless with his hands on his hips.

“Was it worth the wait?”

“Holy shit.”

You were extremely tempted to run up to him and tackle him in wet, sloppy kisses; the sight of him so bare, yet so damn confident in his skin made you want to tear through that small scrap of spandex with your teeth. There were Chicago stars lining the waistband, the garment itself a vibrant shade of canary yellow.

At every match you’d attended in the last five months, Punk has wrestled in basketball shorts. You’d heard him talk about wrestling gear before, recalling the time he told you about his trunks, and how they almost came down to his ankles during one of his less recent matches. You assumed what he was wearing right now to be the trunks in question.

“You look killer,” you whistle, walking circles around him like you were a puny dog barking up a tall tree, “That bikini bottom has got me bothered.”

“Consider this a part of your gift— I never train in trunks. Ever.”

“It is—quite the gift,” you guffaw, shamelessly ogling at the smallest bit of his stomach that spilled out over his waistband, “but I can tell you right now, this is gonna be a distraction for me.”

“You’ll get over it. The same way I do when you’re making pancakes in no bra and a t-shirt.”

“Touché.”

Entering the ring was the one thing you were anticipating since walking in here; and now, it was finally time. Punk slid beneath the ropes on his hands and stomach, twisting into a kip-up that made your insides churn. He leans onto the ropes with a devilish smile, glancing at your figure down on the floor.

“Don’t try that at home,” he jokes, walking to the corner of the ring and holding out his hand for you, “M’lady.”

You blush at the simple action, timidly stepping up the steel stairs that lead to the apron. He watches your every move like a hawk: each step you took, how your spandex shorts complimented your hips and ass, how there was now sweat forming on your chest and pooling towards your sports bra.

You bow your head, feeling the energy of an imaginary crowd chanting your name and buzzing with excitement. A smile spreads across your face as Punk holds open the ropes for you, allowing you to step into the ring gracefully.

“You just nailed that entrance, baby,” Punk smiles, almost sizing you up with his eyes, “They love you.”

“Who, the crowd?” you giggle in return, folding your arms as you watch your lover bounce off the ropes a few times.

“Mhm. Can’t you hear ‘em screaming? They’re yelling ‘Bunny! Bunny, you’re so perfect! You’re the most beautiful girl in the world!’”

He makes fake crowd noises, cupping his hands around his mouth. But you’re so rowdy with anticipation that you smack his hands away, teetering on the edge of losing patience.

“C’mon, stop stalling. Teach me something. I’m fuckin’ pumped.”

Punk raises an eyebrow at your ballsy gesture, “A stark contrast from this morning.”

You run in place, pretending to toss punches at him and shuffling back and forth on your feet, “Oh get over it, you know I’m not a morning person.”

Standing at attention and watching as Punk lazily traipsed alongside you felt borderline embarrassing. Were you too excited about this training session? Maybe so. But now, you were just waiting for anything he was willing to throw your way.

He stays still, arms crossed, occasionally snickering at you trying to provoke him. There’s a flicker of desire in his eyes; you could tell that he hadn’t the chance to appreciate how sexy you look in your workout clothes.

“Swing at me. Go on, do it. I’m ready.”

“Are you?”

“Oh, for the love of God Punk, yes. How many times do I have to say it?!”

Punk smirks, running a hand through his hair. He’s got an air about him now that looms over the gym; in essence, this was his ring. His crown, his throne. You were simply just a court jester.

“Before I do anything, let me let you in on a secret. One little thing you need to know about being in the ring…”

He steps closer to you, his words fanning across your face which makes you drop your clenched fists down at your sides. You were anticipating it, waiting and watching hungrily.

But just then, there’s a wall pulled over your eyes. Suddenly, your feet were no longer on the ground, and your ass was hitting the mat.

“…you have to be vigilant.”

You stare up at him, stunned by the impact of your body giving out in such a way. A heavy breath leaves your larynx, as he just stares at you with a smile.

“Told ya’ I wasn’t gonna go soft on you.”

“Fuck you for that,” you grumble, remaining on the ground and basking in the humiliation of having your feet swept out from under you.

“No hard feelings?” he offers a hand, and it takes you a moment to grab it.

Once you’re back upright, having dusted yourself off and reconfigured your posture, you were back with a fighting chance. Your fists were, once again, clenched at chin level, egging him on.

“If you kick my feet out from under me like that again, you’re sleeping on the sidewalk.”

“The sidewalk? Don’t be like that, player. I just said there’s no hard feelings.”

The dance between the two of you continued on. From teaching you basic grappling techniques, simple move sets, and ways to dodge a punch, Punk had you trailing his every move. Eventually, you got him with a good whack to the nose— reminiscent of the punch you’d hit him with on the night you met him.

You watched with narrowed, concentrated eyes as Punk carried on like the punch was nothing, seeing blood pour from his nose, coat his jaw, and drip onto the mat with each shuffle he took.

“Alright, lunge at me,” he says, his voice rugged and eager as your matchup heats up, “Come at me like you mean it.”

“I’ve tried!” you whine, jumping in place, “You’ve dodged everything I’ve attempted!”

“Just do it. I’ll let you hit me. I’ll sell it like you just knocked my soul from my body. C’mon baby, just do it. Show me what you’re made of.”

With a steady grounding breath, you lunge at him. Two wide steps lead you right into his muscular, glistening arms. But a high pitched yelp gets caught in your throat when he ducks down, catches your midriff, and hoists you over his arm.

“Put me down!” You squeal, arms flailing as he spins you horizontally to rest atop both of his shoulders.

“Fight your way out of it. Don’t let me get the chance to finish you off,” he suggests, attempting to help, his words jagged and breathless.

“How?! How am I supposed to get— out of this?!”

You begin to wriggle your way out of his grasp, feeling his arms loosen with each sharp movement you made. He grunts as you fight, though he seemed like he was letting you off easily.

“Knee me in the face. Just’— do it, Bunny.”

“No! Put me down!”

You flail your limbs with equal force to which he was holding you, eventually sliding off of his shoulders and landing back onto your feet. You gasp in shock at your own abilities, and take the first chance you can get to tackle him onto the ground.

A loud grunt rips through your chest, a sound you never knew you were capable of making. Soon enough, you were sitting beside him, with his arm and neck both trapped in a headlock.

“Fuck!” Punk shouts, the wind knocked from his lungs as you hold him. Your confidence came swooping back in like a hawk, giving you the push you needed to extend your leg and press your shoe into his side.

The only thing you seemed to grab onto from Punk’s lesson earlier was a singular submission hold. A signature of his.

The Anaconda Vice.

“Tap out! Tap the fuck out!” you shout at him, tossing your head back as you pull his arm and neck with you.

Your head was spinning, Punk’s breathing was erratic; neither of you could believe the position you were in. You had seen him do this move before. All of the pieces may have finally been falling into place.

“Tap out you fuckin’— son of a bitch, c’mon!”

You feel your vocal chords shred with each hurtful word, you could see the blood and sweat just raining off of Punk’s face, his stubborn ways of life not letting him give up without a fight.

Through grunts, whines, and a practically dislocated shoulder, you and Punk’s eyes meet. There’s a fire between them that holds so much emotion, so much tension, so much pain.

“Let me have this! Let me win! For the love of fuck, tap out!”

“Tighter.”

You barely catch his hushed request through the sound of shuffling bodies. “What?”

“You fuckin’ heard me.”

You follow his command, stiffening your bicep and squeezing him into the crook of your elbow with another loud grunt.

“That’s it. That’s the stuff,” he nods quickly, sweat flicking off of his hair and onto your arm, “Keep fuckin’ going.”

Eventually, your grunts turned into full on shouts. You wouldn’t be surprised if someone walked in the gym and thought the two of you were getting mauled by a lion.

“Tap out!”

“Tap the fuck out!”

Ding ding ding.

The imaginary victory bell rings out in your head the moment your boyfriend’s palm starts violently smacking against the mat. He groans as you release him, the two of you collectively sighing and rolling onto your backs.

That wave of adrenaline from earlier had peaked the moment you’d successfully gotten him into a submission hold; and now, you were just simply basking in the aftermath; blood, sweat, heavy breathing and all.

“Holy shit,” Punk comments, wheezing through the two words between breaths, “I didn’t think you picked up on that.”

You roll your head over to face your lover, who was staring at the ceiling in dismay with a hand tucked between his black locks.

“I’m a good selective listener. The submission stuff seemed the most fun to me.”

“Fun?” he forces out a chuckle, “You think that shit’s fun?”

“It was fun to do it,” you shrug, sprawling out like a starfish and letting your hand drape across his chest.

“Can’t teach a pillow princess shit. You know there’s a difference between submission and submissive, right?”

“Please, I’m not a fuckin’ idiot.”

Punk laughs dryly, clearly beaten up by your little sparring match. But you just as well. There was thick air that hung above the wrestling ring, it was brooding yet wildly energetic— a palpable tension between you.

“You alright there, champ?” You speak to the ceiling.

Punk doesn’t reply.

Your lips pull to the side as you attempt to sneak a glance at him through your peripheral. His abdomen kept a steady rhythm of up, and down, up and down, catching his breath and seemingly processing the hell of a match you’d shared.

Just as you attempt to speak again, you feel your entire body being pulled by two strong hands.

“Shit!” you squeal, somehow managing to end up straddling Punk’s hips while still in your exhausted daze.

“Bunny, baby,” Punk pants, his eyes jaded and gloomy, “that shit was hot.”

“What—?”

Before you can process anything about what had just happened or where your bodies had ended up, Punk’s hands run down to the small of your back, and simply just rest there.

“You have any idea how fuckin’ sexy it is to have my own move done to me? How goddamn gorgeous you looked while screamin’ at me to tap out like a little bitch?”

You shake your head, still too much at a loss for words to even think about clapping back.

“My own fuckin’ move got me all hot and bothered, baby. All because of you.”

“I don’t—” your own thoughts are interrupted by a jagged thrust of Punk’s hips. They lunge upwards, and you feel the shape of his growing erection through the two layers of spandex that separated you.

“Feel that, Bunny? Feel what you fuckin’ do t’ me?” Punk whispers, his neck craning to let his lips meet your chest and dance towards your collarbone.

“Punk,” you whine out, finally able to digest the magnitude of this situation, “We’re in the middle of the ring.”

“Like I give a shit?” he huffs, his arms snaking around you like the anaconda he emulates, “I never knew such a sweet little thing could get so fuckin’ nasty.”

Just then, a catty smile sprawls across your face. You didn’t quite understand what your lover was on about. But after careful consideration of his words and the feeling of his cock prodding your pussy through your gym shorts; your head seemed to screw on right where his was.

“Didn’t have faith in me, did you?” you tease, taking advantage of your position and rolling your hips against him.

“Of course I had faith. Baby, I’d a’ let you tear my arms off if you kept up. But fuckin’ Christ, the way you saw your opportunity and immediately went for the kill? Talk about a murder-suicide.”

One thing about Punk, despite how much he teased you about acting like a lust-sick fool— was that he was equally as smitten.

He runs his hands past your back to cup your ass, gazing at you through those sea-glass eyes of his. You swore he hadn’t blinked in a few minutes.

“I’m glad I’ve been a good protégé,” you smile warmly, running your hands across his chest and dipping down to collect his lips into a tender kiss, “I had fun with you today.”

Punk returns the kiss, and it’s soft at first. Savoring the taste of you on his tongue while taking a moment to let it all linger. The feeling of your body, slick with sweat and pressing against his. The gentle thudding of your heartbeat, that seemed to pick up the moment your lips connected.

But just as you’re under the guise of this being a sickeningly wholesome moment, Punk’s hand snaps to your throat, squeezing the sides of it roughly enough to force open your eyes.

“Cut the sappy shit. I want a rematch.”

You gasp as the reignition of the kiss knocks the air from your lungs, wondering if you should prepare for more sparring, or something else along those lines.

“A— a rematch?” You pant, interrupted by Punk sinking his teeth down into your bottom lip, “But— we’ve been at this for hours.”

“Weren’t you saying yesterday that this was all a ‘testament of your stamina’? Where’d that fiesty girl from a few minutes ago go, hm? Did I knock your head around a few times too many?”

“You’re being such an asshole,” you giggle, pressing your lips down onto his chest and tasting the saltiness of his perspiration, “and my God are you sweaty.”

“I’m sweaty? No shit.”

His sarcastic giggle seemed to propel him forward and due to your current position on his lap, took you with him. He lifted you gracefully, with precision and ease, causing your heart to skip a beat and a small little gasp to get caught in your throat.

Punk anchored his hands on your ass to stand upright. You were now tight against his body, with your ankles locked behind his back and your hands clasped around his neck, holding on for dear life.

“Yeah. You’re fuckin’ sweaty. It’s gross.”

“Y’know, you make a compelling point there, Bunny girl. I guess you didn’t seem to pick up what I was puttin’ down as far as a rematch goes. How about we wrap up our in-ring business and take this to the showers?”

You aren’t even granted the opportunity to respond before Punk is walking you towards the ropes. He sets you down gently, and holds open the top rope to allow you to step out onto the apron. The second his feet hit the actual gym floor, you were back in his arms, and your lips were reconnected like magnets.

“You sure there’s nobody else here?” you pant, your hands unable to decide which part of his back to claw onto.

“Just trust me, would you?”

The feeling of his hands cradling the backs of your thighs was already getting you worked up— the roughness of his fingertips combined with the feeling of scratchy, unraveling wrist tape was a sensory overload. Surely the same went for Punk, since your taped up hands had been crawling across his back since the second he picked you up in his arms.

You heard the gentle squeaking of his wrestling boots guiding you into the locker room, noticing the second they hit the tiles as he rounded the corner. You were so wrapped up in kissing him, letting his tongue twirl with yours and explore your mouth while trusting him to blindly, yet softly, place your ass on the counter top.

Kissing Punk never gets old. No matter how many times you’d lean in to sneak one over the center console of his car, or the plethora of kisses he’d steal one from you to shut you up before bed. Each time was special. It was like the ground rolling under your feet while fireworks lit up the sky above.

Fireworks. Butterflies. Anything that flutters about and paints the world around you in vibrant colors. Whether that world is the comfort and privacy of your own apartment, or the sweaty, dimly lit training gym.

Everywhere Punk kissed you felt like home.

Unfortunately, that fantasy of ‘feeling at home’ was but a daydream. You were now perched onto an oddly clammy granite countertop, feverishly making out with a man who had just spent three and a half hours kicking your legs out from under you and having a damn good time doing it.

“Did you really have fun today, Bunny girl?” Punk’s words knock into your teeth, he was too eager to get his sentence out before fully pulling away.

“I did, surprisingly. Don’t think I’ve worked out like that since I was in PE class but, I digress.”

Punk chuckles, his thumb right there to catch your eyes that dropped down to his torso, “I thought you told me you do things to ‘stay active’? Was that— a lie?”

His expression feigned hurt, though you could see right through those big green eyes in a heartbeat. He was teasing you, he always did.

“Okay, I may have bent the truth. But I’d never lie. I’ll have you know that I walk to the foot of the driveway to grab the mail like, every day.”

“Training for a marathon, I see,” he puffs sarcastically, his wandering hands driving you a bit insane with the way that they cradled your hips, “But seriously, I’m proud of you. And I’m really happy we did this.”

Sincerity was a rarity, coming from Punk. But in the odd moments in which he let that big heart of his show through that tough, blistered exterior, you could almost see the glimmer in his eyes. The fluorescent lighting of the locker room seemed to give him a bit of an angelic halo and the only thing you could think about at this moment was how happy you were to be here.

“I am too. Sorry for uh, being a whiny brat about it.”

“I said it once and I’ll say it again, I wasn’t gonna go easy on you. You took that shit like an absolute star.”

“Did I really?” You were smiling so wide that it actually started to hurt your face.

“Of course, baby. You’re a fuckin’ champion.”

You smirk at the compliment, finding it hard not to shy away and blush, “Your champion?”

“Mmmhm.”

“Best in the world?”

“We’re getting ahead of ourselves now, don’t you think?”

In the ways he does best, Punk shuts you up with a kiss. You expected not to be talking for much longer— as the promise of a shower was still up for grabs. He wasted no time in upholding that promise, reaching down to thumb the elastic of your sports bra. A silent plea, permission to tear it off of you.

“Go for it,” you read his mind, catching that catty smile of his out of the corner of your eye.

He peels you out of your bra, freeing your breasts and allowing himself to cup them as he kisses you. The action pushes you backwards, a soft moan trapping in your chest when he starts to thumb at your sensitive nipples

“God, that sports bra is a nightmare. It’s tight as hell,” Punk comments, ignoring the way you squirm beneath his touch.

You decide not to answer, wondering if your hushed little moans were enough to communicate with him telepathically.

It seemed to be enough after a few moments of tender loving care, as he was now making his way towards your shorts. That spandex was uncomfortable, especially after working out in it for hours in a building with very little air conditioning.

In a frenzy of undressing, quick jabs and plenty of laughter, the two of you were fully bare. Punk had switched you over to the wall towards the shower, with your back pressed firmly against the cool tiles.

“You’re fuckin’ beautiful, do I tell you that enough?” Punk murmurs, his breathing heavy as his lips travel down to your collarbone to shower it in love bites.

“You tell me plenty, Punky Brewster. Keep it up.”

You could feel him grinning widely against your chest. His lip piercing cool to the touch, despite the heat surrounding the scenario. Cool enough to jolt your entire body the moment he wrapped his lips around your stiff peak.

You moan through a sigh, your leg seeking refuge at the notch of his hip as he pulls you in closer. He was always one to pay attention to detail, and right now was no exception.

“Punk,” you groan, your hand lacing into his jet black hair and pushing it out of his eyes.

He hums around your breast, taking his opportunity to snake his free hand down between your bodies and attach his index finger to your clit. Slow, aggravating circles around the sensitive bud bring an electric shock down your spine.

Both you and Punk were impressed by how wet you were already.

“Unreal,” Punk hisses, his face finally coming back up to meet yours and tower over you once again, “un-fucking-real.”

You raise a wobbly eyebrow, barely able to manage your facial expressions as he works away at you with his fingertips, “Hey, you started it.”

“And you let it continue.”

Without warning, Punk plunges two fingers into your soaking wet heat, causing you to gasp and your knees to buckle. His viridian eyes were like daggers, unintentionally claiming your soul.

“So fuckin’ wet for me baby. God, you’re a dream. Is what happened out there what’s got you all worked up?”

You stammer, begging your brain to let you have just one final quip. But your mouth betrays your plea, unleashing a low grumble instead as his fingers pick up pace inside of you.

“Oh, my sweet Bunny girl. Can’t even answer my question, can you? You’re so goddamn needy.”

“Punk,” you whimper his name like a song, “please.”

“Please what, hm? You’re a big girl with an even bigger mouth. I know you can say it.”

Your attempt to speak is ripped away from you the moment Punk finds his rhythm. Your rhythm. His fingers pumped deeply, hitting that sweet spot with each snap of his wrist.

“Oh, I see. My Bunny wants to get fucked doesn’t she?”

A quick nod of your head was all you could muster.

“Really?” he answers you, despite your lack of words or any sound at all, “Right here? You wanna get fucked in the locker room where I tape up my wrists and get changed? In the gym that I’m at every single day? So that every time I’m in here I’ll remember those sweet, desperate eyes of yours?”

You nod again. He understood.

“Well, I’d never deny my baby the pleasure,” he scoffs, though the situation was anything but funny, “You always end up getting what you want at the end of the day anyway, don’t you?”

Punk’s last comment seemed to resuscitate you; you were now not only able to speak, but you were able to think clearly, despite your first orgasm of the day on the horizon.

“That’s— your fault,” you breathe out, narrowing your eyes as the sound of your arousal is now audible, “You— you spoil me.”

“Oh, trust me. I know,” he replies, a sly smile on his face as he picks up on the signs of what was to unravel at the hand of his fingertips, “I never said I was complaining.”

You slam your lips against his; albeit a bit roughly. He lets out a huff, abruptly pulling his fingers out of your pussy.

You squeak. That wasn’t what you asked for, nor expected.

But you also didn’t expect Punk to pull you into the shower and press you against the wall by your neck.

The sequence of events left both of you breathless, now in a silent battle of whose eyes could make the other one fold. A flutter of your eyelashes seemed to do the trick, as you watched Punk melt before you.

“Want me to be rough?” He asks gently, his hand still clamped around your throat while the other caresses your cheek. Quite the juxtaposition.

“Do whatever you please. I’m yours… All yours.”

You kiss him again. You just couldn’t help it. He moans into your mouth and drops his arms to your waist as you run your hands across his broad chest, still slick with sweat. The passion between you was undeniable, you could kiss him for an eternity, though that wouldn’t fly in a moment like this.

Punk pulls away, laughing softly as he guides your body away from the path of the shower head. He turns the nozzle, letting that first bout of water splash against the tiles. You could feel already that it was too cold, pooling at your feet as he reached over to adjust the temperature for you.

No jokes about how you like your showers hotter than the surface of the sun, no teasing. Just you and Punk in comfortable silence as the water thrummed against the floor.

“How is it possible that you could switch from a condescending asshole to a cuddly teddy bear in a matter of seconds?”

Punk’s eyebrows raise, his hand feeling out the water as his body glistens.

“I wouldn’t be like this if it weren’t for you, y’know.”

“I hope you mean that in a good way,” you smirk, “Because personally, I like you better when you’re not being a dick.”

“But you also like it when I am. Don’t think I don’t notice.”

Punk takes your hand and guides you into the warm stream, the water falling over your heads like a storm and trickling down into your eyes.

“I guess I’ve got a bad poker face,” you smile, changing the subject, “Is this an okay time to tell you that I’ve always wanted to be kissed in the rain?”

“It is. Now, is that separate from your lifelong dream of kissing me in the shower, or—?”

He laughs again, and snakes his hands back down to where they rested on your hips, but you just sigh in awe of him, “You’re not very imaginative.”

“Meh, I’m more of a realist. But if kissing me in the rain is what you want, you bet your sweet ass you’re gonna get it.”

He pulls you back in, his lips are salted from sweat, yet inherently sweet in the way that he kisses you. The water runs between your bodies as you press yourself into him.

Your mind was racing with thoughts— but as there was a lull in the pacing of the kiss, you figured, what better time to speak your mind.

“Punk?” you whisper, grabbing his attention in an instant.

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

Punk’s eyes widen, his mouth slightly ajar. You were kicking yourself for speaking so out of turn but in a way, it just seemed so right.

“Bunny, baby….,” he scoffs, pure disbelief, “…Holy shit, I love you too.”

You weren’t lended a moment to process what had just been said— Punk was hoisting you up by your thighs to hold you, spinning you around to press you against the wall of the shower where the water could still reach.

The smile hadn’t left either of your faces, it was evidently clear.

“I’m kinda mad that you said it first. Had this whole spiel planned and everything—”

“Oh my God, you absolute bullshitter!” you chuckle at his sarcastic whining, unable to control your hand from brushing through his wet locks, “you can’t even decide on what you want for dinner most nights. No way you had something planned.”

“Nah, you’re right. Maybe I’m just bitter that you stole the moment,” he admits, biting his cheek.

“Well, you snooze, you lose. Now we can say it whenever, Punker. No holds barred.”

“Jesus Christ, I didn’t even take that into consideration,” he wipes an imaginary bead of sweat from his forehead, “Mind saying it again?”

You roll your eyes in protest, still being held up by his body flushed against you. The contact of wet skin on wet skin was making you antsy. Hell, the admission to loving him combined with your current position was making you more aroused than you were before.

“Fine, how’s this; I love you. So much. Now can we cut this conversation short and can you just— fuck me, please?”

Punk grumbles, taking your face in a handful. His eyes glimmer when they look at you, an expression of pure adoration, “God, I love you more.”

The next few moments spent with Punk had given you severe whiplash; first, he was kissing you tenderly, letting his hand wander across your hips, to your tits, to any place within his reach. Then, he was leaving little nips and bruises across your chest, painting your flesh in dark shades of purple where only he could see.

But suddenly, in the midst of all the whining, moaning, and the sound of water smacking against the tiles, Punk was scooping up your wrists and pinning them above your head.

“You ready for me, baby?” He asks, his voice gravely and eager.

You nod confidently, “Mhm.”

Just then, with as much core strength as he could muster, he keeps you pinned against the wall with your arms raised above, and lines his cock up with your entrance.

You glance down at where your bodies were connected, biting your lip and stifling a high pitched moan at the way he pumps himself a few times to prep.

He slides into you slowly, his thick shaft stretching your walls comfortably and drawing a long and loud sigh from your chest. You couldn’t help but smile, your eyelids fluttering closed as he pushed himself deeper.

“Mmmh, s’ fuckin’ big,” you mumble high bouts of praise, the feeling of him a bit overwhelming at the start.

“Yeah? You look so pretty takin’ my cock, Bunny.”

His hips began to snap; it was evident that he was losing all sense of control when it came to being inside of you, but he tried his best to take things slow. He wanted to savor this moment with you, despite the rough and tough flirting and the obvious desire to split you in half like a log.

“Fuckin’ shit, Punk,” you whimper out, your wrists feeling tender now as his hand kept them hostage.

Punk listens closely to the sound of your pleas, using them as means of communication as your mouth was quickly occupied by his thumb.

Your eyes shoot open when he slides his thumb into your mouth, cupping your chin and forcing your gaze into his jaded eyes.

“Look at that face. That gorgeous, gorgeous face…”

You suck gently on his finger, widening your eyes double their original size as he continues to thrust into you. It was getting unbearable— all of the emotions and feelings swarming around you had left a swirling feeling in the pit of your stomach. You were smitten, love sick, drunk on the way he admired the explicit scenes of your lips wrapped around his thumb.

He picks up the pace, you moan around him. You were thankful that he’d taken the liberty of using his own hand as a muzzle for your desperate sounds.

Tears began to form in your eyes at the pressure of his cock hitting that sweet spot with each thrust; the shower water still trickled down your forehead, swooping off the bridge of your nose. But Punk just smiled at the vulgarity of your face before him, watching remnants of leftover mascara run down your cheeks and paint them with streaks of charcoal.

“You’re close, aren’t you?”

You nod.

“I thought so, my girl.”

He slides his thumb from your mouth, antagonizing you with the pace of his strokes and watching with wide eyes as a string of your saliva follows.

“Gonna cum for me baby? Make a mess on my cock?”

Punk takes the hand of his that was once entrapped by your lips and rests it on your waist, allowing himself to thrust his hips with even more force. You yelp at the change of pace, your ankles locked around his back.

“Please. Please. Please.”

The most you could do was beg now, the both of you panting heavily at the other’s disposal. You clench your walls around him, pinching your eyes shut at the wave of pleasure that slowly started to build at the bottom of your stomach.

To speed things along, Punk reaches between where your bodies meet and attaches a finger to your clit. You were already squirming, the vulgar sounds happening around you clashing together like the sounds of a symphony.

It almost felt as though you were too busy writhing around to look at him.

“Look at me. Fuckin’— look at me.”

He reads your mind. Your wish is his command.

“Let me see that face while you cum for me, Bunny. Such a good girl...”

One last deep thrust of his hips had you doubling over in ecstasy. Though you couldn’t move very far due to the restraint of your wrists, you felt stars begin to fog your vision as the two of you chased your orgasms in tandem.

It was a fleeting moment; one simple gaze into his eyes made you melt. He grumbles, watching you unravel beneath him, shifting himself impossibly closer as he remains buried inside you.

“Punk, holy fuck,” you whisper, your voice fleeing the scene.

“You’re fuckin’ absurd. ‘Got me all messed up in the head. God, I could look at you for hours.”

What was once a moment fueled by lust and passion had turned rapidly into tenderness— there was something so special about being this close to Punk. Feeling this close to Punk. Your body was sore, and limp, though thoroughly satisfied. You hadn’t a thought nor complaint in the world about what it would feel like waking up tomorrow.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” Punk comments, finally releasing your wrists and keeping you pinned to the wall with his body alone.

“I’d like to hope so. It’s what you signed up for.”

He smiles at your wit, bringing him back to that typical snarky expression that he wears so well. You were still in a daze from getting your lights fucked out.

After a few minutes and a plethora of stolen kisses; Punk slides out of you gently, letting your feet drop to the tiles. He steadies you with a helping hand, knowing full and well that your knees could give out at any moment.

The rest of your shower with Punk is amorous and unspoken. He had taken on the task of running out to the locker room while naked to grab all of his shower necessities from your gym bag.

He bathed you delicately, running the plush washcloth up and down your body like he was polishing a piece of fine china. You smiled at his gentleness, returning the favor moments later as you washed his hair.

After your shower, Punk set you up nicely on the warm up bench with a fresh towel and a pat on the ass. You were sure that your hearts were still fluttering after saying ‘I love you’. It was now just a matter of when the spell would break.

“You alright back there, player?” Punk glances at you through the mirror, stepping into a clean pair of briefs.

Your towel is hugged to your chest, “I don’t think I brought a change of clothes.”

“You fuckin’ serious?”

“What?! It was early! My brain doesn’t start working until like, 1pm.”

Without another word, Punk chuckles, and reaches into the gym bag. He pulls out a pair of boxer shorts and a lacy bralette of yours, still keeping your gaze in the mirror as he tosses them behind his shoulder.

The clothing lands at your feet. He smirks at his own reflection.

“I know you a lot better than you think, Bunny girl. I’m always one step ahead.”

You didn’t think such a simple thing would bring heat to your cheeks— but you were simply obsessed with the way he thought of you.

You were in love.

Once you were changed back into the clothes that you’d worn on your way in, freshly showered and well-taken care of, Punk gathers your shared belongings and slings them over his shoulder.

“Still want that apology milkshake?” he smiles, extending his hand. Another quip. But for some reason, that spell still had yet to be broken.

“You bet your sexy ass I do.”

[oh-miniso]

THE CARDIGAN THIEF || BLUE LOCK

PAIRING: ITOSHI SAE X READER

⚠ do not copy, edit or repost in any other platform

hearts & reblogs are appreciated &lt;;3

divider by @ohmarigold

headcanon:

roommate!sae is a certified cardigan thief

roommate!sae who loves paring your cardigans with his turtlenecks during the Spanish winters

"Sae-chan, Sae-chan, have you seen my burgundy cardigan?" you call out to your roommate Sae while searching your wardrobe for said cardigan.

...

"Sae-chan?" you call out again.

...

After a minute of frustrating silence (and your failed treasure hunt), you decide to see what oh-so-important task the dumb genius midfielder was up to that he couldn't grace you with a reply.

Walking to his room, the first thing you see is the normally tidy room untidy - the wardrobe was open with most of his clothes strewn about on the floor and the bed, and his jewellery box looked as if a child had gone through it. Fuck, his shoe collection was all over the place too. Seeing the bathroom door open you called out again.

"Ah, Y/N stop calling me Sae-chan it's a feminine term. Anyways, come in and help me out, I can't decide which pair goes best with this."

As soon as you step into the bathroom, the first thing you notice is Sae styling his adorable bangs in his usual way. The second thing you notice is a burgundy cardigan that looks suspiciously similar to your own. Upon closer inspection, you realize it is your cardigan, with the left sleeve bearing the hand-embroidered cranes you made in your art class. The hem is slightly stained from the time you accidentally spilt ink on yourself. There's no mistaking it - this is definitely your cardigan.

"Sae-chan, that's my cardigan."

"Yeah and?"

"Well, it's MY cardigan."

"And your point is?" replies Sae in an offended voice as if you were questioning his talent as a midfielder. Ignoring your dumbstruck look, he grabs your hand and drags you back into the room.

From the bed, Sae holds up four turtlenecks. "Light grey or charcoal grey? Brown maybe? Or do you prefer forest green?"

"It's. MY. Cardigan!"

"There's no 'my' between roommates. I let you borrow my jersey for my matches all the time."

"That's because I'm there cheering for YOU."

"Semantics. Now help me choose. I personally would prefer the forest green one."

With a huff, you choose the forest green turtleneck. No matter how badly he stretches the sleeves of your cardigans, you gotta admit Sae has a knack for fashion and you may definately like watching him put on a fashion show for you.

(It's definitely NOT because it makes you fuzzy in the head watching him wear your clothes. Like a silent possession of sorts. Like your dating dreams that feel a little bit real.)

Bonus:

A frantic fan ends up spilling coffee all over Sae on your not-a-date outing.

Under your angry gaze, Sae buys a couple's cardigan with a promise to not steal yours again.

Sae is absolutely going to steal borrow again. No compromises.

[estrellami-1]

Growing Young

The BIGGEST of happy birthdays to my spouse @gloomysoup !!! You are an absolute DELIGHT to know and I’m so sorry this is late 😭 I’m in love with you and we are going to run away and be very happy together. ❤️

Eddie wants it put on the record that he didn’t run this time. Well, he did, but it was only to lead the bats away from Dustin, and he cycled more than ran, anyways.

Not that the semantics matter when Dustin’s kneeling beside him and sounds are getting echoey.

Dustin yells for Steve, and Eddie wants to tell him it’s no use, Steve can’t hear, he’s too far away, except here he comes like an action hero, sliding in like it’s third fucking base. Damn Wayne and his sports shows, Eddie’s not supposed to know any of that.

“Hey,” Steve says, clear as a bell in Eddie’s addled brain. “Thought I told you not to be a hero.” He looks off, tells someone to get Dustin out, now, before returning his attention back to Eddie. “You’re gonna make it, y’hear me?”

“Dunno,” Eddie says, gasps for breath. Coughs up blood, if the new wet feeling in his mouth is any indication. “‘M not- not cold, anymore, y’know that’s worse, ‘s okay ‘f I don’t-”

“Shut up,” Steve hisses. “Actually, no, keep talking, stay awake. This is gonna hurt like a bitch but I’ve gotta get you outta here. If you’re gonna throw up, please don’t throw up on me.”

Eddie’s brain is lagging full seconds behind, so by the time Steve’s words process, he’s already being lifted.

He doesn’t throw up, but it’s a close thing. “You’re gonna be okay,” Steve tells him again.

He wakes up from the weirdest dream of his fucking life to his alarm and realizes three things in quick succession.

One: that’s not his alarm. It’s a heart monitor.

Two: he’s in a hospital.

Three: it was not, in fact, a dream.

As he finishes categorizing these things, Steve walks in, doing a double-take when he realizes Eddie’s awake. “Oh, holy shit,” he whispers, freezing for a second before darting back out.

He’s back a minute later with Wayne in tow.

Eddie would like it stricken from the record that he cried like a baby upon seeing Wayne. The record can keep the fact that Wayne cried upon seeing him, though.

“Uncle Wayne,” he whispers. He can’t move his arms enough to wipe his face, so he’s just laying there with tears running down his cheeks, undoubtedly making a terrible face. But Wayne’s an ugly crier, too, so they’re just sitting there, crying, making ugly faces at each other.

They eventually calm down and realize at the same time that Steve’s standing awkwardly by the door. “Sorry,” he says, like any of this is somehow his fault. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Wayne pulls himself together, gestures at a seat across from him. “You ain’t interruptin’, son. You saved my boy’s life. Far as I’m concerned, you got any right you want t’be here right now.”

Steve ducks his head. “I didn’t really- I mean, he was just… passed out, the doctors did the saving.”

“Sure,” Eddie says quietly, “but you got me outta there.” He glances over at the seat, a smile flickering on his face. “C’mon.”

“If you’re sure.” Steve matches his volume, takes the chair. Moves a book onto his lap.

Eddie notices, glances at it. “What’s that?”

Steve colors. “Oh, uh…” he holds it up for Eddie to see. The Lord of the Rings. “Dustin and I have been taking turns reading, just in case you could hear while you were under.”

Eddie pouts. “No, but I wish I could’ve.”

Wayne bursts out laughing. “Well damn, Ed, he ain’t killed your puppy. Fact, I’d bed he’d read t’you right now iffen y’asked him.” He stands, grabs Eddie’s hand and squeezes. It’s the one part of him that doesn’t hurt, but it still makes tears threaten to fall. “I’ve gotta get to work. Y’gonna be alright, son?”

Eddie smiles, does his best to squeeze Wayne’s fingers back. “I’ll be fine, Pops.”

Wayne leaves, and Steve opens the book, pausing halfway through trying to find his page. “D’you want me to start at the beginning?”

Eddie smiles at him. “‘S alright. I’ve read it so many times, you can start from wherever. I won’t be lost.”

Steve nods, flips through a few more pages. Fingers a corner, works his lip between his teeth. “I, uh… Dustin does voices. I’m… not good at that. And I’m probably gonna say half the names wrong.”

“‘S alright,” Eddie promises him. “‘Sides, it’s a made-up book with a made-up language. Maybe you’re saying it right and everyone else is saying it wrong.”

Steve snorts. “I doubt the author is saying it wrong,” he retorts, but settles back in his chair and begins to read.

A couple pages later, Steve stumbles over a few words in a row and shuts the book, grimacing as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sorry, man,” he murmurs. “I’d read more if I could, but I need to be able to drive home.”

Eddie frowns. “Reading’s hard for you?”

Steve rolls his eyes. It’s more of a self-deprecating thing than anything else. “I’ve had… four? Five? Concussions. I wasn’t the best reader before that. It’s definitely gotten worse. Too much and it’ll trigger a migraine.”

Eddie’s frown deepens. “Is there- something you could take? A prescription? Or- or some kind of help?”

Steve colors. “There’s something,” he admits. “I just… don’t like wearing them.”

Eddie’s frown turns curious. “Wearing them?”

Steve nods. Won’t look at Eddie. “Glasses. I just… don’t like the way they look on me.”

“Have you-” he’s interrupted by a cough, and Steve rushes to hand him water. “Thanks,” he rasps out after a couple sips, then clears his throat. “Can you get different frames?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I did. These are the ones I hated the least.”

“Could I see them?” Eddie requests. “If you- if you’re here tomorrow. Would you bring them?”

Steve looks at him for a long second. “Sure,” he finally says. “I’ll be here tomorrow. And I’ll bring them.”

Eddie smiles at him. Steve smiles back, and leaves.

He arrives the next day while Dustin’s there. He leans in the doorway, crossing his arms and smiling at the scene. “Hey, dipshit,” he calls.

“Hey, Steve,” Dustin says back. “Anyways, so Mike was really stuck, right? So he decided-”

“Hey, dipshit,” Steve says again, jerking his head back. “Your ma’s out front.”

“Oh!” Dustin jumps up, gathering his things. “Okay, Eddie, don’t let me forget!” He calls over his shoulder, pointing at Eddie, almost running into the door before Steve nudges him out of the way.

He’s chuckling when he sinks into the chair Dustin had just vacated. “That kid.”

“He’s pretty good, isn’t he.”

“He really is.” He shifts uncomfortably for a second, pulls the book onto his lap, and sighs. “Just… I know I look stupid, okay? Just please don’t laugh.”

“Never,” Eddie swears immediately.

Steve pulls the glasses out of his pocket and puts them on, blinking at Eddie through the lenses as his eyes adjust. “Well?”

“They look good,” Eddie tells him immediately.

“Don’t-” Steve takes a breath, looks away. “We… we’ve been flirting. Right?”

Eddie’s heart rabbits in his chest. “I can stop.”

Steve shakes his head. “No, just… just tell me the truth.”

“The truth?” Eddie murmurs. “Sweetheart, the truth is if you’d been my teacher, wearing those glasses, I would’ve graduated the first time with fucking honors.”

Steve’s cheeks are pink. “You mean it?”

“Every word,” Eddie swears. “Why don’t you think so? Did someone say something? Was it one of the kids? Because I will kick them out of Hellfire until the end of the campaign-”

“No- Eddie,” Steve laughs. “No, it wasn’t the kids. It wasn’t anyone. I just… don’t think I look good.”

“Well you do,” Eddie returns, mildly affronted. “Don’t look good,” he grumbles, halfway under his breath. “Honestly.” It gets a laugh out of Steve, which is what he was going for. “Can I ask you for something that’s probably way out of line?”

Steve blinks. “You… can ask me, sure. Doesn’t mean I have to listen.”

“Guess so,” Eddie chuckles. It turns into a cough, which makes Steve get up, but Eddie waves him down. “Can I ask you to wear your glasses whenever you need to? And tell me if anyone says something, because again, I will kick the kids out of Hellfire until the end of the campaign. Just say the word, and they’re out.”

“You don’t have to do that for me.”

“I don’t have to do anything. I’m doing it because I want to. Because you’re worth it.”

“Okay,” Steve agrees quietly.

“Good,” Eddie agrees nonsensically.

With that, Steve opens the book and begins to read. He gets through quite a few more pages than the day before, but does eventually stop, rubbing his brows. “Sorry,” he says, “Guess I still can’t read much even with the glasses on.”

“That’s okay,” Eddie murmurs. “Do you like reading? Or are you reading for my sake?”

Steve rubs the back of his neck. “Mostly for your sake,” he admits. “I don’t like reading as much as you do, or as much as Dustin does. But I want to know what you like. I want to understand what you like. And I feel like reading is the best way to do that.”

“Makes sense,” Eddie replies, “but you know you don’t have to, right? I’d like you even if you never picked up another book again.”

Steve grins, a small, shy thing. “You like me?” He teases.

“I do,” Eddie murmurs. “I thought – I thought we-”

“No,” Steve interrupts, “we are. We do. Or I do, I don’t know–”

“I do, too,” Eddie promises. “Just… Maybe when I’m out of the hospital?”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, “of course. Do you have any news on when you get out?”

“Not yet, but hopefully I’ll know soon. I just don’t know what I’m going to do when I get out… I can’t even lift my arms to feed myself. And if I get out soon, before I’ve healed enough…”

“I get it,” Steve swears. “We’ll figure it out.”

“Okay,” Eddie agrees softly. “Okay.”

“I don’t think I can read anymore today,” Steve says, “but I can stay for a bit if you want company.”

“Please,” Eddie agrees, far too quickly, except it makes Steve blush and smile, and Eddie would make himself the fool a hundred times over to make Steve smile.

They decide to watch TV. At some point their hands end up intertwined, and Eddie wants to stay awake, he really does, but he’s still pretty broken, and he finds himself waking up when Steve pulls away. “Sorry,” Steve whispers, “I didn’t wanna wake you.”

Eddie wakes himself up more, makes some kind of groaning noise that he’s pretty sure he’s heard Wayne make before. “‘S okay,” he mumbles, twitching his fingers to pull Steve closer. “Wan’ed’a be ‘wake.”

“It’s okay,” Steve swears. “You need the rest.”

Eddie hums, lets his eyes slip shut. Lets Steve pull his fingers from Eddie’s limp grasp. “Wan’ you t’wear the glasses,” he murmurs. He hears Steve pause as he gathers his things.

“I will,” Steve whispers. “Promise. I’ve got them on right now.”

“Good,” Eddie mumbles, and falls asleep before Steve’s even out of the room.

The doctor comes in a few days later to talk to Eddie while Steve’s there, once again reading to him. “My apologies,” the doctor says. “I’ve got some information for Mr. Munson, if you wouldn’t mind stepping out for a moment.”

“He can stay,” Eddie says before Steve can move. Steve blinks at him, and Eddie nods, inclining his chin down to the chair Steve’s practically levitating in. Steve shifts his weight, sits back down.

“Very well,” the doctor says. “I’ve got good news for you, Mr. Munson, as long as you’ve got someone to look after you, you’ll be free to go as soon as your guardian arrives.” He shuffles a few papers around. “We’ve got some painkillers for you, as well as a round of antibiotics.” He offers the papers to Eddie. Steve takes them, puts them on the chair beside him. “Your wraps will need to be changed once a day and stay dry for another two weeks, so sponge baths only. After that, your wraps can come off while you shower, then be put back on as soon as your skin is dry. If you have any questions once you’ve been released, there’s a number on the paper you can call at any time. If you pop a stitch, come back in. If you have any adverse reactions to the medication, come back in. If you pass out or throw up repeatedly, come back in. If your wounds look inflamed or infected, come back in. Understand?”

Eddie nods, biting his lip. “My guardian- my uncle. He works. I-”

“He’ll have someone to look after him,” Steve interrupts, looking up at the doctor.

The doctor looks between them, then nods. “Very well then. A nurse will come in and make sure you’re okay to be released. As soon as your uncle is here, you’re free to go.” He smiles. “As much as you’ve been a model patient, I hope to never see you again.”

Eddie snorts. “You too, Doc.” He looks over at Steve as the doctor leaves, raises a brow. “I got someone to look after me?”

Steve colors, looks down. “The, uh. The trailer was…”

Eddie winces. “Yeah.”

“Yeah.” A sigh. “And the government’s dragging their feet about getting you guys another place. I offered up my place to Wayne. He’s been staying there since… well, since we got back topside. There’s more than enough room for the three of us.”

Eddie grins. “And this has nothing to do with you liking me, right?”

“I mean,” Steve shrugs, “I wouldn’t say nothing.”

They spend a long minute looking at each other before Steve looks back down at the open book in his lap.

Wayne arrives not too much later, just after the nurse finishes her duties. He grins at his nephew, finally freed from all the wires and tubes. “Y’ready to go?”

“Please,” Eddie agrees, looking at Steve. “I know my legs are generally fine, but just in case-”

Steve moves around the bed to stand next to him. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs, and Eddie believes him.

They get Eddie out of the hospital, into Wayne’s truck, and back to Steve’s house. “Welcome home,” Wayne deadpans, but Eddie can hear the slightest note of pride in Wayne’s gruff voice. He likes living here.

Eddie thinks he will, too.

“Your bedroom’s upstairs,” Steve murmurs. “The only bedroom down here is my parents’.”

“I’ll take the upstairs bedroom,” Eddie agrees, looking up at the aforementioned stairs. “Might need some help, though.”

“I can help,” Steve agrees. “Let’s see how much you can do by yourself first, though.”

The bannister is just about elbow height, so Eddie’s able to grab it and use it for support. He gets a third of the way up before he’s gritting his teeth, then halfway up before he shakes his head. “I can’t.”

“You did great,” Steve tells him, then picks him up bridal-style.

Eddie squawks, causing Wayne to laugh at him. He raises his hand just enough to flip Wayne off, then focuses on not making a fool of himself while Steve carries him upstairs.

“First room’s mine,” Steve tells him, nodding towards his door as he carefully sets Eddie down. “Wayne’s is two doors down, and yours will be here, between us.” He points towards a room, and Eddie walks towards it.

Walking on flat ground is a lot easier than walking up stairs, but he’s still pretty injured, so he’s glad for the chance to sit down on his bed when he gets into his room.

“Now,” Steve says, “way I see it, you’ve got three options.”

“Oh? And what would those be?”

“Sleep, eat, or bathe.” He gives Eddie a tiny grin. “I know you’ll need help with the last one. If you’d rather your uncle do it, I understand, but I’m willing.”

Eddie glances over at the en-suite, bites his lip, and shakes his head. “I think… if you’re willing. I think I’d prefer you.”

“I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t completely serious.” He holds his hands out, offering Eddie help getting up. He takes it and leverages himself up, and together they walk into the bathroom.

“Sponge bath,” Steve murmurs, recalling the doctor’s words. “There should be a washcloth in here somewhere.” He gestures for Eddie to sit on the toilet for the time being, rooting around in the cabinets until he comes up with a wash cloth, shouting a triumphant, “Aha!” And waving it around like a flag.

“Man,” Eddie says, “I can’t believe anyone ever thought you were cool.”

“Fuck you, I am cool.”

“You’re a complete nerd, Stevie.”

Steve flips him off, tests the water temperature, nods. “Need help undressing?”

Eddie grimaces. “Probably.”

“That’s alright. Anything you can or want to do yourself?”

Eddie focuses on his jeans first. They unbutton and unzip just fine, and Eddie can get them most of the way over his hips, but he eventually gives up with a sigh. “‘M sorry,” he murmurs.

“I volunteered,” Steve reminds him, helping him out of his pants.

He quickly undresses Eddie the rest of the way and alternates between two cloths, one wet and soapy and one dry, so he doesn’t get the bandages wet. He zones out halfway through, glancing over at the sink multiple times.

The last time he does, Eddie gently taps him on the forehead. “I’d say penny for your thoughts, but I don’t think I have a penny.”

Steve chuckles, grins up at Eddie. “Then it’s a good think I’ll give them to you for free.” His smile turns smaller, more genuine. “I was wondering if there was a way to get a chair in here so we could wash your hair.”

“Oh,” Eddie murmurs, because it had been far too long since he’d last washed his hair. “That would be really nice.”

“Then I’ll find a way to do it,” Steve swears. “But I think the chair will work. Once you’re dressed again, I’ll go get it.”

He finishes bathing Eddie, helps him into clean clothes, and guides him back to the toilet. “Wait here,” he tells him, and runs out of the room in search of a chair.

He finds one that’s roughly the right height and brings it back, draping a towel over the edge of the sink for cushion, gesturing Eddie over and holding his hair up as he gets situated.

He starts washing, and it’s different in the sink, with a faucet that doesn’t move and is so close to the basin, but he makes do; cups warm-almost-hot water in his hands, lets it dribble over Eddie’s scalp.

He massages the shampoo in and Eddie hums. He rakes his fingers through the ends of Eddie’s hair, lathered with conditioner, and Eddie makes a breathless little sound.

Steve’s breath catches in his throat and he stills. “Good or bad sound?”

Another hum. “Good. Sorry. Jus’… relaxed.”

“‘S alright,” Steve murmurs back. “Just making sure.”

“‘S good,” Eddie promises, voice barely a whisper now.

“I’m glad,” Steve whispers back, and finishes washing his hair in silence.

Eddie’s tired after, eyes slipping shut even as he sits up in the chair and Steve dries his hair, so Steve takes mercy on him when his hair is half dry and leads him to bed. “Take a nap,” he whispers. “I’ll clean up and be out of your hair. I’ll be in my room with the door open if you need anything.”

Eddie hums, eyes slipping shut again as he grabs at Steve’s hand. “Stay?”

“Okay,” he agrees. “Just let me throw the towels in the hamper.”

Eddie hums, hand dropping back down to the bed and eyes slitting open as he watches Steve walk to the bathroom.

He’s back less than a minute later, smiling at Eddie as he tries to stay awake. “Go to sleep,” he laughs, sliding in between the sheets next to Eddie. “I’m here. I’m not leaving. Now sleep.”

Eddie lets his eyes close as he moves his hand under the sheets, searching for Steve’s. When he finds it, he grabs and squeezes it, just once, and falls asleep.

Steve doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but there’s not much keeping him awake. He awakens later to Eddie trying to leverage himself out of bed.

He sits up with a snort, blinking at Eddie. “What’re you doing?”

Eddie tosses an apologetic look over his shoulder. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to wake you. I just needed to use the bathroom.”

Steve hums, stands, walks over to Eddie and helps him up. “I don’t mind you waking me. I’d actually prefer you did, instead of popping your stitches.” He grins, pokes at a bit of Eddie’s side that he knows is unharmed.

Eddie grins back, wide and happy. “I’ve gotta learn. ‘S not like this arrangement is gonna continue. You’ve got your bed and I’ve got mine.”

“It could,” Steve considers. “What if you’re trying to get up in the middle of the night and can’t? What if you have a nightmare and thrash around and pop a stitch?”

“What if you barely sleep because you’re not used to another person in bed with you?”

“What if,” Steve whispers, “that nap was the most restful sleep I’ve gotten in a while?”

“Really?”

Steve looks down, realizes he’s still holding Eddie’s hands. He lets go, takes a step back. Doesn’t look up; he knows his face is burning. “Really.” He flicks his chin over to the bathroom. “Go ahead. I’ll help you downstairs after, it’s almost dinner time.”

Eddie doesn’t move for a minute. Steve chances a glance up at him, and his breath catches at the naked affection staring back at him.

It’s only after Steve looks up at him that Eddie moves, stumbling over to the bathroom and quickly finishing up. Steve stands still, staring at where the sheets are messed up. Two spots. He’s not used to that in his bed. Even when he’d have girls over, none of them wanted to stay the night. Even Nancy left.

But here he is, in a room in his house that isn’t actually his, with a guy, and they’ve been flirting with each other, and-

He thinks he needs to call Robin.

He thinks, as Eddie emerges from the bathroom and smiles at him, he knows exactly what he’s feeling, and doesn’t need to call Robin after all.

They make their way downstairs and Steve settles on a simple pasta dinner. Eddie somehow wiggles his way up onto the counter, and sits beside the stovetop, kicking his leg out and occasionally hitting Steve’s thigh. Steve always glances at him when he does, and it becomes a game, and soon enough they’re both giggling as Steve dumps the pasta into the boiling water.

The water splashes, and Eddie hisses, jerking his arm away and rubbing at it. Steve looks up, worried. “Did it get you?”

Eddie waves him off, nudging his thigh with his foot again. “‘M alright. Not even a mark, ‘s just hot.”

“Still,” Steve says, and steps closer. “Can I see?”

Eddie stares at him for a minute. Offers him his arm.

He’s right. There’s no mark apart from an old scar, years old and years healed. Steve’s hand comes up, and his thumb strokes the scar, then down a little, towards his elbow. “Well?” Eddie asks teasingly. “What’s the prognosis, doc?”

Steve stares at him flatly, playing into it. “You’ll live,” he says, completely deadpan, grinning when Eddie giggles. He bumps Eddie’s knee with his hip, moves away to collect plates and silverware. “Make yourself useful and stir the pasta, would you?”

Eddie sticks his tongue out but picks up the spoon and does as he’s asked.

And so it goes. They’re mostly left unattended, as Wayne is usually at work, but sometimes he’ll sit on the couch with Steve and they’ll watch football or baseball, much to the chagrin of Eddie, who takes every opportunity possible to bemoan the existence of sports for stealing Steve’s attention away from him.

Steve doesn’t tell him that even when his eyes are on the TV, his mind is on Eddie. He’s well aware he falls too fast, too hard.

He helps Eddie up and down the stairs. He gives him sponge baths and washes his hair. Eventually his wounds begin to heal, and he’s able to get up and down the stairs on his own, if not a lot slower than usual.

He starts taking quick showers on his own. Steve still washes his hair in the sink, and now he helps Eddie change his bandages after he showers.

One day, Eddie hesitates on the edge of the bathroom threshold. “I don’t…” he looks away, bites his lip. Puts his arms up, tousles the top of his hair to prove his point. “I can do it on my own now.”

“Oh,” Steve says, feeling strangely heartbroken. “Right, yeah, that’s great. I’ll just, uh-” he takes a step back, angles his thumb behind him.

Eddie jerks forward, wraps his fingers around Steve’s wrist. “But you could help? If you wanted?”

Steve tugs Eddie over to the bed, sits on the edge. Doesn’t say anything until Eddie sits, too. He plays with the frame of his glasses as he says, “You’ve been flirting with me.” Eddie lets go of his wrist. Steve tries not to miss it. “It’s… it’s okay. You don’t have to stop. I just need you to be honest with me.”

“Anything,” Eddie whispers, and Steve drops his voice to match.

“Do you mean it? Or are you just flirting because you can?”

“Baby,” Eddie murmurs, bringing a hand up to cup Steve’s jaw, and oh, Steve thinks.

Oh.

“Really?” He whispers, and Eddie nods.

“Really.”

“I can’t,” Steve murmurs. “I can’t do this if you just like me. If this is… is gonna be a fling, or whatever.”

“Baby,” Eddie murmurs again. “I’ve long since healed enough to sleep alone. I don’t want to. I want to wake up to your face every day. I want to bring you your glasses when you forget them, I want to stir your pasta sauces and annoy you in the kitchen until you threaten to throw me out, even if we both know you never will. I want to be the one you come home to every day, the one you turn to when you need support. I want you to feel safe with me the way I do with you.” His thumb strokes Steve’s cheek, wiping away a tear. “Because I do. I feel safe with you. You make me feel safe. You- baby.” He strokes Steve’s cheek again, studies his eyes. “Baby. Can I kiss you?”

“Please,” Steve gasps, and Eddie does.

He leans in slowly, enough time for Steve to close his eyes and part his lips the barest amount, not out of any desire to tease, but just because he’s feeling so much he can’t contain it all, and it has to come out in gasps and breaths and small, shaky moans, when Eddie licks into his mouth, pulls his tongue into a tango, back and forth and in and out until Steve’s positively dizzy with it.

He pulls back just to tilt his head the other way and dive in with just as much fervor, sucking Steve’s bottom lip into his mouth, nipping at it until it’s swollen and tender and Steve feels like he could float away.

Steve breaks the kiss first, dizzy and panting and overwhelmed, leaning forward and pulling Eddie into a hug. “I’m so glad,” he murmurs. “I didn’t think…”

“Of course I would,” Eddie mutters back, holding Steve tight. “Of course I would, baby. Didn’t have a chance, really, was just gone on you from the moment I saw you.”

Steve pulls back, tugs Eddie down until they’re both laying down, halfway on the bed, noses nearly brushing. “And you want me to… to help?”

Eddie grins big enough his eyes are slits. “I’m gonna be honest here, sweetheart, I definitely imagined help would come after.”

Steve giggles back, leans in to steal a peck of a kiss. “I can do that,” he agrees, standing up and pulling Eddie to the bathroom.

They’re both laughing like little kids as they go, and a part of Steve wonders if that’s what falling in love is: growing young again.

[nightguide]

what i know. (actually, motivation.)

bonnie mckee does not intentionally write about you, her tips are oddly about her sex life but confuses her mom for it

bon iver hates his guns but plans on killing you one day

ed sheeran hates his sister but you're his sister, so the money you make is his (how he feeds off your attention like a little brother)

lorde does not know what to write anymore, so it's the first thing from her head til she got it mixed with David Bowie is how he curses her ink (you cursed getting pen from her)

ester dean is a lesbian so lesbian P8ek it is (she gets back at you like she think she Beyonce of the pen til i came around (i still don't know her (but good vibes)

frank ocean hates his wife. but take it out sexually on his sister so u gonna get ill knowing why he hates u to make you (means well)

adele wants to eat. you're reading what she ate, so u know how she writes (gud trik) but like any witch in H,wood. she gives her earnings (pointers) away to muslim charities, so she made you recite what u 8 so that she can eat it again (good loophole) -downside: u gonna get attacked by my lyrics so that adele gets boost from u for it (knew the ending)-

sia turns the volume up when writing her music (good technique for learning vocalists) u get the front back by knowing why her career fell on purpose cuz she hates the living sh*t out of you for a reason to be an actress, so it's apparent on your discography that you're going to be on Schue's watchlist, so if you're used. then you're bruised (net-worth goes an ur career falls apart by karmic alliance)

linna riaz only makes money off from you to support her business in H,wood as a director of the BAS is how she loopholes you to doing it all for her (UAE architecture going to mainland UK to boost morale (u technically british) u gotta fight the immigration policies in the UK to be 'one of the greats' (Lennon's esteemed author.)

elton john hates u. so you're penned (does it as a hobby) so you pissed him off, but not the cast of Glee (live action) so he makes you do it for the scene to glow up (by visual kinetics) u basically pissed linna off (handyman)

brandi carlile is a bitch. does not want to work for you but makes sure that she does not care about the song, intentionally pissing Bowie (one grand dream is Jennifer Connelly's existence (when rich ppl are bord) she will make something either baked or souped and spit on it (magick) and delivers it to you (it's a good anthem) but you gon' get the hit with the 'taste in your mouth' and it's her (she only works either if you not asked her or it carries on (anonymously)

singer/songwriter's have that Queer Eye (tv show) normative where the voice doesn't centre around their moves hence why they use interviews to block them (you should be embarrassed) is why my vocal range is song affinity to my virginity not reaching it's sexual divinity to clarify the equals of tone and virtue like AI does (i worked too hard before fame, i have that for free) so it's not my range but it is, so i have a curve (studying it so talent shows have an equal rage to compete with Simon Cowell's seat association is the commander of all politics that not even the stern countries of them all can compete with city range (social politics) drifting the nerve to do it at home, so you're looking at what you heard from me (example) is the reason why i have a curve with the sexes to optimally apply that same sex into nothing, so that Justin Bieber does not lose gains for his concert touching that same nerve. (example) so my sexual equanimity is the bend if i knew how to hone it on my own, so you have heard me somewhere and it's touching knowing ur ancestors cannot fck wit' u. (what you're afraid of) is how demonising it is to sing because lyrical residue is better than sexual residue and neither can i do to compete with known songwriters than it is to sing if you worked there, then it's loophole for talent show. you just got ads to back you up, then there is nothing i can do cuz you're all shit, then i can't do just the way i can apply arabian physics and you're all fucked off because not because of the stereotype, it's because my voice knew how to believe pain is worth it because Simon Cowell cannot look that good alone anymore, not if you back him up then we all have good TV, like judges comments can also change the epitome of the Olympics but motivating sarcasm to carry on the world as we know it or we're fucked. (Team GB)

[dreamersparacosm]

I have a feeling OC and Yoongi would get along really well but like in a quiet way...and annoying(whispering) that's it that's the idea

they sooo would! i mean, think about it: oc keeps to herself very much, doesn’t speak in social settings unless she feels she needs to insert herself (obviously not true at work), and when she does finally speak, it’s some one-liner no one forgets. who does that remind you of, you may ask? yoongi. and jungkook fucking hates it (but also loves it)

the price of desire — epilogue blurb 2!

prompt ; in which you’ve met your match, and jungkook’s annoyed it’s not him.

warnings ; none!

You don’t have a lot of friends.

It’s not on purpose, really — you’re not a total psychopath — it’s just that between the corporate ladder you were busy free-climbing with your bare hands and the general soul-crushing speed of your career, there wasn’t a lot of time to seek people out, or maintain them or text them back or remember birthdays.

Or… socialize like a normal human being in any capacity, honestly.

You were always polite. Charming, when you needed to be. Professional to the point of intimidation.

But friendship? That required vulnerability. Time you didn’t have. You’ve spent your whole adult life hoarding those two things like a miser, rationing them out only when absolutely necessary.

So when you first met Jungkook’s circle, the boys he’s built an entire lifetime with, you were cautious and quieter than normal (which was wild, considering you have so much to say it sometimes physically pains you to keep it in.)

You smiled at the right moments. Nodded. Even laughed twice when someone said something genuinely funny. But mostly, you lurked in your corner like a fashion-forward gargoyle, judging people.

Jungkook noticed, because of course he did. The man tracks your movements like you're his favorite Netflix series.

What caught his attention and made his head tilt like a confused puppy was the bizarre wavelength you and Yoongi seemed to share. You were two perfectionists silently communicating through raised eyebrows and microscopic sighs. So professional you make accountants look like chaos demons, constantly eyeing everyone in the room with a level of judgment, and with wit so dry it should come with a dehumidifier warning.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Jungkook wasn’t jealous. Just… intrigued, he said, when you called him out on the weird little pout he tried to hide the first time he caught you and Yoongi side-eyeing Jimin’s questionable outfit choice from opposite ends of the room (and by “intrigued,” he meant he was building elaborate friends-to-lovers fanfiction plots about it in his brain, but whatever. Semantics.)

Which is how you find yourself here today — sitting cross-legged on the pristine floors of a HYBE rehearsal studio, laptop closed at your side, watching Jungkook run through choreography with the rest of the guys while you not-so-subtly whisper to Yoongi during breaks.

It's nice watching Jungkook in his element. The transformation is almost comical, like watching your playful puppy boyfriend suddenly morph into a sleek panther. He's all laser focus and sharp edges, completely locked in with a concentration so intense it could burn holes through concrete.

You rarely get this front-row seat to witness the version of him that's equal parts discipline, raw talent, and charisma. This is the Jungkook who built his name into a global phenomenon, the one who makes teenagers faint.

You should probably be paying more attention. You should be clapping enthusiastically after each run-through, smiling proudly like a good supportive girlfriend.

Instead, you’re currently elbow-deep in a whispered conversation with Yoongi about the fact that someone (you’re not naming names but it rhymes with Schmin) is absolutely not hitting the counts on the bridge section.

“Left foot,” you murmur out of the corner of your mouth, gaze locked on the mirror.

Yoongi, without missing a beat, “Always the left.”

You purse your lips, nodding solemnly, like two battle-worn generals surveying the frontlines.

Across the studio, Jungkook, who’s supposed to be focused on perfecting a complicated turn sequence, catches the whole thing in the mirror.

He sees you lean in closer to Yoongi. Sees Yoongi nodding sagely, the two of you in your own little private world of silent judgment.

He messes up the next turn with a stumble, nearly crashing into Jin before muttering something about "slippery floors" that nobody believes for a second.

When the music cuts and the studio fills with the buzz of professional dancers pretending they're not exhausted, Jungkook makes his way toward you with the desperation of someone trying very hard to look like they aren't rushing. The man has many talents, but subtle he is not.

You don't immediately notice his approach, too busy trying not to choke on suppressed laughter as Yoongi whispers something accurate about the choreographer's hand gestures.

It's only when Jungkook's sneakers announce his arrival with a passive-aggressive squeak on the polished floor that you finally look up. He's standing there, brows furrowed into a perfect v, arms crossed over his chest in what he clearly thinks is an intimidating pose.

You blink up at him innocently, unleashing your sweetest smile. "Hi, baby."

His eyes narrow to suspicious slits, not buying your act for a millisecond. "What's so funny?" he demands, gaze bouncing between you and Yoongi.

You glance at Yoongi. Yoongi glances at you. An entire conversation happens in absolute silence.

The lack of response hits Jungkook harder than any explanation could have.

You shrug with feigned innocence. “Nothing’s funny.”

From beside you, Yoongi deadpans, “Why do you look like someone just stole your lunch money?”

A loud unflattering snort escapes before you can clamp it down and Jungkook's face immediatel flattens.

You make a valiant attempt to contain your amusement, but it's a losing battle against the twitching corners of your mouth and the tremor in your shoulders. Especially when confronted with Jungkook looking like that.

Because — and this is just an objective assessment — Jungkook looks absolutely edible today. His tan and blue Nike tracksuit clings in all the right places, particularly around his waist and thighs. His hair has reached that perfect stage of dishevelment, curling slightly at the ends, falling dark and heavy across his forehead. Cheeks glow with a pink flush, lips parted, eyes sharp and focused.

He looks, quite frankly, delicious. The kind of criminal, offensive, painfully appetizing presence that makes you understand why certain animals bite their mates.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

He glares at you a second longer, like he’s debating whether or not to drag you away by the collar of your shirt, and then dramatically plops down next to you and Yoongi with a grunt.

You and Yoongi immediately adopt a synchronized silence. The transition from animated conversation to complete innocence happens faster than Jungkook can change outfits between performances.

Jungkook's eyes ping-pong between you two with suspicion. "No, no," he says sarcastically "Please. Continue."

You raise a single eyebrow at him while Yoongi doesn't even bother looking up, just leans back on his palms radiating indifference that only comes from a decade of surviving Jungkook's antics.

Another silent communication passes between you and Yoongi, one of those telepathic exchanges that require no actual words but convey entire paragraphs of shared amusement. The silence stretches between the three of you, growing thicker by the second.

That's when Jungkook — survivor of world tours, global media frenzies, and dating you — finally explodes.

"OH MY GOD.” he groans, arms flailing outward. "You’re doing it again."

You release a shameless giggle that does nothing to help the situation, and Jungkook whips toward you with betrayal painted across his unfairly gorgeous face.

"You guys are literally speaking a whole other language!" he accuses, hands gesturing wildly "You didn't even say anything and you still had a whole conversation! How is that fair?!"​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

You laugh harder, reaching for him instinctively. Clutching the fabric of his tracksuit, you pull him close and start planting obnoxiously loud, smacking kisses all over his face — his cheeks, nose, forehead — anywhere you can reach.

He squirms at first, trying to dodge you but he’s laughing by the third kiss. It makes you wonder how you ever survived denying yourself this particular man.

“You’re just mad because Yoongi understands me,” You murmur against his temple, grinning.

Yoongi, maintaining his position as the group's resident unbothered zen master, merely lifts his chin in lazy agreement, a silent validation that encapsulates the quiet solidarity that drew you to him in the first place.

A few feet away, the rest of the guys are watching, half-amused, half-horrified at what’s unfolding before them. But Jungkook appears completely unconcerned with his audience.

He leans into you, arms winding around your waist and pulling you onto his lap, holding you there.

The boys adore you.

He can see it, feel it in the way they welcome you into their lives without hesitation. Jungkook, for all his ridiculous jealousy over silent glances and whispered jokes, can only be so grateful.

Somewhere along the way, without you even noticing, you became theirs too.

And he thinks, with utmost clarity, that this unexpected belonging might be the greatest gift you've ever given him.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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